There are two business days left in November, and I've survived. This is a big deal for me, because this month is the anniversary of no fewer than eight deaths in my family, and so I tend to get melancholy and reclusive. Um, well, more reclusive than is usual even for me.

This weekend, we were in 'feathering the nest' mode: Fuzzy climbed up on the big ladder and hung the blue icicle lights for me, and then helped me secure the top part of the multicolor lights we put on our big window. We made a trip to Target, and bought more 'things we could have sworn we had, but seem to need again' – like suction-cup bath mats for inside the tubs, so we can avoid slipping without resorting to ugly stickers. They're even machine washable. The dogs got new beds, and we brought Cleo an orange stuffed dragon that has five eggs filled with squeakers for her to kill.

We spent scads at OSH as well, on pointsettias, which, I've been informed by my mother, are called Nochebuenas in Mexico. I kind of like that name for them, and I bought containers to force some paperwhite bulbs.

While we didn't go poke around Santana Row as I'd wanted, we did manage to see Harry Potter on one of the digital projection screens at the Century theaters. I love those theaters. They're not exactly new, but they've been remodelled and they're so comfortable, with alternating rows of loveseats and rocking chairs, and I love the way the dome of the roof soars over your head when you're sitting there in the darkness. (I hate the new AMC's, but I won't go into that here.)

We had a gazillion invitations to Thanksgiving foo, but after talking about it, we decided we're going to be insular and just be us. Maybe we'll take to the dogs to the beach, but work's been so stressful, I just want to quietly enjoy my house, and work on Christmas cards, and such.

Oy, I'm feeling all boring and mundane today.
But the month's nearly over.

I want rain and fog.
A lot of rain and fog.

Why?

Because I'm selfish.

I'm putting Christmas lights on my house tomorrow, and they look so much better in wet misty weather.

Of course, it's all grey today, but rain isn't in the plans.

Also, I'm somewhat embarrassed to admit that I succumbed to advertising pressure and bought icicle lights for the house, which, conveniently, has little hooks all along the eaves just for suspending such things.

But at least they're blue lights, and not yellowish-clear.

There's a play, the name of which I can't remember, in which the characters include Mommy, Daddy, and their son, who is a grown man clad in diapers. There is a line in that play – an entire scene really – in which Mommy describes a new hat she bought, and Daddy does typical male fake-listening lines like, “Yes, dear,” or “Wheat colored.” I'm not a particular fan of this particular play, I merely remember that we did the scene for an acting class my junior year of high school. And it's at the front of my brain just now because:

I bought a new hat last week.
I didn't particularly need it, as I already own a black fedora, a black flat-top hat with an attached scarf (not unlike the one worn by Fr. Guido Sarducci in classic SNL), and another black felt hat, the name of which I am not sure. Not a bowler. Not a fedora. This one isn't a bowler or fedora either. I suppose it's a sort of feminine derby. Black wool felt with a nice stiff brim, a flat top, and a short crown decorated with a black beadwork flower. It's pretty basic, really, as hats go, but it was on sale, and it had been a long time since I'd added to my hat collection.

Yes, I collect hats.
I was going to take pictures of them, but I put the camera somewhere safe, and now can't find it. So I'll talk about some of them instead.

The felt hats include the afore mentioned trio of black hats, as well as a brown bowler, a red roundish hat with a feather that my grandmother gave to me a few years before she died, and a hunter green fedora.

Then there are the velvet hats. One of them, a sort of dressed up Fez, was made for me by my mother. She also made me a crushable velvet hat with iridescent satin flowers – that was the year we /all/ got hats for Christmas. A third “made by mom” creation is a black velvet baseball cap with purple and gold flowers. I have a 2nd black velvet baseball cap with no permanent decorations. Depending on my mood I'll put different pins on it when I wear it. The same goes for the purple and white painters hats that are part of my collection.

The rest of my velvet hats are all from craft fairs. They include a forest green and eggplant purple plaid golf cap, and an embossed black crushable tophat with a midnight blue iridescent velvet brim, as well as a more conventional flapper hat in brown velvet and faux leopard, and the hat I'm wearing today, a canvas crushable hat with a velvet paisley crown in autumn colors.

I had a cowboy hat once, with a rattlesnake hat band, but it got lost between moves at some point. And I still have an old NY Yankees cap, just because. The rest of my baseball-style caps include the a Gateway hat (no, it's not cow-spotted), a J. Crew hat, and one from MBARI.

I have a velvet hat that looks sort of like a beret with a bill, but is decorated with African colors and shapes that I picked up at a craft fair here in San Jose, and a leather musketeer's hat with actual peacock feathers that I bought at a scifi convention in LA, as well (it came with a rapier).

