Strippers in the Wild and Wine in the Hood on the Fruit Loop

So we cashed in our raincheck yesterday from the weekend when I got sick and we took off for the Fruit Loop, the Chamber of Commerce name for a scenic loop of highway through the Hood River Valley, which has beautiful views of Mt. Hood and miles and miles of adorable orchards. Pears, peaches, apples, and these days, ripe cherries.

It was one of those days. The sky was blue, the sailboards were shoulder-to-shoulder on the Columbia, the mountain was doing its best Majestic Cascade Lifestyle Magazine pose, the windows were rolled down, and the cherries were ripe.

But, um, practically speaking, with a back yard full of blueberries, rhubarb, zucchinis, salad, and baby green beans and peas, how much fruit do two people need? Luckily for all of us, there is also a healthy sprinkling of wineries on the Fruit Loop as well.

We stopped at four tasting rooms and managed to find something worthy at each one.

The White House, a multi-winery tasting room and fruit stand, is a little museum display its own self, as it was built in 19-oh-something and has the photographs to prove how a century ago the Hood River Valley was cleared from virgin primeval forest to the Disneyland of Fruit that it is today. Our choice (and here I must make a note to you red wine snobs that red wine gives me screaming headaches): White Salmon Vineyard 2004 Spicy White (a mix of mostly Chardonnay with a touch of Gevurtztraminer for spice).

We stopped at Mt. Hood Winery's new tasting room on the first day it was open. So firsties! It's quite a showroom of a tasting room. Beautiful carved multi-wood bar and Mt. Hood practically barging in the windows, somehow bigger and more impressive inside the room than outside. I hope the wedding they had planned for that afternoon went off okay. (Really? A wedding on the first day you're open for business? Ballsy.) Our choice: Mt. Hood Winery Estate Grown and Bottled 2008 Pinot Gris (grapes enjoy mountain views as well, so the label implies).

Cathedral Ridge Winery also has a lovely bar in their tasting room, a very nice pourer (pouresse?), glasses that reputedly explode upon onset of a peevish mood, and actual grapes on site. Important, I think, for credibility, if not for actual use. They will be honored to know they are this year's winner of Most Pretentious Yet Unintentionally Funny Back Label Sentence ("We are rich in fruit orchards, wild game and fish, and we vinify our wines to embrace these flavors of the region, and to be enjoyed with family and friends.") Mmmmmm, wild and fishy. Our choice: Cathedral Ridge 2007 Pinot Gris.

And finally, we come to the smallest and ugliest of the tasting rooms, one lovingly crafted from the corner of their tin shed, that of Hood River Vineyards. And yet, here we meet most of the characters from my next screenplay, Sideways and Upside Down On a Pole, the story of a young, tanned, surgically-enhanced-to-the-point-where-I-doubt-that-she-could-swing-a-golf-club stripper in a crocheted dress with enhanced boob-viewing capabilities, who meets a gullible young Hummer driver with daddy cash, who finds herself, implausibly, in a tiny wine tasting room with a veteran oenophile at the pour, who is tasked with finding a wine that she can learn to enjoy. I'm sorry we didn't stay long enough to see if the final option, the bing cherry dessert wine, was to her liking. But it was getting crowded in there. Oh, and our wine choice? a Hood River Vineyards 2005 dry Oregon Riesling (only they spell it "Reisling" on the label - for reals. This is backyard wine making at its best).

Oh, yes, I am writing that baby up and mailing it to myself, so don't think about ripping it off, bitches. It's got everything. Alcohol, sex and spelling. See you in Hollywood.

There's a Word For It!

Reason #2 Why I'm Not Signing My Dogs Up for Any IQ Tests

Annie is walking like she is walking on a carpet of Legos, which is how she walks when her arthritis acts up, which is what it does when she goes on a bender, running like a happy fool through the neighborhood. Scotty, the beta-dog jester, followed loyally behind, as always.

The fence gate was left open this morning. I'm not sure, but I'm pretty sure that it was closed last night, evidenced by the fact that the dogs did not get out last night. So some time during the night, the gate was opened.

Thinking of someone fiddling with our gate in the night and the aftermath of Annie's flight-or-more-flight tendencies makes me simultaneously glad that I have big dogs while wanting to drive them straight back to the reject bin I rescued them out of for putting me through this every time the gate is left open.

They were found maybe two miles away (as the collie flies), at the neighborhood sewage treatment plant. Luckily not IN the sewage treatment plant, but at the administration building, where a nice man tracked me down by their dog tags.

So Annie is a big hurt burger, and Scotty came back so hot he was unable for a while even to chew on some ice, which is his usual treat on a warm day, and with burrs clumping up his ruff, his tail, his hindquarters, and his front leg hairs. I got most of the burrs out, but I keep finding more, so this may be an ongoing clean-up job.

I'm not sure whether this means I have to check the damn gate every morning, but I will be for a while. And checking the locks on the doors and windows.

UPDATE (INCLUDES CONFESSION!): Drew says he's pretty sure that he left the gate open the day before while he was loading some yard waste into his truck. The dogs are just so, um, brainily challenged that they did not notice until the next morning.

Notes On Birthday XLVII

I've been away for a while. It was in your best interest. You don't want to read thoughts that are either jumbled, vacant, or snide. Why? Pick a reason. My pants were tight. The lawn needed to be mowed. The grapevines needed to be cut back. My eyes itched. I was in NO MOOD. The air felt soggy.

Do I have something to say now? Not really. But here are some thoughts on my birthday back on June 22 that I didn't get around to posting at the time.

• I got an iPhone 3GS for my birthday. Yeah, it IS that cool.
• Not only did Drew buy me the iPhone, he gave up HIS upgrade so we could get it at the discounted price. I gave him the Blackberry I bought last year. He's having much more fun with it than I ever did, so it's all working out.
• Most under-appreciated birthday gift this year: we still have the Prius. Drew, who still gets a little discombobulated driving around in a robot car, left it running (maybe running is the wrong word since it runs on battery when parked) on street parking in downtown Portland while we stood in line at the Apple store. Ironically, Drew worried about somebody stealing his cell phone out of the car while we were gone. When we got back to the car, the radio was still playing and the battery was on red. But it was still there! Thank you Portland, for not stumbling upon our doofy mistake! (We're still not sure whether it could have been driven off. There were no keys in the car. That's the weird thing about this car - the keys do not have to be in the ignition. They just have to be in the vicinity of the sensor in the dashboard.) I'm not sure whether the car was supposed to stay running like that but it did. Maybe I should re-peruse that owner's manual.
• While waiting in line at the Apple Store (while our car was patiently playing its radio and waiting for us to return), I saw somebody shake someone's bike helmet, like they were shaking their hand, because the bike helmet person didn't have a free hand. Very awkward moment when the hand-shaker realized that he had actually just shook someone's helmet, and he couldn't really get that moment back.
• Did we go out to a fancy restaurant on my birthday? Um, no. I got a craving for Burgerville at lunch time, and had no room for fancy food at dinner. So we had birthday cake for dinner. Hey, we're adults.
• I'm pretty sure I don't look a day over 50 (which is a relief, since I'm not 50).

