tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37727202011-04-21T21:17:31.292-07:00A blog about my life and how I tried to figure it outWendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comBlogger2511100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1062303421517548152003-08-30T21:15:00.000-07:002003-08-31T14:02:21.706-07:00

I've moved over to TypePad. I'm a gal who likes categories. Here's the new URL: http://weledger.typepad.com/pomegranate/ Thanks!!

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1062169662966929772003-08-29T07:51:00.000-07:002003-08-29T13:27:42.120-07:00

Then I read old favorites that I found cheap at a secondhand bookstore: Marjorie Morningstar by Herman Wouk A while back, I read an author's interview at the Powell's bookstore Web site where an author said that when she was young, she read Marjorie Morningstar. Then she said she realized that there was only so much time in life and after that she devoted herself to the classics. I remember

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1062083490461536822003-08-28T08:10:00.000-07:002003-08-28T08:15:20.810-07:00

After that, I read a series of what I call “girly books”: Good in Bed by Jennifer Weiner Bad Heir Day by Wendy Holden Stately Affairs (I think that's the title) and the last name of the author I believe was Fford. Amazon doesn't believe me. I wanted mind candy, stories that would go down easily while I traveled. And I found I liked all these books, although this time, the general arc of the

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1061996112400245502003-08-27T07:52:00.000-07:002003-08-27T07:55:34.886-07:00

In the beginning of the month, when I went back East to visit my family, I read numerous books. None of them were new. I knew I was going to be reading a bagful of books, and I didn’t want to spend the money on the volume that I intended to read. Many I had read before. It seemed time to revisit old favorites. At the time, I took notes on them and planned to write about it when I returned,

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1061907675968237282003-08-26T07:19:00.000-07:002003-08-26T07:22:50.856-07:00

I went to see this movie with my friend, Miriam, last Sunday in San Francisco. It was late afternoon. We walked to the theatre. There was one other person in our cinema room when we sat down, and no one else came. It was one of those heavenly kind of experiences. “Gigantic (A Tale of Two Johns)” is the story of the rock duo, They Might Be Giants, a band that I knew that I’ve heard before,

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1061820806222107632003-08-25T06:39:00.000-07:002003-08-25T07:19:12.410-07:00

More disjointed notes on a Monday morning while Jewel rests, thwarted in her effort to play with play baby mice at 6:30 in the morning. If we lived in a house instead of an apartment building, I would not have put the toys away. They will come out again once I go to work. Meanwhile, the neighbors will have some chance to sleep without a cat racing over their heads. Last night, I woke up in

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1061564143573335342003-08-22T07:53:00.000-07:002003-08-25T13:31:45.696-07:00

Here are some things I’ve learned from this experience: Adopting a new cat will not take away the grief. The new cat cannot be the old cat. Jewel has no interest in snuggling. Pumpkin was a lap cat. Pumpkin greeted me at the door each day. She drank water from the sink. She slept up near my head. She sat over my heart while I read before I went to sleep. Jewel has taken over a pillow

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1061473910251367152003-08-21T06:49:00.000-07:002003-08-21T06:54:21.970-07:00

Yesterday afternoon, I brought the calico cat home. This was the cat that I saw at the shelter on Monday when I had no intention of taking a cat home. I was only there to donate some food that I could not keep in my home now that my cat was dead. But somehow my feet wandered over to the cats and I found myself stopped in front of her cage. But that day, I walked away, thinking, “I cannot take

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1061392174006850592003-08-20T08:07:00.000-07:002003-08-20T08:09:34.090-07:00

Monday, at lunchtime, I remembered that there was a pet adoption center near my office. I walked over there to see if they accepted donations. I had two grocery bags full of different cat food. My cat had such a sketchy appetite over the past three months that I had a veritable smorgasbord of offerings available to her at any given moment. Anyway, after I found out I could bring the donation

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1061300802487176692003-08-19T06:43:00.000-07:002003-08-19T12:07:52.486-07:00

Some further odds and ends of this whole cat story: Yesterday, as I sat down to write, I looked up at the calendar closest to my computer. (I have four calendars in my studio apartment. Two of them have purposes. The other two are mainly for decoration.) Anyway, this particular calendar has a Taoist bent. There’s always a beautiful nature photograph on the top page and then some

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1061216706935118012003-08-18T07:22:00.000-07:002003-08-18T07:25:06.933-07:00

Monday, when I picked up my cat, I talked to the vet before we left. I asked him again about supplementing his care with holistic medicine. “I can give you a number of a provider I know,” he said. “You can call and see what she has to say.” He looked her up on his computer and came up empty. “I’ll give you a call later on today,” he said. “If you’re not home, I’ll leave it on the machine.”

