I'm just going to get this out of the way and admit that ONCE AGAIN I put my shirt on backwards when I got dressed this morning. It happens to be the same shirt that I backwards-ized last week, but come on! How hard can it be to get this right? I've owned this shirt for at least five years, so it's not for lack of practice. Anyway, that situation has been rectified, and my ensuing loud crankiness has caused my boss to tiptoe around with a startled look on his face, in a distinct "Don't upset Mom--she might start drinking again!" manner. (You know: THAT manner.)

So, today is the last day of my house-sitting gig for the pokey cat who wakes me up by swatting; the rat; the giant, biting rabbit, and the one-half of the original pair of fish. And, lest I forget, the seventeen million acres of extremely thirsty plants requiring constant attention, and only a small fraction of which I actually killed. Still, this has been my favorite house-sitting gig yet. The house is high on a hill that looks out to the ocean in the distance. It's an older ranch house, the kind I used to wonder at when I came out here from Massachusetts as a kid. In particular, I was taken with unfamiliar things like vertical wood siding and rambling plants--there was no winter freeze to kill everything off, and little things like sprawling mats of baby tears or mounds of succulents were foreign and fascinating.

This house has a large outdoor porch and little lights, and the Keelhauler and I had dinner outside most evenings, under a lamp shaped like a star with lacy cut-outs that let light sprinkle across the table. And see, this is what I just thought: If my mother read that sentence, she would fake-suppress a laugh and comment primly on the idea that the star-shaped lamp was "sprinkling," or urinating, on the table, and derail the entire thought process. Isn't it lovely that she doesn't even have to be here to do it? I do it automatically! Now, that is training. I'm leaving that in just to remind myself of what crazy sounds like. It's so much fun.

Anyway, and moving on...

My dearest friend Shandy, who for this journal chose that nickname, taking it from one of the least personable members of our graduating class, is coming today! I won't see her until Friday, but at least she'll be in the same state (i.e., California, not aforementioned Commonwealth of Crazy). Carson is sending me the keys so we can stay at his place, which is extremely nice. Plus, I always like to visit my old sofa and Fiestaware and whatnot.

In other news, Lorelei sent me a message just now, with the subject "How would you like..." and the body of the message "...to find out that your husband of 34 years is a serial killer?" I have to say I wouldn't like that at all. I clicked on the link, which led to a story about the B T K killer's wife being granted an "emergency" divorce on the grounds that "she and her incarcerated husband are incompatible and that he had failed to perform material marital duties and obligations." The incompatability I can see: I mean, if you're trying to make a nice meal of sweet and sour pork so you can sit down like a real family, dammit, and eat dinner at the table together without arguing, I mean how damn hard is it just for one damn time, and the other person is out roaming around, thinking only of himself, binding and hacking up strangers, you're just not going to achieve a unity of purpose, and family values are just going to go down the tubes.

As far as the divorce, if the guy's incarcerated, how much of an "emergency" is there, you know? Take your time! Go on a cruise to Mexico, file some papers there... he's not going anywhere. And, as far as the failure to perform marital duties, that would seem like more of a blessing. I don't have personal experience in the realm, but it would seem to me that you don't just wake up one day and with shock realize that your husband is a psycho. There would almost have to be a clue or two hanging around, if you're paying attention at all. I read enough Ann Rule books when I was a kid to know that whenever there's a major serial killer on the loose, women all over the place call up the cops to try and turn in their innocent boyfriends and husbands, for reasons like coming home late, or suddenly demonstrating the ability to tie a slipknot. Women are naturally suspicious. Well, this woman is, anyway. Suspicious, alert, and yet still incapable of consistently putting my shirt on the right way.

Star of the day. . .Tamar Hodel