Oh crapola, one day in and I already blew NaBloPoMo. Oh well, I'm still going to try to carry on with it - I just won't get any prizes. More later...

Why do I feel compelled to make sure the sheets on MY bed are changed before my parents come to visit? Am I really afraid that my mom's going to sneak into my room when I'm at work, lift the covers and take stock of the clean sheet situation?

Yes. Yes, I am. The term "house-proud" isn't just a phrase, it's a religious devotion with English matrons of her species. I've learned, however, that it's actually best not to have things 100% clean, especially when I have to go to work while they're visiting. It's not that I WANT my mom to do housework for me, necessarily... It's that I know she'll do it whether I want her to or not, so it's best to plan accordingly. By "forgetting" to dust the bookshelves, or leaving a few shirts around which need ironing, I provide outlets for her fussing, making her less likely to resort to more exotic household aid efforts which would take her into areas I'd prefer remain unmolested by anyone but me. Honestly, it's not about getting free housework - it's about making Mom happy! And also getting free housework. But mostly the happiness.

However, there's an additional level of difficulty in this game these days called Mobility, since her hip is taking a while to recover from its replacement and she also apparently has a broken bone in her foot... Not that any of this really keeps her from overextending herself in the pursuit of Tidy. I have to make sure, then, that she doesn't find things to do that will pose a risk to her osteopathic well-being. I don't want the other kids getting on my case because I broke their mom. This is why last night I debated for a good two minutes on whether or not to wipe down the dishwasher door. On one hand - perfect Mom task. On the other - requires low-level contortion. Tricky. (In the end, Wee wiped it down. Good lad!)

Ultimately, I just have to accept that my house isn't going to be in OCD-perfect order when my folks get here, and remind myself that they actually do understand that we both work full-time, and unlike many of our yuppie compatriots we don't hire Merry Maids, and we're both sort of packrats, and we're also kind of indifferent to low-level clutter. So really, any clear clean surface they do find in the house is a testament to my respect for their comfort, because at any other given time that surface is likely to be covered in old magazines or dust or wineglass rings. And for a couple of glorious days, when I get home, that place is guaranteed to be cleaner than when I left it, and dinner's likely to be started, and best of all I get to hang out with my tiny folks who are pretty much the easiest houseguests ever. So it's all good.

The Police have officially announced North American dates for their tour this year. HUZZAH!

When I saw them on the Grammys last night, I couldn't stop grinning. They all look pretty damned hale for a bunch of Senior Rockers. Of course I'm an unrepentant Sting fan... Not that I've liked all of his recent stuff - I can't really listen to "Mercury Falling", and I haven't bothered acquiring "Songs From The Labyrinth" since hearing excerpts - but on the whole I'll give anything he does a fair shot. Bill and I both really dig the solo stuff that Stewart Copeland's done, too (under his own name and his pseudonym Klark Kent).

Anyway, this tour Bill and I must attend. They aren't coming to California, but I sure as hell have my eye on scoring some tickets for their Phoenix show if possible. I know it's going to be an ungodly feat, however. I'm even tempted to get a Premium Fan Club membership to get access to ticket presales - it's expensive, but it might be worth it. I can't even remember the last concert we went to, and honestly there are very few bands I'd be into seeing live anyway these days - but to have one last chance to see The Police (!!!) in person...? Hells yeah, I feel justified throwing a little extra money at the thing to make it stick.

So excited!

"What kind of clown show do you have going on over there?"

- William Rhodes, half-asleep, upon being awakened this morning by the sounds of his wife spilling the red cup full of water on his bedside table, knocking over the empty steel flask next to it while mopping it up, and his alarm going off in the middle of it all.

I've been thinking a lot today about James Kim and how this awful mess could've happened to someone like him.

I'd never heard of the guy nor his family before they became a news item, but I identify with them. James Kim was my age, was involved in the tech industry, lived about an hour's drive from my house and died about a two-hour drive from where I grew up. I know exactly what it's like to get lost on those little logging roads in the mountains that look OK on the map but get desolate and scary all too quickly. Sometimes they're narrow with steep, tree-lined borders, and it can be hard to find a place to turn around right away; sometimes, and this sounds like what happened to the Kims, you might feel like you must be getting close to a larger road and will be OK if you just keep going - until you realize that your gas gauge is getting low and there's no out in sight. I've been in a car that broke down on an isolated road at night with the temperature below freezing; my friends and I huddled together through a night that seemed to last a week, using carseat covers for sleeping bags, until someone drove by at dawn. That was bad enough - and yet we weren't even in any danger; there were houses within a couple of miles. We were just cold and unwilling to walk as far as it would take to get to a phone, knowing eventually someone would come by or that we could walk out the next day.

A lot of people might find it easy to armchair-quarterback the decisions that the Kims made on that night, trying to get to their hotel after dark in an unfamiliar part of the state. We wonder how an intelligent young couple, equipped with things like cell phones, maps and GPS's, could still get so perilously lost in such a short time. We reassure ourselves that we would've made different decisions. However, it's scary how many disasters are not derived from one devastating event but a series of small problems or decisions that by themselves might make sense, but which stack up into something FUBAR. I'm certain the Kims made choices based on what seemed to be reasonable assumptions. I can only imagine the surrealness of the oh-fuck moment when it became apparent that they had dug a dreadful hole for themselves out there. We'll never know why James Kim didn't stay on the road when he went for help instead of going down into a ravine - was he hoping to follow the creek to the Rogue and find a house or a bigger road? I doubt he was down there without a good rationale, at least in his mind. The trail he left behind would tend to support this...

At any rate, very few of us can say with certainty with how we'd act or what would seem the most effective thing to do if we were that hungry, freezing and stressed. For James Kim, his family - his babies - had been slowly suffering for over a week, far longer than I'm sure he could ever have imagined they'd be out there without rescue. Just imagine - 9 days in a car in the freezing woods with two babies and no food. 9 days - when 6 hours was a cold, hungry eternity to my teenaged ass shivering in a broken-down hatchback a couple miles down the road from town. A countdown was booming, loud as a kettle drum, for the Kims. So James did what he thought he needed to do, and he did it as logically as he could manage. Possibly he overthought it, overengineered a solution that ultimately made it harder to find him before it was too late... but who's to say?

Another thing - I think many of us, especially the urban and gadget-crazy, might be too complacent in the thought that technology will always be there for us when we need it, when in fact technology was not enough to help this family make their way out of those deep, cold woods on their own (although admittedly a cell phone ping was enough to help three of them be found). We think of ourselves as smart people who could solutioneer our way out of any bad situation. I'll bet that if you'd asked James Kim the day before this happened whether he could seriously imagine that this is how he'd die, alone in the woods with not one tool that could help him, he'd have said no way. I'm smarter than that. I have a good car, a cell phone, a travel plan. And yet.

The whole saga has just really struck a chord with me, because if it could happen to people like the Kims, it most certainly could happen to me. I'm grateful that I at least married someone with a lot more caution and sense of practical survivalism when it comes to travel than I myself have. The next time we're planning a road trip anywhere arguably remote, however, I hope that I'll think about the Kims, and about Murphy's Law, and maybe be inclined to stock up and consider contingencies. It can't hurt - and man, it certainly could help.

Mom and Dad have been a little blue lately - change of seasons, health stuff, etc... So Mom decided they needed something to brighten them up. A funny movie, say. My parents aren't big movie-goers; they go to maybe two flicks a year, tops. But Mom looked in the papers, found a comedy that seemed to have a lot of good reviews, and began cajoling Dad to take her. "We need a few laughs!" she said. Dad finally caved, and off they went to the Pelican Cinemas.

The movie she chose? Borat.

So they didn't so much get those laughs they were looking for from their night out, poor souls; but lordy mercy... The mental picture of my conservative, ultra-polite little parents sitting through that crass-a-copia of a movie - the looks that must have been on their faces! Their tense little whispers: "We should leave." "No, let's just wait a bit and see if it gets any better." "I don't believe this." Oh, that's comedy gold.

That being said, my poor folks need a chuckle now more than ever. My tastes tend to run non-PG, though, so I'm stumped as far as recommending anything for them to rent... Any suggestions? (Obviously, PG-13 and under would be swell; the slapstickier and unraunchier the better...)

