Shake it, shake it, Cali.

So after my second trip to California in as many months, I have this verdict: the Bay Area is deceptively attractive in the fall. When you can see every building in San Francisco sharp against the horizon, and trees are changing to orange and yellow, and it's in the mid-60s with a pin-prick sky, you can't help but think: I want to live here.

Of course it's not practical. Or affordable. I would have to trade my little piece of heaven in Austin for some rented hovel in the Mission District for twice the price, where I would have to nudge bums and used needles out of the way to get in the front door. And then the whole thing would collapse in the Big One.

But no water bottles and no plastic bags, and health insurance for all city residents!

Strangely enough, I didn't even go to San Francisco while I was there. That's a lot of longing for not a lot of visiting. Instead: me, six friends from college, and three of their children went to my parents' cabin in Twain Harte, about an hour north of Yosemite. Beautiful, fun, haunted: all the things you want out of a vacation cabin.

Did I get haunted?

Yeah, I think I did. But please take this with a grain of salt, since reality can roll up and slide sideways when you really want something to happen. In fact, I was so riled up for something to go bump in the night that I eventually got too scared to get up in the dark and go to the bathroom. But for the record, I will say this: I think something touched the side of my shirt while I was sleeping the first night.

Also, the second night, I might have been sassing a ghost when I apparently said, very calmly, in my sleep, "I don't think so. Nice try, though."

On the way home yesterday, on my flight from Oakland to Los Angeles to El Paso to Austin (I like to stop at as many airports in the western U.S. as possible, apparently), we flew over several of the fires burning in Southern California. And even though the Santa Ana winds were well over 60 mph and were whipping the fires forward, from the air the plumes of smoke looked still, like someone had captured them on film and posted them in the airplane window. A terrible beauty.

When the sky ain't the only thing falling.

I took my Little Sis out for pizza tonight. Originally we were going to have a picnic at the park, but then it rained in the morning and got steamy in the afternoon, so that no longer felt like a fun outing. Plan B = pizza, which I believe is a universal truth. It should always be Plan B; it always works.

Anyway, at the pizza joint I went to get a drink refill and to get some crackers for my LS. Walking back to the table, I tripped on the step. I stumbled forward and went down hard on one knee, but did not fall all the way to the floor and did not spill a drop of my drink. It was a loud fall, though. But none of that matters, because falling in public is A) deeply funny when it happens to someone else, and B) deeply embarrassing when it happens to you. My LS giggled a little, and I tried to play it off like it was no big deal (kinda like what I did when I slid head-first into someone's cube at work 2 months ago).

Me: At least I didn't spill my drink!
LS: [shaking her head] I thought you were going to fall and crack your head.

Like the person whose cube I tripped and fell into, LS reacted like I was constantly doing these things for attention and that she wished I would just cool it for a minute. I do love physical comedy, so.

My knee is killing me. Maybe it's time to hang of the vaudeville and move to dramatic monologues.

I will be firm. Firm but fair.

Today the assistant managing editor in our department sent out an email (to those to get into work before 9:30, anyway) that since our boss and a myriad of other senior editors will be out of the office Monday through Wednesday, I am in charge in the mornings until until she gets in.

It really was the easy revolution I've ever led. I will force people to bring me coffee and make my copies. I will make them fan me with giant fans made of peacock feathers. I will rule like a wily despot until 9:30 am. I will socialize the schools and make them teach revolutionary and socialist theory. Oh wait, that last one's not me. But the rest: yes.

It's like all the "perks" of being a senior editor, but none of the pay!

But before my head could get to big, I was sure to stick my hand right in bird poo when I got in the car to leave. So.

Say my name, say my name.

Picking my Little Sis up on Sunday for our zoo outing:
LS: Hi, Cambriella! This is my friend, Anna.
C: [Huh. It's been 3 months now.]

Later that day:
LS: What school did you go to?
C: Well, it was in California so I don't think you'd recognize it. I graduated from a school called Camarillo High School.
LS: Your school had your name?
C: [Sigh.]

Later later that day, talking to my actual little sister Kristin:
K: I don't think I could be a Big Sister to someone who didn't know my name by, like, the second day.
C: Well, I don't know. I guess I'll consider "Cambriella" as a term of endearment.
K: Guess what: my cat has worms!

New-Bourne baby.

I had a dream last night I was Jason Bourne, only I was still me. But there was a definite feeling I was on the run and should be careful. As I walked down a hallway, a slightly nefarious-looking man straight out of central casting made eye contact with me and then dropped a cell phone in my hand.

"Keep walking. Call this number: xxx-xxxx." (Which was actually my real-life work number, but it didn't have that significance in the dream.)

I said, “How do I know I can trust you?” and he answered, “How do I know I can trust you?” I called the number and the person who answered required a number of passwords that the contact provided to me. I don't remember what the person on the phone said, but the gist was: they had found me. They who? Dunno. Baddies, to be sure.

The contact took me upstairs to a room right off a landing and told me that I needed to run for it when he told me to. I was wearing flip flops, so I sat down to change shoes (the brown sneakers I bought at Payless about 5 years ago, complete with ped socks, because apparently even dream-me doesn't want sweaty feet). As soon as I sat down he screamed “Go now!” and there was a hail of bullets.

