If you could eliminate any musical artist from the planet -- their entire catalog, who would you pick? Don't waste it on just one song that you hate. Like I HATE The Safety Dance. Yesterday I asked Billy which artist he would eliminate -- he couldn't come up with someone right away -- but I said, don't waste it on just a song, like The Safety Dance. And he didn't know The Safety Dance. He did not know:

We can dance if we want to
We can leave your friends behind
'Cause your friends don't dance and if they don't dance
Well they're no friends of mine

I'm sighing with great exasperation even just typing that. Last night when I was driving home and radio surfing trying to find a good song I land on a station and what's that tune ... ? AK! The Safety Dance. I gasped and swerved and quickly punched another button.

But back to the artist I would eliminate. Off the top of my head: Phil Collins.

Turns out I am not having the hairy week I had expected. I had several in-office big projects that have been revised and then I was supposed to go to Idaho for a work related thing for several days and where it is snowing and the low is in the range of 23 degrees. There was an unfortunate event and the meeting(s) have been rescheduled for next week when I'm sure the temperatures will have climbed to a more reasonable range. Yeah, I know if anyone from Nome or Minnesota is reading this blog right now (ha ha) you are laughing into your triple layer wool underwear about now but, I am a California girl. I chill easily.

My Honda CRX had a windshield wiper on the back. Maybe because of the angle since it was a hatch they had to put it on there but I miss it. If you had one you'd realize how useful they are. Last night my Camry back window was dewed up or something that defrost was not going to solve. Not enough rain to wash it clear but a little too murky to make it useful to see out of.

Traffic was all backed up going home from yoga last night -- took me 45 minutes when I left downtown at 7:15p. But I did not get impatient since I had 2.5 hours of class yesterday (Noon and 5:30p)(I had rearranged my yoga and other schedules in antipation of going to Idaho and decided to stick with it since I had my clothes and everything.) I drove peacefully in my blissful yoga daze with Def Leppard pounding out of the speakers.

Did I ever tell you about the time I hung out with Boba Fett? Yeah, well. You know what they say: What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.

I've been working on the feking-arsh PamNewsletter 05 ALL DAY. I don't know why I'm in such a panic. It's still November fercrissakes. It just seemed imperative that I get the thing done today.

I've been sitting here since about 9am just trying to get the CSS template the way I want it. Too bad I have no clue what I'm doing. In case you are curious, CSS is (simplified) the thing that makes the online newsletter look the way I want it to. It takes me about 10 minutes to write the text, 30 minutes to do the pictures and 15 hours to lay the thing out for the web plus another 12 hours to lay the thing out for the luddite paper version. And not like it looks so pretty. Oh well. When I was a girl we didn't have computers. I'm unfrozen caveman legal assistant: your modern ways, they confuse and frighten me.

So here's the update.

I cooked the Thanksgiving dinner. Yeah, sure it was only for 3 people, but I could have handled 10. I said I made mashed potatoes for 30 and Priscilla looked into the bowl with doubt and I said: I already put twice that much in a container in the fridge.

I've only done the whole dinner myself a couple of other times. I'm usually the assistant and Erin and Mom run the show. If there is any doubt: it turned out awesome. I made cheeseballs. Bob has been making turkey cheeseball sandwiches. Cheeseballs rock!

I don't know where I was going with that. At dinner I said cooking was like yoga. If you practice the basics then when it's time to do the advanced stuff: you're ready for it. I was like a leaf. I floated on the wind.

Next week I have the most insanely hairy week. I doubt you'll see me here again until next weekend. And hopefully you'll have the Pamnewsletter to look forward to. Meanwhile, you can read the old versions here.

I found out the bus stop has been remodeled. This is the real bus stop for the kids in Orleans. Sorry for the confusion. I'll try to get a photo with the xmas lights when I'm down there next month.

If you've never divided dahlias before and you think you're going to run out there, dig 'em up, sort them in the garage, stick them in a box and then be nice and warm inside, sipping some wine and reading your book in an hour or two, you are sadly mistaken.

I had no idea what a job this was. I started in the front where the bulbs have done squat probably because the soil is completely dry, boiling hot in summer and a major catbox for the neighborhood. I dug those up in a flash and they emerged much as they'd gone into the ground.

