Taster Spoon

God bless Mother Nature - she's a single woman, too!

I haven't mentioned my vegetable garden much, because it's been bringing me down, man.  I think I mentioned in a previous post that Rad had these forearm-sized zucchinis (bigger than Ace's forearm, even), while I have nothing. 

I mean, I have cherry tomatoes, and they're nice and sweet,  and I have some jalapenos (I thought they were jalapenos) that have surprised me by ripening into a lovely red color.  But my "EASY TO GROW!" zucchinis have, all summer long, been flowering prolifically, and developing these adorable little zucchinis, but once they get to the size of your finger, they turn black and shrivel up.  It's very depressing. 

Back in July we had an agriculture major from UC Davis ("the Aggies") evaluate the backyard and he suggested overwatering.  No way.  We're really bad about watering.  And the reproachful wilting when I tried to hold back persuaded me that wasn't the problem.  And I don't think it's underwatering, because the tomatoes and peppers seem perfectly fine, and I've been very attentive lately about regular dousings.  And we're fertilizing and composting up a storm!  (Though admittedly with less enthusiasm.  I wonder if the quicker payoff of a worm farm would be more satisfying.)

Rad suggested that next year we can talk about building up a raised bed and trying again. 

But it's more fun to pout.

But just now, the county fair blue-ribbon winning secretary greeted me cheerfully and asked, "So how's your garden?"  This from a woman who brings in pails of tomatoes every week to the office.

I shrugged and made a face, and told her what I just told you.  And she put a hand on my shoulder and explained a solution that had never crossed my mind but now seems totally likely:

My zucchinis aren't getting laid.

The secretary said that even once they start to fruit, if the female flowers don't get some lovin' from the male flowers, they'll just give up and the fruits will rot away.  Which is exactly what's happening!  She said that she'll even baggie up the male dust if she hasn't got any female flowers out, and then go back with a Q-Tip. 

It's true that while there are a couple of bumblebees I usually say hello to on the way out the front door, we don't seem to have much in the way of buggery (as it were) in the back yard, and I think I even read somewhere that bees aren't crazy about squashes anyway.

It's totally possible!  That must be it!  It makes perfect sense!

I'm so excited!  I can't wait to get home and tell little Miss Zukes to forget about the cold showers I keep giving her, it's finally gonna start raining men!

Blue Moon

Actually, red moon.  Did anybody see the eclipse last night?

Full eclipse was supposed to be around 3:45 this morning, so I set the alarm for 3 a.m.  I thought we'd get more "action" that way. 

Doing it again, I think I'd want to catch the beginning of it, for more dramatic effect as the bright, full moon just fades away behind a creeping shadow. 

Fortunately, you could see it from our office window, so I brought a pillow and snoozed and peeked, alternatingly.  It looked basically like the flat white disc that we always see had turned orange and, rather than obscured, become dramatically three-dimensional - the kind of shading of that "geometric shapes" portion of 7th grade art class, which shapes you then find yourself incessantly sketching in the margins of your math notebook.

Lacking commentary or soundtrack, the little orange ball was mesmerizing for about ten minutes, but then I couldn't keep my eyes open and retreated to bed.  Yet it was a light doze, and I found myself waking up every twenty minutes or so and tiptoeing back to the office to see how it had progressed.  At around 3:50 I suspect it may have reached full eclipse - it was very smudged-out.  After a couple more dozes, I finally saw the bright disc, sunken and hidden behind a tree, and was able to sleep.

Was it worth it?   

Dead Calm

Did you know that in this country it's illegal to create a cell-phone dead zone?

Last night, Ace and I went to see the SF Symphony, and, right in this extremely quiet part of the Shostakovich number...you guessed it.  Someone's cell phone went off. 

I mean, the ring tone was classical music and everything, so you'd think people would be cool with it, but they totally weren't!  Everyone froze, and you could feel the temperature in the room rise about three degrees, and everybody's eyes boring into the area of the theater where the sound seemed to come from.  (The expensive seats, in case you were wondering.) 

