Golden Spring

It's that time of year.

California poppies spring up everywhere, and that lovely weedy grass with its horsetail head simultaneously annoys and delights me. One of these years, I'm going to pick the heads, dry them, and then dye them purple and blue and red.

I don't know what I'd do with them afterwards, but wouldn't it be fun?

Today was hot, nearly 100 degrees. I may have lost one of my potted trees to the heat today; there hasn't been enough time between 62 degrees and 100 for the poor plant to harden off.

We spent some time in the pool, which is still just a skootch too chilly to remain submerged like a hippopotamus. It felt heavenly, though. I must score myself a little raft on which to float about on the cool water. And for the first time in days and days, there were no gnats.

Gnats, I'm convinced, are the reason God created tobacco, as a burning cigarette seems to be the only way to keep them from trying to fly into one's eyes, nose, and mouth.

Beautiful Morning

Bernie and I once again made our way to the river to have a look at how high it is.

The water level has dropped by about three or four feet, which is good news. The poor flooded golf course showed how much the water had receded ... leaving the bad news of dead grass peeking out. It's also starting to smell kind of disgusting from the dead vegetation. Alas, it will be worse once all those fish trapped in there start to stink. (And then again, maybe not -- there are quite a few raccoons and coyotes in the area.)

We walked on the levee in back of the golf course, and were treated to the sight of this gorgeous tiger swallowtail butterfly. I snapped that first picture facing the sun and was thrilled to see the light illuminating the wings. I snapped several photos of this creature, and most of them were stunning. The butterfly must have been fresh from his chrysalis, because there wasn't a single tear or tatter on his wings.

In the shade under the cottonwood trees, a shaft of light peeked in and lit up something else -- a locust sapling in bloom. The intense greens and the softened shadows caught my fancy. I have this thing for locust trees, although I don't really remember why. Maybe because back East, they would bloom around the time of my birthday.

One of the pictures I took was of a bird that was very elusive -- we'd just catch a glimpse of color as we looked up into the trees, and couldn't really see many details. Suddenly it flew into the tree right above me, and I was able to snap a picture of the branch. When I uploaded it to my computer, with a little tweaking of contrast and color, we found that the bird was the beautiful Bullock's Oriole. My picture isn't good enough to post, but that link will take you to a phenomenal birding site!

Just to show you how perfect that butterfly was, I've included this photo. My back was to the sun when I took this shot; you can see a subtle difference in color from the first.

I think this insect captivated us for nearly ten minutes before cruising off in the direction of the golf course. I've never before in my life had a chance to examine such a perfect tiger swallowtail for so long.

If You Have Filthy Pikers in Your Life, You Have Everything

I like Pikers.

Pikers are intelligent, and clean.

Pikers are funny, and insightful.

Pikers are quick to pick up people and set them on their feet again, unless those people are assholes, and then they just pick them up, set them on their feet again, and then write their characters into stories.

Pikers write better than most best-sellers, and spending a couple hours with them is just sheer pleasure.

I like Pikers.

Kentucky Derby 2006

A couple hours ago we tried to watch the Kentucky Derby.

Well, we saw the race. We saw NBC "reporters" blather over and over again about jockeys playing ping-pong to pass the time. We saw the "reporters" yap about their sentimental picks and their longshot picks. We saw lots of footage of women in hideous hats and heard how it is tradition for women to wear elaborate Derby Day hideous hats. No doubt if it was Louisiana on Mardi Gras and not Kentucky in May, the women in hideous hats would have pulled up their blouses and showed their titties to the audience, ensuring them of even more coverage next year.

I think, in the hour or more that NBC violated the sports world, that we saw a total of 4 minutes of Horse. Indeed, we saw more of the glitzy and photogenic trainer Bob Baffert than we did of horses.

NBC has the worst sports coverage of any network. The. Worst.

Let me take a number and stand in line to announce that whoever directs their coverage of the Kentucky Derby and the Preakness (up in two weeks, a sprint showdown that can make or break) ... IS A MORON!!!!!!!!!!!!

Thank you.

In spite of NBC, it was a good race, and I'm rooting for Barbaro in the Preakness ... and hoping Baffert's horse Sinister Minister doesn't come into his speed.

Color cue: High Blood Pressure Red

Fog, Smog, and Treasure Island

Yesterday evening, we left the pollen-laden Valley, went over the Altamont Pass, and made our way through the Bay Area, which was itself rather heavily laden with smog.

Once we got to San Francisco, however, the fog was already rolling in from the western side of the peninsula, bringing some fresher air with it. We walked around the Ferry Building and looked at all the wonderful organing produce. It all looked so good ... but by then even Jack In The Box tacos would have made my mouth water. Just before we went to dinner, I took this picture of Treasure Island. That's the Bay Bridge on the right. Behind the island, the rest of the Bridge meets with the city of Oakland, home of the nefarious Oakland Raiders Football Team.

At Sinbad's Restaurant, we met fellow Piker John Trindle, who was in SF for a conference, far from his home in Virginia. We hadn't seen John in -- is it two years or three? -- and he looked not a bit different. Bernie, John and I have at least one thing in common: we're all shy. Nevertheless, we manfully struggled to overcome our quiet natures, and I think we did okay. What I thought was interesting and comforting was that to me, it didn't feel like much time had passed at all. It was easy to settle into the cameraderie we felt when the first Filthy Piker Writers' Conference convened -- there, I looked it up in my Archive -- in 2004.

The food was good, too ... but not as good as seeing a friend again.

A Morning Walk

The foxtail grasses are already withering -- they know it's time to embed themselves in doggy feet and coyote fur.

They must go by length of day, because it certainly hasn't been dry enough to wither much of anything.

On the other hand, the poppy that came up along the side of the path leading to the forbidden zone of the National Wildlife Refuge a couple blocks away would normally have seen the light of March and said, "Spring!" By May, I expect all of the wildflowers to be done and the grasses in the fields turning golden.
This isn't a native wildflower, by the way. Someone walked down there with a packet of seeds to brighten the walking path. I don't mind. They're pretty.

One of the things I noticed about taking pictures with my digital camera is that the reds come out really sucky. I have no idea why, when yellows and oranges come out so nicely.



Speaking of wildlife refuges, this picture was not taken at one. This is the still-flooded Jack Tone Golf Course, where waterbirds and fish have taken up residence.

I think the golf course makes a simply breathtaking little lake.

What's that Glowing Thing in the Sky?

Finally, a truly sunny day!

Bernie has been making me walk all over town to accompany him on his exercise. It's a dreadful chore, moving about in the springtime.

See, this is the kind of thing I'm subjected to: gorgeous fluffy yellow irises in a garden by the sidewalk! How horrible my fate! How cruel my existence!

Fortunately for me, I have a digital camera with which to document the incidents. Otherwise people might get the impression I was just wandering around for hours holding some dude's hand.

I've only got a couple more weeks of this tortuous existence, and then I'm on my own again. Do you think I'll miss being dragged on long walks to look at birds and flowers and lizards and sky?

Oh, come on.

A Walk to the River

Okay, I know this is not a good photograph, but it is important.

This bird is the very first Blue Grosbeak Bernie and I have ever seen in our lives. We're in our fifties. That's a lot of time knowing that such beautiful birds existed, and never really expecting to ever catch a glimpse of one. Today, we did.

Bernie suggested a slow amble (sans puffing, pissing dogs) down to see what the river was doing to the golf course, but we went to the far side of the course, where a National Wildlife Preserve has been formed from what was once farm land. For once we remembered to take along both binoculars and the camera. The Blue Grosbeak would have been worth paying out a weekend at a resort to see, and here he was, only a couple blocks away!

The lizard was more mundane, but it was fun to see this one and dozens others climbing around on the rocks on the side of the hill that led down to the water's edge.

The water is standing in not only the Jack Tone Golf Course, but also in the "Riparian Habitat" off of River View Drive. (Heh. Residents of that neighborhood didn't really think they were going to have a river view until the water came up this spring.) Until a couple years ago, the land was farmed. I don't know what kind of transaction took place, but we walked by and saw rows and rows of tiny trees and shrubs planted in place of beans one spring. And then we heard it was a "riparian habitat" being planted. But it wasn't wet until this spring.

I think they may have breached the levee to allow more of a floodplain. We haven't been able to find a way down there to see. Signs say "National Wildlife Preserve" and there are fences to keep people out.