Copied from an email I sent to my Midwest cousins - me, of all people, one of the only Democrats in the bunch. Downright shocking! Or maybe not so much, considering that my dad and brother were career military (Thom is a combat veteran many times over; Dad served overseas in peace and honorably stateside during the Vietnam War), and my mom tended bar at the local VFW for 20+ years... Four of Mom's brothers served in the British military during WWII, while one of Dad's brothers fought for the U.S. So, Veteran's Day has always been pretty notable in our family. I may not agree that our nation should be fighting the current war in Iraq - but you bet your ass I have as much respect for the men and women who are fighting there now as I do for the ones who've served our country in the past.

With Veteran's Day coming up tomorrow, I'm thinking back on the trip that Bill and I took this summer - we toured European WWII battle sites with two of the men from Easy Company, 506th PIR, 101st Airborne Division (the soldiers featured in the HBO mini-series "Band of Brothers") - Babe Heffron and "Wild" Bill Guarnere. These guys were absolutely awesome, and it was, needless to say, an amazing trip (I posted way too many pictures here, if anyone's interested in checking them out).

When we were in the Normandy American cemetery in France, we were told that French families have adopted many of the graves in the cemetery - they leave flowers and pay their respects on holidays, and pass the obligation down to their children. With all the bad press that American/French relations have gotten, it was good to discover on our recent trip that there's actually still an incredible amount of respect and gratitude among the French people (and the Belgians, Dutch, English, Austrians, etc...) for what American veterans did for them 60+ years ago. They have monuments to American soldiers/sailors all over Europe, and memorial days are a big deal to them. Europeans who weren't even born until after the war would get teary-eyed describing the gratitude their parents and grandparents had for their American liberators. In Eindhoven, the Netherlands we attended a huge parade on their Liberation Day, at which our guys were guests of honor (Babe is credited with being the first American to enter Eindhoven, so he's a pretty big deal among the Dutch...). Really, everywhere we went our veterans were treated like rock stars.

I've attached a picture of three of the veterans I'll be thinking of most tomorrow - Babe, Frank Fericks (a US Navy pilot) and "Wild" Bill, at the Luxembourg American cemetery. It struck me that the inscription above their heads is not only a good way of describing the places where our soldiers are buried, but of the hearts and minds of ones who are still alive. Here's to letting all our veterans (including my own brother Thom!) know how much their valor and sacrifice mean (or should mean) to all the rest of us who benefit from the results every day. (Middle picture: Bill Guarnere, circa WWII. At right: Babe Heffron circa WWII).

I can barely stand looking at my own site anymore because the masthead graphic is so cheesy. It's bugged me for ages. What am I, a newspaper columnist? Or a high school senior, with the whole perky, chin-on-hand pose? Gah. I put it up in 2001 and was already done with it by... late 2001. The thing is, we moved to Movable Type and I totally cannot remember how to change it. I'm going to have to shanghai Wee tonight and make him help me swap it out. Now I just need to figure out what to do next. I'm no Dooce when it comes to clever graphics. Hmm...

The sounds in the courtyard outside my front door today:

- Hooting and yelling from the pack of middle-aged Indian men who play cricket in the park behind our house every weekend. They really worked up over every game. Our Indian neighbors seem so mellow and quiet most of the time that it's funny to see these guys out there playing with such loud enthusiasm in their tucked-in polo shirts and belted jeans. Plus, it's... you know, cricket, with the googlys and sticky wickets and whatnot. I've always pictured it as some goofy, twee hybrid of baseball and croquet; it never occured to me that there might be players out there who'd get all extreme over it.

- One of the family of awesome pianists in the house next to us is practicing piano. Sort of. Judging from the jangly, discordant arpeggios they're pounding into the keys, whoever it is must be feeling pretty feisty about something... Like a fiendish house elf, as Ian put it. One of them is pretty much always at the piano, and I've gotten so used to gardening with accompaniment that I actually get kind of annoyed if they aren't playing. I'm tempted to see if they'll start taking requests. Gershwin is great for planting, though Vivaldi works, too. Thanks!

- Tiny, angry peeps from the hummingbird hovering at the feeder. It's pissed off because I'm hanging out nearby and because the feeder is empty. Taking off, it makes a whirring fly-by near my head. Clearly, the level of service at Chez Tessenwee has been unsatisfactory. Time for me to go boil some sugar-water.

- Metallic rasping of a rake against asphalt as the neighbor across the street cleans up dead maple leaves from the road. I'm still loving that October smells like old leaves and wet soil and wood smoke here, as it should. And yet, the weather's still warm enough that I can plant another round of vegetables in my Earthboxes. I'm attempting broccoli, broccoflower (a broccoli-cauliflower hybrid), brussel sprouts, lettuce and peas, and replanting my herb pots with rosemary, basil and chives. Last weekend I brutually pruned out the overgrown morning glory and thorny bougainvillea along our fence, and the courtyard seems pretty barren now... My arms still look like I was wrestling angry cats. I needed to do it, though - the live vines were growing on a base of old dead foliage that had become top-heavy and was beginning to collapse in one big, snarled sheet. Creepers had started seeking out new territory across the patio and have been slowly consuming Seymour, our giant split-leaf philadendron. Now I have to figure out what to do with all the space I created. Having a garden nursery a 1/2 mile away is going to be dangerous, I fear.

Meet Vertigo! You'll have to wake him up. He's mighty fond of mouse arrows...

So here's the thing - I'm most likely going to bail on the NaBloPoMo thing... Just thought I thought I'd just get that out there and save all three of my devoted readers the trouble of checking in every day.

Something about this "write every day" thing just bugs the shit out of me. I hate the sense of obligation. It's the same reason I don't usually join clubs or volunteer or make resolutions that I have any intention of keeping. Same reason I dropped that writing class at Stanford. OK, not so much "dropped" as "mysteriously stopped showing up but was too embarrassed let anyone know I had no plans to go back because writing on command is hard!!".

I still haven't quite figured out what it is that makes me such a putz about the concept of obligation - fear of failure, inner-child contrarianism ("I'll do the dishes in a minute! When I'M ready to do them! Jeez!"), or sheer garden-variety laziness... I'm sure there are plenty of psychological catch-phrases fit for tattooing across my metaphysical forehead, summing up why I'm whining instead of relishing the challenge. What it all comes down to, though, is that I'm declaring pre-emptive defeat, but I'm feeling pretty OK with that. I embrace my inner slacker!

Anyway, next time I have some thought binge that needs purging, I'll be back. Until then - hey, there's always Flickr...

Right. It's November 1st and I said I'd post something every day this month.

"I don't have anything to write about," I bitched to Wee.

"Talk about buckle bunnies!" (We were just on the topic. By way of talking about dumb Americans. By way of talking about the star of "Borat" and the wealth of especially witless costars he'd find at places like, say, rodeos.)

"I don't want to talk about buckle bunnies."

"Do you know what a buckle bunny is?"

"Dude, you couldn't walk three steps at the Tulelake-Butte County Fair without bumping into a buckle bunny. But I don't have anything to say about them."

"Well, talk about counting resistors at inventory today. Plenty of people have had jobs where they had to count things. They can relate. It's commiseration!"

"It's bad enough I'll be counting them in my sleep tonight. And counting them again tomorrow. Next."

"Talk about all the cute kids you saw at the door last night."

They were cute. But that kind of goes without saying. Although it was kind of weird that a couple of the parents were not only in costumes but actually holding out their own candy bags this year - like, not for one of their kids, but for themselves. When did that trend start? Oh, and I kept getting called out by the kids for guessing their costumes wrong. I was just trying to be interactive, but it's a little like asking a woman with a protruding tummy when her due date is - assumptions can be hazardous. Plus, it sucks to be a kid with a costume that no one gets.

