This is Not What I Should be Writing About

I should be writing about any one of those handful of topics that churn inside, but I'm very good at avoidance. I practice it in all manner of ways. Class clowning works pretty well. I do or say something goony and the audience laughs. It sustains me for awhile. Or I become interesting. It engages others and one doesn't have to spend any time inside. After all, it is rude to ignore someone who wants to interact. So I'll say it again. This blog is never going to be a pretty flowers picture blog. It was never intended to be. I don't want it to be. That's not what I do. Nor am I a professional or amateur horticulturist. The reader doesn't want to read, and I don't want to write, about how to grow this or that plant. This is not a blog about plants. Plant blogs exist elsewhere. What this blog and the writer are about is (mostly) connecting with others. And that's what this post is about, even though it may seem initially that I'm still on about the damned plants.

So I've posted a couple of times about the bromeliads and the felonious felines. Now it happens that Mother Badger reads the blogs and often has some comments to make. But she does it her way. She doesn't jump on the blogs as a public follower and she doesn't post her contemporary photograph. And she doesn't drop her comments into the blog. She reads the blog and makes comments in e-mail. That's her way, reader. We've all already agreed there aren't any rules to this. And nobody tells Mother Badger how to do anything, anyway. Sometimes she is right up to speed, reading the blogs as they're posted. Other times she drifts away for awhile. I don't think she's consumed by it. This time it happens that she was keeping right up. And she had some information to impart to me, because Mother Badger knows about bromeliads and the like. So her e-mail after the first post gave rise to the second post. But her e-mails after the second post have given rise to this third post and to plenty of belly laughs.

I have a vision of Mother Badger sitting at the computer in the Arizona Room, her face toward the wall and her back toward the dining room. I feature her reading the blog and thinking "Hey, I have something to say about this!" She leaves the blog, shoots the e-mail and returns to the blog. She reads more and lands on something that makes her muse. "I have a comment about that!" She leaves the blog, shoots the e-mail and returns to the blog. Yet another part of my brilliant meanderings grabs her attention. She leaves the blog, shoots the e-mail one more time. For the last post brought three separate e-mails and made me think, "This is like conversation! This is almost as good as being in the same room, visiting."

So this time, some of the knowledge imparted is this: when I use a knife to cut the pups away from the mother bromeliad, I should dip the blade in Clorox first. I never planned to become a bromeliad obstetrician and was, in fact, just a little squeamish about such things during my own pregnancy and childbirth experience. However, I'm in the soup now. My curiosity is running and I must move forward. I wonder if the Clorox is some form of antiseptic for the birthing process. I'm kidding! Come on, reader. She didn't state the purpose of the Clorox, but if she says "Do it," I shall, when the time comes. She also said I must use Root Tone on the pup, and that, I do understand, because my research shows the pups don't always have a good root system when it's time to remove them. I liken the Root Tone to the baby powder of this operation.

She had some well-conceived advice that could result in my being able to keep plants at home. She recommends that I steep a strong solution of cayenne pepper and water, put it in a spray bottle, and liberally coat a "test" plant. It occurs to me that cats have a very refined sense of smell. Perhaps they'd be deterred when they stepped up to take the first chomp. But if not, Mother Badger assures me their first bite will be a surprise, indeed. "Hotter than hell for humans or animals," so she says.

Lastly, she offers me encouragement and urges me forward. She commented that my pictures reveal lovely, healthy bromeliads which shows that I am on my way. And she suggests that now I am hooked, I should look into proteas. Hmmmm . . . I know about them. At least I could point one out if I saw it and say, "That's a protea." I Googled "protea". They're a little like the bromeliads in construction! I'm not sure where I'd locate one in Las Vegas, Nevada, but I know how to learn that, too. Hmmm . . .