Then I started on the back. omigod. Shouldn't there be more warning to people? It was like a Stephen King novel where the dahlias took over the world. I think it will be four years in Spring since I put these in the ground. Maybe five. What if I waited a few more years? Are there abandoned farms from the olden days with dahlia bulb masses the size of Vermont?

Look at the size of this thing. (Actual not-Photoshopped photo. That's our lawnmower in the background.)

Am I really supposed to wash all these things off and cut them apart and carefully put them away, with labels, for spring? I don't want to. I'm already tired of the job and I barely made a dent in it. It was cold. And washing them made it colder.

Look how much I have left:

I wanted to have some to share. Now I'll be paying people to take them. Begging them. If its sunny tomorrow I'll put in another hour or so, maybe.

Me Hanging Out with Star Wars

What I Hate About Yamhill Station
I ALWAYS make sure that I have my train ticket in advance. This has to do with not missing the train and having to stand there for 15 minutes because I had to buy a train ticket while the train came and went. I also always make sure that I buy my tickets (10 at a time) in the morning or at my lunch hour, not on the way home.

The train station on the way home is near a mini-mart and is a hot spot for panhandlers, scammers and if I can just say the word: losers. I do not want to have my wallet out in this area.

But on Thursday morning I didn't think I had time before the train arrived. (The recorded message said I had 3 minutes and those piece of crap ticket machines TriMet has sometimes take more than 3 minutes.) Turned out the train didn't arrive for like 11 minutes, but who's counting?

I totally forgot on my lunch break so now I'm stuck buying a ticket in scumville after work. Rather than putting in my $20 for the 10 tickets, I opted for the 1-way ticket and got my 2 singles out ahead of time: so I wouldn't have to take my wallet out.

And sure enough, I don't even have a button pressed on the machine and some scumbag is rushing over, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, "Ma'am? Ma'am?" Like that's more polite when you've got your hand out. WTF? Yeah, I know some people have hard times. I'm not totally without compassion. But I'm not going to hand money over to people just because they ask and I don't like being bullied at the ticket machine.

Sometime after I graduated from college I had a party called the Bridesmaid Promenade. The girls were instructed to wear a bridesmaid dress (the bride always says: you can wear it again) and the boys were instructed to wear bad ties. I would love to take credit for this idea but actually it was Trish.

The featured beverage was the upside down margarita. You sit in a chair and tilt your head back while your friends pour the ingredients into your mouth. Then they take a towel and cover your mouth and gently shake your head. (And imagine what "gently" means after you've gone a few rounds). Delicious.

This is a drink to enjoy in your youth. Fortunately, I did.

I didn't have a bridesmaid dress at the time so the dress in the photo is my prom dress. It was pink with hand-painted flowers. It was later damaged by water leaking in the closet. Otherwise I'd probably be wearing it to parties still.

And yet another picture of my sister, this time with a soggy upside down margarita towel to go with her smile.

I call this one: A Day Without Potter.

Bob just came upstairs where I was stirring our dinner: creamy peanut chicken stew. The recipe jumped out at me as a Bob-ultimate. When he saw me cutting something out of the food section he unenthusiastically asked what it was and when I told him he lit up like a 5 year old on xmas morning.

Just now, when he came upstairs he said with great energy: Honey, I can't understand how anyone can't like the Grateful Dead.

I made a loud sigh and said: How long have you got?

This morning I read in the paper that Harry Potter was going to be in high def. at Cinetopia and I'm no crazed fan but I thought it would be fun so I ran over there and well, first of all, I was already very impatient. Everybody has to drive 20 miles below the speed limit or 20 miles above the speed limit. No one can drive a speed that I like and it made me a little cranky. So I pull up and there are about 10 cars in the parking lot plus a fire engine out front and I'm thinking: COOL. But then I get to the window and there is a small crowd of people, all older than me, and the huge electronic sign that says what's what is dead and then I hear "sold out" together with "Harry Potter" and I'm like WTF? Did each car in the lot carry 15 people?

I'd already done enough driving around for the day so I said screw it and went home. I don't know what the fire engine thing was all about. And if a showing of Pride and Prejudice was playing anytime in the vicinity, I would have gone so Cinetopia, get that sign working.

