Another heat wave has me confined to quarters.  By noon it was well over a hundred degrees outside, so my gardening was limited to moving sprinklers every thirty minutes.

I used this as an excuse to be lazy and spent the afternoon happily engrossed in reading.  "Happily" is not quite accurate as I read The Quiet American, by Graham Greene, which is anything but a happy tale.  It's a brilliant novel about a cynical British journalist in Vietnam during the French occupation.  Actually, it's about the futility and inevitability of war intertwined with a love story. 

This was my first experience with Graham Greene and I'm hooked but I doubt I will have much success finding his other books at my local county library. 

Our library system has a wonderful online reservation system that allows one to order books from any county library in San Bernardino County and Riverside County.  You would think that it would be easy to find classic books like Catcher in the Rye and the works of Graham Greene but it's been my experience that it takes some time to get them if they are available at all.  Order any John Grisham novel, or Danielle Steele novel, or even Stephen King novel, and it's readily available in full sized, hardback; but the last two classics I ordered were tattered paperbacks that came from remote desert libraries in Riverside County. 

I was talking with our local librarian the other day when she was compiling a list of books to order and when I suggested we should have our own copy of Catcher in the Rye, she acted as if she had never heard of it.  I suppose it makes sense to stock the books people want to read but shouldn't they at least have one hardbound copy of such a well known book? 

Everyday I'm reminded of how old I am by another issue like this.  I remember hearing my elders rail against the changes that younger generations embraced and thinking how square they were.  Now I'm the square. 

On a less bitchey note, progress on the new cat penitentiary is coming along nicely.  I persuaded Mike to jackhammer out the concrete under and around the outdoor shower at the same time.

Mike whacked his finger when the rotary hammer got hung up and this is his grimace of pain.  And here's the finished renovation.

I dug out the sod and Mike commenced building.

Bob had to check out the view from the new roof.

A friend commented that it seemed like DB's life sentence was a bit tough for a mere assault and I pointed out that it wasn't his first offense.  Mike noted that under the California three strikes law, judges have no power to grant leniency even if the third offense is minor.  DB's just lucky there's no death penalty in our house.

In my struggle over what to do with DB, I turned to my friends and family for perspective and received some varied views on the subject.

I found it interesting that the majority of men felt that there was nothing wrong with relocating the cat to an environment where he could fend for himself, while the women vacillated between confinement and euthanasia.

As a woman, I was interested in why an idea so repugnant to me, seemed preferable to the men in my readership. 

Naturally, our opinions are formed by our own life experiences and when we anthropomorphize our animal friends, we can only imagine they think like we do.  Hence, a male who has moved freely and successfully in society would prefer to be cast out of his familiar environment than be snuffed.  He feels confident that he could compete independently in a hostile environment. 

Women who are more dependent (biologically speaking) and look to their tribe for protection, see ostracism as the worst sort of inhumanity.

If DB were female, would the men feel more protective of him er ... her?  Sadly, DB is neither female nor male, as he was separated from the testosterone producing part of him when he elected to settle down here.  I know, I know, to you guys that's a fate worse than death or ostracism.  The fact remains, DB is in no position to make his own way in the world.

He is a domestic cat who craves human attention.  He's affectionate and sociable with people but like all cats, is uncomfortable with his own kind.  Domestic cats are territorial and take a while to adjust to feline companionship, especially other males.  Like siblings, even though he can be found dozing companionably with Blackie or Gray Kitty one minute, the next minute they're duking it out as if they're mortal enemies.  I can't help but wonder if that's a guy thing too.  Do guys just like to fight?

Mike persuaded me to give DB a chance at rehabilitation.  He has been sentenced to two weeks behind bars with further psychiatric evaluation pending.  This poses some hardship for Miss Butchie

as she will be deprived of access to her outdoor townhouse for the duration and significant inconvenience for me, as I will need to clean her litterbox, which is now indoors, every day.  That is until the benevolent dictator, Mike, returns from Washington state, at which time the chore will become his. 

