In apple not falling far from the tree news, my nine year old has announced her future career plans: write book reviews during the day while her kids are at school and play piano in a restaurant two nights a week.  Of course, she also plans to be the first woman president (though I would prefer for her to be the third or fourth), and before that she will be the first person of any gender to walk on Mars.  That would be falling quite far from the tree.

Meanwhile, my twelve year old described a book she disliked thusly:  "It's stupid, sexist, stereotyped, and hetero-normative!"  That whooshing sound you hear is my heart swelling with pride.

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In professional news, I've discovered my Achilles' heel: the compound predicate.  Wait, don't run away!  It's not that complicated.  When a single subject has two verbs, it's a compound predicate.  It's like a menage a trois. 

Example: TR writes book reviews and plays bar piano.  Subject: TR.  Verb: writes.  Verb: plays. 

Here's the problem: I often (shamefully often) place a comma after the first clause, like so:
TR writes book reviews, and plays bar piano.

Wrong, wrong, wrong!  Never separate a verb from its subject with a comma!  Don't do it!  Even if it seems like the first verb ought to be cozier with the subject, while the additional verb is an interloper that needs to be put in its place with a comma barrier.

It's bad enough for a writer to make this error; it's much worse for an editor.  Editors are supposed to correct mistakes; they are not supposed to add them to previously innocent text.  I may have to change career directions if I can't lose this ignominious habit.

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In political weenie news, you right-wing Xangans really need to do a better job of finding things to complain about.  In the last couple of days, I've read several outraged posts.  In one, the blogger whined that several teachers in our nation of 300 million people taught their students to sing a song about Obama!  Another blogger indignantly noted that in 2006, Obama talked about the idea of mandatory national service (military, peace corps, or unspecified non-profit) for young adults. 

Seriously?  Is that it?   

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In local news, an arsonist, possibly the same one who burned down my favorite coffee shop a few weeks ago, has started five additional fires in the same neighborhood since then.  Arson must surely be the most cowardly form of violent antisocial behavior.  Neighborhood patrols roam the streets at night, and thankfully, have detected the fires (and in some cases, put the fires out themselves) before major damage was done.  People should not have to fear for their homes and businesses.  Evil.

When Technogeek and I look back on our lives, 2009 will stand out as the year the cats died.  Actually it was the fall of 2008 that Benjamin died.  Clover went last June, and now Sophie, 17 years old and the mother of the others, hovers on the brink.  Sophie’s always tended to the dark side.  She’s spent most of her life outdoors, because her behavioral issues made her unwelcome in the house.  I always thought she’d outlive us all out of sheer orneriness, but the tumor in her abdomen seems certain to get her. 

Last weekend we almost killed her.  Sophie’s whole body heaved with the effort it took to breathe.  She walked weakly and unsteadily for short distances before lying down (in an awkward position due to the pressure of the tumor) to rest.  She gagged on her food.  My husband tearfully placed her in her crate and we drove to the animal emergency room. 

The vet said there wasn’t much to be done.  TGeek decided to let her go.  The vet said, “That’s not a wrong decision,” which I thought was a very odd way to phrase it.  Maybe they are not supposed to express opinions about euthanasia decisions.  We signed papers.  The tech came in and put a port in Sophie’s leg, in preparation for the go-to-sleep medicine.  Then they all left us alone with Sophie for awhile.

Do you know what that cat did?  She got up and started sniffing at the canister of dog biscuits they keep in the exam room.  TGeek took one out and cut a small piece for Sophie.  She ate it up and asked for more.  He chopped it and put it in front of her.  She gobbled up that whole biscuit.  The tech came back to see if we were ready, and we asked for some cat food.  She came back with a dish of tuna, and Sophie ate all of that, too.

We somewhat sheepishly told her we’d changed our minds.  You can’t kill a cat that enjoys a meal like that, can you?  They took the port out and home we went.

Nearly a week later, Sophie’s still hanging in there.  In fact, she’s quite a bit perkier than she was early in the week.  I think she may be stealing the life force from some other neighborhood cat.    

Those of you in the Seattle area are probably familiar with the Seattle Men's Chorus.  For the rest, the main thing you need to know is that the 300-voice SMC is fabulous in every way. 

I knew my friend Gungaboy could sing.  After all, he did an excellent rendition of the Star Spangled Banner at our July 4 barbecue once.  Well, it would've been more excellent if he'd remembered the words, but I blame Technogeek's generous mojitos for that.

Anyway, as you might imagine, it is pretty intimidating to audition for a group as awesome as the Seattle Men's Chorus.  Not only did Gungaboy audition, he got in.  Not only did he get in, but within about three minutes of joining the group, he tried out for one of the solo parts in the upcoming Christmas show.  He got it.  He and Technogeek are out shopping for the required tuxedo as we speak.

Xangans in the Seattle area: go see this show!

Gungaboy: I am so proud of you, and can't wait to see you playing Santa.