soup and nuts

As per usual here in Geeksville we are watching Planet Earth on Blu-Ray and drinking yummy wine (Ravenswood Early Harvest 2007 Gerwurtztraminer).

Dinner was kalamata olive bread and the edamame soup recently discussed at 101 Cookbooks. Modifications: used pine nuts instead of peanuts to garnish, and finished it with soy creamer rather than crème fraîche, which was running $5.99 for a little tub at Whole Foods and I'll be damned if I pay that just to dollop two tablespoons of it into a pot of soup (because I am sure James would never use the rest, and I am returning to San Francisco tomorrow morning). Three dollars per tablespoon (crème fraîche) is almost as ridiculous as ~25 per block (peafowl; see below).

The only additional inappropriate animals I have seen so far today besides the peafowl have been some deer. Well, unless you count lizards. Always with the lizards.

Our exciting afternoon included an ALL CAPS shopping excursion, with a stop by REI and a trip to the IKEA in West Covina. My favorite new IKEA product is their animal cracker-style cookies that are formed in the shapes of the letters I, K, E, and A. Ah, those self-absorbed Swedes...why is it so hard to resist them? Is there something in those lingonberries that we don't know about? Such as CRACK?

in fine feather

I am rarely happier than when I have an excuse to use the "inappropriate animals" tag on this blog, so imagine my delight to find occasion to use it twice in two days.

James and I did a 12+ mile training walk this morning down to the L.A. Arboretum, which is known for its large peacock population. Perhaps not surprisingly, the residential neighborhood next door to the arboretum is now also home to many of these birds. In fact, it's a big enough problem that some of the streets have fancy official signs saying "Feeding of peafowl is prohibited." On the way back we decided to count the peafowl we saw on the two blocks between the arboretum and Colorado Blvd. We saw forty-nine. FORTY-NINE.

let's BEE friends

I decided to jet down to Los Angeles for the weekend to pay a visit to the House of Geek. And thank god I had a geek at my direct disposal, because I arrived here only to discover that my laptop, which I had put in sleep mode, placed in a drawer, and not used for maybe two weeks before hauling it down here, had decided to re-set its internal clock to 4:01 p.m. on DECEMBER 31, 1969. This of course interfered with the internal doodads and their ability to properly interact with the whatchamahickeys. It also debarred the machine from connecting to the wireless network, which it deemed to have "incompatible security" (incompatible with the wireless security available in 1969? You don't say!).

James opened up a command shell, made some disapproving comments such as "Well, THAT'S not good," and generally scared the crap out of me and had me convinced that my iBook was toast, forever to remain in a virtual world where the Beatles were still together and I had barely outgrown the nickname "Peach Fuzz." Except I forgot that this is a man who can cobble together a supercomputer/DVD player/refrigerator/spaceship combo from the detritus he finds in the dumpster behind Fry's, and so two minutes later my iBook was behaving as if nothing had ever happened, coaxed into forgiving and forgetting that its owner doesn't remember that there is a difference, power-usage-wise, between "sleep" and "shut down."

I say I am in Los Angeles, but really I am in Monrovia. Not the capital of Liberia, but rather the small city east of Pasadena in the San Gabriel foothills. Or as I like to call it: Bear Country, U.S.A. I haven't seen a bear here myself lately, but James's neighbor has a recent photo of one in her pool. Last night as we were driving up to the house, four critters of some variety scampered across the road. One turned and looked at us with a little masked face. "Ach du lieber! Raccoons!" I exclaimed. Not because I was surprised, but because that is what I always say when I see raccoons (see Vitti, Jon [Writer] & Kirkland, Mark [Director]. Episode 46 [1991], "Burns Verkaufen der Kraftwerk." The Simpsons).

