falling down

I was walking south of Market yesterday, and a man coming toward me caught his loafer on the curb and fell at my feet. He dropped his newspaper. I picked it up, and asked him if he was okay. "Yeah," he grumbled, more embarassed than hurt. I handed him his paper and kept on.

My friend L confided in me: she falls down all the time. "I don't know what it is," she said. "I just trip and fall." Last time, it was in traffic. But so far, she's escaped serious injury.

My friend P empathized. She once got on the MUNI bus wearing a pair of new sneakers. 'Wow,' she thought to herself, 'this is really slick.' The bus pulled away and her feet flew out from underneath her. "The only person who really said anything was this homeless guy," she told me. "He said 'Whoa'."

"What I learned is that the best thing to do when something like that happens is just get up as quickly as possible and take a seat," P said in her matter-of-fact way. Which was exactly what she did.

I don't have anything especially remarkable to say about falling down, except that everyone does seem to do it at some point. Me, I've been testing gravity lately by dropping things. Yesterday, when my workplace bought lunch for everyone, I dropped my plate. (Empty, happily.) Today, at an early morning coffee engagement with that Autodesk editor (the job is still open), I dropped my handkerchief. In all cases, gravity is working just fine.

I'm at work, listening to the U2 CD my sister D got me for Christmas and wearing my new Christmas sweater. And thinking how nice it was to have people around who care about me. I miss that. On the flip side, I'm seeing friends tonight, ringing in the New Year, and enjoying that the rain has stopped, for now, in SF. Yesterday, it hailed. Freakish. I still have high hopes for 2005.

home again

My nose is a mess. 7 days in bone-dry NY-style cold, and 8 hours on an airplane, and my nasal passages are like jerky. Poor nose.

Happily, San Francisco is warm and wet with rain and everything I need is here: tea, coffee, steam room, and an unlimited supply of filtered tap water. It's nice to be home.

NY is cold. I complain when SF gets chilly, since so many places indoors are not heated. But it's been awhile since I've experienced the "how-many degress-below" cold of real winter, where the air that sneaks in on your pant legs and in the folds of your coat can chill you in an overheated room.

Christmas was nice. I and 20 members of my immediate family gathered in the Adirondack mountains, in a few rented cabins, and ate. The little kids were cute, and the older kids were a riot, playing with them. J especially, home for a few weeks from officer's training in Alabama, spent time with the three boys under 5. He's great with them.

Memorable times? My sister S carved a face on little E's banana, then dropped it. "Dirty, dirty nana," E said, in his British accent. He got so much attention for that that he repeated the scenario (without the face and dropping) with each morning's banana. It was pretty cute. Frankly, he's adorable, and the whole family hopes we get to keep him. (He's the son of D's new boyfriend.)

Oddly enough, I ended up getting a ride to the airport with my sister D's old boyfriend, who she announced her engagement to at last Christmas' gathering. Things change fast these days, what with Internet dating. (Although I have to note that I haven't had any luck whatsoever.) D's ex was on his way to Luxembourg -- he'd been transferred for work. So we had a good chat in the car, and I saw him off. Good guy. Just not quite right for my sis.

It's my first day back and I'm settling in. Odd how coming home can feel so familiar and so foreign at the same time. It's like you age while you're away, and then you have to catch up again to fit into your old life, feel normal in your old space. I walked into my apartment last night (sans luggage, I might add) and it was like a pretty litle space that someone set up just for me, full of things I would have chosen. "Oo," I thought last night when I walked into my closet for the first time. "Those are nice boots." Yes, and they're already mine.

Welcome home.

money money money

It's time to reanalyze my retirement fund.

Thanks to Charles Schwab's nifty online tools, I can do portfolio analysis at a click and get a readout of how much I need to invest in which categories. Then comes the tricky part of choosing funds.

My target allocation is "Moderately Aggressive."

1. Large Cap 45%
2. Small Cap 15%
3. International Equity 20%
4. Fixed Income (bonds) 15%
5. Cash or Equivalent 5%

After I rebalance and choose a new fund for small cap (looking at RDIVX), it's time to make a budget. Can you say New Year's Resolution? I can. But doing it is something else.

one less mystery

Many thanks to my friend S from Santa Cruz, who sent an article that identified my weevils. They are Stegobium paniceum, otherwise known as "biscuit beetles." They eat everything: cereal, grains, sugar, spices, and yes, oatmeal.

This from Wildlife Magazine's Dec. 04 issue:

Stegobium has been a domestic pest since humans started storing food. They were even found in sealed jars in ancient Egyptian tombs dating back 4,500 years ago.

So that makes me feel a little bit better. I haven't had a sighting in awhile, so I think I'm in the clear.

The recurring theme these days is finacial planning. I have one friend who is sold on real estate as the only sure-fire investment. And another who has her retirement $$ parked in a low-interest money market fund, distrustful of the stock market after last year's losses. I sit somewhere in between, with worries that the markets are a rigged game with crappy rules, and a belief the US real estate is overpriced 10-20% (Economist, April 2004 or thereabouts).

Friend #1 predicts the U.S. economy will hit the skids in 2008, which seems about right. It's a concern I share: the U.S. economy relies heavily on consumer spending, and consumers are about tapped out. Case in point: pre-Christmas sales. Perhaps I'm oblivious -- I didn't buy Christmas gifts last year -- but I don't recall deep discounts by retailers before Dec. 25. Seems like a big sign of weakness.

How much is the average citizen in debt? Something to the tune of 7k for every man, woman, and child in the US. And there's China buying our debt. What will that mean in ten years? Twenty? I wonder. And am concerned. And have no idea what's a good move, at this point in my saving/retirement/home ownership plans. Perhaps I'll start an investing group, to see if I can sort it out with folks who are smarter than I am. Anybody want to join?

Happy holidays. Take advantage of all those great sales. I have. For instance, I now own igh-threadcount sheets (400-600, thank you) that make it damned hard to get out of bed in the morning. Can't recommend them enough.

Flexible is bad

Besides bathing irregularly, I've got another pet project: avoiding plastic. Paranoid, you say? Perhaps. But then again, the prevalence of plastic just about everywhere in the retail food market could explain the soaring rates of breast and uterine cancer in the US.

My sis-in-law B works for an environmental think tank in D.C. and sent some articles, most of which aren't online without paying. Here's one from the Wall St. Journal in 98.
Does Plastic in Microwave Pose Health Problems?
You can also dig around at Environmental Health, though it's a membership site.

The gist is that plasticizers -- additives to plastic, which is otherwise a very stable polymer, that can leach estrogen-like compounds into your food. Plasticizers enable flexibility of the material, so are commonly found in plastic wraps, bags, and packaging. Rules of thumb: Never microwave in plastic or in to-go tubs, and don't reuse those yogurt containers.

The safest plastic wrap, according to the authors, is Glad Cling Wrap Crystal Clear Polyethylene. Reynolds Plastic Wrap and Saran Wrap = bad.

Me? I moved big into glass. Luminarc working glasses come with (ahem, plastic) lids, so you can use them like Tupperware and they take up less room in the fridge. Glass containers have become big birthday presents for friends -- I even made a set of Luminarc lids into Christmas ornaments for friends R&R, using acrylic paint so their daughter could chew on them in relative safety.

Other precautions: I wrap my cheese in fabric before putting it in a rigid plastic container. And invested waxed paper sandwich bags, which were not so expensive. And I was given wide-mouth bell jars, which are fab. Will try to add links soon.

Have a holly jolly

I slept through my ATA Access meeting tonight. I am a bad, bad volunteer. I signed up with the Taproot Foundation a month ago, and this is my first project: rebuilding a Web site for blind and disabled web surfers. The project has been in the preliminary stages of development since June. This is what happens when there's no budget, no accountability, and no pay. Service grants are a nice idea, anyway.

