Oh my goodness, I just noticed that my blog (unbeknownst) to me, has added a rating option to my posts.

I'm going to go and give myself a perfect score on each one.

Today I followed a link that led me to this video on YouTube:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pCP5VqmDsf4&NR=1

As always I am astonished by a number of things regarding this:

First, what a crazy beard
Second, would you have filmed yourself cutting off said beard?
Third, would you have thought of showing it backwards?
Fourth, would you have posted this on YouTube?

Now, another, now famous video:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6B26asyGKDo&feature=related

Noah took his picture each day for six years for this video. I can barely remember to breathe everyday for six years, let alone take my photo daily, so kudos to Noah.

Also, I saw the same brown plaid shirt at least twice a week--Noah, dude, take some time off of photography and go shopping.

The Hot Weather Ranting Begins

Today it's supposed to be 10,000 degrees, just a bit warmer than it was yesterday. Yesterday, I went to a garden show, and I wore my standard summer uniform of shorts, tank top, and little Indian sandals. My poor feet got torched.

Today, I'm going to a Buddhist festival (why must every thing be scheduled on record-breaking heat days--I ask you?), and have resigned myself to wearing tennis shoes. Now, mind you they are girly tennis shoes, pale yellow Converses with daisies and ladybugs (really), and that would be okay, but to add insult to injury, I need to wear socks with them. Sigh--but wait--I have little hot pink socks that will perfectly match my hot pink tank top (which contrasts beautifully with my white jeans shorts).

Whew, that was close.

Gratuitous Japanese cuteness.

Hey, some days I just need that.

Compressed Air--Revisited

I just read a story about cars being powered by compressed air. Does this mean that I'll have to start believing in compressed air, or is it like electricity--it works when you flick the switch whether you believe in it or not?

Acorns



See these three knitted acorns? They are my big accomplishment for the last few days.

So, you're probably asking yourself, "This is a career woman, this woman homeschools her child part time, she has a house to keep, and a yard to maintain, and way too many pets to care for. What's up with the lack of constructive behavior? Knitted acorns?"

I'll tell you what's up--

Spring Break!

I don't have to do anything. So there.

Okay Kazuki, this one's for you, he who loves all things Japanese and only eats Asian food. I present to you two bento lunches with new lunch boxes.



One is mine and one is my husband's. They are both authentic and from Japan. Now, which is which?



And no, I don't really know what "Pleasure Supply" is supposed to be, and I'm not going to even guess, as this is a family blog. I offered to try to remove the decal, but my husband finds it amusing, so maybe he gets it.

Yesterday, while driving, my husband read out a sign that said, "Five hotdogs for four dollars."

I responded, "It would take more than four dollars to get me to eat five hotdogs."

More like a thousand a 'dog, I'm thinkin'.

Today the news reported that a man in Texas killed his girlfriend, and was apparently planning on featuring her on tonight's menu.

Do they have a cookbook for that, or do you have to make up your own recipes?

What is wrong with people?

In the wake of the Iowa Caucuses, I am again struck by the tremendous diversity of this country, and how it's reflected in our candidates for president.

We have an African American man, a woman, and an Hispanic man, and that's just on the Democratic side.

The Republican side is even more striking: a Mormon, a war veteran, a preacher, and perhaps most astonishing of all, an opera lover.

Now, that's what I call diversity.

Yes, this is just the place I would have chosen for Bruno to sleep.

Good morning, Happy New Year everyone!

I got up this morning before dawn to see the sunrise, and greet the new year. Last night, my husband wanted to know if I was going to watch the ball drop to greet the new year.

Well, no, the ball rising is the new year. Like all good pagans, (and morning people), I know that the day doesn't start at some human-created time like midnight--even the name should tell you that--"midnight"--is at night.

The new day must therefore start sometime during the day. This morning it did at about 6:51 am.

Duh.

How can a woman, who rarely wears them, own so many pairs of white socks?

My drawer is full of them. Why don’t I have blue, green, black, and brown--colors I actually wear?

I could wear stockings of course.

Yeah right.

Okay, final post.

Here's dinner:


Notice the innocent looking white pitcher next to the candles, on the left? That is the sauce. One makes the duck for the sauce. The sauce is heaven or sex, whichever you look forward to the most.

My husband spilled a few drops in the sink while transferring it to the pitcher. He tried to climb into the sink to roll around in it.

Really.

Merry Christmas everyone.

And here's desert:


No, I didn't make this myself. Next year. I ordered if from the local French bakery, where I had a pate sandwich for lunch.

What?

So sue me.

I bet at this point you're asking yourself, "What is she thinking; it can't be French--where are the potatoes?"

Here they are:




Potato pancakes with scallions are traditional for Christmas, with duck. There will also be a salad with Roquefort dressing (already done).

Wait 'til you see what's for desert....

This is at the first basting, after the turnips and shallots have been added. There will be a second basting of course; this is French food.


Yes, that is cranberry sauce you see cooking next to the ducks. A holiday is not a real holiday without cranberry sauce. If I could figure out a way to have it on Easter and the Fourth of July, I would.

My husband has been helping me do this, and he keeps saying things like, "Can't we just put them in the pans, you know, so we don't have to wash so many dishes?"

Silly man. If you don't use every dish you own, you're not doing it right, and it's definitely not French.

So far we have used:

two skillets
one roasting pan
two dishes
one plater
two knives
one peeler
one fork
one set of tongs
one wine glass
one spatula
and counting.

Unfortunately the spatula is a poor imitation of my favorite spatula, which has been stolen by faeries or gremlins, so I am using an inferior tool. I hope the duck turns out okay anyway.

I'm sorry, that's two roasting pans.

Duck continued.

