My optometrist took one look at my bloodshot eyes, and handed me a list of ‘approved’ artificial tear products. The one I have in the medicine cabinet is not on this list. Few stores carry these brands. Since I needed to check out birdhouses at Walmart (best prices, if you need one), the family member and I found ourselves there after supper.

Shortly after our arrival, someone knocked down a glass jar of pickles. A baby began crying, as one always does in this store. Well, I can understand.

We try to make our visits as brief as possible. On our way out, the two gentlemen in front of us reminded me of People of Walmart. One had on overalls and a t-shirt that was underneath them, but not tucked in right so he had this ballooning thing going on. On the back of his gray head, he had a little braid. Short but definitely braided. The other guy looked normal, but someone had to spend some time enabling this braiding.

And by the way, out of the eight ‘approved’ tears list, Walmart has six. That is truly amazing. (I got the GenTeal mild to moderate.)

Last year, I bought roasted mealworms as a treat for the various birds that show up at the feeder. I’m going to assume that they got out their miniature cameras and took shots to put on their blogs, complaining about how underwhelming crunchy mealworms can be. Word certainly got out.

After inspecting these treats, I decided they were the equivalent of pork rinds for humans - some of us like them, some not.

Before dinner last night, I ran out and got a container of real mealworms from the pet store. This was not a simple task. In the store fridge, there were three tiers. One held the small containers, then the mediums, then the large. On closer inspection, some little tubs held waxworms. Others had Giant Mealworms. These I bought.

Today, I’ve set up the usual soft suet, but in a clear plastic cup (directions say to put out mealworms in something they can’t climb). Knowing the birds can’t perch on the thin rim of this cup, I inserted a twig. Then I added a few worms.

The juncos came by first, noting the live food. But being juncos, they appeared cool about it, pecking at the bits of food I’d dropped earlier at the edges of the feeder. One pecked at the side of the cup where it could see a mealworm. It did this time and again, then gave up.

Then the male wren showed up. It went straight for the twig, and was upside down reaching for a worm when I realized I did not have the camera and tripod set up. While I got my gear out, Mrs. Wren appeared, attracted, no doubt, by the symphony pouring out of Mr. Wren from the roof’s edge where he was going nuts.

It will be an interesting afternoon.

For those who are tired of the usual tighty whities, underwear with the look of Japanese armor.

How could I not buy this book after reading this? Illustrations by Cornelia Hesse-Honegger, whose work can be seen here.

As ever, go here to get into the NYT if you’re not registered.

Every few years, I get up when it’s still dark, and head out to look for gift wrap and other supplies. Last year I slept in, probably the year before that too, but this morning the traffic sounds were too compelling. A family member was forced to go with me.

We didn’t make it out the door quite as early as I’d hoped, but this was a positive since it meant we wouldn’t be standing in lines. Surprisingly, the crowd at Target was sparse. The last time I did this, I waited in a cold but very congenial crowd who huddled close for warmth. Either the shoppers got in and out very fast, or people just weren’t interested this year. Lots of stuff left, so much that I didn’t have to go to the Hallmark store.

As we walked in, a little girl in the riding seat of a cart was pummeling her brother lying down in the otherwise empty cart. Mom either didn’t see or was not bothered by this. In the vastness of the grocery section of the remodeled Sunnyvale Target, a small child was whining ‘Cookie, COO-kie’ in ever more desperate tones to his oblivious parents. The rest of us wanted to go over and have a serious discussion with him about You Better Not Shout, I’m Telling You Why.

The frozen section extended as far as the eye could see. They have organic bourbon vanilla ice cream. I think they have every frozen food known to man. Boursin cheese, sweet Italian sausage. Fresh fruit and veggies.

I only needed some Hershey’s kisses for peanut butter blossom cookies. Did I want plain, caramel-filled, peppermint pieces, Irish coffee or mint? When we staggered out of there, we had four of five bags of stuff.