But while I'm on the topic of Harry Potter, I just want to say, FINALLY someone has said it.

I'm going to be the first one brave enough to step forward and admit it: Daniel Radcliffe, i.e. Harry Potter, is growing up to be a stone cold hottie.

Of course, someone is not old enough to be HP's mother and I should probably be arrested. She has one of those countdown-to-legal-age clocks but I'm too lazy to figure out how to put one on my site. I mean, why would I do that? I'm just reporting what she said.

I had three items I wanted to update you on. HP was one. Sony is another:

I'm not tech-savvy enough to explain this worth a damn but if you buy CDs as in music, from Sony and put them on your computer you need to educate yourself on the following: Part I and Part II. My best explanation is that the Sony discs install some sort of evilware on your computer. This is a super bad idea on many levels and hopefully they will get in big trouble.

The third thing I can't remember and Bob is upstairs wanting to tell me something and looking for food so I'm done for now.

I have so many things for you. Tomorrow I will catch up. Maybe.

This thing is happening where I wake up at 3:30am and can't get back to sleep.

Sometimes I drift in something that resembles sleep. Then I nod off about 8 minutes before the alarm goes off. Just long enough to slip into a deep enough sleep that the alarm is like swimming out from under a pool of pudding. That dragging ass feeling is with me all day.

That was yesterday. I put in a long day and Bob and I did the grocery shopping after work. We stopped to pick up something for dinner and while we waited it was like torture. You know when you go on an overseas trip? And you're on your way home and you end up with some horrific 4 hour layover in Minneapolis? And then it's delayed? And by this point you are so tired you are close to weeping. (When this actually I happened I think I did weep but airports are horrible places what with those stupid TVs blaring at you from every corner.) You're almost home. But not quite. This was sort of like that.

Anyway, last night I slept like the dead. I even slept in a little and came in to work at the leisurely hour of 8:45a.

This wasn't what I was going to say when I sat down to type. What I was going to say is that I am SO HUNGRY this morning. Abnormally starving for me. If someone came in my office with a huge greasy meatball sandwich right now -- I would eat it.

Did I ever tell you the one about the hippy kid I met a long time ago back in L.A. somewhere around the time I moved into my first apartment?

I don't know that we actually met as much as he glommed onto me during a show - which I can't for the life of me remember the content of. I vaguely remember it being in the Valley but I also remember David and Karen being there and I can't think what show could possibly have convinced Karen to go to the Valley.

The guy was incredibly young and not my type on any level but at the time I knew nothing about setting boundaries or being clear in my communication about, NO and somehow we ended up hanging out. This part is a little cloudy. He probably manipulated me into giving him a ride home.

He was a very happy little hippy but his circumstances were a bit heart crushing. He lived in a week-to-week motel in Van Nuys. I recall a lot of chain-link fence in the area. He made money by painting address numbers on the curb in residential areas.

I've never seen that around here so I will explain how this works. You, as the homeowner, would receive a notice in your mailbox telling you that your curb would be painted. If you didn't want it painted, you were to tape the notice over your old faded numbers. If you did not, or forgot, someone would paint your house numbers on the curb. Later the painter would come by and collect some money ... not much, maybe $7. The idea was this would help emergency vehicles find your house.

This was how HippyBoy made enough money to go to shows and do whatever he did.

We went out one time. I had to pick him up. It's hard not to think that my wheels weren't a big part of the attraction. We went to see the Purple Turtles. If I'd only known then that this was a preview into my future I might have paid better attention. If you think I'm not into hippy bands now, you should have seen me back in the 80's as knockdown drag-out fulltime 100% rocker girl. It wasn't my thing and he wasn't my kind of guy. But he was into it and there was nothing I could say that could convince him otherwise.

It got to the point where he'd call the answering machine and leave endless messages. I could be out working late or at the grocery store and there'd be these pitiful messages imploring me to please pick up. Not to shine him on. Etc.

I think I finally got mad at him, or maybe he gave up. But sometimes when I'm with Bob at one of these massive hippy gatherings, I wonder if HippyBoy is still blissing out to the scene.