Eugene was lovely for Thanksgiving. OK, let me qualify that. It was cloudy. cold, and it rained. But the company was good. I got to hang at my niece's pad, watch Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and bounce on a trampoline with my very adorable nephew F. I told him about Godzilla -- how big he is and how he steps on everything. And what he doesn't step on, his tail knocks over. And that he lives underwater and breathes radioactive fire. He and his sister A were a bit wide-eyed. They don't get a lot of mainstream culture. But little F's eyes lit up at one point: we were hiking, he saw a spider and got scared. I told him, "Godzilla's not afraid of spiders. He eats them." This excited him tremendously. Crazy what kids cotton onto.

My friend S gave me a CD by the Kings of Convenience. I quite like it. Sometimes it sounds like highly produced jingles from bad seventies TV shows, but then it's slow and folksy like CCR. THey're kindof like The Church on qualuudes. I think. I've never had qualuudes. I think.

Christmas shopping has begun. I put in a massive Amazon oder today. And I've got to make a list. No matter how much shopping I do in August, I never get half of what I need. OK, and sometimes I raid the gift drawer. Until there's nothing left. ("Well, I wouldn't have bought it if I didn't like it!")

Work is slow. Autodesk is days late calling me. I am regretting not taking the job. I mean, my life's not that great. Then again, there are projects of my own I could develop. For instance, I have this burning interest in libraries. What on earth will they look like in 10 years, I wonder? And, of course, I could take my volunteer committment more seriously.

experiment terminated

Man made shampoo for a reason. And it's a good one.

I was in the bath last night, and before I knew it, Peppermint shampoo, all over my head. For good reason. I had a date today. That, and my hair had lost some of its normal mobility. Not the tickle-you-in-the-face mobility that bugs me on a daily basis (and today is no exception). It was more like a complete follicular paralysis. And it was not pretty.

That being said, the whole experiment was not really so painful, as long as there are hot showers and nice conditioner and long steam baths. And the date went pretty well. Someone square who has on at least one occassion strung a lawn chair on a rope between two points in space and ridden it into a swimming pool. In short, I went on a date with an engineer.

Freezing cold from sitting in the park. Time to head home and pack. And no, my dear S., you may not have my shampoo. ;-)

experiments in hygiene

I'm just going to come out and tell you, disgusting as it may seem: I've stopped shampooing my hair.

Now, I've heard from several people over the years that once you stop with the detergents, your relationship with your hair changes dramatically --for the better. And I almost, but not quite, a believer.

First of all, things with my hair have never been all that great. It's dishwater blonde and wholly unruly. It annoys me by tickling my face, and it resists all attempts at management and defies both gravity and all haircare products, regardless of their proposed strength or the volume in which I apply them. It's so bad, in fact, that I have come to suspect that I have (gasp) my father's hair.

My father has had the same hairstyle for going on 50 years. I know this because I have a photograph of him and my mother on their wedding day in 1952. And there he is, black hair, albeit more of it (sorry, dad, I couldn't resist), and it's combed back straight from his forehead and held in place with a generous dollop of Brill Cream.

Perhaps you've heard the jingle:
Brill Cream, just a dab will do you
Brill Cream, you'll look so debonair
Brill Cream, all the girls will come right to ya
Just put a dab of Brill Cream in your hair

I'm told by my mother that my dad's hair is actually rather curly.

Anyway, it's Day 6 and I'm still on track. Which isn't to say I do nothing with my hair and it's sitting in an oily mass on top of my head. That would be almost, but not quite, the truth. The truth is I still wash it with hot water and conditioner, and scrub the living be-jesus out of my scalp. I also tousle it with a towel when necessary. And this morning I broke down and conducted some strategic passes with a small bottle of baby powder.

Weirdly, it's holding a style for the first time in my life. And I am not that young. I like to think that my locks have just been infused with a sort of Judy lanolin that softens it and keeps in miraculously in place. It's quite remarkable. I can push it away from my face and it stays there. I've also noticed that it's faster to dry, which is a big plus since I swim.

I'll give an update in a few more days. I'm wondering if there's a middle ground. But what I've been told (by a european) is that you have to go whole hog, cold turkey on the detergents until your scalp quits producing so much oil. I was also informed that the first two weeks are the hardest, and then it gets much easier. We'll see about that.

Godzilla vs. cold

For reasons I cannot explain, and even now don't fully understand, I spent last night at a Godzilla movie. Godzilla va. Mechanagozdilla. Actually, it was pretty good. I was impressed that Godzilla's blue streaming fireballs were not just hot, but radioactive. Which gave rise to my favorite scene of the movie: The tough, loner female pilot crawls into the downed robot's smoking head to operate him manually. Her captain warns her to "get rid of the radiation." So she ejects some sort of smoke into the room from the walls, and poof! Radiation's gone. I thought that was pretty cool.

The movie was my friend M's idea. I got to tease him about taking me places where I was sure to meet eligible men. The audience was full of interesting, pale, slouching men in their late thirties and forties. The German guy behind us had some sort of post-nasal drip problem, and the young man in a fedora on our left did not, I'm sure, own a razor. Last night, the Castro Theater was a veritable cornucopia of static DNA.

We were treated to an interview before the movie. It was with a Japanese guy who was the actor in the Godzilla suit, for real. He said he studied his cat to get the eye and movements right. It worked. "He looks like a pissed-off squirrel," M said.

M's friend P joined us. He's only limping a little from the shark bite. What was it like, to be bitten by a shark? Not that bad, he said. First off, it was a young shark, so it wasn't that big. P didn't feel any pain when it bit him, or even a squeeze. Just the sensation of being slammed into. Like a truck running into your car from behind. He was pushed forward on his board, with no idea what hit him. He turned around to see and there was this shark just sitting there under the water, with P's leg in its mouth.

"I think it got ahold of something it wasn't really expecting," P said. He's probably really tired of telling this story. But he was a good sport about it.

The other funny thing that the Japanese stunt actor told us was that the fight scenes between Mechanagodzilla and Godzilla were really difficult to film. "Mechanagodzilla's arm comes out to here," he says, putting an extended arm on the translator's shoulder. "Godzilla's arm only comes out to here." He bends his arm at the elbow to demonstrate. "So when I tried to hit Mechanagodzilla, I couldn't reach him. I would run into him with my head before I reached him with my hand. When I did that, the teeth in the mask would break. So the costume designer got very mad with me. He's yelling at me and I go to bow, and my head falls off. It was very difficult."

You can learn a lot about a culture by watching its movies. But the Japanese have always been a bit more than I can understand. Samuri movies, stomach-lurching anime, and giant fire-breathing puppets stepping on cars. Maybe we're not getting the whole picture here in the US.

Bad news: I came home with a cold. It's been going around forever. Someone gave me an Emergen-C. I'm hoping for a quick recovery, before heading north for Thanksgiving.

Fall weather

I'm having a lovely day. Don't ask me why. I can't tell you.

First, it's Sun's big quarterly launch day, so things are sortof moderately going to hell. It's not the plans were not well-laid or were poorly executed. It's that suddenly everyone has something critical that must also be done. Robert Drost won the WSJ's Innovator of the year award. That caused a bit of a firedrill. And then there are a couple of political/opreational things going on. Edicts and whatnot. When it rains, it pours.

