I am thinking that maybe I should start a rating system for my posts.
Not for the content but for the amount of wine I have imbibed before I write; a way of excusing some of the really bad ones.
Many newspapers have rating systems, mostly stars, for movies, plays, books, music etc etc.
I can see my system being glasses. Too many and the reader will be free to skip that one.
I think I will pour myself a glass of cheap wine and think about this.

So I am sitting here in front of the computer, sweating.
I have on a strap t-shirt, made popular by Clark Gable when he appeared in a t-shirt like this in a movie with Paulette Godard.
Only I don't look like Clark Gable.
And the reason for this t-shirt is the extreme humidity we have at the moment, the beginning of the rainy season. There are no Paulette Godard in my vicinity, or, more to the point, any Clark Gable either.
What we have here is a mess of canines scratching and humans (me) getting annoyed, blaming it all on the rainy season.
But more to the point, we have humidity. And with the humidity, one sweats. So the solution, albeit it not the ultimate solution, is to wear a t-shirt like Clark Gable's.
You can see, smell, and feel the progress of the sweat, rolling down your arms.
All you have to so, is to have a whole bunch of clean and unused t-shirts waiting to get exchanged with the sweaty and used ones you have.
And for your information...
somehow canines don't seem to mind the way you smell
think about that.

I read recipes. I love reading recipes. I read them and I imagine the taste and texture and, if it is a really compelling recipe, I copy it down ( by hand--my printer up and died ) and if it is really super compelling, I make it.
And mostly I love the result but, and there is always a but, it would be so much nicer to share the experience with a person rather than what happens so many times, with the mutts who get to finish what I could not eat.
They are more gourmands than gourmets, so I never ask them what they think about my latest endeavors.
I enjoy cooking my recipes and they, bless their greedy little hearts, love cleaning the plates.
It is a win-win situation.

So what is better, I wonder. To loose your blog and start a new one, or find that you--after a certain time thinking your blog lost forever--suddenly have your old blog back.
What ?
I hated loosing my blog after all the years of spilling my inner thoughts and yet, there was something titillating in starting all over, but--a big but--I felt that I had lost my background, my reason for blogging.
So I am glad to be back, and I am glad to share my thoughts once more with my friends.
There are so few of them.
Thoughts and friends.

Of all the mysterious mysteries, this takes the cake.
My blog, my email and I had been "temporarily disabled " by Google.
We tried to get back but were rejected, so we created a new blog, new email and a whole lot of bad feelings for Google.
This afternoon as i returned, hot and sweaty from town and just wanted to see if the world had caved in while I had been off the net, I found a mail from my genius cousin who--I am happy to say--still lives in Denmark or else I should be feeling even more inadequate than I do, saying that he checked my blog which seemed to work, and that he had mailed Google asking what was going on.
And so, when I checked my gmail account they asked me to change my password and voila....I'm back. Email and blog.
Now I have to get to all the poor souls who changed my address, because keeping two accounts would stress me out.
And that I don't need.

So relevant with all the nonsense about the help to Gaza.

The dresser.
I found it in the backyard of the studio in New York and hoisted it up the fire escape, all the way up to the third floor.
I stripped multiple layers of nasty brown and bilious green paint till I found the wood, which turned out to be oak.
The dresser traveled with me when we left New York, and all the stops till now, where at the moment, it is resting in my bedroom in Mismaloya.
So many years, so many memories.
Today, escaping Juanito working on some repairs in the living room and sitting on my bed trying to read a book, I suddenly saw the dresser in a new light and realized that it really is not very pretty, not pretty at all. It is more like the spinster in a Victorian novel, plain, solid and durable.
This doesn't mean I like it less, only that I am not fooling myself into thinking this a great piece of furniture. It is not. But it is mine and there are untold memories stored in the three crooked drawers and I would never want to part with that.