Yellow moon, shining in the same big sky

Tonight while I was working out at the gym, 'Yellow Moon," by the Neville Brothers, started playing on my iPod. As is my habit, I focused on the bass line, and when I did, it immediately stood out in my mind, a fluid orange-red line spiky with thumb-slapped syncopation, and I thought of an old friend who played bass like that. Once you start leaning on the bass line when you listen to music, you can never stop. The bass line is the canny guide that'll show you the back alleys, the local haunts of music that tourists who hear only the drums or melody will never know. I haven't heard from this friend in a very long time. One of the last times we spoke, he said he takes comfort in knowing the same sky arches over us both, each in our worlds on this earth. And I know the same horizonless sea of sound swirls around us too, waiting to be distilled and momentarily ordered into composition.

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I'm in the second week of following a program aimed at retraining my physical and mental rhythms, so I'll get back to sleeping normally. I kept a sleep diary all last week, which showed I was snoozing an average of five hours a night. Least number of hours was three, and then I got one night of a miraculous eight. Anyway, So this week's strategy is to schedule six hours for sleep, with a target daily wake-up time of 7:30 a.m.. I have a half-hour buffer on either side of that. This means I have a target lights-out time of 12:30 a.m., and I must set an alarm for no earlier than 7 a.m. and no later than 8, with an optimal wake time of 7:30. If I can't sleep, I must get up after 20 minutes, stay up for 30 minutes, then try sleeping again. If I have a rough night, I can nap the next day, but only for 15 - 45 minutes, and not at all after 3 p.m. After a little while on this schedule, the scheduled time for sleep will be increased to 6.5 hours. I'll report on any success or lack thereof. First report: I slept 6 hours last night. Woo! Right now I'm sipping some red wine, after having enjoyed a light cheese-and-apples dinner post-gym. 

Damnit. I got m'amed again.

I've been called "m'am" three times this week. The last time was a half hour ago, by the guy who handed me my pizza to go at the shop that's a block from my home. Being called "m'am" means you are officially no longer hot, if you ever were, except perhaps to French men, who are said to appreciate older women. Most days I feel attractive, and so the "m'am" thing doesn't bother me. But today, after getting only 3 hours' sleep last night, I do feel rather un-hot. Rather rampled. Slightly haggard. Ugh. 

I remember calling women "m'am" when I was in my 20s, and being sharply reprimanded.  Sheesh, I'd think. I was just trying to be polite. So I didn't snap at the young and handsome pizza guy tonight. I just smiled and took my box, turned on my heel and left, musing that I thought I'd been rather hiply dressed when I walked out of the front door to get dinner. 

The other night my husband saw a trailer for Brooke Shields' newish TV show, and he remarked "She looks really good, for her age." He nearly bled from the look I shot him. "What?" Then his face softened. "Ohhhhh. Yeah." Mmm-hmm. Not the best choice of words when you happen to have a wife who's seven years older than you are. He apologized with a hug, which I appreciated. But I did not feel kindred. As a man, my husband will not be faced with this particular issue until he's well into his 60s. Men are considered attractive years longer than women are.

It's lonely business mourning youth.

Struggling to sleep

I've been struggling with severe insomnia. Lack of sleep makes doing just the normal minimum each day a challenge. It also tends to change a person's personality. I've been a bit short-tempered, sometimes weepy, often frustrated by the mental fog that steals in during afternoons after near-sleepless nights, slowing down my thought processes and response times. An admission that I'm dealing with insomnia brings out the advisor in everyone. "Are you stressed out over something?" No (seriously, no). "Is it that your mind won't turn off?" No, I'm not obsessing over anything at work nor at home. "Try drinking warm milk!" I have. It tastes good. It does not help me sleep. "I took melatonin and I haven't had a problem since." I'm so happy for you. Wish it had the same effect on me. "Benadryl. Take Benadryl." Oh yes, my pal Bennie. It does knock me out. But then I spend the rest of the night in agony as my brain tries to fight its way back awake through the drug haze. It's worse than being fully awake. And I'm not keen to take strong sleep meds, because this can result in dependency issues.

Once in a while I get so exhausted that I do sleep eight full hours. And then the cycle begins again: stay awake until 1 or 2:30 a.m., then go to bed because I ought to, lie awake (sometimes with the added fun of restless leg syndrome. Woo!), get up after half an hour because that's what the sleep hygiene folks say you should do, wait until I'm even more exhausted, and try again. Sleep for 3-4 hours (if I'm lucky, 5). Then get up in time to drink some coffee and get to work. Last week my employer launched a new Healthy Lifestyle Program component that's supposed to help people overcome insomnia. So I signed up. I read the first chapter of the material, and I'm filling out a 1-week sleep diary. After that I can continue with the rest of the program. Wish me luck.