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1060961912222621502003-08-15T08:37:00.000-07:002003-08-15T08:42:52.846-07:00

When I was back East, my father, stepmother, and I went to the horse races. We took an excursion bus with a social club, “all 400 years old,” my stepmother said. We had a private room and a catered lunch. The crabcakes were delicious. My father, stepmother, and I made the following arrangement. Each of us started the day with $50--$5 bets for each of the ten races. At the end of the day, we

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1060883718070476262003-08-14T10:53:00.000-07:002003-08-14T10:59:50.346-07:00

Every trip has its quirky moments, things that surprise you. One I already mentioned yesterday—the bleacher seats in Yankee Stadium are a great place to be. Here are some others from my time in New York and New Jersey: 1) On the Jet Blue red eye, I sat next to two children who were flying unaccompanied. The boy, who looked to be about 10, slept on the flight, and his head found his way to my

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1060791051545611092003-08-13T08:47:00.000-07:002003-08-13T09:15:38.050-07:00

I recently went to two baseball games. Last Saturday, in New York, I watched the Mariners play the Yankees with my father. Monday night, I had the privilege to watch Tim Hudson pitch against the Red Sox. In both cases, I loved where we sat, and that was a surprise. My father bought the tickets for the Yankees game. It was something that we had decided to do about a month in advance. At that

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1060698495335138172003-08-12T07:15:00.000-07:002003-08-12T07:28:15.456-07:00

I ciid call the vet when I was away. The first time, the receptionist assured me that my cat was doing well. The second time, I talked to the vet. "We did another blood panel on her," he said. "The numbers haven't changed." He paused for a moment while I digested this. "But she's gained 3/4ths of a pound since she's been here," he said. "I don't know if it's the happy confines of the cage

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1060609069550577992003-08-11T06:22:00.000-07:002003-08-11T06:37:49.706-07:00

For two weeks, I took a break from writing. I had planned on one week--a vacation where I went back East and visited my family. But the week before, I took a break that surprised me. During that week, I didn't do much of anything. Food lost its taste. I felt nauseous most of the time. I presented food to my cat, my beloved, sick animal who I've been tending this summer, and when she'd look

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1059466061807054282003-07-29T01:06:00.000-07:002003-07-29T01:07:41.840-07:00

"A Crooked Tune" will be on hiatus until the week of August 4th. Happy summer!

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1059142513804687502003-07-25T07:13:00.000-07:002003-07-25T07:15:13.830-07:00

Before I went to work, I called the vet and left a message with the office. “My cat had a hard evening,” I told her. “She threw up and growled and hid and didn’t want to eat. It’s the worst I’ve ever seen her. I think it might be time to let her go.” That afternoon, the vet called me. He said he didn’t think there was anything else he could do. “She’s still really yellow,” he said. We

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1059058563179413832003-07-24T07:53:00.000-07:002003-07-24T07:56:03.110-07:00

My cat threw up again this morning, and the vet told me to bring her in. So, I left work early, picked her up in her carrier, and we drove off, down several freeways, while she, the experienced traveler now, peered out of her open carrier and I narrated, “This is called an overpass. That’s a traffic jam over there. We’re lucky to be here.” She lost more weight—this time, I knew she had,

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1058969234881436072003-07-23T06:53:00.000-07:002003-07-23T07:07:14.926-07:00

For the past two days at work, I’ve transcribed voiceover auditions for a major advertising campaign. From my perspective as a transcriptionist, these interviews are way too long. Most run an hour in length and feel more like ten. It’s a kind of a “getting to know you” set-up where they tell rambling, mostly boring stories in voices that swoop and swirl and embellish phases with sound effects

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1058881840749240882003-07-22T06:46:00.000-07:002003-07-22T06:50:40.763-07:00

Saturday, I took my cat back to the vet for her follow-up visit. It was a good time for her to go. She had thrown up early that morning—the first time that had happened in two weeks--one of those moments when I woke up out of a deep sleep and hoped it was just something I had dreamed. But she had thrown up a little and then didn’t want to eat all morning, and so I put her in the carrier, and

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1058800773334215202003-07-21T07:26:00.000-07:002003-07-21T16:55:59.986-07:00

I wanted to see this musical, because "How Are Things in Gloca Morra?" has always been a favorite song. I wanted to see Fred Astaire dance. I was curious to see how Francis Ford Coppola would direct this film. He begins the film in a rather unorthodox manner for musicals--quietly and for a genre that's often removed from the world, he shows us shots of different flowers, grounding us in Nature

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1058540888475366602003-07-18T07:40:00.000-07:002003-07-18T08:08:08.510-07:00

I thought I would write about writing again. It's something that I've written about periodically since starting this blog last September. I wrote about it more when I first began, as I tried to figure out how I could write. Some things have stayed to varying degrees. I still "cluster" most times before I write--meaning, I grab a notebook and a pen and I write a key word about the piece in the

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1058452404331192972003-07-17T07:25:00.000-07:002003-07-17T07:33:24.350-07:00

I’ve been thinking lately about the impact of words. It began, as many things do, with my cat. For those who haven’t read about my cat before, she’s been in what we folks in California call a process since the end of May. Meaning she’s been sick as the proverbial dog, lost four pounds in four weeks, been diagnosed, misdiagnosed, and then diagnosed again, and has her own shelf in the medicine

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1058366389602245962003-07-16T07:18:00.000-07:002003-07-16T12:39:39.003-07:00

"Where have you been?" the waitress asked me, handing me a menu. "Have you been on vacation?" I thought about the time I've spent lately taking care of my cat, and the parts of it that were restful and the parts that were exhausting. I thought specifically about why I hadn't been to this restaurant. It's one of those phenomenons I'm finding more and more in modern life--it's very easy to

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1058276000345692832003-07-15T06:28:00.000-07:002003-07-15T06:44:33.503-07:00