I found a picture of that bus stop. Sorry I couldn't get one with the Christmas lights. [aside: seriously, this took me half the afternoon and I don't know how to make the "bus stop" more pronounced. Give me time and I will be the Photoshop whiz.]

When we were at Bob's Red Mill yesterday Bob (mine, not the one with the Red Mill) picked up some pornographically named treats called: Betty Lou's Chocolate Covered Golden Smackers. Insert your own joke here.

This morning he ate his. He said, "This is like a really good power bar. You can try some."

I took a bite and said, "This is like a really good Reese's Peanut Butter Cup."

"Yeah," Bob said, "But those are already good."

Auntie and Uncle were in Portland for a couple of days and we met them and Aileen for breakfast at Bob's Red Mill this morning. Excellent breakfast. I highly recommend it plus they will meet and exceed all your grain/legume shopping needs.

The bus stop for the kids is at the bottom of the hill from their house. I don't think I have a photo but will look again.

It's a long story why but we were talking about electricity transmission and Auntie said that if you run a long extension cord all the way down the hill to the bus stop, you've got just about nothing for power when you get to the bottom.

"Is that for something to keep the kids warm?" I asked.

"No, it's for the Christmas lights."

After breakfast we started our shopping. Uncle saw Aileen with a couple things in her hands then ran into me with my basket. He said, "I'll bet Janet has a cart." Sure enough, she turns down the aisle pushing a cart and holding her list.

A couple of nights ago we were channel surfing and TVLand was showing an episode of What's Happening!! I totally watched that show when I was a kid.

The episode was classic: the Doobie Brothers were playing a big concert and these bad guys were plying the kids with great seats and in exchange they had to secretly tape the concerts. Yes, they were BOOTLEGGING. And the bootleggers were villians with shiny suits.

Not only were they bootlegging but they were using those big clunky cassette recorders that we used back in the mesomeric era before the invention of technology. It's hard to even imagine that a crappy 3rd generation cassette recording from an orginal taped from a recorder hidden in someone's clothes would have ever been valuable to anyone. Or that the artist would have been backed up about it.

If you've ever seen hippies at a Cheese (or any jam band for that matter) show legally taping with all their gear, perhaps you understand why I think this is extra funny.

This episode aired in February of 1978 and you almost want to go back to that time and tell everyone how the delivery of music to fans will change in the next 30 years because it would blow those people's minds.

There is nothing less interesting than hearing people talk about their dreams but I can't resist sharing this tidbit of a crazy dream I had the other night.

In one part there were these guys in rain slickers parachuting out of a helicopter while fish sticks were being thrown at them.

If you have even a tiny idea of what might be going on in my subconscious, please drop me a note.

According to How-Much-Is-Your-Blog-Worth? this site is worth about $500.

I don't care. It's not for sale. (That's slightly bitter sarcasm, if you weren't getting it.)

I had no idea sunflower seeds were such a problem on the playing field. Especially enough to require a special sign.

When I was younger I liked to drive around just for the sake of driving. I drove around a lot of backroads in Agoura. No doubt they are no longer back of anything and instead traffic choked roads leading between housing developments. I drove to the beach. I drove around a lot in Santa Barbara, too.

I don't like to drive any more. I just like to get somewhere.

When I drive, I like to be freakishly close the steering wheel, as if to embrace it fully, if need be. I think the real problem is my short stubby legs. Not that that's a problem. I'm sure Karuk women were prized for their short stubby legs. But this reality requires that I be close to the steering wheel if my feet are to reach the pedals.

I feel insecure if I have to reach with my feet. Things could get out of control at any moment.

What concerns me is if the day should come when the airbag blows up because I'm pretty certain that's not going to feel good. Sure, if I'm charging forward and collide with something moving at me, the airbag is probably going to be a lifesaver. What I'm worried about it that fender bender that's got just enough force to deploy the bag. WHAM! My face just got that much flatter.

I found it. It was in the bottom drawer of bureau down in the basement. I also still have my middle school P.E. shirt. Why? I throw away everything. I love throwing things away. It relaxes me to get rid of things. Yet I have these 2 shirts, plus my varsity letter from high school and a pair of pantaloons that were part of an actual real dress I wore ... in high school? Sounds doubtful, I can't remember the time frame but I've saved them thinking they might come in handy for a costume someday. Too bad I totally forgot I even had them until just now when I went looking for the band shirt.