Catch-up time...

I haven't posted in a bit. This is because my friends keep having babies. Really, it is. They keep having babies, which means I keep having to knit things for the new little humans. Right now I'm knitting a tote bag for a pal who will need something to carry baby gear around in. I'm knitting it from yarn another friend of hers made. Next I finish up some Christmas things I'm knitting for a relative who will remain unrevealed and then comes a sweater for the inimitable Truman. In between all this knitting, I have writing to do and books to read, volunteerism to be trained for, and work to do -- oh, and before all that, I have to be an engaged partner. Woo! Anyway, new: I scheduled my second bunionectomy, this one on my right foot. Looking forward to it, but ... argh ... also not so much. It'll mean no driving for six weeks, minimum. I'll be stuck in my condo unless my sweet husband cares to ferry me about, or I care to crutch myself up to the subway or bus line. I'm not sure yet how I'll maintain my fitness level, but I will need to, as working out is one of the tools I use to avoid insomnia. Anyway, that whole journey will start sometime in mid-January. I'll take two weeks off work immediately post-surgery. I should be able to stop the pain meds after three days. And then I will have loads of time in which to write. Yay! Finished Poem No. 1 and I'm quite pleased with it. I must break a promise and not post it here. If you care to see it, comment and I'll send it to you. I've started Poem No. 2, and continue with Short Story No. whatever, with a hard deadline of the end of this month, as I owe it to my writing group. And now, I'm off to make a quick batch of chocolate-chip cookies (with pistachios), because my husband has asked for them. It's his opinion that chocolate-chip cookies taste better when someone makes them for you, and who can argue with that?

Immediately Post-Workout II: Toasted

I am again a victim of The Libinator. Tonight it was a delightful little 45 minutes of aerobic shadow boxing, mixed with calisthenics I haven't done since high school: jumping jacks, mountain climbers (still just as evil), pushups. OK, I've done plenty of pushups since high school. But not jacks, nor mountain climbers. As Madeline Kahn says so well in Blazing Saddles, "I'm tired." Knackered, pooped, wrecked and toasted. However, my silhouette continues to dwindle, and so the classes (and all the free-weights and plyometric work I've done over the last several months) are worth it. Tomorrow afternoon at 2, I'll be in the pool doing some other form of extreme torture.

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One happy outcome of all this working out is that I sleep like nobody's business. I hit the sack and boom: Asleep. Which is good because lately my mind has been wandering back to horrific images of my mom's decline, along with a weird background dread of cancer, and that's not a welcome little relapse. My brother's visit this weekend should help jolly things along. He's a lion of a tourist. Brings his long shorts and binoculars and everything. I think I'll get him a cloth bucket-style hat to wear, and then he'll be positively iconic. He's got all his usual record stores in mind for plunder, and we may take him bowling, or to an amusement park. It's his birthday celebration, and he's bummed about being 51, so we have to pile on all his favorite things. I may even bake him a chocolate cake with coffee in the icing -- mom's secret touch. 

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In other developments, my Greek lessons are going well. I've started back at the beginning (phrases like "The little boy is jumping," and "The car is red. No, the car is not red. The car is white."), which is tedious. But I think a refresher will help me build a more solid foundation for launching back into the intermediate realm. My short story is also coming along. I owe it to the fiction group on Sept. 30 so I have a little hustling to do. And I've begun another poem. It's in the "throw a bunch of words on a page and stick to a specific theme" stage. Time to wade in and start refining. But first, I've got to get some sleep.

Immediately post-workout. Famished.

I took an hour-long aerobic weightlifting class this evening. I took my own dumbell sets because there are seldom enough to go around. The instructor, a monster in the guise of a tiny powerhouse of a woman, whupped us all good. Then I took my two sets of dumbells and hoofed it home, forcing myself to walk to the beat of whatever fast song was playing on my iPod. Result: I am exhilarated, exhausted, and starving. We have not grocery shopped. So I broke out some freezer stashes of Trader Joe's cioppino and started it simmering. Food was not happening fast enough, so I made up a small bowl of olives and various pickles, and am snarfing them down. Please don't be harsh with me, but I think pickled okra (Talk O' Texas brand) is one of the better brine-preserved foods around (second only to anchovy-stuffed olives from Spain). And lucky for me, my husband won't go near okra. Which means that whenever I stock up on jars of salty okra goodness, I get them all to myself. mwah-hah-hah...munch munch munch...

