Yesterday I began attacking the very last of the wallpaper left behind by the previous owners of our house. As the first piece came down, it revealed a pair of letters painted underneath: AN. The next piece was heavily glued, but a bit of determined scraping expanded the message to ANGELA. This seemed pretty normal as such things go, since it was the name of one of the previous owners.

“At least it doesn’t say ‘Helter Skelter’”, I flippantly remarked to my wife. As the rest of the piece came off the wall, though, it revealed an altogether unexpected message.

I’m praying hoping this is a lighthearted reference to a forgotten session of oral sex, not the heretofore concealed testimony of some cannibalistic murder victim.

We had to put one of our cats down the other day. Two-Face, the crazy one, is no more. She’d developed an infection (the name of which escapes me) that basically causes painful sores on the inside of the mouth. It’s not communicable, and veterinarians have no idea what the transmission vector is, but the only cure for it is to remove all a cat’s teeth. Given the expense and bodily trauma of anesthesia to older cats (to say nothing of new challenges in feeding her), that wasn’t really an option.

We tried a regimen of drugs including a desensitizing wash and anti-inflammatory steroid injections, but nothing really seemed to help. She’d yelp when eating soft food puréed with water, or even for no apparent reason at all. She put a pretty brave face on it, and was otherwise as normal as her mild psychoses would permit, but by Tuesday she was down to less than six and a half pounds and wasn’t even interested in food because it was causing so much pain.

So we made the unhappy decision Tuesday morning and took her on her last trip to the vet. The kids were remarkably sanguine about the whole affair, insulated, perhaps, by a youthful inability to comprehend mortal finality. I still feel crummy, though.

Goodbye, Two-Face.

A couple of houses in my neighborhood have already put up Christmas lights, and they were lit this morning as I began my commute at dawn. Maybe it’s just me, but it seems a bit gauche to do that before Thanksgiving.

Maybe they’re retailers.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, we’ve finally decided we’re tired of the boring off-white walls, uninteresting wallpaper, and atrocious, dilapidated flooring. The festivities began with new windows to replace the original heat sinks (and good riddance! Two of them were stuck so badly I literally had to use a hammer to open and close them), and we’re turning our attention to the interior.

While one of the fun things about redecorating is looking at magazines like Sunset or Country Living (or what have you) for new colors and inspiration, one of the big downsides is that you’re looking at magazines like Sunset or Country Living (or what have you). And boy, do they make me feel like a loser.

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I’ve been making and pressure-canning a basic tomato salsa for several years. If the plaudits of family and neighbors are anything to go by, it’s pretty decent stuff. I make a lot of it in the summer, when the local farms are bursting with fresh Roma tomatoes, so much salsa that the supply generally carries me through to the next year. I haven’t actually bought prepared salsa in five years or so.

My neighbor across the street has been telling me for the last few years that I should start actually trying to sell the stuff. I don’t pay that thought any more than lip service, because I left the kitchens years ago for a reason, and besides, I’d eat too much of my own product to make a profit. Still, I wondered: is it really that good? Are the folks who know me just being polite, then pouring the rest of the jar down the drain in disgust when I leave?

This year I resolved to enter my salsa in the California State Fair. I mean, I eat tons of the stuff, but what would a panel of complete strangers think about it? The judges at the Fair wouldn’t care about hurting my feelings. So I paid the four-dollar entry fee and sent a couple of jars off to Sacramento, hoping for the best.

I am proud to report my humble entry won a Third Place ribbon. Sure, it’s not exactly Best of Show, and “I’m number three!” may not be the most spectacular boast a fellow could make, but hey, it’s not bad for a first-time entry. And now I have a year to come up with something even better.

There’s a Justin that lives next door. Several months ago, another family moved in down the block and brought another Justin with them. Thankfully, this one is much more intelligent and far less annoying, so it was with relief that my oldest son started playing with New Justin and his brother more often than the now less-interesting Next Door Justin.

Last week another family moved into a long-vacant house at the end of the street, across from New Justin’s digs. As it turns out, they, too, have a boy in the same general age group. One whose name is also Justin. According to this handy java applet “Justin” is on the wane as a popular moniker, but you couldn’t tell, apparently, from walking down our street. In the meantime, we’ve devised a much more efficient and scalable nomenclature, and now refer to them as J1, J2, and J3. Amusingly, this scheme was so transparent to our own kids that they readily picked it up.

What’s scary is that there are two vacant houses on our block, and two more that the current occupants are in the process of vacating. This raises the unlikely but real possibility of an additional four more Justins. It’s silly, but the thought is just kind of unnerving, and I can’t put my finger on why the idea should bother me so.