Now, What?

In case anyone is wondering/has noticed my extended absence from this space, I thought I should take a moment to drop in and explain. At the end of last month I was laid off from my job (along with about a third of the other people at our site) (some of whom were then un-fired) (but not me), and thanks to a quirk in the severance process I stand to lose out on a bunch of money if I take another job before September. So I have been spending my surprise vacation working madly on finishing my book, puttering around in the garden and not updating my blog because I'm not sure what I think of all this yet.

One thing I do know, though: You get a lot of figs off a fig tree. So many figs.

And They Lived Happily Ever After

So, about a week ago, I went ahead and got married. You know, it was a Sunday, nothing else to do, and I had this dress, and we'd rented a chapel and a reception hall and ordered catering for seventy people, so we figured hey, what the heck.

The flowers were nice.

The Bentley was running, and it only smelled a little like burning oil.

We had plenty of wine.

(Not pictured: Also plenty of cheese.)

My hair looked good.

And my shoes were awesome.


Overall, I'm calling the event a success.





(Photo credits David Bateman.)

Shoesday: Gang Aft Agley

This week, Bouchercon, the World Mystery Convention, is coming to San Francisco for the first time in years, and I have been looking forward to it for months. I booked a room at the convention hotel, so I wouldn't have to schlep back and forth from home, and I've been giving serious thought to what shoes were going to make the cut for the second suitcase I've been planning to pack for that purpose. These boots, obviously, made the cut.

But Life isn't always nice about these things. My grandfather had a serious stroke yesterday, and right now there is a big question mark next to a lot of things, with Bouchercon landing somewhere down on the list. I hope things will turn out well, and I will still be able to be there, at least for part of the time, but if I don't make it I would just like to ask that someone have two or three too many lemon drops and say something highly inappropriate loudly in a crowded bar, for my sake.

The Lost Weekend

Lost to madness and debauchery? To an impromptu trip to Vegas that ended with a near-arrest at the Neon Graveyard with a half-dozen Elvis impersonators, an aging showgirl and three German tourists? To that spot behind the dresser where the cat likes to put things? No, to Salmonella poisoning*.

We were going to spend this weekend out at the barn, in Bodega Bay, sipping wine, looking out at the ocean and listening to the distant sea lions and enjoying a few rare sunny summer days on the coast. But, thanks to my unfortunate encounter with some tuna salad with homemade mayo, we've spent it sitting on the patio in San Mateo, sipping mint water, looking out at the Wheel Works and listening to the truck motors left running by old guys going in to the American/Vietnamese market to buy cigarettes and lottery tickets.

It hasn't been all bad. (At least, since the excruciating stomach pain stopped. That was nothing but bad.) Cameron is an excellent caretaker of the sick and delicate, and it turns out that Columbo mysteries on Netflix streaming are exactly what you want to watch when you aren't feeling up to much of anything. Plus, we didn't have to pack, or get stuck in traffic, or any of that other annoying vacation stuff. So, really, what am I complaining about?

Oh, right, Salmonella poisoning.



*I'll spare you the details, because I like you, and just say that I am happy to be up and about and eating again, if not in quite the quantities I am accustomed to. Also, I think I'm going to lay off the mayonnaise for a while.

Shoesday: The Relocation

"Huh," you are saying to yourself right about now. "That doesn't look like the usual high-quality Shoesday picture, complete with feet. Also, it's Thursday. What gives?"

"Cut me a break," I snap. "I've only spent the last week moving into a new apartment, where we don't have internet yet, so I can't blog from my home computer, which is where all the pictures are. Plus, I've been so busy with the move that I never even got around to writing the post about how much I hate moving, which is too bad because it had some good lines."

"Hey no need to get touchy," you respond, miffed. "I was just asking."

"Sorry," I apologize. "We don't have the cable hooked up yet either, and I'm missing the premiers of both Idol and Project Runway. But I think you should give me some credit for getting some kind of post up this week, even if it is kind of late and half-assed. Anyway, these are some shoes I bought recently and had delivered to work, and haven't brought home yet because that location has been in the process of changing. I haven't even put them on yet, but they look cute, and I like the wide heel. Should be nice for summer, I think."

"Sure," you agree. "Yellow is always a fun color. And hey, Idol never gets interesting until after the audition rounds anyway. But jeez, clean your desk once in a while, would you?"

The Hair Experiment: Day 1

If you read yesterday's post, you are aware that I am not happy with my new haircut (for those with an allergy to clicking through, I will summarize: I got a new haircut, and I am not happy with it). But that was yesterday. And today, when I got up at nine-thirty and staggered past the mirror on my way to a restorative bowl of cereal, I realized: I really don't like my haircut.