I managed to get outside the building and run across an open plaza to another building where there was more cover. Luckily for someone on the run like me, there were rows and rows of clotheslines with laundry on them right there on the street level of an urban, downtown street, so I stole a shirt to change into to throw off the baddies and disguise myself. It still had the laundry ticket in the pocket and I felt bad for the owner...but I was on the run!

I don’t know what was going to happen next because I woke up, but my guess is that I was going to cut and dye my hair, like all the women in the Bourne movies do.

Sometimes the universe hugs you.

And sometimes it's just a small child in the shoe aisle at Ross.

I went to Ross after work this afternoon, because dates = new clothes. These types of store are ones in which you must be committed to combing through. You've got to be ready to go item by item, step over the millions of shoes on the floor, avoid unsupervised children careening around the store with shopping carts. It's not an every day place; you've got to be up to it. I was. I went item by item, gathered some selections, and received my dressing-room number to try them on.

While I was in the dressing room, approximately 1 million children showed up. And upon discovering that there was a slight echo, began singing. I like this about children, their willingness to sing wherever, whenever. What I don't like are unattended children, singing or no. Especially those who peak their dirty little heads under the dressing room wall. The first time the little girl did it, I said, "No, no," and she tucked her head back under the stall like a turtle. No sooner did I have one leg in a pair of pants and she's peaking again. I gestured with my foot for her to scoot, but she didn't get it. "No, no, go away," I told her. She backed up. Her brothers never ceased in their singing.

So I made my way toward the shoes, wading through the 20% of the store's merchandise that is always on the floor. I passed a kid in the aisle, about 6 years old, shopping with his mom. He looked at me like he knew me, like he hadn't seen me in ages, and then extended his arms. I backed up as if unfamiliar with the international sign for Gimme a Hug. He advanced and hugged me around the middle.

I stood there with my arms raised above my head, in case his mother turned around and saw him hugging a strange woman. I didn't want her to think she needed to contact Chris Matthews or anything.

It was odd. And then I laughed, bought some jeans and a polka dot top, and left.

Because I can't resist. And I have access to my parents' photo albums.

Talking points:

1. Triangular hair.
2. Sally Jessie Raphael.
3. Baby evangelist.

4. White pumps.

Up late on a school night.

I went with John to the Master Pancake Theater show of Conan the Barbarian last night at the Alamo. If you don’t live in Austin, the Alamo is a theater, not the place we're all supposed to remember. And Master Pancake is like Mystery Science Theater 3000: crappy old movies dubbed over by comedians. I’ve seen them do Flashdance, Dirty Dancing, Showgirls, Star Wars, and an awesome clip compilation called “The John Travolathon.” The shows are really funny, slightly dirty, and typically include a live skit that involves partial male nudity. It’s a good time.

Except Conan…it’s not my genre, so much. And it's not just because I am a genre elitist. Which I am. I was about to say it isn’t anyone’s genre, but the guy sitting next to us (who looked suspiciously like Andrew W.K. with a beard) seemed to know an awful lot of the lines and did quite a bit of fist pumping. When it’s time to party, we will party hard!

I didn’t get home until 1:00 and in my rush to be dressed this morning, I put on the same tank top I was wearing last night. (Don’t act like you've never done that before: it was clean before I went and I only wore it for 3 hours. Plus I’m at the end of my laundry cycle, so pickins are slim. Don’t judge.) Everything else I was wearing is fresh off the hanger.

But once I sat down at work, I smelled something. Something that smelled like a bar after last call.

That something was me. I smelled. Like stale cigarettes and spilled beer. I can account for the latter, but the former is kinda unexplainable. I had a beer, yes, but I didn’t spill it. And you can't even smoke inside anywhere in Austin. Yet the smell was on me. And it created a psychosomatic hang over.

Worse than that, it made me think today was Friday, since Thursday night used to be drinkin’ night. And yet. It’s only Thursday today.

Why am I even sharing this story?

The haunting of Twain Hart Cabin.

I have a slight obsession with ghosts.

I don't really ever want to run into one or have one haunt me or anything. But I am fascinated by the idea of them.

For the record: I do believe in ghosts but I don't believe in aliens.

My parents have a house they call a "cabin" in Twain Hart, about an hour north of Yosemite. The cabin is haunted. Which I find both thrilling and terrifying.

One of the first times I ever went there, I was talking to my mom as she stood on the stairs. In a pause between words, there was a loud whisper. What was that? we both asked.

I'd like to say I got goosebumps or that the air went cold, but it didn't. A million rational ways to explain it all? Probably. It was the middle of the day, and the idea that a real-life (ahem) ghost lived in the cabin was just too much to hope for. You understand there's a certain romance in this.

My mom goes up to the cabin alone quite often, and since then she's had several odd experiences, all auditory, all difficult to explain. Also, once a bat got in the house, but that's not ghostly. Just a nice detail.

My mom does not tell anyone about these things and has forbidden me from mentioning them to my younger siblings. She doesn't want to ruin the cabin for them or scare them out of going there. Apparently there's no worry about ruining the cabin for me.

Two weeks ago my mom was at the cabin with her sister. The morning after the first night, my aunt asked if there were ghosts in the cabin. My mom said nothing. My aunt described hearing whispering/murmuring, but tried to up sell it by comparing it to the sound of "angels' wings."

This week my mom was there alone. She heard the whispering again.

Just angels' wings, I'm sure.