I decided to spend an hour or so at my local chi-chi restaurant, One California, for lunch today. It's located...well, you can probably figure out where it's located. I had lamb canneloni, and they were very good. I had an overpriced glass of pinot noir and a cappuccino. Then, I had three small italian cookies and I stared out the window and thought about a new client I have, which is a consortium of companies. It's a very different experience. Politically volatile, utterly fragmented, hopelessly inarticulate, and unbelievably ambitious. I kindof like it. I have a crush on one of the working group chairs. He's diabetic and a drummer in a local band called the Fractals. There is hope for my love yet. Although, realistically, not much.

What is new in my life? Not much. Had a guffaw walking back to work from the restaurant. A woman approached; she was wearing the same Kenneth Cole jacket as I was. (First day out of the closet for me.) A guy driving a Pepsi truck stopped and hollered at us. We complimented each other and walked away. No idea what the guy was hollering about.

Now, it's time for a nap. Client coming to my workplace for the first time in ages. I want to be well-rested. Soooooo glad I'm no one's employee. Thanks to everyone who told me, "No! Don't do it!"

a cure for what ails you

Go see the Incredibles. It's a goodie.

Headed to Daly City last night to see "Ray" at the new cine-megaplex with my buddy L. Got into the theater, got seats, and then these teenagers start brawling in the back row. They end up on the floor, about 4 of them, guys and girls, and this big guy is kicking a girl in the head. Took security, and cops, 10 mintues to show up. By then, the guys were gone.

In the meantime one of the girls had emptied a canister of pepper spray. It didn't smell at all -- I was like 15 feet away from this whole thing. But then you start to cough. And choke. And tear up. By the time we left, the whole theater was starting to cough. Remind me not to go to Daly City next time I want to see a movie.

L and I wandered into the Incredibles, and lucked into seats and the perfect flick a long, hard week. Holly Hunter rocks, the animation was fun, and someone at Pixar has an elevatedly wicked sense of humour. Dark, dicey, and more than a little sweet.

It's offical. My brother M is going to Iraq to photograph the elections in January. He got fitted for body armour on Friday. Today is his 39th birthday. Happy birthday, M.

Went sailing on the bay with R today. It was gorgeous. Got lunch at Sam's -- complete with crab cocktail and onion rings and beer, and had a glorious sail home. Down the front of Crissy Field, the piers, North Beach. Everything a girl needs to kick the democratic blues. Oh, except maybe a mini cooper. (Kidding.) (I think.)

links and jinx

My sister-in-law B sent this article from the SFGate:
Wallow in chaos, and laugh.

And the sociologist referenced in the previous email is actually UC Berkeley Linguist, George Lakoff. The book is Moral Politics, which has this writeup on Amazon.com.

There may be a way to link to the new map of the U.S., compliments of my brother D. It made me laugh. And that's quite a feat these days.

And if you can bear it, Maureen Dowd's editorial in today's Times.

Cheers from a gray and gloomy California,
Judy

post election day

A palpable gloom has settled over San Francisco. It looks certain that President Bush has won reelection. People from my camp are mystified. "I don't understand it," said my friend M. "I really thought we had it."

It's hard to understand. What with Kerry winning the debates, what with anemic job growth and massive job loss, with the war in Iraq going badly. But the American people have spoken, and they do not want a change of leadership.

The Republicans have been teflon when it comes to campaign issues. The bulge didn't stick, claims of Bush's shoddy service record didn't get traction, and the attacks on Kerry's military record have, somehow, merited weight and credibility. The papers have covered Bush's many heinous acts and policies -- to my mind, an abuse of the power of the office. His 11th-hour change to environmental laws to foil an EPA lawsuit against polluting power plants. His allocation of Federal funds to religious groups to rpvide social services. His illegal war on Iraq, and fabrications around WMD and linking Hussein with 9/11. It's all quite bizarre, compared to what we're being told is the truth. But it worked.

A lot of smart people voted Republican. That's what I can't quite get my head around. I suppose they had their reasons.

There's a sociologist who wrote a book about the appeals of the different parts of the political spectrum; how it hooks into how we're built, psychologically. A friend has it; I will link shortly.

Just think; it will be the holidays soon. And there will be many pursuits to take our minds off politics, domestic and international. I hate the message this sends to the world -- that Americans support Bush's policies and actions. But I also retreat to a sad and snarky position: If we elected this guy again, we deserve everything we get.

Me? I'm going to cancel my newspaper subscription and research hybrid automobiles. I'll stay in my small apartment and pay $15 a month in energy bills. I'll pay taxes -- at least some of them -- and save for retirement and watch social programs go down the tubes. In the big scheme of things, I can get through 4 more years. Just not happily.

Front row, rock concert

My mother just called. She broke her ankle awhile back, and still gets around on crutches sometimes. Right now, she's at a rally in Cleveland with 100,000 other Kerry - Edwards supporters. They took pity on her, with her bad ankle, and put her in front row seating.

"Kerry's going to be here in about an hour," she told me. "Bruce Springsteen is coming on next." At 74, my mother is attending her first rock concert -- and a democratic one, at that. "It's like a second childhood," she said.

My father cleaned the gutters this past weekend, and he thought he'd play golf. My mother cold-called 400 would-be Kerry voters and encouraged them to vote. This has caused great glee in my family -- all nine kids and their spouses and grandkids saying, "Go, Grandma, Go!" My father is the lone Republican. I almost feel sorry for him.

He's been a bit gloomy of late. "I'm not really that into politics," he told me on the phone on Saturday.

I'm still trying to get hold of the guy at Autodesk so I can decline the very nice job offer. The executives scripts are done. I've got one project firing back up on Thursday - the guy who lost a daughter has begun returning to work. And another next week. My jury duty has been postponed until February. So basically, my life is returning to normal. Whatever that is.

Strangely, I am losing things. Like my date book. This has never happened. "Have you lost three things yet?" J from work asks me. "Yes," I said. "Does that mean I can't lose anything else?"

Instead of writing my next story, I went to Loehmann's and bought a purse. It's purple, Italian, and looks like a totebag with pointy corners. I love it.

It's a gorgeous day in San Francisco. I begin volunteering tonight with the Taproot Foundation. It's allowing me to develop information architecture muscles. It's all good.

NEWS FLASH: My brother M just sent an email. He's going to Iraq in January. "So vote Kerry," he says. "Or I'm going to die." He's the photographer.

Fingers crossed for the democrats tomorrow night. I'm buying filet mignon and champagne for my friends, just in case.

harsh my vibe

I have decided not to take the job. It was a good offer, the boss was amazing, and the work would have been interesting. But then again, I like my setup now pretty well, too. It lets me go sailing.

Which yesterday, I did. My friend R wanted to take his daughter out on the bay for the first time. Sure, she's 11 months old. But the point is, "She got to feel the wind in her hair." I guess people are like that with their kids.

It was a nice day for a sail. I'm not complaining.

Last night my workplace had a big huge old party. There were hundreds of people, and bars set up among the cubes. And there's me, checking email and changing my shoes. It was a three-martini night. For me, that's two martinis too many. Many thanks to L for getting me home in one piece. And apologies to R for spilling my drink on you. The carpet is veeeeery spotty this morning, so at least I had company. Word to the wise: if you're going to sneeze, make sure that's a clear cocktail in your hand.

Heading down to my employer soon to do a shoot with the COO. I am nervous. The first one went okay, except the time I neglected to remove a line from the teleprompter, so the nice software executive said the same line twice. (Doh.) Otherwise, I'm doing okay being Johnny-writer-on-the-spot. As long as some aide doesn't mess with my copy again. Grrrrr.

big honking puddles

I left work at 3am this morning. Finishing scripts for executives who have no time, therefore I have no time. A storm had come in, and it was raining. I ran to my car dodging slowing taxis in time to get in, half-dry.

