Casita Klatsch

J'adore...

White Horse by Aussie singer, Scott Matthew. Oh, if I were in Sydney on the 28th to see him in concert.

Mid-November

I would apologize for the dearth of postings, but I am beginning to realize that I don't need to.  It's not like anything hangs in the balance really, depending on whether or not I scribe a pithy (or not) paragraph or two.  Anyway, life is doing one of its about-faces, and sooner or later things will settle.  In the meantime, why not take a moment to investigate this?  I think it has some merit.

Halloween, and other delights

Halloween in our neighborhood was a real dud, which completely surprised us, considering we were warned that we'd be deluged in this area.  I think we had 10 trick-or-treaters, the majority of whom I am sure were over 17.  My favorites were the recent single mothers with their infants in strollers.  Now that's scary.

No matter.  We had fun setting up.

Earlier in the week, we had a pumpkin carving fest. 

On Halloween day, the Offering of the Sacrificial Barbie Knock-offs took place, and the victims situated next to the front door for optimum effect. Let's make 'em cry!

But hardly anyone came.  But that's okay.  It wasn't about them.  It was a fun project to do as a family.

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In other news...

ho comprato una Vespa!

Spooky Pumpkin 2009

Ah yes, it's that time again...

We've just finished cleaning up after the Pumpkin Mutilation Party we just hosted.  (In case you're already scowling wondering, the seeds of the slain pumpkins were saved and roasted, and the innards were placed in a paper bag for deposition in a compost heap.)

This year we were also celebrating Patrick's birthday.  Happy Birthday, you handsome devil.

Patrick, disgruntled, displays his gift from Homer

It was also the celebration of Martha's birthday.  She's a year old now.

Homer deigns to give Martha a birthday hug (even though she's making his life an allergy hell at the moment)

Fueled with copious amounts of Sandy-made lasagna, Homer-made cake and various French-made wine, we all dug in and soon found ourselves elbow deep in pumpkin goo. 

Zane gets slimy wit' it

F.O. contemplates his next pumpkin strategy..

Getting the little pieces to pop out is half the battle.

Some started out with pre-drawn designs, but in the end, all pumpkins were done free-hand.  I think they're fantastic, each of them.

47

Yes.  Forty-[bleepin']-seven.  I can't believe it either.

Three things rescued this day from abject poverty of value:

1. my partner, who wished me a happy day when I arose at 5:15am to get ready for a work teleconference (sometimes the time difference really blows) and then treated me to breakfast afterward;
2. cupcakes handmade and delivered by Homer and chocolate-dipped strawberries sent by Rob;
3. and Facebook, on which I received countless happy-day messages from mates here and abroad.

Thank you, everyone.

Back from the Dead

After five weeks of bronchitis, or six--I lost count after a while, and nine days of diarrhea, a trip to the emergency room, a fistful of atomic antibiotics, and a fair amount of bedrest, I am tired and weak.  And behind.  But that's enough complaining.  I am back, and that's good enough for me.

I have this notion of morning therapy.  For as long as I can remember, I have made sure that I take the time to engage in something just for me, before I begin the workday.  (Or school day, if you want to go back that far.  As it's my birthday very soon, I have no desire to, but go ahead.) 

My morning ritual, to which I am very happy to return in better health, is pretty simple. Get up at least a half-hour before anyone else in the house.  Void the bladder, wash the face, check the wrinkles.  Stagger to kitchen, drink water, make coffee (a ritual of its own), and head outside.  In the limitless expanse of our backyard, I do things like sweeping the patio, checking the pool and gathering dogtoys.  

The pool wearing its winter cap

Mostly, however, I potter around with my Coffee-From-Hell mug, checking out the plant life and watering as needed.  I'm not a true gardener, but my rural Southern roots are surprising sometimes.  I like to play in the earth.  Having said that, I am mindful of the fact that we live in the desert and limit my play to that with drought-tolerant plants, or reserving those that need a bit more water either to pots or very small spaces.   The trees were already here, and I do what I need to to keep them healthy on as little water as possible.

