Hard Working Hudgebend



While I was hanging out with Caroline slurping oysters at Point Reyes, lolling about in the sand, trying not to strut my stuff in the Castro(why bother when you get out-gayed at every turn), C was working hard at home. The thought of romping about in Italy with Sof next month while C works hard at home... Half honey, half vinegar.



Joel Update: JBen(who also bought one of C's gorillas) stuffed a full unsliced lemon in Joel's pants during dinner with a couple of collectors. I think Joel might have been improvidently going on about ball implants- latest fad in Miami. Even when Joel emphatically gestures "I'm not a faaaagggg!", one look at his girly pants and... I suppose it's no fun to be a false positive.



I'm munching on a few carrots to get used to healthy eating, but there happened to be nob of butter hanging out on the table- all room temperature soft. Not bad. I imagine if I cooked them together it could be quite heavenly, but raw is not bad either.

Politically I'm getting a wee bit nervous. C says McCain has been cozying up with Bush more than usual. What if Bush gets the smart idea and balls to dump Cheney? Republicans run this country, just not Berkeley.

Bandaids against raisin smuggling...

I spent a perfectly good afternoon procuring bandaids to complete my emergency medical kit. The last major trip where my medical kit played a starring role- Tahiti. Sof advised if I didn't wan't to bother wearing a bra, one could simply wear a four bandaids- 2 X's if you know what I mean. So I packed an impressive supply of bandaids as I am not keen on raisin smuggling. My poor feet unused to wearing flip-flops were so cut up that the band-aids served their medical purpose after all and I never had a chance to test out Sof's hypothesis. So I have become very serious about traveling with a horde of bandaids. I've always traveled with a serious medical kit since grad school. The one time I vowed to travel in a relaxed manner without the kit- visiting Suse in Tucson- I promptly fell on a hiking path and scraped my hand. I had to sop up the blood with a dirty twice used tissue. Nothing went gangrenous of course.

So back to Elephant pharmacy and the dreaded selection of bandaids. Complicated, no? I briefly contemplated getting SpongeBob SquarePants which Sof would have said "so cute so cute", but I wisely chose antiseptic ones and also the new fangled latex ones which boasts dressage for 7 days. Big J- the expert in such matters -dismissed those claims as she has proven in practice they peel off on the finger easily after frequent contact with water. She said liquid skin which polymerized on contact was strictly the way to go.

I fell asleep at midnight salivating over a tome on the history of pioneer cuisine, but I bolted up at one in the morning hearing a terrible sqawking. Coon or possum or cat threatening me livestock. I ran out with a broom. I had forgotten to board up the chickens; Pattrice was angrily chewing out the interloper. I had such a fright (C away in Mendocino, oh no what would he think if I let the chickens get eaten) that as I was running inside the chicken zone, Pattrice slipped past my legs. She promptly ran to the deck and tried to look inside the bedroom to see C, the chicken man, was inside. I had a terrible time convincing the ladies to go back in the coop and go to bed. Peanut bribery was of no avail as the chickens were freaked out as well. I read about the Healdsburg woman who left her kids in a car for 8 hours. Now I can't seem to go to sleep...

Foggy days of August





I cut my middle finger on my mouse hand in a bbq injury- the world is ever a dangerous place says Tom Ridge- so I was not useful for anything except uploading garden photos.

Long Winter and Crow Pie

Dear Reader. Where did we leave off. Yes bacon. My porky inclinations took me to a revival of Laura Ingalls Wilder. Little Suse sprang a surprise visit on me last weekend and of course we had to go to the library and raid the self-help section. It's less humiliating I find to borrow such books then have to buy them. Less since you can be rid of them more discreetly than having to sell a copy of "How Do You Know A Man is Right For You" for two bucks on Amazon. Since I can never bring myself to check out just self-help books at the library (even though they were really for Suse), I gave my pile a little more respectability adding a volume from the Little House on the Prairie series.

Ah pioneer life. There is a lot of fond narrative revolving around salted pork, and sitting around cozy inside a cabin snug as a bug while winter storms rage about. How could I resist. I ordered the Little House on the Prairie Cookbook on line so C can also enjoy the flavors of pioneer life. Now if he can shoot down a few plump crows devastating our crops....