We went to the post-show chit-chat Q-and-A with performers and managerial types, which was mostly about the logistics of the orchestra's European tour, until somebody asked the question, "Whatever will you do about cell phones??"  Everybody chuckled and felt self-righteous.

The guy in charge shrugged.  He's like, we make the announcements at the beginning and after intermission; there's not much more we can do.  One woman shouted: "Five hundred dollar fine!  Make it a five hundred dollar fine!"  As if the peer pressure and mortal embarrassment weren't enough.  As if they could single out a perpetrator, when six hundred searching eyes  hadn't been able to identify the cad that evening.

Someone pleaded, "But what do they do in EUUUUROPE?" 

This was a theme of most of the questions. 

"Don't you love the concert halls in Europe?"  "Aren't European traditions the best?"  "Don't European audiences listen so much better?"  "Isn't Europe so much better?"  "Not a question but a comment: I wish I were from Europe."

Apparently, some European halls block service, so there are no incomings.  I don't know how, aluminum foil in the wall?  Kryptonite?  Whatever they lined the walls of my apartment with?  But apparently this is not legal in the United States. 

I thought this was very interesting, and wondered the purpose.  Is it so that GPS can track everybody 24/7?  Is it a security thing?  An emergency response thing?  So that the Secret Service can be perpetually on their little white earplug thingies when they're working (and the president is at the symphony - ha ha see I made a joke)?  Don't they have walkie talkies?  Is it why John Wilkes Booth was able to get away with assassinating President Lincoln, the cell phone blocking?

Then some person raised his hand and said, "Cell phones aren't the problem.  It's coughers."

"Coughers?"  (There was murmuring in the audience.  "Coffers?" "What?"  "What did he say?")

The guy proceeded into this five minute rant about how American audiences coughed way too much; and they should take a lesson from the performers, who never cough during a performance;  and we should see about fining THEM and don't audiences in Europe cough a lot less?

The director dude said they had baskets of lozenges on the tables outside, but I didn't recall any baskets or lozenges.  (Just a lot of Irish coffees.  Apparently Irish coffee is what you drink when you go to the symphony!  I did not know!)  I had been hoping for something more generous, like the ones I've heard they have in L.A.  (Hey - VU, I tried to link to your very first posting, on the L.A. cough drops, but your archives only go back to last Feb.!)

Oh, here's the other beef the show made me think about: the standing ovation. 

I hate 'em.  I hate that I (or Ace, as the case may be) shell out a small fortune to watch a play or hear some tunes or whatever, and that, after every single performance - every single number, even - I'm apparently expected to transfer my coat, gloves, handbag, program and snacks to the floor and haul myself to my feet and flap my fins together.

I thought standing Os were supposed to be rare, and richly deserved.  But what with grade inflation and everything, they seem to be expected whenever someone so much as clears their throat, as far as I can tell, just to be nice.  They're all watered down and don't mean a thing. 

So I find myself retaining my seat, clapping enthusiastically (sure, why not?), at every performance, however great, on principle, but no doubt coming across like a complete jerk.  (And I have to say, the Salome singer last night was pretty awesome.  And charming.  Go see her sing something.) 

Do I just have to resign myself to the reality that watching a show has turned into Catholic Mass, with the up-and-down and up-and-down?  I'll try to pack more comfortable shoes.  And perhaps some thunder sticks.

(I am willing to be persuaded on this point.  I'm not trying to withhold my appreciation, truly.  Somebody at the Q-and-A asked a violinist where her favorite audiences were - they were European, weren't they?  And the violinist said she did like to perform in Germany, because audiences were very appreciative and stood up more.   She seemed like a nice lady, and I'm not trying to penalize the performers by not standing up, so this shamed me a little.  It's just too bad that an enthusiastic clap isn't considered enough anymore.)

Tidbit: I read somewhere that if you're going to stick with clapping, performers prefer that you clap FAST rather than LOUDLY.  Because it sounds like there are more people in the audience.  Perhaps this depends on the type of show.   