For about a month, I watched “Sports Night” on DVD, six in all, 45 episodes revolving around the cast and staff of a cable sports show. There were parts of this series that I found annoying and parts that seemed compelling. In the end, I was willing to look past the things that didn’t work for me and continue on with the story. Let’s start with my gripes and just get that out of the way. I

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1058194172070399742003-07-14T07:41:00.000-07:002003-07-14T10:58:18.200-07:00

In my continuing effort to read all of the Kinsey Millhone series that is now available, here are my thoughts on K and L. As always, if you’re one of the few who haven’t read this series and are interested in doing so, I would steer clear of this piece, as I will give too much away. K is for Killer is full of great characters. There’s Lorna Kepler, the murder victim, a prostitute who

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1057934575205902242003-07-11T07:22:00.000-07:002003-07-11T09:37:18.956-07:00

Last weekend, I went to a baseball game. It was the second game I attended all year, which is a bit strange, since I used to be at the park all the time. From 1995 to 2002, I was an A’s season ticketholder. During that time, I went to at least 40 games a year. At this particular game, I began thinking about ballpark communities and baseball culture in general. Within ten minutes of sitting

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1057846876121319832003-07-10T07:18:00.000-07:002003-07-10T07:32:09.183-07:00

This week we changed vets. It wasn’t something I fully intended to do. But last week, a friend highly recommended her vet. So, I called him to see if he could refer me to someone in my area. His office is about an hour away from me. It turned out he was on vacation until Monday of this week, and so I left a message, and wondered if that conversation would ever occur. Tuesday, I called

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1057762333186247982003-07-09T07:42:00.000-07:002003-07-09T10:54:20.800-07:00

Lately, I’ve been thinking of a book I read long ago, William Goldman’s Adventures in the Screen Trade. There was a moment in the book where Goldman lamented the idea that that the modern movie star no longer wants to play characters with flaws. The image gets tied up with decisions onscreen. The actor doesn’t want to be associated with bad behavior. Therefore he can’t play a character who

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1057674778595764272003-07-08T07:29:00.000-07:002003-07-08T07:32:58.543-07:00

The story of the cat continues. She came home from surgery a week ago last Monday, weak from the procedure, unable to jump on to the bed, spending a lot of time in the walk-in closet. On Wednesday, I called the animal communicator, and asked her to talk to my cat to see what was going on. “She’s depressed,” the animal communicator said. “She had a hard time at the hospital. They talked about

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1057587996039515062003-07-07T07:23:00.000-07:002003-07-07T07:36:41.990-07:00

“Paint Your Wagon” is one of those projects that looks good on paper. A Lerner and Loewe musical (“My Fair Lady, “Camelot”), set in a fascinating time (the California Gold Rush), directed by Josh Logan (“Camelot,” "South Pacific"), with the charismatic cast of Lee Marvin, Clint Eastwood, and Jean Seberg. How could you go wrong? It even starts well. “Paint Your Wagon” is one of those great

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1057338027310388122003-07-04T09:48:00.000-07:002003-07-04T10:00:27.356-07:00

On this Fourth of July morning, I thought, "I don't have to write. It's a holiday." And then I thought more about what holidays mean to me. I don't generally embrace holidays. I don't make plans that would involve being out in the festive hubbub, baking turkeys or caroling or wearing a hat to church or finding out the best place where the fireworks would be. I'm not the person who does

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1057241181955840082003-07-03T07:04:00.000-07:002003-07-03T07:10:02.136-07:00

Some quick notes on things, as my evenings have become sitting cat meditation, meaning I sit and pet my cat while she sleeps. We often do this while a baseball game plays on TV, so I can watch the game while I sit, but I can’t do much else and I don’t really want to. The first thought actually has to do with baseball. I’m very much enjoying ESPN’s Wednesday baseball broadcast, “Living Legends,

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1057155310367506242003-07-02T07:11:00.000-07:002003-07-02T07:19:36.050-07:00

This summer, I continue to watch films from the late 60’s. It’s one of my current projects, to see films from 1967 to 1969, a time when I watched a lot of movies when I was a girl, and my mother thought I was smart enough to see everything. I’m finding the majority of the movies through Netflix, an online DVD rental service that has won over my heart through its customer service and its

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1057093800456194902003-07-01T14:10:00.000-07:002003-07-01T14:10:00.500-07:00

Perhaps (hopefully) the last post on my cat for a while, as I brought her home this evening after work. I picked her up at the hospital, silently cursing all the dog owners there. It wasn’t really their fault. It’s just that the clinic is much nicer that way with its separate rooms for the dogs and the cats, although I still wish the parrot lived over on the dogs’ side. Here at the hospital

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1056986400295587452003-06-30T08:19:00.000-07:002003-06-30T08:20:00.310-07:00

Wednesday evening, I took my cat to the clinic. The vet wanted her to stay overnight before the surgery. He wanted her properly hydrated. He hoped, he said with a grimace in his voice, that perhaps she would be calmer before the procedure this way. The receptionist looked surprised when she saw us. There were a few clients before us, and then she asked me what I wanted. “Pumpkin is

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1056726117516450392003-06-27T07:58:00.000-07:002003-06-27T08:06:51.123-07:00