On the left are the gizzards that will probably star in a future omelette (dinner tomorrow night?). My husband suggested giving them to the dogs. Over my dead body. Of course, we have a resident sneak thief (remember the adorable Bruno? He's bigger now), so I will have to guard them carefully.

The veggies on the right are for putting under the ducks (so they have a comfy sleeping spot), and will be sauted, roasted, squeezed, and discarded. Hey, this is French cooking, what do you want?





Now, the shallots and turnips are caramelized and then roasted. You get to eat these veggies. The pan is deglazed with wine, and then the result is poured over the ducks and they are roasted for 45 minutes.

How to cook a duck.

We're making dinner tonight and taking the leftovers tomorrow on a hike out to look at rock art. This is one of the luxuries of not seeing extended family on Christmas.

Here are the ducks cooking in clarified butter. They have bouquet garni (my husband has alternately referred to this item as "potpourri" and "Popol Vul"--neither of which I want inside of my duck) inside of them. I didn't have fresh rosemary, so I used dried. I also added extra parsley, because God knows, I have plenty of that.

Iced mocha anyone?

Yes, I'm grading your papers.

I don't think that I'm having breakfast on the lanai this vacation.

The Difference Between Cats and Dogs

I own them both—so I’ve thought about this.

Dogs want to please you and cats don’t give a damn—everyone knows this.

But, I think it goes further than this. When a dog misbehaves, and you say, “Bad dog.” The dog hangs his/her head, and seems appropriately chastised. Mind you, this will not keep them from doing it again, but at least they’ll feel guilty about it.

When you say, “Bad kitty,” the cat thinks, “Good, I like the way that sounds, I’m a baaad kitty.” Then of course, the cat will often perform the offending act again, RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU, knowing full well that you disapprove.

There’s no regret, no guilt, only that smug “What?” look.

Baaad kitty.

The Desperation of the Lactose Intolerant

Today at the store they had “Eggnog Tea.” Okay, I know it sounds revolting, but I’m an intrepid eater, so I thought I’d give it a go. One of the (many) bad things about not being able to drink milk, is that I really miss eggnog this time of year.

I steeped the tea; it smelled like eggnog, but alas, it did not taste much like eggnog.

I commented to my husband, “It would be better with milk.”

He said, “It’d be better with eggnog.”

I bought some new juice for breakfast--just a change of pace, you know. I got orange, pineapple, and banana juice, for that tropical feel.

I know how they get orange juice; I know how they get pineapple juice; how in the heck do they get "banana juice?"

Or, do I not want to know?

Do you think maybe I eat too much takeout sushi?

I love fall, the crisp air, the people wearing coats and scarves, and rushing into stores to avoid the chill.

How cold is it?

60 degrees.

Hey, this is Southern California, just last week everybody was wearing flip flops.

The Day Before

I usually do my Thanksgiving Day shopping on Monday, or Tuesday at the latest, but this year that just didn’t work out. Shopping on Wednesday is just too traumatic for me. Not because I’m worried I won’t be ready—I’m always ready, but because all the type A personalities apparently wait until the last minute to do their shopping.

I was in and out of the store before 8:00 am, nonetheless, people had that crazed look in their eyes—even though they had a full 24 hours before anyone expected food of any kind.

I almost got run down by a frantic woman careening her cart around a corner—twice—same woman.

Two women demanded that I move my basket or myself so that they could reach something I was blocking. In both cases, I hadn’t even stopped walking, and so hardly constituted a roadblock, but to the chronically stressed out, I guess it was enough.

The best though was a woman who had loaded all of the brown and serve rolls into her cart (about two dozen) and then was thoroughly squeezing each package—presumably for freshness—and then returning the rejects to the shelves.

My trip to the store today makes tomorrow, with parents and in-laws, look downright relaxing.

Okay, I’m lying, but it sounded good.

It never ceases to amaze me how much time can be wasted online. I just made this "avatar" of myself. It, of course, looks nothing like me.

God gave me a persimmon today.

No really.

It came flying over the fence, from two houses down, where I know that there is a persimmon tree.

There were two persimmons actually, but only one reached my yard.

I think that God meant me to have both of them. In fact I'm sure She did.

Green?

We went out to breakfast yesterday to our favorite French bakery. They only gave me one pat of butter for my croissant—can you believe it? And no, it wasn’t enough. You'd think the French would know better.

We parked behind an SUV with a license plate holder that said “My other car is a hybrid.”

So, does the hybrid have a license plate holder that says “My other car is a gas guzzler?”

Well, does it?

Dreams

Today, I’m sitting in front of my computer wearing jeans and a sweater, and sipping a cup of piping hot tea. Brrrr.

No, it’s not actually cold; the fan running in the window is providing the only semblance of coolness. I’m pretending that it’s winter. I long for the cool crisp days, cold nights, and the occasional rain shower that means winter where I live.

It’s kind of sad that I’m doing this, as, if you check your calendar, it’s only mid August. It hasn’t even been a very hot summer; note the absence of whiny “it’s hot” blog entries.

No, my problem is, school starts in just a week and change, and my brain wants it to be cool and fall-like. In truth, it won’t be cool here until November at the earliest and January at the latest. Or even at all, like last year. But, wouldn’t it be nice to have turkey dinner amongst the colorful fall foliage, or Christmas with a nip in the air?

Sigh.

Now, where did I put those woolly socks?

Summer to do list #4

So, I was tooling around the internet today (yes, I know that I could have spent my time more effectively, but hey, I’m having a trying day, so get over it) and came across a hyper-efficient planning system. It can be used either electronically or with that new-fangled invention paper.

This system covers everything from daily appointments, to ranked to do lists, to long term goals and projects. It might even make hotel reservations for you and return emails.

It seems that everyone is getting organized these days. Even my dance teacher has a comprehensive list of activities that she hopes to accomplish each day. I don’t know if she has everything planned down to the minute, but it certainly sounds that way.

