Tuesday, March 31, 2015

Wind surfers were the only ones on the beach this evening, it was so windy. (Though I'm sure Anne, Peter, and Carmen were out there somewhere.) Tom and I retreated to the Coastal Trail and then I took the long way home down the Great Highway, where I snapped this picture.

Monday, March 30, 2015

Today's favorite sketch.

Thursday, March 26, 2015

My Favorite Kind of Camping

Aggles sitting by the firepit outside our fancy hotel.

Tuesday, March 24, 2015


I'm off for a 2-day hiatus with Aggles.

Sunday, March 22, 2015

Sidewalk Chalk

Walking home on 47th Avenue

Friday, March 20, 2015

Celebrating Lucille's 91st birthday

Wednesday, March 18, 2015

Walking home I passed this mysterious door. It makes me want to write a story about the small person who lives inside, and the tiny tree he's trying to grow.

Monday, March 16, 2015

Dog Books I Love

Barbara & Larry sent this funny tea leaf infuser. So this afternoon I gulped a cup of gunpowder green and took a look at some dog books.

I love the way Jesse Hartland draws. The book in the photo is called Clementine in the City. It's about a big black poodle (Jesse's own) who moves to the big city. After Clementine buys a pair of the best boots in town, she  has adventure after adventure. (True, that's usually what happens when you buy the best boots in town.)

Three other dog books from my shelf that I love: Martha Speaks by Susan Meddaugh, Amandina by Sergio Ruzzier, and of course Higgledy Pigglety Pop! or There Must Be More to Life by Maurice Sendak.

Saturday, March 14, 2015


on the sea wall 

Wednesday, March 11, 2015

A new carpet to sweep things under.

Tuesday, March 10, 2015

Just Say No

If your hairline is receding, your barber often will think you want bangs.

Saturday, March 07, 2015


In 8th grade I took Home Ec. If you were a girl, you had to. That’s where I met Cathy Rye, so at least one good thing came out of it.

We made brownies in Home Ec. But did we even get to sample them? No. The bell rang before the oven timer buzzed, so Mrs. Witherspoon got to take them home.

We spent a week on hairstyles, like the best way to wear your hair if you wore glasses. (Soft and somewhat fluffy, but brushed back from the face.)

But the most dismal Home Ec project of all was making shifts. We had to buy a Simplicity pattern at Woolworth’s and a couple yards of fabric at Jo-Ann’s. When spring arrived, there would be a fashion show in the auditorium and we would model our shifts.

My mom gave me some money. I bought the Simplicity pattern. But then before I could get out the door, I spent the rest of my money on record albums and candy. The Doors, Revolver, and some Butterfingers and Raisinets.

When I got home I dug around in the basement and found an oilcloth/thin linoleum rug rolled up, one that used to lie under my sister’s crib. So I took that to Home Ec along with my Simplicity pattern. The rug was glossy on one side—I liked that! and it was decorated with multicolored dachshunds. The only problem was that I broke one sewing machine after another because––well, I don’t think our sewing machines were made for linoleum. I ended up having to finish the armholes by hand with yarn, and to punch holes with an ice pick for every stitch.

The day of the fashion show I wore my favorite pink and chartreuse knee socks and borrowed my cousin’s red patent leather heels. I slid the shift over my head. It didn’t have a nice drape; it was more like a tube. But it was shiny. When it was my turn to go, Cathy buckled Sigmund’s collar with the little red heart around my neck and led me down the runway to the tune of “Good Day Sunshine."

On my report card I ended up with an F in Home Ec but it was easy to change that F to a B before my mom saw it.

Friday, March 06, 2015

Stumbled upon after sunset––that's why the light is so strange. The thing itself is a little spooky, too!

Wednesday, March 04, 2015

If I make coffee before Tom wakes up, I draw his picture while I'm waiting for it to brew.

And look! This evening he met his match.

Tuesday, March 03, 2015

Prompt: What's New

The event is called Writers With Drinks and it took place last night at the Make Out Room in the Mission. Ruth Ozeki was there. She’s my favorite writer. I hightailed it across town early so I’d have plenty of time to park beforehand.

And I actually found a place to park in the same block, but still. When I burst through the door and my eyes adjusted to the darkness I realized all the chairs, tables, and barstools were taken.

I ordered an absinthe (they actually had it!) and then another, in case someone tried to make conversation with me. Not good at talk, small or large, I found an out-of-the-way spot to stand against the far wall. A disco ball spun white flecks of light through the air.

Minutes later the disco ball spun purple and a silver cage descended from the ceiling.

“Who wants a Super Power?” asked Ruth. It was Ruth Ozeki herself! In the cage! She was speaking into a Mr. Microphone so everyone could hear.

“I do!” we all shouted. There was whistling and clapping.

“Line up, then, and take a chit!” She’d hit the Chipmunks voice button on the Mr. Microphone by mistake, but we knew she was serious. Everyone lined up.

“This really works,” the woman behind me said. “My life coach got a chit two years ago that said ‘Super Muscle’ and she was able to ride her bike home all the way up Telegraph hill in two minutes flat.”

“N-no way,” I stuttered, still a little comfortable speaking with strangers.

“Yes way,” said she. “But the next day the chit flew out of her pocket while she was riding up Mt. Tam, and now she can barely pedal at all. In fact, she barely makes it out of bed in the mornings. So don’t lose your chit.”

When I finally made it up to the cage, Ruth folded her hands around the Mr. Microphone and gave a short bow. Then she looked me in the eye and handed me a chit. 

On the chit was one word, “Chat.” And with that, I headed straight for a crowded table and squeezed in between David Koehn and Rose Caraway. My chit chat was working; my Super Power would never quit; I could not shut up and I haven’t since.

p.s. This is fiction.