The day after I saw the specialist, I called the vet. I expected to talk to the vet I call Sonia Braga, as I knew she had been the one to talk to the specialist about his findings. But Sonia wouldn’t be in the office until Tuesday. So, instead of I talked to the one I’ve named Jimmy Stewart. I told him of my decision, that I couldn’t afford the procedure the specialist had recommended, and

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1056638394699896092003-06-26T07:37:00.000-07:002003-06-26T11:32:42.806-07:00

When I told the specialist that I couldn’t afford the surgery he recommended, I prepared to let my cat die. There would be, I decided, no more Big Cat, no more one up/one down, my way or the highway, you do as I say because I’m head honcho posturing. During this time, I would let my cat do what she wanted. So, the next morning, when she threw up right after I tried to pill her, I called the

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1056551612166912612003-06-25T07:29:00.000-07:002003-06-25T07:35:00.563-07:00

When I took my cat home from the hospital, I imagined how I wanted the rest of the night to be. We would spend a quiet evening by ourselves. I would spend the time appreciating my cat. But when we arrived at our building, I realized I couldn’t find the key to my apartment anywhere. I thought of a coat and my habit of sticking my key in a pocket. I figured I had probably left it at work. I

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1056464796925020862003-06-24T07:22:00.000-07:002003-06-24T07:26:36.906-07:00

The specialist called me late that afternoon. My cat had been misdiagnosed. The ultrasound showed an obstruction of the bile ducts. She needed surgery right away. He could schedule it for tomorrow. It was expensive, $3,500 to $5,000, and there were no guarantees. If it turned out to be a gallstone problem, that was curable. But it could turn out to be tumors or something else, and that was

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1056379909584620342003-06-23T07:46:00.001-07:002003-06-23T15:36:58.016-07:00

Friday morning, I took my cat to see the specialist. My cat hadn’t been in a car for a long time. As we drove, I reminded her of when she was young, and we lived in a house driving distance away from the vet. I talked about those early visits—mostly taking her in after fights. My cat at that time went outdoors and although she had been a stray, she seemed to have lost all her street smarts and

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1056118059131476052003-06-20T07:05:00.000-07:002003-06-20T07:07:39.196-07:00

Yesterday morning when my cat threw up, I felt as if someone had taken the top off a jigsaw puzzle box, threw the contents up in the air, and the pieces all went flying, and now I was down on the floor, trying to collect them all and figure out what went where. Do I drop everything and take her to the specialist? Do I wait to see what happens with her appointment with the holistic vet on

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1056032368709048702003-06-19T07:10:00.000-07:002003-06-19T07:19:28.690-07:00

Yesterday, I took a freelance transcription job with a fast deadline, and so it's cut into the time where I normally write, but I wanted to jot a few things down for today. An update on the cat: She has been eating some and has some appetite. Things looked well until this morning when as I tried to pill her, she threw up, and is now hiding under the bed. I'm not sure now what I will do. She

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1055945503670302002003-06-18T07:10:00.000-07:002003-06-18T07:16:59.760-07:00

I had my epiphany moment with “Camelot” a year and a half ago. It was on TV then, and I settled down to watch it, full in the knowledge that I could be turning it off at any time. After all, I hadn’t seen the movie since childhood. Who knew what I would think of it now? And musicals were always a dicey proposition, I thought. I’m a big fan of ones that work, but it’s a delicate medium, a

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1055858232695377772003-06-17T06:54:00.000-07:002003-06-17T07:02:36.093-07:00

Yesterday I talked to the parrot. No one else seemed to want to have much to do with me. There is a person, I told myself, in the dog room, talking about his pet. I can see the end of the leash, I thought, but I can’t see the dog. And now they’re handing the man pills, and the doctor who reminds me of Jimmy Stewart is telling him that his dog is much better, and that’s when he caught my eye

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-1055772855621440762003-06-16T07:12:00.000-07:002003-06-16T09:13:22.533-07:00

In the ongoing process of trying to nurse my cat back to health, I’ve landed squarely into a situation that I call the Big Cat Syndrome. My cat and I have played this game before. It went something like this: “Feel free to sleep against the pillows and the bedrest. But when it comes time to watch TV, I’m going to want to sit there, and you will need to move, because I’m the big cat around

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2004218382003-06-13T07:10:00.000-07:002003-06-16T10:34:37.523-07:00

More on the subject of my preoccupation: the care and feeding of my cat. It’s like much of life—once you think you have a handle on it, you might as well wave a white flag, because that handle will disappear seemingly before you know it. The last two days, I took comfort in the fact that my cat would eat Dead Cat tuna, if nothing else. So, this morning, I woke up with a tight deadline and a

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2004171502003-06-12T08:00:00.000-07:002003-06-12T08:06:11.000-07:00

Right now, two vets currently look after my cat. They’re very different in nature. One is older and male and reminds me of Jimmy Stewart, if Jimmy Stewart was socially clueless. The other is Latina, probably my age, and looks a bit like Sonia Braga. I don’t think it’s common at my vet that a cat has two doctors taking care of her. When I took my cat in two weeks ago for a check-up that began

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2004122642003-06-11T08:00:00.000-07:002003-06-11T12:41:40.000-07:00