With the snowpack melting, it's likely that this area will stay under water for a while. This is a good thing for us, as it will provide us with endless entertainment watching the lizards, birds, and frogs frolicking in the watery wetland.

More about flowers, and a little about hair.

I didn't plant these flowers. They planted themselves.

I don't think I've planted any nasturtiums for about four years. One year I thought some would look cute in the front garden ... and they took that as an excuse to be fruitful and multiply.

The original seeds were for flowers of orange, red, and yellow. The daughter plants have wide variations in color; some bronze, some sunset colored like these, and every kind of orange and yellow in between. These really caught my eye, especially with their luxuriously almost-double petals.

I've been waiting for days for a sunny evening so that I could take a picture of them.

This second picture is cool. I love the 40X zoom of my camera, an Olympus C-765 UltraZoom. Look at all those delicate structures in the throat of this flower -- amazing.

I mowed the front yard today, keeping an eye on a storm in the southwest. We may yet have a thunderstorm tonight, but I think the rain has missed us this time. I was nice and cool while I mowed. The wind brushed across my shorn head most agreeably.

Funny, the last time I shaved my head I couldn't wait for the time to come to let it grow back. This time it just feels good to have all that mop gone.

And the flowers didn't even stare at me.

This Has Little To Do With Flowers, and Is Mostly About Hair

Last year at this time, the gazanias were blooming everywhere. This year, they're not. It's been too dim and chill. Yesterday, the high was about 63. Today, it was 80-something.

But that's not what this entry is about. What's on my mind is hair.

My friend Lydia says that I am a shaving fetishist, but that's not true. If I was one, I'd shave my legs more than once a winter, and maybe become one of those ladies who remove their eyebrows and paint them on so that they don't show the white and gnarly hairs.

About a year and a half ago, I shaved my head. It was an impulsive promise that I made to a friend who was facing chemotherapy; she was so freaked out by the "disfigurement" of losing her hair that she was buying wigs and hats even before the treatment started. I promised her that having no hair was no big deal, so I'd shave my head when she started chemo.

People have since told me that I was "so brave" and "so loyal" and "so nice/supportive/etcetera etcetera etcetera" but the real truth is that I just got mad that hair is so important to our image-mad society. Number One, I hated seeing my friend afraid. Two, I think I was just looking for an excuse to try life with no hair on my head.

I don't like seeing people in fear. My reasoning was this: if my friend saw me with no hair, when hers fell out, she'd have company, and a (somewhat lunatic) role model. And that was fine. When her hair got so sparse that she had to have her husband buzz the stray bits down to nothing, she called me on the phone, and laughing, said, "Now I look like you." That was good. I liked that. We spent the autumn and early winter with no hair; Christmas her hair began to return and I stopped the regular shaving.

I swore I'd never do it again. People drew away from me and my shaven head as though I had leprosy. They would look away quickly if I looked at them staring at me. There were lots of whispers, but only three persons actually had the nerve to ask me about the new hairstyle. I did feel naked, a freak.

By the following March, I was quite fluffy with hair again; by July, the sweat was trickling down the back of my neck under my mop and I was remembering how cool and breezy having no hair was. I gave a hairdresser a near-coronary by having her shear my hair on the sides and back to 1/2" and just leave me about an inch and a half on top.

I've had some time to think about hair, and the lack of. When I didn't have hair, no one crowded me at church on Sunday. Old men didn't look me up and down when we sat at the bar. When I went riding, I could just pour cool water over my head when I was too hot. Towelling off after swimming took seconds. I never had hat hair, or pillow hair. Or a bad hair day.

Why do women need fluffy hair, or long hair? Or cutely-styled hair? Since when are we People of Hair? Men get too hot or too bored or too busy and shave their hair off at whim ...

Which is all to say that I think I'm ready to do the dirty deed again. This time, no high ideals, no allegedly altruistic reasons. I'm just sick of hair hanging in my face, and not having a regular salon whose artists can be trusted to treat my hair with the care it deserves. I'm tired of going to a bee-yoo-ty parlor and having the hairdresser try to put some old lady cut on me. I've had enough of painful knot-pulling when I comb my hair before leaving the house. I think I'm ready.

Crazy?

Who.

Cares.

Look, Honey, Another Unseasonable Rain!

What a surprise, it was raining again today.

Yesterday it rained on the shoer when he was working on putting shoes on the Little Duke (I have to get some pictures of that horse in this blog) and it rained on us when we went shopping for water-jars the day before that, and it rained on darn near every day of the past six weeks or more. Yeah, make that the last two months, okay?

Today we just threw open the door and told Lillian to go out in the rain and see what it felt like. At first she was reluctant, but the temps were quite temperate, and after Howie ran outside, and Babe the Big Black Beast followed him, Lil ventured out to shriek with chill when the drops started hitting her -- which shrieks rapidly turned to delight, especially when we allowed her to venture to play in the gutter.

Being Easter Sunday, there was little traffic on the street, and we were right there to keep an eye on Lillian. With surprising savvy, if a car appeared on the street, she jumped to the sidewalk and only returned to the sloshy gutter when the car had past.

In the top picture, Babe is making sure that Howie is not getting Lillian into any trouble. Babe considers himself the arbiter of behavior: if you act too silly around him, he will bark at you with enough volume to make your ears ring. He stood in the rain and watched us for a while, barked loudly at me when I stomped at him, and then joined his Daddy on the porch where the sane people were.

Howie, on the other hand, had a mission to perform: his job? To get Lillian to throw the tennis ball, and then run off with it until he got too bored on his own. Then his job became to bring it back and give her a chance to run with it.

Everyone got nicely soaked, and we're hoping that was the last rain we get until ... how about November or December?

Holy smoley, the water is right here!

Saturday was a lovely sunny day, so Bernie and I took the dogs for a walk.

Having heard that the Stanislaus River was high enough to put the city and county offices on alert, we decided to walk down the street to have a look at the river that flows past the Jack Tone Golf Course.

Well, normally it flows past. Currently the golf course is a back water appendage to the river, as you can see from this picture of the lovely golf course. All but the highest holes are under water.

We watched avocets and geese poking around the edges of the lake, and even saw a fairly large fish swimming around in what is normally the driving range. My guess is that it was a big entrepreneurial carp who saw a great opportunity for rare goodies.

Like any pair of lackwits with a couple big dogs and nothing better to do, after observing the flooding at the golf course, we decided to walk down to the levee and see where the break might be that allowed the course to be flooded. Although we came to no harm, and didn't reach the break, I have to say that I knew it was a stupid stunt to pull, that I knew better than to try to find where a flood was occurring, but that I could no more stay away from the river than I could stay away from the ice on the creek that ran past my parents' property, even when I knew the thickness was iffy. Old habits of curiosity and waywardness die hard.

What we saw surprised me. Normally, from the levee path, you look down some twenty-odd feet to the river. This time, the river was right there, only about three feet from the top of the levee. Across the river, the flood plain fields were all under water, as could be seen in this picture. Where the trees are in the distance is where a farmer's fields will be when the water goes down.

I don't know when that will be. Today has been cloudy, but we've had no rain yet; any rain in the mountains is going to end up down here in the Valley. There is talk of having to release water from the reservoirs so that they don't overflow -- that might put the water in the Stanislaus over the edge of the local higher levees.

Parts of the levee path we were walking on were very spongy and crumbly. They were not quite "wet" though they were damp. Unfortunately those levees are riddled with the holes and dens of ground squirrels. If the water comes up over them, it will eat them away like butter on fresh mashed potatoes.

When Babe started to limp, we turned back to find some shade for him to lie down and rest, and after our break, headed home, back past the golf course and up the street. There are lots of low-lying fields and farms that will keep our little residential area above flood danger ... at least for now.

Rainbows

We should have seen dozens and dozens of rainbows this winter during the rainy season.

But we didn't. When we got rain, the cloud cover was too solid, until this past week, when we got a couple beauties. If the clouds had been more cooperative, and the other rainbow brighter, this picture would have shown a double rainbow.

When we lived in Pennsylvania, we didn't see that many rainbows. Just another reason to love living in California.

Lillian was out playing in the rain with her umbrella. She's already seen enough rainbows that they are nothing unusual to her.

Eye-strain A Go-Go, Isn't that what they used to say?

Let's see, I've been working on this project for two full hours ... if I charge $30/hour, that means someone owes me about $60 -- gee, is my math correct?