The Will Call line was really long.  I showed Ace what I had discovered in the ladies' room...how to make a Jenna Jameson face.

The Hot Game

Recently, on a hot Saturday afternoon as we were rushing to get to a picnic, Ace introduced me to "The Hot Game," which I gather was a childhood staple in his family.  (My family played "My Father Owns A Grocery Store."  Apparently we were pathetically bourgeois.)

We climbed into the car that had been baking in the driveway, and I started to open my window to let the air out. 

"Hey," he said, stopping me.  "Wanna play the Hot Game?"

The Hot Game (apparently) consists of riding in a hot car on a sweltering day without rolling down the windows, and turning on the heater full blast.  First person to comment on the temperature loses.

I wouldn't say it sounded fun per se, but see?  It was a game!  I mean, "Game" was right there in the name.

So we drove on in silence, in our nice picnic attire, playing the Hot Game.  Sweat broke out on our foreheads, the water in our bottles went from chilly to tepid to warm; our shirts wilted and dampened. 

We attempted light conversation, carefully avoiding the observation that was on the tip of both our tongues. 

Finally, Ace said it.

"This is stupid."

Monterey Bay Aquarium

This weekend, Ace and I visited the Monterey Bay Aquarium.  I haven't been there in at least ten years, and I think they've done any number of renovations since then, so I didn't know what all would be there.  Didn't they used to have a great white shark?  Maybe that's what I remember.  I was, however, under the distinct impression that it had won all kinds of plaudits and was one of the Great Aquariums of the World.  And I do remember thinking, ten years ago, that it was pretty great.

I was also under the impression that it was, like, $40 per person, which is wicked expensive, but for a once-every-ten-years treat, I guessed maybe $4 a year for ten years of memories might be reasonable if they were really awesome memories.  I also reminded myself that the aquarium had a big conservation mission, and that most of my admission probably went towards that.  Still, for $40 I was expecting some pretty awesome sea lion acts, if you know what I mean.

So I was excited!  I started poking Ace in the arm as he made the 2 hour drive.

"Will there be Shamu?"

"Isn't he at Sea World?"

"Will there be Nemo?"

"No, but you might see some of his relatives."

"Will there be sea otters?"

"Uh-huh."

"Will there be electric eels?"

"Yep."

"Will there be jellyfish?"

"Probably."

"Will there be sharks?"

"Yes."

"Will there be octopuses?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Will there be starfish?"

"Sure."

"Will there be dolphins?"

"They shot all the dolphins."

"..."

"C'mon, ask me another one."

Highway 1 into Monterey (or whatever street that is you turn onto) was jay-ummed.  Signs directed you towards the aquarium, but orange traffic barriers annouced that parking at the aquarium was full and to park at the lot in town.  We passed two $5 parking lots in town, both of which had barriers announcing "FULL."  So we ended up parking on the street just a few blocks away from the lots.  For free.  We kicked that parking lot's ass.  The parking lot was all, "C'mon, park here, I'll make space."  And we're all, "Uh-uh."  And the parking lot was like, "Three dollars?"  And we're like, "Whatever."

We followed the signs towards the aquarium, and followed them, and followed them.  It was at least a two mile walk!  You know, which, maybe doesn't sound so far when I say it like that, but when you keep thinking it's just in this next block here...and half an hour later still haven't reached it...seemed far.

The line for tickets was ridiculously long - it wound around metal fences like a ride at Disneyland.  Ace called from the line to see if he could buy tickets by phone so we could walk right in, but to do that you must call a day in advance.  But the line moved quickly, we were in it for maybe 20 minutes, during which I managed a pretty adequate manicure and Ace read, then inspected, then memorized the aquarium map. 

It ended up being $25 each.  I mean, don't get me wrong, that's a lot of dough, but once your expectation is set for $40, $25 seems like an awesome deal.

The quickness with which the ticket sellers moved about 120 people through the line should have given us a clue re what to expect once we got in.

It was a mad house.