Bill's solution to this is simply to not answer the door, and thereby to be released from the burden of interactivity. But I love the Halloween candy giveaway. Sure, I'm a sucker for tiny kids in costumes, but I also feel like it's a karmic obligation in return for when I was one of those kids, released from my parents' recognizance and unleashed on the neighborhood for one cold, giddy night. My mom and dad never ran security for me like parents do today - granted, I lived in a good part of a smallish town, and maybe it's a more dangerous world now than it was 25 years ago. That's a pity, though, because for me the independence was a big part of the deal - that rush of freedom and apprehension that made everything look a little sharper as we ran along familiar streets turned exotic by shadows and stillness. I loved that I could just run up to the doors of strangers with every expectation of having them opened and of scoring free candy. I liked peeking inside the houses whose outsides I passed every day and seeing who lived in them. Even when we eventually wore down and started jonesing to get home and lose the costumes and makeup, we could look forward to the serious science of sorting, categorizing and prioritizing the booty, and figuring out a good place to hide it from mercenary older brothers. (As if that ever worked...)

Man, being a kid on Halloween rocked. Serving up chocolate to whatever kids who still brave the neighborhood streets instead of sucking out and going to the mall just helps me get a little closer to those memories.

Although, now that I know that it's apparently cool for grown-ups to dress up and beg for candy as long as they have a kid with them? Yeah, I really need to hook that up.

Ha, and with one minute to spare... There's day one!

OK, I admit that I'm only posting to get rid of the blank space on the main page. However, I fully intend to take a stab at joining Fussy.org's NaBloPoMo effort, and post every day in November. That's right, every bloody day for a month. Let the inevitable tedium ensue!

In the mean time, please feel free to scroll down and check out my archives if you haven't already. Chock full of tasty ephemera.

I wish whatever is making that occasional tappy noise in the back rooms would cut it out. Ghost, transient, squirrel, whatever... Either attack or retreat, pal. I sure miss having a big dog around when Bill's out of town. I mean, I miss her for a lot of reasons - home security is simply the one that springs to mind at the moment. Although, as I mentioned to Josh H., I guess in a pinch I could use the cedar box she's in to clock someone over the head...

I've been pissed off at Korean-made things this week due to the crapping-out of both major LG appliances in our kitchen... But then I saw this page about artist Hyungkoo Lee's exhibition Animatus, and it's the best thing I've seen all month. All is forgiven, South Korea.

So I've had this one 1989 prom-dress modelling picture of me up on Flickr for a while - and yesterday a celebrity-mocking art site called Gallery of the Absurd ended up linking to it as a prime example of 80's High School prom hair (comparing my AquaNet-shellacked hair lilt to that of Conan O'Brien). Righteous! I feel so much better about the fact that my prom dates were all platonic...

Ever since I went back to work, Indy has started up with her version of angsty teen cutting, the Lick Granuloma, where basically she licks her leg into an oozing raw mass of torutured flesh. I've written about this before, but apparently dogs get an endorphin rush out of it or some crazy thing. Anyway, usually she'll do it a while then stop, but this one's gotten bad enough that we decided it was time to put a cone on her head and give the leg a chance to heal unmolested.

She's dealing with it better than we expected - she's not clawing at it or whining or anything - but she is in kind of a manic panting mood. We can't decide if she's doing this for amusement, to dislodge the thing, or simply to bully us into taking it off - but several times this evening she's made for the opposite end of wherever she sees us standing up, then gallumphed her arthritic, neuropathic bones across the room to ram our legs, head on. It's like she's head-cone jousting, and it's incredibly silly.

Last week we finally broke down and bought a Cuisinart food processor, and boy, are they everything they're cracked up to be if you're someone who likes to cook. So far, I've made hummus, basil pesto, guacamole, salsa, and my very own mayonnaise - all very non-complicated and the results have been uniformly kick-ass. "So," Wee said, "Looks like dinner's going to be... assorted sauces?" I have yet to explore the wonders of the dough blade or the cheese and veggie shredders - but the night is still young.

I always thought that the expense wasn't justifiable, but Costco had a great deal on the one we bought. We do a lot of cooking, and I've wished for one several times in the recent past, so it was time to invest. Judging from the results, the bigger risk is that I'll be making too many tasty snacks for anyone's good. Another good reason to be glad I'm working again is that I can pawn off leftovers to my workmates, who all seem to be quite enthusiastic eaters.

So, Yuppie Creep once again insinuating itself into the Rhodes household? Fucking-A right it is. Asceticism is for monks.

Our house has an A-frame roof and matching picture windows in the front and the rear. Ever since we had the windows washed, it seems that the occasional bird will look through our front window, see the redwood trees waving bright and clear through the back window, and make the tragic assumption that they've found a breezeway through which to fly.

RIP, tiny wren that scared the bejesus out of me when you BONNNNNG'ed into our window last evening. Every time I glance at the goo angel you left on the glass, I shall heave a melancholy sigh.

I just had that shit cleaned, you know?

All server-migrating issues resolved, I'm pleased to once more be able to intend to update the blog one of these days.

This weekend Bill and I went out for sushi and to go see “Munich” (good story, with some obvious relevance to current events). Bill had referred to the movie title as “München”, so as we were walking into the theater I began babbling in pidgen German. “Rechts, um die Ecke!” I chirped. “Um die Ecke! Ach, hier haben wir München! München, es ist ja hier!” I sounded like a drunk parrot on a Berlin tour bus.

Right after my little bout of saxon Tourette's, we noticed for the first time that oh, by the way? The two metrosexual guys walking about three feet in front of us? Were speaking perfect, native German.

Hello! I'm an American idiot! Wie geht's?

Dana at Bobofett asked people to email her some of their favorite iPod songs. Here's a copy of what I sent her. Clearly, I'm not a girl of refined musical tastes. Regardless, here's a sample pack of songs that, one way or another, scratch an itch in my tune-listening soul:

- One Night In Bangkok - Murray Head: because I get my kicks above the waistline, Sunshine. I fucking love this song. I can't explain.

- Dear God - XTC: I'll bet He's getting a lot of these types of letters lately

- Nightswimming - REM: reminds me of old friends, and skinnydipping. Also, one of the few REM songs where you can almost totally discern what the hell Stipe is singing.

- Starry Eyed Surprise - Paul Oakenfold: Just makes me completely happy. I liked it way before it was featured on the Sprite or Diet Coke or whatever commercial.

- You Rascal You - Louis Armstrong: only Satchmo could sing a go-fuck-yourself song that's so chipper... "I'll be glad when you're dead, you rascal you. I'll be tickled to death when you leave this earth, you dog..."

- Ring of Fire - Johnny Cash: Even though Bill and I are convinced that it's really about herpes.

- Seether - Veruca Salt: you can't fight the Seether.

- Flower - Liz Phair: Never guess from the title what a dirty, dirty little song this is. Not one to absent-mindedly sing in the bank line.

- Love You Madly, or Comfort Eagle - Cake: I couldn't choose between them. Although, for lyrics, I suppose Comfort Eagle wins by a nose. You can dress up like a sultan in your onion-head hat!

- Little Miss Can't Be Wrong - Spin Doctors: Ugh, I know... Next I'll be defending the virtues of Hootie and the Blowfish. May as well be twiddling someone's fraternity ring on a chain around my neck when I cop to this one.

- Last Laugh - Dance Hall Crashers: Calling this tune "ska" is seriously pushing the definition, but I love singing along with the weird harmonies

- Feel Good Inc. - The Gorillaz: This song forces me to groove. Resistance is futile.

There it is. Feel free to share some of yours...

(Yes, Eric, I realize that you don't see any Dan Fogelberg ANYWHERE on this list. That's for another entry, the one called "My Secret Songs of Shame").

- What Indy feels toward the vacuum cleaner is not exactly fright, but rather horrified fascination. She darts from room to room while I'm vacuuming; I used to think she was trying to hide, but I've come to realize that she's actually playing chicken with it.

- She's not only gotten used to her insulin shots, she's added them to her mental DayTimer. If I'm late with one, she'll follow me around shaking her scruff at me. Once she knows the needle's loaded, she'll usually pick a spot across the room to await the poke. If I come up to her while she's still standing and tell her to sit, however, she'll just glance at me stubbornly and stand her ground. Sadly, I have no qualms about exploiting the fact that a light tug on her collar will make her weak back legs fold like a card table. Lately, though, I just put down the needle and raise an eyebrow at her, and pretty soon she'll heave a big resigned sigh and cop a squat. It's all about the illusion of consent, I guess.