This is the Cat house.  It still has the winter panels on the lower half and the door end.  They keep the rain out.  Hey, don't laugh, we actually had a miserable amount of rain this week.

This is the three-storey house with sleeping deck on top.

This is the view from his cell.  If you notice, there is a wire enclosed cat walk all the way around the patio wall that can be accessed from this cat house.  This connects the main cat house to the spa, pool and tennis courts.

Other Gray Kitty doesn't understand why DB gets to be inside and he doesn't.

And this is the prisoner, dining on dry cat food and water. 

Mom spent an uncomfortable night with her leg swollen and throbbing, but reports that the swelling has subsided this afternoon.  I think she's getting tired of my guilt stricken attentiveness. 

THE ANTIDOTE FOR DEPRESSION

Sally dragged me out of bed at five this morning to go up the mountains to ride the Santa Ana River Trail before it got too hot.  The gnats were hip to our plan and assaulted us as soon as we exited the vehicle but the air was brisk and smoke free.  My teeth chattered for the first half mile of the climb up Middle Control Road, a nicely graded dirt road, that takes us to the trail head of this section.

We settled into the gentle climb of Hill Ranch Road, once a dirt two-track access road to a spring nourished apple orchard.  We warmed up and within a mile were peeling off our jackets.  Hill Ranch Road has been eroded over the years into a swell singletrack, nicely compacted and shaded by granddaddy oaks.  Sally reveled in the "carpet of golden coins" that hinted at the end of summer, crunching under our tires.  She's an avid naturalist (I think she majored in biology) and notices the subtle signs of wild life along the trail that I seldom notice.  Suddenly she exclaimed, "Oh my Dog, he's huge!"  She had discerned bear tracks on the trail, which is common, but were way huger than we have seen on previous rides.

A little farther up the trail we spotted his apple-peel speckled turds which further piqued our imagination as to his size.  Based on the evidence, I speculated he must be as big as Mike.  It became obvious that we were riding the bear freeway to Home Town Buffet as the piles of scat became more and more frequent. 

Not wishing to have an unexpected close encounter we decided we needed to make lots of noise.  A song, I offered, was what we needed.  So, we pedaled along, singing alternating phrases of a campfire bear song at the top of our lungs, which allowed for the breathing the climb required.  If the noise weren't sufficient, the quality of our duet surely would have terrified any sane beast. 

We paused at a particularly interesting section of trail and Sally observed that we were about to be overtaken by other cyclists.  We fell in behind them after they passed, and were a little relieved to have doubled the size of our clan.  The woman in the lead was a little poky on the descending sections but as soon as the trail headed uphill again, they dropped us like the overfed geriatrics that we are.  (Sorry, Sally, I should say that I am)

We never caught sight of Yogi or any of his kin but encountered a half a dozen other cyclists on the return trip.  One Asian guy, riding alone, asked us if we had seen any bears, with a note of concern in his voice.  We said, "Nope, just a lot of poop", as we blew on by.  Sally reflected that maybe we should have stopped to reassure him but I thought the anxiety would make his ride a little more exciting in the retelling.  Am I right?

Our summer weather finally struck with a vengeance this week with temperatures over 105 degrees for the last five days.  I spent most of the week at the refrigerated senior center, wearing sweatshirts and wrapping my legs in a quilt.  Why is it that public places are almost always over cooled?

Babs and I went to see Julie and Julia on Saturday because it was simply too hot to do anything else.  The movie was a feast for the eyes.  The setting was mostly in Paris and I was reminded how, on my first visit to that enchanting city, I had vowed to return every year.  That was about ten years ago and I haven't been back yet.

