The title of this entry is based on my Ya-Ya name. Want your own? Go to the website for Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood, and click to enter the flash site. Click on the word Ya-Ya, then mouse over the word Ya-Ya and select the Name Generator (thanks to Moonness @ OD for the site and the fun).

Well, we all know I'm a shopaholic, but mostly it's just tech-toys and books. Ah, books. I didn't think I'd have time to read this weekend, as we were driving down to LA to visit with Fuzzy's brother and his family. They were doing the Disneyland thing, after a week in Phoenix, and extended their time in SoCal so we could meet them for brunch and hang out for a while. We made good time getting there, mostly because we did 90mph down I5. Still, it's a gruelling drive, and I'm one of those people who can't read in a moving vehicle. Which meant I got to play DJ. Oh, joy.

We stayed at the Doubletree in Orange. I have no idea why I picked them – it might have been the promise of warm chocolate chip cookies at check in (which, yes, they really do provide). As a hotel, it wasn't bad, except that the espresso bar is /only/ open in the morning, and the bed was horrible. A cement slab with a sheet over it would have been softer. Really.

And Sunday we had lunch with B. & L. and L's sister P. and the kids, the oldest of whom, at 13, is now as tall as Fuzzy. We did the requisite spoiling of said children, treating 13 to a cd, and 10 to the Harry Potter DVD, and 7 to $15 worth of earrings at Claire's. $15 of cheap earrings gives you about a thousand pairs, all of which had to be dangly enough for 7 to wear, non-dangly enough for L to let her wear, and with catches that both L and 7 could work with minimal effort.

We chose not to rush home, and took 101, where we couldn't do 90 for long stretches, and instead were stuck at a mere 80mph. Poor us. But we had fun, even saw a whale breech and then do a classic tail-slap in the waters of Santa Barbara.

There are details…like the story of the homeless woman in the bagelry before we left, and the lake Fuzzy's now in love with, and the fact that our pet-sitter freaked out because we forgot to tell her about one of Cleo's tricks, but those will all be separate entries.

No, really, it did.
It just jumped off the shelf and into my hand, before I could do anything about it. “You want me,” it whispered. “You have to have me. I'm worth it.”
Fuzzy was no help either. “You've been wanting one for years,” he pointed out. Then he told the salesperson, “She comes in and drools over them.”
“I'd buy it,” the salesguy said, holding out the box, “and I happen to have one right here.”

The 'it' in question is a new camera. When I finally left work at 8:30 we made a mad dash to Fry's, because we'd decided earlier to drive to L.A. after all, and I wanted a new digital camera. I mean, I have a FujuFilm digital that is…adequate…but Cleo ate the proprietary USB cord, and now whenever I take pictures I have to remember to set up the cardreader on whatever computer, and transfer them that way. Ick! Also, we're going to France for Christmas, and I wanted to NOT have to lug around extra cables. And then there's the fact that our laptops and my desktop are all Sony products, which use memory sticks as a recording medium, as does this camera, and I'm just enamoured with the novelty of storing data on a stick of gum.

And hey. Purple. Let's not forget that. If Sony products were mint green, I'm sure I wouldn't be quite so attracted to them.

So…new camera. Road trip. Stack of eclectic cd's with which to annoy Fuzzy.
Mmm. Could be fun.

I haven't posted anything in several days, not because I've got nothing to say, but because every time I think I have a spare moment to try and string words together with some semblance of coherence, something or someone demands my attention. So here it is, nearly 2:30 in the morning, and I took my 1/4 of an actifed half an hour ago, and it just hit me.

CL, our most prolific originator of loans, left for Spain on Saturday. I spent all day Friday going over his files with him, to the point where I'm still a day behind. I thought about going into the office over the weekend, and then decided there was nothing so pressing that waiting would kill it. I like my job, but no one can pay me enough to make giving up my weekends worth while, especially when we're going to be away for the next two.