- A few months ago she started making this really harsh hacking noise every now and then. At first I was worried about it, thinking she might have kennel cough, or a splinter in her throat, or some diabetes complication we hadn't read about. Pretty soon, though, I noticed that she only does it when she wants me to do something. It's like the dog equivalent of clearing her throat. So now it just pisses me off.

- When she's asleep, sometimes her paws will start twitching and she'll yip like a coyote. I've never heard her make this sound when she's awake. I wonder what her dreams are like.

This morning I found this link on Fark: "After decades of being dissed, the ranch-style house is cool again". The article got me thinking once more about our house's design roots; so I went poking around the Goog and found an article about the origins of steep gable roof design in California homes of the 50's and 60's. Lo and behold, the article featured a picture of our exact house model, and a couple of paragraphs about its design (second image down, labeled "Anshen + Allen's gable design for Gavello homes, 1956"). The Internet, people! You really can find bloody everything here.

The article describes our roof as a "clerestory", which made me laugh because about half the people who've visited the house so far have referred to it as "the church". (Other comparisons have included "boat", "chalet", and "cabin" - the place is a conversation piece, for sure). I guess the ecclesiastical overtones are particularly appropriate, though, considering we have the Wrong Reverend Wee in residence...

In other news, the hardwood floor refurbishing is completed, and holy shit, is it pretty. Also, you can get a pretty decent buzz from huffing the polyurethane fumes. I'm so glad we had it done, even if our current mobile lifestyle is wearing a little thin (we've been living in a rented RV parked outside the house since Wednesday, and can't really move back into the house until Tuesday). Most of the floor was in OK shape to begin with - the thick rubber carpet pads were probably in place for most of the house's existence, and they really protected the floor surface. Given our dread of moving all our shit around yet again, we were tempted just to scrub the surface and live with it as-was. When we sold the last house, though, we did a lot of things to "increase value" that we were kicking ourselves for not doing sooner just for our own benefit; afterwards we promised ourselves we wouldn't procrastinate like that in our next place, within financial reason. So now, having followed through on that notion despite the temptations of slackery, we have a gorgeous floor that's worth probably 4-5 times what it cost us to fix it up. O happy day... Now let's just hope we can manage not to fuck it up too badly.

When I was reading the IMDB message boards for the cinematic tour de force that was 1976's "King Kong" this evening, I came across a poem that... You see, it's... um. Well, I just thought others might enjoy it as much as I did. Here you go!

KING KONG AND QUEEN DWAN

Dwan what a charmer,
like Faye Wray, well ALMOST like Faye Wray.
She holds over the beasts being
total absolute sway
Atop the dual phallouses
that sadly are no more.
The Queen Begs DONT LET ME GO!
But he knows what is is store.
Is his own gargantuan simian way
as tears fills his giant eyes
He seems to know in his giant heart
that he is going to die.
"O beautiful queen, I will die,
before you I let them kill.
You have, my heart with total joy
given such great fill."
And man with his instruments of destruction
go after the kings beautiful head.
The king falls off the palace top
and on the street lays dead.
His beautiful queens weeps bitterly
for her king is no more.
She was a regent in his eyes.
And never was the whore.

Being a "high-balance customer" (as defined by our Citibank rep in explaining why she was giving us our check order for free) has been a gratifying feeling; we're savoring it while it lasts, though, because pretty soon that hefty pellet o' cash will be flying right back out of our account and into that of the people whose house we agreed to purchase on Tuesday.

Bill's done a great job of describing the house on his page already, so if you want to know the backstory, check it out... The place is pretty funky, needs some therapy, and contains a blinding array of brass fixtures as well as a powder-blue color scheme and frilly wallpaper, all of which most certainly must be purged. However, we dig it because, after looking at countless boring ranch homes with their bric-brac facades, generically boxy floorplans and locations deep in the heart of suburbia, this one seemed unique and interesting.

Also, we were hoping to find a place that had some shops and things within walking distance. Before I moved to San Diego, I'd always lived in neighborhoods near college campuses with lots of nearby shops and places to eat and hang out; I missed that accessibility during our stint in the driving-addicted bedroom communities of Southern California. Our new house is within reasonable walking distance of Murphy Ave, a short stretch of road in downtown Sunnyvale with several cute little Irish pubs, a bunch of decent-looking restaurants, a lively used bookstore and a couple of pool halls. Perfect. Every Wednesday evening in summer they block off the ends of the avenue and have a street fair. Apparently, downtown Sunnyvale in general is poised on the brink of a huge renovation effort - it's been in the works for years, but only now seems like it's going to kick into gear.

We didn't realize that getting a moderately-priced house in Sunnyvale was sort of a coup until Bill talked with some of his coworkers about it. Many of them ended up buying houses in outlying areas around San Jose like Campbell and Cambrian. Their commutes are 2-3x as long as the 15 minutes it takes Bill to get to work from here. Most of the houses we looked at out there would need just as much fixing up as our wacky little chalet does - and in the end, maybe we'd have a place with a nice kitchen and some refinished hardwood floors, but it'd still be cracker-boxy and mired in the 'burbs. Luckily, the owners of our place fixed up the kitchen a few years back and we like the cabinets just fine. We plan to swap out the flat-top electric range with a high-output gas cooktop, but otherwise, it's tip-top. Something about the house is tickling our tiki sensibilities, and we plan to trick it out accordingly. Ooga-chaka!

The important thing, though, is that I can totally picture us living in this place and thinking of it as home... Not just as the place where we keep our stuff and hang out in when we don't have anything better to do, but also a place that pleases and amuses us, inspires our imagination a little, is fun to show to guests, and has a layout that's useful and accomodating to the way we live. All that, and a relative bargain to boot (well, as much as any house that costs over three quarters of a million dollars (!) and still doesn't come with manservants or a yacht slip can be said to be a "bargain"... Welcome to Silicon Valley.)

Anyway, I feel like we scored a pretty decent place - and even better, unlike the prior house we bid on, with this one we won't have to sell plasma and find 100 ways to liven up Ramen dinners in order to make our house payments. So, whew.

Overheard at the interim HQ of Tessenwee Ltd.:

"You know, we could just stay here, and blow the wad on liquor and high-end electronics instead."

"Sure. Although hookers and blow are the more traditional way to go."

"Good point."

Translationh: We closed on the house today. Wahoo!

Blog? What blog?

More soon. No, really.

Sorry I haven't been updating lately. You'd think that, given all the time I have on my hands, I should be writing up a storm... I just find myself with not much to say, I guess. This is a kind of strange time for me now, a weird limbo of living in a house that's been more or less stripped of all of our most personal stuff and which has to be kept in show condition all the time - I spend my days chasing the dog around with the vacuum and Swiffering as if the Queen were coming over any second to take high tea off my kitchen tiles.

My car has been in the shop for the past three weeks, so I've been sort of stranded here except for the times when my wonderful friends have come and rescued me for a few hours. I've done a massive amount of walking; the resulting fitness aspect has admittedly been a silver lining to the whole experience. It's not exactly the way I'd have chosen to kick-start a health regimen, but I'm (mostly) not complaining. I've also had the unmitigated pleasure of making acquaintance with San Diego's mass transit system. The nearest bus stop is, sadly, 2 miles from where I live (ref: all the damned walking I've been doing), but I survived the trip there and back, as well as a couple more miles of walking once I got where I was going that day. My Achilles tendon is killing me, but my leg muscles are toit like a toiger.

Other than that, my main entertainments have been online poker (I won $90 on my birthday - o Happy Day!) and watching my own little Wild Kingdom episode out on the back patio... A hummingbird made a nest on the Xmas lights strung up around our spa, so I've been checking them out up close and personally. How many people ever get to do that? I've taken a bunch of pictures and putting them up on my Flickr account.

Oh yeah - by the way, we have a Flickr account now! Click here to check it out. So far, it's mostly pics of the birds, Indy, our GORGEOUS MUST-SEE PENASQUITOS HOME! UPGRADES GALORE!, and our "going-away" party (if only I COULD go away, already!). I just bought the "Pro" account, though, so I'll probably be sticking all kinds of random shit up there soon.