There's art, and then there's work. Some art flows so senselessly easily I can't bear to charge for it; some art has a lot of value to me and to pry it loose from my possessive little hands will cost a pretty penny. But when it's stuff that I don't want to do, and only end up doing because no one else handy has the skills to do it, I feel a simmering resentment that looks like the timer on a taxi dashboard.

Did the project really have to take two hours? Well, let's see, if Someone had provided a template or even a list of what the project had to include, if I could afford a better damn printer, and if Word wasn't as obtuse and stubborn as a constipated mule with a bad attitude, no, it would not have. But if I don't get paid for what I do, how do I afford a top-notch printer?

My resentment doesn't simmer long, though. By morning, the enthusiastic "Thank you!" that I'll hear will be worth millions, anyway. The project is DONE, and my brain is starting to fill with little DONE endorphins.

It's a good life, and I'm glad I have the skills I have.

Gone With the Spring Cleaning

So lovely in the morning sun.

Nasturtiums, second or third generation. Or maybe more than that, because I don't remember planting them last spring. I thought summer color was supposed to be geraniums, and that the previous year's nasturtiums had been removed.

The incredible, edible nasturtium is an energetic plant. It puts forth blossoms in 40 days of the seed going into the ground. Heat deters it not, nor cool weather. It takes on poor soil or well-fertilized, perhaps not with equal abandon, but with enthusiasm. It thickens its leaves so well that weeds don't like to compete with it.

Yesterday I filled a 54-gallon city compost can with the viny buggers that had flourished from the spring before, engulfing celosia, geraniums, a small fountain, and the electric connections that had kept the fountain going. One of the strands of foliage was ten feet long.

Too bad it doesn't taste good enough to make it a staple. On the other hand, if we could no longer get the seasoning pepper, we could make do with the slightly peppery nasturtium. Remember that when the world breaks down and trade becomes impossible.

Pitch Dark and Raining

I just looked at the weather service online and they said it was "cloudy."

Obviously their weather station is run by a drunken optimistic sea lion who can't see out the windows. It's pouring and blowing rain, hard enough to soak the dogs, who woke me to tell me they wanted to go OUT, and hard enough to make the woodstove sluggish.

WTF are we having to stoke a woodstove at this time of year? Last night Bernie reported that there was snow on the mountainsides in the Bay Area! This global warming has resulted in a very cold spring, and a greater icepack in the Sierras this year than in the year before. Good for the ice pack, bad for anyone who is accustomed to putting tomato plants in the ground in mid-February. (Uh, that would be me.)

I'd post a photo, but everything is gray,
or needs a flash even
at the height of the light of the day.

Unexpectedly rhyming, neh?

Chicken, How to Elevate It?

I stood in front of the stove with a big package of frozen chicken and thought, "Blech."

"Blech" is a word I learned from DC's truly ancient comic book series in which Bob Hope was a cartoon character. The jokes were so hokey and story lines so idiotic that I bought every one I found. Back in the day, that was a hard-earned 12 cents, btw. But those comics have nothing to do with this post.

I intended to bake those chicken thighs. Unfortunately, previously frozen baked chicken thighs smell like cooked shoes to me. (Do not ask about the cooked shoes. It was in Seattle, and I was living in a cardboard box, but that's another lie -- uhh -- story.) They say that there is a kind of knowledge that you can receive when you need to receive it, and there is even a theological term for it that I can never remember. My mother used to say that "Knowledge is in the air." However one cares to describe it, a taste came to my mind, with a list of the ingredients I would need to procure it.

Once the chicken was all nicely defrosted (thank God for the microwave) I prepared it on a rack in a big open roaster with a little salt and some garlic powder. While it cooked for the first 20 minutes at 385 degrees, I made a basting sauce.

I melted 1/4 cup of Saffola Margarine. In my teeny Cuisinart chopper, I put one peeled and sectioned CaraCara orange, a heaping tablespoon of mango-pineapple-passionfruit jelly and another of raspberry-blueberry-cherry jelly. I poured in a little more than a tablespoon of lemon juice, a pinch of salt, a good hearty sprinkling of pepper, and a shake or two of Tabasco sauce. (I really wanted Louisiana Hot Sauce, but all we had was Tabasco.) After mixing all that up until it was a slurry, I added the melted Saffola and mixed again. Every 20 minutes, I basted the chicken with it, and towards the end, every 10 minutes.

It was pretty dang tasty. I cooked 12 chicken thighs, used about half of the basting sauce, and the chicken was done in about 1 1/2 hours. We had it with mashed potatoes and salad, but I think it would have been better with rice, and asparagus.

Too bad the whole family can't agree on rice and asparagus.

Miss You, Dad

Last night I dreamed about my father.

In the dream, we'd been traveling across country, and stopped at a rest stop. I went in, and along with travelers' amenities, I saw a rack of beautiful shawls. I picked one out that was simply gorgeous (in my favorite color, black) and took it to the counter to pay for it.

Alas, I had forgot my wallet, so I set the shawl down and went to the parking lot to find the car. The red Prism was nowhere to be seen.

I walked back through the building to the other parking lot, and the car wasn't there, either. But my father was there in the courtyard. "They sent me to pick you up," he said.

I was so glad to see him again. He's been dead for -- can it be seven years? I gave him a little hug, and then thought, "Hug him, you fool! When will you get the chance again?" so I hugged him like I did when I was an exuberant little kid. I was so happy to see him, and so happy that he was so glad to see me, too.

And if I cried a couple tears telling this tale, no biggie, because I spent most of the day smiling. I don't care if it was "just" a dream. I got to see Dad again.

CHASE wants you to be their bitch.

Just a little rant.

In order to reduce the rate on my car loan, we did a transfer to a new credit card from the conventional loan. It was working well for us, until CHASE bought out that credit firm.

CHASE insisted that it was our bosom buddy, but refused to accept that when we paid twice or extra in a month -- that we had paid twice or extra. Unless the payment was the minimum or received within seconds of their "due date" nothing counted for the next month. So if the minimum was $60, but we had paid $500, none of that carried forward, and should they change their "due dates" suddenly we were "late" inspite of being $440 ahead. They charged us late fees and then changed the "special" percentage rate to the maximum rate, because we were "late."

We're supposed to keep track of their little pissant rules every day? We receive "YOU HAVE ALREADY PRE-QUALIFIED FOR A CHASE CREDIT CARD TODAY!" advertisements at least four times a week. Those cretins don't even know who they have in their accounts. Even if you can get a company representative on the phone, they will LIE to you and tell you that yes, your extra payment will be credited to the next month, and when you get your statement, the extra will not be, and the late fees will still be added to your balance.

I'm not the only one who has had that experience. CHASE = CROOKS.

We're in the process of getting a loan to pay off CHASE and never, ever, have to deal with them again.

CHASE = MISERY AND LOSS OF $$$

Am I angry about this? You betcha.

CHASE = THE WHORE OF BABYLON.

There, was that bitter enough?

Prozac, and People I Used to Know

My cartoon this week was actually a commentary of sorts.

Happily the woman copes, hanging her laundry on the line. Prozac gets her through her daily chores cheerfully, contentedly. That she's washed and hung up her cat disturbs her not at all.

I've known three people before Prozac was prescribed for them. After Prozac, I could not have picked them out of a crowd by their personalities. They became totally different and utterly unexceptional people once the drug took them.

One was a mischievous, impish soul, prone to laugh and play tricks, loving and creative. There was some heavy misfortune in her life, and some doctor prescribed Prozac for her to help her cope. It did, I guess. It shortcircuited her grief, and she could get to work and home without bursting into tears. Her mischief stopped. Her wicked humor disappeared. Instead of laughing, she became enamored of smarmy e-mail forwards, and stopped sketching her marvelous cartoons. She lost contact with me ... for the most part, and even the halting short letters she sends sound nothing like my most beloved friend. She's gone, that person I loved so much.

The second was another close friend. We used to hang out and drink wine together while our husbands and our kids interacted, giggling over silly girl-stuff or telling stories about our ancestors: we were both hispanic, but cut off from the really Mex families. We enjoyed each other's company and could hardly wait to get together the next weekend or so. She moved away from my area, and though we promised to visit, after she started taking Prozac, visiting was suddenly not an option. I don't know why she started taking it. After she fell into the Prozac haze, she did not talk about the reason she thought she needed it. She listened only to those people who patted her comfortingly and said she'd made a good decision by taking the drug to hide her pain and anxiety. The last time I talked to her, I didn't recognize anything about her except her voice. It tore me up.