That reminds me, the other day Alex was giving some kind of tech-head presentation (I refuse to say "brown bag") about a particular document review platform, and at the end there was time for questions. I kept my mouth shut, but on the way out I stopped by and said to him, "I have a question. Is it right to buy a Chrysler?" (see Kogan, Jay and W. Wolodarsky [Writers] & Lynch, Jeffrey and B. Bird [Directors]. Episode 41 [1991], "Like Father, Like Clown." The Simpsons).

It is a sad (but occasionally hilarious!) state of affairs that I spend an inordinate amount of time trying to slip over-15-year-old Simpsons references into anything Alex might hear me say. Alex, I hope you appreciate that.



Speaking of The Bumblebee Guy, last week James finally took care of the bee population that had been inhabiting his eaves for, oh, approximately 8 years. The guys came out to remove the bees, and then when they returned a few days later to close up the damage, a new population of (angry) bees had already moved into the now-vacant, pre-honeycombed paradise that was James's roof overhang. So, they had to kill those too, resulting in a scene that James refers to as "sort of a bee Armageddon." ("You may not want to walk barefoot outside for a few days," he added. Right, because the threat of rattlesnakes is not already enough to convince me that footwear is a good idea out there.)

But here is the fun part. Please guess how many pounds of honeycomb they pulled out of the eaves. I'd keep you in suspense, but this entry is already long enough. THREE HUNDRED POUNDS. So if you're in the greater Los Angeles area this weekend and see a guy in a funny hat driving a pickup hauling 12 full-sized garden trash bags stuffed with honeycomb, please salute him.

"The coldest winter I ever saw was the summer I spent in San Francisco."

I am wearing sweatpants, wool socks, a long-sleeved tee, and a sweatshirt, and I just turned on the heater. And it is JULY 20th, PEOPLE. Yahoo weather says the high temp here today was 56 degrees.

(Actually, I love it. I prefer to be cold. But still...it is July 20th. In California. WTF already.)

purse lane

More home dec pics! My personal engineer helped me put up some glass shelves in my bedroom. (We all remember the definition of "my personal engineer helped me," right, boys and girls? It means he did it and I watched...part of the time. And sometimes handed him stuff.)

Now I have a place to display some of my vintage and handmade and/or otherwise display-worthy purses:




There are three more such shelves on the large wall, but you get the idea. I will confess that I got near the bottom of one of the boxes with purses and had to exclaim, "Whoa, MORE shoes?!" I surprise even myself sometimes. I would tell you that I have over 100 pairs of shoes, but then you'd make fun of me, so I will keep that information to myself.

James just came back from looking at the purse display and said, "That's an awfully girly bedroom." And I said "Uh huh. What's your point?"

I would also like to digress and take this opportunity to welcome Gwendolen Clare into the world! Can you guess which national holiday she was born on?



And finally, woot! I thought it would be fun to do at least one half marathon before the Portland marathon in early October, and I went online and discovered the San Francisco marathon on August 3 includes not one but TWO half marathons to choose from (either the first or the second half of the course...isn't that clever?). I registered for the 2nd half because (a) it was $5 cheaper, (2) it starts 2 hours later, and (iii) it starts closer to my house. I think the 1st half is considered more desirable because it starts downtown and goes along the Embarcadero and over the Golden Gate bridge and through the Presidio into Golden Gate park and all sorts of scenic touristy crap like that, whereas the second half starts in the park and proceeds down through the Mission and along other less conventionally pretty bits of the city. But I can (and do) exercise along the scenic route whenever I want, so why get up at the crack of ass just to do it along with thousands of other people?

my feet hurt

Yesterday's walk (10.6 miles):


Today's walk (10.8 miles):



Have I ever mentioned my caveat that if you are in San Francisco and plan to walk or park your car in a neighborhood or on a street that has the word hill in its name, you have no one to blame but yourself? Today's route included parts of Russian Hill and Telegraph Hill. Here is the elevation profile just of walking down Filbert St. from Scott St. to Coit Tower:


Ow.

cat pyjamas

A while ago I was in the office waiting for a meeting with a relatively new coworker from Engagement Management, Dan. (Not the same Dan to whom I regularly provide flak in this space; the Dan I'll be discussing in this post is someone I actually like.)