Outside of Von's today, two boys about 5 and 7 were waiting at the curb for their mother to put the shopping cart back; the younger boy stepped toward the parking lot, and the older boy leaped on him and wrestled him back to the curb, saying, "You wait for Mom, or I'll punch you in the butt!"

I'm SO using that phrase the next time someone crosses me.

Is it just me, or does new Pope Benedict XVI just look kind of... well, a little creepy?

I wonder if any old Catholic WWII vets were pissed off when they heard that a German would be wearing the funny Hat?

I have so much love for Go Fug Yourself. So. Much. Love.

Cat's out of the bag. This is why we're moving to Silicon Valley. Hooray!

After a hard day of throwing dirt-encrusted shit into a big metal box, nothing beats a quiet evening prying your insulin-shocked pooch's clenched fangs open so that you can squirt a couple turkey baster-loads of Karo syrup down her throat, followed by a brisk stroll out into the cool night air to scoop up some huge, wet piles of her kibble vomit. Good times!

So it turns out that the reason thatIndy has been losing so much weight, drinking water like she's on fire, and generally been an unhappy pooch is because she has diabetes. Poor girl.

Poor owners, too, because it sounds like we'll have to give her insulin shots TWICE a day for the rest of her life. There are very few things that I can remember to even do once a day on a regular basis, let alone twice, so this should be an interesting task to undertake.

A coworker asked me if we were going to put her to sleep because of the diabetes. I just blinked at her in amazement for a couple of seconds. Why the hell would I even consider that, if it's something that's managable and she can still have a good quality of life? Sure, it'll be a pain in the ass to do the insulin, and might be kind of expensive... But this is the sort of thing you have to be prepared to do for those you love. I read a quote once about life priorities that said, "If it doesn't breathe, it doesn't really matter." Indy breathes; she feels; she matters.

We adopted Indy 9 years ago when she was 6 weeks old, just 6 months before we got married - she's a charter member of our family unit. She's just the best dog we ever could have hoped for. She's so smart, and emotionally vivid, and loyal and funny and obedient... All told, the epitome of a Good Girl. We love her like any other family member. She's certainly less difficult to love than many people are, and gives back more in return than most. She protects our house, she makes us laugh, she understands when we're in bad moods and need space, but she never holds a grudge and is always happy just to be close to us. Also, she's the Supermodel of the dog world. She's our Pooch Garou, our Indy-Gatta-Da-Vida, our Pup D'Amour.

Of course we'll take care of her, as long as she can still have a good life. She's our girl.

So my hometown, Klamath Falls, OR, made national news today! Apparently some KFallsian thought it'd be a swell idea to celebrate the joyful tidings of Valentine's Day by convening a bunch of his Internet pals for a suicide party; their plan was to meet remotely in an online chat room and then - 3, 2, 1, GO! - all do the deed at once.

Granted, Klamath Falls is the sort of backwater agrarian community that has driven more than one sad soul to the brink... But you have to admire the ambition and creativity of this particular cadre of the desperate, employing technology to bring mass suicide to the next level, man! They were gonna put this fuckin' cowtown on the MAP!

Then again, admiration may be a strong word. Especially when there was one woman willing to kill both of her children as part of the event, the nutty bitch.

Disaster apparently averted, anyway. So now Klamath Falls is known not only for defiant potato farmers vs. endangered suckerfish, but for suicidal megalomaniacs. Sweet!

On Sunday, while the majority of the nation was parked in front of some TV or another catching the Big Game (whatevah!), Wee and GJB and I decided it'd be a fine day to pursue some hot Go-Kart action at Miramar Speed Circuit. GJB and Chagen had generously given us memberships for Christmas, but honestly, I had no idea what it was all about until GJB suggested we go this weekend.

As soon as I got there, I realized, correctly, that So! Much! Fun! was about to ensue, and in fact did. 10 people at a time go out on a 1/4 mile course for about 10 minutes, which is plenty of time; you end up doing about 10 or 11 laps (unless you're a speed monkey like G.). The carts are amazingly stable - they turn great and I think it'd take a lot to flip them, and the referees are pretty good about watching drivers and calling out the foolhardy. It takes a while to learn how to take corners and to get up the gumption to go full-out on the straight bits, but after a while I was zooming around pretty fast. You get a decent arm workout too, cranking that hard little steering wheel back and forth for 15 minutes straight - my biceps are kind of stiff today. We're totally going again next weekend.

Yeah, so my inner child is a 14-year old boy. What's your point?

Canine dental cleaning:
$200

Canine molar extraction:
$250

Canine exam/bloodwork/heartworm treatment/vaccines/all the other shit you're told you really oughtta have done to make sure a senior-citizen dog is tip-top:
$300 ($500, actually, but I put off a couple of tests when the tooth yanking came up)

Indy's worth to us:
Priceless (luckily for her)

OUCH!

You know, Sheriff Joe Arpaio of Phoenix may be an ultra-conservative, fire-and-brimstone bulldog of a law enforcer, but you have to give the man points for creativity. When he does things like color his handcuffs bright pink so that other law enforcement agencies can't get away with hanging on to them after prisoner transfers, you have to dig the guy a little.

Plus, I bet he could TOTALLY make money selling those to the general public. I'm just saying there might be a market.

Did I ever tell you that my brother-in-law Mickey is an official "Special Deputy" for the Phoenix Sheriff's dept? He even has an official, heavy-ass badge that gets him access into prisons when he goes to minister there. Sheriff Joe himself gave Mickey the badge and swore him in. Hmm - maybe if I ask really nicely, Mick could score a pair of those cuffs for his sista...? They'd go really nicely with my little bitch gun.

I am happy to report that the formerly recalcitrant toe is now the recalcifying toe. Go, toe!

However, between the healing of Floppy Joe and the winding down of the Neverending Cold, I'm fresh out of maladies about which to whinge and wrangle sympathy out of my friends and colleagues. Worse, soon I'll have to bite the bullet and start exercising like I promised myself I would at the start of the year. Balls.

Happy New Year, all...

Hope yours was good; ours was fine, although all the big plans I had for household projects over my week-long break were derailed by the Cold Virus from Hell, which set in on the 28th and continues to spelunk in my breathing passages and give me a voice laden with the sultry tones one might expect from, say, a drunk toad. Also, my boss is out all this week, which means that I'm the pseudo-boss, so my level of joyousness is all the more compounded now that we're back to work.

Topping it all off, it seems that my broken pinkie toe has decided to be somewhat more high-maintenance than most. I went to my GP Dr. K for a follow-up visit last week; at first he seemed kind of incredulous that I'd even bothered to come see him, but once I explained that the toe still seemed kinda more - well, wiggly - than I'd expect it to be, he went ahead and ordered a follow-up set of X-rays to compare with the original set.

The results show that the ends of the "nasty break" (to quote Dr. K) have apparently engaged in absolutely no healing in the 3-1/2 weeks since they parted ways - probably because there is a gap of 2mm or so separating them. (Doesn't sound like much until you look at a ruler...). Can't knit back together if they aren't touching, I guess. So, rather than having a useless nugget of meat flapping off of the end of my foot for all eternity, Dr. K has suggested that I go see an orthopedic surgeon for an evaluation.

So, I guess my decision to go with the more expensive insurance plan with better coverage this year was a good move after all...

This year had better improve from here, or... or I'll give it what-for! Or else! Buh.

Is it wrong that I'm a little bit proud of having finally broken my first bone?

Even though my childhood was riddled with so many minor mishaps and stumblefuck maneuvers that my mother dubbed me an Accident Waiting to Happen (this was her second favorite term for me as a child, next to "Snotbox" - a veritable architect of self-esteem, my mom), I always felt like I'd just dabbled; I hadn't really done anything, like, major, other than a couple of sets of stitches in the same spot on my eyebrow within a year of each other. The boys never really seemed to hurt themselves despite their most daredevil inclinations. My sister - hi, Suzi! - was the one who really cornered the market on Serious Maladies growing up - near-drownings, compound arm fractures, pernicious viruses, etc. I just did things on a smaller and somehow more humiliating scale, like running into bricks face-first or spraining my neck while blow-drying my hair. With the snapping of my right-foot little toe, however, I feel like I've finally earned my Advanced Klutz Badge.

