Keepin' it Home
Yesterday Husband and I had sammiches from this great local deli we go to. And it reminded me of how much I love patronizing local, independent businesses. The people are great, they remember our "regulars" they're friendly and the food is so good. I had a chicken salad sammich that I swear I dreamed about last night it was so good.
It's a husband-and-wife place with the walls covered with photos of them at Giants games. (Yet another reason to love them.) And when their dog was sick and needed surgery, they put up a collection box and got over $1000 in donations for his care. (Sadly, they lost him.)
Today we went to our favorite bookstore. The one we can't get out of for under $100. It's a wonderful independent in Menlo Park called Kepler's and it's like heaven. Books you won't find anywhere else. Shelves and shelves of delicious, must-have reads. Clerks who love to read and make recommendations that tend to be spot-on. My newest favorite contemporary mystery author, Canadian Louise Penny, I discovered because a Kepler's clerk wrote a review that sounded too good to miss. And she was right.
One of the best things about Kepler's is the "book group shelf." People all over the area have book groups and many of them buy in groups at Kepler's. So there's a whole section showing what other groups are reading. It's been inspiring when it's my turn to pick our group's read and I have no clue. I know interesting, literate people have checked out and discussed this particular book, so maybe I'll check it out too. I've found some great reads that way. Plus people are allowed to bring their doggys in, so there are always cute pups wandering around or curled into a nap at the foot of one of their cushy leather chairs.
Sure we'll drop into Barnes & Noble occasionally. And there are times when I think we keep Amazon in business. But I honestly prefer to shop local.
We've got lots of interesting shops nearby. There's an Asian-owned produce store that is incredible. Half the stuff you pick up you have no idea what it is. Or what to do with it. But since Husband and I have recently gone vegetarian, we're going to do a lot of experimentation soon.
I love going into stores where they know you by name. Our favorite Chinese place all the waiters call me by name and remember when I come in for lunch that I don't want the soup. At the deli I don't even have to order they just ask "the usual?" and I get my favorite sandwich. It makes me happy, plus I love supporting the little guy.
Every weekend Husband and I go to a coffee shop called Neals. It's like an old-school diner. All the waitresses are total characters who call me "Baby Girl" and call Husband "Sweetie." They hug us. They'll slide into the booth next to you and talk about sports. The food is good -- wonderful filling breakfasts -- but I think we just go for Carol, Linda, and Mimi.
Sure there are times when a place like Target is needed. If I need socks, laundry detergent, and a CD on the same day I'll go to a big store. But mostly I prefer to keep it at home. Help support some couple putting a few kids through local schools. Buy from the store where the owner knows your name. Eat at the place where the waitresses hug you.
It's a happy thing.
Sunday, April 03, 2011
Friday, April 01, 2011
Churches
I'm going through some rough times these days. And in my quest for inner strength and all that blah-blah, I went to a church.
Not for mass, but for stained glass.
As an art historian I have an appreciation for beauty. And I find stained glass to be beautiful. I think it's all the incredibly rich colors, but I find myself quite peaceful under the gaze of a dozen or so stained glass saints. There's a Catholic church nearby that has amazing windows. Probably a dozen saints on each size, a small rose window over the altar, another row of panels in the choir loft. It's gorgeous. The church itself is really beautiful too. Tall, with dark wood crossbeams overhead and a deep, rich, red carpet down the center aisle. It must be a gorgeous church for weddings.
I did find peace, at least for a while. And I'm hoping I can hold on to that when things get crazy.
I'm not about god, but he's got some nice houses.
I'm going through some rough times these days. And in my quest for inner strength and all that blah-blah, I went to a church.
Not for mass, but for stained glass.
As an art historian I have an appreciation for beauty. And I find stained glass to be beautiful. I think it's all the incredibly rich colors, but I find myself quite peaceful under the gaze of a dozen or so stained glass saints. There's a Catholic church nearby that has amazing windows. Probably a dozen saints on each size, a small rose window over the altar, another row of panels in the choir loft. It's gorgeous. The church itself is really beautiful too. Tall, with dark wood crossbeams overhead and a deep, rich, red carpet down the center aisle. It must be a gorgeous church for weddings.
