I had been locked out of my Xanga account for a while because, according to the notification that appeared, my subscription had expired on April 30th 2014.  Thanks to Janet's (slmret) suggestion that I contact Eugenia Kang, everything got straightened out.

During my absence from Xanga, Big Bad Bob came to the end of his ailing kidney function.  This is a picture I took of him on the day of his final exit.  His head looks disproportionately large because he's nothing but hair and bones.

Here (below) he appears in all his glory.

At his death, he weighed a scant 7 pounds, half of his healthy weight.

This photo of Shola and Bob necking, was taken about a year ago.

Shola seems indifferent to his absence but is actively trying to take his place in the house and in my heart.  While I'm not  immune to her charms, I'm not ready to enter into another committed kitty relationship.  She's the rebound pussy.

Mike is back in Washington, helping a friend rehab a condo in Seattle.  I've decided to treat myself to a mini-vacation by flying up for a conjugal visit for his birthday.  He's staying in a beautiful condo near the one he's working on, also owned by his friend, on the 15th floor of a hotel just a few blocks from everything Seattle has to offer.

We talk on Skype every night so when he didn't call last night I was surprised.  I took my tablet to bed with me and about a half an hour after I had gone to sleep, I heard a voice say, "Are you there?  It's all black."  I have it set to answer automatically because we had been using it to monitor Bob while we were at work towards the end.

Mike's tale of his evening dragged me back to consciousness:

Too tired and hungry to even shower and change out of his paint splattered work clothes, he descended from the 18^th floor of one of the most prestigious hotels in Seattle in search of food.  At The Cheesecake Factory, he was told it would be about a 40 minute wait for a table but that they served dinner in the bar if he wanted a faster meal.  He slid onto an open bar stool next to two super-model-gorgeous women, one a flawless Eurasian beauty, the other an African mixed-race, specimen of exotic, female pulchritude.  To his amazement, they proceeded to kiss and fondle each other in a most provocative manner.  Thankfully, the waiter came to take his order, distracting him from the erotic spectacle and sparing him the humiliation of public arousal. 

Only a minute later, another wait staff person brought his plate.  Though delighted, and nearly drooling on the plate, he had to confess to the waitress that he didn’t think that could possibly be his order.  She confirmed what he had ordered and placed it in front of him, so he dove in with gusto.  Not long after another waiter admitted that she had served him another patron’s order but the damage was already done. 

Hunger assuaged, he headed home, threading his way through a throng of people milling around in front of a theater.  A woman impeded his progress holding out a ticket and asked if he would like a $45 ticket for free.  She explained that the theater had made a mistake and issued it to her when she had ordered a different seat.  They had remedied their error but didn’t want the original ticket back and told her to give it to someone.  “What kind of concert is it?” he asked.  She replied “David Sadaris is speaking”.  The name rang a bell but he couldn’t immediately remember who that was, but figured, what the heck, he had nothing else to do (except take a shower and change his clothes).  Of course when he saw the program he realized that he had read both Naked and Barrel Fever.  David's performance was hilarious and he (Mike) was still laughing when he got home to tell me all about the propitious timing of the events of his evening. 

I'm back in the blogging saddle again.  Thank you Eugenia!  And thank you Janet, for suggesting I contact Eugenia for help getting my account reactivated.  More later as I'm bursting with more tales to tell.

After a couple of sleepless nights due to a bunch of painfully jacked up muscles, I broke down and made an appointment with a physical therapist. This debilitating condition had been steadily getting worse for the past couple of months and I just tried to ignore it. The last time I experienced something like this, I endured it for two years before I finally had my cousin's daughter, Robin, (she's a PT) check it out. She poked, prodded, massaged, and therapied for a couple of hours and then prescribed some simple stretching exercises, which had me back among the living within two weeks and completely cured within two months. At which time I promptly quit doing the exercises, of course.

The last couple of days have been simply miserable. Certain motions caused such intense pain that I found myself moving like an old person to protect the sore areas. Naturally, I woke up this morning feeling much better, but I kept the appointment anyway. Thankfully, there weren't any truly injured people in the clinic when I was there, because they probably would have hurled things at me to hear me sniveling about a stiff neck, shoulder, back, and then go through a series of exercises they would probably NEVER again be able to do.