But am I dismayed? Discouraged? Hopeless? Yes. But I have to do something with it until it grows out, so I thought I'd do an experiment and run through the options. Yesterday's photo, no styling at all, will serve as the control.

Therefore, I give you, Day 1:



Materials & Methods:

Sprayed with Bumble&Bumble thickening spray, blow-dried using a small round brush.

Results:

More body, not flipping out at odd angles (see unstyled control).

Makes me look like:

A member of Duran Duran.

Conclusions:

Could be worse. Could be A Flock of Seagulls.

New Year, New Hair

And, to tell the truth, I'm not very happy about it. Although, on the upside, it will probably end up saving me a lot of money.

Allow me to explain.

I've been going to the same, ruinously expensive, hairstylist for several years now. I like it because he does some sort of fancy coloring process that takes about three minutes for highlights, instead of the usual half-hour of noxious chemicals, and I've always gotten a good haircut, even if he does tend to overstyle it. For the last couple of years it's been a little trickier to arrange my appointments, because the salon is in Berkeley and I am now in San Mateo, but those facts and fear of the new kept me loyal.

But this week I was off from work and, since I was headed East anyway for a party, I decided to combine the trip and made an appointment for the afternoon on New Years Eve. Feeling like something different, I suggested a shorter cut, maybe just to the top of the jawline, with some short layers around the face. The stylist nodded, played with my hair a bit, and said a few things in stylist-ese that I agreed to because that's what I do. Besides, I trusted his judgement, right?

Well.



There is a problem. The problem is that I have had this hairstyle once before, for the entire duration of 2001, when I was growing my hair out from the extremely short style I had had all the way through high school and college. It was a transitional period, and it was not my best time ever, looks-wise. And now I have paid a large amount of money to have it reproduced. You can imagine how I feel about this.

Now, it is possible that I may be wrong, that it is only my associations with the look that are making me dislike it and I will be able to style it so that it looks, in some way, stylish. And it will, of course, grow out, which I am seriously looking forward to.

And when it does, one thing is for damn sure: I am not taking it back to that place.

Holiday Weekend Stats

Wine Drunk: >Too Much

Writing Done: 0

Bejeweled Blitz Facebook Game High Score: 198,650

Bejeweled Blitz Facebook Game High Score Beaten On Sunday Night By: Cousin Jake's Wife Jen

Times Blanket Covering Couch Washed, Due to Recurrent Cat Pee: 3

"Scat Mat" Brand Electric Cat-Repellent Mats Purchased: 1

Pulled-Pork Sandwiches Eaten: 1

Small But Very Hot (Yet Still Kind Of Tasty) Peppers Eaten (By Me): .5

Small But Very Hot (Yet Still Kind Of Tasty) Peppers Eaten (By Cameron): ~10.5

Movies Watched On The Topics Of a) Zombies b) Drag Pageants c) Vacations In Italy: 3

Amount Of Harp Practice Done: 0

Next Harp Lesson: Wednesday

Heavy Cream Used in Sauce for Gnocchi: ~1/2 Pint

Magazines Read While Sitting Outside On The Patio: 2

Books Read While Sitting Outside On The Patio: 1

Happiness To Live In A Place Where You Can Sit Outside And Read At The End Of November: ∞

Bennett

(In rear; Darcy's the camera hog.)

























RIP, little buddy.

Vote for Mom!

Not long ago I posted this link on my Twitter feed, along with the request that all and sundry visit it and vote "yes" in the poll they find there (lower right-hand part of the page, you may have to scroll down). I was going to post a full explanation here, but the fact of the matter is that would require an intricate knowledge of the management of sewage treatment systems and the operation thereof, and you really don't care. So instead I will just point out that "yes" is, in fact, the correct answer, and it is also the answer that is in support of my Mom, who is a very good Mom and can use all the yes votes you can spare.

And, as an added incentive/threat, as soon as we get it to 200, I will post a new installment of The Cute Streets, as soon as I write it.

Also: Bonus! If you visit the site you will be treated to this police blotter item, possibly the most Marinish police blotter item in the history of Marin. Or police blotters.:
A mother on Waterbury Lane called police after she got into an argument with her son during which he broke a crystal candleholder with a tennis racket in anger.

My Day In Clothes

Waking up-3:30: Nightgown, fleece.
3:30-5:00: Workout clothes.
5:00-Bedtime: Nightgown, fleece.

I am really going to miss being on vacation.