Another friend I have stopped taking Prozac not too long ago. I knew him before his Prozac time, and lamented his Prozac personality castration. Someone who had his ear told him frankly that he was catastrophically changed by the drug, and he had the courage to get off it. It was hard for him. The withdrawal made him irritable, fearful, and restless. Gradually, he started interacting with his friends and family normally again. He still has the anxieties and periods of "blueness," but my God, it's "him" again, not some oatmeal-brained pod-person hoping someone will give them a cookie and say "Good Boy/Girl!" What a relief!

It's not that I don't know what depression is about, God knows. I take the amino acid Tyrosine twice daily to stave off my own "why live" urges. It just seems to me that if the cause of the depression is chemical, there must be another solution than a drug that destroys your personality and ability to interact with the real world. And if it's a problem with coping with your life, why cover up the solution with drugs when what you need is psychiatric care or psychotherapy?

I don't know. But I do know that I miss the two friends who became Prozac very, very much.

A Small Potato Makes the Newspaper

Bernie, doting fan that he is, sent my book Judge, Jury, Shaman to a reporter from a local newspaper.

She read it, and called me for an interview to go along with her review. Yesterday the article appeared in print. I'm transcribing it here, but I am correcting the spelling errors.

Ripon resident answers challenge by writing books, by Megan Gladden.

Ripon resident, Sand Pilarski began writing in 2001 in response to a challenge issued by www.NaNoWriMo.org, to write 50,000 words in the month of November. The 50,000 words she wrote became her first novel, Dreamer. That first novel opened the flood gates and she has since written five novels, several short stories, and created a cartoon series entitled "Fever Dreams."

"After you write 50,000 words, you have the urge to write more," said Pilarski. "It is technically a hobby, but it's more like an obsession. I write or draw every day."

She has published all of her books and a Fever Dreams weekly calendar through Lulu.com. Lulu provides free online publishing services and print services for a small fee.

Pilarski's work can also be seen at www.PikerPress.com where she is the West Coast Assistant Editor.

She says that all of her books are intended for an adult audience and cautions that they aren't intended for kids who haven't hit their teens yet.

Her most recent endeavor is a series of short stories that she has compiled into two books, Judge, Jury, Shaman and Oz Can Keep Them All. All of the stories in the books are told through the perspective of the shaman Ase Ur-Jennan.

Her adventures take place in a fantasy universe where wizards and trolls are all just part of an average day.

Pilarski originally published the works under the alias Ase Ur-Jennan but eventually felt confident enough to claim the work as her own. The author of Judge, Jury, Shaman is now listed as Ase Ur-Jennan as told to Sand Pilarski.

The character Ur-Jennan is a sassy older woman, unintimidated by dragons and evil witches, willing to battle with her powers of sarcasm. She is an engaging and relatable character.

Judge, Jury, Shaman is very well written and impressively self-edited by Pilarski. It is funny and touching, in turn.

It is not made obvious in the book that it was originally published as short stories, so it initially reads as choppy without as much flow as the average novel.

Each chapter is very short -- generally only one or two pages -- and has its own mini story line. Chapters often give their own little life lessons under the transparent guise of wizards, dragons, and trolls.

The overarching story becomes a bit more evident in the second half of the book as Ase Ur-Jennan makes some friends and with them, confronts a dragon and evil witch.

My favorite chapter of the book is the first, entitled, "Popping the Big Question," in which Pilarski discusses the big question: "How do you know if you have a big ass?" Hilarity ensues as Ur-Jennan describes the trademarks of a large rump including getting stuck in chairs and knocking over household objects with said rump.

While fantasy isn't my favorite genre of literature, Judge, Jury, Shaman was undeniably well-written and provided quality entertainment. The book does not talk down to its readers, nor does it drift too far off into its alternate universe.

It was also refreshing to read a woman-centered story in the particularly male-dominated genre.

"I like older women characters. There's not a whole lot of media about women facing the last third of their life," said Pilarski.

Pilarski pulls this unusual story line off with wit and intelligence.

As an author, Pilarski wants to "provoke thought and sweep the reader along." After reading Judge, Jury, Shaman, I'm excited to see more from this talented local author.


The quotes were pretty close, and it was indeed nice to get a good review.

Lillian's Daffodils

Granddaughter Lillian cannot resist picking flowers to bring into the house.

The first two narcissi that bloomed were summarily picked and brought in for decoration. She was so pleased by their looks, that I offered to take a picture of them for her. She was very pleased.

The cool thing is that I can print out the picture of them for her. I wonder if she'd like a little scrapbook of her finds and wonders?

Those aren't daffodil leaves, no indeed. I nestled the blossoms in the alstromeria to catch the evening sun.

The Amazing Nose Discovery

This is the first year that I can actually smell the scent of the blossoms on the air.

The heavy weight of the pollen on the wind has made me pretty ill in the past, until I just learned to stay indoors while the orchards were in bloom. In recent years my doctor found a drug that keeps me from reacting badly to the blooms, but until this season, I'd not been out much in the fragrant air. What a lot I've missed.

And today was simply beautiful, a blessedly warm day for the bees to work hard and pollinate the trees. In the morning I drove to the store by back roads that led through the almond orchards, and just drank in the glorious explosion of flowers. At noon I opened up the house to let the Winter smell fly out the windows and to allow Spring to venture in.

Some of the orchards are already beginning to show the "snow" of falling petals; some orchards are just beginning to open their blossoms. I hope that my appreciation for the scent of the flowers won't do me any harm -- dear God, it's wonderful, and I'll never forget it now.

Dumb Parasite Trying to Comprehend Primitives

Tonight I'll probably sleep in a comfy chair in the kitchen.

The temperature is supposed to drop to the twenties tonight, so keeping the fire going is a priority, expecially with the wind blowing, which makes the wood burn more quickly.

The power went out for almost two hours a while ago. Whether it was the wind knocking over a tree, or a crackhead busting a pole, I don't know. I dredged some supplies out of a cabinet and got ready for a prolonged outage.

I thought about knocking on neighbors' doors, and offering them shelter if the outage continued through sundown. (Most heating systems rely on electricity.) But the folks across the street had power, when we did not. Hurray for PG&E, who are so vulnerable on the coldest night of the Spring.

We do, however heat with a woodstove, we had charcoal in the garage for cooking, and had lots of stuff for cold sandwiches, anyway.

As Bugs Bunny said, "Unnnnga-bunnnnga."

We can make it.

The One

It's him.

Bundled in warmth against the July chill of San Francisco, my husband, Bernie strolls along a pier. He's the Best. After 31 years together, he still can make me roar with laughter -- no way will I go to lunch with him without wearing waterproof mascara for my eyelashes. My eyes squirt tears from the mirth; he has an altogether too-ready and surprising wit.

I love him.

When I put my head against his chest and hear his heart beating, Life makes sense again. When I awaken in the wee hours of the morning, with a middle-aged woman's fears for the future and guilt about the past, I hear him breathing, and all is well.

He is my heart, and without him, I would have no existence.

So Beautiful, So Fragile

There they are, the stars of the stage.

This area is known as the Almond Center of the World. Almond orchards surround us, this being the best climate for them. The spring comes early enough to have them bloom in February; and normally, the spring is dry enough in February that the bees (who come from as far away as Montana --or was it -- North Dakota?) have a protracted date with the blossoms and set tons of fruit. In March rains can come again, after the fruit has had time to set.

Unfortunately, the temperature is dropping rapidly. A couple cold fronts from the north are pushing in, making the wind rise and the air cool. The minimum temperature at which bees will get their fuzzy little asses out of the hive and work is 45 - 50 degrees. If the forecasters are correct, the bees will only have about three hours a day to pollinate all those orchards. And all their work will have been in vain if we get the freeze that is also predicted.

I've been praying that the forecasters are as wrong as they usually are. The almond farmers need a break this year, considering how paltry the crop was last year -- cold rains spoiled the trees at the height of bloom.

The blossoms are beautiful, though, aren't they?

New Toys

The dogs went nuts when the Fed Ex truck pulled up, and so did I.

There was only one purchase that I was waiting for FedEx to deliver. I waded through the roaring pack of wolves and cracked the door open enough to drag in a heavy package, marked all over with the word "Fragile."

That's it in the pictures. It's a light box, or light table, depending on whose catalog copy you read. This is a very nice one, and I was so pleased to open the box and put the beast on my work table, where I can clutch it to my work space and rework my preliminary sketches and doodles.