Thursday morning I was ironing some Dockers for Bill to wear for his first day at his new job when I realized that it was nearly time for me to leave for work, and I hadn't managed to get dressed yet. As I hustled across the living room toward the stairs, my right foot apparently began to hear the siren song of sharp corners, which my easily-bruised hide can't resist; my wee toe responded by slamming hard into the end of the kitchen wall. I heard two sharp "SNAP!" sounds as it connected, and thought, Uh-oh.

Still, having never broken anything before, at first I told myself I just jammed it. Then I looked down, and noted the cocked angle at which my toe was now sticking out from my foot. Oh. That's not right. Strangely, it didn't hurt much, so I reached down and gently poked at it. The toe wiggled around in directions it had never gone before, and too easily. It felt like a slightly-stale Gummi Worm.

I decided to consult with the resident expert in fractures, and hobbled upstairs to show Wee, who'd been roused out of his loop of denial-snoozing when I yelled OW. He seconded the notion that I had indeed busted it. So, off to the Urgent Care I went (driving the car was interesting). The X-ray confirmed a diagonal break in the second bone of the toe, from the top to the outside. They buddy-taped the toe to its neighbor, which is pretty much all they can do. (The RN who took my info asked me if I wanted to bother with X-rays, when the treatment would be the same regardless of whether it was broken or just sprained. Dude. It's my first broken bone - this is an EVENT. You bet your ass I want X-rays! If I could, I'd have them done daily for the next 6 weeks). I was sent on my way with a lovely foam rubber/Velcro sandal, some crutches - which I don't really need, but hey, FREE CRUTCHES! - and a scrip for Tylenol 3 (party!).

I made it into the office a mere 2-1/2 hours late. The doctor had written me a note and I totally could've scored a day off... My inbox would just have been that much uglier when I returned, though; also, our department was going to a holiday lunch at a semi-fancy Italian place, and hey, FREE FOOD!

When I got home, I found the Dockers sitting on the bed, unworn. Buh! Someone's learning how to do their own ironing from now on. However, that same someone made me a delicious lobster-tail dinner and fetched things for me all night, so it's all good.

All I can say now, with Christmas a mere 2 weeks away and half my list still empty... Thank the sweet birthday-boy Jesus for online shopping.

Note to self: there's a good chance that the type of no-nonsense person who becomes a aerospace mechanical engineer may also be the type who will utterly fail to appreciate why anyone would ever call him a "groove commando".

Clearly, I forgot to take my vitamins today.

The only thing better than getting flowers is getting surprise flowers on an otherwise-uneventful Tuesday evening. Followed by a dinner of 2-inch thick, medium-rare ribeye steaks with sauteed portobello mushrooms and some fancy, rich sauce involving shallots and Cabernet and cream.

So yeah, my husband rocks.

This weekend, I:
- Slept for 11 hours in one long, beatific row;
- Attended Kim's birthday party, where I listened to an Englishman's funny stories about pikeys, and pretty songs played on a very cool guitar;
- Rejoiced in Wee's successful installation of a fake log gas-fireplace thing. I used to resist the notion; I thought I'd miss being able to burn real wood. But I'll be damned if the pseudo-log-fire doesn't look and feel reasonably close to the real thing - it even has little pseudo-embers (made from fiberglass fluff) that glow orange and purple. And it never dies down or needs restoking or scooping out. While the pseudo-fire lacks the smoky pine smell of a real one, it also lacks the burned-down-candle-factory odor of the Duraflame logs to which we'd resorted last year because it gnawed at our very souls to pay $10.00 for a bundle of three damp chunks of firewood at Von's. In sum, the new fire solution rocks, and I will be spending a great deal of quality time with it this winter.

That's about it. Oh, Wee has some massively good news too, which we celebrated over steaks and champagne on Friday night. However, I'll let him bust out with it in his own blog if/when he's ready. =)

So , it would seem that Mt. St. Helens had herself a little case of painful gas pressure, and she's breathing a geological sigh of relief now. Better light a match, Portland!

I remember the 1980 eruption. In our southern Oregon town, the cars and houses were dusted in fine gray ash, which we scraped into piles and shook into little containers for keepsakes. I don't know where mine went, but I'm sure that my souvenir-loving Uncle Frank still has the vial we sent him, tucked away in his tiny English house somewhere between the thunderegg from Crater Lake and the plastic yard-o-beverage stein from Red Lobster.

So Wee and I have come up with a theme for decorating our Halloween party (which is on October 30th - and for those to whom this means anything, we're not conflicting with the Brotherhood's gig this year).

Wee doesn't want me to advertise specifics, in case the results are lamer than hoped. Still, I think it'll be cool - I wanted to do something different from last year but was uninspired about how to go about it; now that we've picked a motif, though, I have all kinds of good ideas. It's just a question of whether we'll have the motivation and/or means to do it all. Let's just say there's some papier-mache and minor construction involved. Could be messy.

So, if you know us, and you are (or can arrange to be) in San Diego on Halloween weekend, we hope you'll come on over! The Evite will be mailed this weekend - inevitably, though, we'll omit someone by accident or because we don't have current contact info - so if you read this and think to yourself, "Why didn't those bitches invite me?", please email me, because I'm betting we actually do want your ass there too...

(By the way, the few of you who are clued in to the decor... Zip it!)

So I found a way to console myself over the Fievel thing... I went out and procured myself a couple of baby girl rats. =)

Wee had been warned that the day was coming - I'd already been cruising the "fancy rat club" sites and plotting my acquisition; Fievel was just the kicker... An omen, if you will, that it was time to get myself some rodent pals. On Monday evening I had to visit the neighborhood Postal Annex to get an online traffic school test notarized (don't ask), and lo and behold, two doors down - the Penasquitos Pet Center! Fate took its course, and 20 minutes later I was walking out of PPC with a big-ass cage and two tiny furry pals.

I tried giving them girly names like 'Morgan' and 'Stella', but they just weren't sticking; right now I'm thinking they're going to be called Bee (she likes to be up high, and has a gray-brown splotch on her face that looks like a lower-case "b" - the rest of her is white), and Tilde (she has a white " ~ " blaze on her gray-brown head; the rest is white with gray-brown speckles). I'll post pictures soon.

Lordy, they're JUST. SO. DAMNED. CUTE. They were a little freaked at first and, understandably, not feeling too social; but I've been bribing them with wee bits of pasta, which seems to be warming their hearts (or at least stomachs) toward me. Eating pasta super-charges them, for some reason - they zip around the cage afterward like tweakers with OCD. Run! Clean! Climb! Clean! Run some more! Their cage has three-count-em-three stories; Bee digs hanging out on the top level, but Tilde prefers keeping it on the down-low in the big cardboard mailing tube at floor level. Bee was sleeping up above last night, which made me a little sad for Tilde since she really likes curling up with Bee to sleep, but by morning I saw that Bee had come down and tucked into the tube with her sister again.

Indy is mostly indifferent, rather surprisingly; I think that as long as I don't actively provoke her, like triggering her chase instinct by letting them run on the floor, she'll be cool...

Anyway, there's probably nothing more boring than someone talking about their pets, but I'm pretty damned tickled with them.

So Wee and I have had traps set up all through the house to kill the mice that live in our walls. They pepper our garage and the under-sink kitchen cabinet with poop. We hear them skittering around in the walls at night. One of them had the gall to chew through our cable TV line. We are most definitely not fans of the undomesticated rodent. So, what would logic dictate that we would surely do when we found a baby version of one in the backyard? Guesses, anyone?

I was watering the plants in back Wednesday night when I noticed a small dark shape wobbling across the concrete pad by the door. I peered at it; in the dim evening light, I only could tell it was a small mammal of some sort, and it wasn't so much crawling as lurching... listing and shaking like Keith Richards at a Mormon weekend retreat. I was kind of freaked out by it, so I called Bill down to examine it. I flipped on the porch light. "What is it?"

"I think it's a baby mouse or something," he said, crouching down to get a better look.

"Why's it all shaky? Is it sick? Is it rabid?"