And, for those days when I just want a color accent, I also have berets in several colors – red, indigo, black, blue, and cream. I need one in mustard to match my favorite turtleneck, and have never been able to find the right color.

And now that I've highlighted my collection, I've realized that I've been a hat-person for my entire life. When I was thirteen, I had an extensive collection of sun-visors. At eight, when I lived in the mountains of Colorado, and we owned a craft store, I wore home-made sunbonnets, just like the ones on “Little House on the Prairie.”

Before that though, so far back that it's accompanied by my grandmother's voice shouting “Suzie, put a hat on that baby!” I remember my first hat: It was red, it was calico, it had ruffles.

It was the Sun-Maid Raisin Girl's hat.

Could someone please explain to me this apparent fascination that men have with garbage?

No, really, I mean it.

To me, trash is, well, trash. You either toss it, or recycle it, and you keep the bins which are used for such activities in a convenient place that is easily accessible, yet relatively hidden.

Not so with most of the men I know.

My stepfather, for example, spent innumerable hours diddling with disposables. It wasn't enough to to basic sorting; instead, he had to separate out any paper that could be shredded for the earthworm farm and turned into fertilizer, a noble plan from an ecological standpoint, I suppose, but not very efficient. Then there were the things he refused to throw away or recycle – glass jars and empty plastic vitamin bottles. I always knew when his allotted storage space had been exceeded and my mother had been yelling at him, because we'd get a package of miscellaneous stuff – kitchen gadgets, a favorite piece of household decor – with those empty plastic containers wedged in as packing material.

My husband also goes through trash-related theatrics. To anyone else, emptying the garbage once a week is no big deal, and takes a grand total of perhaps ten minutes (including controlling wayward dogs). To him, it's a lavish production, and involves clomping through the house, warning me that he's collecting stuff, grumbling that leaving a note on the extra bags saying “please take extra bag” will do nothing, despite my repeated assurances that the garbage collector's brochure specifically instructs you to do just that, and then muttering about how much more convenient this would be if I let him keep the cans at the front of the house. Then, of course, he refuses to participate in any other household projects for the rest of the evening, because “I did the Garbage.”

He'll claim, of course, that he isn't obsessed with garbage, but he's already proven that he is. How? Well, yesterday, as we were getting into the car to get our morning coffee, he informed me, “Someone took all the cans out of our recycling.”

I ask you: would anyone who wasn't obsessed even take the time to LOOK?

(We take you now to the Oval Office.)

George: Condi! Nice to see you. What's happening?

Condi: Sir, I have the report here about the new leader of China.

George: Great. Lay it on me.

Condi: Hu is the new leader of China.

George: That's what I want to know.

Condi: That's what I'm telling you.

George: That's what I'm asking you. Who is the new leader of China?

Condi: Yes.

George: I mean the fellow's name.

Condi: Hu.

George: The guy in China.

Condi: Hu.

George: The new leader of China.

Condi: Hu.

George: The Chinaman!

Condi: Hu is leading China.

George: Now whaddya' asking me for?

Condi: I'm telling you Hu is leading China.

George: Well, I'm asking you. Who is leading China?

Condi: That's the man's name.

George: That's who's name?

Condi: Yes.

George: Will you or will you not tell me the name of the new leader of
China?

Condi: Yes, sir.

George: Yassir? Yassir Arafat is in China? I thought he was in the
Middle
East.

Condi: That's correct.

George: Then who is in China?

Condi: Yes, sir.

George: Yassir is in China?

Condi: No, sir.

George: Then who is?

Condi: Yes, sir.

George: Yassir?

Condi: No, sir.

George: Look, Condi. I need to know the name of the new leader of China.
Get me the Secretary General of the U.N. on the phone.

Condi: Kofi?

George: No, thanks.

Condi: You want Kofi?

George: No.

Condi: You don't want Kofi.

George: No. But now that you mention it, I could use a glass of milk.
And
then get me the U.N.

Condi: Yes, sir.

George: Not Yassir! The guy at the U.N.

Condi: Kofi?

George: Milk! Will you please make the call?

Condi: And call who?

George: Who is the guy at the U.N?

Condi: Hu is the guy in China.

George: Will you stay out of China?!

Condi: Yes, sir.

George: And stay out of the Middle East! Just get me the guy at the U.N.

Condi: Kofi.

George: All right! With cream and two sugars. Now get on the phone.

(Condi picks up the phone.)

Condi: Rice, here.

George: Rice? Good idea. And a couple of egg rolls, too. Maybe we should
send some to the guy in China. And the Middle East. Can you get Chinese
food in the Middle East?