If the scenery wasn't captivating enough, the entire story was about the two women's love of cooking, which happens to be another of my favorite pastimes.  In fact I thought about skipping the movie because I was so engrossed in turning the last of my homegrown tomatoes into a pasta sauce of my own creation.  My creations generally consist of whatever I have on hand which happened to be yellow tomatoes, eggplant, red and yellow bell peppers, and onions.  I sauteed the peppers, onion and eggplant in olive oil with fresh garlic and then added the peeled, chopped tomatoes.  Seasoned with my home grown, dried basil and some store bought oregano, I simmered the concoction until it turned nice and thick and fragrant. 

I stumbled upon another taste sensation when several of the mangos I had bought at Costco got over ripe.  I peeled a couple of them and tossed them into the blender along with a nectarine and some vanilla yogurt.  Out came a beautiful orange pudding-like substance that I put into little plastic containers which I popped into the freezer.  Oh my Dog!  They are the best popsicles ever!

So, after all that cooking and sedentary activity, Sally and I got up at dawn to ride the Santa Ana River Trail before it got too hot.  Hot it was not; in fact, we were all goose pimply for the first couple of miles, dressed in our summer togs.  Before we reached the summit, the sun had warmed the trail and the gnats were chasing us down for breakfast. 

I took the lead downhill and quickly left the gnats behind.  Zipping through the turns and flying fearlessly on the straightaways, I marveled at the fact that we hadn't seen a single other rider all morning on this very popular trail.  No sooner had that thought crossed my mind when I came barreling down on a rider who was laboring up the trail.  I grabbed both brakes and locked up both wheels but it was obvious I wasn't going to stop sliding before I hit him, so at the last split second I veered to the right and came to a stop right next to him.  With my face only about a foot away from his I smiled sweetly and said, "Oops, sorry".  I couldn't help but be amused at the look on his face as he processed the information.  Here's some old lady, his mother's age, riding like an ignorant teenager, and apologizing to him for nearly running him over.  He kindly warned me that there were three more guys behind him, so we waited until they caught up with him to proceed down the trail.

We figured that four riders was probably the quota for the day and continued heedlessly at breakneck speed the rest of the way down the trail. We were right.

An old chum, Cath, rang me up the other day to invite me to join her at a hen party being hosted by another former riding buddy, Heather.  Now, I have a very inflexible rule that I do not attend these silly parties where grown women sit around making mind numbing small talk and play ridiculously childish games.  I made an exception in this case for two reasons.  One, I hadn't seen Heather in about fifteen years and looked forward to connecting with her again, and two, the premise of the party sounded like great fun.

The theme of the party was like a mini swap meet.  Each invited guest was invited to bring another guest and everyone was encouraged to bring all of their unwanted clothes, shoes, accessories, housewares, etc. and take home with them all of the booty they found to their liking.  If that wasn't incentive enough, guests were encouraged to bring an appetizer dish as well.  Cath and I didn't get the email that mentioned the appetizer but I took advantage of the opportunity to unload a basket of my homegrown tomatoes and bell peppers so we didn't show up empty handed.

This is Bob helping me pick tomatoes.

I was initially excited by the idea of getting rid of a bunch of stuff I'd been storing, stuff too good to throw away but no longer useful to me.  I brought a canister set I'd picked up at a garage sale that turned out not to be quite what I wanted;

a juicer; and some clothes that had grown too large for me.  I was gratified to see them snatched up before I had even finished unwrapping them.  My elation at getting rid of all my junk was soon diminished as I found an equal number of to-die-for cute outfits to take home.  Heather happens to be my size and has excellent taste in clothes.

I couldn't resist this utterly impractical leather coat.

Everyone had a great time going through all the "bargains" and when we were all finished there were still huge piles of things to go to the local women's shelter. 

These photos don't begin to show how beautiful Heather's house is.  With a lovely open floor plan, it was perfect for entertaining. 

Notice my lovely tomato basket?

Rocket hung out at the table politely waiting for handouts from tender hearted guests.

  These girls were debating whether they could walk in some stiletto heeled shoes that a more practical woman had deemed unsafe.