Well, I was thinking about all of this organization and planning, and general efficiency, and I came to a conclusion: this all sounds a lot like work; I am currently philosophically opposed to work of all kinds.

So, I have something else to add to my summer to do list:

#4 get disorganized.

Usually television is not worth watching. I agree with Groucho Marx when he said, "I love television, everytime someone turns one on, I go into the other room and read a book."

But sometimes, just sometimes, there is something worth watching on TV. Today is one of those days. I walked into the livingroom to find my husband and son watching the "Yodelin' Kid from Pine Ridge," WITH THE SOUND OFF.

Now I ask you, what's wrong with this picture? Gene Autry is the Singing Cowboy, not the Silent Cowboy.

Turn it up--I want to hear some yodelin'.

Mr. First Lady?

If Hillary wins, and I’m not saying she’s gonna, and I don’t know if I’ll vote for her myself (I’m still a bit bent over the whole Iraq thing), but if she wins, will that make Bill First Lady?

If Bill is First Lady, will he stay home and bake cookies?

If Barbara Bush had said that to me, I might have punched her. This is why I could never be in politics. I tend to say what I think, and react like a normal person instead of diplomatically, or with thoughts as to how these words/actions will play on the 5:00 news.

Of course, I also have a checkered past—so no politics for me. But hey, I can whine about it here with no repercussions, and whining is what I do best.

Maybe Bill could be Vice President? But then would we still call him Mr. President, or would we have to call him Mr. Vice President?

Aren’t you glad that I’m around to sort out the difficult problems?

Tonight the wind came in
Caressed my shoulder
And invited me to come outside

This is a picture of Buddy watching me workout this morning--proving once again that dogs are smarter than humans.

Harry Potter Day


I went to see the new Harry Potter film today, and I have a brief review:

The casting and performances were superb as always.

The production was impressive.

The adaptation of the novel was good, but it's never good enough. You just cannot capture the spirit of Rowling’s work in a two hour movie.

Luna Lovegood’s portrayal was different than I thought it would be, but quite nice.

Dolores Umbridge was suitably saccharine and evil—just what I like in a villain (or as one of my companions said, “A school administrator”—this is a timely comment that will be understood by anyone who teaches at my school).

I wanted to see more of Sirius’ house, and missed Mrs. Black.

I also missed the portable swamp created by the Wesley twins in the book.

I could have done with more of Bellatrix La Strange’s character and less of her cleavage—a bit too Elvira for my taste.

When Dumbledore (sniff, I still expect to see Richard Harris) and Voldemort fought it out, I thought to myself, “This is a real wizard’s duel.”

And finally, I am beginning to wonder if Voldemort and Michael Jackson go to the same plastic surgeon.

Vintage Clothes

I have recently branched out into vintage clothing. I especially like looking at vintage clothing online. I do it because it’s fun, and I like to think to myself while looking at the various clothes:

“I would so wear that.”

“Who would wear that?”

“Nobody would ever wear that.”

And,

“Oh, God, I wore that.”

Hey, it keeps me off the streets.

You know what the best thing about July 5th is?

Is it the memory of the many (and there were many) inspirational and patriotic speeches?

Is it the glow of fireworks that you can still see if you close your eyes (my town puts on a very good fireworks display)?

Is it the heat building towards 101 degrees (I sure hope the weather forecast is wrong)?

Is the the John Phillip Sousa tune I'm still humming this morning (and probably will be for the next week or so)?

NO!

It's leftover apple pie for breakfast!

A Fate Worse Than Death

The worst thing that can happen to a girl happened to me last week--my signature scent was discontinued. I stood in front of Janet, at the perfume counter, and tears welled up in my eyes up as she sprayed a variety of new scents on little white sheets of paper.

I need to find a new scent. One that says who I am, in that special way only a signature scent can. I could just go to the lead scent in the house that created my signature scent; it’s a good scent, I’m just not sure it’s what I’m looking for. It’s not quite complex enough, and women always want to feel complex.

I could go back to an older scent that I used to wear. I lean toward the “Oriental” scents—there’s a big surprise—but most of them are a bit sexy for daytime wear. Also, not really acceptable for work.

I did have an intelligent conversation about perfume and perfumeries with Janet, and my husband was quite impressed. As I explained to him, I have been a girl for a long time.

He said that he thought it was working for me.

Karma

My son wanted a kitten. He wanted a kitten more than anything. He now has a kitten, and the kitten is driving him crazy.

He is covered with kitten scratches (as am I, but I didn't want a kitten).

My son is currently in charge of keeping the kitten out of trouble. My twelve year old son swears that the kitten can teleport, because he cannot keep up with him.

Karma is so sweet.

Two momentous things happened this week.

The first cucumber was havested from my garden:



And the first figs arrived at the store (I've eaten a few out of the package--can you tell?):



The local figs will be ripe soon--it's just a matter of time.


Ah, life is good.

Gratuitous kitten picture--because I can.

Summer To Do List #3

Lay in my hammock and sunbathe.

Summer To Do List, continued:

2. Find the perfect pencil.




So far the best are, in order:

1. General's Test Scoring 580, hardness B
2. Stabilo's Aquarellable 8008, hardness B
3. California Republic's (oddly made in Japan) Palomino, hardness B

Honorable mentions to two triangular pencils, nice grip, but the lead is too hard. Both of these pencils also get high marks for looks, or as my son puts it "style points":

1. Faber-Castell's Grip 2001, hardness HB
2. Rhodia, hardness HB

And yes, that is my San Diego Chinese Center cup. Thanks for asking.

My son just informed me that the cat urped. I did of course suggest that since he had found it, he should clean it up. He disagreed. Instead he brought me a paper towel. A single paper towel. Uhh, one flimsy sheet of paper is so not enough for me to touch something that has recently been on the inside of my cat (okay, anything that has ever been on the inside of my cat). I need four or five paper towels, at the very least.

