California, eh? Temperate climes, eh? Yeah, well then, why was it thirty-nine degrees when I got home at one o'clock in the afternoon, if this is California? And that's Fahrenheit! (You knew I meant Fahrenheit, right? We like our temperatures German-style here in the temperate climes.) (Actually, just here and Belize, Jamaica, Palau and Liberia, according to the impeccable researchers at Wikipedia. Hello, Belize! I'll bet it's warmer than 39º there.)

The lingering good news from yesterday is that, having been to the Saturn dealer (which is now a Chevrolet dealer, the Saturn line having been 86ed in the automotive bloodbath of aught eight), my car is sparkling clean. It's been kind of a mess since being towed out of a muddy ditch a week and a half ago. The even better news is that it got a clean bill of health from the mechanic and his computer. That's great, because the car will be eight years old next week and I'd like it to run another eight (or at least another one or two).

Today my letter carrier (I don't call her the mailman because she's a woman) brought me the last calendar I'll need this year. It's a wall calendar with scenes of AT&T Park, the only stadium or ballpark in the country that has enough outstanding views to fill up twelve months. (The only one I want to look at for twelve months, anyway.)

To be honest, the photos in the calendar are no better than I could do with my own pathetic excuse for a camera, but that's mostly because the place is so spectacular. But it's also a little bit because the photography is a bit substandard for a calendar people are asked to pay money for. That should teach me to go to a bookstore and view the merchandise before buying it next time. It should, but next time will be in late December Twenty Eleven, and that's a long time to remember this kind of lesson.