Coco the Death Cat Takes Advantage

You know that nursing home cat who would sleep on the beds of the next-to-die? I have been under the weather since Saturday morning with a particularly nasty nausea-and-body-aches brand of bug, and Coco, who is not known to be particularly cuddly, has been on my lap pretty much 24-7. It's making me a little nervous.

Of course, it could be the fact that I have been stationary, under a comfy blanky, not a thing I'm used to doing on a summer weekend. But still. Does she know something?

Note This on your Calendars

By proclamation of me, tomorrow is National Nobody Needs Me to Do Anything For Them Day. 

I plan on spending it flouncing about, consuming internet entertainment, and eating sweet things. I may be dressed as a 17th century poet. Or a 300-pound disability defrauder. That part is still up in the air. 

Everyone is welcome to join the festivities, as long as I don't have to assist in any way.

I plan on making it an annual holiday, held on the third Wednesday in June. Years from now, you will be asking yourselves, what did you do on the first NNNMTDAFT Day? You may want to plan your day accordingly.

Explanation Would Ruin the Magic

Flight of the Conchords, Hard and Phirm, and Todd Barry from the Future. Just Believe.

"Man Cold" from Man Stroke Woman

Found this series on Netflix so I went to You Tube to see if it would be worth it to watch the whole season. Netflix that, baby!

Whose Son Is This? And How Is His Driving Record?

Dean's in town. It's a great way to clear the fridge and pantry of leftovers. It's usually also a great way to make Drew fume over missing and misplaced parts and tools in the garage. Bike maintenance takes a lot of tools and parts, and two bike maintainers using the same space with different concepts of orderliness means that high jinks shall surely ensue.

But so far, at least in the house, he has shown us a new, you know, responsible form of Dean. He cleans up after himself in the kitchen, the bathroom is clean, and I can see most of the spare room floor. 

And he seems to be taking his training more seriously too. When I have called him in Colorado Springs lately, he talks of going to "work," both when he has to work at the bike shop AND when he has a training session. AND he has put beer drinking on hold. THAT's when you know he's serious.

And he looks like an oak tree with two trunks. 

I'm writing all this because he borrowed my car tonight and I'm hoping all this responsibility has made its way down to his accelerator foot.

Update:  car's back in the garage in one piece.

Being Awesome: I Can Do That.

So there we were sitting in the audience waiting for Tom Robbins to come out and entertain us and complaining about being in our 40s and putting on weight for no good reason. We hadn't changed our behaviors. We hadn't begun to enjoy nightly milkshakes before bed. We hadn't developed cravings for fried cheese appetizers.

I was telling Drew how I had tried my usual cutting-down here-and-there behaviors, and had actually gained weight, and how we had gone on a particularly active vacation - hiking, walking, sightseeing so much our feet were aching at the end of each day - and had still gained weight.

Drew, being the kind of guy (meaning like most guys), who when he hears of a problem, feels compelled to solve it (instead of the kind - like most women - who merely commiserate and share your whine), ventured a plan. Why don't I try one of Dean's coach's regimens for bumping up one's metabolism: doing 20 minutes of highly aerobic activity first thing in the morning, before you go about your day. Don't count it as your workout. Just add it as your 20-minute furnace boost.

I hadn't been running on a regular basis for maybe two years, choosing instead to follow Scotty's lead, who prefers a fast walking pace, so he doesn't miss any good sniffs, and so he doesn't overheat with his ridiculous collie coat on. Although we do an hour to an hour-and-a-half of this fast walking at least four times a week (with half-hours on the other three days), I had pretty much given up on my running career.  After all, running with a dog is complicated, and leaving the house in my running gear without the dog is heart rending.

Uh-oh, Coco the Basement Cat has decided to help me type. This may slow things down.

Drew said, no, do not feel sorry for the dogs. This is about you. Get on the treadmill and go for 20 minutes. Nobody gets hurt. Nobody feels left out. And if they do, the hell with them.

So I did. In practice, they end up as 30-minutes sessions: a quick five-minute warm up and a five-minute cool down sandwiches the 20 minutes of running. It was hard at first. The minutes ticked by so slow I doubted my grasp of the concept of time. But the 20-minute mark would always show up eventually. It has been a month now, and I have kept it up long enough now that it (almost) feels like a habit.  I call my sessions "being awesome." That also helps me to keep it up. I don't want to not be awesome. And it has not precluded me from taking the dogs out for their walks after breakfast. 

And the weather has been so nice lately that I have been able to get outside and see something beside the sun room walls.  Luckily there are few other runners at the park when I go, because sometimes it seems like I am going so slowly that I must be on a hidden treadmill, but no matter. I'm not out there to impress anyone (which should be obvious from my outfit, which usually fails to match three different shades of blue, some black, some occasional hot pink or purple, all topped off with a red baseball cap).

It's easy to do anything for 20 minutes. It's easier to do something first thing in the morning before the excuse lobe in your brain kicks into gear.  And 20 minutes is not nothing - a concept which is difficult to grasp after so many years of living amongst those for whom three-hour workouts are commonplace. It makes a difference. The pounds may not be melting away, but I can notice small changes. And that gives me hope. Hope that it's not all down hill from here. Hope that the next birthday doesn't mean more ballooning gut and arm flab. I may have lost a little of whatever it is inside our cells that make us firm and fresh, and may have more of the stuff that allows "ripe" to turn into "soft and squishy," but if 20 minutes a day can help slow that change, then I'm willing to run.

Air! Just What I Ordered!

Hey, we got a shipment of air today at work.

Office Depot has really stepped up their air delivery.  To be fair, this box wasn't completely filled with air. It also held six binders and some binder tabs, which took up less than a quarter of the space in the box. They shipped a separate box, about the same size, with two ten-roll packs of toilet paper. 