The PT was happy to go through his routine and take my $100 and even managed to conceal his disdain for my wimpyness. He tried to look sympathetic when I told him that I couldn't blog for more than thirty minutes without experiencing discomfort. He asked if this condition was interfering with my mountain biking and I shamefacedly admitted that, "Heck NO! The only time I feel good is when I'm on the bike."

At any rate, since I paid to have this man tell me what to do to get things back on track, I'm highly motivated to stick to the exercise regimen he prescribed. Sometimes that's all it takes.

An unseasonal rain storm drenched our valley last week, whetting our appetite for familiar trails rejuvenated by the moisture. The rain had come down heavily and steadily enough to restore some traction and even create some interesting ruts in the steepest sections of the Motorcycle Trails.

There's one section of trail that doesn't get much use as it requires pushing one's bike uphill for about 100 yards, so steeply that you have to use the rut that runs the length of the trail for purchase. The reward is a descent that combines the thrill of fast sweeping single track with intermittent lock'em-up, slider, steep sections that plunge down the face of the hill. The last time we rode that section there wasn't much traction and we found it was just about more thrilling than we liked to think about. In fact, I commented that if we hadn't been riding that trail all summer, I wouldn't dare ride it at all. But, today, with the rain-softened turf, we confidently dropped over the brow of the that monster hill.

There was only one caveat and that was a newly formed rut that meandered erratically from one side of the trail to the other. The soil was soft, so speed control wasn't the primary issue but the threat of planting a front wheel in that groove and going over the bars was definitely part of that non verbal instinct that passes for thought. At one critical crossing of the rut my front tire grabbed and I felt my rear tire threaten to pass both me and the front wheel and my latent Tourette's syndrome expressed itself. A momentary release of both brakes allowed the bike to straighten out and we accelerated to warp speed in about two nano seconds. Thanks to the super traction, I was able to regain control just before coming into the next off camber turn. I heard Sally behind me, yelping like a girl when she encountered the same rivulet. We regrouped at the fire road and, if we had been guys, would have high-fived each other. But being the ladies that we are, we merely readjusted our shorts and giggled.

Sunday, Mike and Guy invited me to join them on the wash trails. My ass was pretty raw from the previous day's ride. I have a new saddle that, while punishing to the seat bones, is just too beautiful to give up.

I decided to follow them until the pain outweighed the pleasure and then turn back. After about a mile the abraded flesh of my bottom side gave up complaining and I was able to settle into the climb.

Guy stopped in the trail to allow a slow moving California King Snake make his way across the trail.

After a few miles, I turned back for home and the guys continued to the top of the wash. I startled a beautiful roadrunner who flared his wings and ran/flew down the trail ahead of me.

I rode the rest of the way home wondering what the poor people were doing..."probably sitting on something considerably more comfortable than my expensive racing saddle", I speculated.

My bmbf (best mountain bike friend), Sally, announced that she wasn't sure she'd be able to ride this weekend as she, her sister, and her daughter were going to Lone Pine to hike the Whitney Portal Trail on Saturday. I promptly invited myself to go along. I offered to make sandwiches for the trip to ensure my welcome.

I'm known for my culinary persnickedyness among my friends so this is generally a card I use when inveigling an invitation to outings where I might be considered a liability. In this group of extremely fit women, my sixty-year-old, ski-abused knees, are definitely a liability on a steep hike. So, I outlined the proposed menu when I suggested that I was interested in filling the fourth bunk.

Sandwiches of homemade, cracked wheat bread; grass-fed, sharp cheddar cheese from New Zealand; with thinly sliced home-grown, heirloom tomatoes; cucumbers; sweet, red peppers; crisp romaine lettuce; and jalapeno ranch dressing constituted the main course. Orzo salad with Greek olives and a little bit of anything crunchy I had in the fridge and tortilla chips with spicy guacamole were the side dishes. I picked a bag of super ripe Valencia oranges and squeezed them into a couple of quarts of juice just before departure. A nice bottle of Bogle red wine and some dark chocolate covered, peanut butter/caramel truffles completed my meal-on-the-go. For the hike, I made a loaf of dark rye bread to make peanut butter, banana, and lemon curd sandwiches. My welcome was secured.