MMMMMmm...vodka

It's autumn in San Francisco, which means that we finally have our summer. It was in the 90s here in the city today (oh: and we had an earthquake last night, proving once and for all that my mother was right -- there is such a thing as earthquake weather). Our loft does not have air conditioning, so around 12:30 we gave up and walked downtown and took cool shelter at Westfield Center. Which is probably spelled Westfield Centre, but since we are not in England, and since I'm doing the spelling.... Anyway: we shopped. We considered a movie, but decided against it. We at summery salad. We shopped some more. My husband is a champion shopper. It was fun watching him try things on. We'd disappear together into a dressing room, and I'd inwardly titter at the "God I hope they don't get out of line in there" looks we'd get from the attendants. We did not get out of line. He got four shirts, three pair of pants, and a sweater. I got a sweater. It was not my day for finding Fall wardrobe additions, which is a pity because I'm getting pretty low on clothing that fits. (This is good. Ballast ditching is working.) Anyway, then we walked back home with a stopover at our local, The Chieftan, for a Stella Artois. We were on a roll once we got home, so we graduated from beer to vodka and cranberry juice with a splash of orange juice, which goes down frightfully easily. I am violating my "don't drink and blog" rule. MMmmm. Vodka.

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I have a churchly conundrum. Next weekend my older brother is visiting me, and that Sunday a new priest is being ordained at my church. Greek Orthodox ordinations are pretty special, and it's not often one comes along, so I 'd like to see this one. Plus, the emergency backup priest, Fr. Pete (we call him Pete to distinguish him from the main priest, Fr. Peter), is super-cool. Example: during our recent Greek festival, I found myself serving him coffee from the Greek Coffee Bar and talking to him as if he were a regular Joe. And he was responding as if he were a regular Joe. I kept zooming outside myself and observing "You're having a normal, offbeat conversation with this guy, and he's a priest." It was pretty cool. And because I like this guy, I'd like to attend his ordination. However, my brother -- who is slightly autistic and comes to visit me for no other reason than to indulge his obsessive record collecting -- would be bored silly. So, I have a choice to make. Eat pancakes with my brother, or let my brother sleep in and eat pancakes alone while I go to the liturgy and ordination. Hmmm.

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Speaking of Greek things, I didn't dish about the Greek festival. It was fun! This is probably because I worked only one day of the three. I sold jewelry from noon until 4, and then went and sold Greek coffee until 8. I had the most fun selling coffee. Whenever anyone came up and ordered Turkish coffee, I'd say "Excuse me?" and when they ordered Turkish coffee again, I'd point emphatically toward the door and say "Out!" Actually, I like Turkish coffee much more than Greek coffee, and I stand by my opinion that Greeks can't brew coffee to save their lamb-loving asses. To get a decent cup of coffee or espresso in Greece, you must climb on a ferry or airplane and go to Italy. Anyway, it was incredibly busy. There were lines outside the door for our Greek dinner offerings, after which (of course) people streamed in for dessert. And the desserts were many and tooth-achingly sweet: baklava, melomacarona, galactoboureko, kourambiethes, koulourakia. It's impossible to eat these without something to wash them down with, and so we were inundated with coffee requests. Time and again, I'd spoon powdered coffee and sugar into the briki, add water, stir, then hold the briki over the heat until it foamed up, let it subside, heat it again until it foamed, them pour it into the tiny cups, making sure each one had a topping of "cremaki" (a little foam). For $1 extra, we'd add a shot of Metaxa. One guy kept coming by and ordering Greek coffee and Metaxa, then asking us to hold the Greek coffee. After my shift, I headed out into the still-crowded plaka area to buy some souvlaki and giro to take home for dinner. I hung around the back of the booths like a hopeful puppy until someone took my money and thrust warm, foil-wrapped packets into my hands, and then I shouldered my way through the human swarm, walked a few blocks to my car, and made my peaceful way home. 

Catching up

I wrote about the anniversary of Women's Suffrage here in the states, and then got really busy and then got kind of sick (headache, fever; the fever's gone), and missed posting about Dr. King. So, I'll refer you to what my cousin had to say. She's good with the words.

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No, reading my blog does not substitute for giving me a call or sending me an email. Remember: I want to know what's happening with you, too.