Efficiency at its peak, ladies and gentlemen.

The Kind of Courage That I Deal In

I have had some painter's block these last few weeks due to the fact that I left the painting-in-progress at an awkward moment. You know, the underpainting is done, the next layer is half done, and the product, if I stopped now, would either be bad art or good velvet art.

Unfortunately, since it's difficult to transport the paint from canvas onto velvet at this point, I have no choice now but to use the next layer of paint to turn bad art into art. Can I do it?

If not, it must mean that I'm a bad artist. So to approach the painting today took some piglet style courage.

I approached it. I applied paint to it. Is it better? I never know until the next day. There's still another, crucial layer to be applied. Stay tuned.

Weather note: thunder storm after a week of unseasonably hot weather. Aaahhh.

Testosterone Makes Men Crazy, Part MCCXXVi

Ever been to Palouse Falls in Washington? You know, the ones where the Palouse River falls 186 feet off of basalt cliffs into a bathtub shaped pool? Ever thought about riding them in a dinky little kayak? Me neither.

Weakened Further by Technology

Behold the pygmy jerboa and weep.

In Which I Soften The Frak Up

The high temperature today, freakishly, was something like 89 degrees.

I work at a home-based business. I share a room with a server, a computer, a copier, two printers and a scanner. The air conditioner in said home-based home went out this morning. At first, I just thought I had done a superb job at boosting my metabolism this morning with my little run. Then I was sure that I had a raging fever. I was finally told that it wasn't me, that the house was the one with the fever.

It was hot! I was sweating! And if there had been anyone there to complain to, I would have whined like an orange Ford Fiesta on a hill. Instead, I suffered in silence. And even though I kept telling myself that humans lived and flourished without air conditioning for 50,000 years before this particularly warmish afternoon in this particularly technologically superheated room, I still felt like a mini-martyr.

Luckily, our own famously tetchy heat pump is working today, so when I got home, I was able to relax and watch an episode of House that I missed when our cable went out by logging on to Hulu.com. 

So I went from trying to channel our hard-bodied ancestors who once stalked the sun-scorched plains on the hunt for a scrawny gazelle, to snuggling on the plushy couch with my MacBook and my Nalgene water bottle, watching entertainment on demand and trying on my new Saucony running shoes.

All of a sudden, I felt pretty squishy.  But I'm not going back outside for a quick gazelle hunt.

I Can See the Beauty of a Hermit Cave

Does it help that the next door demon's parents feel bad that their spawn is of Satan?  Not much. It would help more if they supervised their rug rats, instead of choosing serial apology.

It seems that the Bad Seed gets pouty when Scotty The Adorable gets bored with standing by the fence and getting fed wood chips and dirt, and so he throws stuff over the fence at him when Scotty turns away. It started with dirt clods (once so many that I came home to their father in my back yard, trying to sweep up the mess). Yesterday, it escalated to lumber. I happened to see him toss a pointy stick at Scotty, and I headed out the door with death in my heart, and a soft but firm voice.

I didn't think that his parents saw this time, but I guess I was wrong, as I came home from work today to this note in my mail box.

I just have a feeling that being made to apologize just makes this kid pissed off. I guess we'll wait and see.

1:24 of My Life Spent Unwisely

I made it all the way through The Worst Movie Ever. Can you do the same?

Ignore This If You Don't Need To Hear Complaints About Air Travel

Okay, that's pretty much everyone, including me, so I will be talking to myself. But that will be therapeutic (and probably why comics can't stop themselves from continuing to put airplane humor in their acts), so here goes:

The flights during our recent vacation were all equally execrable in their own way. They were all extremely cramped, with no leg room, no shoulder room, no ass room. It felt like we had been packed into a sardine can for convenient shipping. I kept wondering how 250+lb people manage to wedge their asses into those seats. I've flown next to beefy guys who hog the armrest (and invade my shoulder space), but have never been stuck next to someone who spilled over their seat in the bottom region. That must be really unfun.

Both United flights attempted to make us pay top dollar for cheese and crackers. I believe we declined en masse. I didn't see one sale. I wonder how long some of those "deli boxes" have been for sale. I bet some have logged more miles than the pilot.

Both Continental flights (two early morning ones) offered cereal, milk and a banana, which was nice, but difficult to eat in the traditional manner in those little plastic bowls with little plastic spoons. Only attempt to eat this if you do not care what you look like when bent over a tiny plastic bowl of desperation while being squished in an airplane seat, with the little tray of cattle steerage on your lap, trying to shovel wet, milky corn flakes into your mouth between bumps.

One flight allowed us to watch a movie - for free! - but the movie was longer than the flight, so we have no idea how it ended (actually, we can guess, since it was Yes Man, which was apparently made using the Movie-Tron 3000, an automatic script writing machine that hasn't seen an update to its software since the late 1980s. 

Okay, yes, I plan to watch it when it cycles down to TV, because I have a problem with not finishing things I've started.

One plane required us to pay for the movie, and again, no takers.  Again, revenue-boosting scheme foiled.

All flights required us to pay $15 for our checked baggage ($15 for the first, $25 for the second). This policy has had the effect of making the already crowded overhead carry-on bins into battle zones. We paid the $15 (actually, $15 x 2 people x 3 flights = $90) to avoid the overhead-bin real-estate rush, which was a good plan, because such breakdowns in common courtesy send Drew into the red zone, and he can think of nothing but revenge for days. 

Here's a bright spot. We took the train from the Baltimore airport into Union Station in DC! What we learned:

• The commuter train doesn't technically allow luggage bigger than carry-ons.
• The train ticket seller laughed at us for worrying about it.
• Track 3 is across the tracks from the station.
• The elevator up and over the tracks is broken. There is a sign on the OTHER side of the tracks, but not on the station side.
• My bag weighed 49.5 pounds (.5 more and I would have had to pay a $125 overweight baggage fee for each flight!), so Drew carried both his and my bag up the stairs and back down to Track 3.
• Yes, I could have packed lighter. I bought a big new bag, so I figured I might as well use all that room. Too much.
• Union Station is impressively grand.
• Drew takes lousy pictures of Union Station.
• It takes a long time to catch a cab from Union Station when it rains.
• Unless you take a gypsy cab and agree on a fare up front. If it's a little higher, hey, you just escaped a 30-minute line for a ride.

Dinner and a hotel bed feel pretty good after a planes, trains and automobiles trifecta.