Mobs of tourists, wailing babies, children running around and banging on the glass windows.  Does that give you a picture?  No?  How about this:

Mobs of tourists, wailing babies, children running around and banging on the glass windows. 

Mobs of tourists, wailing babies, children running around and banging on the glass windows. 

Mobs of tourists, wailing babies, children running around and banging on the glass windows. 

Mobs of tourists, wailing babies, children running around and banging on the glass windows. 

Mobs of tourists, wailing babies, children running around and banging on the glass windows. 

Mobs of tourists, wailing babies, children running around and banging on the glass windows. 

There was a really peaceful section full of jellyfish cases.  Soothing lighting, glowing jellyfish drifting and spiraling, subtle New Age massage music - I was totally mellowing out when suddenly there was this overwhelming smell of garlic bread.  I turned, and a tourist was pressing up behind me, licking her fingers, with her tin foil package of food.  I sighed and went to look at the deep sea creatures.

Mobs of tourists, wailing babies, children running around and banging on the glass windows. 

Mobs of tourists, wailing babies, children running around and banging on the glass windows. 

Mobs of tourists, wailing babies, children running around and banging on the glass windows. 

Mobs of tourists, wailing babies, children running around and banging on the glass windows. 

There was a general attitude of selfishness and pushiness that was really unfortunate.  You know, the situation where if everybody stood three feet away from the display, everyone would have a good view, but instead one person pushes up to press their nose to the glass, blocking everybody so that then everybody has to push and jostle to see even part of the composition. 

Mobs of tourists, wailing babies, children running around and banging on the glass windows. 

Mobs of tourists, wailing babies, children running around and banging on the glass windows. 

Mobs of tourists, wailing babies, children running around and banging on the glass windows. 

Mobs of tourists, wailing babies, children running around and banging on the glass windows. 

Oh, and people's sense of entitlement with their cameras and cameraphones and video recorders.  You'd try to peek over someone's head and there'd be a forest of arms trying to get their camera front and center for the best shot.  Come on, people.  I don't understand why someone takes photos at a zoo or aquarium.  That's what National Geographic and Planet Earth and the post cards at the gift shop are for.

Mobs of tourists, wailing babies, children running around and banging on the glass windows. 

Mobs of tourists, wailing babies, children running around and banging on the glass windows. 

Mobs of tourists, wailing babies, children running around and banging on the glass windows. 

Mobs of tourists, wailing babies, children running around and banging on the glass windows. 

Speaking of gift shop, here's me reading a story about a frog called Bea.  Or Betty.  Or something. 

The frogs really enjoyed it.

Anyway, we did manage to see a sliver of everything.  They do a lovely job of composing displays - nice framing, making the glass smaller than the case so all you see is fish and a backdrop, no corners of tanks or machinery.  And they had several enormous displays - multi story tall ones, 50 yards deep.  A kelp forest with waves making them sway back and forth - one of my favorites, incredibly restful. 

Sea otters, as charming as you might expect.  (But although we were there in time for the feeding, at which time the trainers apparently ask them to do various "tricks," the crush of people was so great we abandoned them for later.  And never went back.)

A "petting zoo" - whole areas where you could pet things like starfish and stingrays.  Ace tried to get in on the heavy petting action, but the stingrays took one look at thirty-five little outstretched hands and for some reason stayed at the other end of the tank.

Ace's favorite room had potential to be my favorite as well - a dark tunnel with tanks that ran on both sides from floor to ceiling with glowing jellyfish and soft music, and the non-tank walls were entirely mirrored, so the jellyfish seemed to go on forever.  It was extraordinarily meditative, almost churchlike.  But you couldn't linger.  Did I mention?

Mobs of tourists, wailing babies, children running around and banging on the glass windows. 

Mobs of tourists, wailing babies, children running around and banging on the glass windows. 

Mobs of tourists, wailing babies, children running around and banging on the glass windows. 

