* * *

Water: I never drink enough. I don’t know how other people manage it. One glass and I feel nauseous – water is so heavy and it just sits there in your system. Also, it’s disgusting unless it’s very very cold, but has no ice. I don’t like ice.

Water-wings: Puffy. Orange. Psychological. Anyone who actually thinks those inflatable arm bands keep you from drowning is just cracked (and it says as much on the packaging, albeit in better language). Still, I remember wearing them, with blue plastic swim-fins, balancing on the tips of the fins in the deep end of a friend’s pool, or without the fins, as I frolicked in the cool blue Atlantic during summers when I was a child.

Work: They like the idea of keeping me on as a contract-processor after the move. Yippee. It might serve to be more lucrative. It might not, but at least I’ll have that as a backup.

Wishes: I want to sell the house quickly. I want to move quickly. It’s not /quite/ a seller’s market here, and I’m told it’s a buyer’s market in Texas. This is good. I just wish everything was happening YESTERDAY. (Patience is not one of my virtues this year.)

Water (again): We’re refilling the pool; the grass is wet from the sprinklers, and I’m craving a bubble bath.

* * *

Every family has one: the one relative you only speak of in hushed voices, the one who is a little more off-center than the rest of the clan, even if the rest of the clan is eccentric to start with. In our family, this role was taken by my grandmother’s younger sister, Violet.

I’m told that when Violet was younger, when my mother and her sisters were children, that she was the “cool” aunt. Trips to Asbury Park to stuff themselves on cotton candy and hot dogs were the norm, and you never knew what treasures would emerge from the depths of Aunt Vi’s massive pocketbook (that’s New Jerseyan for “purse”).

By the time I was born, Aunt Vi was no longer young, and though her body had aged – her generous bosom forming a veritable pillow on her chest, her face even rounder, her hair, dry and graying under the blonde – her brain seemed forever sixteen. My grandmother told me that her mother, while on her deathbed, begged her oldest daughter to care for the youngest: Violetta will never grow up. Not the way the rest of you have.

When I was small child, Aunt Vi was a comfort. She was funny and crazy, and sweet. She never went anywhere without a hat (this was a woman who knew how to accessorize), and I think I acquired my love of headwear from her. As I grew older, Violet ceased to be my dear old auntie, and became an annoyance, a burden. Partly, this is due to her criminally insane son, who would throw her out of the house, then take her back in and steal her retirement money, but partly it was her own design. She liked the wandering life, and used to boast that she had everything she ever needed in the trunk of her (ugly, green, enormous) car.

By the time my grandmother was in her mid-eighties, and Aunt Vi was in her mid-seventies, Violet had overstayed her welcome with almost every relative on the east coast. She often begged to come live with my parents, but her own children, and my parents, didn’t want her to drain my grandmother’s resources. My grandmother was in a care home, by then, and there was no way to fund a California home for Vi. Still the older sister worried about the younger. “I want to hear my sister Violet,” my grandmother would say. “I need to know she’s alright.”

It’s only in retrospect that I realize my grandmother knew she’d be leaving us, and wanted to be at peace. It all fits. She died while all of us were out of the country, as if she didn’t want any one of us to deal with it alone, just after hearing that Violet had been sent to a hospital, finally.

Aunt Vi liked to make deals. She played poker, made amazing raviolli, and could whistle so well you’d think it was a flue or panflute playing, and not a human being. She was funny and generous, with what little she had. I like to think that whatever kept her from emotional maturity allowed her hardships not to touch her.

She died the week after my grandmother’s funeral, in January, 2001.

As I wrote this, I realized that my grandmother’s love of the plant known as African Violet, was a tribute to her sister. One bloomed on her bedside all the time. She’d often speak to it, and touch the velvety petals with her long, gentle fingers.

V is for Violet.

* * *

Update: When I said Monday or so? I meant a week from today, not today. Still, plans go forward.

Upheaval: I gave my boss 60-day notice today, and asked to be part of the process of hiring my replacement. I also offered to work on a contract basis, until he found someone, after the move, so he doesn’t have to retain someone on salary. I doubt he’ll go for it, but the idea’s been seeded.