Oooh ish.

I have an extensive "Summer To Do" list and I thought I'd share it here with you.

1. Paint my toenails




Check.

Excuses

Since it's summer vacation, I thought I'd be blogging more--at least to complain about the weather. But we've had beautiful weather--so no whining necessary.





I do have an excuse; I have been busy the last couple of days. Meet Bruno, the latest addition to the family. He's a stray, or at least he used to be.

Now, if I can just think of an excuse for not blogging all of those other days I've missed.

I decided to do Monday’s crossword puzzle today (it’s Tuesday), because doing Monday’s puzzle makes me feel smarter.

One of the clues asked for the rank above capt. I knew it was maj. and so did my husband, why?

Not because we live in a military town—we do
Not because my husband works on base a lot—he does
Not because I am an historian—I am

No, my husband knows because Stratego was his favorite game as a child

And, I know because of M*A*S*H.

Thank God for cultural literacy.

Oh, by the way, I still have four squares blank on the crossword. So much for self-esteem.

Tuesday

Today is Tuesday, but I can’t shake the thought that it is almost the weekend. Apparently I am not alone. Our local weatherman announced that it was almost the weekend, before giving the weekend weather forecast. I wished one of my students a “nice weekend” and she responded (without blinking an eye) “you too.”

Did I mention that today is Tuesday? It is nowhere near the weekend.

I think I’m ready for summer vacation.

Yesterday I went to the beach and did some labyrinth construction and walking. It was a good day.

Homework

I would really like to goof off this evening, but I have a stack of online papers to grade. Now, that just doesn’t sound right, because of course online assignments don’t really come in stacks. My son suggests that I have a boatload of papers, but to me both “boatload” and “stack” imply that the papers are taking up physical space. They are not. They are taking up electronic space. I need to start measuring “stacks” of papers not in inches, but in bytes.

Or as my husband suggests: “byteloads” of papers.

The Most Important News of the Decade, Perhaps a Generation


Local news reports a new state-of-the-art high school will open.

National news reports that President Bush will be building new nuclear warheads.

Environmental news reports that a California Condor egg has hatched in Mexico.

Entertainment news reports that Donny Osmond is releasing new music.


A good news day? I guess that all depends on how you look at it.


The thing I find most disturbing about this, is that “Donny Osmond” did not get picked up as an unknown/misspelled word by the spell check. That means that someone thought he was important enough to enter into the spelling dictionary.

We live in scary times.

Last night I dreamt about another handbag.


With matching shoes.

Cookies

There are many wonderful things about living with other people, but tonight, halfway through a package of cookies, I realized one of the best reasons to live with other people. I opened this package of cookies yesterday, and they are now half gone. Now, it’s possible that I ate half a package of cookies. If I lived alone, it would be certain that I had eaten all of them—short of housebreaking cookie eaters. But, since I live with other people, maybe, just maybe, the people I live with ate some of them too.

I prefer to think that I did not eat half a package of cookies.

See, if you live with other people—they automatically must have eaten at least some of them.

Right?

Zelda

My favorite handbag was handmade in San Francisco of a brown and turquoise vintage velvet Moroccan print. It has little feet on the bottom—I am a pushover for handbags with little feet. The company from which I purchased the bag uses women’s names in place of stock numbers, and this handbag’s “name” is Zelda. Of course, any bag that costs as much as this one did deserves its own name.

Now, I am not in the habit of naming my accessories, but the name Zelda has stuck. Maybe this also explains how Zelda has gained a personality somewhere between a pet and an invisible friend. We all refer to “her” by name; “she” gets “her” own seat in restaurants, and comes with me everywhere. “She’s” a smart dresser too, and has accessories of “her” own; a lovely ribbon rose is tied to “her” strap. “She” also gets way more compliments than I do.

Hey, can you be jealous of a handbag?

Mobile Phones

I haven’t been able to find my cell phone for two days. It hasn’t mattered because my son’s been home sick from school, but he went today, so I had to find it.

I finally resorted to using my mobile home phone to call my cell phone. It was in the pocket of some pants I wore two days ago.

Then I lost my home phone.

I think things were simpler in the days when the phone was connected to the wall. If you had told me ten years ago that I would lose the phone—I’d have thought you were crazy.

Well, I watched the network news a few days ago, which is ususual, since they only thing on the network news I generally watch is the weather, which I watch obsessively, and the lead story was about some luggage handlers who stole Paris Hilton's $100,000 wristwatch.

I have three questions regarding this:

First, since these were not luggage handlers at my local airport, why was it on my local news?

Second, why on earth would Paris Hilton pack something so valuable in her suitcase, and not wear it, or carry it on?

Third, and most important, why would any watch cost $100,000, and if it did, why would anyone be foolish enough to to buy it?

Well today is St. Patrick's Day. I pinched my son already, and he is off pinching the animals, who aren't wearing green of course.

My son asked what green beer tasted like, and I wouldn't know because I will never consume anything that color.

We are having eggs for breakfast, but they won't be green. Why you ask?

Why, because we have no ham.

Duh.

Today is a sad day, because today R2D2 died. I know this because the postal service has issued a stamp for him, and the postal service only issues a stamp for people who are dead.

To commemorate the release, the postal service painted three local mailboxes like R2D2 and had them guarded by Storm Troopers.

Nice to know we still have a sense of humor.

Daylight Savings Time

I am so glad that the government is watching out for us, and providing us with an extra hour of daylight. This of course begs the question: just how much will people believe? And yes, I am always amazed by this myself.

Daylight Savings Time is a torture device that is getting more onerous with each passing year, especially since this year it will now be in force for a full eight months. So now we can save so much energy.

Exactly what energy are we saving?