Stuff ordered Saturday is here already, as promised (thanks, Amazon!) The mailman just knocked with an armload of packages. I’ve begun a gingerbread house for the birds. No tree yet, we had a thousand errands over the weekend, but soon. Christmas music on. Cookie dough and candy to make.

I’m on page 14 of 85. It’s going to be a long afternoon, but I have snacks and if I want, hot cocoa. Blustery, wet and cold out there, and I’m not in line with deep coughers and snifflers (one right here at home). I won’t forget what level I parked the car on. No crappy, banal Christmas music.

And I might get 95% of it done today if all goes well.

I was out for orange juice, although it may be a bit late for the family member down with a cold. Heading to the parking lot, I encountered a fellow striding briskly toward the store. He made a kind of flapping sound with one foot, and when he got closer, I saw a white plastic bag stuck to his shoe.

He didn’t seem to notice. He didn’t look like the sort of person you’d want to go up to and say, ‘Uh, look, there’s a bag on your shoe. And everyone is looking because it’s making a lot of noise.’

So I came home with two large containers of juice and a pack of Ace bandages, the new kind that doesn’t need the sharp little grippers that I hated. I never know when one of my thumbs is going out of whack, and it’s good to be prepared. I’ve spent many weeks with sore thumbs, one from repetitive use, the other from multiple lacerations brought on by pruning of overgrown ivy and honeysuckle vines.

I’m just sure that I’m going to catch the cold as well, two weeks before Christmas.

For the past few frosty mornings, I’ve been outside filming birds. Those of us in the Bay Area are spoiled, and think it’s really cold when it’s in the low 40s. If you’re standing still for long periods of time, it can be.

Back in band days, the boys had white fingerless gloves, but these can’t be found when I’m in a hurry. I ordered these, and they just arrived. I’m surprised to see loose strands, but assume I can just snip those off, and there won’t be unraveling to the point that I’ll eventually just have wristlets.

Others have various solutions, most of them somewhat pricey. My favorite is the Wal-Mart version, which I might investigate when I can get up the gumption to go there again.

On Friday, I didn’t find much at the estate sale. The only things that caught my eye were the flags in pristine shape. When I held one up, someone behind me said they thought it was either the Australia or New Zealand flag. I put them back. Useful for props, but not at those prices.

Meanwhile, a family member became enamored of an ancient vise in the garage. He planned to return later with his tools to remove it.

Today was 50% off everything. Removing the vise took a lot longer than planned, so I looked around again. The flags were still there. An elderly gentleman was checking out all the smalls on the table next to me. When I asked a seller the price, he said $5 for each. That seemed very reasonable for very large fabric flags. The seller said one flag had to be New Zealand, what with the British flag in one corner and the stars. The old fellow spoke up, and said it was the Hawaii flag.

I admitted I didn’t know what the Hawaii flag looked like. In my mind I pictured something like the Hong Kong flag, a flower motif. I didn’t understand why it would feature the Union Jack. The gentleman looked around, found a packet of maps, and said, ‘Here’s a map of Hawaii, maybe there’s a flag on it.’

It wasn’t really that important, but he went to a lot of trouble spreading the map out. In his ongoing conversation with the seller, he said he knew the man who owned the house, and that he was 93 years old to the owner’s 95.

I paid for the flags, and went out to the car to wait. When the family member returned, he said none of the sellers bothered to help him, but finally a really old fellow came over and gave him assistance.

The flag in question turned out to be Australian. But thanks to a 93-year old, I now know that Britain once had political authority over Hawaii. I will probably think of him every time I pick up that flag.

I had forgotten the frenzy that this can be, although we didn’t manage to go till the last day, which is always ‘by the bag’ day. While a lot of the good stuff is gone, there is still a wealth of books there. We got two bags at $5 each. So what did I do? I headed for the cookbooks, which were severely depleted. My stash of mysteries is at an all-time low, and at Palo Alto, the fiction is outside, where I was overwhelmed by the choice. The rest of the cookbooks were mixed in with the fiction, which made no sense.