B, our office manager, is also away this week, though his absence is less strongly felt. However, the fact that CL, who acts as head loan officer, and B, who signs the paychecks, are both out means that E. and VirtualP (so named because he manages to originate and close loans without ever spending more than an hour in the office) are even more lax about showing up on time than they are normally. This means that I'm covering CL's files, my own files, my normal duties, and mopping up after E, while stopping to take new calls that normally would go to VirtualP. and E. And while if CL were around I'd be happy about more of my own files (because more files=more commission=new house that much faster), this week I don't really have the time or inclination to schmooze clients.

So, Fuzzy's brother and his family will be in LA this weekend. We thought about flying down to LA on Southwest Early on Sunday morning, spending time with them, and then flying back, and then balked because it'd cost about $400 because we didn't know their plans soon enough. We're entertaining the idea of driving, but if we drive, it means an overnight trip, paying for someone to take care of the dogs, paying for a hotel, and losing a much-needed idle Saturday. So I think Flying might be the better plan. After all, Southwest is essentially a bus with wings, and it's only an hour from SJC to LAX. Barely enough time for juice and peanuts.

We'll be in Minneapolis over the 4th of July weekend. Minnesota in summer is not on my list of vacation spots, but Fuzzy's best friend from college is getting married, and it would mean a lot to him for us to be there. So we're going. The irony is that we declined to attend Fuzzy's parents anniversary thing in Indiana the same weekend, months ago, because we thought we'd be busy. Well, we thought we'd be busy with work, but since we visited them last year, and they've announced they're coming for Thanksgiving (plan: be in new bigger house by Thanksgiving), they can cope.

I have a thousand and one things simmering in my brain, and yet all I've written about are stupid weekend plans. I went to bed last night with a specific phrase in my head, and now it's gone. I hate that. People say, “Keep paper and a pen near the bed,” and I do, really, because my bedside table is home to part of my vast collection of foofy stationery, but actually moving the dogs so I can reach the light, which would wake Fuzzy, and blind me just isn't worth the efford. I think I need a voice activated tape player.

Well, it's been four days since I purchased any new techo-toys. So…maybe.

I was up with the sun this morning. Well, not quite with the sun, but definitely before the sun had warmed any part of my house. In the chill of a Saturday morning at eight, even the dogs refused to chase sunbeams, choosing instead to snuggle deeper into the covers on the bed, and look at me hopefully as I moved about the room, as if to beg, “You're coming back to bed, aren't you?”

But I was a woman with a mission. I called my mother in Baja Sur, and made her look in the La Paz phone book for the DHL station where we send packages. It took her fifteen minutes but she found it, complaining that I should have the address memorized. My memory is good, but I only use this address about three times a year.

We chatted for a while. She wants to move back to the States. I want a bigger house. She may come work for my company, reversing our old position of me working for her (is this irony? I think it is). So we chatted, and if Fuzzy and I can find a house we like, they'll rent or buy this from us, and everyone will be happy.

Of course, after we were done talking, at nine my time, and I'd finished my mug of mint tea, I yawned, and stretched, and wandered back upstairs to figure out what to wear, and coax Fuzzy out of bed. Well, that was the plan. Instead he (with the help of the dogs) coaxed me back into bed, and we all slept till noon, when hunger finally drove us from our purple cotton sanctuary.

The rest of the day was spent idly. We went to lunch. We went to Fry's. We spent money. I am now the proud owner of a new scanner that not only scans normal stuff, but also transparencies, negatives, and slides. I'm very excited about that last part, because I have, in my possession, 50 years of slides that my grandfather took, and that none of us have seen since approximately 1976 when the last slide projector in the family finally burned itself out.

(I also have cans of 8mm home movies, that I really need to find a way to transfer onto video. Any thoughts?)

On the way out to lunch, I'd noticed that my parents house was up for sale again (they only sold it two years ago), listed for $794,950. In a fit of misplaced nostalgia, I entertained the thought of buying it, but, alas, it's out of my budget. Still, it's a neat house, built in 1908, and they were only the third owners. But that spurred us to drive figure-eights through the Rose Garden area, and collect “feature sheets,” those flyers in transparent boxes attached to properties up for sale. There are a couple of possibilities, and tomorrow we'll be wandering through Willow Glen doing much the same thing.