Ignore This

Just Indulge Me

Watch this. You might also want to read Torture Team: Rumsfelds' Memo and the Betrayal of American Values by Philippe Sands.

It's wrong and it doesn't work. If it was wrong and it did work, I would still argue that we are better people than that, but that argument is moot. So shut up, Dick Cheney. You only made us much less safe (remember invading a NON-Al Qaeda -invested nation on trumped-up charges, making a new group of people hate us and kill our brave service men?).

End rant.

Visit msnbc.com for Breaking News, World News, and News about the Economy

So I Got Home and Cleaned Up the Dog Poop...

Our dog sitter is a trained vet tech. Maybe that means that she gets confused when dogs whine, thinking that could mean a number of things, other than what it usually means, namely that they need to go outside. Because she said that Scotty kept whining, but she couldn't figure out what he needed. 

Maybe that also means that she has developed an immunity to the smell of dog poop. She left us a note that she kind of smelled poop this morning when she got up, but could not find it. 

That's funny, because there was a Jackson Pollack painting done in ass-goo covering the dining room rug. And pee on the dog beds, because Annie leaks if she is not walked twice a day. And deep drifts of dog hair on the rug. And dishes in the oven.

So it's great to be home, but could have done without the vacuuming, rug cleaning and dog bed laundering marathon.

But still. It's great to be home.

Vacation Captain's Log: Colbert Edition

What we discovered today:

• The CVS store by our hotel rakes it in when it rains. The garbage can out front was full of the little plastic sleeves that umbrellas come in.
• The technical Nike pants that I was wearing are excellent at wicking moisture. I know this because the hem came out of one leg, and the pants did a bang-up job of wicking all the water on the sidewalk right up my leg.
• All the tourists pile into the museums on rainy days. For the last three days, the museums have been light-to-slightly-crowded. Today, they were packed. We gave up on the Holocaust Museum due to crowds waiting to get in. We braved the crowds at the American History Museum, but they were thick and jostle-y enough that I wasn't really retaining or enjoying what I was reading or seeing.
• Security guards either have lousy taste in restaurants, or get kick-backs for sending tourists to miserable pizza restaurants located in second-rate food courts.
• The Stephen Colbert portrait is firmly fastened to the wall.

Vacation Captain's Log: Pooped Edition

We took a tour of the Capitol today. I would post pictures from the tour, but most of them were just pictures of the herd of people taking the mega-human-mover tour with us. So instead, here are some pictures of my favorite statues today. Lovely naked ladies riding mer-horses. Yes! The horses had fish tails! I'm not sure how these erotic delicacies got the OK for placement right outside the Library of Congress, but I'm not unglad. I love them.

Omigod, what is she doing to her mer-horse?

After mooing along with the herd at the Capitol tour, we knocked out the two-building behemoth that is the National Art Museum. Van Gogh. Manet. Monet. Lichtenstein. Mondrian. Picasso. Lots of other guys. At the Modern Art building, the poor art guards spend all day telling the tourists not to climb on this particularly lumpy but attractive Art Installation. Geez, what a job.

I know of a friend of a son who likes triangles and bicycles. Here are some of both.

We found a quiet spot on the side of a very busy Lincoln Monument for a breather before we headed back to the hotel. So tired right now. 

Good night.

Vacation Captain's Log: Panda Edition

We decided that the best way to get to the National Zoo from our hotel was via super-tourist double-decker bus. Thus we have surrendered to Full Tourist Status. Without shame. We are complete camera-toting tourists in a city of people who consider themselves Really Goddam Important. Thirty percent of the population of this city works in some form of government service and they all consider themselves to be running the country pretty much singlehandedly. That's okay. Passion is what we need. I just hope its the right kind of passion.

Today we had an Important Mission: Panda Sighting. Yes, we have already been to a zoo on this trip. Yes, I am a member of the Oregon Zoo in Portland. But important fact: neither of these zoos have Giant Pandas and the National Zoo does. Thus, we ventured. And thus, we conquered. Behold.

And:

Also importantly, these little antelope were enjoying some succulent spring leaves:

I, however, was doing the opposite of enjoying the succulent spring pollen. It was thick. And so was my phlegm. Between the dinner drinks and antihistamines, I am currently completely Benadrilled.

Also importantly, we found the Dramatic Prairie Dog:

Also importantly, this tiger seriously wanted to eat us. Luckily, this was prevented.

Tomorrow we kick tourist ass at the Capital.

Vacation Captain's Log: Holy Crap That's Joe Biden Edition

Smithsonian Natural History Museum: Forget Swine Flu. There's apparently a child pandemic in this country, and all of the cases were bused to the Natural History Museum today. Lots to see, but must be seen through a visible haze of noise.

Jenny: Egyptian Mao! A real kitty-cat mummy from Egypt!

Smithsonian Museum of the American Indian: yes, you may have crispy frog legs here.

Smithsonian Portrait Gallery: Feet hurt, but exhibits are Nationally Awesome. Look! It's Lincoln!

Dean: The Shepard Fairey is way more impressive in person. Maybe four feet by six feet, and very three-dimensional, with lots of use of found colors using collage papers.

And then The Old Ebbitts Grill for dinner: Good food and ZOMG BIDEN! Joe Biden ten yards away at the back bar! Surrounded by toadies! Whoa. This is really DC.

Vacation Captain's Log: Kitsch Alert

The weather cleared up this afternoon, so we did a little hiking then set out for one of Colorado Springs' premier tourist traps, Seven Falls. Nine dollars apiece to get in and one long waterfall, broken down into seven distinct portions for your viewing pleasure. We did take advantage of the stairs built into the steep canyon wall to see the top of the falls and some other stairs that offer a vantage point of the whole shebang. Pictures of those areas to follow, but the following are much more important:  our favorite gift shop kitsch items.

Although there were plenty of other worthy items, including a moose snow globe and some pajamas that said "Text Moose-aging" on them (as far as I know, there are no moose in this area), I chose a pair of pink fuzzy slippers in the shape of cowboy boots.

Drew choose a sort of fuzzy stuffed eagle, appropriate for classing up any hearth. 

If these alerts have caused anyone to need such items at a pharmacological intensity, we are willing to return tomorrow morning to Seven Falls (admission $9 per shopper) and purchase them from the (conveniently placed so that you must pass through it to get to the falls) Gift Shop. You have until tomorrow at eight a.m. Mountain Time to request your purchase. Price of the item will include admission.