Well, we buy more, we drive more, and we need to turn the lights and heat on in the morning. What energy are we saving?

Well, none of course, we spend more money, and that is the real reason for Daylight “Savings” Time. It should be called Daylight Spending Time, because that’s what the studies indicate; Americans at least, drive more and spend more. So this is a conspiracy to get us to spend more money. Like we don’t spend enough money as it is? We already have the lowest savings rate of any industrialized country, and less than some developing ones. Do we need to spend so much money? Well, that’s apparently all that keeps our economy running: retail therapy.

And one final note: the next time I hear someone crow about how great Daylight Savings Time is by giving us “one extra hour” I think I may slap them. If you want an extra hour, get your lazy bum out of bed earlier.

Because, no matter what delusions of grandeur the government has, it can no more give us an “extra hour” than balance the budget or restore our international credibility.

Well, we had a small spritz of rain last night (which I slept through), and it looks like the rest may miss us. I think that the rain goes to places it is appreciated like the Central Coast, the Pacific Northwest, and Hawaii. San Diegans in general hate the rain, and complain bitterly when it's even forecast.

So, I think, like anyone, the rain only goes where it's welcome.

Rain?

There is rain predicted this weekend, which is an unusual event for us. I really should put some more leather protectorant on my boots, because, since it rarely rains here, I haven’t done it for a while.

But I am afraid to do it.

Because if I am ready for the rain, it won’t come.

I could single-handedly deprive us of rain by water proofing my boots.

Maybe if I run the sprinklers,

wash the car,

and forget my umbrella,

it will cancel out the boots?


Life is so complicated.

Well, it's time for me to 'fess up. This is the reason that I missed blogging for two weeks. It's not that there was no internet available, it's that I was on "island time," and I never quite got around to it.

But tell me true, with sunsets like this one, would you spend your time online?

This is my son and myself in the surf on Maui. I'm the one with the long(est) hair.

Here are some bulbs that I planted to symbolize that winter will become spring. I like to do this around each Winter Solstice--I did it a bit late this year.

As you can see the bulbs are growing nicely, but it looks like this one in front here might be trying to get away.

It's a long walk from my kitchen window to the garden.

Productivity

I was listening to NPR yesterday (yes, I get most of my news from NPR, the rest I get from The Week, which is kindly donated to me by friends—hey, recycling! Anyway, at least those are better sources than the Daily Show and the Colbert Report, which is where my students seem to get all of their news. Well, I guess I shouldn’t complain—it could be Fox News—“Fair and Balanced?") and someone did a study on productivity during the holiday season, say Chanukah through New Years, and guess what they learned? Productivity is down during the holidays. Duh. Now, I’m all for studies, but I could have told them that. I haven’t blogged for days—proving that my productivity is down. I just seem to drink tea, eat cookies, and knit—oh no, what will this do to the GNP?

Oh, and by the way, the winter holiday season is only the second lowest season for productivity. Wanna know what the lowest season for productivity is? Fantasy Football season—all seventeen weeks of it.

Sometimes I do not understand Americans.

Happy Solstice!

Turnips accomplished.

This has been a culinary morning. First we went out and bought ducks for roasting on Christmas, then we bought pancetta to make this lovely pasta dish for brunch. The inspiration for it came from my new cookbook by Nigella Lawson. No, I didn't follow the recipe exactly, but the idea came from the book. I served it with broiled tomatoes (a tribute to Nigella, since she's English) and papayas, since I'm going to Hawaii in a few weeks. We have a great bottle of wine that would have gone well with it, but since it was only 10:30 am, we decided maybe that was a bit decadent.

Now, we're off to the Asian food store to find the right turnips to roast with the duck. Wish us luck.

My blog is worth $3,951.78.
How much is your blog worth?

Ha, ha, surely they jest.

I'd like to say it's not worth the paper it's printed on....

My (Long Awaited) End of the Year Form Letter

Here are the highlights of my year: 2006. I have not written it in the third person, or in the “form letter fairy” style as my husband dubs it. I have used the first person.

The year started with Jan. 1, just like it does each year. I probably did something to commemorate this, but I don’t remember what.

Next was February.

Then March. My birthday is in March. I think it rained too.

I taught, graded a bunch, then it was summer. We watched nice fireworks at our local spot; our usual spot quit doing fireworks, I preferred the old place, but parking was dreadful there. We got a great place to park at the new place.

Summer was hot and my son spent a lot of it bored. I spent a lot of it bored. I also complained a lot about the weather. I have more posts in July than any other month—I’ll bet most of them complain about the weather.

We skipped vacation this year, as it seemed that everyone was doing it, and we didn’t just want to be “one of the crowd.”

School started in fall, as it generally does. It did take awhile for fall weather to start, it generally does. Everybody went back to school, as they generally do. I taught and graded papers, as I generally do.

I started dance lessons, and I’m doing so well, I’m thinking of turning pro.

I ate a lot of figs. In fact, I ate probably ten pounds of figs (not all at once). I made fig jam.

I gave up coffee twice, no make that three times. I did not give up chocolate.

I became the author of an extremely successful blog (fifteen readers and counting), with relatively few misspelled words. And, I just resisted the impulse to misspell misspell. Yet another point for me.

I bought a new pair of jeans, a new bathing suit, and several tank tops—oh, and a new pair of salsa shoes.

Ha, top that all of my upwardly mobile friends!

Three significant things happened today that I would like to share with you. First, I finished my grading. Second, we drove up to the local mountains to watch it rain, and it snowed instead. And third, and probably most momentous, it was cold enough today to wear socks. Just thought you'd like to know.

We live in a time of rudeness.

It’s true. In our grandparents’ day, everyone was polite and respectful (my husband calls this the GOD—“good old/ol’ days”—syndrome).