The first light table I ever had was given to me when I was five or six. Called a "Draw and Tell", it featured a cheap plastic frame, a translucent plastic top panel, and a 25-watt bulb for the light source, and a folder of line drawings of people, pets, houses, cars, fruits and vegetables, farm animals... The whole point was that the kid was supposed to love tracing the line drawings and coming up with her own compositions of someone else's art. And I did love it. Probably it taught me a lot about eye-hand coordination. I know it taught me a lot about finding source pictures in books and magazines and tracing them for my own use. I used that thing so hard the surface would get too hot for my hand to rest on, hot enough to melt the wax in crayon drawings.

I used it for play, and later for professional work, for the next 30 years.

Eventually it cracked and was dead, honorably worn out. Some time right around the start of the 1990's, we bought a real light box for our daughter. I wasn't doing any artwork to speak of in those days, but she was, and she enjoyed using a good quality machine, too. (She'd also used my old toy one.)

When her daughter was born, her light box came to reside in my studio. (Oh, nice!) Until just recently, when she figured out that her quick wit and artistic talent were more than adequate for drawing engaging cartoons and comics. The light table went to reside at her desk again.

I thought I wouldn't miss it, until I needed it to do a hundred different things, from learning how to draw a particular shape by tracing it, to replicating one of my sketches on clean paper, to repairing a mistake made on another ... so I used my Christmas cash from my dear old mother and bought myself a light table. Gosh, Mom, forty-odd years later, your gift idea still works well.

This is the lovely creature with the dual fluorescents fired up (no more hot hands, no indeedy.)

The surface is slightly slanted, and there is a built in pencil/pen storage in the front. I love it. Thanks, Mom.

Winter's Flowers

These little flowers bloom in the dim, cold months of the year.

We call them "Margaret flowers," after the woman who gave me a few of their bulbs years ago. Year after year, I'd see her pulling them out of her garden in the spring, making room for petunias to be planted. Back then I wondered how she could bear to tear them out, they were so pretty.

I planted my bulbs in a planter out back of my house, and was sorely disappointed that nothing happened ... until the following winter, when familiar green leaves and pink flowers emerged in a sweet little clump. How many years ago was it that she gave them to me? Six? Seven? They took over the planter I put them in, driving out all the other plants. Last summer I had to empty the planter and move it so that the new retaining wall could be built, and I dumped the soil onto the back bank.

When winter came on, the Margaret flowers popped up everywhere. I predict in two years, my back bank will have a solid winter ground cover with pink blossoms. Is that good or bad? I don't know yet.

I do know that I miss Margaret. I stopped seeing her after her husband was a totally rude and obnoxious ass to me. She's retired, and her husband, when he's not out drinking, hangs around the house drunk and thinks of things for her to do. There was no way to continue the friendship, if friendship there ever really was. Maybe she just put up with me.

I keep hoping to see her at the supermarket some day, so that I can tell her I miss her, and that I still have the flowers she gave me in my garden.

Weird Weather Forecast

This is supposed to be the loveliest time of year.

Cool breeze, warm sun, flowers everywhere. Yes. Yes.

I just looked at Accuweather's 15-day forecast for this area, hoping to see dry weather through almond blossom season. After that it can rain, but the blossoms have to have dry weather above 50 degrees so that the bees can work. Everything looked perfect, weather wise (if a little chilly at night) until the 19th of February.

Freezing rain and possible snow???????????????????????

Tell me it ain't so.

It can't be. I must be hallucinating -- Accuweather must be smoking something wonky for sure.

Perfect Spring Day

Aren't they cute?

Lillian curled up in a blanket while playing with her toys in the kitchen and fell soundly asleep last Saturday afternoon. Now and then Babe would lean forward and peek at her.

I think that was the last actually cold day we've had. The temperatures have been rising, and today we were near 70 degrees. I know it's a little early for such balmy weather, but not abnormally so. Last spring was chilly for so long, and last autumn chilly so early -- I'm not going to complain about a seemingly early spring.

The weather forecast sounds perfect for the almond blossom season. I hope they're right. We should have a couple weeks of warm, dry weather so the bees can get their fuzzy little butts to work pollinating the trees.

Today Lillian and I went to the store, driving past orchards where blossoms are just starting to pop, and the field where the geese were. Only one flock was hanging around (about 50 birds) but it was still impressive to see, and I was really glad that Lillian got a chance to see them.

Lil and I also went on a bike-riding foray to a little park around the block, where we played on the slide and merry-go-round for a while. I was served imaginary hot cocoa and we blew out imaginary candles on an imaginary birthday cake. She has discovered speed on her little bike with its training wheels, but is not all that sure about steering, and has not figured out brakes or the need to balance herself. She stops by dragging a foot or running into something, and she wrecked twice today speeding along, singing loudly, and leaning too far side to side to her own music.

After my babysitting stint was over, I collared my baboons and we went for a walk in the last of the afternoon sun. Babe was (unexpectedly) perfect on leash, walking at heel like a gentleman. Howie was fidgetty and kept wanting to walk in front. I think he's having dominance issues these days, which makes for tough times for a timid dog.

To cap off the glorious day, my books arrived from Lulu. The Aser Stories look gorgeous. Seeing them in book form makes them so fresh and new to me. I may have to just sit down and read them all again.

Sifting Files

Last night I spent a lot of time going through my files and discarding crap with non-productive opening paragraphs.

I deleted all the Time Traveler files that were done section by section; the serial run is done in the Press. I opened various mis-start files, checked to see if they had any significant content, and then deleted them. It's like weeding a garden, which I continued this afternoon, pulling out weeds from the back bank. Howie helped, by snatching at the weeds as I pulled them from the ground, shredding bits of their foliage. Babe also helped, by threatening Howie with great barks, and fake bities if Howie ventured within his range.

My granddaughter helped me make pasta with a meat sauce this evening. Who could ask for more in life?

Just to Piss Myself Off

"Tell me honestly -- does this dress make me look hunchbacked???"

Why yes, dearie, something sure does. Looks like you're sporting a severe case of scoliosis, along with some heavy duty malnutrition, anemia, and soon to be sprouting bunions from those stupidly high-heeled shoes. Not to mention that your hair looks like crap, and the color of your arms doesn't match the pallor of your face.

No, wait, maybe she's thinking, "Ohmigod, I can't even remember where I put my breasts last night!"

This, then, is the fashion magazine. Emaciated girls pose in ridiculous positions wearing mostly hideous clothing. Writers of articles describe in glowing phrases accessories that would make a parrot puke. Celebrities' photographs in designer clothing make them appear short-legged, stumpy, and pasty-faced -- well, gosh, no one took the time to Photoshop them to make them look leggy or evenly-complexioned.

In January's issue of Vogue, a two-page spread shows five emaciated blondes with languid eyes and spread legs, in lacy little baby-doll outfits. They all wear black leggings, and their arms and legs intertwine with one another's as they sprawl on a pile of hay. They all wear spike-heeled, open-toed sandals that lace like a sneaker -- some of which have floral pillowcase patterns on them. One girl has something white splashed across her chin and collarbone; considering that in the center of the photo there is a chicken, and in the background are a couple chicken coops, I puzzled for a while that the model was supposed to look like she had accidentally looked up when said chicken flew by. Then I spied the small jar of white liquid propped in the hay -- oh, I see, the girl is just supposed to be a pig who spilled stuff on herself. Oh, yeah, and she spilled it on the thigh of the girl beside her. Now WTF are we selling here? Ugly shoes? Lacy semi-garments? Lesbian orgies among the barn animals?

Upon reading this post, one might be moved to ask, "So, why do you buy this mag if you hate what you see so much?"

I do it just to keep an eye on what fashion is doing. On a rare occasion, I'll see something that makes sense. Or maybe I'll see a horrid outfit, that with a little help, could turn out to be nice. Once or twice a year, I'll buy the magazine just to remind myself of how awful certain fashions look, even on supermodels.

Actually the dress at the top isn't too bad. At least it wouldn't be if the wearer could stand up straight, perch on a stool to keep the fabric flowing, and glue down the front to make sure her nipples weren't showing.

And eat a damn sandwich.

Migratory Dangers

There were about a bazillion of them.