We arrived at the Whitney Portal Hostel just after 8:00 P.M., checked in, and poured the wine. Let the festivities begin! Our motley crew consisted of: Sally, whom you already know as Mountain Bike Momma, biker extraordinaire; her sister, Lynn, a woman of formidable fitness and youth (she's in her early forties), and Sally's daughter, Jordan, a nubile youngster of sixteen. Oh, and yes, myself, a slightly daft, mature woman, who still hasn't even begun to grasp the reality of the limitations of her aging body.

By ten o'clock, we were all snuggled into our bunk beds. Sally, began her gentle sleep breathing almost before we had stopped talking. Jordy, too fell into slumber with the effortlessness of her youth. Lynn lay quietly, I read by the unobtrusive light of my book light, until we both fell into the light pre-sleep state that is too easily disrupted by minor disturbances like trucks passing below our open window on the highway. Lynn tossed & turned on her lumpy & noisy mattress in the bunk above me until around three A.M. when we both finally succumbed to sleep.
A view from our room shows the highway directly below (395) and brooding over the valley, the jagged Sierra Nevadas.

There's a secret, little breakfast spot called the Alabama Hills Cafe that I discovered when my sister, Babs, and her daughter, Tuesday and I came through this way from Death Valley, where they are as persnickety about their food as I am.

The honey-wheat pancake with bananas & blueberries was so perfect that the butter & syrup that accompanied it went back to the kitchen untouched.

The drive to the trail head is just about as breathtaking as the trail itself. The road is carved into the side of the mountain (no guard rail), and climbs so quickly that one gets the feeling of being in a small plane. I was so engrossed in hanging my head out of the window to get the full effect that I neglected to take any photos.

Anarchy reigned at the trail head. The federal government, paralyzed by the arbitrary debt ceiling, was unable to provide park rangers to keep the unruly hikers and sightseers in line. Hikers parked in the spaces designated "picnic area parking only" with utter disregard for law and order. On the trail, there was evidence of hikers' urination closer to the trail than the requisite 100' away. A scofflaw by nature, I reveled in the freedom from oppression. I flagrantly peed within TWENTY-FIVE feet of the trail, not once but several times.

The Whitney Portal Trail is one of the most beautiful trails of the National Forest system. It switchbacks up a narrow canyon with a snow-fed stream that hurtles down enormous slabs of granite.

Mostly unseen, the stream can be heard whenever the trail cuts back into the canyon. This time of year there isn't much runoff so the stream crossings were easy enough.

When we grew jaded by the spectacular natural scenery, there were the many glorious specimens of the human race, mostly of the male gender. Outdoor people tend to be fit, tanned, and friendly. The young men we encountered kindly offered to snap a photo of all four of us when they saw us by the side of the trail posing at photo opportunities. One silver-tongued devil complimented our lovely smiles as he snapped several photos for us. Clearly, having a pubescent female in the group as bait was effective.

We were sitting at the side of the trail taking a break when two men came down the trail. The one in front had a VERY nicely developed body and startlingly blue eyes. We all agreed that we could overlook his tattoo even before he spoke to us in a heart-melting Australian accent. He commented on what a beautiful trail this was and we all stumbled over ourselves agreeing. When he asked, "Does it get any better than this?", we all four burst into giggles assuring him that it certainly did not. We were all laughing at our shared appreciation of male pulchritude long after he disappeared down the trail.

Sally and I took a little different route to the Motorcycle Trails today so we could explore the burned area. Trails that have long been too overgrown with poison oak have reappeared, in surprisingly good condition. One section of Yikes! that was abandoned when they put the reservoir in about ten(?) years ago, was as smooth and rideable as the excessively manicured conservancy trails.

Some energetic and opportunistic people took advantage of the denuded condition of the hills to reclaim a trail we had stopped riding at least 20 years ago. They cut in an almost rideable bypass through a steeply eroded ravine. I took a ride down memory lane as I reminisced about Wednesday Nite Rides with the Rut Riders when we would have at least a dozen intrepid riders braving the hazards of the trail with primitive helmet-mounted head lamps. The dust would roil up so thickly that all but the fastest riders would come home looking like miners.

Today there was a row of giants parked at the bottom of Judy's Jumpoff. Each of the silent behemoths squatted over its own little kiddie pool, dribbling its effluvium. The water district is building another dam in the hills above Yucaipa to serve the thirsty housing tracts and golf courses blooming in the foothills. I wondered at the fate of all the little critters whose homes had been in the path of destruction.

Well, you know by now that a ride with a title like “All the Fun” is going to include some mishaps and today’s ride lives up to the title.