It was Mother Badger's final statement, however, that created the most electrical connection for me. She wrote, "There is something primitive about propagating plants, like teaching . . . . " It struck me hard. This woman was a teacher because that's what she wanted to be. She did it long and I know she did it well, because it's what she loves. And that's what she's just been doing to me. Teaching. Again. I could write several posts about things I have learned from her, but that's for another day. For today, I'll just remind myself that we all have something to give to others. That's how it works. I'll give you a little of this that I have in profusion and I'll take a little of what you possess that I lack. That's the way it goes. It reminds me that I should continue to make eye contact with other humans and say what I have to say, ask what I have to ask. It reminds me of the importance of remaining open and trusting those who have shown themselves to be reliable.

OK, stick a fork in me. I'm done. If I get bromeliads or proteas or a flower or anything else I think is beautiful, I might take a "pitcher" and post it. But I'm done playing the bromeliad investigator of the blogosphere and shall now move on.

In my ears right now: It is a dark, shitty, wintry day in the desert southwest. It is snowing near my home and in my Mojave Preserve in places I was startled to see named in the Severe Weather Alert. In severe weather, people don't exclaim, "Let's call the carpet cleaners out!", so my phones are dead after a booming day yesterday. I'm alone and I could slide a little if I made a poor musical choice. So, dedicated to Bloomsbury Bird and Benson Bird, even though it's been done before. Reader, I do know that parakeets do not possess musical taste, but I swear they react differently to dirges than to something like this. We needed this today. And I can dance to it! Or better yet, hula hoop!


Something that charmed me: I had a terrible 9 mile walk this morning in hideous conditions. Screaming wind. Wet. Cold. I gave some serious thought to crying as my eyes streamed onto my face and the wind chapped me there. Except crying would have just made for more chapping, so I soldiered on. I wasn't a happy girl when I got home to shower and get ready for work. But driving in, I was struck by how many of "those" trees are popping. For at this time of year, the cherry trees burst. There are pink and white varieties, and I describe them as exploding Q-tips. I passed hundreds of them. And this weekend is Daylight Savings Time. And the following weekend is the spring equinox. And the weekend after that . . . and so it goes.

A Cheap, But Meaningful Gift to Oneself ~ I Love Learning New Things!

Beloved Dylan is drawn to plants and flowers. He has never met one he didn't like . . . to eat. Virginia Woolf became so impressed with his delight for greenery, she has become a chomper, too. It is truly the only perverse, wrongheaded behavior either of these cats commits, and it makes me unhappy. The result is that my home is devoid of plants. I get lovely light in the rooms due to the placement of the windows and I would have some beautiful growth in every room if I could. However, I gave up plants in the home after several episodes of green vomiting on my very light carpet. In my office, a second choice but a good one, I sport some truly remarkable specimens. Home dudes occasionally need to be reminded not to brush up against long, twining limbs and trailers: "Watch out for the plant, Homes!" I don't have a third choice place in which to enjoy plant life.

On a Sunday at Fresh & Easy, I treated myself to a bromeliad. These odd looking species range from the well known pineapple to large varieties that thrive outdoors to small, colorful, showy ones that only thrive indoors. My new purchase was all flashy pink, tightly overlapping leaf bases tucked in among long, curving, narrow green leaves. I always think the colorful stalks resemble a reptile's scales, many precisely interconnected pieces working together to cover the internal structure. I felt it was too cold to leave my bromeliad in the car overnight, so I carried it inside on my first trip from the car. I'm nobody's fool. I put that plant on the top of the entertainment center amongst many other items ~ they wouldn't notice it for just a moment. They'd be far more interested in the rustling grocery bags and the smell of the guacamole and shepherd's pie and cucumbers. I returned to the car for the last load and trudged back inside, arms overloaded. I wasn't even completely across the threshold when I spotted two furry creatures at the top of the entertainment center, shooting furtive looks across their shoulders and . . . . chomping. Heartbreak. I was only gone a moment. Those plants are comparatively pricey, too.

