Darn it. My Blackberry ate my post. So, a list.

1. Clara and I had a wonderful walk today with our friend Kris. Kris and I stayed clean. Clara did not. (At one point Kris actually wondered why I was scolding a brown dog. Oh, that's YOUR dog!)

A wonderful morning of friendship, fun, and good sandwiches. Followed by a bath at home on the lawn, where Clara learned the pleasures all over again of rolling in the grass while being towel-dried:

Yes, we do need to mow our lawn.

2. Leaving tomorrow to go camping! Strawberry Music Festival, up in Yosemite. Four days of bluegrass jams, spinning/knitting time, swimming in the lake, and adult beverages. It'll be hard without the little mama. But Dad's coming and La's whole band (they're playing Saturday night at Evergreen!). No sisters, very sad. But I'm looking forward to it SO much.

3. Finished the February Lady Sweater!

Open down

Yarn: Cotton Ease, 3.75 balls. Buttons, cheapos from Michaels. Never buy buttons there if you're not willing to spend a LOT of time fishing around the cheapos. But I love it. I ran buttonholes down the whole thing, wanted the option of different ways to wear it.

Open up

Open all

Easy, satisfying knit. It'll be good for the camping.

4. I have a TON of stuff to do, but you can tell by my cheeks up there that I'm kind of flushed. Oh! I thought I wasn't feeling good, but now, remembering that I spent the morning in the sun, I realize that I'm just a little sunburned and sleepy. That's totally different than feeling sick. I think I'll try a nap and try not to have bad dreams. Today I'll get it right. Then I'll be right back to getting ready to camp. It's like getting ready to another country: You're terribly busy and worried, lists of your lists scrunched tight in both hands, and you run and run and then you SIT in the seat in the plane and you relax. Nothing more to be done (and even if there were, it's too late for you to worry about it). Camping is similar. Very, very busy and then you get to camp, finally find your site (to me, the least pleasant part), unpack, set up the tent, look around, see that there's nothing left that needs doing, and you SIT. Play a tune or two. Can't wait to get to that point. Ain't nothing like a swim on a hot summer day in a snow-fed lake. Followed by your choice of many food vendors. (The Gyros are my favorite. Yes, I'll have two.) This is my kind of camping.

Happy summer, all.

I would go refill that wine-glass, but I am SO sleepy already. That migraine like-to-kilt me yesterday, and today was a kinda rough day at work, so I'm better off with no more red wine. Digit, however, says, he approves of me tucked up on my writing chair and not off at work. And he says hello to you. Of course.

Me: I'm in an acquisitive mood. I get like this sometimes. I don't crave purses or shoes or clothes, ever. I crave either music or books (and sometimes yarn). And I mean I crave them like I crave water. The cravings don't overlap; I either want New Music or I want New Books. When I'm dying for new authors, I am soothed by music I already know and own. And when I have enough to read, or when I'm content in the depths of a comfortable book, I spend hours cruising the "Listeners Also Bought" aisles at the all-night iTunes store, trying to resist the "Buy Song" urge.

But right now it's books. I love my Kindle more than I ever thought I would, and I worry that I'll soon read all the words in the world. (Did you know that Milton is said to be one of the last people ever to have read all the words written? Thanks to his poor daughter, blind old Milty got through most or perhaps all of the written world available at the time. Love me some Milton, still sorry for his daughter.) But really: What's the best thing you've read recently and why? Please?

Things not to do when getting a migraine:

1. Go for a run for the first time in three months. (It was a great run, strangely. But I've done this in the past -- the first run is great. It's the second one that hurts.)

2. Eat sliced turkey luncheon meat and four of those little red wrapped cheeses (you know the ones) for dinner because it's eight at night now and you've been up since four in the morning, and you can't wait for food even long enough to heat up pasta water.

3. Bake brownies for next-door neighbor Sam (with the grill the size of a Buick bumper and a heart even bigger) who's having a party for his 29th birthday. Embrace the if-you-can't-beat-em-join-em philosophy, and take the shot of Patron you're offered.

Lord have mercy. I'm dying today. I have to work, though; we're short-staffed and I have no sick time left over from being with Mom. Wearing sunglasses at work is terrifying when you walk in the bathroom and don't recognize the person looking at you in the mirror. Ow.