Cross-Cultural Understanding and the Suburban Apartment Complex

My new apartment is in a large, multi-unit complex in San Mateo, about a block and a half from my old one. (I may have already mentioned this, but I'm too lazy to go back and check.) Among its many amenities, though not perhaps chief among them) is a monthly newsletter that goes out to all the residents. It seems to be composed of whatever the newsletter version of clip art is, plus the occasional reminder of office hours and what not to do with your trash. This month, one of the helpful sidebar items was this language lesson:

English: Leave me alone.
Spanish: Dejame en paz. (DEH-hah-meh ehn PAHS)


What I want to know is, exactly how helpful do they intend this to be?

Thirty-One

Because you can only turn twenty-nine so many times before it starts getting sad.

Half-Marathon Girl

On Sunday I ran my first half marathon. Ran-walked, actually, there being no way I was actually going to make it running all thirteen-point-one miles. And for the last quarter mile or so I'm not really sure you would call that running.

The race was the San Jose Half Marathon held, in a shocking twist, in San Jose. (Actually, the full name was "The San Jose Rock 'n' Roll Half Marathon," because there were bands scattered along the course, playing in a variety of musical styles, with a heavy representation from the "boomer rock cover band" genre.) Cameron was running with me, graciously sacrificing his chance at putting up a halfway-decent time in order to help keep me going (more on that later).

The route wound us all around downtown San Jose, though various residential and commercial areas and then back to the suddenly-poignant financial district. Some of the neighborhoods were surprisingly nice, not that I had too much time to examine them. I was too busy breathing.

A surprising number of people were gathered along the length of the course, shouting encouragement to the runners as we went past. Some of them were clearly out in support of friends or family, but a lot seemed to just be general spectators, spending part of their Sunday shouting, "Woo!" and "Keep going!" at random staggering, sweaty people. I enjoyed them, partly for the encouragement, but mostly because there's just something great about people taking the time to go and stand out along the street and cheer on total strangers engaged in a pointless task.

The plan was always to run-walk the race; I was never going to be able to run the whole thing. And since I did not have a watch appropriate to the task, Cameron was serving as timekeeper, letting me know when we had done our seven minutes of running and it was time for our one minute of walking. At least, that was the plan as I understood it. I did notice that seven minutes seemed to be getting longer as the race went on (I chalked that one up to fatigue) and if I hadn't been so tired I certainly would have picked up on the fact that we weren't stopping more than once a mile, as we should have been doing, at least occasionally. But it simply never occurred to me that what was actually happening was that my dear boyfriend had been steadily lengthening the intervals, up to about eleven minutes, without telling me, until I complained that I couldn't take the pace (this would be around mile eight) and he knocked them back down to around nine minutes. I'd be angrier, but I did finish in a relatively respectable time. Plus, my knees hurt too much to try and kick him.

At the end of the race there was a whole gauntlet of volunteers waiting to give you stuff: water, a souvenir medal, an ice-water soaked towel, yogurt, fruit cups, energy bars, bananas and more water. It was very nice, but some of the participants did get a little carried away, descending on the tables like looters and hauling off as much as they could carry. For my part, I was too tired to be greedy, so I just took what I could eat then and there. Except for one of the fruit cups, which turned out to be gross, in kind of a gooey way.

So, that was it, all over but the stretching. And the complaining, for the next day or so, about how much the various parts of my body hurt. And the celebratory dinner involving fruity cocktails. And the ibuprofen (not in the cocktails) (might have been a good idea, though). I didn't run at all for the next week, but that's going to change soon; it looks like we're training for the Austin Half in the spring.

I'm getting my own watch.

Saying Goodbye

This post was supposed to be about my move last Saturday. I was going to write about hauling everything out of my old apartment and moving it a whole block and a half to the new place, about how I dragooned my parents and Cameron into packing and carrying all the stuff that comes with being the last person to move out of a shared apartment (anyone need any shot glasses? I have extras) and how Alice won massive friend points by driving all the way down from Berkeley to help, even though it was a ridiculously hot day that no one in their right mind would choose for any kind of physical activity. It was going to be a fun, moderately exasperated (thanks to the old landlord, grr) but ultimately cheerful post. But then, on Sunday, my cat died and I didn't feel all that cheerful anymore.


I got her when she was eight weeks old and I was a sophomore in college. You were allowed to keep cats in the Caltech dorms; it was actually a determining factor in my choice of colleges. In retrospect, that may not have been the best way to handle that decision-making process, but it worked out okay. She was tiny when I got her, just a little double-handful of kitten, hiding behind the litter box in the cage the cat adoption people had set up at the pet food store. I named her Miss Marple, after the Agatha Christie character, though she ended up having little in common with that sharp and perceptive old lady. My Miss Marple would occasionally run headlong into walls.