I did find peace, at least for a while. And I'm hoping I can hold on to that when things get crazy.
I'm not about god, but he's got some nice houses.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
So where have I been?
In the hospital, again.
Went into ER late Thursday/early Friday and was released on Sunday. I had every test in the book. X-rays. CT scan. Endoscopy. Colonoscopy. Blood tests every 15 minutes (that's what I get for going to Dracula Memorial Hospital). The verdict:
I have two ulcers in my colon. They should heal by themselves with antibiotics and a soft diet. I also tore a hole in my esophagus. This too will take care of itself. I'm on a soft diet, have lots of drugs, and am generally on the mend.
Being in the hospital is one sure way to appreciate home. In missed our 11th anniversary, I didn't sleep for two days. I missed my cat, my bed, and being able to move my right arm. (Damned IV.)
My IV machine was a total drama queen and went off with a peeved beep every 10 minutes. I eventually learned how to reset it myself. When I did have food it was a liquid diet and consisted of feet-flavored broth. They weirdest menus. I'm sick, throwing on a regular basis, and generally feel like crap. And they give me a tray consisting of feet soup, strawberry jello, cranberry juice, and a cherry popsicle. My God, I couldn't eat that assortment at my best, how to they expect me to combine it when I'm sick?
The biggest problem was the pain. On a scale of 1 to 10 I was regularly 8 or 9. I was on 4 ccs of morphine every 2 hours and it wasn't enough.
Luckily I'm home, I've slept, I'm feeling better, and I have a Husband and a cat taking good care of me.
I hate hospitals.
In the hospital, again.
Went into ER late Thursday/early Friday and was released on Sunday. I had every test in the book. X-rays. CT scan. Endoscopy. Colonoscopy. Blood tests every 15 minutes (that's what I get for going to Dracula Memorial Hospital). The verdict:
I have two ulcers in my colon. They should heal by themselves with antibiotics and a soft diet. I also tore a hole in my esophagus. This too will take care of itself. I'm on a soft diet, have lots of drugs, and am generally on the mend.
Being in the hospital is one sure way to appreciate home. In missed our 11th anniversary, I didn't sleep for two days. I missed my cat, my bed, and being able to move my right arm. (Damned IV.)
My IV machine was a total drama queen and went off with a peeved beep every 10 minutes. I eventually learned how to reset it myself. When I did have food it was a liquid diet and consisted of feet-flavored broth. They weirdest menus. I'm sick, throwing on a regular basis, and generally feel like crap. And they give me a tray consisting of feet soup, strawberry jello, cranberry juice, and a cherry popsicle. My God, I couldn't eat that assortment at my best, how to they expect me to combine it when I'm sick?
The biggest problem was the pain. On a scale of 1 to 10 I was regularly 8 or 9. I was on 4 ccs of morphine every 2 hours and it wasn't enough.
Luckily I'm home, I've slept, I'm feeling better, and I have a Husband and a cat taking good care of me.
I hate hospitals.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Dog Tired
You can tell just by looking at him that he's a troublemaker, can't you? His name is Ricky (name has been changed to protect the guilty), and he was my charge at yesterday's adoption event. His parentage is a mystery but he looks a bit Chihuahua and acts a lot like a terrier. Um, I mean terrorist. He's a sweet, playful, happy dog, about 3 years old, that will make someone a great pet. Provided they get him some serious obedience training.
Yesterday's event was at an upscale pet supply store -- the kind that has a frozen food for pets section. And because it was pouring all day we stayed inside. Ricky, who has the attention span of a fruit fly, kept getting restless so I'd take him for a wander around the store. That's where his shoplifter tendencies came out.
A customer stopped me to ask about Ricky. Hey, that's what we're there for. While I'm extolling his expertise as a lap sitter and face licker, Ricky manages to snag a dog toy from the shelf and proceed to eat the tag and pretty much render it unsellable. Yes, I ended up buying him a dog toy. Luckily for me it was on sale already and they gave me their employee discount, so it was less than $3 (if he were four inches taller I'd have been stuck with the $9 toy!), but it was highly amusing. Later on he tried to steal a rawhide bone that looked like it came from a Mastodon. The fact that it was twice the size of his mouth didn't seem to bother him. Luckily for my wallet it was wrapped in plastic and still sellable.