My office is just about done. Even before I was given the surprise desk, I spent a full day cleaning out the yarn/writing room. I wanted more writing, less yarn. After hours and hours of crawling around and swearing, I got rid of four garbage bags of trash. Not even donate-able stuff, just junk. Where did it come from? I was ruthless this time, throwing out broken-down memorabilia and ugly picture frames. I even got rid of the love letters. I'd always saved them, thinking, awwww, it'll be nice to reread these someday. Nope. Not so much. I glanced at some and got all wooodgy and squirmy about it. Fifty years from now, I bet I'd feel the way. I'm not in those relationships for good reasons, and while love is a great thing to find and have, once it's gone, there's no reason to revisit it, except in memory. And if I personally didn't write it down, I won't remember it. Someone else's writing, even directed to me, doesn't prompt anything in my memory, I've found.

[Speaking of memory-lapses: I argued with Lala last night. She said I'd been to Yoshi's for dinner. I said I hadn't, not ever, but I wanted to go. She said I was just plain wrong. I stuck to my guns until she called my sister-in-law, who was at this alleged dinner. She agreed with Lala! She said I was there! I gave up and ate my ice cream in sullen defeat, but I still wonder if they're just thinking of someone who looked like me.]

During the cleaning-spree, I went through paperwork. Now, people. I haven't filed in two and a half years, not since before we moved to this house. I'd just been stacking paper horizontally in boxes. And I had a very full filing cabinet that moved along with me that hadn't even been looked at for more years than I care to remember. So I cleaned it all out, only saving the important stuff, the taxes, house paperwork, and the like. I'm down to one small filing box from Ikea which is only half-full. Oh, the feeling of power!

I shredded a garbage bag full of paper (which creates a LOT of shredded paper, I tell ya). That was fun. I like to shred things, especially papers from the 90s. Found a three-dollar BART card. Whoopee!

This paper dilemma won't happen again, and I actually mean this (I'm really pretty darn sure. Mostly). I've had great success this year with a new filing system. I know I read about it on a GTD site somewhere: I got an expandable file folder (like THIS one), with 13 pockets. I labeled each pocket with a month, and I have one pocket for miscellaneous stuff that needs to be dealt with soon, but not immediately. Once I pay a bill or process something, it goes into the relevant month's pocket.

So far so good, right? The REALLY fun part happens when you've been using this system for a year (I'm almost there! Come on, October!). Then you pull out everything in that pocket from last year and get rid of almost all of it. Shred it all. Keep tax stuff and health stuff, obviously. Anything you might actually need again. But a year later, you're probably never going to need to reference your water bill again. You know? I can't wait for that part. Then you perma-file the long-term stuff, and keep on rolling along. This actually gives me a thrill to think about.

This all might be really boring if you're not one of THOSE people. But I'm one of those people. I can read for days about what pen people think is best. Me, I'm a Pilot G-2 .5 kind of girl, to the point that I carry my pen to work and take it home with me at night.

Oh, and by the way, I AM NEVER ALLOWED TO BUY FIBER AGAIN. Yarn, maybe. But no fiber, until I spin at least half of the obscene amount I now have tucked away in the bedroom closet (tucked away sounds so cute. Like I just popped it in there and closed the door, instead of the truth: that I forced it all into an enormous contractor bag and then used all my strength to push it in and then shut the door by dint of sheer brute force). Must spin more. And must read more. Really, I have no need to buy any more yarn/fiber/books for a very long time. While I'm sure I'll forget this (and quickly), it makes me feel good to know. When the revolution comes, I'll have enough to read and knit and spin.

Lala is making bacon and eggs in the kitchen. She's wearing her pink flannel pajama bottoms with the horseshoes on them and a Boudin sourdough tee-shirt. I'm in my nightgown with yoga pants underneath. Hott.

I've been writing in my room. Trying to, anyway, around the myriad animals who keep lolloping through the room.

Clara just ate a stick of butter. Paper still on.

I have a new desk that beloved friends ganged up to buy for me. (Actually, they just gave me the money and ordered me to go get something good, something solid. A real desk.)