Truly, this is a lovely place for children - LOTS of things for them to do and see and learn.  It's just that the crammed circumstances I think discouraged parents' ability to be closely involved - kids often had to squirm through lots of people to get to the front to see anything, leaving parents stranded in the rear; plus it was maybe overstimulating; plus, again, the vibe was less about cooperative learning and amazement about the fish, and way more an atmosphere of competitively trying to see anything at all so you could check that display off your list.  The only solution I could think of would be to have a bouncer like they do at clubs with max. occupancy - you know, two out, two in.   

It was a spectacular aquarium, though, and we left exhausted.

Watching the pulpo had made me hungry for seafood, so we stopped at a place on Cannery Row (the walk back towards the car), called Luigi Linguini's (or something similar) that was passing out clam chowder samples.  It was a good ploy - we went in.

Fully expecting it to be cheesy, touristy and bland, we were both delighted with our meals.  We shared the seafood sampler (deep fried calamari, clams and popcorn shrimp), Ace got grilled salmon and a glass of sangria and I got the chili-lime seafood pasta that was full of fish and scallops and shrimp and mussels and bell peppers (SO!  GOOD!) and their white wine flight.  (One good ploy leads to another - I now totally want to get one of the wines I tried.)

Their ladies' room was eyebrow-raising, plastered with marriage- and man-hating bumper stickers.  I told Ace to avoid the men's room, because I assumed it would be the converse.  Naturally, he checked it out immediately.  When he came out, I said, "Behind every successful man is a surprised woman."

And he said, "My wife says I don't listen to her.  Or something like that."

And I said, "All men are idiots...  I married their king."

And he said, "Which came first, the woman or the department store?"

And I said, "When I married Mr. Right, I didn't know his first name was Always."

And he said, "I miss my wife, but my aim is getting better."

And I said, "The shortest sentence is 'I am.'"

And he said, "The longest sentence is 'I do.'"

Anyway, we stepped into and out of a fudge shoppe (too crowded, too expensive), and found there was a trolley we could hop on that took us back to parking.  We listened to some doo-wop show on the radio until we crested the Santa Cruz mountains, then hopped and bopped to oldies the rest of the way home.

Huh-wha?

According to Daily Candy, today is "National Lazy Day." 

Accordingly: no content, just a clip from Ace's upcoming "TV show." 

If by "TV show" you mean "infomercial for Nevada tourism."

The teaser is pretty exciting. 

If by "exciting" you mean three minutes of watching people running and looking at their watches.

Band campers

As Shakespeare once said,

Mairzy doats and dozy doats

and little lambsy divey

a kiddle dee divey too!

Last Saturday, after riding our bicycle built for two, Ace and I skedaddled over to the diving competition at Stanford's Avery Aquatic Center.  They were having the finals of the National Diving Championships, which had been going on all week. 

Diving's one of my favorite spectator sports, one of my favorite sports in the Summer Olympics.  People with perfectly toned, perfectly tuned bodies doing stuff with them I couldn't dream of.  The control!  The physics!  The really long falls from high places.  They had them all - the low spring board, the 10 meter platform, the synchronized ones, everything in between.  It's my understanding, too that this competition was a qualifier for the 2008 Olympic team.  We were watching Olympians in our own backyard!  (But I don't know which ones.)

Like many highly technical yet also highly aesthetic disciplines, like figure skating or gymnastics, diving scoring is pretty opaque, yet like those other ones, there's at least a point of entry for the novice spectator.  You know, if your skating partner drops you, that's bad.  Or if you run smack into the pommel horse - bad.  Similarly with diving, the obvious belly flops and cannonballs are easy to spot. 

But the more subtle goals in these sports are also discernable to the neophite, because the sports have developed their catchy catch phrases.  You know, with gymnastics, it's all, "Stick It!"  With diving, it's little brothers walking around in T-shirts that say, "No Splash!"

After the diving was over, we walked 200 yards over to the football stadium, to get tickets for the Drum and Bugle Corps regionals (or something) that night.  We went home to get jeans and down jackets (!) and I whistled 4th of July tunes the whole way.  Ace advised that it might be a little different from what I was expecting.  I was thinking about the opening scene from "A Few Good Men" with the rifle guys doing those Rockettes moves with their weapons, and humming all the marching band songs I could think of. 