Fast forward a couple of weeks. I always stop to look at the plants and flowers when I enter Fresh & Easy. What? The bromeliads were still on the shelves, but on sale for $2.10! Hmmm . . . OK, well that makes sense. They'd been there for awhile. Some of the leaves were broken or scarred, and I wouldn't have taken some of those plants for free, but I poked around the gathered offerings and came up with a pretty nice replacement for my pink and green beauty. It had an odd, deep purple, microscopic flag protruding from between two of the "scales". I wasn't sure what that was all about, but it was easily plucked off. When I entered my home, I immediately put that plant in the coat closet at the front door. Hey, I may be too trusting at times, but I'm not stupid. That night I served dinner to a friend. I opened the coat closet and said, "See what I found!" He looked a little startled and quipped, "I don't think it's going to thrive in there, Les, even if it is a plant that will tolerate low light." "You goon, you know it's going to the office with me in the morning!"

The bromeliad has sat on the corner of my desk for a week, pleasing me a great deal. I like to water it, pouring the liquid into its middle where all the leaves and the stalk converge to make a cup. It would seem I chose a location where this plant believes the lighting to be perfect, and it surely attracts attention from visitors to my queendom. "What in the world is it?!" Midweek I noticed some odd, deep purple, microscopic dots protruding from between some of the "scales". Yesterday, when I arrived for work:


Who knew? A flower!

Today when I arrived for work ▬ ▬ ▬ ►

It puts me in mind of a little girl with her hair in pigtails high on her head. And there is promise of more purple flowers to come! Odd, deep purple, microscopic dots protruding from between some of the "scales", indeed! Yesterday I e-mailed the photo of the first flower. "Ha! Look at that!" came the reply. This morning I e-mailed the picture of the twin flowers. He responded, "I always thought that pink spike was the flower." I always did, too. I love learning new things! And down below, the reader likely thinks I'm going to say those purple flowers are what charmed me.

In my ears right now:

Let's play Twister, let's play Risk, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.
See you in heaven if you make the list, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.

Something that charmed me: My desk lizards charm me. Oh, come on, reader. You knew that! For I am the Queen of the Reptiles and I am feeling far more frisky than I have in awhile. She's ba-a-a-a-ack!

Photo credit for the lovely Virginia Woolf:
J. D. Morehouse

You're Invited

. . . to an end of summer / birthday blogger's coffee at Limes' place. Those who would like a shot of Bailey's or Kahlua in it, shall have it. I will not being having shots. Dylan will be on the sofa ready to shed his white fur on those who wear dark clothing. Virginia Woolf will echo-locate those of you wearing pastels. The soundtrack will be the Badger's latest personal mix. Be prepared to enjoy that! I'll burn candles in my stained glass stars and we'll just t-a-l-k . . . .

This has been a most wonderful summer. I discovered blogging and it has done me good. Writing is cathartic and exercises my brain, heart and soul. The Badger has taken some of his most compelling photos ever, and we are excited that each of us has successfully placed some of them for show and sale in bookstores. Mother Badger has repeatedly rung in about our blogs and has a little potential project up her sleeve. I have a new friend I enjoy. A lovely outing is planned next weekend (more on that in a future post), but it will decidedly mark summer's end and the beginning of the year that comes after. I mark years as January to December, but also as birthday to birthday.

I am a teacher magnet, as in: drop me into a room of 100 people and all the teachers find me and I them. Hence, several bloggers I follow are about to end their summer, return to work . . . my birthday looms in a few days and it has always marked "end of summer, start of school . . . " Endings make me pensive and introspective. I'm not all that thrilled this year to have the odomoeter flip again. It's not a milestone birthday. I still have a ways to go until 60. But a broken odometer, my age frozen in time, would be OK enough with me.

So, were we 'tend friends actually in a room together, here are some of the things I would say:

Tree, the Badger and I are having a (100% friendly) disagreement about the existence of a particular photo and its title. I feel so sure of myself. But he's so meticulous about maintaining his portfolio, that I'm a little concerned. I'm transitioning from one computer to another, so I can't currently get to the photo I'm certain exists and with the title I know so well. I'm good in a pinch, however, and have a lovely substitute photo. Your words that caused me to land on a vivid image were " . . the economy of the thorned heart . . ".