Isn't is GORGEOUS? It's solid oak, and will last forever. The kind of desk you want to get under in an earthquake. That left drawer is actually a slide-out keyboard tray, and I have a new wireless Mac keyboard and mouse (SO GREAT) also paid for by my friends, so I'm mostly ergo! At home! Unreal. I have a real office now. I look out at the pink house across the street, and I hear the next-door neighbor kids helping their dad Sam build a skate-board ramp. A very good start to the day.

Except for the missing butter.

Did I tell you I got an Amazon Kindle? I don't think I did. I can tell you without reservation that I love it. I worried -- I thought it would be too bulky (it's not), or too first-generation (I don't think so). I know that's it's too expensive, but it was my post-fire overtime-money splurge, and at no other time would we have been able to afford it, so I got one. I'm an early adopter, you know. Love to adopt early and often.

For those three of you who don't know what a Kindle is -- it's an electronic reader. What I love about it is this: say you're flipping through People magazine (Yes, People. If you read People and The New Yorker every week, you can speak to anyone at any party. And People's book reviews are better than TNY, I swear), and say you see a book you want to read. You can either roll to your computer and send it to your Kindle and be reading it around thirty seconds, or you can go online wirelessly (for no charge) to search for and buy the book. That's the kind of instant gratification I've been looking for for YEARS. You can even use it to go online, for free, no internet charge of any kind. But honestly, I haven't really used it for that. It's dial-up slow and black and white. What I love about it is always having a choice of reading in my purse. I'm a five book at a time kinda gal, and that gets heavy.

I've read four or five books now on the Kindle, and it's awesome, particularly for knitters. No pages to fly open! Prop it up on your knee or make the font bigger and prop it a little further away, on the table, and you've got knitting nirvana. Sure, you have to punch the button to turn the page, but you'd have to turn the page anyway, right? It's easy to read, low-glare, and I adore it. Seems somehow easier to read in bed (I lie on my side), also.

Reading now: The Lace Reader, Brunonia Barry (link to right). Lovely book so far. Echoes of Alice Hoffman, with an earthier feel. It's feather-light on the romance -- I'm enjoying watching which direction it will go. Also, the lace references are just made for us fiber-folk.

Read last: Garden Spells, Sarah Addison Allen. Oh, TRES Alice Hoffman. I'll have to watch my own writing to keep magical-realism that I've been absorbing at bay. This is the younger, frothier, frappuccino niece of Practical Magic. Sister witches, a run from a bad man, finally using the power for good. But for all I raised my eyebrows at the similarities and its silliness, I kept reading, and I ended up liking it. I bought into the apple tree that threw its apples at people. Light and sweet.

Reading next: Who knows? Could be anything! (But will probably be Haruki Murakami's What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. Love his writing, and REALLY need to get back into running.)

My old email (and a group of associated addresses) turned off a while ago when we switched providers, and because it worked for so long AFTER I turned if off, I never thought to tell everyone to update their address book. I hear that I've missed some emails. (Actually, I didn't really care much until I found out that I missed one from beloved Janine, and lord knows I don't want to miss one from her.) And of course I can't get into that old email inbox, so I can't send the appropriate notification. So if I haven't responded to something you've sent, will you resend? To yarnagogo at gmail dot com? Thanks!

ETA - Lala and just discussed whose blog is more boring today. She thought hers was until I told her the content of mine. I win!

A lot of Clara running and doing her patented floating-rump bump, and some of Miss Idaho leaping, and not enough (never enough) of Harriet being short and CUTE! (And me backing up like a crazy person to make Miss Idaho dance.) Thanks to Lala for her mad video editing skillz.

From Merlin Mann's twitter:

Looking for the real "Ultimate Writing Productivity Resource?" Here you go: "Go write. Now. Then do it again tomorrow." There's your "hack."

Nice.

You remember when you were in school and you liked someone and you tried to play it cool and then s/he asked you out (or you did the asking) and that person said yes? And you were all, "Cool. That's cool. See you Saturday. Yeah," while you scuffed the sidewalk with your generic Ked? But really you were cartwheeling inside?

Cartwheel:
I HAVE AN AGENT!

I do. I have an agent. I have literary representation.