First, a confession. I have always loved Glen Campbell ballads—“Wichita Lineman,” “By the Time I Get to Phoenix,” and (especially) “Galveston.” “(Like A) Rhinestone Cowboy” never did it for me, but I always did enjoy “True Grit,” and that remains true to this day. While watching this film on DVD, I found myself rewinding the opening sequence three times before I was willing to fully let go of

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2004074962003-06-10T07:53:00.000-07:002003-06-10T09:18:30.000-07:00

When I saw this movie as a child, I was almost kicked out of the theatre. It was before the movie began, waiting in my aisle seat with my feet up on the seat in front of me. I was trying to look cool, as I imagined this film to be very sophisticated. It had a buzz to it, a surprise ending that no one revealed. It was something you had to see. On this particular day, the usher told me to take

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2004027962003-06-09T07:51:00.000-07:002003-06-10T07:52:19.000-07:00

If you haven’t read the other pieces I’ve written on my cat, here’s the situation, perhaps in brief. I tend to go on extended jags about my cat lately to anyone who’s unfortunate enough to ask me how I’m doing. I launch into cat stories that are often boring and repetitious and long and may mean something only to me. But here it is all laid out, because I seem to need to say it again. I have

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2003937302003-06-06T07:17:00.000-07:002003-06-06T07:21:23.000-07:00

As we read the title screen, all is silent except for what sounds like a bunch of noisy tin cans. Then a man, Spiros Antapolous, appears wearing a funny hat. He is rolling a hoop and hitting it. Then he stops to play hopscotch. You can hear the crickets in the background. The story switches over to John Singer waking up in the middle of the night. He goes to the other bedroom where the bed

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2003889642003-06-05T08:05:00.000-07:002003-06-05T08:11:05.000-07:00

The changes came quickly in the last week. My cat stopped sleeping on the bed. She moved slowly. She continued to throw up. She lost all interest in food. So, I made another appointment for the vet, a late afternoon one for x-rays, the next step in this search for what’s wrong with my cat, since she just had her blood panels taken in March. That afternoon, she succeeded in escaping from

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2003842032003-06-04T08:14:00.000-07:002003-06-04T12:23:01.000-07:00

The film begins with a lie. The building manager asks Rosemary’s husband, Guy Woodhouse, “Are you a doctor?” Guy says yes. Then Rosemary laughs and says, “He’s an actor.” The building manager says, “We’re very popular with actors.” It’s a movie of audacious impersonators, of bald-faced liars, of intrusiveness frosted over with a seeming willingness to do anything at all for you. It’s a story

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2003791782003-06-03T07:57:00.000-07:002003-06-03T09:44:54.000-07:00

I rented “From the Earth to the Moon” from Netflix in order to gain a sense of history. I grew up during our NASA missions to the moon, but came out of it with a vague sense of what actually happened. I remembered Neil Armstrong. I remembered that some astronauts had died. I wanted the complete story. It felt important to better understand this time. “From the Earth to the Moon” is divided

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2003734912003-06-02T07:55:00.000-07:002003-06-02T15:04:42.000-07:00

It had been a subject of some scrutiny for a while now. But on Memorial Day, the conversation heated up again. I had gone to see “Down with Love” with friends. It seemed to me that Renee Zellwegger’s face has grown increasingly weird. I first began noticing it in “Chicago” and then in her public appearances post-“Chicago,” and it seems in full bloom in this movie. It’s a stylized film, one

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2003629742003-05-30T07:54:00.000-07:002003-05-30T07:54:55.820-07:00

Wednesday morning, I called up my vet. I don’t know if the receptionist there knows my name. She might just know me as Pumpkin’s mom. On that day, I told her my cat had been throwing up for the past five nights, even after combing her every other day and giving her the hairball medicine, even after she had stopped showing much interest in her food. I asked if I should just come in after work

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2003571542003-05-29T07:29:00.000-07:002003-05-29T07:33:54.000-07:00

In my perpetual quest to read Grafton A through Q, here’s my take on H, I, and J. In H is for Homicide, I enjoyed the character of Kinsey Millhone more than ever, and perhaps that was because throughout most of the book she played someone else. California Fidelity asked Millhone to check up on a suspected phony insurance claim filed by Bibianna Diaz, a young woman who Millhone as Hannah Moore

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2003526312003-05-28T07:36:00.000-07:002003-05-28T07:39:03.000-07:00

The other day, I decided that I wanted to live more in the present and enjoy the beauty of life as it happened. Then I went to the library and picked up some more Sue Grafton books. The woman behind the checkout counter looked up from the magazine she was reading when I approached her with my books. There was a photograph of a rabbit—one of those exotic, shaggy ones—and she pointed to the

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2003445132003-05-27T07:35:00.000-07:002003-05-27T11:15:44.000-07:00

To me, this film felt as clunky as its title. I would like to see the reviews of this movie when it was released to see how it was viewed in its time. Was it seen as daring then? Were people surprised when Katherine Hepburn won Best Actress for this role? Was it viewed as a sentimental choice? Who were the other nominees in this category that year? Was Spencer Tracy still alive when she won

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2003413842003-05-26T08:47:00.000-07:002003-05-26T08:50:40.000-07:00

In this month’s Vogue, there’s an item about a Manhattan boutique, Some Odd Rubies, run by Summer Phoenix and Odessa Whitmore. The article mentions that Summer has a brother, Joaquin. To my surprise, they didn’t mention River. It was almost as if he never existed, which surprised me, as I think of him often. River Phoenix had that kind of energy that I associate with people who die young.