One of these days I'll have the time to research what type of tree this is.  (Anyone care to save me the suspense?)

I have plans for this little piece of concrete-locked earth.  Zinnias.  Lots and lots of zinnias.

Baby zinnias (which you could see better if there weren't so many dead olive leaves)

More babies on the way, of many kinds.  (The previous tenants left a small greenhouse behind.  They're nice guys.  I have met them before and am pretty sure they will be happy that it's getting some use until they come to collect it.)

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In other news, I am singing a bit this weekend.  If you're local and up for some interesting choral music, jump here for more details.

Vroom II

Motorcycle "boot camp" rocked, although it came at a cost.  Over three days, I and four other inmates spent 11 hours in a classroom jointly reading and discussing the Motorcycle Safety Foundation's rider manual, and another 11 hours sitting on banged-up, overheating Honda Nighthawks in the blazing sun while our very competent instructors went meticulously through 17 riding exercises with us.  And at Sunday noon, having passed the knowledge and skills tests, with motorcycle rider license in hand (or at least with the requisite paperwork to take to Large Marge at the MVD), I lugged my sweaty hump back to Casa Crazyhorse and collapsed in a moist heap. 

A few hours later, I was in pain.  I am not referring to the pain brought on by fatigue from using a variety of muscles to remain upright on the motorbike.  This was pain of the gastro sort.  When the discomfort began, I wrote it off to the fast-food delights I had quickly taken in during our short break between the morning and afternoon sessions on Saturday.  It had been ages since I'd eaten a burger and fries at Carl's Jr, and I figured my system wasn't used to it.  But then the gastro pain increased, as did the borborygmi loud enough to hear in Benson.  (Grossed out now?  Well, that's what you get for reading the blog of a medical lexicographer.)

By midnight, I wanted to vomit.  But I couldn't.  I seldom can.

Now, after spending the whole day in bed nursing a bloated abdomen, I am fairly certain I know what it is:  I have ingested some kind of bacterium or fungus, and it has turned my lower GI tract into a toxic waste facility.

How do I know this?  Because the memory of the black-mold-covered spigot on the giant Gatorade urn they had for us at the motorcycle range came to me at some point in the night. During the two days on the range, blinded by thirst, and with the heat, sunglasses and helmet distorting my vision, I gulped down cup after cup of the stuff before I noticed the mold on Sunday morning.  (See, Mark.  I'm really not a card-carrying mysophobe.  If I were, I would have seen it immediately.  I probably wouldn't even have touched the urn.) 

When I called this to the attention of my classmates, they chuckled in horror.  And they kept drinking it.  I wonder if any of them is in the same shape today.  Wait, what's that distant rumble?

I know I got the motorcycle license just to ride our scooter to rehearsals, but now I want a bike.  Especially this one.  I think dropping a lot of cash on the course, subjecting myself to the its grueling nature, and sitting through this stomach bug for however long it takes for my immune system to blow it away, are justification for saving up for one.  And yes, Mom, I'll be careful.

Happy Birthday, Homer

We hosted a birthday gathering for Homer on Saturday.  I think Homer had a good time, despite some wicked allergy problems. 

The temps aren't climbing as high these days, which means we were able to enjoy the backyard without roasting. 

I volunteered to bake the cake.  I love a good challenge, and considering Homer is the Cake King, the challenge was certainly on. 

F.O. puts together his famous homemade ice cream

Homer requested a yellow cake with chocolate frosting.  After some searching, I decided on a basic yellow cake recipe from The Well-Decorated Cake and creamy chocolate icing from Bon Appetit. 

 

A trip to the second-hand store solved the problem of not having an electric mixer.

Fresh from the oven, the cakes don't look too glamorous. 

But they clean up well.  