She knows about the blog, so I should roll easy. I should write, "I have an agent. Isn't that nice?" But hi. You know me. I'm so excited. My agent is Susanna Einstein, with LJK Literary Management. I couldn't be happier. Strangely, being represented by her has NOTHING to do with RWA or the conference I attended this week, but it just feels right. My god, I vow my allegiance to Romance and to the Republic for which it stands, and the next day I get a call from her! Certainly auspicious.

I will now be cool. I will now be collected.

(I think it might be a little late for that.)

I have had a revelation. I have had a revelation that I might have had in part before, but I didn't GET it until this weekend. This amazing weekend.

People, I am a romance writer. And that is a fine, good thing to be. I am no longer semi-quasi-just-a-little-bit ashamed of that.

Isn't it awful that I was a little bit ashamed before? I'm embarrassed and a little ashamed NOW, thinking of how I went into the Romance Writers of America conference. I was excited about it, yes, but there was a small, cheap part of myself that reserved the right to mock. I wondered how many gold puff-paint tee-shirts I'd see. How many sweatshirts covered in applique animals. I'd heard about the Ritas/Golden Hearts awards night, and I wanted to see housewives dressed up in ball gowns. I reserved the right to send mockalicious text messages to friends.

If I'm totally, completely honest (and this isn't pretty, my darling readers, be patient with me), there was a small part of me that looked down on these women, and that same part looked down on myself for attending. (Not a big part: I WAS really excited to attend.) But in my head I thought, romance, schmomance, what about literary ideals? Had the attendees checked all literary tradition at the door? Was I going to have to do that?

What a jackass.

My mind was blown at the conference. BLOWN. I met a gajillion really, really, really smart women. Beautiful women. Together women. Women who had already worked all of this out and were kind enough to talk to me and help me while I struggled to overcome my prejudice. They were patient and sweet and SO SMART. (Hello, Ravelry sockgirl Sara -- thank you for explaining to me what urban fantasy was!)

I have an analogy for all of this. When a lesbian first comes out, generally, she's very stupidly excited. Picture a young woman moving to San Francisco and finding out that IT'S OKAY TO LIKE GIRLS! Oh, my god, YOU DO, TOO! ISN'T THIS GREAT? DID YOU KNOW THAT WOMEN ARE GREAT? THERE ARE BOOKS, DID YOU KNOW THERE ARE BOOKS? I CAN WEAR THIS? I'M SO EXCITED!!! There are a lot of capital letters and excited hoorays, and the lesbians who already get it smile and nod and support that new gal as she finds out that it's all good, the water's just fine out here, and no one is doing anything wrong: in fact, they're all doing it just right.

I think I was that person this weekend, the MFA writer coming from a strictly literary tradition finding out that there is so much more to the romance writing industry than I ever knew. You could see it in their faces, the women I spoke to, here's another one. Isn't she cute? She's a new kid, be nice to her.

There was no gold puff-paint or appliqued animals. Just frighteningly smart, nicely dressed, very together women who were sharp as hell. Many of the woman I met had an advanced degree. Or two. And this wasn't because I was actively seeking them out: I just happened to stand next to them in the Starbucks line, sat next to them in seminars, stood in line with them in the bathroom.

Yeah. They'd already figured this out. Romance scholarship is not new, but it's gaining popularity. There's an amazing blog that provides a good jumping-off point called Teach Me Tonight.

But it's more than just that the fact that there is now increased academic interest in the study of romance fiction -- that's not what legitimized romance for me. The women I met legitimized it for me. I want to be one of them. Someday, I want to be on that stage on Saturday night. And I didn't see dowdy women dressed in ballgowns last night, I saw writers who reveled in their deserved spotlight who looked absolutely gorgeous. The inner geek in me arrived early to the hallway where people gathered before the ceremony. I curled up, mostly hidden, in an armchair where I had a direct view of the fountain of women cascading down the escalators. I didn't even knit or try to pretend I wasn't sitting there gawking. I just gawked. They were all writers, anyway. They knew what I was doing. Probably knew it was my first time. Probably could see MFA branded on my forehead as they smiled kindly at me. The inner geek also loved that many of the women with beautiful hair and gorgeous gowns also wore glasses. HOW COOL IS THAT? A geeky, romantic Oscars ceremony!

Best thing ever. I am so proud to be a romance writer. Bring it on!

