It's been over two months since I last posted anything here, which is a reliable indication that I'm losing blogsteam, and unlikely to update again anytime soon. Life is taking up too much time: work on Siteline; house stuff (I'm in the process of ridding our lawn of oxalis, a truly tedious task); socializing, what with the pandemic restrictions receding; the sale of our New York apartment (it's in contract); even traveling. Once we add a pug to the mix—no hard plans yet, but hopefully before year end—you can forget about it. Then again, I might need something to do while the dog inevitably ensconces itself in my lap....
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Emailing with Adam....
Me: The San Francisco restaurant that Nic recommended is called A Mano. No reservations, so you put your name in and go somewhere for a drink.
Adam: Cool, thanks!
Me: Cool, thanks?
Adam: Google thought that was the right thing to say.
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Since my last post, Adam went to war with the crows. They would caw and shriek outside our bedroom window at first light, and while it didn't bother me much—I'm usually swimming by then—he was at wits' end. At any given moment, he would mutter and curse about the crows.
Me: My mom decided she wants to serve Jersey Mike's sandwiches at her 80th birthday.
Adam: I don't need to kill the crows. I just want them gone.
He bought a water gun, but it wouldn't shoot far enough.
He played Crow Be Gone's audio recordings of hawks, undoubtedly freaking out the entire ecosystem, including our neighbors.
He bought a slingshot, and he would walk around it with it dangling from his back pocket. I was married to Dennis the Menace.
He got a laser pointer, which did discourage the birds, but only when it wasn't light outside, and the whole point was to avoid having to get out of bed before dawn.
He ordered a fake dead crow from China, which you have to relocate every few days or the crows catch on. It was fun to be constantly surprised by a dangling carcass.
Something worked, and now the crows generally hang out in trees further away; we can hear them, but they're not right in our ears. The sweetness of victory, however, soon faded. Moles are destroying our lawn. Adam is talking about renting dozens of pitchforks for a party where the guests walk around stabbing the earth, hoping they impale a mole.
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Two highlights from a recent family reunion in Indio, California—besides quality family time, of course: 1) dragging my mom, my nephew, and his wife to visit an interesting historical marker; and 2) mining my mom's recipe box for laughs.
We weren't sure about the details of the Swaggart incident, so I later looked it up online and found this marvelous quote from the AP:
"He was just another john," said 31-year-old Rosemary Garcia. "He asked for sex. I mean that’s why he stopped me, that’s what I do, I’m a prostitute."
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Two cultural recommendations: Flirting With Disaster, which I hadn't seen since it came out in 1996 and which has aged just fine; it's a screwball comedy with an amazing cast. And, in a somewhat different vein, Owls of the Eastern Ice, Jonathan Slaght's memoir of his quest to help save the massive, pug-like Blakiston's fish owl in eastern Russia.
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I'm just saying...
Best to avoid any gas pump that also offers diesel.
Skip the exit interview.
When did car windshields get impossible to clean on the inside?
Cookbooks should be very clear about which recipe is featured on the cover.
Penne is the saddest pasta.
Don't eat a dish named after a volcano.
Nobody cares about your app.
It's time to remove that note at the end of your emails asking people not to print them.
If you think about it, gum is weird.
Business idea: TV channel devoted to terror attacks.
Please don't tell me about your favorite TV show.
The more reachable I've become, the less likely I am to answer my phone.
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Adam and I recently visited Hollister Ranch, a big swath of private land just above where Highway 101 turns north at Gaviota. In the middle of last century, the land was carved into 100-acre parcels with strict limits on the size and number of structures allowed. A friend of ours bought a one-third share of a property in 1999, and he invited us for a tour. It's gated and inaccessible to the public. We thought it was absolutely amazing—California the way it must have been.