"No," he said, and scooped it up, which made me cringe. He held it up. "Look. It's just a baby." He started picking dog hair and soil off its nose, and we saw that its eyes were still fused shut. Up close, it didn't look mangy or sick or hurt; just blind and tired and helpless. It was definitely bigger than a mouse baby.

"So... What do you want to do with it?" I was still uncertain. After all, weren't we anti-wild-rodent on principle? But yet... He was just a little guy, all lost and sad. He couldn't help being born a varmint.

"Well..." Bill said, much to my surprise, "We could try keeping it." (OK, so I must say that the sight of my husband standing there with a wee furry guy in his hand, suggesting we could rescue it, sort of made me get a crush on him all over again.)

I had a pet rat in college, named Merlin. Merlin was smart, clean, clever, and a great companion. She has a place of honor in my Pet Hall of Fame exceeded only by Indy. I thought about her as I looked at the mystery pup, whom by that time Bill had convinced me wasn't carrying plague and had deposited into my hand. He had huge sealed-shut eyes, a weird, turned up snout and back feet that were so long that we later speculated as to whether he might be something exotic, like a kangaroo rat. He'd stopped shaking and was napped out, comforted by the warmth of my skin. Well, shit.

So we brought him in, and I made a nest for him out of paper towels and a sock in a small pet cage I had. I found a dropper and tried giving him milk. We named him Fievel, after the lost mouse in "An American Tail". Bill put him in his office for the night, the warmest room in the house. I began Googling "raising orphaned rodents", and learned how I was supposed to feed him baby formula, and give him little massages after feeding to simulate the mother licking him and keep his insides working, and wipe his privates to make him go (yeah, I know, blech... but for the record, and to my somewhat scientific interest, it worked).

In the morning, I stopped at Von's and bought some Enfamil, and took him to work so I could feed him every couple of hours. (Luckily, the boss was on jury duty.) I put his cage on top of my monitor, and he gravitated toward the warmest parts. By the end of the day, he'd gained strength and would open his mouth wide when I busted out the dropper, then laid contentedly in my hand while I gently rubbed his fur with the damp corner of a napkin. After I brought him home for the evening, one of his eyes winked open for the first time, and the other soon followed. He squinted up at us and twitched his nose, and seemed happier in our hands than in the cage, even though I'd bought him a furry mouse toy to snuggle with.

During the day, both Bill and I had poked around on the Web to try to figure out what kind of rodent he was. Kangaroo rat, Bill was convinced. I thought it was possible, except that he didn't have a tuft of fur on the tip of his tail like they did. I looked up different types of rodents. I kept looking, until finally I came to a page about "roof rats".

There are two major types of common rats. Norway rats are the type from which domesticated or "fancy" pet rats descend; they're softer, slower, more burrowers than jumpers. The other type, roof rats, are their trashy cousins - the ones that carry plague, over-run ships, prowl the sewers of cities and infiltrate people's garbage cans and pet food supplies. Their snouts are pointier, their tails and feet longer, they're faster and more limber than pet rats. They are tricky to domesticate. I saw a picture of their pups, and realized Fievel was most likely not a kangaroo rat, but a roof rat. We'd seen his bigger counterparts in our outside trash before, and one had even lived in the garage for a while.

The question was, did that change my mind about saving him? Did I want to try to raise and domesticate a pest - a critter whose brethren people made careers out of exterminating? Other people who'd tried to domesticate them were lukewarm about the results. A roof rat will never be as comfortable around people as a Norway rat will, they warned - although one raised by hand might bond with the person who raised it. I thought about what he'd look like when he got big - stocky, dark, vaguely oily. Would he escape and terrorize the house, a Templeton singing "Downstairs is a veritable smorgasbord-orgasbord-orgasbord, after the lights go down!" ? Would he gross me out?

I realized, though, that in the day I'd spent coddling him, watching him nap with his wee feet curled up, that I was stuck; I was already attached to the little bastard. So I'd keep up with the rescue effort and see how it went; worst case, Bill and I agreed, was that if once he older he became too obnoxious or impractical to keep, we'd find a likely field somewhere and release him. He was born to be wild anyway, and at least we'd have given him a chance.

That night I noticed a clicking sound when he breathed. I'd read that hand-fed babies often inhaled formula and could get it in their lungs, and the clicking sound could be a sign of congestion or pneumonia. His mouth was working when he did it, though, so I thought it could just be his white stubs of teeth rubbing together... Maybe he was teething?

We left him in Bill's office again Thursday night, and in the morning I warmed some formula and went up to feed him. He didn't move when I bumped the cage, and when I lifted him out he was sluggish. His breathing came in labored spasms. His eyes were partly open - his very first glimpse of the world by day - but they weren't bright. I tried to offer him milk, but he wouldn't eat. His legs twitched sharply. Obviously he was in bad shape. I went to put him back in the cage, intending to leave a note to Bill that he was sick. By the time I laid him down and snuggled up the mouse toy to him, I realized that he'd stopped breathing. His wee pink tongue was poking out of his mouth - a sign of demise so cliched that I half-expected to see little "X"'s appear over his eyes too. No more breath. He was gone.

Maybe my efforts to feed him had made him get pnuemonia; or, given that he was scrawny and thin when we found him, maybe he'd been sick already - perhaps his mother had died, or possibly had kicked him out of the nest as a reject - and he had simply rallied for a bit with care before succumbing. Regardless, at least he'd been clean and warm and safe when he passed. I think he knew he was being cared for; and I like to think he was comforted, in whatever way his tiny brain might register such a thing, that I was with him at the end.

So, that was that. We only had Fievel for two days, but I was surprised at how attached I got to him. The rest of the day on Friday, I found myself thinking about him, our wee guy who just wasn't tough enough for the world. Yeah, it was probably just as well that he didn't stick around. It was probably dumb to try to save him in the first place. But I was inordinately sad to see him go.

Anyone who, upon reading this account, concludes that the whole thing was just a manifestation of our underutilized maternal/paternal instincts and that we clearly just need to damn well get ourselves a baby soon... Well. Um. No comment.

First Item:
If you have a choice between seeing "Aliens Vs. Predator" and, say, getting a high colonic, go for the latter. Both fall under the category of "poo and poo-related experiences", and although I've never had one myself, I suspect the colonic is more entertaining. However, in terms of being able to sit in air-conditioned comfort eating popcorn for two hours instead of killing ants while being slow-cooked in my crockpot of a house, I must say I almost got my money's worth.

Second item:
To the person who rammed their car into the Silver Bullet's driver side door while I was parked at my friend Kim's condo complex on Saturday night, and didn't even leave a note to say "Oops, sorry!": You are an ass-sucking fucktard, and I hope you get some sort of malodorous and incurable genital disease as karmic payback. /eom

Third item:
I am very, very happy to have my husband home. It's much friendlier with two.

So apparently, ponchos are back in style. That's right, people, ponchos. Crocheted, tassled women-doilies with neckholes. This is worse, even, than the tube tunic tops I've seen girls wearing this summer, which can make the most anorexic girl in the world look like she's in her third trimester.

I saw several women wearing ponchos in Las Vegas - when I saw the first one, I thought maybe someone's grandma knit it for them and they wore it so they wouldn't hurt her feelings, or that perhaps they were from some second-world country where women still scrub floors by hand and boil cabbage for breakfast. Then I saw a couple more and realized that it was a bona-fide, fashion-forward trend. The horror. The horror.

Why would anyone purchase and wear these? For fuck's sake, why? Have they no ability to say no to stupid trends? Do they not realize that when designers run out of ideas, they just pull some retro shit out of their ass and fling it at consumers to see whether or not it'll stick?

Well, let me just say, "Bitches, you gotta duck!"

It's time to draw a line in the sand with the latest 70's fashion revivals. Just say no, women of the world! Ugly is NOT just in the eye of the beholder; these monstrosities of fashion are proof of that. They are empirically, emphatically, undeniably ugly. Say no to ponchos. If you see a friend wearing one, have an intervention. Sit them down and make them watch re-runs of the Partridge Family and the Sonny and Cher show until their eyes begin to bleed.

Seriously, they'll thank you later.

That is all.