Vacation Captain's Log: Day Three

It is always important to go to the zoo in the city you are visiting, especially when you hear that they let you feed the giraffes.

There's Jenny, Dean and the piglet, communing with a lovely lady with a healthy appetite.

Place cracker here:

The weather has not improved much, but that just keeps away those of a lesser constitution. We pretty much had the zoo to ourselves.

Vacation Captain's Log: Day Two

The following words were utilized on this day:

• Pepper jack cheese omelette and iffy fruit cup;
• Bella The Staring Cat;
• Cornish Rex;
• Egyptian Mao;
• Hairy-chinned Cat Lady;
• Bella The Constantly Startled Cat;
• Mountain Lion Diets;
• Dead Bears;
• Colorado Mining Exchange;
• Pie Hole;
• 12 1/2 minute parking;
• Tacos;
• C-c-c-c-cold;
• Firefighter's Memorial;
• Coffee;
• Dirty Hippies;
• Wine;
• Beer;
• Delicious Salad and Pasta;
• Bella The Demon;
• Slumdog;
• Poop!;
• Mill'onaire!;
• Doomed;
• Bella The Screen Curtain;
• Zombies;
• Brownies;
• Dancing Zombies;
• Dead and Breakfast; and
• Bed.

Vacation Captain's Log: Day One

Lounging in the Water Lily Room of the Crescent Lily Bed & Breakfast in Colorado Springs, NOT lighting candles, NOT smoking, NOT placing anything near the gas fireplace, NOT starting the tub jets before the water is at least two inches over them, and remembering to LOCK the door when we leave the building. I would relax but I'm afraid that's out of the question. What if I light a candle in my sleep? Do I smell smoke?

Okay, it's quite lovely. But watch your step.

The flight is best quickly forgotten. I think the airlines have moved the seats closer together again. Moo.

Dean and Jenny look healthy and happy. We stopped by both their places of work this afternoon before retiring to our Water Lily Room to catch a nap before some getting-together fun tonight.

Catch you later.

Craig Ferguson Does Fatboy Slim

Oh, oh, oh. Why is the best TV on after bedtime? Just so Comcast can make us pay extra for their DVR? That's what I thought.

Vacation Captain's Log: Day Minus Four

You may think it's a little early, but I am already willing the plane to stay up in the air for our flight on Saturday. Yes, shockingly, I also have a little fear issue with flying. But it doesn't stop me, because I also have a frontal cortex, so I can comprehend the concept of fixed-wing travel. Just have a little problem with the drop from that elevation. It can kill you, you know.

To Colorado Springs on Saturday to visit the Cutest Couple on the Planet, then to DC on the 29th to visit the new digs of the Second Cutest Couple on the Planet.

Think uplifting thoughts. And I'll try not to lose too much sleep trying to remember to pack the phone and MacBook chargers.

Not Worth It

And the flip side, now that The Damn Guvment went and took all yer dough on tax day, here are some ways to save:

• First-run movies. After $40 of tickets and treats, something tall will sit directly in front of you and someone dickish will sit behind you and talk to his buddy about baseball. And if you can avoid the dick, you will get the old couple, one of which will narrate the story to the one who either can't hear or can't comprehend. Then, twenty minutes in, after drinking your $4 soda, you will have to go to the bathroom. You will hold it for 20 more minutes, but then realizing you have lost the plot because you are just trying new seat positions in a vain attempt to stop the urgency pain, you surrender and squeeze past a line of annoyed knees to use the restroom and come back to realize that you have missed a substantial part of the movie and you will have to Netflix it anyway.
• Really expensive wines. Some cheap wines are awful. Some cheap wines are delish. Some expensive wines are awful. Some expensive wines are really good. But you're still out $30 grocery store money or $80 restaurant money. Find a good cheap wine.
• Gym memberships. For 90% of us, we don't need or use the free weights or rubberized mats. Take a month's dues and buy a pair of running or walking shoes and a windbreaker, and go outside. Get yourself some dumbbells or home gym and use them once a month when you overeat, and you've got as much out of them as you did out of your old gym membership. (Yeah, yeah, yeah, I hear you. Buy a bike. Whatevs.)

What am I forgetting, Fellow Patriots?

Your 70's Song of the Month

Wow. Dean, I swear, this is still a good song, even if it was made in 1975. Breathe it in.

Worth It

Now for some useless stuff:

Things that are worth paying more for:

• Soft, fluffy toilet paper. Don't deny yourself by buying that cheap Costco stuff any longer. Paper companies have made great strides in producing toilet paper that makes you feel like you are wiping your po-po with a cloud. This means happiness six times a day, on average. WORTH IT.
• Cap'n Yoby's halibut fish and chips in Longview, Washington. Just try it. No. Shut up, get in your plane, train or automobile, and go get some.
• Premium dog food, but only if you want less diarrhea, skin conditions and kidney failures. You are what you eat, but you get lots of chances during the day to get it right. Your dog eats only one thing. If you can afford it, go for the one with less corn husks and melamine.
• For my peeps: Bicycles. I would explain this one, but I would get it all wrong. (It's something like you need to get titanium gear splangers, but make sure your squigsten shifter is carbon. Or something.) All I know is, spend less than a grand and if it doesn't get a crack in the stwingle-nut derailleur while packed in the back of your car, your friends will laugh at you behind your back as soon as you take it out for its inaugural ride.
• Costco Bakery multi-grain bread. You know the kind that comes two to a paper bakery bag? It's really good. Sliced sort of thickly and toasted with a soft-boiled egg in the morning? Perfect breakfast.
• Pizza. Expensive restaurant pizza is way better than inexpensive restaurant pizza. Expensive take-out pizza is better than cheap take-out pizza. And cheap take-out pizza is way better than frozen pizza.
• Chocolate. I shouldn't have to explain this.

What am I forgetting?

Rant of the Week: Getting Irrational

I was going to put the following thought away and instead make a cute list of things that are worth paying extra for (like soft puffy toilet paper), but it just spewed out onto my keyboard, so I guess you are going to get it now.

(Note that I am now typing around my cat again.  She seems to enjoy the action of the keyboard. Makes her purr.)

So I was listening to a podcast yesterday - maybe it was the Slate gabfest - in which they mentioned the new white house economic team, many of whom are "behavioral economists" who attempt to develop economic models based on how consumers have behaved in the past in reaction to certain economic situations, as opposed to the last batch of white house economists, those of the trickle-down school, who had built their models based on what they thought rational consumers should do given certain situations and opportunities.