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2003325272003-05-23T08:12:00.000-07:002003-05-23T08:16:43.000-07:00

The opening credits are accompanied by a series of photographs of Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Parker as babies, children, and young adults. The only sound is a clicking noise as a new photo appears on the screen. The actors’ names are shown in white, then turn bloody red before disappearing all together. We then read brief synopses of their lives, to capture now in words what we’ve absorbed from

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2003270792003-05-22T07:25:00.000-07:002003-05-22T07:27:14.000-07:00

The other day, I had a conversation with one of my coworkers about Barbra Streisand. It was one of those times of the workday where I crave a good walk, a strong cup of coffee, and a lively conversation. That afternoon, I thought I would tackle those needs in reverse order. So, I mentioned to my coworker that I just finished watching “Funny Girl.” “Movies were so different then,” I said. “

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2003222612003-05-21T08:34:00.000-07:002003-05-21T08:34:35.000-07:00

The film opens with a title on a static screen. “Overture,” it says, and then the orchestra plays a medley of the songs. It immediately charmed me, a movie that dared to stand still and play music. I remembered seeing it as a child, and feeling like I was on the brink of seeing something big. Then the story began. At the beginning, I wondered. The opening numbers seemed a bit amateurish to

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2003165792003-05-20T07:28:00.000-07:002003-05-20T07:28:57.576-07:00

A friend recommended Netflix to me. He was sure I’d love it. Twenty dollars a month, he told me. You can keep the DVDs as long as you want. They give you envelopes with prepaid postage to return the disks, he said. And he told me that the turnaround time was basically two days—one for it to reach their office in San Jose and another for them to mail you the next DVD on your queue. I was

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2003112302003-05-19T07:59:00.000-07:002003-05-19T11:05:56.000-07:00

I’m back from my road trip. It was shorter than I had originally envisioned, as in the weeks before I was set to take off, I had to schedule several acupuncturist visits and a few sessions of physical therapy. Then when I took my car in to get smogged and tuned up, by the time everything was done, I paid close to $600 for all the work. Oh, the glories of owning an older car, I thought, and

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2002671062003-05-09T08:06:00.000-07:002003-05-09T08:06:52.326-07:00

A Crooked Tune will be on vacation until May 19th. Take care, everyone!!

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2002669772003-05-09T07:48:00.000-07:002003-05-17T00:00:33.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, a friend gave me a DVD player. “Perfect timing,” I thought, as I had a project in mind that I wanted to do. I had lately become intrigued again with the movies from the late 60’s—everything from musicals to westerns to historical dramas to horror and science fiction and more. In my mind, it’s a really interesting, endearing, exciting time for movies, and I was lucky to see

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2002616712003-05-08T08:35:00.000-07:002003-05-09T07:43:45.000-07:00

Yesterday morning I faced a double bill that I didn’t to attend—a physical therapy session and a class on neck care. I knew both of these things would be good for me, but that didn’t mean I wanted to go. Physical therapy felt complicated. The shallow reason why I wished I cancelled was because I hadn’t done all the exercises given to me, and I will probably be forever that type of a person who

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2002492372003-05-06T07:15:00.000-07:002003-05-06T07:19:11.000-07:00

Last August, I bought a copy of this book for a friend to thank her for taking care of my cat while I was on vacation. It took her about a half a year to read it, and then she lent it to me. The book sat in a pile of books for a few months, nagging at me, while I told it to shush. I needed to read some library books first. Then one Monday, I saw that PBS was telecasting the Seabiscuit story

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2002440782003-05-05T07:50:00.000-07:002003-05-05T07:56:39.000-07:00

This weekend, I ended up watching more of the A’s/Yankees series than I thought I would. I saw all of the game on Friday, thanks to a one-hour rain delay in New York that let me arrive home from work and rustle up some dinner and still catch the opening pitch. Saturday, I caught the first two hours and then heard the end when we decided to drive instead of take BART. Sunday, I watched the

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2002424982003-05-04T22:48:00.000-07:002003-05-04T22:48:09.066-07:00

This weekend, I experienced something completely new. Although I’ve loved horses for most of my life, I’ve never been interested in following, much less watching, the Kentucky Derby. But this year, I just finished Laura Hillenbrand’s Seabiscuit: An American Legend, a book that transported me (more on this later). I remembered a gang of friends, most of whom I hadn’t seen for years, who hailed

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2002325652003-05-02T07:42:00.000-07:002003-05-02T07:44:50.000-07:00

Yesterday, I received powells.com’s electronic newsletter, and was happy to read that Dave Weich had interviewed Roger Angell, one of my favorite writers. Apparently, a new compilation of his essays, Game Time, has just been published. In this interview, Angell talks about his career, the game, and living in general. I discovered Roger Angell when I first became a baseball fan, and since then

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2002271602003-05-01T07:34:00.000-07:002003-05-01T07:42:01.000-07:00

In my ongoing quest to read Sue Grafton’s Kinsey Millhone’s series A-Q, here’s my take on F and G. F is for Fugitive was my least favorite book in the series so far. The characters in the case were the most uninteresting to me. Kinsey is hired by Royce Fowler, the father of a man who escaped from prison shortly after being convicted on a murder charge. Sixteen years later, Bailey was