This woman found a book so irresistable she sat right down and began reading amid the cacaphony of cackling hens. 

Michel recommended this music and I really enjoyed it.  The piece is the Poet and Peasant Overture by Franz von Suppe.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c3_aM_s0R1U

I had referred to Michel (Fauquet) as a gardener with the heart of a poet and that reminded him of this music.  He extrapolated "peasant" from my use of "gardener" which made me think about the implications of both words.

In America, the term peasant has some derogatory connotation, while gardener means a more gentlemanly pursuit.  We city folks like to imagine ourselves somehow superior to the country bumpkins who grow our food, assuming that it is a menial task that requires little skill or intelligence.  Well, any gentleman gardener will be happy to explain that it may not be rocket science, but believe you me, to get a healthy crop it takes a whole lot more than luck.  I've been bumping along for three years now and each year I'm faced with new challenges and each year I learn a little more about how much I have to learn.  It's thoroughly humbling to discover that country bumpkins are WAY smarter than I am.

I always hear other people complain about how much email they get and how they don't even bother to read it.  Or I even have friends who don't check their email! 

I'm hear to tell you that I love my email.  I check it first thing in the morning and every evening and sometimes during the day.  I admit that some of my mail is more eagerly opened than others but mostly I like it all.  I have such an eclectic circle of friends that the jokes alone are worth the time it takes. 

The first email that gets read are the ones from my sister, her daughters or any other family members and friends.  Next I open the ones that are clearly jokes. 

The joke category runs the gamut.  I have a couple of friends, who by my standards, are right-wing racists.  They send the most awful jokes.  My latest response to those is, "I don't get it."  If they are so dense as to explain why it's funny, I respond with something like, "I was so appalled by how mean spirited it was that I missed the humor".   That's not to say I won't laugh at a clever racist or political joke, but it has to be funny; not just mean.  Then there are the usual funny jokes, the humorous videos, etc. of which I never grow tired.  The best ones are invariably the ones from friends who get me.  By that I mean they can anticipate what will tickle me.

Oh, that reminds me of a really dumb joke I heard a stand-up comic tell on Live Nude Comedy the other night:  "I dated a girl in a wheel chair.  I stood her up.  She really fell for me.  After that it was just a drag."  Bwaahahahaha  I guess you had to have been there  BTW if you tell anybody I watch that show I'll deny it.

I secretly like the sappy send-this-to-ten-people-who-mean-this-much-to-you types (I guess I'm a little flattered that someone thought of me that kindly).  I forward about one in twenty but NEVER to ten people.  I guess I just don't feel that mushy about ten people.  I don't forward religious stuff at all.

I just love it when my friend sends me video of his daughter on her horse.  It's not just the fact that she is such a skillful equestrienne and her horse is beautiful, and he's a good vodeographer...well, yeah, I guess it is.

Probably the only mail that goes unopened is the political conspiracy stuff and the overtly partisan, anti-Obama propaganda.  I get that people are concerned about the Obama administration's runaway spending and poorly conceived health care bill, but spreading silly, fear mongering gossip about his citizenship, alleged homosexuality, terrorist associations, etc. is just juvenile.  Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn if he is a buggerer (or a buggeree).  I don't care if he was born on Mars.  All I care about is how he leads our country.  And considering the mess he was handed by the Bush administration, he must be given some latitude.  Could we maybe calm down and work together to figure out some kind of way out of our economic situation that would allow us to develop a workable health care plan? 

I don't know why I'm not inundated by spam like some folks are.  Maybe I have a good filter or good karma, I don't know.  The few that get through are easily identified and deleted.

Oh, I almost forgot to mention my most treasured email!  It's the Xanga notice that someone has posted a comment on my latest blog.  My subscribers (both of them) are the kindest, funniest, smartest, most interesting people on earth.  And to have them read my drivel, much less comment, is the highest form of flattery. 