The problem with these popular "rational choice" theories is that people are idiots and assholes.  They do not do what is best for them, and especially do not do what is in their long-term interest. The downfall of this theory is the downfall of the current economy. People acted like idiots and assholes, and the rational theory economists are still shaking their heads in disbelief.

It seems to me that the pitfalls of those economic models have eerie parallels to conservative social and political models based on the same irrational idea that humans are rational beings.

It would sure be great if the U.S. were filled to the brim with wholesome citizens who have all been brought up in two-parent, church-going families with good jobs and employer-provided health care and healthy snacks. A land where insanity, cyclic abuse, addictive drugs, and chronic sickness do not exist, where genial Andy Griffith-types catch all the crooks, and a justice system full of Perry Masons puts away the bad guys who are then sent to a prison system that bottles up evil like Liquid Ajax (Cleans like a white tornado!).

In a country such as this, who would need all those "social programs" designed to fix the broken and prop up the unsteady? Who would need to monitor benevolent volcanoes, all who have long since slipped into a skier-induced slumber, never to spew sulfurous death again? Who would need to find a place for the elderly who lose their home as a result of illness or fraud? Besides, all the grannies would have loving families to take them in, right? And families living on the street? No such thing! In this country, they all have good jobs and nice houses, and magically delicious breakfast cereal.

In a country such as this, there would be no need for preschool programs for kids of poor, neglectful parents because there would be no such neglectful parents. Neglectful parents! Why, the thought is completely irrational!

Unfortunately, in addition to being cheerful, kind, thoughtful, brilliant, and industrious, Americans are complicated, wounded, stupid, lustful, sick and selfish.  And you have to come to the conclusion that you can't create a perfect world by pretending that the world is already perfect. 

It's important to educate children so they can get a job and learn the basics of being a responsible adult. It's important to give everyone the resources to fix their bodies when they are broken, and to fix their brains when they are broken, too. And it's important to provide a place for abused children to feel safe and learn to break that cycle of abuse. Or those broken, abused, and addicted people will end up on the street. Or in those prisons. And those prisons will turn into cesspools, spilling their eviled-up parolees back onto the street. 

And those broken people will be unqualified for any job. Other than politics.

Thus ends my political rant for this quarter. And it wasn't even a very good one.

Sorry.

What You Would Have Wanted to Ask About My Sunday Activities

Q:  Did you really dig out a 25-year-old rhododendron today?

A: Yes. Yes, I did.

Q:  How long did it take you?

A:  I'm not sure. Between the hours of 12:30 and 5:30, I dug out a dead eucalyptus, dug out the rhododendron, and replanted it where the eucalyptus was.

Q:  What did it take?

A:  A rake, a pick axe, a shovel, a water bottle, an iPod, and some gloves.

Q:  Did you swing the pick axe?

A:  I swang the pick axe. (Swang is the feminine past tense of the verb swing. It's different from the male past tense because it looks much, much different.

Q:  Wouldn't it have been easier to ask Drew to do it?

A:  It would have been easier, faster, and would have been completed next September after a summer of nagging.  And the plants that I had already purchased to replace the rhodie would have been long dead.

Q:  Shouldn't he have at least given you a hand?

A:  If he were here, he would have ambled out when he heard all the commotion and finished the job in ten minutes or so, but he is out of town this weekend, and once back in town, will have to go right to work. By the time he and I have time off together again, those plants would have been goners. (They are not potted - they came in a plastic bag filled with a little peat moss. They needed to get in the ground.)

Q:  Did your face turn that red color that it used to turn when you were first took up running?

A:  Yes.

Q:  What color is that?

A:  I would say a blend of hot pink and purple. Hot purple.

Q:  What were the neighbors across the street doing while you worked?

A:  They assembled weave poles for their Sheltie puppy, who they must have put in agility training to deal with its ridiculous amount of nervous energy (of which I could have warned them, having met a few Shelties).

Q:  Once you worked around the old rhodie with a pick axe and the shovel, did it just come right up?

A:  No, it did not.  It did not move when I initially tried to move it.

Q:  What did you do?

A:  I took a break, and then I worked harder.

Q:  How big was the rhodie?

A:  Since we had trimmed it down last fall, it wasn't more than three or four feet tall, but the main trunk was probably a foot in diameter.  It was too heavy for me to pick up, but once I had freed it from the ground, I filled the hole underneath it to raise it up to ground level and then rolled it into a wheelbarrow.

Q:  Did you roar once you got it into the wheelbarrow?

A:  Yes. Yes, I roared. 

Q:  Was that moment awesome in your eyes?

A:  It was awesome.  It was awesome to all who witnessed.

If Snowball Has Taught Us Anything, It Is Not to Fall for a Fawn

Here's my best shot at explaining The Decemberists' new concept album, The Hazards of Love:

Okay, so there's a little white fawn who's got a bum leg. In a forest. Colin calls it a "taiga," a crossword-puzzle word that is awesome and sounds like "tiger" spoken with a Boston accent.

So Margaret, one of fifteen girls, fourteen of which seem to have found more wholesome vocations, finds the fawn, and as she tends to its owie, the fawn somehow morphs into William. And Margaret and William do what comes naturally. In the taiga.

Soon after, we find that Margaret is, you know, swelling. Baby-wise.

Soon after that, we find that William has an evil mother who keeps him captive as a fawn. Or something. Then William misses Margaret. Or in Colin-speak, "the wanting comes in waves." This is cool, not only because it is alliterative, but because the waves come in handy later on in the story. Or concept. Or album.

At this time, we meet "The Rake." A total bad guy. A history of infanticide. William's mom, the evil queen, hires The Rake to steal Margaret away in order to keep this Margaret-waif from her William-fawn. So he whisks her across the river to do with her what he will (ooh, is it the Columbia? Is Vancouver the Place Across the River Where Bad Things Happen? Sooo plausible).

Upon hearing of these evil doings, William, the fawn-boy, makes a deal with the river (or the fates? I'm not clear on this concept), that if he could just get across the scary river and save his Margaret, then the river may have its way with him on the way back. As you know, if you make a deal with a river, the river will stick to the deal. No backsies.

Burble, burble, burble. William and Margaret, on their way back from the "wrong side of the river," drown sweetly and melodically in said river. (The Columbia! Make it the Columbia!)

The end. Fittingly enough for a Decemberists album. 