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Sarah Palin? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Oh. *whew*. That was a good one. But wait. Those guys are RIGHT. I have ovaries therefore I must vote McCain-Palin, because I have to stand up for my own kind and get a woman--any woman--into the White House. It wasn't about Hilary, it was about sisterhood. Yes, I really am as ignorant, sheep-like and tractable as the McCain camp assumes I am. Um...not. If I wasn't still laughing so hard, I'd be insulted. Instead, I'm just bitterly amused.

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I'm off soon to work at my church's annual Greek festival. I'll be there, hawking jewelry and Greek coffee, from 11 a.m. to 8 p.m. For my labor, I will pay myself with good Greek food. Yum. 

Suffer the women to vote

My dear women family members and friends: On this day in 1920, women gained the right to vote in these United States. According to today's Writer's Almanac, "Secretary of State Bainbridge Colby signed the proclamation that morning at 8 a.m. at his home. There was no ceremony of any kind. ... Colby just finished his coffee, and signed the document with a regular, steel pen." With that, half of America's population was freed to help determine their own destiny and that of their families, their towns and cities, their counties and states and their country. For suffrage we have a long list of people to thank. And we can thank them by voting, at every opportunity afforded to us; by teaching our nieces and our daughters to vote; by encouraging our jaded and wearied friends to vote; by hosting a polling station. We all are fortunate to be able to determine our own governance. We fought for that right in the Revolutionary War. But women had to battle twice, and they won their fight on August 26, 1920. I care deeply about who becomes our next president, who will sit in our Senates and Houses, and what are new laws will and won't be. But for whom and what you vote doesn't matter to me so much as I am concerned that you cast your ballots. Now, while there's still time to research candidates and issues, arm youselves with knowledge. And please, on November 4, vote.

Breaking for Dessert

Poetry writing is much harder than short-story writing. (It's also more satisfying--though I don't see myself dumping short stories in favor of poetry. More likely, I'll combine them somehow.) But writing a title for a poem I've been working on is turning out to be even tougher. I nearly gave my latest effort a title way too similar to that of one penned by Robert Frost. Erk. Thank GOD for Google. I find myself working on a short story and a poem in alternate cycles of sweat and research and muttered cursing. I like them both, which is a nice change of pace. I'm down in the weeds, hacking away and I'm hoping what comes out of all this is two decent efforts. 

Enough about writing. Back to procrastination! I must tell you about possibly the best dessert you could ever have on a summer evening. You need two things (besides a bowl and a spoon):

1. Very good-quality coffee ice cream (Turkish is best. Don't tell my Greek relatives I said so.)

2. Chocolate port (Recommended brand: Stanley Lambert's Choc-a-Bloc. It's Australian.)

Put two scoops of ice cream (one if it's late evening and you are sensitive to caffeine) into a cup or bowl and drizzle chocolate port over to taste. I use a jigger full. This is not a float; it's a sundae. But you won't need any whipped cream or nuts. Just the ice cream and booze. This is so good I do a little dance just thinking about it. I hope you like it as much as I do.

Researching instead of blogging

I haven't posted in a little while because my blogging time has been taken up with research. I'm writing my first short story that requires some earnest digging around. So I've been reading up on WWII info, particularly on battling in and around Huertgen Forest in Germany. On top of that, work has been particularly involved lately. I'll get back here and post again soon. I've got to catch you up on the weekend trip to the Reno area we just came back from. But right now I've got to get on the freeway and get over to Oakland for a work-related class. Joy.

Carb coma

I made macaroni and cheese tonight using a recipe from epicurious.com. I haven't made mac and cheese in so very long. This one had intense cheese flavor, just the right creamy texture, and a decadent crumb-cheese topping. Really, I wanted to just put it on the floor and roll around in it. But because I detest mopping and was famished after a monster weight workout, I ate a bowl of it instead. And now I am pleasantly sleepy. Mmmmmm.

Speed bag! Right cross! Front kick! Wait. What?

In an effort to mix things up a bit at the gym tonight, I went to a kick boxing class. The class was taught by a woman named Libby. Libby has a negative percentage of body fat, the enthusiasm of a cheer leader squad captain, and the energy of a chihuahua on speed. Plus she has a perfect tan. She is a tad frightening. Kick boxing class isn't all about just kicking and shadow boxing. No. There is line dancing involved, too. I could never line dance. I was always the person looking around and going "Wait. Which arm should be I be pointing with? What direction? Oh crap, now everyone's going the other way." This distresses me mightily. Anyway, I staggered through through 45 minutes, sweat like hell, and didn't kick anyone or barrel into any walls. For this I am to be commended. 