It is always amusing to watch how people stuff their bags. The younger family members refer to this as ‘bin packing’, and I always thought they were indulging in some sort of codespeak. One day, one of them explained that in all honesty, they learned how to pack enormous amounts of material into small spaces because of some video game they used to play.

For a couple of years, the skin on my hands seemed to be deteriorating. There were odd patches that got itchy, healed halfway and then got itchy again. Late last year, my doctor said it was eczema, gave me cortisone cream and told me to stop washing my hands so much. I quit washing dishes, letting family members step up to the sink instead.

Actually, it seemed like the simple act of handwashing had become irritating. Was it something in the water? And how could I stop washing so often? Like many, I use a keyboard all day long. I also do a fair amount of cooking, handling raw meat in the process. I eat at the keyboard. I go to the bathroom. I go outside and plant things in dirt. I knead dough.

Meanwhile, the cortisone cream would heal the patches for a bit. Then they came back elsewhere. I still had spots on the back of my hands when I woke up, raised bumps that were excrutiatingly itchy. They would disappear after an hour or so, only to return the next morning. I was getting patches of itchy skin between my fingers.

Our liquid soap of choice was Softsoap, bottles at all the sinks, including the kitchen. A dermatologist mentioned years ago that Dove was one of the mildest bar soaps. Shower soap was either Dove or Oil of Olay liquid.

Once I read this, out went the Softsoap. And guess what? The eczema is all gone from one hand, and the one patch left on the other is healing. No new patches. No itching.

Check your soaps, dishwashing liquids, toothpaste, acne cleansers, deodorant and hand lotions (yes, even that). You probably don’t want this on your skin and in your system.

I’m always on the lookout for bears with character - used ones at garage and estate sales. They sit fairly still for photos, and if they won’t lean the right way, a well-placed heavy rock does the trick. (I know what you’re thinking, but I am very kind to my bears.) Tape sticks to plush badly, but given a little time and persistence, my bears generally do what I ask.

This morning found me at a Palo Alto sale where a very large old bear slumped in a dark corner with a pink pig. Quite used and full of personality, it was, sadly, missing an eye. Rejected.

At the next sale, there were masses of new stuffed animals. Not a good sign. Prices were high, but when I picked up the lone large bear, a woman exclaimed, ‘Name a price! We’re open to anything!’

The fur was suitably old-looking, but it looked more like a dog with upright ears. ‘Oh, no,’ she said, ‘It’s definitely a bear.’ I poked around the face, looking for eyes in all that thick fur. ‘You can trim back the fur if you like, but it’s got eyes.’

So what did we settle on? ‘You can have it for a dollar.’ Sold.

Friday night at the produce stand next to Trader Joe’s, two of them were flanking a woman sitting on the curb. One was saying, ‘M’am, we know you’ve some substance, we just don’t know what it was yet.’ By the time I finished and was heading to the car, here comes another cop, a woman, moving briskly to help out. There were four police cars in the lot.

Saturday, we were slowed down by cops directing traffic around an accident in Palo Alto. Back home, we crept along near Sunnyvale-Saratoga, where chunks of tire debris littered the intersection. Off to the side, a large family with lots of little ones was talking to the cops.

Due to the heat, we mostly stayed home, but whenever we ventured out, there they were.

The idea was for an afternoon of art supply shopping and photo prop hunting. However, the sprinkles here turned into real rain in SF, and never let up. I had the wrong shoes for puddle-jumping, and decided props could wait another day. Mostly, I was hungry.

There are times when the family cook (me) rebels, and on such a blustery, wet day, wants pot roast and mashed potatoes, or some such comforting equivalent. We were, I thought, in the vicinity of Mel’s, good for quick, if somewhat mediocre, fulfillment.

The family member who was driving thought that either Mel’s had moved or had gone out of business. This seemed unlikely(there are three the last time I checked). But the rain became a torrential downpour, so we headed out of the city into an even worse storm, the kind known as a gullywasher where I come from. Visibility was frighteningly low in broad daylight.

But so much rain in May can only quiet the water-rationing types, if only for a little while.