Umbrellas: It’s not raining, or anything, but I was just thinking that I miss the umbrella I had when I was eight. It was clear, except for yellow trim at the ends of the …spokes? struts? Whatever. And the handle was curved, like a cane. I loved that umbrella. It was a bubble-style thing, and I could balance the center point on my head, and not have to hold it, and since it was clear, still see where I was going. It’s an image completely unrelated to anything in my life right now, but it’s a reminder of happy times, as well…splashing through puddles with my friends, as we walked home from the bus stop in wet weather, none of us wearing galoshes because, at eight, we were all much too old for that. (Note: wet keds are not comfortable, especially when worn with even wetter socks.)

I say… And you think…?

1. Lounge:: lizard
2. Photograph:: album
3. Catacomb:: Paris Opera House
4. Crucifix:: vampires
5. Fire drill:: annoying
6. Tube:: toothpaste
7. Dropped:: at birth
8. LTD:: corporation
9. Panther:: black
10. Formica:: countertop

Like this meme?
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* * *

Tired: This is how I’ve felt all too often these past few months. I think it’s stress. Or maybe it’s just that I’m not eating right, and spending too much time at computers.

Tea: I’m equally in love with tea and coffee. I said once that one was my reading brew, and the other my writing brew, but that’s not quite accurate. Tea is my musing brew – it goes with long dream entries, some fiction (depends on the characters I’m writng), and reading mystery novels. Tea is what I drink when I’m writing long letters. Coffee is what I drink when I need my writing to be clear, concise, even incisive. (And judging by that sentence, I am NOT incisive right now, or I’d never have used three words that all mean the same thing.)

Tanzania Peaberry: My favorite kind of designer coffee. It’s made from a coffee bean that doesn’t split, and has 3.21 times the caffeine of most other brews. (Bean for bean, it has more caffeine than dark roasts used for espresso, actually, because “the darker the bean, the less caffeine.” But cup-for-cup espresso has more, because all espresso is, really, is dark roast, finely ground, then force-brewed really quickly at high pressure (hence the name).) If you’re a coffee drinker, and have never tried Tanzania Peaberry, do so. It tastes like a really creamy French roast, but without the bitterness inherent to French roast.

Texas: We’re moving there. I’d told friends that it would be about ninety days, and we won’t have an official timeline til Monday or so, but the reality is that it’ll be more like 60 days. (This is because I forgot the DATE when I said ninety days, and from now-ish to Sept 1 – our goal date – is more like 60). Speaking of which, there’s this cute house in San Jose’s Burbank district (west of Bascom) that really needs a new owner! (We’re officially listing it around 07/15.)

Time: There’s never enough of it, or when there is, it’s the wrong time for certain things. When I have time to write, I’m not inspired, and when I don’t have time, there are a trillion things I want to say.

Right now, though, I’m coming full circle. I’m tired. Time for bed.

* * *

Sleeping late on Saturday morning, I lie in a state half-sleeping, half-waking, listening with one ear, to the soft whirring of the a/c on “fan” setting combined with the silky susurration of the wind in the trees outside. I am silent, but the dogs are snoring, and so if Fuzzy, the three of them making a silly – if sonorous – trio. I linger a bit longer, then stretch, thinking it would be smart to get up and start the day (at noon).

I sit at the edge of the bed, sip water, stroke the fur of each of my sleepy dogs. I kiss my still-dreaming husband, and he smiles – the reaction is automatic, I suppose. I stand, sliding one foot, then the other into soft fluffy slippers – it may be summer but the house is still cold, especially the floor outside the bedroom door, hardwood, and cool tile.

Shuffling a bit, because I like the sound (it makes me smile), I step down the hall to my office, sit at the computer, and stare at the screen. I choose not to set my fingers on the keys, instead I turn around, slide the miniblinds up, rest my arms on the window sill, and grin, spying birds playing chase in the sky, and a squirrel using the telephone wire as a sort of superhighway. If Cleo wasn’t still curlled on the bed, she’d be with me, her paws gripping the sill as securely as possible without opposable thumbs. She’s snarl and snap at the animals beyond the window, and I’d tell her she was loud, and thank her for sounding the alert that life exists beyond the house. (I realize she’s standing at the bedroom door, whuffling to get my attention, and I let her out. Zorro looks at me, but stays in bed.)

I return to the computer, feeling the breeze caress my skin in silky breaths, and I set to work on a project I’m not yet ready to share. Email, instant messaging – both sources of outside communication are ignored while I try to focus.