A flock of Canada geese settled in a field a couple miles west of here, along with some sandhill cranes (the bigger gray birds in among the black-necked geese). Except for a few sentries among the geese, the birds were grazing on the newly sprouted grasses. The cranes eat bugs, frogs, and sometimes moles if they're small enough.
It was Saturday, and while our turkey roasted in the oven, Bernie and I jumped in the car to go see the amazing sight of the great flock pausing on their migratory flight. I'd been telling Bernie how astonished I was to see so many geese at one time, but hearing about it just wasn't the same. He gasped and pulled over almost onto the edge of the field to look at them in their thousands.

This picture doesn't do their numbers justice. The view of the field is about six times the width of this photo, if not more, and doesn't show the rest of the flock that looked like a gray blur behind the line of the irrigation ditch.

As we watched, listening to their low honks and trills, a gunshot was fired and the entire flock rose into the air in a dark cloud. There were several more shots, and then we saw a man picking up dead geese. He killed five of them on the fly.

I suppose that I could understand, if the geese were ravaging his newly sprouted barley or wheat or oats. But the sound of the shotgun chased them away -- he didn't need to kill them.

But you never know. Maybe the price of gasoline and natural gas were making it hard for him or his workers to put food on the table. Maybe he loves the taste of wild goose the way I love the taste of venison. And after all, I had my own large bird roasting in the oven, didn't I?

That same morning, Lillian made her first connection between living creature and carcase, as she avidly watched Alex and me preparing the turkey for cooking. Suddenly horrified, she cried out, "Where's his head? Where's his feet? No, we can't eat him!!" It took some explaining to convince her that the turkey was no longer alive, and that we would honor the turkey's life by preparing it with gratitude for food to eat. It was a good day to remember that about our food, be it carrot or cow.

I hope the guy who shot the birds eats them, and honors their lives by preparing them with gratitude, also.

Still, geese ...

Little White Puffs

In addition to a huge flock of Canadian geese, snow geese, and cranes in a field a couple miles from here, I saw today the first sparse puffs of almond blossoms.

They are a bit early; two weeks from now would have been better. However, it's hard to argue with the sun -- after the clouds broke up today, the temperatures skated right up into the high 50's. We're letting the fire go out tonight because it's actually a bit too warm in the house!

As sundown approached, I took both dogs for a brief walk around the block so that they could check p-mail on the bushes and see something different than the kitchen and living room and back yard. By the time we got back, both dogs were panting, and a subsequent brushing of Babe yielded a bushel basket or so of undercoat that is coming loose. (Howie has little or no undercoat, the poor delicate creature, and he cannot understand why Babe gets a half-hour of brushing and he gets about five minutes.)

Tomorrow I'm going to cook a turkey early (that will heat up the chilled kitchen) and then take the rest of the weekend off. Perhaps I'll lie back in my husband's arms and feed him sips of a fruity zinfandel, and just get lost in the burgeoning Spring and 31 years of charming matrimony.

Cheers, all.

Three Weeks Tops

Almond trees in bloom.

No, these aren't pictures from this spring, not yet. These are from last year, just before the rain came and spoiled so much of the crop.

This part of California is largely about almond orchards. If you can find a high spot (like the highway overpass, seeing as how we just don't have any hills nearby) and look out over the farmland, in mid-February you would see an ocean of white and pinkish blossoms.

Right now the farmers are spraying the trees with what I think is fungicide, preparing for the blooming season. Bee boxes are being set already! You can see bee boxes in the second picture, neatly nestled up to the trees. I wish all the farmers would do that with their bees. More often, though, they have them just at the side of the orchard roads, which means that we have to ride our horses past them. Zooming worker bees make me nervous, though I've never been stung while riding.

So why am I jumping the gun about almond blossoms? It's easy -- I can't wait to see them, because when the blossoms are exploding, we'll have no more icy cold days. Chilly maybe, but definitely tolerable. Okay, I'm indulging in a photo-fantasy, so sue me.

Wee Hours

It's 3:30 in the morning. In another hour, Bernie will be home.

I would still be asleep in one of our comfy chairs if I hadn't had to get up to tend the fire. If Bernie had a sensible work schedule, he'd have been home an hour ago, added wood to the fire, had a snack, and maybe would have written a few words to his next Jean LeCoeur story.

How I hate his overtime hours.

I hate the weariness I see on his face the next day; I hate the hour-and-a-half loss of daylight time that he can't spend with me; I hate worrying that he'll get home safely in the fog. Most of all, I hate that it all happens because of mis-management at NUMMI, where Group Leaders stand around chatting and garnering attention, and managers disappear for fear that they'll be called on the carpet to explain why things aren't doing what they should be doing.

Yes, they'll pay for it some day, but tonight I'd rather be asleep, with my husband beside me, home safe, fed well, and sleeping a well-deserved sleep rather than the sleep of the totally exhausted.

Hunter-Gatherers

I made a breakfast for myself.

I heated up the last of the spinach soup that was left, and it was paltry sustenance, indeed. What ended up in my bowl was about a half cup of soup.

Looking at the contents of the rice bowl, I was struck that there were about four pieces of spinach leaf, a half a thumb's worth of chicken, few enough rice bits to count, a couple tiny chunks of onion, and some tomato sauce juice. You could pretty much gather the equivalent in a morning's walk and add it to your Hunter's slivers of pheasant or rabbit, and that would be a meal.

I was quite satiated until lunchtime, with that half bowl of soup.

What the hell are we stuffing our bodies with?

In Two Weeks, There Will Be Flowers

I don't often do two posts in one day, but this thought has nothing to do with football.

The season changed last week, and in spite of the calendar, it is Spring here. The feel of the air has changed. It's softer, and the fog has diminished. We'll still have cold days, and foggy days (but not many) -- however, the season for burgeoning and blooming is upon us. Bernie and I watched a male hummingbird do positively insane swoops and screeches in a mating dance (never did see the lady he was trying to impress) this morning, and while we watched the little fellow zoom high in the sky, saw ducks flying North.

Bermuda grass has started to grow again, and weeds are coming up everywhere. Time goes by so quickly, but never quickly enough when it's cold and rainy and the firewood grows fungus because of the damp. I'm ready for Spring. Bring it on.

On to the Superbowl!

Of course I watched the Steeler-Broncos game.

If I had it on tape, I'd watch it over and over again, as a matter of fact, because I have never seen the Steelers play so well since the glory days of Terry Bradshaw and the Steel Curtain. Hmm. Maybe not even then.

With minutes left in the game, I wasn't completely sure of a win until poor Plummer, the Broncos' quarterback was sacked. I didn't see who made the actual sack, but I will never forget the image of the Steeler trying to get to him, being shoved back by a Denver player, only to reach out and grab Plummer's shirt -- and not let go, even while being manhandled. Plummer was kept off balance, and then another Steeler plowed in, and that was it.

The Steelers were so calm I expected to see "Joe Cool" sunglasses on every one of them. They never looked hurried or worried, though the Broncos never gave Parker a chance to scoot through their line and run like a bat out of hell. (That's always fun to watch.)

Some games you remember just one player doing the unbelievable and making a win happen. I didn't see that on Sunday. The Steelers looked like an efficient machine, with each part doing exactly what it was supposed to do, which of course made all the other parts work even better than they might have.

Simply, simply wonderful.

Encouraging Kids

My mother, finally recognizing that I'm a writer, sent me some kid's manuscript.

At nine years old, the kid tackled these themes: interracial marriage, abuse of immigrants, discrimination against foreigners and women, and then topped it off with broad themes of romance, death, and the issues that lead to a need to embrace self-determination. Damn, if the kid was only five years older, I'd be encouraging her to write for the Press. (She's eleven now.) She wrote a sweet story, and I read the whole short thing through looking for her conclusion.

Jessica was a helluva better writer at nine than I was at thirteen. I've written her a letter that I hope she keeps, about how important all our stories are, even when we write them as kids. My first novel, Dreamer, was populated by characters from my internal stories from when I was twelve or so (although they grew as I grew).

I hope Jessica keeps on. Poor kid, she has to wade through the teen years.

Cold Temps, Yet Warm and Fuzzy Feelings

Lots of stuff today.

1. THERE WAS ICE ON THE RAINWATER PUDDLE ON THE FRONT PORCH THIS MORNING! Outrageous! Cold! Un-called for!

2. I uploaded Oz Can Keep Them All to Lulu.com. You can see it by checking the books link on the right side of this blog. Buy some. They're really kind of fun.