Here I should name them but I fear in my present inebriated condition, I might overlook someone and by omission, offend.  Oh, what the heck...I want you guys to go to the blogs of my Xanga friends and enjoy what I enjoy about them.  Here they are in no particular order: 

Babs430 - my sister who is arguably the best writer on Xanga, a gifted photographer, and the most beautiful woman over sixty I know;

Curtainsopen - he's been on a literary dry spell of late but usually he's prolific, clever, and wise beyond his years;

Michel - (known as Fauquet and don't ask me to pronounce that because I don't use that word in English) a French gardener with the heart of a poet;

Kipahni - a romantic world adventurer with an indomitable sense of humor;

Queenie - the beautiful, multifaceted humorist who shares my passion for mountain biking;

Kenwats - who has recently disappeared but is achingly funny when he posts;

Twotothefightingeighthpower - I think he is secretly a famous writer or soon will be because he's scary good;

And the rest of my friends around the globe - Englishjules, Gringottsbank, ElevenStones, who allow me to see the world through their eyes. 

If you read their intelligent posts you will understand why I'm so flattered to have them as virtual friends.

Many years ago we inherited a Weber barbecue grill when a friend moved out of state.  It was Weber's bottom of the line grill and it was far from new, having been stored outside in the salt air of Laguna Beach.  Still, it was a sturdy, well designed unit and it served us well. 

When the second set of grates wore out, the igniter died and the bottom rotted out, we finally decided it was time to replace it.  After some due diligence we had more or less decided to buy a unit that was recommended by Consumer Reports for it's "very good" cooking rating and its modest price.  It wasn't a Weber but it boasted many more features than the similarly priced Weber and looked very cool in its stainless steel cabinet.  We went to Lowes to examine it up close and personal.

Indeed, when compared to the simple, utilitarian Weber that cost half again as much, it sparkled like a gem.  But, just a few models down the aisle was the GENESIS.  Costing a mere three and a half times as much as the now seemingly chinsey stainless steel off-brand grill, this tasteful espresso colored (Weber's color description, not mine), chrome trimmed, paradigm of grilling perfection stood regally, as if bathed in a shaft of light from heaven.  I could see from the look on Mike's face as he caressed its sleek porcelain coated steel grates that he was hearing the songs of angles promising halcyon days of outdoor cooking for a guaranteed ten years.

I tried to steer him back to the more affordable made-in-China-by-slave-labor model but it was no use.  And, truth be told, I too had fallen under the spell of the GENESIS and my powers of persuasion were hobbled by my lack of enthusiasm.  The final blow to my argument for frugality was Mike's romantic rationalization.  Here's the part that will just melt your heart:  He said, "Well I never buy you jewelry so I can afford to buy you this grill".  How sweet was that?!?

When I pulled into Steve's driveway yesterday, I was greeted by two large, malnourished, unkempt dogs.  One was a broad jowled pit bull type and the other a wolfish looking ragamuffin of an animal.  The pit bull mix was black and the wolf mix was mostly white, both were limping and had scabbed sores on their ears from flies eating them raw.

I might have been wary about getting out of the car except I didn't see there were two of them until I was already out and they appeared to be young enough that they could be intimidated by a tough old broad like me.  The black one was very friendly and bumped up against my legs companionably, whacking me with his ropy tail all the while.  He reeked of skunk so I tried to avoid contact with him without appearing rude.

His buddy was more seriously injured and yipped whenever circumstances required him to put any weight on his sore leg but they both followed me up to the barn to feed the horses.  They showed an unnerving interest in the horses as they pranced around their paddocks in anticipation of breakfast.  Thankfully the enclosures are fully enclosed in heavy wire mesh so the dogs couldn't get into the corrals to cause trouble. 

After the horses were fed I lured the dogs into an empty stall and closed the door, trapping them safely.  I slipped a bowl of food and a bucket of water into the stall and went down to the house to call animal control.  The woman at the dog pound explained that she had only one man on duty and didn't know when he would be able to come around to pick them up.  I gave her my cell number and asked her to have the dog catcher animal control officer call me when he was on the way so I could meet him.