There was standing water 8 inches deep on the downtown streets. Makes your car run like a motor boat for an instant, before the wheels settle back onto pavement and water burbles up against the undercarriage. I drove home over sheets of water flowing down hilly roads. Traffic was light.

I got the call today; I have been offered a job. I am leaning toward taking it. Though the folks I interviewed with had a consistent comment: they found me headstrong, even arrogant. My response: yeah? so...? It's not enough to jeopardize the working relationship, but it's a concern. Next to that, money doesn't matter. Although there is a $5000 signing bonus, which will almost cover the credit card bills from my recent shopping sprees. Boy, have I ever gotten some nice stuff.

* Lodis wallet and briefcase
* goat suede jacket
* black lug sole shoes
* Ann Taylor suit, pans, shirt, scarf
* Ellen Tracy sweater, scarf
* Cashmere 3/4 length red tweed jacket
* purple wool pants. I know, I wasn't going to buy them, because what goes with purple? But I had two 10% off coupons, and they were on sale. I am a sucker for a bargain.

Halloween: I've decided to be a housewife from hell. I've got a polka dot 50s dress and a frilly apron. Horns. Maybe make gruesome halloween cookies -- severed limbs or gooey bugs or dead mice with fur. At least I don't have to buy any more new clothes. Although a sexy dress might be nice. Blue. For the party on THursday.

I need to get some sleep. Everyone thinks I should take the job. My mother. Even my favorite architects. I think it's time. Though there is some panic. I mean, I haven't even figured out what to do with my life yet, and here I am giving it up. Am I nuts?

Team America, Fu*k Yeah

My friend K has quit smoking. So he eats. He's inflating. Not in a fat way; he works out a lot. Strangely, he's gained little weight: 4-5 pounds. But his arms have become huge. He's like Popeye, post-spinach. He invited me this morning for his third breakfast -- an extended McDonald's breakfast buffet. Hash browns, eggs, pancakes, sausage, biscuits, orange juice. It was amazing, in a disgusting way. He finished mine.

It's Sunday and I have scripts to write. They're not that hard, I just freak out about them. What will I make the executives say? How much better can I get at what I do? Evidently, I am pretty good already. Still, I fret.

I have received no job offer yet. HR is taking awhile to put the package together. But I am expecting a call on Monday, from J and from HR to explain the benefits package. Can you say sabbatical? I can. Sabbatical!

On Monday I am supposed to go to Sun to see some executives; they've asked me to come down for the tapings later in the week, too. It's an odd and confusing time. I'm doing incredibly well at my current gig, with high-profile projects and new contacts among the executive team. Will I give this all up? The thing about freelance is you never know where you're going to end up. With a job, you know.

The architectural firm is having a big old party next week. Hundreds of people, crammed into just one floor. K is inviting his cute engineer friend he's been tryign to set me up with for the last 6 months. I have a soft spot for engineers. They always tell the truth. Seem to relish it, actually. Especially the things they cannot fix or solve. I like that. Integrity.

Saw Team America the other night. One of the architects said it was incredibly hilarious. I found it a bit disturbing, actually. Potty-mouthed, with some funny twisted moments. Refreshing to see an American movie depict something like moral ambiguity, at least. We have too many "Rocky"s and "Star Wars"s. Makes us awfully certain about things. Like that we're something like an underdog.

K said "Maria Full of Grace" is amazing. My sister's ex-boyfriend worked on it. Go Jim DeNault! Talk about following your dreams.

My mother is going to Cleveland next weekend to work with George Soros' ACT and get out the vote for Kerry. I'm proud of her. I'd go but I'll be moving my office. Bye, bye architects. Yes, change sucks. No doubt about it.

15 days to go

My thought of the day: There are those people who always need something from you. (Foot massage, validation, whatever.) Then there are others who pay attention to what people are asking them for.

This only occurs to me because I think I've changed camps. For the better. The fringe benefit? You don't actually have to do what people want you to.

I am swamped at work. But not quite swamped enough to forget that I haven't received a phone call from a certain prospective employer. Did get an email tonight, though. The nice man's been out sick.

Funny, though. I've been relatively unconcerned about the whole thing. Maybe I really am growing up.

Donate now

It's 15 days until the election, my Democrats for Kerry email says. Things you can do, if you fancy to:

Phone banking

Visit a swing state and get out the vote.

For us lazy bones who don't want to take the time, there is the cash route. Donate now, before it's too late. ;-)

Here's a nice note from the DNC development office, just in case you think they're buying beer with your hard-earned, non-tax-deductible cash.

Dear Judy,

Last Friday I told you about an important strategy meeting taking place over the weekend. Now I want to report back about how that meeting went and how your efforts made all the difference.

Toward the end of every presidential campaign, strategists like me crowd into small conference rooms and huddle around spreadsheets with polling data and financial reports. We argue about the best course of action in key battleground states and then we argue with the finance guy about whether we can afford it. These meetings usually involve a series of tough decisions guided as much by cash shortages as they are by strategy.

The meeting we had this weekend was different. Time and time again when we decided on the best strategy to win a state and turned to the finance guy his answer was "go for it." It was "go for it" because of the contributions you made just last week.

You deserve some specifics: At one point during the meeting talk turned to Colorado. Many pundits thought this state was in the win column for George Bush. But polls show this is not the case -- we can win Colorado. We decided that we should be aggressive here and once again the answer was "go for it." On the night of November 2, when Colorado is called for John Kerry, know it was because of you.

I just wanted to say "thank you" -- you continue to make the difference.

Let's get it done,
Michael Whouley
General Election Strategist


Bush Matches Wits with Nobel Laureates

Great article in NYT Science section today: Bush vs. the Laureates: How Science Became a Partisan Issue. It's online, but you have to register. This is exactly what my brother J was complaining about at the EPA -- changing scientific research to fit policy. Anti-enviornmental policy, at that. He's going to quit if Bush is reelected, it's that bad. And the brain drain is phenomenal, he says, at the EPA and elsewhere in D.C. Even if Kerry gets elected, government agencies will have a hard time until they can stock back up on talent. Aye carumba.

opera and rain

It's 11am and the singing has begun. There's a street fair today outside my apartment and this is occassion for all types of musical expression. Singers of children's songs. The ABC song. Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Old Oak Tree. One man barked into the microphone, like a dog. He was pretty good.

Then, there's the karaoke, which makes sense from a one-performer-has-to-break-down-and-another-set-up point of view. That's about the only way it works. Joe six-pack is up there, singing Lionel Ritchie's "Hello, Is It Me You're Looking For?" With feeling. Besides that the street fair is a pretty fun thing. There are giant rubber castles filled with screaming children. There are street vendors -- mostly local businesses. The fish tank guy has a half a block again this year.

Today I cook. My friends R and R dropped Tosca tickets on me last night, and I took my book club friend S, who used to work at the SF Opera. It was a very informative evening. For instance, I learned that the orchestra can't actually hear the singers, so they all have to watch the conductor -- the performers watch him in TV monitors installed on the front of the balconey -- to make sure they all stay in synch. One folk tale: the final scene, Tosca leaps to her death. Fade to black. A high-drama moment. Only in this one performance, the Tosca character hits the trampoline behind teh set with too much force, and actually bounces back up above the wall, in view of the audience. It was a type of comic relief they were not seeking.

Weevil Paranoia

This is the first time I'm really cooked since the weevils came. (Full disclosure: the banana bread I took on the camping trip with the shark attack victim? Weevils. It slowed us all down.) They appear to have decamped, but since you can't prove the non-existence of something I continue to be wary. Is that a weevil, sealed into the gummy bit of a cereal bag? No. They look like coffee grounds when they're dead, so that makes the lid of the coffee canister suspect. It's like that famous line from the movie Sixth Sense: "I see dead people." Only in my case, it's "I see dead weevils."