Last week we (Sally & I) rode the Santa Ana River Trail with Guy.  He’s a good rider and always inspires us to push the envelope just to keep his dust in sight, but on this particular day, he was hung over.  Being the sweet, thoughtful ladies we are, we rose to the occasion and kicked his butt. 

Even in his weakened condition it wasn’t easy, but as the miles added up so did his misery.  Seizing the moment, I threw all caution to the wind and drove hard into a nice, downhill, slightly technical section of the single-track, closing the gap between us.  And just as I was about to thoroughly humiliate him, my rear wheel skidded off a loose rock and knocked me sideways, sending my front tire over the edge of the trail.  The hill wasn’t scary-steep and I fully believed I could still save it by keeping my weight back and running across the hill but a strategically placed bush snared my front wheel and that was the end of that.  Thankfully, I landed on the trail on all fours and was able to drag my bike back up the hill onto the trail in about four seconds but alas, Guy was long gone.  Pride goeth before a fall. 

Just about a half a mile later Guy cried “uncle” and pulled over to let us pass.  We should have felt compassion for his debilitated condition, but knowing he would recover, and knowing he had castrated himself voluntarily, we simply enjoyed the moment.  Opportunities like this are too rare to not be enjoyed.

Today we were back on the motorcycle trails.  It was a lovely, cool morning and neither Sally nor I were feeling particularly energetic.  In fact, when we got to the top of the climb, we lingered for a few minutes enjoying the view and procrastinating, knowing that the descent would take a good deal of focus and effort. 

Two guys came pedaling up the hill from the direction we were headed.  Amazingly, Sally had all her clothes on.  One of the guys was on a beautiful carbon fiber bike with a paint job that looked like a creamsicle (or would that be a creamcycle?).  Orange and white with the most graceful seat stays and chain stays, I’ve ever seen.  They were so delicate that it looked more like a road bike than a mountain bike.  The perfectly proportioned young rider was attired in matching orange and cream jersey and shorts and frankly, he looked like an ad in a bike catalogue.  Tripping all over my tongue, (hey, you would have salivated too at the sight of that evocative paint job) I openly admired his bike. 

Sally & I were nonplussed to learn that they were turning around and riding back down the excruciatingly boring fire road that they had just climbed up.  What self-respecting mountain biker would be seen in such a roadie get-up and have the mini-balls to ride the fire road down?!?  Clearly he was unaware of how wussified he appeared in our eyes because when we invited them to join us on the motorcycle trails, he only commented that “Yeah, he had seen us up here before.”  My vainglorious self-image as a biker took that to mean that he knew we were badass and would respectfully decline.

And so, again, pride goeth before a fall.

There was pretty much no traction and so, braking in the sections where braking was most tempting was not just futile but downright treacherous.  I relaxed, allowing the bike to slide when necessary and letting it have its way when there was no choice.  The combination of relaxed confidence and sketchy traction resulted in a faster descent than we might normally permit but there was nothing alarming about it.  Granted, the trail had our complete and utter attention.

I paused at the Hike-a-bike hill to wait for Sally to catch up and found that she was not in sight.  Normally, she’s only a couple of hundred feet behind and I get to watch her plummet down the rutted trail and coast to an abrupt stop next to me on the next steep slope that we have to walk up.

I waited and watched for her to appear on the ridge I’d just come down.  When she didn’t show up in a minute or two, I considered climbing back up to look for her.  Considering the steepness of the trail, I decided she was probably okay and I’d wait a bit longer.  Another couple of minutes went by and I bemoaned the fact that I didn’t have my cell phone with me so I couldn’t call her to see “wassup?”  Still, the steep climb was sobering and I assured myself she would be along presently.  Finally, I turned my bike back down the hill, hoping I could muster up enough momentum to roll at least twenty feet up the next ridge before I’d have to dismount and push my bike.  To my relief, I spotted her rolling down the ridge at a sensible pace before I’d remounted.

She had come into a turn a little too hot and the ball-bearing traction had failed her.  She was down before she knew she was going down, landing on one hip.  She decided that she should go back and ride the turn again so it would not give her pause the next time.  That’s what had taken so long and had caused me such worry.

Her wreck weighed on my mind as we continued down the trail and I rode as slowly as the non-existent traction would allow.  But, as success created confidence, we both chalked it up to “!@#$ happens” and enjoyed the ride.  By the time we got to Joint Point North, we plunged over the edge with aplomb.

