The Husband says I am predictable with my choice of music, which is why he made a bet with me yesterday afternoon.

"What do you think I'm going to play?" asked I, as I headed towards the Bose player with a CD in my hand.

"Da da dah da da dah....." The Husband sang the first notes of "Baroque and Blue" performed by Claude Bolling and Jean-Pierre Rampal.  Our small music collection consists of CDs of our favorite albums of yore, and I do like to play one of two Bolling CDs on a sunny afternoon.

"Want to bet ten bucks on that?" The Husband doesn't bet unless it's a sure thing that he is right.

"Sure." he said to my surprise. But, then, according to him, I am predictable.

"OK!"

I inserted the CD. Santana! Ha!

"You owe me $10!"

"What?"

"You lost the bet."

The Husband groaned.

"I'll put it on your tab."

It isn't often that I catch the Husband off guard to get him …

Miao, hello. Missus Lady says some of you have been asking about me, where am I? how am I? and all that.

I'm doing well, thank you for asking. Purrrrrrrrrr.  It's been too windy, too wet, or too cold to be outdoors, so I've been lazing on top of my carpeted perch.  Eating. Sleeping. Scratching. Licking myself clean. Repeat. Not always in that order. Miao.

Last week, my humans came home with new kind of dried food for me. I heard them say it contains probiotics, whatever that means. It's mighty tasty, for now. The old dried food was making me vomit. The food didn't used to do that. Someone must've messed with the recipe. Anyway, I like this new dried food, along with the new raw food that Hero Man says "Roar" whenever he serves it up.  Miao.

This morning while waiting for Missus Lady to stop playing on the sewing machine, I found her doodle of me and someone called Santa Lucia. I asked her to please do her magic so I can put it on my post. Just like…

In Ilocano (the parents' primary language), balasang is the word for a young woman who has reached the marriageable age, which in my parents' day would've been 15 or 16. A balasang presents herself to the world well-groomed, well-dressed, and well-mannered. Graceful and radiant, with no sassy mouth nor a defiant bone in her. Alas, that was not me. 

Mama did her best to polish me up with the stylish, stiff, and sophisticated outfits that she bought for me. I felt uncomfortable, awkward, and fake in them, preferring, and still do, the bohemian style.

In my early 20s, when I worked in the San Francisco Financial District as a clerk typist, I wore a Mama outfit when everything else was in the laundry hamper. To break the monotony of the outfit, I'd wear something silly with it. Once I wore wool knee-high socks and clogs with a pink polyester dress that had an attached two-toned bolero-type jacket.  I looked as atrocious as it sounds. Still, in the early evening, while wa…

Back in November I opened a box. Lo and behold, my favorite dinosaurs of old smiled up at me. In this house full of stuff, they chose to hang out in the guest bathroom. I'm glad to see them again.

I'm hanging out at Say Cheese! Tuesday, hosted by joyful Jeanna of Ched Curtain. Check out all the cheesy stuff here.

I came across a fun meme today. It's called Sunday Stealing hosted by Bev Sykes of Funny the World. Every Sunday she posts a bunch of thoughtful questions that she has "stolen" from elsewhere for participants to answer. Who doesn't like to answer questions, especially about themselves? Intrigued? Check out Sunday Stealing here, after checking my answers, of course. 

1. The strangest place you've ever been.
The strangest place I've ever been is a thinker. Shall I consider a place itself as being strange or a place where I encountered something weird? Better yet, the unfamiliar concept of being in a certain place, and it still feels unfamiliar (thankfully) after I leave that location?

My answer. . .Thummm tha tha tha Thaaaaaaaa! . . .the hospital last year. From the moment I entered that hospital near dawn to the moment I stepped out the door the following afternoon was surreal. My gosh!

2. Unusual food combinations you enjoy.
Pancakes, syrup, and several dabs…

I got so pissed this morning, I could spit.

Would you say that I'm saying this literally or figuratively?

FYI: I did not, am not, nor will I spit about what got me furious.  Spitting I reserve for when I am sick (better out than in, right?) or for root hormone (some gardeners say that spit makes a good substitute). The Mama pretended to spit whenever she broke glass, followed by a plea to Mary, Jesus, and Joseph that they don't hold the broken glass as a point against her.

Too much TMI? Sorry.

I continue. The cause for my growling spew?

Let's simply say that my tolerability cap for political beliefs got blown off for a moment.  I allowed myself to care that I was disappointed about humanity and so became bummed. As you can see, not anymore.

The Husband and I took a drive to Freedom to purchase food for our precious, and spoiled, Molly the Cat. The 60-mile round trip drive, more or less, had us rolling by green hills and zigzagging through a canyon and among farm fields, …