Like any self-respecting birthday cake, it stayed hidden from the birthday boy's sight in the cake cover I got at the second-hand shoppe.  Just like Grandma's!

And the moment arrived.

Homer blows

Richard

Homer and some of his fellow revelers

Thursday

Ater-work fun at the second-hand store!

mid-century Scandinavian salad bowl and servers, ceramic with teak handles and trim

We got a salad server, Martha the Shrew got a hair-cut.

Vroom

And so I begin week 4 with the dregs of the cold that has slowly migrated from my head to my chest, leaving me with one of the worst cases of bronchitis I have had since childhood.  I am so tired of coughing, I could scream.  But that would just make me cough more.  Last week, a couple of people in the dog park were telling me that they know many who are sick with what sounded like the same thing.  Sounds like it's a nasty bug that hangs on for weeks, even without bronchitis. Great.  And just when I have some singing to do soon. 

On the brighter side, the weather is finally cooling down a tad.  I haven't really felt much like getting out, but I have taken some bike rides with Zane and Mark over the past few days.  At some point, I'll remember to take along my camera.  As much as I love it, my iPhone just doesn't hold up to the Ixus when it comes to taking shots for the blog. 

Speaking of riding on two wheels, my motorcycle riding class is coming up in a couple of weeks.  No, there's no mid-life crisis here.  (I don't think I am due for another one of those for a couple of years.)  I simply need to get a motorcycle endorsement on my license, in order to ride our scooter to and from the above-mentioned rehearsals, the venues for which are quite far from our house on decidedly bike-unfriendly roads and not very public-transport convenient. 

The motorcycle class saves me from having to memorize the operator's manual, which apparently is what you have to do to pass the knowledge test. Yes, I sauntered into the MVD a few weeks ago, having skimmed the photocopy of the manual angrily hurled at Mark by one of the MVD staff after he threw a tantrum at them for not having the manual available either online or in their offices (apparently it's under revision...beats me how a person is supposed to be expected to pass the test if the study materials aren't available, and haven't been for months).  I had sailed through all the sample questions in the manual and the 5-question online practice test.  "Puh-leaze Mary, piece of cake," I said to myself and Mark.  I was ready for my license now.  Not. 

Up to that point, I hadn't failed a test, well, ever.  But there I sat, only minutes into the exam, blushing under the ugly drop ceiling, looking at an outmoded monitor displaying a large red "F" that was decked out in what appeared to be Comic Sans font, by far the largest insult.  I hadn't even finished half the test, but I guess I had already missed enough questions that it didn't take a very complicated algorithm to work out that there's no way I could pass.  I ashamedly returned to Large Marge at the counter and said I'd be taking my manual back.  (She had confiscated from me as I entered the exam room.)  In addition to my photocopy, Marge gave me a print-out to sign and bring back upon my next attempt.  As if it weren't etched into my retina enough, I looked down at the piece of paper and saw the same offensive "F" staring back at me.  Nice touch.

About three weeks later, after the sting of my first failing grade had eased and I could again entertain the notion of a retake, I did some research and found that taking (and successfully passing) a 17-hour motorcycle riding class would waive the need to sit the MVD test and provide me with my motorcycle endorsement.  And they provide the bikes.  It will be a hellish way to spend a weekend, but way better than having to look Marge in the eye again.

Hubba Hubba

The Hubble has a fancy new camera!  How about this for spectacular?  

Butterfly Nebula (NASA/ESA/Hubble SM4 ERO)

Zane has expressed interest in learning astronomy.  He also has a fascination with photography.  How awesome would it be to go into astronomical photography?  Or photographic astronomy.  Or whatever.  I know he's young, but I think it would be the bee's knees...as long as I didn't have to study the physics behind it all.  That makes my brain hurt.

I'll stick with my 7th chords, vocal performance practice and conducting and admire the pretty pictures. 

Tiebreaker

I really love this about us.