I'm not even sure they're weevils. They came into my house in a hiking guide my old housemate gave me. I thought they were paper bugs, so didn't worry about much besides my cookbooks. Then they moved in on the oatmeal, corn meal, and flour. One friend said they were "flour mites." In Australia, they had little bugs called chiggers that were in everything. They just ate them. "Extra protein."

But in a thank-you dinner to friends, I'd like to hold the weevils. Maybe I'll cook at their place.

Last night it began to rain. It's a big winter thing in SF. It was nice. I walked through the Castro in the drizzle, watching the Saturday night party people and singing a Tosca tune. I could get into opera. Only, if I'm going to buy my own ticket, I'm going to have to get a better job.

The interviews on Thursday went pretty well. Jay wants to hire me -- we talked money -- so it's just down to how well I did with the other 3 folks I met. But I am thinking of accepting. And they are thinking of offering. So I may be employed. After all this time.

OK, they've given microphones to children. Time to go food shopping.

links

See my brother M's hurricane photos online under "More Photos."

Also, check out my niece Lynn's blog.

Here's a news report about P's shark encounter.

Busy day. Interview pushed to Thursday. And apparently I need a halloween costume. Hmm.

Shark attack

I got a call tonight from S in Santa Cruz. Her husband M's old surfing buddy, P, was attacked by a shark today. He's okay. He just lost a lot of blood and a chunk of his leg.

First, these are the folks I went camping with (Cold snap, Another day, flashback #1.) Second: surfing alone is a bad idea. Here's what (evidently) happened.

P is surfing alone on Drake's beach in Point Reyes. He's loafing in the water, his feet dangilng over the end of his board (which makes him look just like a seal -- sharks' favorite food -- from below). A shark comes up and takes a bite out of his leg. Evidently this hurt alot, because P turns around and screams at the shark. Something like, "Get the hell off me you goddamn shark." He also thwacks the shark on the head as hard as he can, which is exactly the right thing to do if a shark is biting you. Sharks are cartilaginous fish, as opposed to bony fish, which means their skeletons are composed primarily of cartilage. This is why dolphins can chase off sharks by bumping them. If you ever get attacked by a shark, pop it on the nose. They have all sorts of sensitive equipment there. Don't ask what; I have no idea. (Maybe someone can write in and let us all know.)

Anyway, P hit the shark hard enough that he scared him/her off. The shark turns away sharply, and cuts P with its dorsal fin. So now P's got a chunk out of his leg and a gash on his head that's bleeding like crazy. He is chum. (Not chunder, as I thought, or chowder, as S, my Scrabble nemesis, thought. Chum.) A wave comes. He catches it, surfs to shore, walks the 200 feet to his stuff, and uses his cell phone to call 911. Soon, helicopters arrive and he is airlifted to the hospital. He's going to be fine. And dang, does he ever have a cocktail party story for all time. Lucky guy. Sortof.

I've been remiss in chronicling my parents' visit two weeks ago. Two things:

1. We walked around Noe Valley and looked at houses for sale. Median real estate price is a half million dollars. My dad promised if he wins the lottery, he will help me buy a place. I cheered. "Yay! It's a team effort." I need a bigger team.
2. Favorite moment: we're playing gin rummy 500 on Saturday afternoon at my apartment. It is a very small apartment, so my parents went to a hotel and then stayed at my place for two nights. I got a room at the Zen Center.

So we're in the last hand, two draws from the end of the game. My dad and I each have more than 500 points, so the winner will be decided by who has the higher score. He is 5 points ahead. He is deeply thoughtful, counting cards (because he has a photographic memory and can do that) and strategizing. Then he grins. "If I give mother what she needs to go out, you won't get my points or hers, and I will win," he says. He's right. But I can't take this sort of talk lying down. "Yes, but I get to go before she does, and the probability is 50-50 that one of the remaining cards will put me out, giving me your points and mother's points, and the higher score." He smirks. I smirk. He does that bobbing hand thing he does with his discard that is vaguely threatening. The tension mounts. My mom can't take it anymore. She reaches forward, and picks up the next card on the deck. It is not her turn. My dad and I stare, aghast. She giggles. "I just couldn't wait to see who would win," she says. We all laugh for about 5 minutes. She puts the card back. I take my turn, go out, and win. But somehow it wasn't quite the same. It was a nice visit.

Travel Flashback - Brazil 1986

When I was 16 I went to Brazil with my sister, M, who was studying the harp. It was a hard trip. We were both young, with long blonde hair and not very much savvy about S. American men. Everywhere we went we were hassled, groped, and rubbed upon. On the busses we attracted "crotch men." I won't go into the details; suffice it to say they were standing and we were sitting and it was an experience for everyone.

Two low points to our trip:

Fortaleza. My 17th birthday celebrated with a birthday bun afire with wooden toothpicks. The next day, we got so sick that one or the other of us were always in the bathroom. This was our first room in 6 weeks with a private bath. Good, good timing. We had Dengue fever. I thought we were going to die. I refused to get up, sending M for sandwiches and water. She didn't forgive me for days. Happy birthday.

Three weeks later. Late August/early September. We arrive in a surreal sand-dune seaside town of Canoa Quebrada in north Brazil. It is a popular hangout for travellers, and we installed ourselves in a tiny pensionne in a row of houses on the sand. We stayed out late and drank Cashasa and lime juice, which is mostly illegal in the U.S. On the second day we rented horses and rode along the beach. They were small horses, more like dogs, really, so the ride was not the easy slo-mo lope you see in the commercials for female hygeine products. In fact, it was downright uncomfortable, like sitting on top of a manic burro or straddling a spastic 2x4.

The next day, we began to vomit. Out the front window. People stopped to watch the white women barf. We lay on the floor in our sleeping bags. A mouse fell from the thatched roof onto my leg. My left quadracept muscle began to go numb, thanks to the riding. I shuffled to the bathroom. You want to go to the bathroom during the day, not at night. Because there are bugs. Big bugs. And a cistern. It looks something like this.

Going to the Bathroom at Night

You light the wick on your propane lamp. Get up. Check your shoes. Shield your eyes from the light and walk into the kitchen/living room/dining area. Don't look. Give everything a few minutes to skitter out of your way - mice, rats, cockroaches the size of puppies. (I exaggerate, but not much.) Snakes. Small ones. When the coast is clear you cross to the bathroom. There is no running water; there is a cistern made of cement blocks and it's covered with green moss/slime. Use the toilet. It has no seat. Fill a plastic dipper with water and pour it into the toilet to flush. Sluice water over your hands, soap, and rinse, onto the floor, where it drains away. It's a pretty good system, really.

In front of you, the propane lamp is lighting up the wall behind the cistern. Above the mostly clear water, the wall is moist, green, and full of tiny nooks and crannies -- thousands of them. Out of each protrudes a set of antennae, like the teasing antlers of a thousand tiny reindeer. They are waving at the light; the entire wall is moving. Even better, this insectoid salute is mirrored in the surface of the water, doubling the impact. Brazil was full of pests.

Get a Job

Is it possible? That after 6 years of freelancing, I might take a job?

I wasn't looking. But there was this ad on craigslist and it fit. Perfectly. Stable tech company, lots of money, hip office in downtown SF, three contacts who used to work there. I'd be a senior editor on a team of 7, doing a wide range of things, from copyediting/detail work and big-picture strategy/business analysis. Interesting. Very interesting. Intent on quality improvement, which I have experience with at Sun, doing the Six Sigma corporate change methodology. Piece of cake. The pay is in the mid 80's, which isn't exactly thrilling, but the ME said there were "things we can do." Stock, probably, or mega bonuses. We'll see. It would be nice to have benefits. And a 401(k) plan, maybe matching. And medical coverage, and a flexmed spending program. And a steady paycheck.

