Remember this?

Which became this?

Now it's this:

And this:

Which became this:

Is now this:

There's still painting and tiling left to do, the cabinet doors need glass and the drawer pulls need to go on, but omg--

...a kitchen.

The Prius had a small mishap which took up a bit of time yesterday so here are some pix I never posted of a barber shop in Pagosa Springs.

It was closed the day we were there, so this is shot through the front window. Not bad for being 107 years old.

Wishing that wishing had any effect at all on the weather.

This morning, a few minutes after the sun rose and a few hours before it actually rained (for about ten seconds) (but who cares -- it RAINED) clouds rolled in and covered the crescent moon.

Among these paint chips are the green and yellow from my previous house, the (very wrong) green and (pretty nice) yellow we just painted this kitchen, and the green and yellow we'll use to rectify the mistake.

The Malibu Surfside News reappeared in newsstands this week, the first issue since it ceased publication in June, when long-time editor and publisher, Ann Soble, became gravely ill. Soble's son, Mark, broke the news about his mother in an editorial in the paper's June 13th edition, and said he was looking for someone to take over. In August, the sale of the newspaper to former U.S. Senate candidate Jack Ryan, co-owner of an Illinois-based chain of weeklies, was announced.

The new version of the 37-year-old paper is a smaller tabloid than the original, with the front page nature photo, a hallmark of Soble's tenure, replaced by community news and an ad. Inside there's a mix of news and features, as well as a new -- and savvy -- emphasis on prep sports.

The verdict so far? The writing's smooth, photos are plentiful, and the paper's ad staff has done a decent job of filling the pages. Online, what had been a weekly PDF of the print edition is now an actual web site. Though in September former Arcadia Patch editor Natalie Ragus tweeted the news that she would be the paper's new editor, she's now identified as a contributing editor and doesn't appear in the masthead. The "here we are" note in the inaugural edition was written by Heather Warthen, the managing editor.

I'm glad we're back to being a two newspaper town, and watching the new Surfside News and the Malibu Times compete should be fun. Mostly though, I'm sad. I already miss the original Surfside News. It was odd and lumpy and defiantly quirky and, best of all, it was that fast-vanishing rarity -- Old Malibu.

You never dine alone at the Malibu Kitchen.

Walt has learned to play ball -- sort of. He'll fetch it, and once in a while, he'll bring it back. But Maisie, who could have taught the Dodgers a thing or two last week, is losing patience with the little guy.

Here's Walter George 'Huck Finn' Clooney, rakish, handsome, goofy and naughty (and living up to each of his names) as he steals Maisie's ball:

The Tiny Labrador has had enough. Off she goes to fetch Walt, who's right there. See him?

There was a struggle.

I'll let you know when someone wins.

Was it beautiful where you were? Here, moisture from that Mexican hurricane sent ripples of clouds across our sky--

...which turned the most vivid pink as the sun set.

Sometimes I feel like I repeat myself -- the beach, the dogs, the fog, the dogs, the lake, the remodel, and look! A coyote!

As the years cycle through, so do my thoughts, about how traffic here gets (way) worse each year, how Christmas is forced on us (way) too soon, and these days, about how you'd have to willfully ignore what you see and hear and feel and smell to say Los Angeles has no seasons.

OK, better now. Carry on.

Cold this morning, sun late, breath visible, birds reluctant to move. The geese are back, big and cranky, watched warily by the huddled ducks.

We're recovering from that full moon -- the hunter's moon? -- that had coyotes here throwing raves each night, and each morning the dogs, just crazed, running loops and zigs and zags, racing through the scents of their wild cousins' revels.

Fog this morning, the kind where sounds vanish and scents get stronger.

No surf, just the briny surge of water shifting.

There was a sailboat, of course.

Speaking of "of course"...

And for a moment, proof of sunlight.

As the remodel here comes close(r) to completion and the "What's next?" question grows louder, one of my persistent fantasies, to live on acreage, pops up. Which is why I love these old farming magazines. In the 1930s there were a bunch of them, including two or three, like "Farmer's Wife", that were just for the women in the house. By 1944, two of the bigger mags had blended. Here's the September issue.

I love that truck (I want that truck), love the bushels of apples in the back, which remind me of summers I spent on a fruit farm when I was a kid. It was hundreds of acres of trees and hills and streams and buildings and, all around the edges of the place, wilderness.

Anyway, here are a few pages from our rural past, a familiar mix of fact and advertising fantasy.

What are the chances that the family farms this magazine was sent to still exist?

Farm Journal and Farmer's Wife:

Selling them fruit trees:

Sewing, and visiting Mrs. Dewey.

You didn't buy your jelly and jam:

Farm life:

I'm a farmer's wife.

And also...ew.

Seriously -- you may not want to look.

Maisie and I were walking along the bluff yesterday when she did a double take at something she smelled on the ground. Her lips curled and as she snuffled the air, her hackles rose. And this was what she had found:

It's a deer leg, of course. Someone's dinner -- a four-footed someone, I'm pretty sure.