OB, I loved what you had to say about Plan Left and Plan Right rather than Plan A or Plan B. It's not hard to choose between a good decision and a bad decision. That's not even decision-making, but simply selecting something comfortable over something painful. We engage more, the stakes are higher, when the choices are a little fuzzy around the edges . . . not so sharply defined. Although I am normally a very decisive person, I can sure dance around making a decision when I'm torn. I wish you good luck. I hope you'll be happy with the decision you land on.

Mother Badger, I hope - sincerely - that you move forward with the project you e-mailed me about. Do it while you've still got the goods! It will be your legacy, just as you mused about blogs being our history in the future. Put down your history! You have some stories to tell. I mean this, truly. If I spent half a day with you, you'd be on the road. And you can do it in comfort and air conditioning. Your sons and grandchildren and all of us who are fond of you are waiting. By the way, I know you won't want coffee. I'll have skim milk or a beer or wine or diet Pepsi for you.

Doozyanner, I keyed in immediately when I started to follow you and you made references to elephants in the room, family elephants, rotting elephant carcasses. More recently you've said "ginormous elephant" and I believe I understand that, as well. I hail from a huge extended family and I think it is fair to say that we put the funk in dysfunctional. The part of that which intrigues me is this: some of us revel in our dysfunction. "Yep, we're a mess and it's OK enough for me." Others of us run screaming. Who handles it better, the complacent or the runners? Who would we ask?

New blogger Dan, I liked what you had to say about asking for help for things we don't even want to learn how to do. I've finally accepted that I don't have to know how to do everything well, I don't want to know how to do everything well, and I don't do everything well. "So ask somebody for assistance, Limes. And offer what you can to others." Although I can grouse about it, I really sort of like my age. I'm comfortable in my skin for the first time in my life. So you're 100% correct - as long as the health holds, it's good from here on out. Thanks for boarding my bus! Looking forward to following you on "The Rest of My Life".

Wheel Dancer, you are most interesting to me. You write lengthy technical pieces about all things cycling. You are beautifully poetic from time to time. But your posts I enjoy the most are those with few words that tell a complex story, colored and shaded. I admire - I envy - the efficient beauty of that economy of words. I don't have that.

TRW, where in the world are you? Woman, if you don't report in soon, I'm sending out an SOS. There's a party going on! Be there. When you ever get home, your mailbox will be filled with girlfriend offerings. I've visited the post office drop box almost every night!



David, Michele and the home dudes, it wouldn't be a party without you. And when the guests spill their coffee with shots, we can pop out the protein spotter and put on a little demonstration. I'm kidding! Please come to my little party.




Badger, you know I'm going to ask you to take good pics of the event. And I'll surely ask you to help me keep enough coffee beans ground and cups filled and conversation going and napkins in everyone's lap, pass the crudite tray and slices of Milky Way cake. Push Dylan off the sofa and absentmindedly stroke VW when she head-butts you for attention . . . It's been a good year, Badger, dating from almost exactly one year ago ~ you remember the event. It's a good time to give an imaginary party and get ready to watch the next year unfold.

Limes, note to self: it has been a good year. Think of all the steps taken forward. Think of all the changes. Think of all the fear a year ago. Think of the words most recently shared with someone special. "I have ____, and I have ____, and I have my marathon training and I have my blog." The next year will start out in the geographical location where the last one started, in the same company, in the same pursuit. And it will be an even better year. More advances made. That marathon will happen in the new year. The continued exercise of healthy new habits . . . . . .

So, 'tend friends, please send me your RSVP!

In my ears right now: Pink - "I'm comin' up, so you'd better get this party started . . . . ."

Something that charmed me: I've been blogging for 77 days when this publishes. There's a whole culture sprung up around it for me. Certain snippets of knowledge about a number of really fine people. This was a good thing to do!

Photo credit - "My Prickly Heart" - J. D. Morehouse
Photo credit - Limes on August 7, 2009 - J. D. Morehouse

Life's 2 Short, I Forgive You

Photo credit: J. D. Morehouse

CAT-AIKU No. 542: ODE TO GERBERAS

No evidence left.
Trash taken out late last night.
Eye contact restored.

