::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.

Clay posted this in his LiveJournal account, so I had to check it out.

OneWord is a 60-second writing exercise. They post a new word each day, and you have 60 seconds to write about whatever that word inspires. It’s very cool.

Today’s word was “home”.
Here’s what I posted:

Home is the place, they say, where people have to take you in, but for me, home isn’t a physical location, it’s the sense of well-being, of total safety and contentment I get when everyone I know and love, those I consider my family, are close by, and safe, and in harmony with each other. It’s a day at the beach with husband and dogs.

This post is taken from Wil Wheaton’s weblog

support our troops — send them your GMail invites!

I keep reading about how soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan are having their tours extended long beyond when they expected to come home, and their morale is suffering as a result. Thankfully, many of our soldiers are able to stay in touch with friends and family via the Internet, but their e-mail access is often very limited.

Post continues here

* * *

There’s a slight breeze licking around my heels as I pad across the yard, and around the edge of the pool to the ladder. My bare feet make a light slapping sound on the pavement, but otherwise the only noise is the faint gurgling of the filter, and the soft liquid murmur of the water lapping at the edges of its confinement.

At the water’s edge, I lean on the two handles of the ladder, lifting first one foot, then the other, dipping each into the foot bath that prevents little specks of sand and grit from hitching a ride into the pool on the soles of my feet. Then, I look down at the top run of the ladder, before beginning my descent.

There are only three steps from the top rung to the low end of the pool, but I enter the water almost languorously, revelling in the sensations of cool water against too-hot flesh.

My feet touch the bottom of the pool, and my toes flex into the liner. Sometimes I think I can feel things moving in the earth far below the bottom, but I usually realize it’s just wishful thinking.

A song lyric floats into my head, as I lunge toward the deep end of the pool, my legs scissoring, my arms holding a float. Later, I’ll do real strokes, but this moment is for long glides from end to end, with the small styrofoam float as a toy, not a support.

For a moment, I’m a child again, lost in memories of days spent lingering in the water long past the time my grandmother wanted me out. “Your lips are blue,” she’d call. I’d always wanted a mirror, to see if she meant it.

I spend a luxurious hour splashing and swimming, laughing at my dog when she barks at the sound of my kicking, and lobbing (or attempting to) fistfuls of water at her. She looks so silly, trying to catch the droplets raining down on her fluffy white head.

Later, showered, and dressed in soft cotton loungewear, I’ll smooth on some lilac-scented hand lotion, and let my thoughts loose in the past, remembering the lavender wallpaper in the middle bedroom in my grandmother’s house, and how much I always longed to have a room that color.

* * *

Keys that jingle in your pocket
Words that jangle in your head
Why did summer go so quickly
Was it something that you said?

I love alliteration, and I’ve been having fun with this meme, but this letter, J, is difficult for me.

I thought about Jello. It’s not just a brand, it’s a symbol. Kathleen Norris, in her book Dakota: A Spiritual Geography suggests that the popularity of the Jello mold in midwestern cuisine has to do with the fact that the rural midwest was the last part of the continental USA to have refrigeration. Summers there can be brutal, so anything that is cool and fruity is worth celebrating, I guess.

Personally, I associate Jello with college parties: Jello shots and jungle juice (fruit juice mixed with everclear), jalapeno poppers, tequila shots, and conversations (and hangovers) that jangled in your head for days after.

Jingle and jangle. Can’t you hear keys clicking against each other, or a klaxon alarm when you read those words? I’ve never thought of them as examples of onomatopoeia before, but they demonstrate the concept well.

Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me.
In the jingle jangle morning I’ll come following you.

Note: Song lyrics are from “The Windmills of Your Mind,” by Alan & Marilyn Bergman & Michel Legrand, and “Mr. Tambourine Man,” by Bob Dylan.