There is a dog on my shoulder.

I dyed my hair last night in preparation for today's excitement. I had to. The gray is not so much gray anymore but silver, and it had been rather shocking. This is a better look, I think. And I wanted to look good: The Romance Writers of America Conference started today!

Luckily, it started with a knitting meet-up, or I think I might have expired of nerves. I met up with Theresa, Bronwyn, and Tara at the Marriott and I took them on an abbreviated tour of the city -- Artfibers, Imagiknit, and Taqueria Cancun. No yarn trip is ever complete without Mexican food, I always say.

Back at the conference, I wandered and met people. I was worried that meeting writers would be hard, but I swear, it was as easy as meeting knitters. And in Imagiknit, I did both: I met a woman named Patricia (who was wearing a lovely February Lady Sweater) who was in town attending the convention with Debbie Macomber, who was right there and fondled the yarn I was holding.

I ended the day bringing home nothing but the new Knitscene magazine (I really like that one, do you?). And I outed myself a couple of times, something I've been vaguely worried about. With fellow knitters, I wasn't worried. But I had a long conversation with a loud, opinionated, very cool Cuban woman, and decided to try it out. "You know, it's weird, I write straight romance, but I'm married to a girl." She just leaned forward and asked, "What is THAT like?" Then she proceeded to tell me about the straight woman writer she was working with who wrote gay male erotica. It's a different world, I tell you. A good one.

I am tired. I want a glass of wine and maybe some sushi. I most definitely do NOT want to go out to buy dog food, but I fear an uprising if I don't.

I so hella heart my new tattoo.

Before:

(Image flipped due to being taken on the MacBook -- this is my right arm.)

On a suggestion from RedSilvia (who is ultra-hip and cool and to be trusted in matters like these), I booked an appointment with Tanja Nixx, the owner of the famous Lyle Tuttle Tattooing in North Beach, San Francisco. I'd found a couple of hearts online that I liked, and I told Lala I wanted forget-me-nots (my favorite flower and one of my mother's favorites, too) and a kiwi bird, so she played around with images and photoshopped something that I liked enough to present to Tanja. And then Tanja made magic with it. She gave me the EXACT tattoo that I wanted. I'd been worried that when I got it done, it wouldn't be right (a valid and normal worry, probably). I worried that it would be too small, or crooked, or just Not What I Wanted, even though I couldn't quite articulate what it was that I did want.

But Tanja. She got it right, man. So right.

During:

After:

Isn't it phenomenal? It's perfect. I love it. I also love Tanja -- she is good people. She also has a cozy tattoo shop, something I didn't know existed. I was relaxed. And it really didn't hurt, that was the crazy part. At its worst, it felt like when you're scratching a mosquito bite -- hurts so good. Really. I didn't believe it when people said that tattoos don't hurt. And I think that a tattoo elsewhere might hurt a GREAT deal. But let's face it, this part of my arm is not anywhere close to a bone, and while a couple of places stung for a second, mostly it was just fun. And the endorphins! Those are great! I've felt that high only a couple of times before while running, and it's totally worth it.

Oh, closer? Okay. This is hours afterward, obviously fresh but still looking good:

Here I am a little bit red and feeling really tired from the day, but LOVING it:

Yep. The funny part is that this is so much for ME. Mom would have found it kind of silly, I think, if not outright ridiculous. So it's funny to memorialize her this way. But she would have liked it because I liked it. Hooray!

Know where I am?

IN BED! By choice! It's after ten in the morning, and I am NOT AT WORK for the first time since June.

I am dizzy with the possibilities. Three days off. I was planning on having a pajama weekend to end all pajama weekends, but instead I have SO MUCH I want to do.

Or I could just chill. Like Waylon:

WEEKEND PLANS

1. I want to deal with cat litter issues. Doesn't that sound like FUN? We've found the cats really, really like the Cat Attract litter, just like they say they will, and that's solved a lot of problems, but I still have to hide the box in the kitchen by making a curtain and deal with making the box inaccessible to Clara who still tries to steal her "cat treats." It's disgusting and not allowed. Must deal with that.