In my ears right now: B-52s "Love Shack" ~ " . . . I got me a Chrysler, it seats about 20, so hurry on up and bring your jukebox money. . . ."

Because sometimes I do have a little attitude showing.

Something that charmed me: Dylan can't speak words. But his relief at the flower pot being removed was unmistakable.

Unrepentant, Unforgiven Flower Muncher

Dylan, you villain,

you rotter. Do not eat my

plants again, or else.


In my ears right now: Rolling Stones, Beast of Burden. Yes, he is a burdensome beast.


Something that charmed me: Despite my urging, "Kitty, kitty, kitty," he would not make eye contact with me while he lay in such close proximity to the plant.

Interesting news spot: (For those of us who love these creatures despite there being no rational reason to do so.)

http://news.yahoo.com/s/livescience/20090713/sc_livescience/catsdocontrolhumansstudyfinds

Perverse Creatures

My parents never allowed a fur-bearing pet. Not one. Fish, birds and turtles were allowed. My father once built a beautiful dog house, but no dog followed. He has kept dogs in his later life, sometimes 4 or 5 at a time, and he takes in rescue dogs. I guess my mother didn't care for fur-bearing pets. She's never owned one. My dog-loving dad, however, does not care much for cats. I grew up hearing all manner of nasty cat stories, and I knew I didn't like those hateful creatures.

I was 19 when Ex said, "Let's go to the SPCA and get a cat." Said I, as cute as a bug at 19: "I hate cats." Ex: "OK, I'll go by myself." I love cats. While bubbling on the subject matter for this post, I tried to count back in time by name and recalled appearance. I believe I've enjoyed about 50 of them on an intimate level. But few have been held at the level of affection I feel for beloved Dylan and Virginia Woolf. They are sharing a very special time of my life - the time when I just may finally self-realize, the time when I'm the closest, so far, to finding the way.

But they are damned perverse. First there is the hair thing. VW is completely black. She sheds like hell. Her individual hairs are coarse and spiky, short and straight. They cling to and poke out from every light colored article of clothing I own, not to mention the fawn colored sofa, light ceramic tile floor and the windowsills. Dylan is beige and white. He sheds like hell. His fur is long and wispy, finer than frog's hair. It clings to, and weaves itself into, everything dark. His is the kind of fur that even intertwines with carpet fibers. The home dudes sometimes come in from a frustrating job to say, "Damned cat, Limes. Fur like your Dylan." They have recommended I buy a $50 carpet rake with which to terrorize my carpet and Oriental rug twice a week before thoroughly vacuuming. Right, dudes. I have time for that.


Above, you see Dylan sniffing Badger toe. Dylan is a water-seeking freak - a feline divining rod. He demands a clean bowl of fresh water every morning in terms no one could mistake, cat lover or not. But his best sources are the toilet - of course - any dripping faucet, or the betta fish home. When I turn off the shower, I am attacked through the curtain - he wants to get to the last drops emanating from the spout.

VW goes for small objects. Pieces of anything. If I remove the cap from a bottle, it should be put in my pocket and not on the counter. Make the mistake of putting down a pair of earrings? Um, make that "an" earring. In one room of my home, I keep several miniature quilt samplers as wall decor. She removes the pins that affix these to the walls, if there is any way she can reach them. We have a little game. I buy pins to keep the quilts on the wall. VW removes and loses them. I buy lots of pins and bandages. She leaves pins scattered on the floor. Below you will see the pink quilt flapping.


Then there's glass, as in the glass dining room table . . . . oh, come on, I wouldn't attempt to feed you there without first taking the DustBuster to it! On every window in the place, there is a horizontal hazy stripe stretching from one side to the other. They appear to spend a good deal of time with their noses pressed against the glass. Wet noses, temperatures outside in triple digits. You get the picture. Sometimes I have to use an abrasive sponge to clean up the windows!

