What is wrong with this picture!!!?!??!

Ok, I recognize this is a terribly blurry iPhone photo, but take a look at this.

What you may not be able to tell from that photo is the label on my avocado, purchased at my just down the street local supermarket, says “New Zealand Hass”.

What. The. Eff?

I live in CALIFORNIA for crissakes!

We make very fine Hass avocados RIGHT HERE. For the love of pete, people grow them in their backyards!

Why I gotta eat something grown halfway ’round the world?

I didn’t even think to look, I saw Hass avocados, and I grabbed two soft ones off the top. I naturally assumed that since these babies are so plentiful locally that California grown would be on the shelves.

But noooooo!

And I’ll tell you this…it’s a terrible avocado too. Stringy and bland.

I am ticked.

The only redeeming value for that grocery is that they also carry this:

It is to weep.

That may be the only item I procure from those folks from now on.

(Apologies to Avelino and Meredith, fellow ex-pats. I’m guessing DC grocers don’t sell the good stuff. I tip a loaded chip to you both!)

It is assault, I tell you!

I have this neighbor. Well, ok, I have a lot of neighbors, but there is one in particular…

Who, let’s be frank, has no taste.

How do I know this?

Well, the neighbor *loves* to crank up their stereo. Yup. They crank up their tinny sounding piece of eeeelectronic equipment loud enough so the whole neighborhood can take part in their musical selections.

A sociologist postulated that when male humans crank their stereos super loud, they are essentially marking their territory. They are forcing people to look at them and forcing all around to succumb to their musical selection.

If so, then my neighbor is a marking fool. He may as well pee on a mile radius.

This fellow (I assume it’s a guy, I’m not sure, actually) likes to boot up his sound gear at about 8:00am on Saturday and Sunday mornings. Just in time to wake me up from a nice weekend doze.

So, what sort of music does this fellow play? Do you have guesses?

Gangsta rap? Screetching metal? Blazing punk?


Sixties oldies? Big Band? Yanni?

No, but getting closer.

The music this fellow cranks out across my air space is smooth jazz. Not the good jazz, say Theonius Monk, Charlie Parker or Miles Davis.

Nope. The smooth kind. Plinky plunky. Music that reminds you of sitting in the waiting room at the dentist’s office.

Cranked up loud. Bouncing off the hills and homes in our fair town.

This has been going on for a while now. And the gent has recently taken to cranking his crazy beats around 5:30 in the evening, so that all coming home from work can enjoy his pee-tinged music.

Today, I cracked. Today, I lost it.

Today, he was playing the theme from “Moonlighting” by Al Jarreau at full volume.

Now look, I like Al. He has some fine songs. I don’t resent anyone enjoying the mellow ways of Mr. Jarreau. However…I don’t need this blared out into my world, uninvited.

The acoustics in my neighborhood are funny, but The Good Man and I are pretty sure it’s the landlord of the triplex one lot over, but we can’t be sure.

When I DO find the offender, I am going to deliver a collection of BB King recordings with a note that says, “GET SOME SOUL, mother eff word!”

An Open Letter to my Head Cold

Dear Insidious Little Pinche Bug that has chosen to infest my body:

So, I see you’ve decided to set up camp in my head.

My, how kind of you.

Oh, and you came with your usual matching set of baggage. Stuffed up nose. Sore throat. Plugged ears. And that hacking cough.

How fun it is when you give me a housewarming present as I hack up a yellow globule from my lungs. Such a lovely color!

And the body aches! Oh the body aches, I think those are my favorite! Knees, hips, shoulders, neck. Ow. Makes it almost impossible to sleep!

But you like that, eh? I mean, sleep only strengthens my immune system and THAT’s not what you are about, are you little evil cold germs?

Nope. You like to keep me up late at night, not sleeping, heck, not even breathing!

You know those two funny tubes they call nostrils? Yeah? Those are so I can breathe! When you plug BOTH of them, well, sure, I can result to mouth breathing.

But I sort of resemble a punch-drunk boxer when I do.

Makes my husband that much more enamored of me!

Not that I’m a shining star anyway, with my puffy face and red-rimmed nose.

What I most want to know, Dear Cold Bug, is how in the hell do you get my hair to look like that? I mean, ostensibly, your reach only extends to my upper respiratory system, and yet my hair responds to your brand of illness by standing up at odd angles?

I never knew you were a hairstylist too!

And now, my ears are throbbing. How fun! Since childhood I’ve been prone to ear infections.

But you probably knew that already, didn’t you?

I’ve tried to be nice to you, but nice doesn’t register in your little cell dividing nucleus, does it?

You know what I did this morning? I drank a biiiig glass of orange juice. Oh yes, a blast of vitamin C. As I drank, I imagined thousands of tiny “noooooo’s!” in chorus as many of your offspring were attacked by my newly strengthened white blood cells.

Then you know what I did when I was done with that glass?

I poured another.

I’m done with you.

No, seriously.

You can go now.

And by go, I don’t mean hop from me to The Good Man. He doesn’t need any of your shenanigans either!

*hee hee*

Goodness from the Shoebox blog:

“San Francisco drivers face a second day of tough commutes as crews perform emergency repairs on the Bay Bridge. Does this mean they can’t just hop a picturesque streetcar while enjoying a bowl of mouth-watering Rice-a-Roni and watching Karl Malden and Michael Douglas solve crimes? Could TV have lied to us?”