Last week I bought this camera. I’ve had my eye on it since it came out last year, but the planets, moons, constellations and animal intestines had to be lined up just so.

Sunday, I got an email telling me that I needed to call and verify. It being Easter, there was no answer, even though I was assured there would be. Calls this morning were mostly spent on hold listening to old Enya tracks, and after the sixth or seventh try, there was actual human contact. After making sure the address was correct, the salesman and I had a little chat:

He: So, do you have any questions for me?
Me: Uh, no.
He: Well, I’ll have to tell you what most buyers of this camera ask. They want to know how long the battery lasts. I can tell you it has a very short life.
Me: Okay.
He: We’re running this deal where you can get one for ($xxx) or you can get our special promotion of two for ($xxx).
Me: I just want the camera, thanks.
He: This promotion runs out soon. You sure?
Me: Yes.
He: Tell you what, I’ll give you the two for the one price. How about that? Comes with its own charger.
Me (thinking): Uh, no, I don’t think so.
He: Okay, then. Now you know it only comes with the store warranty.
Me: How much is the manufacturer’s warranty?
He: ($xxx).
Me: Actually, I’m still looking at how much I spent just for the camera, so not now.
He: Okay, you play a tough game. I’ll throw in the manufacturer’s warranty plus the two batteries for ($xxx).
Me: No, this is something I need to think over.
He: Well if you are budget-minded, this is a great deal since you aren’t paying for any shipping.
Me (having never paid four figures for a camera before): No, I don’t think so.
He: You think I’m coming on too strong? I’m not, this is such a great deal.
Me: Just the camera, thanks.

Note to self: next time, back to Adorama or B&H.

In line to pay, I glanced over to where a clerk or buyer was squatting on the floor in front of some merchandise. Her jeans were riding dangerously low and in grave danger of leaving her body altogether.

Isn’t that a little uncomfortable? Are people actually designing garments to accommodate this problem?

The good news is, I got in an hour of walking. The bad news goes on and on. The actual walking was at a frustratingly leisurely pace, behind small children and sluggish couples. A family member was left behind in Returns purgatory with a waiting area full of dead-eyed customers.

The idea was to meet up in the kitchens area, but with only one cell between us, this was a lesson in futility. I wound up going back and forth many times, trying to breathe the increasingly stale air, having to ask directions several times. In a miracle of sorts, our paths crossed at last.

Even after a decent lunch and hot cocoa, I’ve fallen into a post IKEA torpor.

The woman’s cart was loaded with shelving and assorted boxed up furniture. She glanced at the sign on the elevator regarding simple DIY instructions and snorted. ‘Hah!’, she said. ‘Simple, eh? Is that why there’s always a piece or two leftover from everything I try to put together?’

One of the Christmas presents didn’t work out, so I got to pick out a much-needed new Rowenta instead. (Normally, I don’t go for electrical appliances as gifts, but this was a little different.) For some time, I’ve struggled with a substandard iron, but the need for a better one didn’t really surface till I started doing more food photos with various linens as props. I debated whether to go with Rowenta or not because so many people online seemed to be unhappy with their experience.

The linens I pick up at estate sales and such are usually folded. In some cases, they seem to have been folded and kept at the bottom of drawers for centuries. When linens with fold marks started showing up in food magazines, I rejoiced.

Now I have no excuse. When the Rowenta emits a blast of steam from its many vents, my hair is blown straight back. Just kidding.

I needed some for a few food shots. Costco had them by the pound, but upon closer inspection, they were somewhat sad looking, dried and definitely lacking the glisten I was hoping for. However, at Trader Joe’s, a small container was sufficient, with enough sparkle to lend some life to an otherwise bland shot.

Why did I not just buy some pomegranates and scoop out my own? I was busy polishing spoons and forks when I wasn’t trying out my new iron on the large quantities of old linens in my prop boxes.

While we were waiting for our crabs (2.99/lb, one day only), an energetic customer at the live fish tank was shouting his order to the non-English-speaking clerk, ‘Tilapia! One tilapia! TI-LAP-I-A! Come on, man. It’s got to be close to the same in all languages!’

