When I was a very little girl, and would visit my grandfather, one of my favorite things to look at was his photo cube. It was a clear acrylic cube with a photograph of me on each side, mostly from when I was a baby, or just into my toddling years. I thought that was the coolest thing ever, at the time.

Years later, learning about the existence of digital photo frame technology has me wondering if my grandfather might not have been one of the first people on the block to acquire such a thing. He was, after all, technologically savvy, a tinkerer and a putterer with a background in electronics and a love for nifty gadgets.

Of course, being my grandfather, he’d never have settled for just one digital picture frame. He’d have had a piano full of them, each one a different color, each one featuring shots of a different grandchild, uploaded from his flash drive, accompanied by a favorite tune.

He died before shopping online became popular, so chances are he’d have found a local distributor, but he’d have used DigitalFramez.com.au if he’d lived just a bit longer, and, like me, he would have liked that their frames come in many different colors, and a range of sizes, that they’ll ship worldwide, and that, in addition to the usual MasterCard and Visa, they also take PayPal. (Personally, I wish more online merchants used PayPal – it’s much more efficient.)

Right now, as well as the product itself, DigitalFramez is shipping a 256 MB SD card with every 10-inch frame.

I think that’s kind of cool.
And I think my grandfather would have appreciated it.

Sometimes you can tell from the first moment you open your eyes in the morning, what kind of a day it will be. Or at least, I can.

Yesterday, I knew the day would be a trying one, because I hadn’t slept enough, had tasks I didn’t want to face, was stressed over Fuzzy being in the air, which I know I can’t do anything about, but I always worry til I know he’s on the ground.

Even before I went to bed last night, however, I knew today would be better. One sign was that I received a “click-n-ship” notification from Black Phoenix letting me know my most recent perfume order was on its way to me. If you’ve never experienced the wonder that is BPAL, you may not understand how exciting this is, but trust me, it is.

This morning, I woke to a soft gray sky, an outside temperature below seventy degrees, and the news that a piece I wrote for a site that doesn’t take pieces from just anyone will go live on Sunday. My boss told me I rock, and that I make his job easier, and there were no presents from the dogs on the bathroom floor.

As I write this, my coffee is about to finish the brewing process (this morning’s blend is Starbuck’s new “Joya del Dia” blend, which is a bold, dark roast with chocolate overtones (but NOT flavoring), and even the neighbor’s leafblower is striking me as “cozy” and “neighborhoody” instead of “horrible” or “jarring.”

Yes.
Today is a better day.

Talking with a friend over IM, I asked her about the homeschooling she’s doing with her children, each of whom is being taught at home for vastly different reasons. She’s ten years younger than I am, I think, and an amazing parent – I wonder when she finds time to breathe. I am amazed that she finds time to write.

She mentioned the concept of unschooling, and that phrase lingered in my mind. I am not unschooled, but a product of public schools, blessed to have encountered marvelous, caring teachers, and offered amazing opportunities.

But for the last year, I have been un-officed.

I mean, think about it. An office is a place with reception desks and cubicles, carpet in varying shades that are all related to institutional green and mortgage banker blue. and hermetically sealed windows, when there are windows at all.

I work from home. Lately, my daytime writing has been taking place at my grandmother’s antique rolltop desk with the sunflower drawer pulls, and the pretty silver and blue lamp on the top has been casting soft pink light upon my pink-sheathed macbook, and my nighttime writing has been on my sexy black Vaio, while I’m surrounded by pillows. I have a room of my own upstairs, but it’s not speaking to me write now. I think it’s mad at me, because I dubbed it a studio several months ago, then promptly reverted to calling it an office.

Or maybe it’s just that the summer sun makes the upstairs too hot, and I like being able to walk to the back yard between paragraphs, without having to climb up and down the stairs.

Being un-officed doesn’t mean I’m not working.
It just means my workday has a flow that is difficult to define.

I wrote all my answers / responses to today’s question on a stray envelope on my desk while I was in the middle of writing a review of the 2008 Volkswagen Beetle (I so want a Beetle) for work, and then got sidetracked, and pathetic, and whiny, and never posted it.

Well, there’s still a little bit of Monday left in my timezone, so here goes:

1. Who is your favorite blues guitarist?
   I’m torn between John Lee Hooker and B.B. King – they have different styles, and they’re both amazing, especially those gritty old vinyl recordings, where you can hear the emotion coming off each chord.
2. What is your favorite blues song?
   This changes often. Right now, I’m really digging Fleetwood Mac’s version of “Black Magic Woman,” but I like the classic stuff, too, and Harry Connick, Jr’s version of “Do You Know What It Means (to Miss New Orleans)” is a perennial favorite.
3. What gives you the blues?
   