So, my colleague John and I were waiting for Dan outside a conference room, and Dan came up looking kind of frantic and waving his cellphone and said, "I apologize in advance, but there's a guy in my backyard with a bobcat and he's supposed to be calling me right back." Then the phone rang and Dan ducked around the corner to take the call, and John and I marveled at the idea of having a large feral cat in your yard. I also wondered, "Who is this man in Dan's yard, and what does it mean that he has the bobcat? Did he tranquilize it, or corner it behind some gnome statuary, or engage it in conversation about this season's lineup on the Discovery channel? And why does this man know Dan's cell phone number?"

Dan was away on his call for several minutes, understandably, and in the meantime John and I informed every passerby of the fascinating events apparently unfolding in a yard in North Berkeley. "Dan V. has a bobcat in his backyard!" I would excitedly inform my colleagues.

Finally Dan came back, looking a bit frazzled but also slightly relieved. We asked him for details. And it was as he provided those details that we realized that the guy in his yard was a hired landscape worker, and the bobcat was in fact a Bobcat, the small utility vehicle. The urgency had stemmed from the fact that the guy had triggered Dan's home alarm system and did not know how to turn it off.

Needless to say, I found this situation vaguely embarrassing (particularly since I'd just created the impression among at least 6 people that Dan was in the midst of an exciting and unusual wildlife drama) but also hilarious. And ever since that day, Dan and I have had a running bobcat joke: for a while it was physically impossible for us to send each other an email without inserting an image of a bobcat (whether it was the cat, the vehicle, a sports team logo, a photo of Bobcat Goldthwait, etc.). Once I walked by the ajar door of a conference room, saw Dan inside, and made a clawing gesture with my arms and silently growled when he caught my eye. (He told me later that this set him to chuckling uncontrollably, much to the confusion of the others in the meeting, who hadn't seen me.)

So when, a few months later, Dan and I found ourselves as part of the leads team for a new project, and the project needed a code name, we felt that it would be appropriate--no, necessary--to somehow work bobcats into this code name. I did some research and discovered that the bobcat's genus/species name is Lynx rufus, and when I looked up the etymology of the word 'lynx' I discovered that it is supposed to come from the Proto-Indo-European root meaning 'light.' There is speculation that this has something to do with the bobcat's eyes seeming to glow, or with its ability to see in the dark. My linguist's bullshit meter went into high gear particularly on the latter theory, but I didn't care because seeing in the dark is arguably related to our project, and so BINGO, I had a code name meaning 'bobcat' that I could totally sell to management without even tipping my hand.

And so Project Lynx came to be, and I get a not-so-secret joy every time I hear it said or see it written down.

Last week the project contracts were out for signature and I decided it was time to find a mascot for us, but when I stopped by the toy store near work the only thing I could find was a cute, but rather large stuffed bobcat that I decided was too over the top for a Grownup Professional Person's cubicle. I was complaining about this to Casey, and said "I want something more like that size," and pointed to the Beanie Baby dachshund that resides on one of my monitors. Casey said, "Why don't you just knit a lynx suit for the dachshund?"


Casey is a genius.

I went home that night and was pleased to find that my knitting infrastructure is such that I can sit down and knit a lynx suit without even having to stop by a yarn store for supplies first. Meet Lynxie (Lynx + Doxie):


I'm particularly pleased about him because in addition to my fascination with dachshunds I also have a fascination with animals wearing costumes of other animals--you know, like teddy bears in bunny suits or dogs in bee costumes. I mean, sometimes it's really cute and/or funny, but it also always feels somewhat creepy and illicit, like the animal equivalent of blackface. In any case, Lynxie combines two of my obsessions in one. Bonus.

i got yer spared air right here, pal

I'm going to preface this post by saying that I am very grateful to be fully mobile and physically healthy, and grateful to have a place to live, and I realize that sometimes all it takes is a piece of bad luck or a step into the wrong place at the wrong time for one's situation in life to turn horribly for the worse.