The shoe organizer Mark and I share--notice the laces.

Dry humor...literally

I was going to begin this post with something about our water being shut off this morning, due to a delinquent amount accrued by the previous account holder the month BEFORE we moved in.  But Mark scolded me for mentioning it on Facebook, so I guess I shouldn't say anything here.  Oops.

Anyway, because of the above unmentioned business, the morning has been a bit crazy.  I must get to work, and there's no time to post.  So I'll leave you with the following.  No doubt the site has been around for a while, but I've just stumbled upon it.  If you need a giggle, I encourage you to check it out.

Funny Zombies

It's here.  It just wouldn't be a Sandy summer without a head cold.  I thought I might have escaped it this year, but it has moved in nearly overnight.  I'm hoping it will be one of my short-lived ones. 

Last night, Zane and I watched Shaun of the Dead.  It has been on my wishlist for a few years.  Now that Zane is old enough to deal with such movies and not obsess or have nightmares, it is a real pleasure to watch them with him.  Of course, anyone who knows anything about SOTD, Simon Pegg or Edgar Wright knows that this is not your average zombie flick.  Part of their "Blood and Ice Cream Trilogy", it is so clever.  Ranks up there with Bubba Ho-tep on my list of favorite dark comedies.  Even Mark, not a fan of horror films, giggled a bit throughout it.  

In other news, I have a birthday coming up fast.  In case anyone is out of ideas, I'd like something from here, please.  And there's always my Powells or Amazon.  Thanks in advance!  </wink>

Pussies, Plants and Pale-Green Eggs

I looked after Homer's cats while he was in San Diego over the past few days.  Forrest, who moved in Ye Olde Casita after my February return to Sydney, has also been out of town.  His cat, Shirley, needed some TLC, so I looked in on her, too.  Five cats.  That's a lot of petting, not to mention poo to scoop.  I don't mind, however.  They're sweet cats.  

Homer and his cats (minus Snowball), circa 2007

I did have a scare yesterday.  Snowball the Kitten decided to wander outside after Puff had craftily pried open the door, after I only thought I had closed it tightly behind me upon going to visit Shirley in the Casita.  So I returned to Homer's backyard and found Puff standing at the door and Snowball under a tree.  Snowball, just this side of feral, was nervously sniffing around, eating grass and crying.  The big sook.  I tried to coax him back inside, but he wouldn't have anything to do with me and wouldn't let me get near him, despite the pleading, scolding and food handouts.  The clincher was when he squeezed into the crawlspace under the house.  At that point, I gave up.  I've had many cats before, and when one has got out before, they always come back that evening.  They know where home is.  And food.

So I got to tell Homer when I picked him up from the airport that the newest addition to his fold had temporarily flown the coop.  No, not Henny-Penny, but Snowball.  Of course, I felt terrible, and I tried to palliate his worry by telling him that cats come back.  Snowball didn't look like he was going anywhere.  He just wanted to relive some of his vanishing youth in the wild for a few hours. 

About an hour later, Homer called to tell me that Snowball was safely back in the house.  I hope I'm not off the Holiday Party list. 

Homer's hen, Henny-Penny, was a good girl while he was away.  She laid an egg nearly every morning.  They are beautiful, the color of fairy tales.  Unfortunately, Snowball the Kitten rolled one of them off the kitchen table.  Not so pretty anymore.

Proud Henny-Penny

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Yesterday, I planted the cactus we had bought over the weekend.  Zane has been wanting a big cactus bowl, so he, Mark and I headed to a very cool local nursery, where we all chose a few succulents we liked.  Last night, while he was taking a break from some Pre-Algebra homework that was kicking his butt, Zane designed the arrangement, and I transplanted them to the bowl.  I enjoy these projects with Zane.  It's nice to do something creative and non-Wii.  

 

 

By the way, Zane started his own blog a couple of weeks ago.  Why not stop by and encourage him to write more?