As an antidote, can we look at a Walt puppy picture?

Better have one more.

OK, better now.

It's been some months since Patsy, the softest and sweetest kitty that ever hijacked the middle of a bed, has appeared on the blog. The sad news is that she has left us. She was 18 years old and apparently, her body had decided that was plenty of time on this earthly plane.

A number of you have written to ask about her and, now that some time has passed, sharing the news isn't quite the wrench it once was. She was a funny and lovely and elegant cat and we sure do miss her.

It's all about the angle of the light.

Warm this morning, with just a hint of Catalina in the horizon's haze.

Bare beach to the north of us.

Quiet pier to the south.

A sailboat moored just off the coast.

As for the rumble, Walt started it.

But on the beach...

Maisie...

...has the home court advantage.

No hard feelings.

It's been a while so here, without further ado, Maisie and Walt.

Whether airborne--

...or grounded...

One at a time...

Or together...

These guys know a thing or two about joy.

Have you been to the Point Dume headlands?

It's a public park and a sacred place, old California coastline (mostly) preserved.

There's a twisty path:

... that leads to an observation deck. All you can hear is the wind and the sea and the gulls and the sea lions and, oh yeah, this person, who came to one of the few and rare places you can't hear cars or human sounds to talk on her cell.

Just as she left, these guys showed up, part of a flotilla of kayakers:

Group photo!

A bit of perspective:

What you're seeing here is someone openly defying his dad -- no, he won't leave because it's SO NICE here--

...and also, SEA LIONS.

And of course, this:

OK, now I'm hungry. Which is the perfect time to remind you -- the Malibu Pie Festival is today! No kitchen = no pie for me this year, but here's what to expect:

YUM.

Also -- humblebrag.

The sun was there and then, just like that, gone. In its place, wind and chill. Blue came, from sky to water and back. By the time we walked home, the only ones on the beach, the only ones on the path, dark was winning.

Time it right and this is the traffic you encounter on your way to the barn. I'm pretty sure that's the car pool lane.

Have you seen the story in the LA Times about the cougar who crossed two freeways in search of territory and now lives in Griffith Park? The photo alone (shot by Steve Winter on March 2, 2013) is magnificent. Here's the info:

The lights of Hollywood glow behind P-22, a 125-pound mountain lion in Griffith Park. The photo was taken by Steve Winter with a remote trail camera and will be published in December's National Geographic magazine. Winter's work will appear in "The Power of Photography: National Geographic 125 Years" at the Annenberg Space for Photography, opening Oct. 26. (Steve Winter / National Geographic / March 2, 2013)

The story, which is both great and heartbreaking, is here.

There's a 60 percent chance of rain tomorrow. Not from these clouds, of course, but they sure are pretty.

The very first color this morning was pink:

Pink piled up everywhere.

Then the earth spun some more and the sun neared the horizon and--

...this happened:

Also, this:

I love when the sea gets glassy:

Can it be a sunrise without pelicans?

Don't worry -- I saved you a seat.

During the Santa Anas things looks different, skies scrubbed clean, colors so bright it's as though the world is lit from within. The very atoms are animated, everything sparking, everything sparkling, glowing, all of it.

So windy and dry here today, leaves flying, birds veering, branches creaking and snapping. Walt is home and he's glued to Maisie's side. The crew is in the kitchen, creating more chaos from which will emerge, well, we'll see.

And here's a car on PCH, giving off as much information as a Facebook profile.

So, this happened today:

And look who's home from charm school:

No wonder it took until 8 p.m. to write a post.

I went to CostCo last week and what did I find?

Christmas. In September.

It's bad enough that retailers started shoving us into Halloween back in August, when it was still high summer and the whole beach and pool and naps in a hammock vibe was in full swing. To force us into Christmas four months early is shameful.

I'm not naive. I know it's about the bottom line.

The bottom line for me, though, is numbness. By the time December rolls around and the seasons have shifted and the light is gone, by the time you have an almost physical craving for the visceral comfort of saturated colors and tiny lights, shiny objects and spicy greens, these symbols of the holiday have been around so long they're sapped of their power.

Every year it gets worse and the sad thing is, it'll never change.

Well, that's not true. Next year, somewhere, they'll start peddling Christmas in July.

There's been a changing of the water birds at our little lake, where the geese are suddenly gone and the egrets have staged a return.

Little Walt is back at charm school for his second semester and boy, do we ever miss him. Where's the cold nose in the neck at 6 a.m.? (And 6:10. And 6:11.) How is Maisie supposed to keep her trim figure without her daily wrestling match? We'll have to make do with some puppy pix. (Twist my arm.)

Walt in flight:

Walt in (mock) fight:

One of my favorites -- his foot in her mouth.

Sometimes he wins:

Sometimes she wins:

I'm pretty sure they're both counting the days.