Well, not really, but people keep handing me checks today. If only it were Friday, this would be a glorious day.

As it is, I have to stay late and hammer through my backlog of files, because I lost an entire day to computer errors yesterday.

And then my assistant reminded me that he's on vacation til Tuesday. I don't remember telling him he could go to Vegas for four days. Then again, I'll get even when I go to France next month.

Maybe it's the overcast sky, but I feel unfocussed and disconnected today. Even the jolt from a venti mocha isn't helping my poor brain wake up.

I spent the weekend in bed dealing with a rare but intense asthmatic reaction. I think the rain and the heater in my new house are conspiring against me, because now that the heat's off, I'm fine. Mostly. I've called PG&E to come and clean the heater and check it carefully, as well, because there's a funny smell when we use it. Not like gas or mildew, just…funny. The smell of an iron when it scorches damp cloth combined with something vaguely sweet. Whatever it is is NOT GOOD.

I have a million things to write about, but I also have 35 new files facing me down, mocking me with their newness and incomplete-ness. How dare I write in a journal when they are waiting for my attention?

Still, it'll be an early day for me, as the office is shutting down at 4 so the boys can all go to some sporting event. They invited me, but it's not my thing.

Ah, well, the files are winning after all.
Back to work.

I braided my hair today, because I'm tired of having it in my face, and while ponytails are easy and quick, too many make my head hurt. So I have pigtails, which make me look about twelve. Maybe thirteen. To quote the words of another journalist I read often, “It's never too late to have a happy childhood.” Somehow, the act of braiding my hair has put me in a giddy mood and everything is making me giggle.

* * *
Starbucks has the most wonderful ginger-bread, well, ginger-cake, really, that I've ever gotten from a coffee place. It's moist, and not too sweet, and even has cream-cheese frosting. It's even better than my previous autumn addiction, pumpkin scones.

* * *
I stupidly forgot to buy tickets for Harry Potter in advance, and now, per Fandango, my preferred theatre is sold out for the first week. Argh! Well, it's not like I /have/ to see it in the first week.

* * *
Flowers! I have flowers! My mother treated me to $250 of flowers for the bed in front of my house, and we planted them about ten days ago, and now they're blooming. Yes, while the world around me is all crunchy leaves and greying skies, I have poppies and delphinium and snapdragon. I so love California. I still need to buy lattice and some vines so I can make our front patio a bit more private, and plant the lemon tree (“lemon drop futures”) that Kass and Libby brought us as a housewarming present. It's a rule, isn't it, that all Californian's must have lemon trees in their yards?

* * *
Work is actually going well. I told the guys if they each funded and originated one loan a day, I'd be very happy, and I was mostly joking, because that level of volume is really hard to maintain, but it's 11/06 and we already have 22 fundings on the board. (I only handled 17 of them, though.) So, I'm busy, but in a good way, and (this week, at least), I love my job.

Except, they gave me permission to find an escrow assistant, and there's someone I really would like to hire, who doesn't have any mortgage experience, but I know he's good with computers and customer service, and bright enough to pick up anything, and then they said WAIT. I suspect if we maintain this volume through Q4 I'll get my assistant after all, and a raise to boot.

* * *
I've been bad about commenting in people's OD's and LJ's. I do read all my friends and favorites, and I tend to compose comments, and then forget to actually type them in before work distracts me. This is one of those things that makes me really antsy for that t1 to be installed.

* * *
November has always been a difficult month for me, but so far, this one's not so sucky. Let's hope this is a trend, shall we?

Than sitting in an office on a Wednesday evening, watching a co-worker's pet spider crawl around it's teal plastic container. It's a wolf spider, so, harmless, but I hate spiders, and yet, even so, I'm oddly compelled to peer at this poor captive creature.

It must be the cold meds.

On the other hand, I have two loans of my own funding this week, in addition to the override I get on everyone else's loans and my own base, so, that's a good thing, because the new mortgage is about $1200 / month more than the old mortgage, and while the number isn't that scary, really, I don't like to be under financial pressure.

It's 5:22, and if I'm lucky, Fuzzy will be here by six.

I still feel icky, but tomorrow's Halloween, so it'll be almost like a day off, and we're having pumpkin ravioli for dinner, which I love, and I'm taking Friday off completely to spend some time with Mom before she returns to Baja Sur.

And I'm babbling, sorry.

I have a cold, and my head feels disconnected from the rest of me. That floaty actifeddy feeling does not mix well with work.

At the coffee place this morning, I barely touched my bagel or drink.

I want to go home.