Fad you wish you had never bought into: Jelly shoes.

City you would next like to live in: Portland, OR. I've been in love with it since we spent a weekend there for our anniversary in 2001.

Food you used to love and now can't stand: Anything milk chocolate.

Childhood idol: When I was a little girl I wanted to be Billie Holiday…or Dorothy Hamill

Biggest leap of faith: South Dakota

Worst job that I've had: Bookstore minion. “Um, hi, I'm looking for this book that was on Oprah about a month ago? I don't know the name but the author was a woman, and the cover was blue.”

Least favorite drug: Anything that gets smoked. I'm highly allergic to smoke.

Least favorite slang word: 'Dude,' followed closely by 'hella.'

Guilty pleasure tv show: Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Favorite song in eighth grade: Anything that wasn't “Eye of the Tiger” (Probably “The Search is Over”)

Cd or tape you are most ashamed of: While my music collection is somewhat eclectic, I'm not really ashamed of anything in it. Well, maybe Fishbone.

Favorite screen couple: Hepburn and Tracy, or Bogart and Becall. Classics. But I grew up watching The Cosby Show, and I still think Phylicia Rashad and Bill Cosby had really good chemistry.

Most hated celebrity: I never remember the names of the ones I don't like. And can't really say I hate any. I hate their work, maybe.

First crush: On a celebrity? Shaun Cassidy (hey, I was seven). On a real person? Gil, who was ten when I was eight.

Favorite halloween costume: My mother made all my costumes when I was a kid. Pocohantas was a favorite, the silver lame' outfit she made so I could be a punk vampire was another.

First concert: My mother took me to see John Denver at Red Rocks when I was five. Later, he nearly ran us off the road, driving up I-70 in his silver Porsche.

Ever seen a ghost? No. But I had a long telephone conversation with my grandfather after he died. I'm still not certain of whether or not I was dreaming, since I woke up with the phone in my hand, and there was no dial-tone.

First friend: Alisa. We grew up together, our mothers grew up together, and she's really more family than a friend. When we were six, my mother had to prick our fingers for us so we could be blood-sisters. The year we were nine, we got into trouble for riding our raft out past the safety buoys at Sandy Hook. The lifeguard yelled louder than either of our mothers. We found out later there'd been a shark sighting that day. *shrug*

Favorite simpsons character: I don't like animation.

Re-occurring dreams: I used to have a dream that I was sprinting up and down the streets of San Francsico. Then I moved there for school, and everything was deja-vu-ish

Favorite playground equipment: I remember practicing on the monkey bars so much that I had blisters on my palms, the year I was seven. Or eight. But I liked the dome better. Sitting on the very top if it was so much fun.

Number of first cousins: 5

Name of freshman year dorm: Hayes Healy Hall

Summer camp: Riding camp when I was nine. I still have all the worksheets naming horse-parts in a box somewhere. That was day camp, and I loved it. Sixth-grade camp and 4H camp were both at Camp Sylvester in Sonora, and I hated it. Ants, toothpaste on the walls, bunk beds, ick! To this day the roughest conditions I'll accept are hotels without room service.

This is partly in reply to a posting in the cellists community, partly not. “Tell us about your cello,” someone wrote.

The part they want to know: My cello is a baby, only a year old (just this month). I hadn't played since high school, and missed it. So I did research, and found Stringworks, and ordered an Artist cello. I'd initially made inquiries about 3/4 sized and 7/8 sized instruments, because I'm five feet tall, and I have small hands. Email went back and forth. “If you're a reasonably experienced player,” they said, “you won't like the 3/4. We don't have a 7/8 line right now. It's something we're considering.” I'm a hobby-player, so I listened, and contemplated, and ordered a regular 4/4 cello. They said I'd be added to the wait list for the next batch. Then a bit later they said, “Hey, we're coming out with this Maestro line. It's more expensive than what you ordered, but you might like it. Want to try?” I looked at pictures, and agreed. A bit later, on a Sunday, after five pm, I got another call. “I'm only a couple inches taller than you. The Maestro is wonderful, but it's hard to play for someone our height.”