And also, as we've established, I don't judge.

But here is a peeve of mine. I do not like it when I pay for a product or service, only to have that product or service subsequently offered to others for free, at which point I am basically prevented from using the product or service as it is intended and/or in the form that was at least tacitly offered along with its purchase. I am, e.g., still mildly bitter about UC San Diego's policy of granting a 2-week or longer "grace period" on parking at the start of some quarters, during which diligently pre-paying drivers would arrive on campus only to find every single legitimate goddamn parking space from Torrey Pines Road to University Towne Centre [sic] taken up by non-permit-bearing vehicles, so that one would become so desperate to reach Phonetics 210 or Goethe's Influence on Kafka's Reading of Thomas Mann's Mario and the Magician or whateverthefuck other class reasonably close to on time that one would finally just park anywhere, only to then receive a parking ticket that cost half as much as the permit for the entire quarter, and you know they're not gonna let you check out a library book or get your goddamn diploma if you've got fines on your record, and so then you're fucking screwed and that, my friends, is how they get you, and you get so worked up you can't even keep your person and tenses straight when you write about it.

And so we come to "Spare the Air" days here in San Francisco. For you non-Bay Areans, typically during the summer on days when it reaches scorching, lower-80s type temps, San Francisco and surrounding regions will declare a Spare the Air day where all public transportation is free. I can always tell when it's a Spare the Air day because the buses will be a lot more crowded, late, and annoying than usual. Well, you might say, then clearly this initiative works: on days when it is hot and the air quality is poor, more people take public transportation. An ingenious example of green problem solving!

Except it's not. I can guarantee you that no one who is spending $350/month to park their car downtown is leaving that sucker in the garage in Palo Alto and taking Caltrain + MUNI to work in the city just because it's free for the day. If that were the case, then maybe they'd call it Leave Your Tacky Lexus at Home day. No, on Spare the Air days, people who normally wouldn't get on the bus think, hey! it's hot and I want to go somewhere, so I am going to take the bus because what the hell, it's free! It should be called Go Somewhere Random You Wouldn't Normally Pay $1.50 to Go day.

On Thursday I did not know yet that it was a free day, and as I was walking to the bus stop after work I saw my bus going by and thought, damn, I just missed it. But then another was right on its heels, and I thought, oh, it's a lucky going-home-timing day after all! Little did I know.

Heading home, I get on at the second or third stop of the route, so I got a seat as I usually do. Within two more stops, though, the vehicle was packed. Then we stopped to let on someone in a wheelchair. Except then neither one of the two potential wheelchair restraints was working. Meanwhile, more and more able-bodied people got on, even though there was less room than usual because a couple of benches were flipped up to expose the wheelchair restraints, and eventually the poor guy in the chair had to get off anyway, because the driver refused to take him if the restraints didn't work. And then a few stops later there was a guy on a scooter chair. And he was pissed already about the full buses, and waving his cell phone around and shouting about how the driver had to let him on, and how he already had people on the phone about it, and then the driver was trying to explain to him that it was a safety issue and the restraints were not working, and finally the driver just gave in to the guy, which also involved maneuvering the bus around a police car that was parked in the bus lane so the bus could get close enough to the curb, and naturally none of this was taking any time whatsoever. But honestly? At that point I still just felt lucky to have a seat and be able to walk when I want to.