So it turns out that the diving frog I bought to be a companion to Jean Loup-Garou was a girl after all; this week I saw them doing the Wheelbarrow of Love position, and shortly thereafter the little peppercorns emerged on the water's surface.

I've scooped them up and put them in a container, and have a jar of nasty water set aside to breed some little protozoa for them to eat... So we'll see. Wee bought me this cool microscope to check them out with, and I'm eager to do so - but I've misplaced the disks for the software that I need to run it. Damn it all! Gotta find that this weekend. You know, before I manage to kill the wee froglets...

The most random thing happened last night when I was playing online poker...

My profile lists my location as "America's Finest City", so a guy asked me which city that was. I was coy about it for a while, then gave him obvious clues that led him to guessing San Diego.

"Hey, I know a gal in San Diego. Is that you, Mary Ann*?" he joked. (*not really her name. Not that it matters).

"No," I replied, "But I do know a Mary Ann. Is your friend a redhead?"

"Yes. Did your friend move out there about 10 years ago from Cape Cod?"

"Well, she's more of a friend of a friend, but I think she did move here a while ago from somewhere back East."

"Wow... How old?"

"Early 40's, I guess."

"Interesting. The Mary Ann I know is a little ditzy, but nice."

That's when the bells really began to ring. The woman in question is, in fact, very nice and smart, but the way she talks is uniquely spacey - like a cross between the blond chick on "3's Company" and Phoebe from "Friends".

"That definitely sounds like her! The one I know has a boyfriend named Ed*."

"Yeah, that's right. Do you know her last name?"

"I don't, but my friend K does. I'll call her." So I did, and K. confirmed that Mary Ann had moved here from the Cape about 10 years ago. She gave me her last name, and I made the guy spell out the first couple of letters before I gave the rest to him. Now we were 100% sure it was the same person. I felt kinda weird giving out someone's info to someone else, but he didn't sound at all creepy about it, just amazed. They'd been platonic roommates in Cape Cod about 15 years earlier, and the guy had just moved back to the US from Cozumel and was living in the Bronx. He'd meant to try getting back in touch with her but hadn't gotten around to it yet. He did have her number - he told me the last 4 digits, and Kim verified it - so I told him she'd be expecting a call once K. had a chance to tell her. Today Mary Ann confirmed that she knew him (and that he wasn't some stalker that she'd been hiding from or anything... whew).

So, I ask you, what are the odds of that? Some random guy in an online gaming room starts chatting me up, not even knowing where I live at first, then jokes about me being a long-lost friend from 15 years ago with a pretty common first name... and, in a city of over 2 million people, she just happens to turn out to be the next-door neighbor of one of my best friends?

K. is convinced that it's fate and that the two of them are supposed to get back in touch for some reason, and that she and I are just the messengers... I'm not quite as convinced; but it's pretty damned amazing, none the less. There is, also, the fact that I met my most excellent hubby through a similar quirk of fate that put us in the same AOL chat room on an otherwise boring October weeknight in 1994, and now I'm so unable to imagine going through life without knowing him that I can't help but believe that meeting him was somehow meant to be, too.

So - fate, or coincidence? Is the Internet a conduit for Destiny to weave its mysterious patterns, or are things like this just dumb fuckin' luck?

Well, that was fun!

We had an earthquake here about an hour ago... 5.2 magnitude, centered about 45 miles off the coast from San Diego. I was in my second-story office building, when I noticed my cubicle walls begin to shimmy a little; then there was a sharp, back-and-forth tugging motion, like someone had grabbed the base of our building and yanked it back and forth once, quickly. By the time I thought, "Buh... why, that was an earthquake!" and stood up, it was over.

I'm sure Bill will post his own entry, but he was in a 5-story concrete building at UCSD right on the coast - he said his building swayed a couple of inches - enough for him not to want to be in it any more today. I think that's probably all we'll be getting, but it was enough... I've always wanted to really feel one, so now that's taken care of, I'm good. No really, that was plenty. I feel like a true Californian now. Thanks!

OK, I'll admit it - after spending the week half-amused, half-annoyed by all the pomp and circumstance surrounding the Gipper's demise, the funeral services in Simi Valley just grabbed hold of the sentimental part of me and shook it like a bunny caught by a hungry pitbull.

The whole ceremony was picture-perfect - as it should've been, considering Reagan apparently began planning it as early as 1981 and given that Nancy had 10 years to perfect the details once Ronnie started his dive into oblivion. The service was touching, the eulogies by his kids were heartfelt and funny and well-delivered; the sunset couldn't have been more perfect if they'd placed a premium order with Heaven for it. The whole thing was just a grand sendoff for a guy who knew the importance of setting a scene, especially a final scene.

When I saw Nancy receive the flag and linger at the coffin, weeping for her lost love, surrounded by her kids, I just lost my shit. She'd maintained a sense of dignity and quiet strength through a really grueling fucking week, hauling ass from coast to coast behind that flag-draped box o' dead guy. At that moment, though, it seemed her grief finally broke through all the barriers of decorum (and Valium, and/or whatever else her doctors were pumping into her to help preserve that legendary composure); right at that point I didn't see politics or pretense - I saw a woman who'd been devoted to her husband for over 50 years, and stood by him through some really tough moments and years, and was finding it hard to say goodbye for the last time. Who knows, maybe she orchestrated the timing of her tears as well; but they still touched me, and I related to her as any person who loves their partner can relate.

So rock on, Nancy; and sleep well, Mr. President.

You know, I'm very glad to hear that Courteney had her baby OK, but... Coco? She waited all that time to have a kid, and she names her Coco?

I'm all for unique names, but some names pretty much only work for the person that made them famous. You don't see too many people naming their kids Arsenio or Zsa Zsa or Cher... Sting and Trudy Styler named one of their kids Coco as well; but she lives in England, where I don't believe she suffers the indignity of sharing her name with a popular breakfast cereal. Young Miss Arquette, however, can surely look forward to a childhood filled with people telling her she's cuckoo. (Given who her father is, of course, they may well be right. But still.)

Ah well. After all the news of death topping the charts lately, it's still good to hear about a safe and happy birth.

I got a tear in my tiny eye today as I was driving back from lunch and heard that Ray Charles had passed away.

First Reagan, now Ray Charles... They say these things happen in threes. Hope Ray Bradbury's taking good care of himself.

(My coworker, C., just confided to me that the guy she's been seeing is one of Ray Charles' sons. Was it bad of me to suggest that it'd be cool if he asked her to be his date for the funeral? Come on - would that not rock? Just think of who all might be there...)

So, after reading one of Eric's recent entries, I realize how much I miss letters.

I don't mean emails - I mean physical, snail mail letters. I miss writing them and sending them out with little doodles on the envelope. There was always something about writing a letter that felt more creative than typing an email ever has - choosing the type of paper and the color of the pen; writing in the margins, or in a spiral; sticking bonus items in the envelope like flowers or confetti or clippings. I miss emptying the mailbox and finding among all the ads and bills a letter addressed to me - yay, fun mail! - and the whole process of ripping it open and curling up somewhere to read it. I have boxes of old letters in my closet from all kinds of people - family, friends, foreign pen-pals, old boyfriends (no, wait, I burned all those! Uh, mostly...). I do not, on the other hand, have piles of email printouts from anyone (well, except Bill - but only because that's mostly how we dated for the first several months).

There's just something special about a physical letter - it's a gift, really. Having someone's handwriting on a page is like having a little bit of them, in a weird way. You're holding something that person held and took time to compose and stick in an envelope and address and mail. Writing a letter takes more effort, more purpose, than writing email, I think. A person's handwriting style is also a unique part of them - a feature, as distinctive as a fingerprint or an expression on their face. In my mind I can see the handwriting of the people I love as clearly as I can imagine their faces; looking at something someone's written me is almost like looking at a picture of them. I haven't printed out a whole lot of emails that people have sent me, but I have almost every letter that anyone close to me has ever sent.

So, I know what I want for my birthday, from anyone who cares to give me something...

I want a letter. A handwritten letter, sent via snail mail. Don't skimp - I want a good full page, minimum - more if you have it in you.

Come on - how else can you give someone exactly what they want for the bargain price of $0.37?

Let me know if you need me to email you my address...