My sister called me yesterday requiring verification of something she was apparently telling someone about our childhood. I can see where there would be confusion because, thanks to the latest installment of Harry Potter, there was some media attention focused on the British word "snogging" which apparently means kissing or making out.

I finished reading The Weasel's morbid book on the Grand Canyon, and strange as it may seem it has made me more determined than ever to go there and visit. Some of it may be hubris, pretending I am indeed smarter than some of the chuckleheads in said book ("Lookit me! Quick! Take a picture! Waaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!") but I think most of it is that it scared me, and being a phobic person from 'way back I have learned (the hard way, I assure you!) that the only way to conquer fear is to face it and not run away like the screaming coward I actually am. So now I am determined to go to the Grand Canyon and go rafting and muling and camping and the whole nine yards.

I was at the library yesterday and must have received a dozen telemarketer phone calls for various pathetic obscure publishers and whatnot trying to sell me books. What, is it something about April that drives them out of the woodworks? I HATE getting such calls at work because there is no caller ID and I am forced to answer the phone and be polite to them. At home I screen my calls and if I don't recognize the number--or if it's blocked--I don't pick up. This is to spare the telemarketer-monkey's feelings, because if I did pick up I would be rude to them. I despise telemarketing. Really. I would live under a bridge before I took such a disgusting job. If they were all to die tomorrow from some horrible disease I would be actually happy. I would not feel the slightest sorrow for their poor families or what terrible circumstances in life turned them into telemarketers. And we all know underneath her snarky veneer Mojo is usually a wellspring of compassion and kind thoughts, so telemarketing must indeed be as evil as she implies.

The rain we've had for the past twenty four hours has officially changed over to snow. Such is life up in the hills. They said it might accumulate overnight, and since it's already started I'd guess that's a given.

We've had an uncharacteristically warm spell all this week. I was at the library Tuesday all day. There is a forsythia bush right outside the window behind the checkout desk. Tuesday it was still tight and dead.

Tomorrow marks the first anniversary of George's death. I wouldn't have necessarily thought of it, but my husband brought it up this morning and it struck me how much he still mourns for him. And we both do, if you make me think about it. Even though we now have Rosie and she's a very good dog, we both still have times when we wonder where George is, or we hear him in the house, or we think "George isn't going to like it when he sees this".