And then the very very dirty, smelly guy crammed himself right next to where I was sitting, with his crotch at the level, and within a few inches, of my nose. And the 15 or so further minutes it took for me to get home from there, wedged in next to this guy's crotch and unable to relocate, really almost sent me over the edge. Now, I know in theory that when you pay your $45/month for a bus pass, you are not being guaranteed a seat on any bus at any time, and certainly not a seat next to a freshly laundered person who smells fresh and clean like the meadow outside grandma's house. BUT C'MON, PEOPLE. Spare the air, my ass.

tiny squirrel

This morning I got up early and went on a long walk (8 or 9 miles-ish), including a pass through Chrissy Field and the Coastal Trail. Just another sunny, warm San Francisco day in June (I was wearing fleece when I took this):


I am definitely getting lame in my old age, because I actually TOOK A NAP early this afternoon because I was tired from walking. Oy. Then after that, I wanted to knit but nothing currently on my needles was of any interest, so I started a new little project, the Squirrel and Oak mittens from Hello Yarn.


I finished the first one, but they are really small and I will have to find someone tiny to give them to. I might get motivated to make another pair out of heavier yarn so they will come out to normal adult size. But the more likely scenario is that I won't even finish the mate to this one, because I'm like that.

fancy superhero cape

I made another shawl this week, Laminaria from Knitty. Here is an example of the magic of lace. When you first take it off the needles, it is a lumpy, blechy looking thing:


The ruler is 15" long.

Now I have soaked and blocked out the shawl, and its spine is now 36" from top to tail. Here are some detail shots (the lace looks busier than it really is, because it's blocked out on top of a grid, but you get the idea):





Updated to add: It's dry now, so here are some shots on a plain background--

justin, leo, and dan

Yesterday I met Dan and his dachshunds for a play date. Some of you may know that I have a thing about dachshunds. They are the awesomest dogs on the planet. They make me jump up and down and clap my hands like a little girl. The photo above is my desktop wallpaper and IF YOU CAN SHOW ME ANYTHING CUTER I WOULD LIKE TO SEE IT.

I stupidly forgot my camera yesterday, so all I have is a shot taken with my cell phone. This is Leo nestled up to Dan's plaid-encrusted hip:



I do not have a photo of Leo's older faux-brother, Justin, but he is also insanely cute, little gray face and all. Dan would like you to know that Leo's alternate names include Spazzie, Sir Spaz-a-lot, and ADD-Puppy. Justin's nicknames include Grampa and Fattie McFatFat (although he is not fat).

After we let the dogs run around in Dolores Park, we went and got ice cream at Bi-Rite creamery. I had ginger and salted caramel. Delicious.

think pink

Today I got my butt in gear and did the final painting I had planned for the time being. Now instead of Cubicle Beige, my bedroom is Rio Rose and Bombshell:



(The black thing in the bottom photo is a wall heater--it will have an off-white faceplate covering it as soon as everything is dry.)

The next step for the bedroom is to install some wall shelves to display vintage purses and cool shoes.

Tomorrow I have a play date with Dan's dachshunds, Leo and Justin. I guess I will speak to Dan as well, if I must.

mothra

I finished my Luna Moth shawl yesterday and now it's blocking:



Updated to add: now it's dry!



Mmmm, pashmina.

dot org

Slooooooowly I am getting my crap organized here at the ol' apartmansion. It's not all that exciting for anyone but me, but since Dan gives me crap on a daily basis about not posting, you may blame him for this lame update. Email me if you want his phone number.

The Craft Cavern is getting both tidier and craftier:



Knitters need abundant sweater storage space:



The pile of boxes behind the Freakin' Adorable Teak Chair is gradually diminshing (there were twice as many boxes piled there this morning...one of them full of *ahem* approximately 20 pairs of shoes):



Here's my fave accomplishment of the morning--hanging my kitty on the door to the storage room. I love it that when I took the photo, the little face recognition feature framed the kitty's face.



I made vegan brownies last night. Rick, if he is reading, will be pleased to hear this was made possible in part because I re-re-rearranged my cookbooks so that they are once again in the normal, accessible configuration.



