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Sara Paretsky’s fictional detective V.I. Warshawski once riffed on comfort foods, mentioning that all comfort foods begin with the letter p. I’m not sure that ALL comfort foods fit that rule, but there are an awful lot that do: pepperoni, pasta, pita, pastrami, piroshki, pashka, pickles, popovers, pistachios, porridge, pudding, pizza.

Ah, pizza. I’ve been told that it’s not a comfort food, but it is. It’s elegant really: a little bread, a little cheese, and you have the added tactile pleasure of being able to pick it up and eat it with your fingers. The only thing better than pizza is pizza eaten while tucked into bed, late at night, with a good movie or great book for company.

I’m weird that way, I guess. I’m always my most inspired in bed or in the bathtub. (Get your minds out of the gutter, I don’t mean that sort of inspiration), it’s just than when I’m propped up by piles of pillows my brain flips into gear, and words flow directly to my pen and paper, or, more often, to the pads of my fingers as they press the keys on my laptop.

Personally, I think my perfect job would be getting paid to stay in bed and make a few phone calls, and otherwise just write. (Alternatively, I’d love to have an office that felt as comfortable and safe as my bedroom, but that’s beyond the realm of the possible, I suppose.)

The thing is, tonight, my head isn’t full of words, it’s full of plans I can’t yet commit to a public place. Things to do, to find out, to set in motion.

More…possibilities.

::Capricious: Governed or characterized by impulse or whim, lacking rational basis or likely to change suddenly::

Onesome: Characterized by impulse– Do you consider yourself impulsive or do you tend to think everything through before you make a move?
I’m impulsive about some things, less so about others. When I met Fuzzy I knew he was THE ONE, for example, and I was that way about our condo and our house, but I agonize over other things.

Twosome: lacking rational basis– If you are impulsive, do you rationalize and justify your actions? Like, since that item you bought on a whim was on sale, you really saved money by buying it?
I did this recently, with the first two seasons of Smallville on DVD - I bought them when Fuzzy wasn’t looking then reminded him they’d been on his wishlist forever, and were ‘owed’ to him.

Threesome: or likely to change suddenly– When you make up your mind, does it stay made up or do you tend to change your mind at the last minute? …or do you waffle back and forth until you’re forced to decide?
I can be extremely mercurial. I vacillate about a lot of things, and then sometimes I just decide against something, seemingly on a whim. Pity my poor husband.

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* * *

It’s a quiet night here at Casa Caffeinated. Fuzzy’s sitting at the computer cataloguing his comic books, taking breaks to quench his thirst with warm orange soda. (He’s quirky that way.)

I’m in the bed, a quilt wrapped around my feet, and a dog on my lap. He watches my hands on the keys, then stares at the screen with a quizzical expression.

This quilt was a gift from a family friend, a hand-made wedding quilt from China. It’s suffered more than its quota of abuse at our hands - we use it almost every night, and we’re bad about caring for it, washing it and drying it like any other blanket, instead of having it cleaned professionally.

Quilting isn’t a skill I have, but it’s one I’d like to acquire. My sister-in-law and mother-in-law often combine their talents on gift-quilts whenever someone in Fuzzy’s family gets married, and we always contribute to the materials fund, but I’d like to be a part of the process. The question’s come up, actually - Crystal asked if I’d be interested in learning, and I said yes.

It’s funny, really, because all I know about quilting comes from novels and movies. There’s a great mystery/romance called Stitch in Time that has quilts in it - a curse stitched into one, I think. And then there’s that Winona Ryder movie, which is a great film for when you’re in bed sick, instead of in bed writing. It’s not the best movie, but I have no qualms about mentioning it: How to Make an American Quilt.

I say… And you think … ?