But now, people don’t even have the tiniest particle of consideration. I mean, do you know how long it took me to get onto the ‘net today? I carried my laptop all over my house trying to sign in on one of the many airport servers in my neighborhood, but not a one of them would let me on today. They all wanted some sort of password. That is so rude.

I finally had to plug my laptop into my landline system.

I mean, if people are going to litter the airwaves with their internet connections, the least they could do is make them able to be reliably accessed by me.

Geez.

Salsa Shoes

Recently my husband I started taking dance lessons. We started with Swing, and it went well. We attended a few workshops, Polka, Waltz, and a Rhumba class. All went well. We practiced, we practiced with friends who know how to dance, and all went well.

Then we tried Salsa. In a class, in a workshop, in another workshop, with videos. No dice. What was wrong with us? Everybody can Salsa, right? Why can’t we? Are we too old? Too “white?” We could Rhumba--that’s Latin.

After much head scratching, I finally figured it out. It’s clearly my old dancing shoes. I have the wrong shoes. I have Swing shoes. I need sexy new Salsa shoes—high heels. That should solve everything.

Now, if they don’t work, will I be able to return them?

Year End Update Form Letters

Yesterday I received my first end of the year update form letter. I haven’t opened it yet. I just can’t face it. It’s from one of those old friends I haven’t seen in years whose life took a very different path than mine did. In other words, she has a successful career, owns her own house, and makes oodles of money, at least to judge by her past form letters. I know all about her activities (promotions) and acquisitions (vacation getaways).

See, that’s the problem with these letters. They are really just a way to either validate one’s existence (see I have made a success out of my life) and probably to imply that others haven’t (what have you done lately?)

Now, I don’t even know if this particular friend is happy, and I know that I am, but the letters (year, after year, after year) bother me. It also bothers me that I receive them before I have even remembered where I tucked the stash of Christmas cards left over from last year, let alone set aside time to write and address them.

So this year, I’ve decided to write my own letter and send it around, so that my holiday missives can strike terror in the hearts of my old friends too.

I’ll reproduce it right here so it can strike terror in your heart too.

Okay, yet another new blog look. At least it's green. At least all of the bits don't run together. At least the writing is darker than the background.

Looks too canned.

Blahg.

New look

Well, I finally broke down and upgraded my blog. I didn't want to. Blogger made me. I find this particular template to be uninspiring. I wanted one with green in it. The green one had white print, which gave me a headache. I almost chose the one named "Jellyfish," not because it was great, but I did like the name. I love jellyfish. To look at. Not to eat. I am very allergic to jellyfish. Really.

Anyway, this may not be the final look of the blog. Blah blog. Blahg.

A small white ball is silhouetted against the blue grey sky
Amongst the naked branches of the tree outside of my study window
Yellow leaves blanket the dead grass
Fall happened while I wasn’t looking

Smokers’ Paradise

Last weekend I had the opportunity to visit Las Vegas to meet my brother and sister-in-law for a visit. Las Vegas is a strange place, to say the very least. Everything seems to be legal there from gambling to prostitution. I saw lots of people gambling, but no one engaging in prostitution. I did see lots of people smoking. In fact, with the exception of myself and my party, everyone seemed to be smoking. Not just a cigarette or two, people had a cigarette hanging out of their mouths at all times: in the restroom, at the slot machines, in restaurants, outside on the street, in their cars, in the halls of the hotels.

The conclusion I reached was that people don’t go to Vegas to gamble, they go to smoke. Las Vegas seems to be the last place in the United States (maybe on earth—even the French are banning smoking in restaurants) where it is legal (and maybe compulsory) to smoke in all places and at all times.

Now, I’m surprised that the high paid ad execs who do the marketing for Vegas haven’t seen this angle yet. Imagine the new visitors this would encourage; who cares about night club shows, roulette tables, and outlet malls when you can actually smoke anywhere you want?

I mean, Las Vegas could be located out in the middle of nowhere, or in the middle of a desert and people would still go.

Ooooh, look at my new moon phases dealie. Too cool.

Clearly, more avoidance behavior. I am working a lot, really.

But a moon phase dealie--everyone needs one.

It's good to be back. Blogging cheers me up. Working does not.

Teaching does, but that's not actually working.

Anyway, it's nice to be blogging again.

Besides, now my fifteen readers will be happy I'm back.

Okay, off to grade.

Plutonium

Well, the big news is out this week, and what a relief it is. We can
all rest easy now. I know you, like me, have been up nights worrying
about this, but now you will sleep like a baby. The news of course,
is, that Plutonium does not decay as quickly as we used to think it
did. Scientists and military officials are thrilled because this means
that the nuclear bombs we made thirty years ago are still good.

Which of course means that we could USE THEM. It also means that our nuclear waste is staying radioactive even longer than we thought.

Thank the heavens above and the earth below.

Whew, that was close.

Sweet Potatoes

My post Thanksgiving thoughts are all about sweet potatoes. Sweet potatoes you say; isn’t Thanksgiving a turkey holiday, you say? Maybe, but today, my thoughts stray to sweet potatoes.

First, after peeling the fourth sweet potato, I turned to my husband and asked, “Do you think this is enough sweet potatoes?” He asked, “Who likes sweet potatoes?” I said, “No one.” He said, “Then that’s enough.”

Second, while transferring the butter and maple syrup glazed sweet potatoes to their serving dish, my mother in law said, “You better tell people that they’re sweet potatoes and not carrots so they’ll eat them.” See comment above.

Third, I flinched when my mom said, “Pass the yams.” I’m not saying it again people—they’re sweet potatoes, not yams. Chances are, you’ve never eaten a yam. Yams aren’t grown in the United States. Yams aren’t eaten here, unless you eat a lot of Asian or African cuisine. Your grocer lies to you. “Yams” are a marketing ploy ‘cause some yokel wanted to differentiate between his sweet potatoes and some other yokel’s sweet potatoes, so he started calling them yams. They’re not yams. Go to your recycling bin and take out that can of “Candied Yams” and look at the ingredients: yep, it says “sweet potatoes;” nary a yam in sight.