2. I need to go get a new Roomba. The one I have is about to die, and it never quite completes a full cycle. I am ALL about keeping the Costco receipt, and every time one dies (it's not that well-made but when it works it WORKS), I box it up, take it back and get a new one. That will only work until Costco stops carrying them, as Costco is wont to do, and then I'll have to deal with the warranty people at Roomba, but until then, I'm a Costco-standing-in-line fool. And I usually abhor going to Costco. (I'm vacuuming right now, actually. While lying in bed. Ain't THAT broken yet.)

3. I'd like to make another dress. Maybe. If the mood strikes.

4. I have nothing to knit while at the Romance Writers of America conference next week. I'm working on a green tank which isn't holding my interest, and I'm also doing the Sodera Socks (Ravelry link - so sexy!), but they require too much looking down. I need some eyes-free knitting, in sweater form, I think. Maybe the February-Lady-Sweater, perhaps? Like the rest of the free world?

5. Crap! Roomba just died! I heard it. Costco today, for sure.

6. Perfume. I want to wear perfume. My sister Christy (who is a perfume blogger -- Smell the Glove is a must-read) gave me two wonderful perfumes (one of which is Guerlain's Sous le Vent, oh my, and the other one I love but forgot the name and I don't want to get out of bed and get it) for my birthday, and it was perfect timing. I don't wear perfume when I'm sad, and I've been too sad in the last few months to risk perfume-wearing. Even happy days could be suddenly clouded with grief, and I didn't want to risk spoiling a perfectly wonderful scent forever. But I'm ready. (I had a good dream about Mom last night. Finally. I don't think I wrote about the horrifying dreams I had for weeks after she died, corporeal dreams, dreams I'll never get over. But finally, last night I dreamed that the sisters and I were on a pier, and Clara was swimming in the ocean next to us, happily splashing away as she does. In the dream I took a picture of her, and on the screen of the digital camera, I could see Mom dog-paddling (ha!) next to Clara. None of us could see her with our eyes, but we could see her when we took pictures of Clara. Grinning at us in delight from the water. Grinning like "I'm right here, don't you know that?" Weird dream, in that she was always a little afraid of the ocean, but a lovely one. The dream I've been waiting for.) Now I can wear perfume again. There is still grief, but it fits in my body now.

7. Other fun things I'm doing this weekend: Cheetahs on the Moon and 5 Cent Coffee tonight at the Eagle's Tavern in San Francisco. Tomorrow night: hot tub and massage with Lala courtesy of beloved friends. Saturday: Tattoo! More to follow on that.

8. I suppose I'll get up now. Don't have to. But I'm gonna. Woot!

Starbucks. Come on. You're hurting me. You know that I usually don't get coffee on the way to work in the morning. I like to save my pennies and spend them on more important things, like yarn and kitty litter. I can make my own coffee. But this working twenty-four 12-hour days in a row, I've been needing java brewed FOR me.

And I don't want to talk.

That's why I go through the drive-through, yo. Because if I walk in, then I actually have to SEE you at five in the morning. I don't WANT to. So I stay in my car, and when you tweet, "Good MORNING, thank you for choosing Starbucks, and how are YOU today?" I don't want to anwer you. I am NOT fine yet, because I have no coffee, and I don't want to have to break that to you, so I say, "Fine," and wait for you to ask me what I'll be having on this fantabulous day.

I totally get that might be the rule. You might hate having to say that. That's cool. But when I drive up and hand you my money, and you take it and then lean OUT the window while we're waiting for the coffee to come up and say, "So! How ARE you today? What's going on? How's your day? What'cha got going on?" that's just too much. I don't make eye contact because I CAN'T. I am trying not to roar away, leaving my precious coffee behind.

I so appreciate service professionals who know how to read people. When I waited tables, I tried to be really conscious of it. You can tell, immediately, who wants to engage and laugh and joke with you, and you can tell the person who would really to just tell you their order and then get lost in their book. Laugh and joke with one, be courteous but no more to the other. That gets you the tips.

Please. Just hand me coffee.

PS - I have discovered that you can make pseudo-poached eggs in the microwave! Put a little water, maybe 1/4 cup, into a cereal bowl, break two eggs into the water, and nuke for about a minute (with something covering the bowl in case the eggs blow up -- something that hasn't happened yet but I hear it might). Meanwhile, your piece of bread is toasting. In about a minute, you have something I've always called chipped egg (poached eggs and buttered toast, all chopped up) which I thought was actually a phrase people used, but I just googled it and I think they don't. But it's fun to say chipped egg. Real breakfast! At work! So nice!