And we'll be out of bed before noon, too.

I woke this morning just as dawn was breaking. For once it was neither the alarm clock from hell nor my dogs that woke me, but nature's music. I stayed in bed, awake, just listening to the birds singing in the dawn and the summer breeze susurrating through the trees, as the sky got pinker and pinker.

Eventually, my mind started to wander, and I began to think about when I'm most productive.

I am not usually a morning person. This is why I'm tickled to death that no one really cares when I come into work in the morning, although I try to keep regular hours (though, regular for me is 10 to 6) so that people know when I'm available. I try to do as I was taught and get rid of quick tasks first – posting rates, making status calls – but no matter how much I do all day, I find that I do the most and best work in the hours between three and six. I'm just weird that way.

More generally, though, I am most productive when my world is complete. I had all these lofty plans of rearranging furniture in my house, etc, this weekend, and then I ended up moving into nesting mode instead. Well, part of that was allergies, and a bacterial infection it took me forever to shake, but part of it was just that Fuzzy was away. And it's odd, because I'm perfectly capable of making decisions and dragging shelves across the room, and yet, when he's not around, even when we're not interacting, everything I do feels 'off'.

It's not really codependence, but inter-dependence, I think. And maybe it's normal after seven years of marriage.

One of the journalists I read said that when she's away from her husband on business she feels like a kite without someone holding the string, and that when she comes home it's like the string is being reeled back in. And while I don't feel that extreme, ever, I really understand the feelings she's describing.

It's nearly 11:30. I've posted rates, talked to three clients, and printed two appraisals. I've also nursed half of my morning macchiato, and chatted with CL and E a bit. I feel a little unfocussed, but that's because my mental rambling in the pink light of dawn caused me to drift back to sleep, and my head is still buzzing a bit from the antihistamine.

Yesterday, my coworker E. finished a phone call, laughing so hard he could barely breathe. Of course, the rest of us wanted to know what was so funny. Here's the story.

Apparently his cousin P., a life-long resident of Santa Cruz, was required to take a drug test for his job (he's a truck driver). He's a habitual pot user, and had already failed a test, so this was his last chance before being fired. Now, P. being the sort of person he is, rather than just not do drugs for as long as it would take for his system to be clean, decided to find another option.

He was referred to a guy in Gilroy who sells his urine for just such situations, but he didn't want to drive all the way to Gilroy, and anyway, upon contact found out that he was no longer in the business. But he could refer P. to someone who could help him.

So P. talks to urine-dealer number two, who says, “Man, it's a good thing you came to me, anyway. The other guy charges $100 for 1/2 and ounce. I only charge $90.”

P., recognizing what a bargain this is, does the deal, meeting the guy with cash the next day:
-“You got the stuff?”
-“Yeah, yeah, got my cash?”
-“Right here. So…is it pure.”
-“Purest ever. I'm not from Santa Cruz after all.”
-“Great, great.”
-“One thing…”
-“Yeah man?”
-“You gotta keep it warm.”
-“Oh.”

So P. asks more questions, and is told that a certain head-shop that /might/ be on Meridian /might/ have some paraphernalia that would work. He goes there, buys this bladder-and-tube contraption, and is told to keep it in the small of his back for four hours to bring the contents to the right temperature so the Thermometer Guy at the testing facility won't be suspicious.

The day of the test, P. finds that he has only boxers, which aren't tight enough to hold the bladder in place. He thinks about sticking it under his arm, but decides against it. So he digs around and finds an obnoxiously colored speedo from when he was a swimmer eons before But they don't come up high enough. So he sort of wedges the filled plastic bladder into the speedo between his…cheeks.

Then he drives over the hill, but he's afraid if he sits down properly he'll cause the bladder to burst, so he's driving over 17 trying not to let his ass touch the car-seat, and nearly getting killed more than once.

Finally he makes it to the testing facility (in one piece), and when he arrives, he checks in. “Oh,” the nurse tells him. “There are five guys ahead of you. Have a seat.”