Later on I had another dog and Ricky was in the care of one of the other volunteers who was snaking from a little bag of Cheez-its. Ricky found them and proceeded to get the bag stuck on his nose -- after eating all her crackers. He also managed to snag a bite of another volunteer's hotdog.
Ricky also has leash problems. As in he doesn't like it and wants to pull you around as if you were on skates. Let's go over here! No, this way! No, I changed my mind, we're going over here! All this in the pouring rain.
He's a lot of dog for such a small package. But just look at that face.
You can tell just by looking at him that he's a troublemaker, can't you? His name is Ricky (name has been changed to protect the guilty), and he was my charge at yesterday's adoption event. His parentage is a mystery but he looks a bit Chihuahua and acts a lot like a terrier. Um, I mean terrorist. He's a sweet, playful, happy dog, about 3 years old, that will make someone a great pet. Provided they get him some serious obedience training.
Yesterday's event was at an upscale pet supply store -- the kind that has a frozen food for pets section. And because it was pouring all day we stayed inside. Ricky, who has the attention span of a fruit fly, kept getting restless so I'd take him for a wander around the store. That's where his shoplifter tendencies came out.
A customer stopped me to ask about Ricky. Hey, that's what we're there for. While I'm extolling his expertise as a lap sitter and face licker, Ricky manages to snag a dog toy from the shelf and proceed to eat the tag and pretty much render it unsellable. Yes, I ended up buying him a dog toy. Luckily for me it was on sale already and they gave me their employee discount, so it was less than $3 (if he were four inches taller I'd have been stuck with the $9 toy!), but it was highly amusing. Later on he tried to steal a rawhide bone that looked like it came from a Mastodon. The fact that it was twice the size of his mouth didn't seem to bother him. Luckily for my wallet it was wrapped in plastic and still sellable.
Later on I had another dog and Ricky was in the care of one of the other volunteers who was snaking from a little bag of Cheez-its. Ricky found them and proceeded to get the bag stuck on his nose -- after eating all her crackers. He also managed to snag a bite of another volunteer's hotdog.
Ricky also has leash problems. As in he doesn't like it and wants to pull you around as if you were on skates. Let's go over here! No, this way! No, I changed my mind, we're going over here! All this in the pouring rain.
He's a lot of dog for such a small package. But just look at that face.
Friday, March 18, 2011
To Rembrandt or Not to Rembrandt
Every so often I have to dust off my Master's Degree. Having a graduate degree in art history means never having to say you're employed.
So, what is art? Discuss.
It's the eternal question among art historians, critics, artists, and people who dress in black everywhere.
About 20 years ago the Dutch decided to set up the Rembrandt Commission to answer part of this question.
It seemed there were hundreds of Rembrandt's, supposed Rembrandt's, and out-and-out crap with fake Rembrandt signatures on them. And they wanted to deal with it. So they put together a panel of art historians, scientists, scholars, and others to examine every so-called Rembrandt in the world and give it a thumb's up or down.
Museums and collectors all over the planet held their breath as the fate of their art rested in the hands of these experts. Some were so concerned they wouldn't allow the commission to examine their art. Who wants to be told that they Rembrandt they paid $4 million for was, in fact, a worthless fake?
There was, as you can imagine, great controversy. The commission had a few verdicts. Paintings were graded as authentic Rembrandt's, from Rembrandt's workshop, in the style of, by a 17th century artist not Rembrandt but not a forgery, real forgeries, and various other categories.
And this raised the question of: why does a name de-value a painting? If a painting is beautiful why is it suddenly worthless just because some guy named Rembrandt didn't paint it? That's the big question. Is it the artist or the art that defines it?
Who or what really decides the label "art?" It seems to be a matter of opinion. And I have a very narrow one.
I am a Classicist. To me good art ended with Impressionism and everything done after that it crap. (Yes, I exaggerate.) But I do find myself responding more to representational art than splotches on a canvas. I will always, always, always think Van Eyck was more talented than Picasso. I get PIcasso. I understand why people consider him a genius. But I don't have an emotional reaction to him.