So I ended up going down a level, to their Virtuoso line, which is in-between Artist and Maestro. It's the sort of cello that might be used by a professional as a second instrument, for travelling, etc. The surprise came when I got it – it had the rosewood fittings I'd requested. Others prefer ebony, but I really like the rosewood – but they'd stuck in a note telling me they'd given it to me at the Artist price. And the cool thing is that they have a trade-up policy, as well.

So that's the generic 'about'. But then there's the personal 'about'.

Breaking in a new instrument is like getting to know a new lover. At first, everything is new and wonderful and total bliss. Oh, look, the abalone in the bow is still shiny. Smell that? You can still taste the varnish in the air. See? The case is plush and green inside, and there's rosin hidden back here.

Then there's the comparison stage. “Well, yes, I love you but, you do this just like X. And Y used to do that other thing.” It's the same with my cello. The bow I remember from my first cello had black hair. This doesn't. And somehow that's a flaw, even though this bow is really a better bow. This instrument has strings that do not like the summer heat here in California. They slip when the temperature gets too high, and the air too dry, and I've had to grow comfortable with more frequent adjustments than I had to when most of my playing was in an air-conditioned environment.

But eventually you move into the easy familiarity of old lovers. I know now, just how to dampen that persistant wolf-tone, how much I can rock the cello when I'm playing, exactly how far I need to extend the end pin. The weight of this bow feels natural, now, as well.

I admit though, now that we're comfortable, I've started flirting with other cellos. Yamaha makes an electric that I'm really intrigued by. And those graphite bows call to me often. And when I don't play, I feel guilty, like I'm cheating on someone. “You wanted this relationship,” I hear it taunting me. “You have to meet me half way.”

1. IF YOU COULD BUILD A HOUSE ANYWHERE, WHERE WOULD IT BE?
Point Reyes, California, or Georgetown, Colorado

2. WHAT'S YOUR FAVORITE ARTICLE OF CLOTHING?
A huge cotton sage-green sweater that is so frayed it's been relegated to beach-wear.

3. FAVORITE PHYSICAL FEATURE OF THE OPPOSITE SEX?
Eyes…and hands.

4. WHAT'S THE LAST CD THAT YOU BOUGHT?
The Yo-Yo Ma Artist's Choice selection from Starbucks.

5. WHERE'S YOUR FAVORITE PLACE TO BE?
Curled up on the couch with both dogs and a mug of coffee or tea.

6. WHERE'S YOUR LEAST FAVORITE PLACE TO BE?
The grocery store. I hate grocery shopping.

7. WHAT'S YOUR FAVORITE PLACE TO BE MASSAGED?
The balls of my feet.

8. WHAT'S MOST IMPORTANT, STRONG IN MIND OR STRONG IN BODY?
Mind

9. WHAT TIME DO YOU WAKE IN THE MORNING?
The alarm goes off at eight-thirty. I generally tumble out of bed around nine.

10. WHAT'S YOUR FAVORITE KITCHEN APPLIANCE?
Does the dishwasher count? Seriously, I'm still in love with my Kitchen-Aid ™ Stand Mixer.

11. WHAT MAKES YOU REALLY ANGRY?
Incompetence.

12. IF YOU COULD PLAY ANY INSTRUMENT, WHAT WOULD IT BE?
In addition to those I already play? Um…piano. I suck at piano.

13. FAVORITE COLOR?
This changes too often to be definitive. Right now, sage, peach, forest green, indigo, and maroon.

14. WHICH DO YOU PREFER, SPORTS CAR OR SUV?
There's nothing like a ragtop…

15. DO YOU BELIEVE IN AN AFTERLIFE?
Sometimes.

16. FAVORITE CHILDREN'S BOOK?
Fletcher and Zenobia, for the artwork (Edward Gorey! Yes!)
Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day, because it's fun to read aloud
Anything by Milne or Sendak

17. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE SEASON?
Late fall

18. WHAT'S YOUR LEAST FAVORITE HOUSEHOLD CHORE?
Laundry

19. IF YOU COULD HAVE ONE SUPER POWER, WHAT WOULD IT BE?
Shapeshifting

20. IF YOU HAVE A TATTOO, WHAT IS IT?
The only tattoos I've ever had have been the temporary kind from the Cracker Jacks boxes when I was a kid.