Perked coffee and random report-out

The other morning, THS got up early and made some coffee to take to work. The stuff they have there is crap, and he just wanted a good cup of jo for once. I stayed in bed, dozing, and the smell of the coffee brewing brought back the most amazing memory: I was a pre-kindergarten child again, waking up to the sound of my mother's CorningWare stovetop percolator and the rich scent of coffee. There was no sense of needing to start my day. I was so young that there was no reason to get up, except maybe to go see if mom was making pancakes for breakfast, but I was still tired. So I stayed cozy under the covers, dozing and listening to the gurgle of the percolator. I am so happy I remembered this. It's such a comfort.

THS has the ability to get up 15 minutes before he needs to leave the house and be dressed and ready with five minutes to spare. He doesn't even need caffeine. This amazes me. I'm so not capable of that. I need a minimum of 90 minutes: 30 to get up and make coffee; 30 to stumble around sipping the coffee and waiting for the synapse ports to re-align; and 30 to get dressed and get my things together. THS learned a while ago that if I'm rushed out of the house in the morning, it's best that he does the driving.

Sudden Topic Change Alert! This week I learned how to knit cables. This makes me very pleased and smug, but also kind of skeeves me out because now I'm really one of those women who knit. It's one thing if you get down stockinette stitch and whap out a few scarves. It's even OK if you throw in some moss-stitch edging and move along to caps or little things for babies. But learn to cable and you've truly gone over. I'm afraid that's what's happened to me. I've grown rather obsessed with knitting, and this puts me in the awkward position of wanting to knit something for everyone I know. If I were you, I'd be nervous. So here's the deal: If I ever make you something that you feel you need to hide and only wear when you know you'll be seeing me (at your house and not in public), you have my permission to give it back and ask me to never do that again. 

Another new experience this week: I took a Pilates class yesterday. It was grand. I felt very tall and centered and strong and graceful for an hour afterward, and then I was just flipping SORE all over for the next 12 hours. And tonight I went to the gym to meet my trainer and he put me through one of the harder workouts of my go-meet-the-trainer career. It was brutal. Right now I feel like reanimated day-old roadkill. I believe I will need more than the required minimum amount of time to get up and moving tomorrow morning.

Song for You Far Away

Now and again I mourn for dear ones who are no longer near, whom I can no longer see, and the ache is deep and keen. When loved ones die, we mourn as well, but differently, usually with some kind of resolution. Those who still live, but at remove, leave a longing that's more difficult to resolve. For me, it's not a pining, but more like an open ticket: I wonder where they live. If they have love. I hope for their happiness. I miss them, and miss them, and miss them. This grief for the living lies below the ground of my day-to-day, and over time I've integrated it. When it springs to stream, I look up and draw comfort from the encompassing sky. If I'm in public, I hum; if I'm at home, I sing aloud the songs that remind me of the ones who've come to mind. Sometimes it's Joni Mitchell's "Black Crow." Sometimes it's Ella's "Blue Room." Often it's James Taylor: This is a song for you, far away, far away. This is a song for you, far away from me. 

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We sold my blue Subaru yesterday and bask in the warmth of Mr. Gore's smile. I tend to attach memories to things, and so I was wistful to see it go. It was the first car I bought on my own. I drove my sweet dog around in it--in fact, I got that model because I had a dog. The Forester moved me to Los Angeles and back, and carried me on long road trips to see and care for my mom. But I gathered those memories to me as I vacuumed the gray upholstery, fished flotsam from under the seats, and wiped down every surface so the new owner could have a clean car to drive. Then I closed the door and turned over the keys. 

I've never shared a single vehicle. I'll drive it the most during work days, since I have meetings to get to at so many different facilities. But there'll also be days when I work from home and THS takes the car, and weekend days when we have different plans. But I'm sure we'll be just fine. We live in a metropolitan area that has a rapid-transit system, an electric bus system, the famous trolleys, and a commuter rail. Plus, in a pinch, there's Zip Car. It's a compact city, and I love walking to do my errands. The final benefit: our bank account will be $400 richer every month. Ka-ching!