I marvel at brush strokes, use of light, reflections, the creation of life. I can lose myself in the detail of the sleeping dog in the town square, the peasants in the field, the glow of candlelight in a quiet chamber. But when confronted with a square of black and a square of red, I don't lose myself. Usually I laugh. I'm just that much of a Philistine.
I love art that you can describe in literal detail. "Vermeer perfectly captures the quiet moments of a quiet life." True. On the other hand, I usually screen with laughter at phrases like "this painting conveys the disharmony between the curious now and the unbalanced when." Oh bite me. This shrimp-pump claptrap isn't a real art conversation. It's a way to convince people you're worth having sex with.
Every so often I have to dust off my Master's Degree. Having a graduate degree in art history means never having to say you're employed.
So, what is art? Discuss.
It's the eternal question among art historians, critics, artists, and people who dress in black everywhere.
About 20 years ago the Dutch decided to set up the Rembrandt Commission to answer part of this question.
It seemed there were hundreds of Rembrandt's, supposed Rembrandt's, and out-and-out crap with fake Rembrandt signatures on them. And they wanted to deal with it. So they put together a panel of art historians, scientists, scholars, and others to examine every so-called Rembrandt in the world and give it a thumb's up or down.
Museums and collectors all over the planet held their breath as the fate of their art rested in the hands of these experts. Some were so concerned they wouldn't allow the commission to examine their art. Who wants to be told that they Rembrandt they paid $4 million for was, in fact, a worthless fake?
There was, as you can imagine, great controversy. The commission had a few verdicts. Paintings were graded as authentic Rembrandt's, from Rembrandt's workshop, in the style of, by a 17th century artist not Rembrandt but not a forgery, real forgeries, and various other categories.
And this raised the question of: why does a name de-value a painting? If a painting is beautiful why is it suddenly worthless just because some guy named Rembrandt didn't paint it? That's the big question. Is it the artist or the art that defines it?
Who or what really decides the label "art?" It seems to be a matter of opinion. And I have a very narrow one.
I am a Classicist. To me good art ended with Impressionism and everything done after that it crap. (Yes, I exaggerate.) But I do find myself responding more to representational art than splotches on a canvas. I will always, always, always think Van Eyck was more talented than Picasso. I get PIcasso. I understand why people consider him a genius. But I don't have an emotional reaction to him.
I marvel at brush strokes, use of light, reflections, the creation of life. I can lose myself in the detail of the sleeping dog in the town square, the peasants in the field, the glow of candlelight in a quiet chamber. But when confronted with a square of black and a square of red, I don't lose myself. Usually I laugh. I'm just that much of a Philistine.
I love art that you can describe in literal detail. "Vermeer perfectly captures the quiet moments of a quiet life." True. On the other hand, I usually screen with laughter at phrases like "this painting conveys the disharmony between the curious now and the unbalanced when." Oh bite me. This shrimp-pump claptrap isn't a real art conversation. It's a way to convince people you're worth having sex with.
Monday, March 07, 2011
The Big Sleep
Last week I was sick girl. ER on Tuesday. ER (via ambulance, no less!) of Wednesday. Overnight Wednesday. Out on Thursday. Still no real diagnosis, but the drugs they gave me have done their job and I'm feeling OK. In about an hour I'm off to the doctor's for a more thorough testing. Oh boy, more peeing in cups!
But yesterday I was totally in the middle of The Big Sleep. I've been in an insomnia phase (so what else is new) and being in the hospital, sick and in pain, have made it worse. But yesterday, for some reason, the sleeplessness caught up to me. I fell asleep about 1 in the afternoon and woke up at 10 am. Total coma.
It felt wonderful! After two weeks or so of never sleeping more than 2-hours in a row, getting some solid sleep was amazing. And I woke up feeling better than I have in a long time. I'm hoping that lack of sleep was part of the problem and now that I've caught up a bit it'll help. I'll know more after a visit to my old pal, Dr. F (who I love, by the way). But for now just having slept makes me so incredibly happy.
I have no idea how it feels to "sleep normally." To put my head on the pillow and know I'm in for 7 or 8 hours of down time. My usual night it 3-4 hours of trying to sleep, 2 hours of sleep, waking up and starting all over again. Throw in a cat that is your typical nocturnal critter and we have a nighttime of waking chaos.