The names were committed to memory: Fra’mani, Boccalone and the restaurant La Ciccia. A family member in Seattle had every intention of visiting Salumi, the cured meats establishment favorited by no less than Anthony Bourdain.

Alas, a snowstorm thwarted the Seattle effort. The family member flew out of Seattle in the nick of time, just before another storm.

The Fra’mani was found at the Berkeley Bowl. A quick trip to the Ferry Building netted a sampler box of Boccalone salamis. A reservation at the restaurant was not to be had, but it is in the plan for the new year.

The recipient was surprised and happy.

We ran into a few, notably the fellow this afternoon at Trader Joe’s. I needed eggs, waiting patiently as he examined them. Then he examined some more. Being a hefty guy, he took up all the space in front of the egg display. I waited and rolled my eyes. He picked up yet another carton. He made no move to put anything in his cart. I gave up and moved on.

At Whole Foods a few days ago, I needed an item that was blocked by a woman on the phone. She was deep in conversation and had a list that was a legal-size sheet of paper, writing on both sides. Apparently there was some question about the price of needed items. If this was truly a concern, she was in the wrong store. Still, she loudly expressed her views on this and that, here and there, politics, religion - the while blocking my way. I decided that she would have been more organized had she not spent the last 45 hours working on her hair.

A well-dressed, ultra-thin mom saying to her two very young kids, ‘Now that I know I can’t trust you anymore, I’m going to treat you like little babies and put you in the cart.’

Uh-oh. Do you suppose Santa is listening?

Let’s see, when did I stop shopping at Fry’s. Was it after the time I bought a $3000 laptop from the clerk who couldn’t make eye contact with me, and addressed replies to my questions to the male accompanying me? (Yes, yes, I know I should have gone elsewhere.) A little over a month after, the CD slot quit working, and someone at Fry’s told me not to bother them, they were not responsible after 30 days.

Maybe it was after when I went with a female friend to buy her Mac. That clerk treated us like a couple of homeless people with mental issues. (My friend now takes her business to the Apple store.)

The comments following the SFGate article make for interesting reading.

Hooray for online shopping.

After a really long day of shopping in Berkeley and SF, we actually planned to go to La Ciccia, having heard of their house-made salumi.

But that was not to be at 7:00 on a Saturday night when we were all running on empty. Park Chow promised only a 15-minute wait. The considerable crowd outside the restaurant promised otherwise. Luckily, it wasn’t that cold, and it wasn’t raining. After a time, one impatient gentleman began grumbling loudly, ‘Tell them to eat faster.’ Large parties were seated. We waited some more. I double-checked the menu, only to be told by a family member that there was little question what I would be ordering.

From time to time, one of us will get a pasta or some fish. Inevitably, the rest of us will get the short ribs. The ribs come in three sizes, depending on the appetite, and are served over mashed potatoes. Not a real hearty serving of mashed, but adequate. The lone holdout will spend the meal gazing at the short ribs enviously.

Saturday, we all wanted comfort. Eventually, we were seated (fairly close to the fireplace), and were told that we would be getting two free appetizers due to our wait that had turned into 25 minutes. Service was very attentive, the food appeared quickly, the ribs meltingly tender.

We were in SF for some shopping, and needed a little something to fortify us for the duration. More and more people squeezed into the tiny space. An elderly gentleman seemed to be a regular, and like us, waited patiently for his order. From time to time he greeted other customers.

Another white-haired fellow breezed in, went straight up to him and said, ‘Hey, aren’t you Bernie Madoff?’

The first guy was a bit taken aback. But a minute or so later, he took off after the other, who was back examining the vast cheese selection. ‘Hey you,’ he shouted. ‘You look more like him than I do!’

The orange oil was only a temporary fix, sadly. Believing it would do the trick, confident the ants were banished, I took off with a family member to shop in SF.

When I returned, the ants had sent out word that they were in a citrus-scented tropical paradise. It was time to bring out the heavy salvo: the boric acid solution. However, this solution has been aging since last year when I mixed up a large batch. Whether it will have its usual deadly effects will be obvious when I check tomorrow morning.