WHich can only mean one thing: shopping trip. Before my tax status would change. Can you say tax-deductible? I can.

Wish list:
* high end stereo
* iPod
* music, and a lot of it
* books
* classes
* probably couldn't pull off a new car. But what's the IRS going to say, exactly?

I have a second interview on Monday, where I meet everyone. Think nice thoughts for me. Thoughts like, "Jay, Judy is exactly the tactical ball-buster you need on your mellow-guy team." Ommmmmm.

Two other developments in my life:
1. My kitchen sink clogged up, and I now know way too much about what sorts of schmutz lives in my pipes.
2. I have weevils. Actually, they've been stalking my cupboards for some time. I just didn't want to admit it. It's so embarassing.

Change of Seasons

First, a tidbit, compliments of my friend M in Austin:

"Dick Cheney wants you to go to www.factcheck.com (look now, who knows how long this internet trick will last) WHOOPS!

he meant to send you to www.factcheck.org which is a good site to use to cut through the nonsense."

Next, a few thoughts about fashion. Black is back. To anyone who thinks we don't have changes of season here in San Frnacisco, we do. It's when 90% of the business district goes to black. Clothing, that is.

The VP debate was fabulous. My Newsweek this week is fabulous. The good guys, by hook, crook, and more than a few distortions of the truth, are drawing even with the evil incumbants. Two things: 1. whatever it takes. 2. fight fire with fire.

Carter was on TV last night. So refreshing to watch a smart man tell the truth. Candidly, tactfully, with humour and integrity. May history judge us all.

For those of you who still wonder what I do, I write things like this. The results of my visit to Texas.

Have a good one.

Don't mess with Texas

Texas was lovely. Austin, anyway. I am trying to convince my parents to check into the verdant, liberal central Texan capital as a possible wintering spot, since real estate is at least somewhat affordable.

Their response? You've got to be kidding. My dad was stationed in Witchita Falls, Texas when he was an Air Force doc, sometime in the 50s. My mom has never forgiven him. Evidently there was little to do there, besides find scorpions in your tea cups and suffer through interminable sand storms.

I like Texas. I've been to Austin 4 times now and the humidity and general leafiness of it remind me of Rochester, NY, without the snow. My last night, there was a great noisy thunderstorm. Knocked out electricity, including: the air conditioning, weed whacker, and freezer. The kids and I lighted candles and had a blackout party. Reminded me of the winter of '76 in upstate NY, when the snowdrifts lay six feet deep on our front lawn and the plows couldn't get through for days. Like last time, I played Connect 4, Crazy 8s, and gin rummy. But I also got to go to a grown-up party, stay up late drinking white wine, and play cribbage by candlelight. Nice.

The supercomputer was cool. What was really impressive was the scientists who are using the thing to do everything from analyzing bomb blasts on a building structure, to charting the path of hurricanes, to predicting earthquake damage from reverse impact reports. Their energy and dedication were pretty inspiring. The food was pretty good, too.

Great to see friends M and C, and C's two boys, who were charmers when they weren't burping in unison, playing the recorder, or jumping on my stomach. They're 8 and 6, and C's got her hands full. Looks pretty fun, though. I had a great time hanging, rehanging doors, and getting a drain cover for the bathroom sink. If you knew me, you would understand. OK, maybe not. I'm an OCD home fixer, when it comes to good friends and family. Got weeds?

Home. Wildly sleep-deprived. Still digging myself out of work. Quit my writing group. There goes the Great American Novel. Big thanks to M and S for doing my dishes while I was away. You rock. I'm going home to fall over and sleep for days. Or at least until my date tomorrow night. Yes, it's blind.

men are like buses

I missed the bus this morning. Got off the 1 California and the 24 Divis had just passed. It was a block away. I could see it. I kicked myself. If only I'd taken the 38 Geary, I thought, or the 4 Sutter. I'd be on that bus right now.

I chased it. That didn't work very well, because, of course, buses are faster than people. Especially if you're a woman who's recently purchased microfiber socks from Ann Taylor and chosen to wear them with slip-on, or, in this case, slip-off, shoes. Then, trotting down the sidewalk is extra difficult.

I walked for a block, glum. Then I turned around. There was another 24 Divis bus right behind me. Weirdly, it was empty.

So the allegory is, as my cousin J says, "Men are like buses. Another one always comes along." I took a seat on the new bus, and thought, ok, if you wait long enough, which was about 35 seconds for me, what do you know. One shows up, and takes you just where you wanted to go.

I am out of my "I'm single" funk. I owe my friends a debt of gratitude. To K for giving me big hugs when I needed them, and his last cigarette. (No, mom, I don't smoke. Just occassionally.) To G for keeping me laughing all through dinner. To J, for the uncouth array of things he refers to as "thingie." (I have adopted this Britishism as a shorthand for "thingie-do-bob" or my mother's "thing-a-ma-jigee.") And to my book club, that wild and wacky bunch of ethically challenged literati who find new ways of making me laugh every month. Y'all are fun. And boy, did you leave me with a lot of dishes last night.

Today I head to Texas. I have already learned a bit of Texas trivia, from a woman who is so smart ("Sure, I have a PhD in computational fluid dynamics. Who doesn't?") she scares me. She used to make submarines. Very, very quiet submarines.

"Maverick", besides being Scott McNealy's son's name, is a word dervied from a man's name. A Texas cowboy who decided not to brand his cattle. So every time folks came across a cow with no brand, they knew it was a "Maverick." Hopefully, I'll find out what the lonestar thingie is all about. More about that on Sunday.

This much is true

My friend R looked at my blog and said, "It's not revealing enough. Not nearly." So this entry is for R. It's this morning's diary entry. Enjoy!

I'm up early again. It's still and quiet. And dark. My poopy mood from yesterday is still with me. J got engaged over the weekend to his ex-girlfriend of 4 years. He says last night, "We moved apart for awhile, then came back together in this really amazing way." This from a guy who was so smitten two months ago that he practically followed me home. It was a disappointing day.

So I spent $750 at Ann Taylor. They were having a sale. It didn't really work, though. So I put bids on 3 Saabs on eBay. That was fun. Two of them are in Texas. I may spend next week driving.

I'm not working well. I should be happy, but I'm not. I want kids. I want a house. I want a husband. Evidently I've turned entirely mainstream at 35 and want what everybody else wants. A nice car. A new leather jacket. A handsome boyfriend. Who's single and interested.

Anyway, this is my rant about being single, and being tired of being single. Maybe it's just what happens when you move too slow. You end up alone. Oh well. There are worse things, I'm sure. What galls me most is feeling typical.

Life is going by very quickly all the sudden. I seems like I'm always showering, or doing the dishes. Like it's time to eat, or I've just eaten, or I'm wondering what I'll eat next. It's like being in a time warp.

A (from work) is driving me nuts. No program support, and every time I ask for something, he places a demand or tries to set some deadline. I hope they fire him and hand me the project. Soon. It would be less work. And here I thought I was becoming a team player.

Bought socks yesterday, and brown pants which are very useful. Don't know about the sweater set and the purple pants. They're pretty. But purple pants?

It's nearly time for my call. The sun has come up, the birds have done their morning swarm song, and traffic has begun to roll down the city streets. The foghorn has quieted in the distance. I am still bummed from yesterday, and have devised a plan: an outfit, including my new orange shirt, made entirely of cotton flannel. Today should be a better day. Now, time to do the dishes.