Speaking of redoing shit, I did indeed have to start over on my Luna Moth shawl after my ill-advised ambien- and wine- and jet lag-influenced first attempt. Now it is moving right along:



For the non-knitters: this will get wet blocked once it is off the needles, and the pattern will become much more flat and distinct. See here and here for examples.

When I'm too tired for lace knitting, I work on this cardigan. I'm using a silk and lambswool blend in a camouflage-y color.

Again, blame Dan.

a couch. i has one.

It's back to home dec updates, peeps. Today I finally got to pick up the couch and chair cushions I ordered in April:





I used my Chirp dishes for the first time the other night. The rims of the plates match the walls of my dining nook. It is pretty cool.



This is a pasta dish I made up, involving tomatoes, mushrooms, baby spinach, and a secret ingredient that rhymes with, um...whoregonzola.

for the love of ambien

My "day" today--it is now Saturday approaching midnight in San Francisco--started at 11:00 p.m. yesterday in Bombay (i.e., 10:30 a.m. Friday California time), when George came to pick me up and take me to Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport, or as they say in airport code, BOM. My flight on Korean Air was not departing till 3:30 a.m. (I'm sorry, did I say "3:30 a.m.?" I meant THREE THIRTY FUCKING A.M.), but I felt bad making someone hang out later than 11:00 just to come and drive me to the airport. Not bad enough, mind you, to actually volunteer to go find a regular cab in the middle of the night, but bad enough not to insist on being picked up at a more reasonable hour, given the circumstances.

So I hung out for four hours in the understated luxury of BOM, then headed to Seoul, then got on a flight to San Francisco. I must say I prefer going over Asia rather than over Europe. It's shorter, for one thing, and also shorter. Plus it does not take as long, and the distance is not as far. (Someone please slap me for thinking that 25 hours total travel time is "not all that long.")

Did y'all know that the flight attendants for Korean Air are an army of spindly identical toothpicks in pale khaki and light seagreen-blue, down to the freakin' EYE SHADOW? This is not Jackass American over here thinking all Asian women look alike (although I am tempted to say that just to piss off Dan, who is a jerk). This is Jackass American saying that dude, SRSLY, all Korean Air flight attendants look alike. So much so that midway during the Seoul-SFO leg, under the influence of white wine and Ambien, I was for at least 30 seconds convinced that what was, in fact, a severe case of double vision was just two flight attendants going through very similar motions at the same time in the same area.

I was just now looking for an example of the Korean Air flight attendant uniform to show you when I came across an ad I saw in the in-flight magazine that at the time made me think "WTfuckingF?!?" but that I had in the meantime already forgotten to tell you about (see reference to wine and Ambien above). And I am pleased, in my very Western "Um, is this just me?" sort of way, to note that the ad was being discussed on a Korean guy's blog and the point of his commentary was also "WTfuckingF?!":


Please note the caption: "...only dignified service for our dignified guests." Ah, the comments just write themselves. Also, hello. Just about the last place I want to imagine a person hanging out before handing me comestibles is the floor of an airplane.

Anyhoooooo, back to California, which is where I am. Here are some tips for you, dearest readers. First, find yourself a friend who is a member of a snazzy wine club, like maybe Cakebread Cellars. It is helpful if your friend is gorgeous and possibly named Claudia. The most important part, however, is to make sure the friend doesn't really care for white wine, because that means you will regularly receive hostess gifts consisting of ass-kicking bottles of ivory-colored alcoholic goodness, which will then still be waiting for you in your fridge when you get back from, say, India.

Another tip: there is a time to cast on (that's knitting talk) for a brand new pashmina lace wrap, and that time is decidedly NOT at 10:30 p.m. when your day began over 36 hours previously and has involved white wine of varying degrees of quality, three (sub)continents, and multiple doses of Ambien. I will be casting on ::cough:: again tomorrow (the Luna Moth Shawl, for those interested).

shut up dan

Dan has been harassing me on a daily basis about how I have a responsibility to my readers (a group comprised of Dan and myself, I'm pretty sure) to post more often, so this entry is devoted to his naggy ass.