How cold does it have to be before the ants decide to move in? Early this morning, a bunch of ice cubes from a big cooler were tossed onto the driveway. Most of them were still there at 1 p.m. When we returned from the city after 6 p.m., there they were, diminished but recognizable.

Shopping was abbreviated, but successful. I found a few places rumored to be THE sites for the objects I hunted. There was parking very close by, surprisingly. For all practical purposes, I am done with the shopping.

My triglycerides are kinda high. After find out that flax seed would be a helpful addition to my diet, I went looking for it at the grocery store. When I asked a clerk where to find it, she looked blank and said, ‘What’s flax seed?’

I found it in the cereal section. It makes my morning oatmeal a little thicker, and will help me get a little thinner, along with many other benefits.

It’s cute, but I’m keenly disappointed that the monkey-picked tea is out of stock.

Once in a while, I get a stack of Cook’s Illustrated magazines for nighttime reading. Because the photos are black and white, there’s less of an urge to eat a little something, which happens when I go through a regular cookbook.

In the January issue, there’s an article comparing dark chocolates. My lactose intolerance won’t allow me to eat milk chocolate anymore, but I don’t really like the dark. However, at Safeway the other night, I found a bar of Ghirardelli 100% cacao. For not very much. I’m pretty sure I can eat this, but whether it’s enjoyable or not is another matter.

The article rates Ghirardelli’s bittersweet chocolate baking bar second to Callebaut’s intense dark chocolate. Interesting to note that Scharffen Berger (which I don’t like) is way down the list, as are Guittard and El Rey. Here’s part of the article. The rest you have to sign up for, but I’ve given the more important results.

While you’re pondering about our friends across the pond and their chocolatey innovations, consider this: Mo’s Bacon Bar is a chocolate bar studded with applewood smoked bacon.

A chocolatier who doesn’t forget about those of us who are lactose-intolerant is a fine fellow indeed. His offerings can be seen at his site, but the photo accompanying the article is a stunner.

Just in time for the Christmas shopping season. Before you rush to buy a few, ask yourself, ‘Do I have man breasts?’. Although judging from the video, this is not a prerequisite.

This begs the question then, do women wear jockstraps? Somewhere, someone might be working on just that, and getting set to offer them at Etsy.

The concept was a good one: get new toilets and have them installed by Thanksgiving when more family members arrive. Long-suffering people who know how to use a plunger, and who can also get out of the way fast when unexpected overflows develop.

Both toilets are old and temperamental. One, the flooder, has been intermittently flushing itself for some time now. The other began doing the same, except in the middle of the night, not stopping till I go and fiddle inside the tank.

There we were at Lowe’s, having picked out the right color, price range and height. We thought we could pay and then take them home. Such naivete. Because toilets are heavy, and the accompanying family member threw out his back not long ago, we asked about delivery.

Clerk: Sure, we can do that, the fee is $85.
Us (silence)
Clerk: Uh, but if you plan to buy an appliance, we could waive that fee for you.
Us: What?
Clerk: There’s a rebate on the fee if you buy something big - then we would deliver the big item basically for free, and we could put the toilets on the same truck.
Us: By big, you mean . . .
Clerk: A refrigerator? Or a washer?

We headed over to Home Depot. The delivery fee there is $90.

For $90, I could actually buy another toilet, albeit a rather inferior one.

To be continued.

The man at the gate was a stranger, but he said ‘HI!’ in that suspiciously cheerful way that some people have. I stick my head out the door, and pointed out that there was a ‘no solicitors’ sign right beside him. (Actually it was taken down when the house was painted, but whatever.) Then he cried out in great indignation that he was most certainly NOT a solicitor, that he was there on behalf of JESUS CHRIST. He was yelling.

I don’t like being yelled at. Earlier, a telemarketer didn’t slow her spiel much when I told her this was the fifth or sixth time the bank had tried to sell me a medical plan. As I was hanging up, she was yelling, ‘But what do you mean, you’re not interested in FREE GAS?’