Good things about being home:

1. Lala! She came home early last night from work, and we had time to take the dogs for a walk TOGETHER before I went to bed. Clara ran in and out of the creek, and Harriet jogged along, giving no evidence of her sixteen years. Miss Idaho was very small and quite fast.

2. Bed. Our own bed, with the fan in the window that blows right on me, all night, so that I get chilled and then I have to snuggle under the covers. I love that.

3. Gin-and-tonic. Well, that's not a Being Home thing, but it was a Last Night thing -- Lala brought home some tonic and made me one. Nothing better on a warm evening after dogs have been fed and walked.

4. Cats. Digit. Oh, we missed each other. There was much drool last night.

Bad things about being home:

There isn't one. Okay, if there HAD to be one, it's a phantom cat-smell (important hyphen placement there; it isn't a phantom-cat). It's in the kitchen, and we just can't find it. It's not strong, but I have an extremely strong sniffer, and it's making me crazy. Stupid little schimttens have been doing better since we've been using the Feliway and that super cat-litter, but I think we're missing a spot that needs to be cleaned. I freakin' hate that smell (just pee, no one knows how to spray, thank GOD). Lala ominously mentioned we might have to move the dryer to find it. Ack.

Another good thing: Tomatoes getting bigger. Oh, and a porch swing. Lots of yarn. Hardwood floors and bare feet. Yep.

I found a kitten this morning. I was driving to work and I saw it, sitting peacefully right on the white line, just out of traffic's way. I thought, huh. That's weird. That kitten isn't running away from the cars whizzing right in front of her. I passed her, and two seconds later I realized she must be hurt. I pulled over. Ran back. Picked her up.

She was about 16 weeks old, I'd guess, just at that age where they start to put on weight and fill out and lengthen. She was white and fluffy, with dark smudges at the paws, nose and ear-tips. I approached. She just sat there and looked at me. There was a trace of blood at her lips. I picked her up. She didn't fight me, not at first. I walked as gently and as quickly as I could to my car, half a block up the street. When I opened the door of the car, she started to fight, but I held on, and tucked her into a spot by the wheel-wheel on the passenger-side floor. She curled up and just looked at me. I drove to work, just two more blocks down the road.

I made calls. I'm only visiting the area and I didn't know who to call first. The best I could find that early was an emergency vet thirty minutes up the road. I couldn't take that kind of time off. There was no one to work my position, and it would have been at least an hour round-trip. I wouldn't be allowed to leave.

So I called the animal shelter. I found out where the supervisor was. I drove the two blocks to meet her at the police department (I didn't even ask permission to leave -- I was scared they'd say no, just said I'd be right back), and I loaded the kitten into the crate. There was more blood coming out of the kitten's mouth, and she could only crawl on her belly when she entered the crate -- she couldn't bear weight anymore.

The animal shelter woman nodded at me. I opened my mouth. She gave me a look. I didn't ask. I couldn't.

So I can still tell myself that perhaps the supervisor fell in love with the fluffy thing and got the thousands-of-dollars emergency surgery she needed and will adopt her to a loving, happy, indoor-cat home. But really, I know that she was put down. I know that she was dying and by stopping to pick her up I helped to ease her misery by getting her out of it sooner. If I'd left her to die on the road it could have taken hours or even a day.

But I cried the whole time I drove back to work (all three blocks) and I bawled a message to Lala's phone. Then I wiped my eyes and blew my nose and felt like a monster and went inside and did my work and ignored the others when they laughed at me. Good-natured, non-animal-people kind of laughter. But still. It was a really shitty start to the day.

The day got better. I'm done with my 14-day stint up here. I drive home tomorrow, and I'm going to take the Lost Coast home. The long way. I think a drive along the coast is just what I need. (PS to the locals: KHUM a RAD station. Luckies! You all non-locals might like it, too. I heard good bluegrass, David Byrne, Death Cab for Cutie, and Jack Johnson back-to-back. Listen HERE.)