He was like, you know how cheerleading is no longer "Rah.  Rah.  Sis boom bah." but more like Bring it On, with modern music and everything?  I think this is sort of similarly updated.

So I was kind of ready to be bored by a lot of posing and spirit fingers and techno music.  But it wasn't! 

It was all I'd hoped it would be! 

We saw maybe eight or ten ten-to-fifteen minute performances, and every group had done something crazy creative, with their music or their costuming or their moves.

The first group was a team from Montana, wearing these civil war type outfits.  That was kind of the look I was expecting.  Drummer boys, you know?

I thought they also looked kind of like Webelos.

Next was these crazies called the Crossmen, doing kind of a spooky Harry Potter thing.  I tell you, 100 guys silently blanketing the field in batlike Warlock outfits is cree-pee.

Another group was costumed to be, like, gypsies or pirates, I'm not sure.  Their "color guard" (flag twirlers, dancers) had kind of this audience seduction thing going that made it a little PG-13.

My favorite group was this team that did a number called "Criminal" which was very clever with costuming and formation stuff.  They should have gotten 10/10 for creative direction.

The Blue Knights were a local crowd favorite, because they're from Concord or something.  Here's a little video of the kind of thing they did.

Isn't that the awesomest? 

Between performances they had a lot of Jumbo-tron ads by various band camps (Disney does one) and product manufacturers, heavily featuring strapping young men being all ripped and sweaty and usually shirtless, banging on their drums.  We realized there's this whole WORLD of D&B types - like with the WORLD of people into diving with their little in-joke T-shirts - that we did not know existed that think that what they do is the coolest thing in the world.

I guess triathletes are like that, obliviously walking around like idiots in their aero helmets and "cool guy" sunglasses and sports bras (the men, that is). 

Anyway, the announcer kept reminding us that the finals or something are going on this week at the Rose Bowl!  So if you're in Southern California, I strongly recommend you check it out this weekend if it's still going on.  The web site also mentions that it's on TV tonight, but seeing it live was something else. 

Napster

Good morning!  This week I'm motivating to get up early in the morning (i.e. before 8:40) and this week I got up at 5:30 not once, but TWICE!  (I wanted it to be every day for 21 days, you know, till it's a habit, but yesterday I just...couldn't.) 

Monday I got a whole bunch of work done before breakfast and baked a loaf of bread, and this morning I rode my bike for a little over an hour.  It was a beautiful morning: overcast with the sun just starting to break through what my dad calls the "marine layer."  (The Santa Cruz mountains are between us and the sea, so I don't know if the layer can still really be called "marine.")  And then I had two soft-boiled eggs over homemade toast.  Eggs!  Who has time for eggs!  People who get up at 5:30, that's who.

Monday I was the walking dead, though.  Good to go all morning, but by about 3 pm I was drooping.  I'd see people in the elevator and couldn't even lift my lids enough to make eye contact.  I just mumbled "hello" and gazed at the floor.  Inspired by African Kelli's post about same, I decided to take a nap. 

At a previous firm one associate told me his scheme for sneaking in naps - requires an office with a door.

• Sit on the floor near your door, surrounding yourself with papers and documents. 
• Angle your legs towards the door, with your feet about 6 inches from the actual door. 
• Then, when somebody knocks, or even when they just open the door without knocking, the door hits your feet, you pop upright, and as the door swings open, you make like you were just sitting near the door all along, reviewing documents. 

I wonder what happened to that guy. 

So I closed my office door and curled up on my side like I usually do.  Totally uncomfortable.  No pillow, hard floor, just awful.  I tried supporting my head with a big 4-inch binder, but it was hard on my ear.  How was I going to nap if there was no way to be comfortable?  Then I remembered that, even though I'm usually a side-sleeper, when they get to Shivasana in yoga class, I always manage to conk out in about 60 seconds.  (Note: somebody told me once that if you fall asleep in Shivasana it means you need to sleep more at night.)  So I lay flat on my back, feet up against the door, tried to think about yoga class - and poof, I was out. 