She was always terrified of people in general, though she did warm up to me. Actually, she did more than warm up, she bonded to the point where she kind of became my stalker. If I ever went into another room (like, say, the bathroom) and closed the door, she would sit directly outside of it and wait for me to come out. In the morning, after I took my shower, she would meow from the time the water went off until I opened the door and let her in. Which is not to say she wanted me to pick her up and hold her or anything. I mean, she would let me, but she clearly considered it an imposition, at best.

Which was a shame, because she really was wonderfully soft.

I had Miss Marple all the way through college; even smuggling her in when I got stuck living for two terms in Avery, the crappy new dorm that didn't allow cats. We shared a tiny, absurdly overpriced studio in Sunnyvale when I was working for a biotech startup there at the height of the dot com boom, and she moved back home with me for my unequivocally disasterous grad school experience, and ensuing year of unemployment/recovery. She stayed with me through my reentry into industry, though I believe she remained unimpressed by things like lab moves and clinical trial failures. She was, in short, a rare constant through all of what might be imaginatively considered my adult life. But, of course, nothing is constant, particularly pets, and I should know that. I guess I just thought she would be around to see a few more upheavals, whatever they might be.



I think she would have liked the new place. It has a balcony she could hang out on and plenty of birds in the trees for her to watch, plus lots of closets to hide in and make me wonder if it's possible she could have actually dematerialized. She would have spent the first day under some piece of furniture (probably the futon), the next day rubbing her face on everything to mark it, and the rest of them trying to get into the rooms I wanted to keep her out of. Trust me, I knew her.

The One Good Thing About Moving

The realization that there is no reason to bother refilling the ice cube trays.

Les Mots Justes

Because sometimes life dresses you in a shiny silver suit and sends a giant Styrofoam wall at you with a hole in it you could never possibly fit through, and in that case there really is only one thing you can say:

Somebody Up There Hates Me Update

Does anyone out there know a ritual for placating the car gods? Do you build a little shrine out of air filters and brake pads, and leave it offerings of premium gasoline? Take a carburetor out to the coast and toss it into the ocean, while singing "Little Deuce Coup?" Make a pilgrimage to to Detroit, or perhaps Tokyo?

I ask because this morning when I got up, I found that someone had thrown a chunk of concrete through the window of the Jeep and stolen the (nonfunctioning) satellite radio tuner from the cupholder. So, clearly, I have angered someone and I just want to know how to get it straightened out.

Maybe if I sacrificed a chicken?

Update Night

Car Update: My car is still waiting for its new engine. For some mysterious reason, Mazda 3 engines seem to be in high demand these days. Meanwhile, having totally failed in my attempt to use public transportation, I have found a reprieve in the form of Mom's Jeep, which I have until she needs it. I was going to try to take the train today anyway, but I didn't. By the way, have you ever noticed how comfortable beds are? Especially first thing in the morning.

Cat Update: Last week my cat, Miss Marple, escaped from her temporary home in the cabin at my parents'. She has kind of a habit of vanishing, even when indoors in rather small spaces, so it wasn't until the next morning that anyone realized she was gone. Everyone (including me, coming up from work on the ultimately vain hope that she would come out for the person she knew best, and also, incidentally, picking up the car) searched and worried to varying degrees and no avail. Then, four days after she went missing, the little monster showed right up at the door, meowing to be let in so she could have her dinner. Apparently, the amusement value of watching us crawl around under the deck had worn off and she was looking for a new source of entertainment. And also dinner.

Cake Update: Cake is still delicious.

Freeze, Sucker

Recently, it seems like various drains on my finances have been kind of a theme around here. There's the car, of course, which has already racked up some impressive debits just for the rental, and it's only going to get more exciting when it comes time to pay for the replacement engine. And then there's the fact that I have to move at the end of this month, destination unknown, but definitely more expensive. Which, if you combine them with the fact that the way things are going for my employer, raises are probably not going to be a big priority any time soon, gives you some annoyingly strained finances. Which is why, in a bold approach almost certainly doomed to failure, I have decided to institute a buying freeze through the end of the year.

That's right, Daisy isn't going to be purchasing anything (barring gifts) for the next three months. No clothes, no accessories, no books, no purses. No (gulp) shoes. Not even if they're on a really good sale.

Of course, as soon as I decided this, I realized that what I really need is a denim pencil skirt. And a watch. And some boots.

It's gonna be a long three months.