But the very worst area of perversion is plants. Dylan is a lifelong plant destroyer. He's never seen anything green that he didn't want to chomp. When he joined VW and me at my home, he taught her the pleasures of "salad" very quickly. She's a good learner. I am a woman who likes to keep plants and flowers. I am a woman who is stuck on stupid because I keep buying and they keep chomping.

It happens that on Friday night I bought Gerbera daisies at Fresh & Easy. Gerbera daisies please me and these were gorgeous. When I went to bed Friday, I closed these flowers in a bathroom. I took them to work with me Saturday and brought them home Saturday night to be closed in the bathroom. I asked the Badger if he would point his killer camera into my daisies because the contrast of the deep, vivid orange against the brilliant green takes my breath away. I wanted it memorialized in a photograph, not a "pitcher". This morning after walking, I treated myself to a sit-down at the computer. My church service is a cup of the best coffee and a little blogging. I had given the daisies a little drink of water and they were draining in the sink. Limes blogged and sipped. The place got pretty quiet . . . . . yep. Petals knocked off, leaves in shreds, wet soil everywhere.

In my ears right now: The sound of my own voice screeching, "Damned animals."

Something that charmed me: Virginia Woolf, at least, has the good grace to cringe when I bellow.

Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?

Photo credit: J. D. Morehouse

I featured a photo of my beautiful cat Dylan on my second blog post. I've wanted to show off the lovely Virginia Woolf, as well, but that has proved problematic. I have only a very pedestrian digital camera and am not a skilled photographer. Virginia Woolf is entirely shiny black with only the beautiful yellow-green eyes for contrast. All I can capture is an image of a black blob.

The Badger owns a stunning new camera and has the experience and skill to use it. I pressed for a session of shots of beloved Virginia Woolf. The Badger likes to aim his camera at all manner of subjects, so he generously agreed, but commented, "She won't cooperate." I replied, "No, she won't, but let's try it." A date was set.

At the appointed time, VW proved as difficult as predicted. The Badger finally had to photograph me holding her. It is a nice enough picture. We retired to the dining table for a meal and VW proceeded to jump onto pieces of furniture where she does not belong.

Badgers are not known to tolerate nonsense. He picked up his camera, strode to where Virginia Woolf was perched and got the lovely shot above. Then he snarled at her, "Cats aren't supposed to be up there," and snapped another photograph.

So who's afraid of Virginia Woolf? I guess anyone who clicks on the photo to the right. She didn't appreciate The Badger's remark, apparently. She looks like the cat from the evil place. Some camera!

In my ears right now: another Starbucks collection - Mile Marker 383. It's good. It features some artists I recognize and some I don't. I recommend it.

Something that charmed me today: VW's photo making her look like the cats on the greeting cards with the outrageous eyes.

Computerless + Sleepless = Deep Distress

Photo credit: J.D. Morehouse

I had to work a long time yesterday on the words I wanted to post. I am going to begin speaking of other people and I want to do it well and fairly. So I typed awhile late in the day and decided to drive home, think about my words and spend a quiet evening finishing the post.

Got home, greeted Dylan and Virginia Woolf, made coffee . . . I was ready.

The Badger recently built me a new computer worthy of a Ferrari kit, a siren and a warning label. It is fast. I am spoiled. Now I blog, and I must have that computer. I reached my hand out to bring her to life ~ ~ ~ nothing. OK, I know what to do in that case. Power her off and start again. And again. And again.

Quick e-mail version of my own personal tagline from Apollo 13: "Badger, we have a problem." Repeated 2-line e-mails back and forth. Finally from him: "Look on the back. You should have 4 green lights. If any of them are amber, you're fried." 2 of the 4 were amber. I wanted to go out and run 20 red lights in no one's honor.