I don't have a lot to offer today. I got a new haircut and hair color--shorter and darker than ever before. Misti says I look like a rocker. She is a sweet young thing, isn't she? Here I am just now, trying to look like a badass rocker:



Yeah, that worked.

This evening I was at my gym, where they have one of those set-ups where you can plug your headphones into a doodad on the machines and listen to your choice of any one of the four or five TV shows playing on large screens. Usually I just listen to my iPod, but today I couldn't help but be drawn into what is possibly the most ludicrous piece of television broadcasting ever foisted upon humankind. I am speaking of the VH1 reality show Rock of Love. Imagine if you will a scenario where Bret Michaels (née Bret Michael Sychak, according to this helpful Wikipedia entry), the lead singer of the Glam Metal band Poison, gets to prance around as a middle-aged, creepily eye-linered, bandana-headed, collagen-lipped Lothario and choose a new girlfriend from among what can best be described as an army of skanky whores approximately half his age. And when I say skanky whores...people, for reals. One of the final two was a retarded stripper. Anyway, I ended up working out for an hour and a half because I became so engrossed in this magnificent trainwreck. Thank god he chose Ambre!!1!!1

putting the 'ho' in HOA

Oh boy, there's nothing quite like turning 40 and becoming the president of your homeowners' association all in the same week to make you feel like, well, a 40-year-old home owner. Or maybe like someone's mom, except for that little detail of having forgotten to have children.

I hosted our first TIC (that is kind of like a co-op, for you non-San Franciscans) HOA meeting at my apartment on Thursday night, in part to discuss the solution to an unfortunate plumbing mishap on the other side of the building that is likely to cost one unit's owner (who hadn't even moved in yet) around $15,000 in repair costs. Part of the joy of sharing equally in a 6-unit building is that anything that goes wrong with the common parts of the building immediately becomes 1/6th your problem. Then again, you only have to pay for 1/6th of a gardener, so there are also some perks.

I'm pleased to report that my neighbors all seem nice, and a couple even seem like people you'd want to hang out with. I'm a little less pleased to report that the couple upstairs is due to contribute a new infant to the world in approximately one month. An infant whose nursery will be directly above my bedroom. Luckily (?) I already invested in a pricey white noise generator to drown out the 24-hour churchy elevator music and gospel preacher tapes from the near-deaf old lady below me (who is a renter left over from before the house renovation/selling of the remaining units).

Speaking of Downstairs Church Lady, right when I moved in last December I'd often see a guy maybe around my age sitting in the common area on the first floor talking on his cellphone. He was clearly somehow related to Church Lady, and was quiet and polite and seemed harmless enough. I hadn't seen him since those first couple of weeks, but thanks to a discussion at the HOA meeting I know now that he was her nephew, and I also know this: shortly after I went to India in January, the guy in the other unit on my floor heard pounding on his door and men shouting "Open the door! FBI!" He thought it was his friends playing a hilarious prank, albeit with unusual enthusiasm. But no. It was the real live FBI, wanting to go through my neighbor's apartment to reach some other part of the building so they could continue their attempt to find Church Lady's nephew. BECAUSE HE WAS A WANTED SEX OFFENDER IN UTAH. They didn't find him that day, but we're told that in the meantime he's been arrested. Anyhoo, it just goes to show you that the mild-mannered guy with the churchy aunt who's sitting in the downstairs hallway every afternoon is maybe not someone you want to invite over to your weekly game of Scrabble or strip poker. Live and learn.

I'm way excited about having finally ordered cushions for my Danish living room set. My couch will have cushions covered in this "alfalfa" colored textured fabric:

And the matching chair will have cushions in this "peridot" colored pattern:
These are both green and definitely go together, even if they look yellow-y or beige-y and non-matchy on your crappy monitor (because they certainly do on mine).

perhaps sometimes violence IS the answer

Now, as you know, I don't judge. But the people who were staying at the bed & breakfast with us in Ashland last weekend were some of the most irritating, pretentious, idiotic, washed-up faux intellectual hippies I have ever encountered.