So P. has to pace the whole time, because, remember, he's afraid of sitting down. Finally it's his turn, he goes in, uses the tube to empty the bladder, sticks the empty contraption in a baggie, and sticks it in his pocket. Then he leaves.

On the way out, the guy coming in after him sees a piece of tubing sticking out, and tells P. “Hey, I have one of those, too. Bet we shop at the same place.”

P. cannot stop laughing, all the way home. Then, this morning, he called E. back and said, “The thing is, there are no results back. I asked my boss and he said they'd hear on Monday, but he could push things if I wanted. And I can't ask because then they'd suspect something.”

E. and I think this whole thing would make a great short film.
And P. is his real initial.

It's fitting, really, that someone using the name “Moonness” posted this. It's not really a survey, more a quiz.

First, go here and find out what phase the moon was in when you were born.

Then, go here and find out how 'your' moon-phase influenced your life.

My results: I was born on 17 August 1970, the day after a full moon, so even though the full moon was visible, I'm technically influenced by the waning moon:

The DISSEMINATING MOON phase is the FRUIT of the plant’s cycle, the fruits of wisdom and experience. If you were born during the disseminating moon phase, your life must have purpose and meaning. You enjoy sharing your beliefs and ideas with others, and are a teacher. This large moon is visible in the sky from when she rises mid evening until when she sets midmorning.

Not sure how accurate this is, but fun to do, anyway.

So, I've had four days off in a row, and did I do anything enormously productive? Did I start my novel, or even finish folding the laundry that has accumulated o the couch in the computer room? No.

In truth between allergies and general not-feeling-well, I spent much of the time sleeping, or reading. And really, I have no regrets, because they were my four days, and while I love Fuzzy more than life, I rarely get four days of alone-time in a month.

I did clean the kitchen, top to bottom – even the top of the fridge, which admittedly, I tend to overlook because I can't see that high. And I did send the RSVP for a friend's wedding in Minneapolis in July. And returned half the stack of NetFlix movies I had on my desk.

And while part of me likes this regular paycheck thing, the bigger part of me really doesn't want to go back to the office tomorrow morning. I want to stay home and play.

Fuzzy called at midnight EDT to tell me that he wasn't feeling well. He always gets sick when he travels, and I always worry. And the bed's too big, even though we kid that he's only allowed about an eigth of it.

And I'm whining horribly so I'll end this now, with apologies.

My summer reading mindset has kicked in, and I've been plowing through books, especially today, when it was too hot to be in the computer room. (Note so self. Do not forget to call a/c installer on Wednesday.)

So, this is what I've read since the last time I remembered to post a reading report. Not the frightful lack of fantasy. Nothing's gripped me lately, I guess.

A Natural History of the Senses, by Diane Ackerman. left a sweet note about this book on one of my entries, and while I've just begun to read this book, I have to say that if ever I write half as vividly as Ms. Ackerman, I'll be extremely happy.

Cranberry Queen, by Kathleen De Marco. It's about relationships breaking up, and healing after. Fiction, of course, but depressing.

Sullivan's Island, by Dorothy Benton Frank. One of my many 'beach novels', and in keeping with a recurring theme in my summer reading over the year, it takes place in the South Carolina Lowcountry. (This is a region I'm much enamoured with, though I have no idea why.) After I started this, I realized I had a copy already, but had never finished it. Now I have.

Sophie's World, by Jostein Gaarder. Surreal in an Alice in Wonderland sort of way. Midway through the book the story does a flip-flop and you find out the character you think is the 'real' protagonist, is really a character in a book someone else is reading. In addition to being a great story, this book is also a sort of “Philosophy 101” in a fictional format.

The Matter of Grace by Jessica Barksdale Inclan. Give this book to your mother. She's old enough to appreciate it on another level. This is depressing in places, too, but it's also a nice presentation of women's friendships. It made me wish, really, that I wasn't so painfully shy until I was warmed up, and that I was better at having women friends.

Last Chance Saloon, by Marian Keyes. I started this a week ago, then got distracted, then re-started it. The only problem I had with it was that I watched The Diary of Bridget Jones while I was half-way through the book, and the characters became mixed up in my head. That this book is also about British thirty-somethings and their relationships didn't help the confusion. Still, I'd recommend it.