Outside, Cleo the sentinal shouts (well, barks) the arrival of the pool guy, come to play with suction and scrape the sides of the liner. I share a bit of cheese to keep her attention squarely on me, and stride back toward the bedroom. I slip inside, and she follows.

It’s no longer morning, but sleeping husband and sleepy Zorro are sharing alpha-waves, whether or not I want them, and I succumb. I slide back under the sheets, and close my eyes. A few minutes later the screen I’m watching is the one I call Imagination.

* * *

You used to be my number one
But now your flip side ain’t much fun
At 45 you’re much too fast
(For me, for me, for me)
So slow it down to 33
You bruised me raw (???)
You broke my heart
You’re slipping
You’re sliding right up up a chart

The lyrics have no relation to the entry, really, I just needed a record-themed song and find the notion of using something by Little Nell more fun than a certain 80’s pop song.

Today we went through two boxes of old records, separating out the broken ones, and the empty sleeves. One box was a collection of 78’s so old they weren’t even vinyl, but the lacquer they used before vinyl became the norm. Most of these were classical recordings, boxed in fancy album covers, pressed in the 30’s and 40’s. Some were songs form old movies…Nelson Eddy, for example. I know we’ll only get a few cents per disc if we sell them, but I’m tired of carting around things we don’t need or can’t use. Still, there were moments of fond remembrance, seeing the notes my grandmother had pencilled in the covers, when an album was clearly purchased as a gift for my grandfather, or finding a sketch he did, drawing her as if she was in Godey’s Ladies Book , which predates them by several years, but my grandfather was a history buff as well as a music lover.

The second box of records was slightly more modern – if you consider “Sing along with Mitch Miller” modern. Some of the titles were funny, some just confused me. Then there was the collection of soundtracks – including three versions of “My Fair Lady” – one of the stage show, on 45’s, one of the stage show on LP’s and one of the movie. Ditto “Camelot,” though there were only two copies of that – one of the movie, one of the play (the play is much better, since it features Julie Andrews).

The plan is to take the LPs to Rasputin and sell them, even if it’s only a quarter a piece, just so that it’s one less box sitting dusty in the garage. I don’t think they’ll take the 78’s.

See you round like a record
Our romance is kinda checkered
See you round like a record
See you round

Check you out maybe later
Leave your name with the waiter
See you round like a record
See you round

I remember my first record player, a little table top thing with a speaker that wasn’t much better than the one on a transistor radio. (For that matter, I also remember my first transister radio, which was red and had a strap, and was about the same size as my palm pilot, but twice as thick.) The turntable was red, and the arm with the needle had to be lifted onto the record by hand, and the needle was pretty cheap.

My first record collection consisted of the Disney albums with the book and record of every one of their major movies – “Alice in Wonderland” is the only one I really remember (and “Winnie the Pooh”). But I also had collections of musical-ized fairy tales, like “The Twelve Dancing Princesses.” A true child of the ’70’s I also had a copy of “Free to Be, You and Me,” which was put out by the Ms. Foundation and Marlo Thomas. Even as I type this I can hear Marlo and Alan Alda doing the story of Atalanta, in my head.

You are my desert island disc
A sure-fire hit without a miss
Your first, it really knocked me out
It sounded just like Twist And Shout
I’m gonna leave
Yeah, leave you cold
I just won’t
I just don’t
Dig your Rock and Roll

When I turned 11 and we moved to California, I got my first real stereo, with separate speakers. By today’s standards it was horribly retro, but in 1981 it was very cool. My first “grown up” record album was the cast recording of the movie “Grease,” (though that was long before the stereo)…I don’t remember what records I bought later, but I do remember saving money to buy Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” when I was twelve or thirteen.

About that time I also started having a greater affinity for the radio. When my mother worked late, or I just felt spooked, I’d play the radio into the night…I remember being nine or ten, and waking up at three am, with my book on my chest and Eddie Rabbit singing “I Love a Rainy Night,” on the radio. I’d fallen asleep reading.

See you round like a record
Our romance is kinda checkered
See you round like a record
See you round

Check you out maybe later
Leave your name with the waiter
See you round like a record
See you round

Today, I’d probably flee in the other direction if confronted by an Eddie Rabbit song, but I still love reading with the radio on low. And I still use the radio when I can’t sleep, because my over-active imagination has me convinced that the shadow over by the closet is the little girl from “The Ring” who’s crawled through the television to kill me.