The Best Things in Life Are French

The French have gotten a lot of bashing during this election cycle. But personally, I am a big fan. Here's 5 ways the French have made my life better.

1. Favorite SF restaurants: Cafe Claude, Clementine. Both French. It's the food, it's the cute frenchmen, it's the decadence of an ice cold blackberry martini on a sunny patio on Friday afternoon. Oh, and Zazie. Where they put your latte in a small bowl and bring you french toast made from challa bread. Dang.

2. Cheese. The sheep and goat's milk cheese at Cowgirl Crememry are out of this world. Some of the best? French.

3. Clothes: my fab new shirt is made by Charles Cotonay, Paris. It's orange. Cotton flannel.

4. Need a tote? Jack Gomme makes great canvas bags. Paris.

5. The world's best linens: Frette. If ever there were a reason to marry someone for their money, high threadcount sheets are it. I can't even go in the store; I'm afraid I'll cry.

A follow-up to yesterday's post: the drill at my workplace in the middle of the night was a staged Sarin gas attack on the underground train, BART. Explains why the sidewalks this morning were very, very clean.

Get your hands off my...

Evidently San Francisco is well-prepared for an unnatural disaster.

I came to the office early this morning, after dropping my parents off at the airport. The streets were blocked off and officers everywhere: police, army, traffic cops, the works. Serious men and women in uniform, hiding behind small trees. I asked a guy with flares what was going on. "Special event," he said.

Ground zero for all the hubbub? You guessed it. My office building. There was a Hazardous Material Removal truck, firetrucks, paddy wagons, little tents over the manholes in the streets. There were flashing lights and emergency cordons and a gurney with no one on it. "There were bomb-sniffing dogs," the security guy said. "They started around 3am."

I asked one more time if it were really just a drill. 'Cause, hell, I can work from home.

My parents had a great time. We saw the SF Symphony perform Stravinsky and Tchaikovsky last night. We went to Napa and tasted wine. We spent a night at Indian Springs in Calistoga, where my mom and I soaked in a giant mineral pool and got massages. My dad read the paper in a chair on the lawn. He does not own: shorts, sandals, a shirt without buttons. He has sneakers 'cause I gave them to him. He didn't bring them.

Unfortunately, I poisoned my mother. I didn't mean to. Wednesday night we went to Teatro Zinzanni, a dinner theater that was very entertaining. Thursday afternoon, she didn't feel good, and it stayed with her for most of the visit. She thinks it was a sandwich she had on the plane. I fear it was my cookies, or a restaurant of my choice. Either way, it was a serious bummer.

Saturday was the best day. It started with me finding an apple under the front tire of my car. Of course, I kicked it. It rolled down the hill, skipping and hopping like the Gingerbread Man. Then, in a perfect arc, it rounded the corner and went out of sight. I was tempted to follow, to see where it was going.

It was a fine, sunny, foggy last day. I took my parents on a driving tour of San Francisco: The Presidio, Legion of Honor, Sutro Baths, Ocean Beach, GG Park, Twin Peaks, where tendrils of fog zoomed around like, um, clouds in a hurricane. My brother M, by the way, got a two-page spread in a major national news magazine. Go M! I bought two copies with my dad. It's about time one of us made the big time.

On my last visit to Rochester, NY, in August, I called my mom from the gate to tell her about The Puffer. In Rochester International Airport (Ha!) you walk into a booth that blasts you with air, which they then check for explosive materials to make sure you are not a walking bomb. I was not a walking bomb, so I was allowed to continue. I guess if you are, the booth just stays shut and some guys in a forklift come carry it away, in case you detonate yourself.

But I digress.

Earlier this week, I talked to my sister D. She'd just dropped my parents at the airport to come here. "It's weird," she tells me. "They're really excited about going through this security machine at the airport. I guess it puffs air at you or something."

This morning at 6am, the security women gave my mom a full rub-down. They patted her fanny (the american version), hips, waist, legs. They checked the underwires of her bra. Keep in mind here, my mother is a silver-haired 74-year-old retired Methodist pastor. And she's had surgery recently: two new knees and a pinned ankle.

"Everything beeped," my mom said when she called from the gate. "My bra beeped, the straps beeped, the underwire beeped. My zipper beeped. My knee beeped, both knees beeped. My ankle beeped. My watch beeped. I was one big beeping mess." I love my mom.

There she stood, in her blue polo shirt and slacks, while they wanded her. She had her head set a little to one side -- an early warning sign that she's just about had it. If things continued, she would shake her head, and then put her hands in the air in exasperation, as if she were clutching a gigantic submarine sandwich.

I watched. Her hands did not go up. But I was ready, boy. Like Mel Gibson in that terrible The Patriot movie, which I never saw, I would burst through the narrow ribbon of nylon and leap onto the x-ray conveyor belt. And point and say, "Get your hands off my mother." This must be what it's like to have kids. As my mom would, and did, say, I need to get a life.

frictionless capitalism

Got my ticket to Austin. Tried to get yet another ticket to NY for Christmas, with no luck. All these airlines in financial trouble are beginning to cut service to upstate NY, and it's getting harder to find cheap seats. A friend in Muskegon Michigan pays $1500 to fly home. Crazy.

Was online for plane tickets, so thought I might as well get a camera for my Austin trip. Bid on a Canon digital Elph S410 on eBay. Probably bid a bit high, but I got caught up in the "I want to win" excitement. I really do. Want to win.

No deep thoughts today, except to say I have sworn off cookies and donuts. My parents arrive in a few hours and I'm wondering if I have enough time to vaccuum the car interior. Then I'm done cleaning. Really. My friend R was horrified that I actually replaced some of the tacky no-slip decals in my bathtub. "That's a little over the top, don't you think?" he said to me. I just smiled. I've been in a major cleaning frenzy, but I wasn't about to incriminate myself any further.

I bought my dad a small package of high-end organic peanut butter cookies at the Farmer's Market. It should be a good visit. Fingers crossed.

another day, another airline ticket

Looks like I'm going to Eugene for Thanksgiving to visit my sister M, niece L, and families. It was a fluke, really. I was online to get a ticket to Austin, Texas, where I'm going next weekend to visit a supercomputer--and my friends who live there. But mostly, the supercomputer. It's for work.

Thought of the day: someday kids are going to look at simulations like these and say, "Uh-huh, yeah." You won't even have to tell them what they're about. They'll just get it. They'll be able to explain all sorts of things just by looking at the model. The rest of us poor saps will be staring and staring, brows furrowed, brains spinning, slippery, over content we cannot interrelate. Kindof like we do now with the Atlantic Monthly's infographic, until five minutes go by and we finally see that they've correllated country GNPs with market valuations of overpriced Internet stocks. OK, I'm dating myself, but you get the idea.

I'm practicing by listening to the radio, watching TV, and surfing the web at the same time, but I'm still falling behind. I can feel it.

Two flashbacks:
We're at the table at cafe in the mountains, looking at a newspaper that's two weeks out of date. I decide it's a magic newspaper; you can open it and read any headline you want. I start.
"Kerry has gained 11 points on Bush in the most recent poll and looks sure to win in November. There were no deaths in Irag today."
M takes the paper. "The war in Iraq is over, period. Our troops have come home and there is quiet in Bagdad."
S: "The median house price has fallen to $369,000 in the Bay Area."
P: "Fiberglass boats have been outlawed; wooden boat prices soar to an all-time high." (S and M are selling a beautiful 1940s wooden yacht. Anyone in the market?)

Second flashback: Some yahoo is firing an semiautomatic weapon in the woods late on Saturday night. Highest uninterurpted stream of bullets, by my count: 27. Wonder what he was shooting at. I spy with my little eye...