Sally always precedes me on this section because she slides down it faster than I do.  One time I went ahead of her and she almost used me for traction. I was making my way down, more or less in control, when my worn out cleat failed and released my foot from my pedal.  That wouldn’t have been a problem if I’d been over my saddle and could have grabbed it with my thighs but I was behind my saddle with my butt over the rear tire.  My left foot jammed into the ground and my bike pivoted around like it was a ski pole. 
The hill was so steep that the fall was negligible but the bike kept sliding downhill with my right foot still clipped into the pedal while my left foot was rooted to the hill above.  I have never been able to do the splits, even in my youth, but I came very close today.

It took me a minute to extricate myself from the bike and pick the pucklebrush out of my gloves but I was able to remount and ride the rest of the way down to where Sally was waiting with her iPhone filming the challenging descent. 

It’s not often that we both have all the fun we can possibly have on the same ride so today was exceptional.

Reading:  The Osama bin Laden I Know by Peter L. Bergen also Driving Mr. Albert - A Trip Across America with Einstein's Brain by Michael Paterniti

Watching:  Orange is the New Black; Iris; Silver Linings Playbook

There's something to be said for the placid, predictable pace of summer days.

The mornings are cool and the garden is an inviting place to spend some time, watering, weeding, harvesting, and hunting horned tomato worms.

By the time I get home from work, the thermometer on the back porch says that any but mad dogs and Englishmen should eat lunch and take a siesta.  Being neither mad nor English nor man, I happily acquiesce.  Other Gray Kitty concurs.

As the sun goes down, the temperature dips to tolerable double digits and the cats come back to life.  Dinner is served on the patio.

Bob and Gray Kitty watch the evening news from the front sidewalk.

Our favorite bachelor, Guy, joins us for dinner.  He creates phallic art of the homegrown grilled vegetables.

After dinner, Mike and Bob retire to the sofa to digest.

Babs, Tara, Ricky and I climb Morton Peak to view the largest full moon of the decade (or some period of time that I don't remember) along with about fifty other folks starved for social interaction.

And...a new kitty adopted us.  He's still quite feral but he did work up the courage to take a treat out of my hand today.  He/she has to be tame enough to go to the vet before reaching reproductive age.  So, we're back up to nine.

Sally and I rode up Escalator today to check out the damage the fire did.  Pedaling up through the charred landscape, our conversation consisted mostly of what we considered suitable punishment for the sicko who intentionally set the fire.  This fire was set about the same time the 27 firefighters were killed in Arizona so I held him accountable for their deaths.  It was just luck of the draw that nobody was killed in this particular fire (unless my wayward pig fell victim).

I miss the feature Xanga used to have where you could show what you were reading.  I've got a couple of books going right now:  Eva's Man, by Rick Bragg & Zeitoun By Dave Eggers.

I never understood why someone who was accomplished at playing a musical instrument, could give it up completely when he/she could no longer play at the level he/she had once played.  Or how someone could entirely quit doing something they loved passionately simply because they lacked the time or ability to maintain sufficient fitness to do it at the level formerly achieved.  I'm on the path to enlightenment.

Yesterday, riding downhill on our favorite singletrack, I complained to Sally that I had noticed bigger than normal floaters in my right eye the past few days and now I was experiencing flashing light on the right side that was making it difficult to focus on the task at hand (mainly looking ahead for rattlesnakes).  She said her dad had observed the same symptoms when he had a detached retina. 

When I got home, I told Mike that I'd need to make an appointment with an ophthalmologist on Monday to have it checked out, after going online to confirm the diagnosis.  The first website I went to had a picture of me as their poster child-at-heart.  Nearsighted, between 50 - 70, it is common for the vitreous to begin to slough away and sometimes it pulls on the retina enough to tear it.  The article said one should seek "immediate" treatment. 

What is "immediate"?  It's Saturday afternoon, I'm hungry, dirty, and tired.  I don't have a relationship with an ophthalmologist so I don't know whom to ask. I called my primary care Dr. who told me to call my mom's cataract surgeon.  Of course, the Dr. on call wouldn't have anything to do with me as I wasn't a patient.  I again called my Primary care Dr. (the man of the diminutive mitts, you may recall from my blog about my "lady's" exam) who agreed to phone the Eye Institute for me.  The consensus was that "immediate" meant right now.

