Daylight Saving Time begins at 2:00 a.m. on Sunday, March 8. I would like at this point to renew my semiannual plea that everyone learn to use the correct terminology, damn it. I am indebted to this website for the following explanation:

“The official spelling is Daylight Saving Time, not Daylight SavingS Time.

“Saving is used here as a verbal adjective (a participle). It modifies time and tells us more about its nature; namely, that it is characterized by the activity of saving daylight. It is a saving daylight kind of time. Because of this, it would be more accurate to refer to DST as daylight-saving time. Similar examples would be a mind-expanding book or a man-eating tiger. Saving is used in the same way as saving a ball game, rather than as a savings account.

“Nevertheless, many people feel the word savings (with an ’s’) flows more mellifluously off the tongue. Daylight Savings Time is also in common usage, and can be found in dictionaries.

“Adding to the confusion is that the phrase Daylight Saving Time is inaccurate, since no daylight is actually saved. Daylight Shifting Time would be better, but it is not as politically desirable.”

Y’all got that?

As a general rule, I’m against Daylight Saving Time insofar as it’s a portent of the early demise of another Southern California winter and the prospect of another endless summer. However, after I awoke this morning at 5:15 a.m. and was unable to get back to sleep because of the early light and the singing birds, I say bring it on. It’s the only way to get those birds to keep their beaks shut until a civilized hour.

The Wayfarers have arrived, and they are so beautiful and SO authentic. You know how it’s always sort of dicey buying designer items on eBay, because it’s sort of like those guys at the swap meet who SAY they want to sell you a Louis Vuitton bag for $200, and you don’t quite believe them because you know damned well they retail for $1000?

But I paid a good price for these Wayfarers, and God, are they authentic. I got not only the authentic Ray-Ban box, but the authentic Ray-Ban case and the little cloth and the little propaganda folders to try to make you spend big bucks on more Ray-Bans. They’re so authentic I can’t handle it. And they are SO beautiful.

Happy belated bluesy birthday to me. (Bonus: these Wayfarers are big enough that I can almost hide the fact that I’m 47.)

After a few weeks of cool weather and even a little rain here and there, temperatures are predicted to climb into the high 80s early next week. That’s at the BEACH, people. It’s because of those freaking Santa Ana winds.

And as if that wasn’t enough, this is the year they moved back the return to Standard Time. Halloween is meant to be dark and chilly, but it looks to be bright and hot this year.

So Cal: Can’t you get anything right? Don’t even get me started on the gas prices, which have risen to over $3.00 per gallon again.

The rain arrived Friday night as promised, and people, it was awesome. It rained all night Friday night followed by a cloudy, sprinkly Saturday, during which Ben drove the family around with me hanging my head out the window like a dog so I could feel the rain. We didn’t get any lightning or thunder; another of the peculiarities of Southern California weather is that thunderstorms are rare, but waterspouts are not. There were six waterspouts sighted off the coast during the storm! I have never seen one, which cheeses me off more than you could believe, being a weather spotter for the NWS. What good is it to be a spotter when there’s never anything to spot?

Anyway, Newport Beach received about a half-inch of rainfall, and in Anaheim up to an inch and a half fell. If this sounds like nothing to you, contrast it to the fact that from July 1, 2006 to July 1, 2007, Orange County received just over two inches of rain while I pouted. Maybe this year will be better; the rain also arrived early in the winter of 2004-2005, which turned out to be one of the rainiest on record.

Naturally, we’re back to our usual autumn pattern of goddamned sunny AGAIN every single day. But I have hope for the future.

For those of you who are Miss Doxie readers, and wonder whether she has disappeared from the face of the earth, don’t fear — I’ve just heard from her and she’s having technical problems with the site and cannot post, in addition to which her life is typically crazy.

She will post when she can, and promises fun and surprises when she returns.

That third Ottawa goal was SO not a legit goal. BAD CALL. It SO should be tied 3-3 [end of second period].

STANLEY CUP FINALS, GAME 1:

ANAHEIM DUCKS 3
OTTAWA SENATORS 2

ANAHEIM LEADS SERIES 1-0

(Disclaimer: I’m sorry about making with the hockey again, but the Ducks played an awesome fucking game last night, and really this is the only good news I have right now. So there.)

Anaheim Ducks 4
Detroit Red Wings 3

FINAL

ANAHEIM WINS WESTERN CONFERENCE CHAMPIONSHIP

People, I almost had a fucking aneurysm. Detroit came back from a 3-goal deficit and almost forced the fucker into overtime. I was actually praying to God, like so: “Please, please let Anaheim win. I know it isn’t really important in the grand scheme of things, and I’m sorry for asking, but please just let them play strong and pull this out.”

We are going to the finals. Dana: of course I’m rooting for Anaheim, but if they lose, at least I can be happy for you. Besides, when’s the last time the Cup came north of the border where it belongs?

Nice one, God.

Okay, so I spoke too soon. I wasn’t back on my feet after all. What I have to show for smoking cigarettes from my teens until my late thirties is pneumonia every single winter. It’s taken me all this time to start feeling like, well, myself. Whoever the hell that is.

In other news, Julia has learned to make heavy use of the two essential words of contrary toddlerhood: mine and no.  She’s ramping up for the Terrible Twos, don’t you know, and shows every sign of being just as stubborn and argumentative as Erika and Matt, who are as ornery as alligators on steroids. (At least I got one sweet kid; Sam has his father’s happy easygoing nature.)

So. I am alive! And writing. And working. And riding herd over Julia, who has a perfectly demonic knack for getting into things she isn’t meant to have. I keep telling myself this is the last toddlerhood I will have to live through — it can only get easier from here. Right? Right? Please tell me it will.

HARRY POTTER NAKED.

Appearing in the play Equus in London, Daniel Radcliffe is about to join Morgan Fairchild in the privileged pantheon of those seen naked onstage. I hope the poor kid brought a jacket.

Because you want to know the truth? I don’t want to see Harry’s wand; I don’t even, contrary to what you might assume, want Rupert Grint to show me his wand, impressive though it may be. Unless I’m married to you, I don’t want to see you naked. (And even then, perhaps not. I love my husband and all, but if I’m in the middle of, say, paying the bills, I would probably greet the meat with Ewwww, get that thing out of here!)

But: IF you are in London, and IF you get a chance to see the play, and IF you happen to be close enough to the stage to catch a good look at what Harry’s packing in his shorts, DO drop me a line. Wingardium leviosa! might take on a whole new meaning.