Suddenly I popped into sitting upright because I guess I thought I heard a knock.  So I said "Just a moment!" and peeped out.  Nobody.  But I looked at my watch and saw that I had squeezed in a 10 minute nap, and felt totally refreshed and was productive well into evening.

I highly recommend the at-work nap.  I believe there's some movement encouraging work-day napping, I'll see what I can find. 

Anyway, I think I went to bed a little earlier than usual last night, and that plus the eggs, plus maybe getting my eight hours yesterday, well, I'm feeling totally together on this second day of my 5:30 am campaign.  (This despite tossing and turning with foaming-at-the-mouth Possum dreams last night.)  Imagine how great it'll be after my 21 days are up!

Lazy Daisy

This past Saturday I had kind of a virtual reality experience of high quality cycling.  I got a Camelback's-eye-view of what it's like to ride a bike like Ace. 

I got to know what it feels like to pass ordinary cyclists like they're standing still. 

I got to see under what circumstances he brakes, when he shifts, when he coasts. 

I got to feel the wind in my hair rather than the flies buzzing around my face. 

I even got to experience taking both hands off the handlebars! 

How were all these vicarious thrills possible?

I haven't been on a tandem since I was about eight years old, when my family used to stay with my parents' friends, who had five kids and two tandems.  I have a vague recollection of being terrified as I clung to the back seat while some teenager in front went really fast and made the pedals smack my feet.   

This was entirely different and totally fun!  A little nervous-making, because we put different feet down at stops (I deferred, at least in part because I couldn't reach the ground anyway).  And there was frequent challenging of, "Hey, are you even trying back there?" and muffled laughter when I thought I was putting in a champion effort.

Nevertheless, Ace swears he got a solid workout in, and I...well, I enjoyed the view. 

  If you'd like to try this yourself, the Campus Bike Shop at Stanford has two tandems for rent.

Scat, Part Deux-Deux

A week ago I was out back, watering my pathetic excuse for zucchini when I noticed...a poop.  I know!  The mad pooper strikes again.

Our backyard isn't much to speak of, mostly a broken concrete patio with a narrow border of clay from which I'm vainly trying to coax vegetables.  But what there is, is fenced.  There's a concrete wall on three sides, our house on the fourth, with a wooden fence and our sliding door at opposite corners for ingress and egress.

So the poop was a mystery, because it wasn't tiny or pellety, like a rabbit or squirrel might do, but significant and loglike, and there was simply no way for anything bigger to get in.  Our various neighbors' various cats have made appearances, but I've catsat planty and scooped my share of litter - it didn't really look like that.  We'd seen a raccoon fumbling around in the middle of the night a few times - he goes from the roof to our tree, then kind of takes a spill onto the ground.  It's too dark to see how he gets out, but he seems too clumsy to do much besides knock on the door and ask to use the bathroom.  Anyway, that's whom I blamed for leaving us a little present.  Raccoons are easy to blame.

So there I was this morning, eating breakfast and reading Time's article about why it's not so awful to be a boy in this world (say it ain't so!) when I looked out the window and saw a very long nose peeking in.

I gasped and...went to get the camera. 

 

He looks kind of bedraggled here, but was not not cute in person.  Didn't seem the least fazed that I was leaping around on the other side of the door.  Just snuffled around the inflatable mattress (I'm so embarrassed - we do need to clean up the outside a bit.  We're pacing ourselves.), and then disappeared among the zucchini.

Ace and I both questioned whether the Compost Heap was attracting these visitors, but Mr. O. Possum spent zero time over there.  He was all about the zukes.  Have I mentioned that I have yet to harvest a single zucchini?  Meanwhile Rad is turning out zucchini the size of Schwarzenegger's forearm. 

It's all Wild Kingdom up in here.