Since the person I stole this from had a note here about missing number 21, I'm renumbering everything from here on.

21. THE ONE PERSON FROM YOUR PAST YOU WISH YOU COULD GO BACK AND TALK TO?
My grandfather. I really miss him.

22. WHAT'S YOUR FAVORITE DAY?
Early Sunday mornings, when Fuzzy's still asleep, and the house is still resting.

23. WHAT'S IN THE TRUNK OF YOUR CAR?
Foam moving blocks from Fuzzy's work, his soda, a road atlas that we never actually use.

24. WHICH DO YOU PREFER, SUSHI OR HAMBURGERS?
Sushi, but I love a good cheeseburger, too.

These two questions have been edited, to reflect being used in a journal, rather than email.

25. FROM THE PEOPLE WHO GENERALLY NOTE YOU, WHO'S MOST LIKELY TO RESPOND?
probably. If anyone does.

26. WHO'S LEAST LIKELY TO RESPOND?
. He never actually writes anything :)

Consider these as mental sticky-notes. They're things I could expand into whole essays if I really wanted to, but since I have no content today, and need a break from submission hell, I'm tossing them out randomly.

***

Dinotopia: We turned on Part I just because there was nothing else to watch, and it looked amusing. I'd seen the drawings in National Geographic, of course, so was a bit curious. And really, it's an interesting story, though I'm wondering if the books are as sugary as the Hallmark/Disney production. And of course, the Pern-geek part of me can't help but lose it at times. Example, last night, one of the characters gazed into the eyes of a flyer and was told, “You have to speak his name. Find it inside of you.” His response? “His name…is…FreeFall!”

***

Heard on the radio this morning: Apparently some guy is dressing up as a dog and stealing bits of rose-bushes and other plants and landscape materials from neighborhoods in Cupertino. As if a six-foot-tall dog is unobtrusive, or something.

***

Nostalgia: I grew up listening to Peter, Paul & Mary, and they're still part of my rather eclectic music collection even today. So, when I found out they're playing a concert at a local winery, I was literally bouncing – which isn't easy to do when you're drugged to death on antihistamines, and still can't breathe – anyway, Fuzzy's been informed that I'm ordering tickets tomorrow, and that he could count it as my birthday present, since the concert is about a week after my birthday, in August.

***

Comfort Foods: Sara Paretsky's fictional detective V. I. Warshawski once posed a theory that comfort foods begin with 'P'. (peanut butter, pizza, pasta, pudding, pepperoni, Pepperidge Farm cookies, piroshki, pannetone, etc.) It doesn't start with a 'p' unless you put it in a pita, but hummus is becoming a comfort food for me. I've always liked it; but these days I'm finding I could live on it. Well, perhaps not.

***

Another radio thing: They played the humorous song 'Screwing Around at Work' during the morning show. It's vaguely ironic, I suppose, that I'm sitting here in my office updating a journal on company time. But then, I'm an independent contractor, so I can declare it NOT company time if I want.

***

Earthquake: Yes, there was an earthquake last night. USGS.gov says it was 5.2-ish, and about 30 miles away. Whatever. Earthquakes don't scare me, they just piss me off when they're strong enough to wake me. I, like many Californians, have a personal game of “Guess the Richter Scale Points” – I guessed 5-ish before the newsflashes started up. And, to make this entry come full circle, I have to admit, I was so wrapped up in Dinotopia that for a moment I thought the rumbling was souped-up bass from the tv, simulating dinosaur footsteps.

My mother used to give us safe-sex lectures at the dinner table, whether or not we had company over. One of my favorite high school memories is of the vaguely shocked looks my friends would get. Apparently their mothers never spoke of such things. More's the pity.

One evening, as we were all gathered around the teak dining table that is now mine, she told my step-brother and his girlfriend, “You know, you don't have to marry the first person you sleep with.”

I find it vaguely ironic that five years later, they did indeed get married.