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2002218292003-04-30T07:52:00.000-07:002003-04-30T14:59:36.000-07:00

Yesterday morning, I started physical therapy. I’ve had this pain in my neck that’s stretched down to my shoulders and occasionally into my hand. It’s woken me up in the middle of the night. It’s caused me to leave work early. It’s made me irritable and anxious. I don’t like this pain. So, I put arnicha on it, which helped. I saw my acupuncturist and she put hot cups on my back. The next

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2002143272003-04-28T22:52:00.000-07:002003-04-29T10:45:50.000-07:00

On Saturday, I danced. It felt that Biblical to me, like something I had forgotten I needed to do until I wound up at this birthday party on time, which meant wretchedly early. So, I sat at a table with my friends watching the drummer play solo, showing off his stuff before the band officially began to play. “What’s he doing?” a friend asked. “Tuning his instrument?” We made bets about the

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2002100392003-04-28T07:13:00.000-07:002003-04-28T07:27:24.000-07:00

The last time I went to the library, I wandered over to the Young Adult section and checked out three titles by Lois Duncan—Killing Mr. Griffin, The Twisted Window, and Don’t Look Behind You. Lois Duncan was my favorite writer when I was young. I wanted to read her again and see what I now thought. In each of these books, the young woman who is the main character makes crucial errors in

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2001986222003-04-25T07:52:00.000-07:002003-04-25T07:58:46.000-07:00

In the past two weeks, I’ve rented the first two seasons of this series from the fabulous independent video store near my home ($7.50 for the entire season, and I got to keep the tapes for five days). It was an enormous time commitment—each season was five tapes, and the majority of the tapes ran over three hours long. For these 14 days, I felt wedded to a show that chronicled a culture that

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2001934182003-04-24T07:54:00.000-07:002003-04-24T12:54:02.000-07:00

In the Oakland Tribune last Tuesday, Carl Steward wrote about the Carl Everett incident where a fan in the bleachers hit the rightfielder in the head with a cellphone. Steward wrote that 80% of the people who wrote to him about this incident felt that drinking should be banned from these sporting events. We all know that won’t happen. Baseball is a business, one that makes too much money off

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2001879032003-04-23T08:00:00.000-07:002003-04-23T15:34:13.000-07:00

Yesterday, I read a great feature in the New York Times on drug use in baseball. The article detailed the contradictions inherent in this bandaid solution to this real problem. Players complain that their union isn’t protecting them by not providing mandatory testing. The union says their policy reflects the wishes of the majority of the players. But if players speak out, as the White Sox

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2001821172003-04-22T07:49:00.000-07:002003-04-22T08:00:44.000-07:00

Last week, I read Live from New York, an oral history of “Saturday Night Live.” In the book, people told Gilda Radner stories. Laraine Newman talked about how Gilda would come visit and Laraine would be strung out on heroin while Gilda ate tubs of ice cream. Or late at night alone, Gilda would order take out, enough food for six, and when the delivery person would arrive with the food, she’d

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2001763382003-04-21T07:46:00.000-07:002003-04-21T16:08:49.000-07:00

This weekend, I had the opportunity to watch the latter half of the Saturday A’s game and all of their game Sunday on ESPN. Saturday, the Carl Everett incident stuck in my mind more than anything. Ever since I fell from the grace that I knew as diehard fandom, I’m very interested in fan behavior at games, especially since I never go any more. I’m in my Zen fandom phase, when I only catch

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2001665212003-04-18T08:26:00.000-07:002003-04-18T15:38:26.000-07:00

I read this book, an oral history of Saturday Night Live, written—is that the correct word here?—by Tom Shales and James Andrew Miller, and my fingers itched. As someone who transcribes for a living, I would have loved to have typed those interview tapes. I found the book fascinating, even though I haven’t watched the show in ages. I first watched the show in its early years, when I was still

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2001613782003-04-17T07:49:00.000-07:002003-04-17T07:55:26.000-07:00

At the beginning of the year, my boss handed out a memo. She asked that we let her know about our vacation plans as soon as possible, because this year she didn’t want people to go away at the same time. It would be first come, first served for vacation time. So, people started claiming their time, and I wondered what I wanted to do. I truly didn't know until a project started gnawing at me,

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2001559232003-04-16T07:45:00.000-07:002003-04-16T07:53:09.000-07:00

Baseball continues to surprise me. In the first week of this season, I found myself in front of the television, locked into the game. It wasn't something I planned. It happened by chance--a cancelled appointment, a shortened work day, a touch of the flu, and I would end up sprawled out on the bed with the TV blaring, feeling tremendously engaged in this new season. In the second week, my life

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2001501532003-04-15T07:27:00.000-07:002003-04-15T07:33:42.000-07:00

It seemed time to write about writing again. I’ve been writing this blog for seven months now. I think it’s one of the best things I’ve ever done for myself as a writer. It’s given me the confidence to think that I could sit down and given an hour or so, could create a piece that would satisfy me in some way. It’s shown me that I can think up five different pieces a week. Often it’s

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2001445662003-04-14T07:45:00.000-07:002003-04-14T07:51:28.000-07:00