I'm using this opportunity to show off my pumpkin harvest. They look great, huh. One of those puppies is going to be a Thanksgiving pie. (Probably about 17 thanksgiving pies. That's a lot of pumpkin there.)

You'd think will all this Photoshop practice that I'd fix the bumps on the pumpkins to make them prettier and make myself look more like Angelina Jolie. I don't have all day.

Here I am on my wedding day. Just kidding. I'm challenging myself to find photos where my sister makes a goofy expression. This one is classic. I can hear my dad behind the camera now, "Erin, don't make such a goofy face."

Those yellow t-shirts were our middle school band uniforms. I still have mine -- I think. I'd run and look but I don't feel like getting up right now. If I find it, and I can fit into it, I'll have Bob take a picture and post it later. Something to look forward to.

The actual occasion of this photo was my 8th grade graduation. Why that event requires a fancy (but very sweet) dress only to be worn once and a crown of roses and baby's breath is beyond me but I remember thinking I was looking pretty sharp.

Meanwhile, back in the present, my appetite is all wonky. I'm not very hungry. Not very many things sound good and when I finally do sit down to eat, I fill up quick. I don't think this is a problem. I don't feel unhealthy. It's just a surprise that the woman who used to be able to shovel down a half a loaf of bread slathered with a bucket of peanut butter in the morning before stopping at the Arbor (little food shack near the library at UCSB) to pick up my ginormous bran muffin (this was all before 9am), would now find herself thinking: oh, I should probably eat something. Then eating a banana and not being hungry again until 3pm.

I have only one more Photoshop class left. Now we're doing stuff with vectors and paths and I only about 50% get it. Today I re-did all the stuff we did in class and it took me all afternoon. But I still like it. I wish the class was another few weeks.

I thought once I started typing I'd come up with more stuff for you but really, I'm empty here. I'm only 6 books away from the 50 book goal, but I'm stuck on the one I'm reading (That Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon). It's not that I don't like it, but it's not impossible to put down. I'm going to crawl in bed in a few minutes and read some tonight.

For xmas I'm going to ask for something that my Dad can get me and will probably be fun for him to buy: a drill. I've gone through my entire life so far without a drill. How can this happen? All kinds of simple home projects are ignored because there is no drill.

My hand towel ring in the bathroom broke and since there is no conformity in the world -- seriously I looked at about 50 towel rings in at least 4 different stores trying to find the same thing -- I had an installation project on my hands. The old ring was configured horizontally. The new ring, vertically. I got sick of my hand towel sitting on the counter or shoved onto the regular towel rack (yes, these are the kinds of things that twist my knickers) so I used hand tools to install it.

Turns out I also need a drywall or wall patch fix it kit -- or whatever one needs to do that stuff. This hand towel ring was installed with those plastic things you chunk into the wall. God forbid should a heavy hand towel cause the thing to pop out of the wall. I covered one in the remodel but there is a giant red plastic thing/hole by my hand towel ring. Must learn to fix that.

I have a couple of wildly unrelated items here that I'm going to lump into 1 post.

First, check out Kiva which enables you to make a loan (like, $25) to a small business in another country. Read about it to get the details but it's a great idea.

By choosing a business on our website and then lending money online to that enterprise, you can "sponsor a business" and help the world's working poor make great strides towards economic independence. Throughout the course of the loan (usually 6-12 months), you can receive monthly email updates that let you know about the progress being made by the small business you've sponsored. ... As loans are repaid, you will get your original loan money back.

The second item has to do with my two favorite lines heard so far this TV season.

The first was on Smallville where Professor Milton Fine (and I think the character is more complicated than that but I'm not a diehard follower of Superman) the actor who played Spike, major vampire-guy on Buffy the Vampire Slayer, says to young Superman, "Clark, there's no such thing as vampires."

The second was on Greys Anatomy. Cristina Yang was looking for a severed foot and got into it with an EMT and said, "I can't straddle another ego right now. I'm already doing the splits."