My mother once, while we were in a car stopped at a red light, showed off to my friends and me that her pink and black underwear matched the pink and black dress she was wearing. I attribute my love of colorful lingerie to her. But I've never shown my favorite red bra with the mini-rhinestones to anyone but Fuzzy.

My mother is blunt, sarcastic, generous, gracious, funny, annoying, caring, intelligent, seemingly-omnipotient, stubborn, and vulnerable, all at once. The greatest insult I ever gave her was when I told her that I didn't feel at home in her house. That she eventually came to understand that since I had never lived there, I had no sense of connection to the place, is something that always amazed me.

My mother was not at my wedding. We eloped, and didn't tell anyone until after. (My wedding is a story in and of itself. The courthouse where Laura Ingalls Wilder's marriage would have been registered, a bunch of Fuzzy's mostly-Catholic friends, sarcastic commentary from all of us, and a Chinese-food dinner on a Friday during Lent.) When I told her, she refused to speak to me for weeks. Then she sent a check. And a few months later she threw a reception, where the leader of the local Humanist comunity did a committment ceremony. There was no stress, and very little expense. And the cake was chocolate.

My mother learned most of her favorite Christmas carols in second or third grade. I know this, not because she told me, but because when she sings them (off-key, but with great enthusiasm), she stands like a kid in a school concert. You can almost see the ghost of her inner child standing next to her, sporting knee-socks.

My mother was never a cookie-baking PTA kind of mom. She managed to stay involved in my life anyway. Mostly. She gave me, and every other woman in our family, the most amazing advice: Marriage should wait till you know who you are. Before you commit your life to anyone, you should live on your own for at least a year, travel if you want, and have at least one truly tragic love-affair. Wisdom for the ages, don't you think?

My mother is mystery novels, endless pots of strong coffee, cotton blouses, leather sandals, business finesse, and an endless supply of love, though she's lacking patience.

My mother has a distinct scent. It's not perfume, and it's not the Clinique make-up she used to wear (though that has it's own scent). It's something uniquely hers, and it means home.

The building I work in is several offices around a central atrium, with a flight of stairs to the second floor, where the layout is repeated. Since these are office suites, no company has a private bathroom.

My office is in the northwest corner of the 2nd floor. The men's room is in the southwest corner, and in the vestibule is the ladder leading to the roof. The women's room is in the southeast corner, which means I have to walk the length of the balcony to use the restroom. Some days, like today, that's the only fresh air I get. But really, it's good that we're that busy.

Attached to the wall, in the corner right next to the women's room door is some kind of electrical box. It's locked, and the top of it is about six feet off the ground. Recently, a pair of pigeons decided, for some reason known only to them, that this would make a great nesting spot. And so every time anyone goes into the women's room, they watch her.

A lot of the women in my building try to shoo them away. I don't. I think it's fascinating that they sit so calmly when people are walking by mere inches from their home.

It's weird. I'm not a fan of pigeons, but I find myself concerned about these birds. Today, their nest was empty part of the day, and I worried that someone had fouled it. And I feel sad when the wind blows, and pieces from their nest tumble to the ground.

I also find myself wondering why they chose this exposed metal box as a nesting site. It seems so…I don't know…incongruous.

I purchased Feria hair color a bit over a week ago, maybe slightly longer, intending to try going to something near my own color, for a change. I haven't seen more than an inch of my 'natural' hair color in years, but I vaguely recall it being dark brown. The roots are, anyway.

Feria's not my usual brand, but it was the only brand that had a brown that wasn't ash.

Tonight, intending to actually use the color, I prepped my bathroom, dressed in my hair color t-shirt (a Gateway tech support shirt), and pulled out the box. For a moment, I was confused. There was a bottle labelled 1 and a tube labelled Conditioner and another tube labelled 3. No squeeze bottle.

So, I don't have the receipt, and I'm missing a crucial element of the hair color and it's midnight, and who wants to go fight with Safeway at midnight?

I am NOT HAPPY.

But in spite of being displeased, I have to wonder, why would someone steal part of a hair coloring kit? I mean, it's not even the part that could be sniffed.