Costco was deserted tonight. When I remarked on this to the checker, he said that it had been like that for a while.

But the male ruby-throated hummingbird came to feed at the Mexican sage plants, and the chickadees scooped up all the sunflower seeds at the feeding station. I am starting to learn more about Egyptian applique quilts and pee shiver.

More on the latter another time.

I may have posted about this incident before, but perhaps I didn’t due to taste constraints. When the kids were small, we lived in another house. This was before the era of low-flush toilets. Some appliance was on the fritz, and a handyman was on the premises. He was not a plumber.

During the course of his work, he asked to use the bathroom. No problem. Or so I thought. He used the kids’ bathroom, and it wasn’t till after he departed that I discovered that he left something behind.

Jeez. Guys, I thought, and flushed the toilet. The offending object did not go away. I flushed again. There it was once more.

It would not leave despite my best efforts. And there it remained for what seemed a long, long time. Another family member dealt with it, and is reluctant to discuss the matter to this day.

As I browsed the toilet display at the store a few days ago, I read all the advertised promises posted above each model. One in particular caught my eye, the one that boasted of power enough to flush dozens of golf balls in one go.

I hoped the handyman had one.

It doesn’t like this 90s+ weather any more than I do. Now it’s getting audible about it, because it’s hard to get my attention otherwise. For the past few days, there’s been random static. Low, but annoyingly there. Today, it popped out a sparking noise (I’m rehearsing what to tell the Mac Geniuses), and set me to checking the Mac forums. Where this seems to be a fairly common problem coming from the left speaker.

As someone who is alarmed by the loud beep that sometimes occurs when the Mac restarts, I got worried. I hurriedly bought the AppleCare. Then I turned on the a/c.

Then I switched work areas. Someone mentioned checking the power supply, maybe something’s amiss with the outlet at the other desk. So far, no more popping.

Interesting that my old Macbook Pro had none of these problems.

After a few days baking in the high 90s, we headed for what promised to be a least 10 degrees less with fog coming in.

We had forgotten that most establishments in SF are ill-prepared for hot weather, and stale air from the previous days lingered, especially in stores with skylights. Back in the oven of a car, cold sodas in hand, we decided to see if it was easier to park near Paxton Gate on a weekday.

It certainly was, but a sudden braking meant I dumped half the contents of my Diet Pepsi in my lap. It felt great, but I looked like I had massive bladder failure. Luckily, I had brought a change of clothes.

Can you change pants in a car in the Mission?

Many thanks to the staffperson who led me into the nether regions of Paxton Gate where I was able to put on dry clothes.

Well, almost. A family member is outfitting his apartment, and we were returning to the point of origin after trekking through the entire store. I had spent the morning shopping in SF, underfueled. IKEA in Palo Alto was packed with a Sunday afternoon crowd - the phrase that comes to mind is ‘teeming masses’. Back to school time. Shoppers were sprawled on various pieces of furniture, some in a stupor much like mine. The air at IKEA could use some freshening.

A man holding a small boy lay across one end of a large sofa. Both were sound asleep. I sank into the other end, leaned my head back, and would have been unconscious except the family member kept walking back and forth in front of me. It appeared he would make a purchase at last.

Once in a while, I blunder into an interesting sale of collectibles. It really doesn’t matter what kind of items they are, if they can be useful as photo props, I’m in. Over the weekend, I went to see the goods of a most incredible collector, heavy on the weaponry.

The antique pistols were fascinating, if a bit pricey. As someone pointed out, most were replicas, but it was fun to heft a firearm so compact, yet so weighty. Toward the back, there was a table full of battle axes and morning stars. These I left for another day (when the prices were marked down), and went into a small room packed with Buddhas and assorted deities, demons and china of the sort I’ve been looking for.

When I returned on Sunday, a surprising amount of stuff was still available, including the medieval armory. I could use one of the morning stars, but hesitated at the axes. The seller gave me a deal if I got one of each.