Although I am still enjoying the clever wordplay and melody, I think I prefer Colin Meloy's "short stories." You know, 3 or so minutes of story wrapped in melody, harmony, wit and humor. Not 45 minutes of the same story, missing the humor. 

Ah, well. Now that he's got this opus out of his system, maybe Colin will go back to the fun stuff. With any luck.

And for non-locals, here's a quick link that briefly explains the "Snowball" reference.

Why Do Cats Get Away With This?

This is me fighting with Coco for MacBook domination. Why do we put up with this sort of spoily-pants behavior from our cats? I would never allow this sort of take-over from my dogs. 

I think it's the combination of soft, soft furry fur and that purr. That purr is nearly deadly, it's so weakening.

If dogs could purr, they would be in a much better position. But on second thought, it wouldn't work for them; they are such pushovers for affection that they would be purring all the time. With cats, it's an unexpected reward after a day of being actively ignored and barely despised.

My arm hurts from holding my elbow up to keep from smushing Coco who is insisting on viewing my typing from my lap.

Yes, I could shoo the cat away. But I won't.

First the Leaf Blowing, Then This.

We thought we were seeing a little more of the neighbor's ugly white-and-blue house this spring. Apparently, it is because he has killed our privacy hedge. 

Either he got tired of the little fronds sticking out of his side of the chain link fence, or he got a little out of control with the weed killer on his side of the fence, but it has had the same effect - dead bushes. 

We are considering our options. Clearly the damage is done. It is too late to tell him to knock it off, although we will certainly bring it up as we make some changes. We could sue, but he's got enough problems, what with his pushing-thirty-year-old son never leaving home and continuing to live his carefree, swinging lifestyle, coming home at 3 in the morning and parking his after-market-loudness-accessorized car outside our bedroom window and (with any justice) waking him up as well as he tromps into his room with his date.

I think the change will be a switch from chain link to cedar fence. 

Your Chris Isaak Quote of the Week

"Taking singing lessons is like taking 'being tall' lessons."

This is re: his new music/talk show on the Biography Channel. He's a smart and funny interviewer, and I enjoy watching the chats, even when the artist is not necessarily my style (Glen Campbell, Michael Buble), but there's a weird thing about the music sections of the show. They are on some sort of sound stage with no audience, which for live music performances is tres tres bizarre. That said, the performances are often really above par.  Wait - below par. Well, much better quality than what you would expect from, say, an appearance on Dave Letterman.

If you get all those channels that you don't know what to do with, check for the Chris Isaak Hour on the Biography Channel.

A Tangled Web for a Dog Brain

How embarrassing. Scotty climbed up and made himself comfortable on the love seat while I'm sitting here on the couch.

Forgot that he only gets to lie on the love seat when we are not here to tell him to stay off.

Bad dog! Forgetful dog!

Bears! Fierce!

Bears. Still the best combination of adorable poopsie and killing machine.

The Other Bracket Game

I have been whiling away a good portion of a Saturday at The Morning News, reading how this year's random head-to-head literary match ups have fared in The Tournament of Books. The editors and friends of the The Morning News annually choose 16 books to "compete" and then choose authors, reviewers, and other literary know-it-alls to serve as the judges. Each round has a different judge, and the books chosen to go head-to-head with each other often have nothing in common, which often makes for some completely haphazard choices, which is par for the course and part of the fun. 

I haven't read any of the books, so I have no favorites. In that way, it's like watching the Oscars. I don't watch movies until they are either second run or Netflixed, and I only read books in paper back (with rare exceptions for favorite authors). It's a great way to add to your reading list, and/or cross books off that may have sounded interesting in the newspaper review.

The talk of ToB this year is 2666 by Roberto Bolano, a 900-something-page literary steamroller that seems to be leaving the judges awed and breathless, although it is leaving the commentators (yes, there are commentators, just like in the NCAA games) perplexed and a little annoyed that everyone else can overlook the sheer volume of words for the sake of words, the ridiculous sex scenes, the horrifying amounts of violence, and the loose ends never knitted back together, and still claim it as a two-round winner.

Not having read it, I cannot weigh in. However, the commentators have convinced me not to put it on my wish list. I expect to be entertained. Not bludgeoned.

They are through the regionals (Round 1), and they are half-way through Round 2. Check in often for more action! 

A Blustery Day

Editing photos and listening to Van Morrison Astral Weeks. In other words, in a pretty good mood.

Tomorrow's Monday, but that's not so bad. See you there.

Wasn't 1981 Adorable?

Oh, what a cute modem! OMG - two hours to download a text-only version of the SF Examiner! The sad part is, I don't know how that modem worked, and I don't know how the wifi particles floating around my house rematerialize in my MacBook as funny pictures.

There was a time when we could understand the technology we were using. Those days are over, and I find that a little disturbing.

But not disturbing enough to go back to 1981.

Obsolete Movie Reviews: Bigger Stronger Faster*

Bigger Stronger Faster* is a documentary made in 2008 by Chris Bell about steroid use in sports.

So, piglet, that means that you now know about the grave dangers of doping yourself up in order to cheat at sports, right?

Oddly, no. As a past writer for pro wrestling shows and the brother of two unrepentant steroid users, Bell seems to be in no position to demonize the drug. And he does not. In fact, he spends a lot of time talking with (certain) sports trainers, muscle magazine editors, and sports "ethicists" who tell us that there are really no known long term adverse effects of steroids (besides the ball shrinkage, of course), mainly because it is ethically impossible to conduct such tests. 

He faults congress (somewhat rightly deserved) for spending eight days taking testimony on the evils of steroids in professional sports, which was eight more days than they spent taking testimony on health care or ending the war in Iraq that year. 

Bell's argument seems to be that if it's not steroids, it's going to be something else. Athletes will continue to use the performance enhancing activities that are either legal or that they can get away with. It's the nature of competition, especially in this country, where winning is everything.

Oddly, he seems to have focused most of his anger on Arnold Schwarzenegger, not because he took steroids from the age of 15 to make himself into a champion bodybuilder and then a movie star, but because he now preaches the faith of clean living and clean sport, and tells kids not to use steroids. I guess for Bell, cheating is not nearly as bad as hypocrisy.