I was just nicely home and settled into working in the garden when she called me back.  She said she had received a call from a woman about 15 minutes ago who had lost two dogs matching the description of my two prisoners and had given her my number and Steve's address. 

Now I don't mean to sound like the elitist snob that I am but...I felt just a little ill at ease about her inviting someone to go up to Steve's unoccupied estate who kept dogs in such poor condition.  I envisioned a toothless, tweaker whose drug addled brain would fire on all remaining cylinders when she saw Steve's nice possessions unguarded.

To my immense relief the woman called a few minutes later and I suggested that I meet her at the corner near Steve's private road.  She sounded neither toothless nor drug addled but I took Mom along for protection, just in case.  Imagine my surprise when I drove up to find an attractive blonde woman in expensive designer sunglasses, driving a shiny black Hummer (the BIG one, not the H2).  And right behind her was her male companion in another late model SUV.

As they followed me up the private drive to the house I could hear the gasoline being slurped into their monster machines.  Anyway, the rodeo that ensued in the barn would have been worth filming.  The horses, thinking they might get fed again, began whinnying and the dogs went wild with excitement while the hapless owners struggled to leash them with the horse halters and ropes I provided, since they had arrived empty handed.  When it became obvious that the two were never going to get control over their dogs on their own, I stepped in and fastened a halter around the pit bull while the man wrapped a rope around the wolf-dog.  The woman looked nonplussed when I handed her the rope attached to her dog as if she expected me to deliver the dog to her truck.

As I bid them all a fond adieu I realized that I now smelled like skunk too after having wrestled with the pit bull.  Two showers later, I still couldn't get the stink off my skin so I made a mixture of hydrogen peroxide, baking soda and liquid soap and lathered my arms for several minutes.  This is yet another proof that no good deed goes unpunished.

I expressed feeling a little disheartened about the prospects of ever finding a really great job the other day and Mom said, "I don't understand why you have such a poor self image.  You always...blah, blah, blah.  When I was your age...blah, blah, blah".  I had to agree with her that sometimes I focus more on my shortcomings than my achievements, but overall I think I compare favorably with my peers. 

This morning I was scrambling to get my morning chores out of the way before going up to Steve's to feed his horses.  I set some sprinklers; fed the cats; picked tomatoes; cleaned up the house; pulled out a huge tomato plant and chopped it up; and put out the garden waste, trash and recycle for pick up.  Mom came out to inspect my work and managed to get past the sprinklers without commenting on my wasteful use of water.  Just when I thought I was in the clear she came up the driveway from critiquing my trash barrel arrangement at the street.

"I can't believe that you are so unobservant that you place the trash container facing the wrong direction!  You know they can't pick it up when it faces the wrong way.  I know I've told you this before."

I refrained from the retort that came to mind which was "I can't believe you dare to speak that way to the person who prepares your food," and held my peace.  

My lack of response wasn't enough of a hint that maybe she was pushing me a little too far so she added, "Do you get it?" 

In my mind I was hearing Raymond's mom speaking to Deborah.  Where's Frank with his dry wit when I need him?  Oh, I forgot, Peter Boyle died.  What a loss!

I rode the Intense up to Steve's to feed and found the horses had already been fed.  I located Chui, the young man who "works" for him behind the barn, chatting on his cell phone.  He gave no indication that he was going terminate his conversation so I left a note on the dry erase board requesting that whoever fed, please call me to let me know.  Not only would that save me the trip up there but it would also insure that the horses didn't get fed twice.  It occurred to me that Chui didn't speak English so I composed the same message in Spanish.

It wasn't until I got home that I realized that I had mixed up the verb "to feed" with the verb "to eat" so now he will only call me if he eats the horses.  That should be a big help.

I'm off to the senior center to help folks navigate Windows XP.  There I can be as unobservant and language impaired as I am and still shine.