   I woke up this morning
   (Ba da-da da-dum)
   Alone in the bed
   (Ba da-da da-dum)
   I sat up and felt it –
   (Ba da-da da-dum)
   A pain in my head
   (Ba da-da da-dum)
   The dogs were whining
   (Ba da-da da-dum)
   To go out the door
   (Ba da-da da-dum)
   I pushed back the covers
   (Ba da-da da-dum)
   Put my feet on the floor
   (Ba da-da da-dum)
   And that’s where I saw it
   (Ba da-da da-dum)
   Right there on the rug
   (Ba da-da da-dum)
   It was scurrying toward me
   (Ba da-da da-dum)
   A HUGE water bug
   (Ba da-da da-dum)

   (You get the idea….)

Like to dance? You, too, can Mambo, by clicking here.

The problem with having small, terrier-esque dogs who share the bed with you is that they like to dig, and they’re just as happy digging in the bedclothes as in a pile of sand outside. Zorro, especially, is amazingly proud of his virtual holes, standing over them proudly, and looking at me with that “look what I did” expression that only chihuahuas can really master. I’m tickled for him, really, but I’m less than thrilled at what his tiny little claws have done to my soft cotton sheets. Last night, Fuzzy pointed out that they’d manage to tear the comforter, so of course I went surfing, looking for inspiration in new bedding.

Pale, contemporary, clean bedding, is a style I really appreciate. The rest of my house is funky and warm, all in reds and golds, leafy greens and coffee browns, but I prefer cool, serene colors in my bedroom, just as I prefer thick comforters and cold air while I sleep. I think cool colors make the sheets feel cooler against my skin, and I’ve written many times about how much I love that feeling.

Of course, I still have to show Fuzzy the pictures, and give him the illusion that he has a choice of what comforter or bedspread we actually buy.

As to Zorro, I’m not worried. He’ll like anything his humans pick.

Today was a day I’d really rather not have experienced.

I feel all groggy from lack of sleep, I can’t focus on anything, and I still have an article due to The Boss Who Thinks I Rock by morning. It’s only 750 words, and not particularly challenging, if I can find the right head space and string words together in some semblance of a coherent fashion.

A/C Guy kept me waiting til late afternoon then rescheduled for tomorrow, so all day I’ve been paranoid that the unit will flood again, and unlike Fuzzy, I can’t climb the steps into the attic to plug the hose back in if it comes out again. Even though it was rainy, it didn’t inspire me to write today so much as it made me even crankier than I already was, and if I’d have been smart I’d have just curled up in bed and worked from there today, but I tried to force myself to get dressed and function outside the coziness of my room. Bad plan.

I also had the distinct pleasure of having to call California’s Franchise Tax Board, because the mailed a Tax Due Notice to my former employers (even though my 2004 tax return provided them my Texas address) claiming I owed them $4,000 and change in taxes and penalties.

So I called them three times, and let me tell you, no one has a slower voice response system, and there isn’t even an option to press zero for a live person in round one. In fact there never is, you have to guess that it might work. Which I did.

Of course, once I got to a live person, which took three attempts and twenty minutes on hold, they said, “You didn’t file in 2005,” and I said, “I know. I didn’t live or work in California in 2005.” And they said, “But you have a real estate license here.” I said, “No, I had a salesperson’s license, and as soon as moved out of state it became null and void because I’m not a broker, and anyway, I sent a form explaining that I no longer lived or worked in California, last year, when I filed my 2005 return, and y’all sent a note asking why you didn’t get one. ”

Their first response was “Oh.”

And their second response was, “Please hold while we check on that.”

And then they came back and said, “So you’re saying you didn’t live or work in California in 2005,” and at that point I really wanted to bang the phone on the desk, but either the phone or the desk might have been damaged, so I refrained, and simply said, “I believe I told you that twice.”

They asked, “Do you live here now?” and I replied that no, I didn’t (even though I’d given them my Texas address and told them that twice as well).

Finally they said, “Oh, we’ll clear this, then, and you won’t be bothered again.”

And I said, “So you’re saying I owe you nothing, just as I said in the first place?”

And the FTB people said, “Yes.”

As if dealing with bureaucrats wasn’t enough for one day, the house temperature is never right. It’s either freezing or sweltering, and I’m afraid to fiddle with anything, and there was a water bug (that’s polite talk for “giant cockroach from hell”) in the bathroom, and I made a pot of coffee and let two cups go cold.

Sigh.
Make that three.

And Fuzzy’s phone is going right to voicemail, so I can’t even hear him tell me that I’m not a hack, and everyone has sucky days and he loves me.

I say… And you think…

1. Dork :: knobs
2. Refurbished :: used
3. Basket :: case
4. Mousse :: chocolate
5. Studio :: audience
6. 8 ball :: magic
7. Masking tape :: paint
8. Love :: Actually
9. Wilder :: Laura Ingalls
10. Lindsey :: Wagner*

*Of course she actually spells her name -ay, not -ey.