Meanwhile, Husband is sleeping the sleep of the just. His average fall asleep time is about 2-minutes. I hate that about him.
Last week I was sick girl. ER on Tuesday. ER (via ambulance, no less!) of Wednesday. Overnight Wednesday. Out on Thursday. Still no real diagnosis, but the drugs they gave me have done their job and I'm feeling OK. In about an hour I'm off to the doctor's for a more thorough testing. Oh boy, more peeing in cups!
But yesterday I was totally in the middle of The Big Sleep. I've been in an insomnia phase (so what else is new) and being in the hospital, sick and in pain, have made it worse. But yesterday, for some reason, the sleeplessness caught up to me. I fell asleep about 1 in the afternoon and woke up at 10 am. Total coma.
It felt wonderful! After two weeks or so of never sleeping more than 2-hours in a row, getting some solid sleep was amazing. And I woke up feeling better than I have in a long time. I'm hoping that lack of sleep was part of the problem and now that I've caught up a bit it'll help. I'll know more after a visit to my old pal, Dr. F (who I love, by the way). But for now just having slept makes me so incredibly happy.
I have no idea how it feels to "sleep normally." To put my head on the pillow and know I'm in for 7 or 8 hours of down time. My usual night it 3-4 hours of trying to sleep, 2 hours of sleep, waking up and starting all over again. Throw in a cat that is your typical nocturnal critter and we have a nighttime of waking chaos.
Meanwhile, Husband is sleeping the sleep of the just. His average fall asleep time is about 2-minutes. I hate that about him.
Friday, March 04, 2011
Way off the Surreal Scale
Today my mom received last rights.
It's a huge Catholic thing. My sister saw her at lunch and thought she looked really bad so she asked one of the parish priests over. Father C-- (oh dear, I've already forgotten his name!) is a stereotypical Irish Catholic priest. In and out in about 5 minutes. Which is probably a good thing -- didn't give Sister a chance to freak out.
But it was a weird experience and I'm not entirely sure that my brain has fully accepted what I just saw.
Today my mom received last rights.
It's a huge Catholic thing. My sister saw her at lunch and thought she looked really bad so she asked one of the parish priests over. Father C-- (oh dear, I've already forgotten his name!) is a stereotypical Irish Catholic priest. In and out in about 5 minutes. Which is probably a good thing -- didn't give Sister a chance to freak out.
But it was a weird experience and I'm not entirely sure that my brain has fully accepted what I just saw.
Why...?
Why is a whistle the pinnacle of cleanliness?
Why are clams the hallmark of happiness?
How well does anyone know the back of their hands?
Common phrases baffle me. Of course, most of life does.
When I was a kid and would look for something, whenever I found it someplace obvious my mom would say "if it was a snake it would have bit you." Well if it was a snake, I wouldn't have been looking for it.
Just some musings under the influence of Vicodin. I was in the hospital this week. (In ER on Tuesday, back on Wednesday, admitted overnight and home today.) Another of my rampant mystery infections. Woke up to a breakfast of morphine. Hoping to doze off to an equally heady mixture of cat purr and cozy mystery.
Why is a whistle the pinnacle of cleanliness?
Why are clams the hallmark of happiness?
How well does anyone know the back of their hands?
Common phrases baffle me. Of course, most of life does.
When I was a kid and would look for something, whenever I found it someplace obvious my mom would say "if it was a snake it would have bit you." Well if it was a snake, I wouldn't have been looking for it.
Just some musings under the influence of Vicodin. I was in the hospital this week. (In ER on Tuesday, back on Wednesday, admitted overnight and home today.) Another of my rampant mystery infections. Woke up to a breakfast of morphine. Hoping to doze off to an equally heady mixture of cat purr and cozy mystery.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Puppy Update
I'm doing better with accepting that I couldn't have Gretchen. I know she'll be happy where she is. I know Cipher will be happier as the solo queen of the house. But yesterday's adoption event was a little weird because I swear I kept looking out the window to see if Gretchen's new family were bringing her back. Of course I hope they don't! I was just in a weird mood.