Making Al Gore Happy

A little while ago, THS and I decided to become a one-car couple. Because we both commute, and because we'd both been single for so long, we hadn't thought about how car-rich we were. But THS found out he could take BART to a shuttle, which would take him right to his company's front door. We figured out that our weekend plans would seldom require us to have two cars--and that when it were to happen, we'd be able to rent a ZIP car. So, which car to get rid of? It made sense to offload the one that has the most miles, which is my Subaru Forester. I've had it since 2001, and I've put 138,000 miles on it. Fortunately my average weekly mileage won't be nearly the same going forward as it was over the last five years, so THS' Outback won't suffer nearly the abuse. I don't have to drive for work as much, and I'm making very few trips down to Santa Barbara these days. Anyway, one of THS' coworkers is going to test-drive my car tomorrow. We're hoping he'll grab it, since that'd be the easiest possible scenario. 

In other news, I just made a tasty Italian soup and posted the recipe, along with my comments and a photo, over in Loretta Cooks! 

Oy vey. That is all.

Really. It's just been an oy vey last couple of weeks. The Hunky Scientist is taking his sick foot into his primary care physician on Friday. I didn't tell you about his sick foot. It's been festering for a few weeks now, and (a) he could not solve it himself using a needle and a bunch of hydrogen peroxide; also (b) it finally started bothering him enough that he decided to seek real medical help. Thank the pantheon. Work has been too worky for my liking. Way too much tedious stuff-I-can-d0-sleeping and not enough challenge. I love my job, but I've grown into it. I love my boss, but she's gotten so harried she may just leave before I do. And my department, though wonderful, is not what it used to be (reason my boss is harried). Promotions have been rumored for a while, but have not materialized. I'm hoping this will all be resolved this calendar year. If not, I'm going to have to start job-searching within my company. Lastly, we decided this last week to rent my mother's house to my niece and her pal, who'll share it with my older brother. The girls are starting college and need somewhere reasonable to stay while they look for work and get themselves settled into living on their own for the first time in their lives. I'm all for this and glad we have the place to offer and the means to offer it to them on the cheap. However: it means that for the first time ever, I am homeless in my own home town. Oy.

On a lighter note, I've posted anew (brief, but worth reading) in Loretta Cooks. See link at right.

Holy Shmoly. Nobody else die for a while, OK?

At the end of this three-day holiday weekend, I'll be flying to Ontario, then driving to Palm Desert to attend the funeral of my cousin's husband, who died this week after a long battle with ALS. I found out about that two days ago. Yesterday I found out my step-grandfather died in Santa Barbara. We've been estranged for more than 20 years, but I'm sad that he died. I do have some good memories of him from my childhood. It'd be awkward to attend that funeral, but I'm sore in my heart for my aunt, who's having to deal with losing her dad, and her kids, who lost their grandfather. This afternoon I found out a close colleague's father died yesterday. I made a note in my calendar to sit down and write her a condolence letter the morning after I get back from the funeral in Palm Desert. Then I packed up my computer and notebook and left work. On the way home, I saw a male mallard standing beside his mate, who'd been hit and killed by a car, nudging her desperately with his bill. Mallards mate for life, so when I saw this, it just topped everything off and I dropped into a dreary funk. Hey out there. Everyone I know? Yes, you. No more dying for a while, OK? Just cut that out.

Don't pick up

OK, my first cranky-ranty post. One thing that really yanks my chain is when I call someone and they pick up the phone just long enough to tell me they can't talk. They're on the train, or they're with friends, or they have someone else on the other line, but they can' t talk with me now. And rather than just let the call go to voice mail, they somehow feel the need to interrupt whatever they're doing or whatever convo they're having just to say, basically, "I don't have time for you." (This has happened to me about a zillion times just this month, so if you're a culprit don't think this blog has been written just for you. It's for everyone I know.) Every time it happens, I hang up the phone and think "OK, why did they even pick up?" And If I'm meeting with a friend and they actually pick up the phone and say "I can't talk with you, I'm with a friend," I always think crankier-than-Ms.-Manners thoughts.

So, for those of you who know me, if I show up in your caller ID, and you don't have time to talk, you have my permission to let my call go to voice mail. That's why it's there, after all. It's much more pleasant to leave a message and think of nice future chats than to hear "Hi! Sorry, I can't talk right now." Can't talk right now? Then don't talk right now. 'Nuff said.

More kitchen blather, plus caffeine regret

My second food-blog post details my failure at making mint-chocolate-chip ice cream. To learn from my failure, click on "Loretta Cooks!" at right. Yes, I am up late. Make that early. This is because I drank a Coke Zero before my weight workout last night--an idiot move that gave me a jolt of macho-girl endurance on the bench, but that will make me a zombie at work today. Argh...