3. Thanks to a poster named "onin24eagle" and an expert named "TeMerc" at Sysinternals.com, we were able to download a tool that has apparently killed the hideous virus that invaded Bernie's computer, a dreaded Trojan.Zlob virus. The tool was built by a hero at this site, and whoever he is, (Noahdfear is his apellation) he has my undying admiration. As readers know, I spent a lot of time trying to kill that virus, unsuccessfully. The tool we downloaded seemed to eliminate it in under 10 minutes. What you thought was the West Wind was really just me heaving a great sigh of relief.

TeMerc also suggested this site with Nick's Computer Security, where we were directed to also download Ewido Security Suite. Now this was a special treat for me, since Ewido managed to axe two particularly annoying adware bits that I've been trying to get rid of since I bought this computer. And this is TeMerc's site, which I shall visit in the future, you betcha.

One of the things I learned today was that my computer was infested with all kinds of adware. I had known of a couple, suspected a few, but had no idea I'd had 259 items of adware on my machine. I'm clean and green now, but it is a fact that I'll be running Ewido every week to keep a clean machine.

Yes, all my files are backed up at a remote site and on disc as a security measure. But I'd rather have them right here, at hand, safe and sound as well.

4. Did I mention that it was really cold here??????

Okay. FOR here.

All of you who think 34 degrees isn't that bad should go ice skating.

DONE DONE DONE!

My image of Cloudraft the Great is done,

finally, after days of porking around with that damn computer virus on my husband's computer. That means the cover for the second Aser book is done, and tomorrow I'll upload it to Lulu, and order a couple copies for myself and my mother, who, in her old age has suddenly decided she likes me as an author. Gee, so that's what I was supposed to be doing?

I spent a lot of time on these CGI drawings, far more than I needed to, as the vast majority of the people who see them will never see the nitpick detail I felt compelled to add. However, I did learn bunches, and that's what counts, neh?

So as of tomorrow, I'll have FIVE books available through Lulu, with only Out With the Trash still awaiting editing and added scenes. This past week, a friend's father finished Dreamer and pronounced it very good. I'm flattered, as the man reads at least a book a week all the time.

Tomorrow we're going to try a virus-removal tool before re-formatting Bernie's hard drive in desperation. I sure hope it works. Having his computer sitting there sick wears me out far worse than shoveling horse shit, which I have to do tomorrow or Saturday. Heigh-o, Silver! Away!!!!

Virus Programmers Are Going to Hell

God, I'm so tired.

I spent more than 8 hours staring at computer screens, trying to defeat the virus that has infected my husband's computer. I've tried every trick I know, from minutely examining the Start Menu to deleting every file constructed within the last 24 hours. The popups keep returning, from "Your computer is in danger" to "Sexy Singles -- Real Photos!"

Nothing I knew how to do worked. Such a sense of failure!

My eyes are very dry and hurt, so I'm off to sleep and rest the old eyes. Will my subconscious have a solution by morning? (The Subconscious just tapped my left shoulder and said, "No, foo'.")

If it was my computer, I'd just upload crucial files to my email, and brainwipe the whole thing.

You know, that sounds like an idea, even if my own computer isn't infected.

PS for the last football post: EVERYBODY says that Polamalu definitely intercepted that controversial pass. And was it hearsay? Hines Ward was fined for suggesting that the referee who called the interception an "incomplete pass" was cheating on behalf of the Colts. Honey child, fine me too (but not as much) because that was the only explanation for such a criminal call. It wasn't a "stupid" call, it was just totally backassward WRONG.

Ah, Forget It, More Football

We joined the Colts-Steelers football game just before half-time.

No, that's not disloyal, that's called "being at church." I did not pray for the Steelers while at Mass, nor did I think about the game more than once, during the sermon, when I wondered for the seven billionth time in my life how many times a preacher has to say the same message over and over again. "Oh," I thought, "football. I hope the game isn't over before this charming fellow is done." (He was a sweetie, a substitute priest filling in for our beloved Fr. Carota, but his message was one I've heard so many times in over forty-five years of paying attention at Mass and many years of religious education conferences, one I read about and taught so many times in my 15 or more years as a religious education teacher. Maybe that will be the subject of another blog entry.)

I was stunned to find that the Steelers were in the lead when we joined the game. Peyton Manning was actually playing for the Colts -- I thought when I saw the score that maybe someone had sawed off one of his legs or something. Pittsburgh was playing some agressive defense, keeping him contained.

One weird play is all it takes to stop a team in its tracks, though, and Pittsburgh's Weirdie was Troy Polamalu (cute as a button and energetic as the Tasmanian Devil of Warner Brothers) intercepting a pass, rolling with it, fumbling with it, recovering it -- and then having a referee rule that he never really received it. Oh, my brothers and sisters, that was one Bogus Call.

Peyton Manning took heart from the discomfiture of the Steelers and drove his team down the field like an ambulance on fire, scoring to make it a head-to-head game, if only the Colts could get one more field goal.

It seemed unlikely, as unlikely as Jerome Bettis (The Bus) carrying the ball toward a Wrap-It-Up Steeler Win and FUMBLING THE BALL! "Aaaaaaahhhh!" I screamed. "Did I tell you? Did I tell you that if I watched them that was what would happen???"

Fortunately the quarterback, Ben Rothlisberger ( I think I want to adopt him) hooked a hand around the ankle of the Colt who recovered the ball (Nick Harper, poor fella) and stopped the almost certain touchdown run, saving his team's ass.

I still think it was a near-massacre. Too close. I like to see my favorite teams MASH the oponents. I hate surprises. Next year, Peyton Manning is going to be gunning for the Steelers, and he may succeed. The young man is phenomenal.

Next weekend the Steelers play Denver. Okay, I watched Denver chew up New England like they were Papier Mache Patriots this past weekend, and New England is GOOD. Denver may crunch the Steelers up into little tiny pieces. I'm a pessimist -- it's likely that they will. But I will still watch the game, and cheer for Rothlisberger, Bettis, Ward, and Polamalu.

Especially Polamalu. Every football pundit there is has reviewed that interception and said he definitely had the ball.

I think the ref was crooked, or he needs corrective eyewear.

Shit and Ashes

Rain is coming, allegedly.

Central California rains mean "preparation" for horse owners and fools who heat their houses with woodfires. This morning I mucked out my horse's paddock so that if it does rain, the water will run off instead of making slimy, mooshy lakes. Horse poop soaks up water like a sponge, and holds it for days. As the horse tromps through it, the hoofprints make mini-reservoirs to trap and hold the dirtied water. After the last heavy rain, I managed to clear about 2/3 of Dink's paddock, so that much was dry and easy to prepare. The low part of the pen, where he feels compelled to paw and dig, was still soaked and heavy and nasty.

But I got it done, and thus, I will sleep the sleep of the weary ones tonight. (Terri would have told me, "Otsukaresamadeshita" -- "O You Weary One!") Dink himself won't be too concerned about it. His main pleasure in my cleaning his pen was that he got turned out into the open arena where he could visit with the other horses and exchange loud screaming insults. He talked dirty to the mares and made them scream; he sidled up to the other gelding's paddocks and stomped at them and made them cry havoc. He was pleased with his results.

The remainder of the day has been largely involved with keeping a fire going. Foggy days, the fire is sluggish, and hardly wants to burn. If the damper on the stove is opened, it burns like mad, but try to slow it down a little, and the fire sulks and smolders. We'll need the fire tonight. We're supposed to get rain, and the temps are supposed to get cold.

Babe continues to seem recovered; he even let me groom one side of him today. Only a bushel basket of hair came loose. Howie was totally insulted that I spent so much time on Babe.

Evil Wizards

Fellmount of Verdansward is done.

Why is this of any significance? Simply because it is the first of my completely CGI images that has any sophistication. I've done broad abstracts in my Paint program, but this is the first time I tried to add any detail or depth. The preliminary sketch for this was done in Paint, then the colors added and the lines tidied up in Photoshop.

Holey Schmoley did I learn a lot doing this.

The illustration was done for my soon-to-be-released second volume of Aser stories, Oz Can Keep Them All, in which the evil wizard Fellmount of Verdansward involves himself in a murder coverup. Ase Ur-Jennan and Dan Ur-Jennan, (both fairly crazy shamans from the lands of Ur) discover his scam, flee from his death threats, and do their best to put an end to his megalomaniacal schemes. Aser and Danner drag their makeshift company with them, including Margot the Troll, Cloudraft the Great (a nice but rather clueless wizard who is no match for Fellmount) and some talking baboons. And a talking dog who is fond of detective stories.