The New Yoga Mat

I finally did it—I finally broke down and bought a new yoga mat. It’s not like I needed one. It’s not like every time I did an inversion, little purple bits snowed down on me. It’s not like I didn’t leave a little purple trail everywhere I carried the mat. The mat was not presentable enough to take to yoga classes. So, I finally did it, and bought a new one.

The new mat is eco-friendly. I asked the clerk what that meant. He proceeded to explain the term “eco-friendly.” I said, “No, I know what ‘eco-friendly’ means, what is the mat made of?” The clerk did not know. He also didn’t know whether or not it would off-gas. I hate waiting for a new mat to finish off-gassing. It’s one of the reasons that I put off buying a new mat—though I’ve needed one for over a year now.

So I tried out the new mat this morning, and it’s nice. It’s firm, and sticky, and doesn’t leave small spongy bits of itself wherever it goes.

Did I mention that it’s pink? Actually, it’s not pink, it’s PINK. It’s brighter than ballet pink. It’s brighter than rose pink. It’s brighter than cotton candy pink (really). It’s PINK like the color of the little hard candy beads on those candy necklaces that little girls love so much. No, I don’t know what I was thinking. There was a limited color selection, and in the store filled with many other objects in brilliant Indian colors, the pink didn’t stand out.

In my muted living room it does. In my house the thing positively glows.

By the end of this morning’s session I was getting used to its PINKNESS (and the off-gassing), so I guess it’ll work out. I just need to be careful to use it only in daylight hours, so as not to wake the neighbors.

It’s All a Matter of Perspective

Last week the moonrise was stunning. There was a haze of smoke in the air from the fires burning all over the West. The moon was a golden glowing orb, with strands of smoke clouds blowing over it.

I said, “It looks like a Chinese painting.”

My son said, “It looks like something from a Harry Potter movie.”

My husband said, “It looks like the moon from the Peter Pan ride at Disneyland.”

The Title of This Blog Appears at the End

I don’t generally like movies, and the few I do aren’t run of the mill, to say the least. If I would ever finish the list of my favorite movies and post it here, then you would know what I mean. Suffice it to say that my taste runs to the offbeat.

Well, the problem with offbeat films, is that since they aren’t formulaic, it is impossible to decide at what point it is safe to leave to the theater to use the facilities. Now—don’t laugh--I never make it all the way through a film without having to use the restroom. Usually, this isn’t a problem, as with most films I (or anyone for that matter) can figure out exactly what will happen, and even generally when it will happen, in the first five minutes of the film. I can choose to go during one of the many chase scenes if it is an action flick. Or, if it’s a love story, I can choose to go during the part where they fight and decide they’re not right for each other, before they get to the part where they really do love each other after all. Or, it the fight seems as though it will be more entertaining, I can wait until they promise undying love. Easy.

However, if the film is not formulaic; if it doesn’t march along inexorably in all of its banality, it is impossible to know when one can leave.

Today, I saw such a film. You will rarely hear me say that I liked a movie, but I have to admit, that something about Stranger Than Fiction kept me sitting uncomfortably in a freezing theater waiting to see what might actually happen to the off center characters assembled there. So, I guess maybe you should see the movie—but be sure you don’t drink a large cup of tea before heading out the door, and just accept the fact that you will not be able to leave the theater at any point during the film, even if you really need to use the bathroom.

Also, be prepared to make cookies.

Now, for the title: my son suggested the perfect title for this blog: To Pee, or Not to Pee.

Excuses

I did my best to get your papers back this week.

I tried really hard.

You only had to write one--I had to grade 40.

I have other classes you know.

I was sick.

My kid was sick.

My dog was sick.

My computer was down.

I forgot you’d want them back.

My other class didn’t mind my turning them back late.

Yes, those excuses sound just as lame when the teacher gives them as when the students give them. I can’t use these excuses to excuse myself from grading student papers, but student papers can provide a nifty excuse for not blogging.

See, I was going somewhere; it just took a bit.

The real reason we have cell phones

You might think that the real reason we have cell phones is to call for help when stranded on the side of the road with a flat tire.

You might think that the real reason we have cell phones is to make business deals from restaurants.

You might think that the real reason we have cell phones is to give us something to do while stuck in traffic.

You might think that the real reason we have cell phones is to text our friends and lovers.

You might think that the real reason we have cell phones is to call our significant other and get him or her to stop at the store for milk on the way home from work.

You might think that the real reason we have cells phone is to call for pizza delivery on the way home, so it’s waiting for you when you get there.

But, I know the real reason for cell phones.

The real reason we have cell phones is to call the rest of our party when we are standing in the middle of Toon Town waiting for them, only to find out that they are in fact in Fantasyland waiting for Snow White.

That’s the real reason for cell phones.

Vicious Sea Lion?

The reason you haven’t heard much from me lately, is that I have been buried under student term papers, and haven’t had the time to blog. It’s not that I’m truly caught up, but I just couldn’t let this one get by.

The San Francisco Chronicle reports that a woman was bitten today by a probable sea lion while swimming in San Francisco Bay. The woman belongs to the Dolphin Club, whose members swim year round in the Bay.

Now, I have only one thing to say about this: San Francisco Bay--is this woman insane? It’s November; the Bay is frigid in August, what would possess anyone to swim in the Bay in November? This woman shouldn’t complain about being bitten by a sea lion, she should be grateful that she isn’t dead of hypothermia. What was she thinking?

I’m thinking, some time under observation in the local mental ward is in order.