I prefer talk radio, when I’m trying to sleep, because song lyrics distract me, and music when I’m reading. When I want to control my music, of course, like most people these days, it’s all on cd or mp3, but sometimes I miss the simplicity of switching on the turntable, and moving the arm over to the leading band of the glossy black disc, and basking in the crackling, hissing, and popping of a vinyl record.

See you round like a record
Our romance is kinda checkered
See you round like a record
See you round

Check you out maybe later
Leave your name with the waiter
See you round like a record
See you round

Note: “See You Round Like a Record” was written by Richard Hartley and Brian Thomson, and performed by Little Nell, who is more recognizable as Columbia in “The Rocky Horror Picture Show.”

* * *

Sara Paretsky’s fictional detective V.I. Warshawski once riffed on comfort foods, mentioning that all comfort foods begin with the letter p. I’m not sure that ALL comfort foods fit that rule, but there are an awful lot that do: pepperoni, pasta, pita, pastrami, piroshki, pashka, pickles, popovers, pistachios, porridge, pudding, pizza.

Ah, pizza. I’ve been told that it’s not a comfort food, but it is. It’s elegant really: a little bread, a little cheese, and you have the added tactile pleasure of being able to pick it up and eat it with your fingers. The only thing better than pizza is pizza eaten while tucked into bed, late at night, with a good movie or great book for company.

I’m weird that way, I guess. I’m always my most inspired in bed or in the bathtub. (Get your minds out of the gutter, I don’t mean that sort of inspiration), it’s just than when I’m propped up by piles of pillows my brain flips into gear, and words flow directly to my pen and paper, or, more often, to the pads of my fingers as they press the keys on my laptop.

Personally, I think my perfect job would be getting paid to stay in bed and make a few phone calls, and otherwise just write. (Alternatively, I’d love to have an office that felt as comfortable and safe as my bedroom, but that’s beyond the realm of the possible, I suppose.)

The thing is, tonight, my head isn’t full of words, it’s full of plans I can’t yet commit to a public place. Things to do, to find out, to set in motion.

More…possibilities.

::Capricious: Governed or characterized by impulse or whim, lacking rational basis or likely to change suddenly::

Onesome: Characterized by impulse– Do you consider yourself impulsive or do you tend to think everything through before you make a move?
I’m impulsive about some things, less so about others. When I met Fuzzy I knew he was THE ONE, for example, and I was that way about our condo and our house, but I agonize over other things.

Twosome: lacking rational basis– If you are impulsive, do you rationalize and justify your actions? Like, since that item you bought on a whim was on sale, you really saved money by buying it?
I did this recently, with the first two seasons of Smallville on DVD – I bought them when Fuzzy wasn’t looking then reminded him they’d been on his wishlist forever, and were ‘owed’ to him.

Threesome: or likely to change suddenly– When you make up your mind, does it stay made up or do you tend to change your mind at the last minute? …or do you waffle back and forth until you’re forced to decide?
I can be extremely mercurial. I vacillate about a lot of things, and then sometimes I just decide against something, seemingly on a whim. Pity my poor husband.

Like this meme?
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* * *

It’s a quiet night here at Casa Caffeinated. Fuzzy’s sitting at the computer cataloguing his comic books, taking breaks to quench his thirst with warm orange soda. (He’s quirky that way.)

I’m in the bed, a quilt wrapped around my feet, and a dog on my lap. He watches my hands on the keys, then stares at the screen with a quizzical expression.

This quilt was a gift from a family friend, a hand-made wedding quilt from China. It’s suffered more than its quota of abuse at our hands – we use it almost every night, and we’re bad about caring for it, washing it and drying it like any other blanket, instead of having it cleaned professionally.

Quilting isn’t a skill I have, but it’s one I’d like to acquire. My sister-in-law and mother-in-law often combine their talents on gift-quilts whenever someone in Fuzzy’s family gets married, and we always contribute to the materials fund, but I’d like to be a part of the process. The question’s come up, actually – Crystal asked if I’d be interested in learning, and I said yes.

It’s funny, really, because all I know about quilting comes from novels and movies. There’s a great mystery/romance called Stitch in Time that has quilts in it – a curse stitched into one, I think. And then there’s that Winona Ryder movie, which is a great film for when you’re in bed sick, instead of in bed writing. It’s not the best movie, but I have no qualms about mentioning it: How to Make an American Quilt.