Like this meme? Play along here.

I write better, faster, and more prolifically when I have television or a movie on in the background. I’ve stated before that I can’t write to music, but what I haven’t confessed is that sometimes, on rare occasions, I watch bad television.

What is truly frightening, however, is not just that I have it on, but that I find myself actually paying attention to, and enjoying it.

Take tonight, for example. I had Nick at Night on, and they were doing a marathon of Home Improvement. There was a Christmas-time episode that involved Jill (Patricia Richardson) leaving Tim’s (Tim Allen) restored hot rod out in the snow without the tonneau cover on. A blizzard came, and filled the car with snow, soaking the leather, and ruining much of the car.

The rest of the episode involved the fixing of the car, and the responsibility for causing the issue – apparently Jill has difficulties accepting blame.

It wasn’t a particularly funny episode, though there were moments that made me grin. In fact, what hooked me most was that they were showing a married couple in a sitcom having a real fight. Screaming and snide remarks that were meant to sting, not just induce giggles.

I’d never really appreciated this show when it was fresh. I think I was at one of those ages where I was both too old and too young to get it. I couldn’t identify with the kids, and I didn’t identify with the parents. Now, though, after twelve years of marriage and some screaming matches of my own, and, I’m ashamed to admit, more than a few stinging remarks, I can watch it and be impressed that a sitcom would stage a fight with that much emotional truth.

Don’t worry though.
I will never write a post claiming that there’s artistic merit in Saved by the Bell.

If rainstorms inside my house aren’t enough of a sign from the universe that I’m not doing something right, Friday night our seven-year-old Subaru Forester decided to give Fuzzy a birthday present that was extra special: the “check engine” light came on about half way between the little Japanese restaurant we frequent, and home.

He pulled over, determined that there was nothing obviously wrong with the car, and we continued to the next gas station where, because we’re apparently overdue for an oil change (Fuzzy claims he’s been telling me this for weeks. I suggested that instead of telling me she should have done something about it. Also, I remember him telling me it was “about time” for one, three weeks ago, and nothing since.), Fuzzy decided checking the oil would help. We were low, and he did pour a quart in, but that didn’t solve the problem.

Now despite the fact that I’m writing far too many car articles for a person whose only real issue with any vehicle is “does it run?” I am not an expert on automotive things. For example, I don’t know the difference between a ladder rack and a gun rack, but I do know how to do research, and I can look up just about anything.

So while Fuzzy was stressing over the car, to the point where he refused to go out for lunch yesterday because he’d slept too late to take it in and have the code assessed, I spent five minutes on the Internet and had narrowed the issue down to one of three things: bad seal in the gas tank (a known issue with 2001 Foresters), bad exhaust gasket, or bad catalytic converter. Mind you, the only thing I know about catalytic converters is that they have something to do with emissions, but I read stuff, and was soon reassured that the car was not going to explode, or suddenly stop moving, or anything like that.

So, it’s one more thing we have to find money for, but we will, somehow – we always do – but I’m not going to stress about it. Instead I will be smug. Why?

Because when Fuzzy took the car to get the oil change done today (which didn’t happen, because he didn’t get up til noon, though they ran the code for us, and cleared it) he said, “I think it’s because we’re due for our 90,000 mile check-up, but my wife says it’s the catalytic converter.”

And the mechanic said, “Your wife is right.”

Today, we walked out into the living room to find a puddle on the floor behind the couch, and water falling from the 2nd floor hallway ceiling. There hadn’t yet been rain in our neighborhood at the time, so we knew it had to be coming from an internal source, and Fuzzy quickly found the culprit. One of the a/c units has a hose that keeps coming unsealed.

He stuck the hose back in place, and we mopped up the leak, and then I fired up my computer, and opened Excel, which I use as much as a financial reporting software solution as just a convenient place to keep all the various account numbers and phone numbers and passwords that one acquires along with a house.

I did not sacrifice a goat, but I did thank my mother for hammering the necessity of a home warranty into every client we’ve ever had. Why? Because I listened, and we keep renewing ours, and so whether the a/c problem is a simple little pipe de-clogging and filter changing job, or whether they have to replace the whole unit, it won’t cost me more than $55.

I’m not as certain that our insurance will cover the damage to the ceiling, and even if it does, I don’t think the cost to cure will be remotely close to our deductable. It’s a ceiling that doesn’t have a weight-bearing floor above it, and isn’t the inside of a roof. It’s literally a piece of dry wall, some tape, paint and texturizing goop, and maybe two hours of work.

While I was on the phone with the home warranty company, I also asked for service to fix the broken drain in the master bath, because bubble bath weather is fast approaching. That’ll be another $55, and a bit more dry wall, and maybe some caulking, but totally worth not having to pay for an actual plumber’s actual billable hours or parts.