Oh, crap!  Now I was beginning to get that queasy feeling you get in your gut when you are forced to face the fact that bad things do happen to bad-ass riders too.  By this time, all thoughts of food had evaporated but I did take a shower and put on some presentable clothes; my reasoning being that, if I were going to present myself for treatment with no insurance, I had better not look indigent.

The ER waiting room had chairs available which indicated propitious timing on my part.  From the conversations around me, I gathered most of the people there were not what would be considered "emergencies" but rather folks who just happened to need some attention when their doctor's office was not open.  I heard the woman at the check-in desk reassure another patient that a six hour wait was normal but that it wouldn't take that long because it was a slow time. 

Sure enough, I was called back within a half an hour and seated on the edge of a bed in a treatment room. 

I waited a couple of hours before a nurse came in and introduced himself as the nurse who would be taking care of me for the night.  I'd checked in at 5:30 PM.  A couple of hours later, a technician informed me he would be doing an ultrasound as soon as the machine was available.  Sure enough, an hour later, he came back with the machine.  Initially, he couldn't get it to work, but eventually, coaxed it to perform.  That done, he said the resident ophthalmologist would be in to see me in a little while.

By this time, I had finished the book I'd brought for distraction from my mounting apprehension, and was stuck with my tablet (sans internet connection) for entertainment.  I'd lost about a dozen games of Spider when this child came in and introduced herself as Dr. Somebody.  She put about a gazillion drops of various liquids into my eyes and said she would return after a half an hour.  Somewhere along the way, I'd asked the handsome young nurse if there was a water fountain available and he said he'd get someone to bring me a cup.  It never materialized.  The child doctor returned, and ushered me into another room where she performed a lengthy exam with a machine.  When she pulled the machine away, one of the casters fell off.  Naturally, I went to her aid and as she tipped the table, I squatted down and tried to screw the peg back into the hole.  My vision was so blurred by the drops that I couldn't see well enough to get it screwed in, so we swapped places and she got it in. 

Back in the first treatment room, kinder doctor put more anesthetic in my eyes and proceeded to poke, prod, mash, and pulverize my eye and surrounding soft tissue as she peered into the recesses of the "corners" of my eye.  At last, she announced that she could find no retinal detachment.  She kindly reiterated what I'd read online.  The vitreous was pulling away and might yet tear the retina.  I could expect the same to happen in the other eye probably sooner rather than later.  I would need to return for immediate reattachment if I noticed a worsening of symptoms.

It was about 10:30 PM when she said she would return with my discharge paper work.  I was left trembling in the chair, tired, thirsty, famished, and frightened at the prospect of future blindness.  An hour later, I went to the nurse's station and asked if I couldn't, please, have some water.  Nurse, tall, dark, and handsome, quickly brought me a tiny paper cup with about two ounces of water and some ice. 

The drive home, at midnight, was reminiscent of those teenaged times when I would fall asleep at my boyfriend's house and then drive home without my contact lenses in.  I took the darkest route I could because the lights looked like pom poms and the shadows were impenetrable.

So, this morning I'm thinking about what may lie ahead.  I think I now understand how one just quits doing something that stirs the pleasure center of the brain, like mountain biking does for me.  If my vision deteriorates to the point that I can't navigate the gonzo-abusive, singletrack that I love, what's the point?  The rest of it is just an uncomfortable means to an end, meaning the climax of the thrilling descent.

It's not all bad, this growing old.  We are forced to put aside some things but it frees us to do other things that have been put on the back burner for a lifetime.  I love to read.  I've not had the time to read to my heart's content since childhood.  So, as long as my eyes can see well enough to carry me on a vicarious journey through books, life is good.

What a great day to be alive!  I took the whole day off and did absolutely nothing...that I didn't want to do.  Out of bed at dawn, I donned my gardening clothes and went out to plant my tomatoes.  Didn't pause to brush my teeth, or wash my face, didn't even put on a bra.  I worked outside until hunger drove me in for lunch.  I just frittered away the entire day doing laundry, reading, cooking, re-potting plants, and watering.  And here I sit, drinking wine and blogging when I should be putting the finishing touches on dinner:  Ahi tuna tacos with fresh salsa, salad from the garden, black beans and barley/rice pilaf.  Life is good when you take the time to appreciate the simple pleasures.