Tunes

Secret Agent Fred convinced me to join Spotify, a music streaming site which all the hip kids have been into for years now.  It's just one of the elements of modern society I try to avoid, like anything labeled social media.  I'd also like to point out here that I have now boycotted Facebook long enough that the NY Times assures us it is now considered passe.  Take that, bitches.

So, Spotify and I have been struggling with each other all evening, me trying to figure out how to force it to play music I actually like and it, having snuck into my iTunes library, has decided I like country music and cheesy 80s pop.  Fair enough, but why it should then produce an All Justin Timberlake, All the Time playlist for me seems baffling.  I think I might like Pandora as a source much better, it operates in a much more intuitive and straight forward manner, plus I like its playlists.  Spotify seems to be mostly concerned that you are listening to exactly the same tunes as all your bffs.  Since I have no bffs, that is a problem.

Between avoiding Timberlake and Journey (!) I am pretty much fed up.  Just now, though, we have suddenly broken through to Prince and Little Red Corvette.  Well all rite, crank that bitch up.  Just don't follow this with Toto, that's all I ask.

11:44 PM UPDATE:  This just in: Pat Benatar.  Heartbreaker.  Bitchin'.

11:46 PM UPDATED UPDATE:  Kenny Fucking Loggins.  Dear god.

11:55 PM DATEUP:  Human League.  "Don't You Want Me"  I haven't thought of that in a million years.

12:52 AM APDUTE: A-Ha.  Take On Me.  I surrender.  I'm going to bed.

1:01 AM THE LAST UPDATE, I SWEAR.  Psychedelic Furs! Love My Way!  I'm so glad I stuck it out.

Sunday Evening with the Cat

"What are you eating? Stop that, stop that this instant.  Spit that out, don't swallow it, if I have to take you the vet again I swear I will leave you there.  Spit that out, goddammit, stop it.  What is that?  is it plastic?  If you can't pass it, don't eat it.  Goddammit, goddammit, goddammit."

Repeat until  exhausted.

To Live and Die and Have a Birthday In LA

I know some people, when celebrating their birthday with a trip, will go for a vigorous hike in the Cascades, or trek to Bhuthan to meditate with the monks.   Last week for my birthday (and sincere thanks to everybody who wished me a happy one, and all the rest of you miscreants also,) I went down to Los Angeles for a manicure.

It was well and truly the greatest manicure I've ever had.  The salon Secret Agent Fred and I went to had the severe white hush of a chic research lab and we each had a room all to ourselves so the technician could truly concentrate on our cuticles.

Also, tiny little fur brushes to whisk away the detritus from the emory board.  Dazzling.

Also quite charming was the always beautiful LA weather and lots of cute guys.

We were staying in a small hotel I quite like and which pretends to have a bar.  You sit down at a table, a server appears eventually, takes your order and then disappears.   One supposes they're mixing drinks back in the laundry room.  I ordered a Lemon Drop because I am a Lady, I do Lady Things and it was served as a martini glass filled with Citron vodka.  That was it, no mixer, nothing, just liquor.  Turned out to go with my vicodin perfectly well.

And really great Mexican food, my favorite cuisine.  Why San Francisco is so lacking in it is a constant source of pain to me.

My favorite coffee place in the universe is a small San Francisco chain called Peet's.  I was so glad to find one near our hotel and even more delighted to see they have valet parking.  It's L.A. baby.

Thanks again to everyone for your birthday wishes, all of which came true.  It was a plenty Happy one.

Sprung

The season of chocolate bunnies and enthusiastic flowering shrubs is on us and mrpeenee is reveling in  and suffering through it in about equal parts.

Reveling because this is the time of year when all the hard work I've put in to my yard over the years pays off.

Here my favorite flowering plant ever, a California native called ceanothus, or California Lilac.  Photos never do justice to its electric, sapphire blue.  It blooms with flowers so dense you can't see the leaves.  The bees dig it, too.

Also, further up in a sort of inaccessible spot, two charming imports from Australia, Leptospermum, or tea tree (but not the tea tree that they get oil from.   Botany is so darn confusing) hold down the fort.  The bigger one is a fabulous rose red and the smaller one has flowers that look white from the distance, but up closer reveal their pale, pale pink throats.

You can see in this picture the patch in the back of the garden I rescued from the invading blackberry vines and acacia.  Considering how it took me weeks to hack them back and resulted in several various ouchies in the process. seeing how teensy the new open space is pretty discouraging, but I'll take what I can get.  I've planted it out in wildflower seeds; I hope July wil see a blaze of poppies and cornflowers and whatnot up there.

Suffering comes in because as much as I love this time of year, my sinuses hate it.  I have been slowly drowning for two weeks in my own mucus and all I ask for is a burial at sea where, hopefully, the fucking pollen will not be able to find me.