You know the type. E.g., the woman with long, loose gray hair, all flowing layered skirts and fringe and bracelets and brown velvet. The first morning we heard her and her table mates going on and on and ON about spirituality (a word I condone only if it is in reference to liquor) and new agey barf-inducing pop philosophy, and at some point she said, "Well you knowww, everything in the world is duality--right brain/left brain, yin and yang...." It was at that point James and I locked eyes and, knowing we were in danger of losing our breakfast if we remained to consume even one further morsel of it, went back to our room to roll our eyes and moan softly in intellective pain.

The next morning she arrived a little late, saw that her previous day's table cohort had no free spaces left, and rather than sitting next to a perfectly nice midwestern-y couple nearby she insisted on having a separate place set for her at a vacant table and declared for all to hear, "I think I'd better do some writing this morning." James murmured under his breath, "Wow, there's a frightening thought." And then she proceeded to "write" during breakfast by placing a small pad of paper next to her. Which she did not touch. She did do a lot of meaningful gazing into mid distance, however. I'm sure whatever she was thinking ("Which peasant skirts are back from the dry cleaners? How much turquoise can possibly fit on one necklace? Should I eat this bacon in front of people or pretend I am a compassionate, earth-loving vegetarian?") was exceptionally profound.

(That just reminded me of one of my favorite James mutterings ever. We were at a sushi restaurant next to a large party, and one woman was dominating the conversation in both volume and quantity of discourse--blathering on about her time living in Africa, and repeatedly referring to Johannesburg as "Joburg," and generally and loudly describing various scenarios that demonstrated just how much of a privileged white hosebag she truly was, breaking only for short digressions to discuss her preferred jewelers in Sausalito. At some point she excitedly declared, "Oh! Oh! I have the classic Africa story for you!" At which point James muttered, "Let's hope it ends with her being eaten.")


But where was I? Oh yes, about how I never judge. Really, it makes it easier to sleep at night. Y'all should try it.

birthday weekend, cont.

Our trip to Crater Lake having been thwarted by the small matter of TEN FEET OF SNOW, we opted instead for a trip to Grizzly Peak, until we noticed in our guidebook the small matter of its only being open between May and November on account of, you know...the snow. Non-local yokels such as we are, we thought that perhaps the 70-degree temps would have melted any remaining precipitate by this point, so we headed there anyway. All went well until we reached the gravel road we were supposed to turn onto and drive upon for 3 miles to reach the trail head. It looked a little something like this, except without the clear, paved bits:



So we ended up walking up and down the paved road we'd just driven. It was still nice, despite an abundance of shotgun shell casings and blown up bits of clay pigeons.

We do eventually learn, and the next day we went to a place called Applegate Lake, where there was no snow whatsoever. Here is James in Intrepid Explorer mode:


There were lots of interesting little flowers along our 14-mile hike:




For my birthday I purchased some Noro Silk Garden yarn from The Websters in Ashland and started making this scarf:


When we got home on Monday we painted my hallway yellow. I entertained James by repeatedly holding up my paint container and exclaiming enthusiastically "I has a bucket!" I also composed a little ditty that began "Oh my hallway is so yeller, it could be seen by Helen Keller!" Etc.



Stay tuned for a post about how the pretentious, washed-up, 50-something, idiotic, new-agey erstwhile hippies in Ashland nearly sent us on a murderous rampage.

Updated to add: I just was looking at the site with the scarf recipe and noticed he links to this site to show other examples of the same technique, and the first photo on that page is of a scarf I designed. Freak coincidence, or proof that way too many people have made that Stupid Fucking Scarf (as my knitting posse and I now refer to it)? I think we can all guess the answer to that one.