The Beach House, by Mary Alice Monroe. (What is it about Southern women and using their middle names? Not that I don't like it, but my middle name only ever got used when I was about to be punished for something.) Another Lowcountry novel, this time very much about mothers and daughters. One of the sub-plots involves turtle conservation.

Dog Handling, by Clare Naylor. Another “young English women in relationships” novel, except that this one takes place in Australia. Fabulously funny.

Nora, Nora, by Anne Rivers Siddons. I thought I'd read all of her books, but then I saw this on the bargain table. I just started it.

Gift of a Letter, by Alexandra Stoddard. I'm re-reading this for the umpteenth time, because I love writing letters – and I mean on paper, not email – and this book always reminds me of why.

The Accidental Tourist, by Anne Tyler. I still haven't sent this to Editor Plus @ OD. But I did enjoy rediscovering this piece. Somewhat eerily, the movie was playing on cable the weekend I finished reading it.

Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood and Little Altars Everywhere, both by Rebecca Wells. I've just re-read both of these as well. If you haven't read them yet, read Altars first, and finish with the other. I really want to see the movie. Maybe this weekend.

I'm now desperate for more to read, and so am begging for more suggestions. Please???

“I'm feeling lost and pathetic,” I told and earlier today. “Fuzzy hasn't even been gone for 24 hours, and I miss him, and want him home.” I was told that experiences similar feelings when the SO is away, and in response to that I said, “Well, maybe I should write about nesting.”

~***~
Nuances of Nesting

1) Contrary to popular opinion, nesting can be done outside. If the day is sunny, and the weather sufficiently warm, a stack of books, a comfy lounge chair, and a glass of iced tea (or margaritas), can become a perfectly delightful nest. After all, nesting is more a mindset than a location.

2) Comfort foods are essential. While your nesting experience may be enhanced if you have 'theme' snacks, anything that is comforting to you is acceptable. Examples include the conventional ice cream (generally eaten directly from the container, especially when you are combining nesting with wallowing), the nostalgic peanut butter and banana sandwich, and the daring – one might even say eccentric – cream cheese and liverwurst on rye bread. Should fast food be more to your taste, nesting connoisseurs recommend such things as pizza, Chinese take-out, and Stouffer's Macaroni & Cheese.

3) The stack of books alluded to in point 1 is also a vital part of nesting. Your reading matter should be light, warm, and full of whimsy. Romances, fantasy, and other such mind candy are good choices. Home decorating magazines are another popular option. Also on the a-list are such novels as Last Chance Saloon and Bridget Jones's Diary.

4) Should reading not be a comforting activity for you, it is suggested that you turn to movies. Again, the range of options is huge, and encompasses everything from the quirky-yet-sexy Better Than Chocolate to the trendy-yet-funny Bridget Jones's Diary, to such films as Message in a Bottle, The Love Letter, Practical Magic, and perennial favorite Ever After.

5) Nesting attire should be soft, comfortable lounge-wear. Serious nesters tend to go bra-less, and are known for curling up on the couch, or amidst a pile of pillows on a bed, wearing a baggy t-shirt, old sweatpants, and athletic socks. The sweatpants are optional, of course, should summer heat make heavy clothing unwise. An alternative to sweats is to stay in pajamas all day, but this choice is not recommended to anyone with a strong work-ethic, who needs to justify themselves by counting 'getting dressed' as requisite productivity.

6) Hair, if long, should be gathered into a pony-tail, preferably with an obnoxiously colored scrunchie. Braids, or a pair of pony-tails (aka “bunches”) are less popular, but equally efficient. In the absense of hair-paraphernalia, leaving it loose and hanging is also acceptable. Short hair, of course, requires no special treatment. Brushing is entirely optional.

7) When possible, it is preferable to invite small furry pets to share your nesting experience. By cuddling with a small dog or cat, or even a ferret, you gain the advantage of unconditional love, without the disadvantage of being required to converse. Pets, therefore, are essential to a successful nesting experience.

Any questions?