So, when the computer dies and it's a Thursday night and you've been promised that a new one will be built after this race weekend is over, wouldn't you just read a book, walk some extra miles, pop in a movie? Maybe you would, but I didn't. I kept getting up and obsessively trying to fire that computer up, disturbing cats and myself. When I accepted that I'd worked myself into a nice insomniac snit, I decided to read. Last year at the holidays, I was given a gift of the seminal John Lennon biography by Philip Norman. I had immediately consumed the first 725 pages, but then I put the book down because I didn't want to read the end. I already knew how the story turned out, you see. I finished my book last night. He still died. It still hurt.

And still no sleep for the wicked! For walking, I went out of my way to locate my Pearl Izumi shoes, the ones that are just about 100% wrong for walking on concrete. I thereby ensured that my feet would flap like ducks' feet for 8 miles. They did.

Addiction is a theme in my tapestry. I think I may have a little blog addiction going on, but I can't locate a 12-step program! So, while in the shower, I found myself grinning, shampoo on my teeth. The night had finally ended. The sun was coming up. If I hurried, I'd get to the office and have access . . . to all those blogs.

In my ears right now: The Lennon Legend, what else?

Why I like it: Come on, it's my hero. I even like his bad music.

Something that charmed me today: The first e-mail I received: "I'm sorry this happened to you while I am away." All right. Thank you. I'll stop being a boob now.

If You Commit the Sin of Sloth on Sunday is it an Even Deadlier Sin?

Dylan, the Villain, in his adolescence

Photo credit:
J. D. Morehouse


On Sundays, I am a slug. I allow myself this. I am a woman who runs at 90 mph at almost all times. I over-commit and usually do not fail to deliver, no matter what it takes out of me. By Sunday I am tired. I don't get up to the alarm, even if it means I have to go walking later in the day or even into the evening. I do the weights and bands, but sometimes I do fewer reps than on the other 6 days. My home typically looks like hell by Sunday, so there is some necessary rehab work to be done. Usually there are no groceries left anywhere, so that must be accomplished, too. I like to make dinner for a friend on Sundays, and that requires just a little bit of tidying up, selecting music, menu decisions and hair primping. Uh-oh. On Sundays I am not a slug. I just sleep in a little bit and run fast in a different way than on the other 6 days. Sometimes I am very, very tired. I don't do "take it easy" very well. I behave like my mother. And that is a sobering thought.

In keeping with my fascination of human beings connecting with one another, yesterday the oddest series of clicks happened. A man in Honolulu landed on one of our company's websites that I'm inordinately proud of because I created virtually all of it. He called me to inquire about services and was pulled to both my voice and what I had to say. He wouldn't hang up. I'd told him everything there was to tell and he wasn't ready to schedule services, but he wouldn't go away. Finally I said, "Well, let us know if we can be of service." He called back immediately to tell this long, winding story about his properties throughout Hawaii and the San Francisco Bay area where his girlfriend lives, and how they have one property here in Las Vegas but both the tenant and the property management company have disappeared and the girlfriend and her mother are here this weekend cleaning the house up, painting, etc. because they need to rent it and, and, and . . . "Well, that's funny, sir. I worked a number of years as a property manager." Silence. Three hours and too many interstate phone calls later and my resume e-mailed, my company was providing service at the home, one of our staffers had been engaged (off-hours, in his own time) as a handyman, another staffer had been asked if he'd like to rent the home, and - I think - I'm the property manager. Bank accounts to be opened, locks to be changed, ads to be posted. And I had thought it was just another Saturday in the salt mine!

In my ears right now: The Byrds, "He Was a Friend of Mine". Why I like it: it's about JFK. And while there's no question that Jim/Roger McGuinn is singing lead, David Crosby's harmonizing is so pronounced that it's more like he's got the lead. I like that I can pick David Crosby's voice out. No matter which group he's with at any given time.

Something that charmed me today: My little black cat, Virginia Woolf, is a needy thing, and I'm not home much. She is known to head-butt for petting and to leap into the laps of my visitors and me for immediate attention. This morning, as I ground the coffee beans, she tiptoed figure-eights around my ankles. As I've been sipping my brew and typing at the keyboard, she's made herself into a vibrating (purring) backrest behind me in my chair. It is good to be kept by cats.