Unexpectedly, the handyman tells me I need to take a ride with him to pick out another shower fixture. Apparently, the boxes of bathroom gear we picked out ourselves on Sat. at another store was not the right stuff. He tried to explain, but even with the inferior products in his hands and gesturing, I could not understand plumbing speak. But I got the gist.

Home Depot is even busier on Mondays than weekends. Except all the buyers are pros, and they know exactly what they’re doing. Well almost all. He led me to the showerhead department. Once again, it was all a blur. He made suggestions. A family member favored the ‘brushed nickel’ look, kind of a dull finish, as opposed to the more common shiny stainless steel. Although one company’s stainless steel is not quite like another’s.

However the family member left it all up to me, and was absent. As I moved over to the dull finish section and started pointing, another pro immediately spoke up.

New pro: Hey, I wouldn’t go for the brushed nickel.
Me: Why is that?
Np: Hard to clean right. You’re gonna have to wax it.
Me: You’re kidding, right?
Np: Nope. If you don’t do it right, you’ll get scratches. Then it’ll turn black.
Me: What?
Np: Yup. Wax it first, then less problems. But once it gets scratched, it’s no good. I’ve had to go in and replace lots of this stuff when it gets black. Don’t get it, if you ask me.
Me: Okay.

I got stainless steel, the shiny kind.

There it was, just set down on top of the big desk by someone in front of me who was less interested. The garage sale was small, the seller motivated.

Me: How much?
Seller: $5.
Me: Sold.
Seller (hesitates): But I can only sell it to an adult.
Me: You are doubting that I’m an adult?
Laughter from nearby browsers.
Seller (embarrassed): Well, I meant, it can’t go to a household with small kids (indicates sharp point of sword).
Me: It’s okay. No small kids.
Seller: Then it’s yours.
Me: A little history?
Seller: It’s from either Thailand or Vietnam, belonged to a relative.

It’s heavy with a curving blade, and will be a great photo prop.

Are you going to line up at the Apple store tomorrow for a new iPhone? Do you keep the packaging that Apple products come in because they are so well designed? Did you know that packaging for said iPhone is made from potato starch?

I won’t be there, although the heat is supposed to ease off, and even though I know there is this device in my future. But I do keep the boxes of all things Apple.

Info via Popgadget.

A whole week of temps in the high 90s brings joy to the heirloom tomatoes that are suddenly towering up to seven feet. However, those of us who are not fruiting vines cast a wary eye outside and note that it’s going to be hell if you aren’t in air conditioning. Especially with more fires murking up the already bad air quality.

There is one a/c unit here, but this being an open-plan house, there is no way to seal off rooms for maximum cooling. It makes the heat a bit more bearable, and keeps the laptop cooler, but that’s it. Nights can be stifling.

With mostly floor-to-ceiling windows, where to put a new a/c becomes a big problem. I will consult with the handyman who will be here tackling the dry rot problem later in the week.

In New York, they are hard at work designing ways to hide your unit.

Apparently, it’s a common thing to do, even with our endless gadgets. But if you insist, here’s something that won’t leave a lingering stain on your skin: To-Do Tattoo. Via Popgadget.

To get me through the upcoming sweltering days, I just might get one of these. Once only available to the military, they’re now for sale to all.

At Whole Foods last night, I wanted to get some chowder for a family member who was working late in SF. Alas, there was none to be had. There was shrimp bisque, crab and corn chowder, northwestern chowder, cioppino and a Thai soup. As I was pondering the matter, a customer walked briskly up. He checked the contents of each pot, letting the lids fall with a loud bang. He picked the cioppino.

The family member makes a very excellent cioppino of his own, and as I was debating whether to just forget the soup, another gentleman stepped up. He headed straight for the cioppino.

I got the small container. Then I headed for the ice cream section where, after much deliberation, I chose Rice Dream marble fudge, Ciao Bella mango sorbet and a dark cherry soy ice cream. More on these another time.

Turned out that the family member ate duck and fig handmade sausages in SF. He was still talking about those sausages during dinner tonight.