Strengths: stealth arachnid Western deer tick (ixodes Pacifica) difficult to spot in larval form against creamy, creamy breast with dark brown moles.

Weaknesses: unarmed bloodsucker very small, and pitted against highly motivated hostess with determined fingernails.

Opportunities: undiscovered for 24 happy hours, parasite drinks of hostess’s sweet sweet universally beloved O negative blood.

Threats: once discovered, tick crushed like the bug it is.

All our plans for the weekend fell through because Claire developed some kind of very alarming-looking viral rash, though was otherwise her usual imperious self. So we ended up sitting on the Moore’s front stoop on Sunday morning, eating organic raspberries and watching Carnaval and dancing. Claire and Rowan had butterfly wings on and danced like dancing fools. Then Jonathan called and we met up with the Jaffe-Tsangs at Yerba Buena, and played on the carousel and in the playground, and then we went back to their place in Berkeley and had a BBQ and hot tub and sat around in the garden. This morning we met the O’Nortons at Wunderlich Park and hiked, or at least rambled in a meaningful fashion.

It’s all been ridiculously good fun. I think we should have our plans fall through every long weekend.

We’ve been having a considerable amount of fun lately, but tonight was particularly good. The Moores took Claire for another sleepover, just because they’re insanely fabulous and we totally don’t deserve them. So Jeremy dusted off the blue silk shirt and I got out my $10 Thrift Town Jessica McClintock black gown, the one with the diamante straps, and my knee-high black vinyl fuck-me boots, and we headed to what’s supposed to be the nicest French restaurant in town.

It’s pretty nice, actually. The amuse-bouche was almost the best thing: a pickled oyster on a bed of leeks, and a chunk of some kind of sushi over an insanely delicate and delicious lime gelee. I had a Dungeness crab napoleon with crisp pineapple rings, served on an apple gelee. Jeremy had frog’s legs.

I sang “Why are there so many songs about rainbows?”

“I hate to say it,” he said, “but it tastes like chicken.”

I had a quail and squab roti, so rich I couldn’t finish it.

“We could squabble over it,” he suggested, but I quailed at the thought.

He had duck confit in a ginger sauce. The sorbet was champagne and vanilla. For dessert he went with the cappucino creme brulee and I had a coconut tapioca with mango and passionfruit gelato and basil oil. The petits-fours were wonderful, especially a little sponge cake with a cherry, a hazelnut ganache topped with gold foil and a sensational peach jelly.

In short, I really liked the jellies. It was a bit like visiting Monterey Bay Aquarium, only edible.

I called to make sure Claire was doing okay. She’d eaten the Moores out of house and home, and she and Rowan had their leche caliente and were settling down for stories and bed-time.

Oh, and the boots worked.

Wendy died twenty years ago today. I’ll never forget her.

On a cheerier note, happy birthday Salome!

R: It’s raining.

J: Mmm.

R: I don’t think that little kid needed his wraparound sunnies.

J: I don’t think it was a question of needing them.

R: I don’t think it was a question of questions.

J: I’ll see your question and raise you a conundrum.

R: I’ll see your conundrum and raise you a mystery wrapped in an enigma stuffed with riddles.

J: Stuffed with noodles?

R: Riddles. Served on a bed of riddles.

…a good name for a dessert would be “A Ganache-ing of Teeth.”

Between Hitchhiker’s Guide and Battlestar Galactica and Star Wars and Doctor Who, it’s pretty obvious that my generation is now That Demographic. Ah well. Battlegattle’s pretty good and the new Doctor’s fantastic, but my real love is reserved for Firefly with its chick-engineer Kaylee and tortured hero Mal and kickass sidekick Zoe and wisecracking pilot Wash. Plus there’s horses. I can’t wait to see Serenity.

In other news, Veronica Mars and Arrested Development have both been renewed, so if you need me, I’ll be curled up in front of the telly with Bebe and Claire.

Tonight I bumped into a chair because my belly has outgrown my proprioception.

Practically everyone who has seen me for the last few days has made me stand in profile, then laughed in the general direction of my abdomen.

It would appear that I am showing.

The immutable laws of the universe dictate that whenever Salome, Kat and Claire gather together, the conversation will turn to shoes.

Salome: Now remember, Claire; shoes make the outfit.

A fun thing about Herzog is that you can put twice as many baby shoes on a warthog.

The whole reason you have kids is so you can take ’em to the zoo on hot spring days.

SF Zoo is getting better, though it’s still no Taronga. The poor surviving elephants have been sent to a proper home. The lemur enclosure is terrific, and the new African savannah is gorgeous.

We saw giraffes and tigers and lions. A lion lifted its tail and peed through the bars of the cage onto the crowd: it was AWESOME. We saw rhinos and warthogs and a polar bear.

I bought Claire a warthog. Jeremy named him Herzog. Claire is curled up with him in bed, fast asleep.

The blood oranges are in season. Every morning, as I lie in bed ignoring the morning sickness, J squeezes some oranges and brings me a small glass of fresh blood.

I’m only 13 weeks, but there’s no doubt about it: Z/S is kicking.

John Galsworthy is no Edith Wharton.

As I was putting Claire to bed last night, she tried to tell me something VERY important.

“Bub-boo-loo! Bub-boo-loo!”

I just didn’t get it, so this morning while I was having breakfast in bed she came cantering in with the “W” from her wooden puzzle.

“Oh! DOUBLE-YOU!”

You see, I can be taught.

Just now, Jeremy reported: “I sense the hand of Claire on the fridge.”

“Double-yous?”

“Yes, and an upside-down M.”