1. Abundance:: wealth
2. Casino:: royale
3. Shell:: seeker
4. Overpriced:: schlock
5. Cancellation:: inevitable
6. Eternal:: flame
7. Lyrics:: words
8. Faith:: hope
9. Because:: I said so.
10. Wimp:: wuss

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* * *

Omelettes. I love them. They’re not my favorite food, but they’re one of my favorite foods when I don’t know what I want. I’m not good at making them, either. I tend to end up with exotically flavored scrambled eggs, instead.

Odors - and not pretty ones - assaulted my nose when I entered the office building this morning. Tile glue is such a vile substance. Especially when there’s painting going on nearby. Ventilation is my friend.

Order…I need to make some out of all the STUFF we have, far too much of which we haven’t used in years. I keep telling Fuzzy, “If we haven’t used it in over two years, we don’t need it.” He keeps overruling me.

Ordinary. I feel that way today. Ordinary, unexciting, uninteresting. Oh, wait, I should save these words for when I do “U”…

Oh, well.

* * *

Noise. Someone’s music is always someone else’s noise. Yesterday, I was tortured by the bass-line of a quasi neighbor’s (across the back fence two or three houses down) party. I wanted to nap, but was kept awake by the incessant booming vibrations, perfectly audible through several closed doors and the whirring of an air conditioner.

Also, at dinner with friends, which was nice, there was an extremely loud rockabilly band. Yodelling should not be allowed within the city limits. Even when there is beer available.

Nightmares - I haven’t had any scary dreams lately, but recently I’ve had a series of vivid dreams about a house and a yard, and some kind of guide who is oddly reminiscent of Christopher Lloyd as Reverend Jim from Taxi. No, I’m not taking narcotics. In my dreams, the guide is a homeless guy who likes to sit on the plant ledge. I can’t decide if he’s sinister or harmless, but he’s a very real presence.

Last night, or rather, this afternoon, I dreamed I was riding my bike, too far, over a mountain road, and past the Vampire’s compound. They invited me for tea, and did a timestop to keep the sun over my head, but then I realized time had stopped, and I’d have to ride my bike in the dark. A spell to command sunlight turned the entire compound into a fireball, that was oddly satisfying. And then I coasted all the way home. Only now that I’m writing this to I recognize the street as Usona Road in Mariposa. Dreams are weird that way.

Novels: I just finished a novel by someone I know. I’d beta-read the first few chapters, years ago, and then lost touch with her. She apparently self-published last year, and the novel is quite good. (See Zenitopia for my review, probably tomorrow.

Night time. Sleep time. I’m nodding off.

* * *

Meandering mornings, full of net surfing. I sip tea and answer personal email. I browse through house listings, looking at houses in the cities where we’re hoping to live someday very soon. I look at my hands, and realize I’m desperate for a manicure. We do not discuss the state of my toes.

Music from Fuzzy’s bathroom, made too loud and indistinct by the shape and size of the room, and the ceramic tiles on the walls, assaults my ears. I could turn on my own music, drown his out, but the volume this would require would distress the dogs.

My mother, distracted, frenetic, generous, but often self-absorbed. There are qualities she has which I lack, and long for, and others that I’m developing against my will. Isn’t that normal with all mothers and daughters. If I ever have a daughter, will she one day feel the same?

Mini-mansions on the brain, these oversized lofty Texas houses that are so intriguing. Fuzzy loves them, and I like the light, the kitchens, but they seem so cold, so austere, so formal, and while I like small doses of foofyness, I also think houses should be comfortable and lived-in. The house that strikes me most is older, more traditional, with a corner lot and dormer windows. Funky, but functional. How to convince him?

Mowers, on every lawn but ours, as Fuzzy hasn’t yet begun weekend chores. I like the way their sound embodies peaceful domesticity.

Monthly dinner, with friends who live not two exits away, but whom we communicate with via email and instant messaging. I’m equally at fault in this distanced connecting. Still, the gatherings are fun, comfortable. I’m even beginning to talk more.

Musing…my head is filled with possibilities. My parents think I should focus my writing, and submit stuff to magazines. I think they’re being less than objective, much as I want to try.

Mocha. I think I’ll get one now.