I've done this before, but political rants always make me feel the need to focus on the good in life. And I just wrote one at OD. So, here are seven things I'm thankful for tonight. Thanks to for the concept which I've blatantly ripped off.

1) I'm thankful that I have a roof over my head. I live in one of the most expensive regions in my country, in a city with a visible homeless population. Of those of us who have jobs, many are one paycheck away from being homeless. I'm lucky that I'm not.

2) I'm thankful for my mother. We don't always agree, and sometimes we have huge arguements, but she gave me a solid grounding in self worth and a feminist sensibility that I chose to embrace. And she just wrote my marketing campagin for me.

3) Sobe. Today I'm thankful for Sobe. Oh, I know, it's still a sugary fruit juice, but the flavors are lovely (I like the white kind, and the Dragonfruit kind) and the colors are pretty, and the lizard makes me smile.

4) My dogs. Small furry bundles of unconditional love. Yes, sometimes they do horrible things to my belongings, but still.

5) Fuzzy. He dragged me out of the house and hung my corkboard at my office. And I didn't even have to bribe him with Spiderman (which we've yet to see.)

6) The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood One of my favorite books because it portrays such realistic relationships between mothers and daughters. It's a great book to re-read, and I've started doing that this weekend. And there's a movie coming out in June.

7) Sleep. I never used to be a sleeper. In truth, until recently I thought sleep was a waste of time. This weekend, sleep has been better than chocolate, and I've had the most wonderful dreams.

So, as of the 1st, I was allowed to originate loans. Not just process.

And today, today I did!

My very first loan as a loan officer, which, yes, I have to process, but hey.
Ok, my commission is only gonna be about $600, but still…

This is a rant about restrooms.

When I was a little girl, my grandmother instilled in me the deep fear of public restroom. At the beach, we'd be among the hoardes of women holding the auto-locking doors open for each other. 25 women and girls peeing for a single dime. You can't beat that for cost effectiveness. And then she'd take out her 'beach soap.' It probably had a brand, but it was small, round, patterned with something I remember as a Celtic knot, though I'm probably just mixing memories, and looked very much like oversized licorice candy. In my head, it even smells like licorice, but again, I may be remembering incorrectly. The soap would be wrapped in tissue at the bottom of her purse and dragged out (amidst grumbled complaints about the state of the bathroom) whenever a public restroom didn't have acceptable soap dispensers.

In any case, beach bathrooms are never the cleanest in the world, whether or not they try to make you pay a dime to use them, but a lot of that is because, you know, they're at the beach, and people are tracking in seawater and sand all day. And now that I'm older, they don't bother me as much as they did when I was five, and dreaded the command, “Crawl under and open the door for us.” I mean, really, isn't it worth spending a dime to protect an impressionable five-year-old from such a fate?

Office bathrooms, though. And restaurant bathrooms. Those bother me. A lot.

Our offices are in a buliding of rented suites, two floors around a central, open-air, atrium. All the office doors open to the balcony of the atrium. Two of the corners are occupied by steps, the other two by the men's and women's restrooms, respectively. I can't speak for the men's room, though the guys I work with tell horror stories, but the women's room is disgusting.

Apparently, most of the women who work in this building are unfamiliar with that element of modern plumbing known as the 'lever'. You know, the one used to actually flush the contents of…well, you get the idea. Apparently, they think their mothers work with them, as well, because they don't clean up. Anything. And while we have a cleaning service, they don't do much more than replace toilet paper (if we're lucky), and empty trash. I've seen them with mops, but have yet to find any evidence that mops were used, and I think 'sanitized' is a concept they can never hope to comprehend.

What annoys me about this is that we are, presumably, all adults here. Not even college students (though I have to say that my dorm-floor restroom was pristine compared to this, and Daisy, our housekeeper, even noted which way we liked the toilet paper rolls to hang, and turned them all that way) could be this messy, this gross. And not even busy fast-food restaurants, where at least the bathrooms get tons of use, are this dirty.

And there really is no point to this.
It's just really annoying me today.

I suppose I should count myself lucky that this is all I have to rant about today.