The pathos in the documentary comes from his brothers. His younger brother takes steroids to be able to compete at power lifting competitions and lies about it to the students he coaches in football, so that they get the proper "steroids is bad" message (hmm, Arnold?). His older brother had a taste of pro wrestling when he was young, and although he never made it past the role of easy-to-beat-up bad guy and was dropped by the wrestling, um, federation? years ago, he continues to take steroids, wrestle, and dream big. Way bigger than what seems feasible. He's like Mickey Rourke in The Wrestler but without the defeatist attitude.

The thing about his brother that works against his laissez-faire message is that, despite the fact that he is using a prescription drug in an illegal manner in order to become a copy of his childhood idol, Hulk Hogan, he looks nothing like Hulk Hogan, or any other professional wrestler on the circuit these days. Despite the fact that he's injecting all these steroids into his butt and going to the gym regularly, he is obviously not existing on the skinless-chicken-and-salad diet that is necessary to not be a roly-poly, but kinda strong guy.

In other words, he is using this drug as a short cut. And short cuts don't work. Not in sports and not in life. 

Steroids, HGH and EPO are short cuts. They are cheating. Yes, as long as there is competition, there will be cheaters. And as long as technology stays on this stratospheric rise on the old graph-o-technology, we will have better and better cheaters, but with any luck, the fair-play referees will be right on their asses.

Cheating should never be the norm. Ask any client of Bernie Madoff.

Shedding in the Snow - It Would be Poetic if it wasn't so Unpoetic

If you listen to the "experts," dogs shed their hair in response to the amount of daily light they get as the seasons change, rather than the temperature changes of the season. Or it could be witchcraft. Either theory would explain why Annie started her twice-or-more-if-she's-feeling-cranky-yearly coat blow this week as it snowed.

This is how Annie looks during non-shedding season. And usually in this position. (Scotty, never one to put something off, just sheds full-time.)

This is how shedding season starts. Clumps of fluff start to appear on her haunches, which may be pulled out in big chunks. Once I start pulling, I get compulsive about it. It's like picking a scab. As soon as I see a chunk sticking out, I grab and pull and get a handful of fluff. But that makes some more fluff pop out, so I have to grab that. It's a losing battle.

The hair loss then moves forward toward her head, until there's big fluff poofs coming out of the ruff around her neck (where her Lassie hair would be if she was a rough collie). This makes her look godawful, but I would never tell her. I just keep pulling and brushing and vacuuming. It takes maybe a month for it all to pass.

This is your warning if you think dog ownership is all ball throwing and face licking.

Oh, and she has chronic diarrhea. 

Way Past Their Shelf Life: Obsolete Reviews

I've mostly been hunkering down in the house the last week or two, so I have no reports of awesome things we saw or did. But I have these notes on things we Netflixed or read:

T.C. Boyle's The Tortilla Curtain. I know - I'm right on top of the NYT Bestseller's List - of 1995. But it's hard to keep up, and I got a used hard cover version at Powell's for $9.95. The Tortilla Curtain is Crash without all the 5th grade "don't miss the fact that I am a bigot in this scene" expositional dialogue. If everybody read The Tortilla Curtain, we would still be arguing about illegal immigration, but with a little more thought and less hate. However, my 1995 copy came with an author's photo on the dust jacket that nearly drowned out the story inside.

T. Coraghessan Boyle in 1995

What doesn't that picture say about the author? I heard him discuss his latest book lately, and whatever it is you thought that picture said, you are right. Except maybe his sexual orientation. It was 1995, after all.

Pineapple Express. This movie is exactly what you think it is: a stoner movie, but with some notable exceptions: they made a point of keeping the story moving and adding some action movie elements, such as chase scenes and bad guys.

Atonement. Better than expected, based on its Oscar worthiness last year (which usually is a movie screener tool for me - if it won an Oscar, I can skip it). Yes, there's a way-too-skinny Keira Knightly, mooning around in period costume. But there's also some kick-ass WWII scenes, and serious wrong-doing that you would seriously appreciate seeing some atonement for. Go ahead and Netflix it.

The Good Shepherd. We watched the whole (long) thing, but it was a bit of a slog. And Matt Damon played his CIA operative character with such a stone face that I wondered if he was playing him post-dental-surgery.

Son of Rambow. Once upon a time in Eng-a-land, a very sheltered kid and his friend, a kid left to run wild, decide to do their own remake of Rambo. Don't be fooled by its Rambo-like name. It's a lot of fun, and it's Stallone free.

Doctor Econosplode: The Spectator Sport

So our evil supervillain, Doctor Econosplode, has been, as super evil villains can be, in his manic phase this past few months.

It's frightening and sad to watch, but for the most part, we have been able to be spectators at this event. Drew's job is not in danger, as people continue to set their houses on fire. I could see mine shrinking from three to two days a week by summer if things keep sliding, but I doubt if I will lose it altogether. We don't have an adjustable rate mortgage, and although our retirement fund is a pit of despair, we didn't invest any money with either Mr. Madoff, Mr. Bear or Mr. Stearns (not out of wisdom, but out of not having any left over).

Watching it from the sidelines has been a little like watching an accident in slow motion - horrifying, but yet involuntarily exhilarating as well. This may not be the change we wanted, but it's change, and it makes for a fascinating story. How will it end? Tomorrow? Or should we start stocking up on flour and kerosene?

I don't have to tell you to stay tuned. We all are glued to the set.

Squirrelly Behavior: Frowned Upon

This is not the squirrel who bit through the rope that held the bird feeder hanging from the grape arbor. He's more difficult to photograph, as Scotty keeps him up the tree when the back door is opened. But this one will have to do as an illustration of the evil that the back yard squirrels have been up to.

This is actually a Colorado Springs resident who might as well have had a cardboard sign, he was such a vagrant, living off the largesse of upstanding CS citizens.

Our back yard squirrel apparently felt that if the bird feeder was on the ground, it would be more convenient for him to eat from, instead of shinnying down ropes and hanging precariously from a feeder, annoyingly not designed for ease of squirrel access. 

I hung the bird feeder back up using hanger wire, so I win this round, Squirrelly.

You're on notice.

Birthday Book Update: Win

Here's what I picked up in my last-minute book blitz shopping excursion:

Home: A Memoir of My Early Years by Julie Andrews. Mom has always been a big fan, and since she doesn't really bother with the nonfiction section, I knew she would not have picked it up on her own. I remember hearing Dame Julie on her book tour, probably on Fresh Air, recounting some of her experiences in London during the war and on vaudeville tours around England. It sounded like something that would appeal to both Mom and Dad. She seemed really pleased.

So, you know, I kicked birthday ass this year.