Cold snap

The weather in San Francisco is 64 degress. Sunny, with a breeze -- entirely reasonable for Northern California.

The weather in the Sierra Nevadas (not the Sierra Nevada mountains, I've learned) is cold. So cold it hailed. Snowed. And dipped below freezing at night. Waaaay below freezing. Alpine Lake did not freeze, however, so I lost a bet.

Being from upstate NY, I am certain of one thing: it is my God-given right to complain. Besides, I'm good at it. Saturday, for instance, after I cleaned the breakfast dishes with my bare hands at an icy water spigot, I thought it only fair to share the feel of frozen flesh with each of my fellow campers.

Californians are not inclined to share in this way. To them, discomfort is something that must be borne silently, so they don't "harsh anyone's vibe", or "bring people down". All I know is, once I got done making everyone feel how cold my hands were, I felt a lot better.

"Complaining is an art on the verge of extinction," I told my friend M. "And it's my job to ensure it continues, for the benefit of future generations." M is from Albany, NY, so what can he say?

Actually, we had a great time. Yesterday we escaped the hail at a hot springs place in Nevada. My friends S and M just bought a new car, a Passat wagon, and it has heated seats. That was good. We ate burgers and fries and cookies and drank beer and made smores and generally consumed 4-5 times the calories needed to shiver through the night. Today we drove down 8000 feet, peeling off layers all the way.

BTW, my brother M is fine. The hurricane veered away from Mobile, so the paper sent him somewhere coastal, back in its path. He got dumped in the ocean, ruining cameras and cell phone, when a dock collapsed underneath him. He escaped with cuts and bruises, which, if I were him, I'd be complaining about. A lot.

Something Terrible

Something terrible has happened. Not to my brother. To this guy at work I barely know. Still, it's rather stunning.

Full disclosure: that meeting where I was going to show the client how terrible his Web site was? It never happened. The client never showed up, so it's me and W shooting the breeze for awhile until we hear what's up: the client is in his car, driving at unsafe speeds to San Francisco, where his 2-year-old daughter is in the hospital. She was spending the day with her grandparents in the city and, I guess, got away from them, and got run over by a car.

So I just got an e-mail today that she didn't make it. The project's on hold for awhile. Terrible stuff. It's hard to believe it's possible, on a sunny blue-sky day like today, that these kinds of things can happen and there's not even a ripple in the cosmos. You'd expect it to start raining blood, or giant cockroaches would rise up from the sewers and start spitting on people and eating their shoes.

That's the way it would go if I were in charge, anyway.

Hurricanes and Drama

My brother M is in Mobile, Alabama, directly in the path of a hurricane. He called my mother from the roof of his hotel, where he was taking video of clouds scuttling across the sky at 60 mph. Leave it to members of the media to go to Ground Zero and climb up on the tallest, most exposed thing around. The pictures should be good.

"The winds are supposed to get up to 135 mph," my mom tells me. "The storm's not due until about 3am, but even when he was talking to me, there was this white noise in the background." She demonstrates this by blowing, hard, into the mouthpiece of her telephone in NY. "It's quite annoying, actually."

I agreed. I tried to comfort her, and myself, with the idea that in a natural disaster, it's actually pretty hard to get killed. You either need to be kindof stupid or just really, really unlucky. Like that guy who ran his car into a bunch of horses right after the Loma Prieta earthquake. I hope I'm right. Because it would suck, if you really think about it, to lose a brother.

M's plan is to pull a mattress into the bathroom and spend tonight in the tub. Should be a wild ride.

Me? I'm going to make banana bread for my camping trip and turn in early.

OO,
JD, of the D Family Chronicle

Oh boy

I'm at work late again. I'm listening to the music the janitor gave me. It's just terrible. Like Kenny G meets mariachi. It's schmatzy. It's cheesey. It's nothing like the super-cool "spanish" music, to use his term, I was listening to when he latched onto my appreciation for his people's music.

Let me clarify. I was listening to Lalo Guerrero, who is funny and wacky and sortof like a Latin Lois & Keeley. He does do-wap, dammit. And klezmer. And big band tango. And Christmas carols. My favorite: he has a love song for tortillas. I will transcribe. Imagine this with a pair of steel-string guitars twanging in the background...

I love tortillas
and I love them dearly
you'll never know
just how sincerely
I love the corn ones
y tambien le (I don't actually speak spanish, so use your imagination)
But when my wife calls out from la cosina
'there's no tortillas
there's only bread'
there's no tortillas
and i feel so sad
my grief
I cannot hid
there's no tortillas
for my refrieds

Without tortillas
there would be no burritos
without the corn ones
there would be no (?frutos)
i love to hold one
tenderly and fold one
oh how I dread
to eat with bread
believe me

(refrain, with agony)

OK, I've had one margarita too many. Or too few.

Question: what am I going to *do* with these terrible CDs? I can't throw them away, that's for sure. I'd probably find a dead rat on my desk in the morning. *That* would give the structural engineers something to talk about. Oh boy.

Jane Goldman Hates Me

Or if she doesn't, she should.

I talked my way into writing for hip new San Francisco magazine, Chow Mag headed by none other than the fabulously talented and competent Jane Goldman.

I sold her on the idea that I was a whiz at Organic Chemistry, a class I just completed at UC Berkeley Extension (and did well on, thank you very much). I was going to do science corner: all about nutrition, chemical interactions with non-stick coatings, and free radicals. Then, I disappeared for weeks and weeks. What can I say? I had to go on vacation.

Now the magazine is at the printer's. So I will have to wait for another opportunity to get between the covers (so to speak) with heavyweights like Anthony Bourdain. But it will happen. I am convinced.

I did not thrash my client's Web site today. And I got even more leads on work. Just goes to show what being professional can do for you. In the words of my anesthesiologist friend Susan, "I always follow the rules. And opportunities just keep coming my way, one after the other." Go figure.

Heading back to the city. It's 86 degrees on the peninsula today. That's 45 miles in an un-air-conditioned Honda Civic hatchback, to you. Can you say "sweaty?" Sure you can.

Oh Lord, won't you buy me...

Aye, it's me blog

I have been made to blog. Look at me go.

It's dark already and I'm still at work. I have pulled together a presentation for a client that so thrashes their web property that they will have to hire me to fix it. It's a strategy that almost always works. Go Judyote.

My father turned 75 last week. Three of my sisters droped in on him to celebrate -- two from out of town, and he was thrille.d Took them all shopping and spent $2000 at Talbot's. Maybe I should have flown back, after all. Who would have guessed they'd celebrate his birthday by goign shopping for women's clothing?

The janitor has given me three CDs of "spanish music." He's a nice enough guy, but creeps me out a little bit. Maybe it's because he seems so weirdly smart, like he's just moonlighting as a janitor and really he's a college professor somewhere. And a bit familiar. On previous occasions, he has recommended a shot of tequila to stave off a cold. Evidently, he has told this to some of the architects here, and they say it works pretty well.

Yesterday I bought my dad's favorite cereal -- Great Grains. They're coming to visit SF next week, my parents. My dad hasn't been here in 12 years. Count 'em. 12. First, I thought it was me. Then, I figured maybe his republican leanings made coming to the gay capital of the world an uncomfortable proposition. Now I'm back to thinking it's me again. I called today, to tell him about the cereal, and he said, "Judy Who?" It's just his way of teasing me for calling so much. I think.

I have a confession. I've gone into the architects' food pantry and taken their fancy nut jar and picked most (but not all) of teh M&Ms out of it. Bad, bad subtenant. Although, if I don't share this URL, no one will ever be the wiser.