Oh, and by the way, this woman is quite possibly the fourteenth person bitten by this sea lion, according to National Public Radio. Who are these people?

The Dolphin Club could not be reached for comment. Yeah, I wouldn’t answer the phone either.

Election Night

My son’s favorite television shows are The Colbert Report and The Daily Show, in that order.

It’s fifteen minutes until the polls close here on the West Coast.

My son is currently in the living room watching the East Coast election results on C-SPAN. A few minutes ago he cheered out loud at Bob Mendez’ (New Jersey) acceptance speech.

My son is eleven years old.

He better not grow up to be president.

And so,

Because I know you are fascinated by the minutiae of my life,

Because I haven't written in awhile, and I don't want you to think I've dropped off the face of the earth,

Because a picture is worth a thousand words,

Here is a picture of my lunch:






It is a bento style lunch with fried rice, chicken and broccoli. It is packed in a tiny Japanese lunchbox that stacks and has a carrying handle. Note the obligatory bunnies on the lid. All of the best bento boxes have bunnies. I have yet to figure out why.

The lunch by the way was delicious.

Dogs Will Eat Anything

Occasionally I give my dogs table scraps or other treats. One of my dogs, Tula, the Italian Greyhound, lives for treats, and she will eat all kinds of things: meat, veggies, potatoes, and she even tasted an apple core I once offered her. Now, I generally think of dogs as indiscriminant eaters, but Buddy, my Jack Russell Terrier, is actually quite finicky. I find this hard to believe in a dog that will troll the floor for any particle of edible matter, including the random dust bunny. Buddy also eats lizards; he prefers the head, feet, and tails, leaving the body for us to find. For goodness sakes, Buddy eats sticks.

But just try offering him eggs. Tula loves eggs, and prances around while I empty them into her dish. Buddy, stands by his dish as I spoon the eggs in, and then he looks up at me with a positively injured expression—as though I have just hit him. Then he checks his bowl again to be really sure that it is eggs after all. Then he looks over at Tula’s dish to make sure that she has also received eggs. Yes, she has.

Then he looks at me again. Then he looks at the eggs. Then he sighs. He really does, a big breathy, the world is such a disappointment, sigh.

Then he eats the eggs. Not because he’s hungry. Not because he wants them. Not because he loves me. He eats the eggs so Tula can’t.

He is a dog after all.

Sushi Burrito?

Yesterday at my favorite Japanese café, I saw a guy leave by the back kitchen door. Nothing unusual about that, except that he was eating a burrito. Is this one of those “only in California” things?

The bad thing is, now when we go there, my son, who gets tired of eating Japanese food (imagine that), will want a burrito. Do you think we could get them to make us one?

I can hear the order now:

One order teriyaki chicken
One order California roll, 12 pieces
One order gyoza
And a bean and cheese burrito to go

I’m thinking--no.

Procrastination Pays?

I’ve been meaning to clean out the service porch for months now. It is a very small room that houses the washer and dryer, the water heater, the furnace, a utility sink, my vacuum cleaner, pet supplies, tools, cleaning supplies, and several bottles of purified water. Not bad for a 6.5 x 9 foot room. At any rate, as you may imagine, it gets cluttered and dusty, and needs periodic clean outs.

So, I’ve been meaning to do it.

Last night the water heater started leaking, and it didn’t stop. Out came the towels and buckets, and everything else in the room needed to move to the living room. A few hours of mopping, sorting, and rearranging bins, and the service porch is now clean.

What I want to know is this: did the cosmos lend a hand in inspiring me to get this job done that I was planning on doing anyway, or is this a case of “be careful what you ask for?”

The Real Reason for Yoga

Yes, yoga is all about health, relaxation, and if you’re of a religious inclination, enlightenment. But yesterday, I learned what yoga was really for.

Yesterday at the beach, we had been walking barefoot in the sand (yes it was cold), and when I went to put on my shoes, I realized I had the usual beach dilemma: could I put my shoes on without getting sand in them? There were no benches anywhere in sight, and sitting in the sand would have simply compounded the problem. So, I did the only logical thing: I balanced on one foot, wiped the sand off my raised foot by brushing it on the other jeans’ leg, held my coffee and handbag in my left hand, and my hair in my right hand, and then inserted the now sandless foot into my waiting shoe. I repeated on the other side, and voila, no sand in the shoes.

That’s what yoga is really for.

Where at the Mall Do They Sell That?

This weekend at the mall, I saw a man flossing his teeth. Really. Now, I’m all for dental hygiene, but don’t you think people should floss at home? I don’t want to watch him floss; I don’t want to think about the bits of tartar he is flicking in the process of flossing.

Where did he even get the floss anyway? Does he carry it with him in his wallet next to his library card and his spare condom?

Do they sell dental floss at the GAP or Orange Julius? Floss R Us?

Floss at home people. Some things are meant to be done without witness.

Figs, revisited

My neighbor Jack, of “Jack and the Broomstick” (6/30/06), just brought me another bucket of figs. It’s the second this week. He so has my number.

A student, Wes, stopped by office hours today and delivered a bag of jujubes, not the candy, but a delicious fresh fruit. A few weeks ago, he brought Asian pears. I am such a lucky woman.


Happy Birthday to a person who wishes to remain anonymous. Don't worry--she knows who she is.

October!

Finally the cruelest month is finally over—September. Yes, I know that March is supposedly the cruelest month, but not around here. March is one of the best months where I live, but September is the worst month. It starts out hot and humid and it ends hot, dry, and windy.

I have no money in September, because even though I’ve been working since late August, I don’t get paid until September 30; it is one of the joys of working for the gov.

Football season starts in September—need I say more?

The only good thing about September, besides it finally being over, is my wedding anniversary, which we missed this year because my husband was out of town.

No, September is definitely the cruelest month.

Besides, it can’t be March; my birthday is in March.