The Aser stories are the best things I've written, and one of the nice things about them is that they don't require hours of reading commitment. You can read one, or read them all in a sitting, doesn't matter.

Anyway, Fellmount is a regular rat-bastard, ready to kill anyone who gets in the way of his current power grab. And he thinks he's the greatest. I hope the illustration conveys just a bit of how much he irritates me.

Cover Your Ears, It's Time for Football!

"Aaaahhhh! Aaaahhhh! Aaaahhhh!" I screamed!

I jumped up, waving my arms in the air. Randal El had just taken the ball, run to the side a little, and passed the ball -- sideways -- to Rothlisberger! Then Rothlisberger calmly whaled the ball down the field for an uncontested touchdown pass.

That's not how football is played in the big leagues. That's neighborhood football that you play to piss off Johnny Think's-He's-A-Blocker from Fifth Street. But oh, my goodness, how it worked, so easy, so slick. And that move seemed to demoralize the Cincinnati Bengals. If the Pittsburgh Steelers would pull that kind of kiddie shit, who knew what else they might try?

I haven't watched many Steeler games in years. Every time I watched them, they'd lose. In fact, any time I watched football and hoped a team would win, the team I rooted for would lose. The family would instruct me who I should root for, in fact, letting me know days in advance. Last year, in spite of their great season, I watched a Steeler playoff game, and they looked like -- well, I'd say a bunch of Capuchin monkeys drafted from the trees to play, except that would really be an insult to the monkeys. So I didn't watch any games this year, banned from the TV room by my husband and son-in-law when the Steelers were playing. In fact, I was cordially invited to go lock myself in the studio while games were on.

Ah, but I love professional football, and the Steelers, since Bernie introduced me to them after we were married. Those were the days of the Steel Curtain, and Jack Lambert and the Terrible Towel, Mean Joe Greene, Mel Blount. Terry Bradshaw was the quarterback of my dreams, and Rocky Blier and Lynn Swan receivers to make any girl football junkie swoon.

After Bradshaw, the Steelers went through a veritable bestiary of quarterbacks (the worst of which was that POS gutless wonder Stout) and I would not watch while Stout was anti-playing and was advised not to watch (so that the Steelers did not end up looking like this season's Raiders*) while all the rest were playing.

But this year, based upon the strength and aplomb of Rothlisberger, when I timidly appeared in the doorway from the kitchen and asked if I should retire to the studio, Bernie said, "Get in here. It's about time these guys grew up!" I wiggled all over with anticipation and shuddered a bit with trepidation. What would happen to the Steelers with me watching?

Their first quarter sucked. I was sure I should leave and put my head in a bag, but I stuck it out. Then, when I was resigned to the Bengals beating the crap out of them (as they have all too many times in the past) Randal El and Rothlisberger pulled that stunt -- and that was It. The curse was broken, and I watched the rest of the game cheering until my throat hurt.

It still does. I wish I had that game on tape, though. I'd watch it over and over and over.

Unfortunately, the Colts are going to massacre them next weekend. But it was a hell of a run this year.


* Yes, I watched all the Raider games and cheered for them all the way. See what that got them?

The Old Dog Rallies

We took Babe to the vet.

He's had a recurrence of some systemic infection that nearly killed him over a year ago. A course of antibiotics and a diet of rice and chicken broth has seen him through again, though. Today he was eager for a walk in the sun, had a high appetite, and demanded to be allowed on the couch while we watched football games. (When a big, big dog says he wants to watch football from the couch, everyone else moves over.)

He needs a day or two more of gently restricted diet, and then we're going to stuff him full until he gains back about ten pounds.

Babe is such a good boy that after the vet had examined and treated him, she leaned back against the wall and talked at length about how cooperative and trusting and trust-worthy he is. I guess a couple years ago a shepherd mix unexpectedly bit her on the head while she was examining it. Big bite. Bad dog.

Babe would never do that.

#!!**#!

Now, see, this is why computers twink me off.

I have never changed the settings on my Blogger. Not ever, I hate being surprised by new task bars or changes. But somehow, the tab was set to "Edit HTML" instead of "Compose" and my options for using color in my text disappeared. I only checked on it tonight because I'd spent so much of the day clicking on stuff in Photoshop to see what it would do. ("Click and Duck method of learning")

I got my blasted colors back.

Good.

Tomorrow I'm going to make braised lamb shanks and stuff myself until I can't move.

Baby Steps

I spent my late afternoon and evening studying Photoshop.

My father used to say that if you can read a book, you can learn anything. I'm hoping it's true, because Photoshop drives me nuts. My Christmas present was a trio of books about Photoshop -- thick books. I'd watched Alex whip around in Photoshop, manipulating scraps of color and effects so fast I couldn't follow what the hell she was doing. I'm sure she could teach me what she knows, but she doesn't have the time, and I'm not sure that she would have the patience to put up with my swearing and frothing at the mouth.

The text I'm using is Adobe's Photoshop Classroom in a Book. Much as I hate to do so, I'm sticking to the order of their lessons, instead of just jumping around looking at stuff piecemeal from the index. Where they say take baby steps and do three simple exercises, I'm doing them. Grr.

It was good to immerse myself. I don't want to think about tomorrow; we have to take Babe to the vet. My poor boy.

Hereby Resolved

This is the second day of the New Year, and in my studio are four new drawings.

Once again drawing from my husband's great wisdom, I made use of the "Paint" program on my computer, and sketched some ideas for cartoons and cover art for the next book to appear on Lulu.com. For some reason, Paint appeals to me for sketching. Maybe it's because it doesn't make eraser fuzz for my studio carpet; maybe it's because Control+Z makes a shitty line disappear. It might even be because if I don't like what I've done, I just close the file without saving and no one can rummage around in the trash and say, "Why are you throwing this out? I thought it was cute!" (*cute* -- gaaagggggg)

So far, so good.

I have about 900 words on a new story; I have a novel to edit and expand (that will be the one that might get shopped around, so don't expect to see it on Lulu); there's a cookbook that needs to be written; and today while showering I had a sudden inspiration to scan all the dumb childish cartoons I did while in grade school and high school (and a couple done after college) and put them in a book on Lulu. The originals are in a lockbox in my studio closet, far from the sunlit air, and I worry about them. What if there was a fire? Should I have them in a safety deposit box? What if they fade, or mildew? Uploading them into a book through Lulu, I can have a copy on the shelf (no, dears, these are really stinko stupid kid comics, so they won't be available to the public) to remind me of those uninhibited flights of fancy, and the files will be there when Lillian's grandchildren need to download another copy of their ancestress' silliness.

Put the bag over your head, I'm about to talk about merchandising again.

There is no market whatsoever for the cartoons about Cat and Deb. Not one. But those cartoons are priceless, in spite of the fact that they would NEVER be picked up by a publisher. However, one of them was lost. It was a strip about Cat using an electronic helmet hair-dryer, like those used in beauty salons long ago. It short-circuited when Cat used it (as anything electronic did when Cat used it) and sent her into outer space.

Back in the mid-sixties, electronics were still exciting and outer space was, too. In sixth grade, we thought the strip was hysterically funny. I still get tears in my eyes thinking about it. Unfortunately, someone misplaced it. Whether it was me or the real life "Cat," or her mother, I don't know. But that stupid silly comic strip is gone. I don't want the rest of the comics to be "gone." Hence the book that I intend to pull together this year.

All our writings are like that. All our stories. They may be lame, they may be of interest only to ourselves, but I guarantee you there will come a day when your relatives or friends or decendants wonder about what you thought about, and if you don't write them down somewhere, the relatives and friends will be shit out of luck and wish they weren't.

Write, you hounds. Write about it all.

Happy New Year.

New Year's Day without Sauerkraut

Pork and Sauerkraut

have been a New Year's Day staple forever. This year, because of the miasma of age, I was unprepared for January 1, and so had the pork, but not enough sauerkraut, and no potatoes for mashed potatoes, so I said, "Screw it" and whopped my pork roast into the oven for three hours to roast. Last year I did the sauerkraut and pork and dumplings and mashed potatoes for "LUCK" and 2005 was one of the suckiest years I've ever experienced.

The roast was exquisite. Apparently sauerkraut isn't necessary for good fortune. At least so far. More on New Year's tomorrow.