This weekend, I went with friends to see West Side Story at the local high school. It was one of my favorite movies growing up—I wanted to see the Jets dance in the streets once again. I bought the tickets in advance at the local box office. When I ordered the tickets, the young woman behind the counter told me that she was in the play. “I’m Anybodys,” she said proudly. I shook my head,

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2001326702003-04-11T07:39:00.000-07:002003-04-11T07:45:36.000-07:00

Every now and again, I pick up a book that I once loved to revisit it and see what I now think. So, the other day when I was in the library, I wandered over to Anne Tyler’s books, and I picked up a book I read countless times years ago, Morgan’s Passing. Morgan Gower is a man who likes to take on different personas. He has a whole wardrobe of costumes, particularly hats—pith helmets and top

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2001266692003-04-10T07:40:00.000-07:002003-04-10T07:45:44.000-07:00

I received this article in the mail yesterday. It was the cover story of the New York Times magazine two Sundays ago. My father knew that I would want to read it and sent it to me. First, I thought the timing was interesting. Art Howe would make his managerial debut with the Mets the day after this article appeared. He is presented in a distinctly unflattering light in this piece written by

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2001206772003-04-09T07:47:00.000-07:002003-04-09T07:58:53.000-07:00

There is one gift I count on each Christmas. Since 1995, my father has given me a subscription to the New Yorker as one of my presents. Every year, he asks me if I still want the magazine, and I always say yes. It’s not that I universally like the magazine. In fact, each issue is a mixed bag for me. Sometimes, there’s many articles I want to read, other times, I look down the index, and not

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2001147452003-04-08T07:24:00.000-07:002003-04-09T07:49:27.000-07:00

So, I’m in this midst of this reading project, which will mostly likely carry me through summer, if not through fall. I’m reading Sue Grafton’s Kinsey Millhone’s series starting from A to Q, the current endpoint. Recently I wrote about A through C. This past week, I read D and E. Sometimes I wonder why I read mysteries, as I most often don’t give a damn about the plot twists and turns, and

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2001085872003-04-07T07:14:00.000-07:002003-04-08T07:20:08.000-07:00

This past Thursday, I went to see my acupuncturist, and she gave me the results of a test that we had sent to the lab a few weeks before. I had my hormone levels tested, and it turns out that my progesterone level was off the chart low. At this point, let me say that I had hesitations about writing this piece. Basically I didn’t want to do it. Hormone levels feel private. I worried that I

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2000970422003-04-04T07:34:00.000-08:002003-04-04T07:34:12.873-08:00

This book jumped up and down on the new bookshelf, squawking at me until I relented and added it to my pile of books. I checked it out and carried it home with the others, and then I promptly ignored it. A couple weeks passed and I turned in my books, both read and unread, and I thought that was the end of it. But then the other day, I saw a corner of it peeking out at me from underneath a

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2000894882003-04-02T22:22:00.000-08:002003-04-02T22:28:29.000-08:00

[NOTE: The structure of the blog seems to have changed with the start of the baseball season. Let me tell you that I had no intention of writing about the game ever again. I thought I was truly done, but now it seems I'm not. I still plan to write five posts a week, and perhaps more, but as has happened this week, they may not just appear once a morning during the week. There may actually

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2000839162003-04-01T22:49:00.000-08:002003-04-02T10:27:20.000-08:00

I heard about the story on Monday, and then I read about it again today in the Oakland Tribune, whose story had a local detail that made it mean more to me. Here's the story, which I heard told on ESPN2 while watching the Yankees/Blue Jays game. Apparently the Blue Jays ran a promotional ad that showed a picture of a Yankees cap with bird dung all over it. The ad read: Boo Matsui. The words

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2000797732003-04-01T09:34:00.000-08:002003-04-01T12:24:09.000-08:00

Some New York Times related thoughts: 1) I have yet to read the article--my father is sending it to me, but it was interesting timing to run a profile on Billy Beane the same week that Art Howe made his NY debut. During Howe's tenure at Oakland, Beane made it clear that Art was not the kind of guy that he would want as manager. (And maybe no one is. Billy certainly likes to call the shots

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2000790872003-04-01T07:43:00.000-08:002003-04-01T07:54:34.000-08:00

Back in the day, 1994 to be exact, when I loved baseball and wrote songs, I wrote a song about Opening Day. Most of the words escape my memory now. The lyrics, I believe, are in a box of music memorabilia stored in the dark recesses of my closet that is on my to do list to organize someday in the (hopefully near) future. But it opened in this way: “We weren’t sure if we’d truly get in, They

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2000739032003-03-31T09:59:00.000-08:002003-03-31T14:03:49.000-08:00

My friend just sent me the email she read to me. Here is the text of what I described in an earlier post today. "Beloved Friends, Last weekend 600 people gathered on the Big Island of Hawaii to listen to the messages of peace from several of the Psychic Children we have been working with over the past year. I believe it was one of the most profound experiences any of us have ever had, and the

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3772720.post-2000719092003-03-31T02:41:00.000-08:002003-03-31T08:08:04.000-08:00

Last Wednesday night, I was over at a friend's house. We were just getting ready to go out for a belated birthday dinner for another fabulous friend. But before we left, she told she had something she wanted to read to me. The first few sentences she read of this email put me off. This idea was thought of by the Psychic Children, an organization of apparently spiritually gifted youth. It

Wendyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11765245949824376939noreply@blogger.com