Don't you just hate it when you can't find find what you want? And, you know it's where it ought to be. Back in April, I wanted to start reading Craig Ferguson's memoir, American on Purpose: The Improbable Adventures of an Unlikely Patriot .  ( Click on that link and it'll bring you to Amazon. Just saying. ) It was one of the books that the husband and I got for ourselves last Christmas. He finished it at the beginning of the year and placed it on my pile of books to read that I stacked on the recliner in the bedroom. Because I got tired of feeling bad that he had to move all the books onto the bed when he wanted to sit on the recliner to read, and then back again when he was done sitting, I thought I'd switch the books elsewhere. I did in February. I brought the pile into the office and wrote a blog post ( not an amazon.com link ) about what I was not reading.  I must have been still in a got-to-be organized mood because I stacked them neatly away somewhere. I

If you want to know what a woman will be like, look at her mother. That's what I overheard a friend say to the husband long ago.  He had said it with a goofy smile and a mix of pride, exasperation, and complacency. I had met his mother-in-law. If I believed in such a saying, I would still be running to get far away. If that saying is true, then one day I would be picking up leaves off the ground, as I gripe about the neighbors and their messy trees and growl at the the wind for carrying the leaves into my yard. I would also be sweeping the ground everyday, while the dust gathers even deeper inside the house. On the plus side, if I ended up looking like the mama, I would finally be svelte, which would go better with my petiteness. Sometimes I wonder if the husband looks at the mama and shudders because he thinks I may end up with some of her more crazy habits. Like mine aren't so crazy.

When I was a single gal many, many years ago, I lived in a funky one-bedroom apartment on the top floor, which was the third floor, on Walnut Street in San Francisco. Across the street was the Jewish Community Center, but that is and was neither here nor there. It's just a reference point, mostly for me. I liked, no, I loved my apartment. My solace. The one place that was mine. It was the place I looked forward to after a hard day's work. It was the place I holed up in during my bouts of unemployment. It was the place I began seriously writing. It was home. Sometimes I would let the phone ring and ring. Sue, when are you going to get an answering machine? Sometimes I would just unplug the phone. Hard knocking. Open the door. Sue, plug your phone back in. Sometimes I wouldn't answer the knocking at the door. Good habits continued onward into years later with the sharing of space, wherever it may be, with the husband. Today, that is the second and top floor of the mama's

Do I have a mind-easer for you?  It's the "Screamin' Bean" game by Simon Panrucker.  You may never look at beans the same way again. Here's the link . Thanks to Jessica Jones of How About Orange for bringing it to my attention.

"Oh, my God, my God, my God," I cried, just seconds after saying a bright "hello" to the black bird that landed on the neighbor's trellis, which was the day before yesterday. "What? What?" said the husband, looking up from washing dishes. The other neighbor's fat grey cat was walking along the top of the fence, firmly grasping a torn-up blackbird in its mouth. The black bird that I had seen was swooping at its head. The fat cat did not care. God, how I dislike that neighbor's cat. "I wish she'd keep that cat in the house where it belongs," growled the husband. "Or, just get rid of it." The husband dislikes the cat, too. He's constantly picking up its poop off the front lawn. The mama picks up its poop in the back yard, but unlike the husband, she throws the poop over the fence so the neighbor can pick up after her cat. The mama feels sorry for the cat.  The mama thinks the cat kills birds because the neighbor doesn&#