While out walking yesterday's cutest member (Red, a 7-month old chihuahua puppy that absolutely struts and actually stopped traffic), I was stopped by the family that adopted another of our wonderful dachshunds. Abby was at an adoption event last month, spending most of it in my lap. Her family came in and fell in love. They called dad into the store. The first words I heard out of his mouth as he reluctantly came in was "Ok sweetie, but we're looking, we are not getting a dog." I swear he took one look at Abby in my lap and I could see him fall in love. Dad was the one who adopted the dog. He was hooked.
The family told me all about Abby. How she slept on their bed the first night. How after only a 30-minute standoff, Abby and the resident cat achieved detente. In the month Abby has been with her family they've gone up to the snow where she leapt from the car into a 3-foot snow bank and completely disappeared. Her family immediately panicked, but Abby pops up a few seconds later, long snout covered in snow and happy as a, well, really happy dog.
They kept saying how lucky they felt. How a friend who is a vet met Abby and told them what a special dog she is. The mom of the family teared up telling me how happy they all were. And she hugged me, because I had helped point them in the right direction.
All of this made me feel so much better about Gretchen going home. It reminded me of why I volunteer at the shelter. And it reinforced what I had already accepted -- that once again it's all about doing what's best for the dog, not what's easiest for me.
Sorry for my wallow into selfishness. You know how it is with unrequited love.
I'm doing better with accepting that I couldn't have Gretchen. I know she'll be happy where she is. I know Cipher will be happier as the solo queen of the house. But yesterday's adoption event was a little weird because I swear I kept looking out the window to see if Gretchen's new family were bringing her back. Of course I hope they don't! I was just in a weird mood.
While out walking yesterday's cutest member (Red, a 7-month old chihuahua puppy that absolutely struts and actually stopped traffic), I was stopped by the family that adopted another of our wonderful dachshunds. Abby was at an adoption event last month, spending most of it in my lap. Her family came in and fell in love. They called dad into the store. The first words I heard out of his mouth as he reluctantly came in was "Ok sweetie, but we're looking, we are not getting a dog." I swear he took one look at Abby in my lap and I could see him fall in love. Dad was the one who adopted the dog. He was hooked.
The family told me all about Abby. How she slept on their bed the first night. How after only a 30-minute standoff, Abby and the resident cat achieved detente. In the month Abby has been with her family they've gone up to the snow where she leapt from the car into a 3-foot snow bank and completely disappeared. Her family immediately panicked, but Abby pops up a few seconds later, long snout covered in snow and happy as a, well, really happy dog.
They kept saying how lucky they felt. How a friend who is a vet met Abby and told them what a special dog she is. The mom of the family teared up telling me how happy they all were. And she hugged me, because I had helped point them in the right direction.
All of this made me feel so much better about Gretchen going home. It reminded me of why I volunteer at the shelter. And it reinforced what I had already accepted -- that once again it's all about doing what's best for the dog, not what's easiest for me.
Sorry for my wallow into selfishness. You know how it is with unrequited love.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Love in a Day
I fell in love today. Totally, head-over-heels in love with the sweetest dog ever.
Her name is Gretchen, a 2-year old dachshund. At the adoption store she climbed into my lap first thing and stayed there for three hours. Occasionally she'd get up, lick my face, turn around, and curl into a perfect circle. She greeted everyone with a lick of the hand and a non-stop tail wag.
If she'd managed to get out of my lap for more than 5-minutes I was going to call Husband to come down to meet her. I was completely serious. She flirted and charmed her sweet way into my heart and I was a goner.
She was so charming that four groups met her in the Get Acquainted Room and before I could talk myself into actually bringing her home, she had found the luckiest new dog owners in the world. A sweet mom and her three kids, all of whom were equally in love with her.
They were very nice people and I'm sure Gretchen will have a great life with them. But I felt like they didn't deserve her, I did. It's the one really selfish time I've had as an animal volunteer.
I actually cried when she left, but the family gave me a minute to say goodbye and she curled into my lap and licked my face one last time.
I know I'm responsible for her finding this home. I answered their questions and showed her off for at least 30-minutes, and I'm so happy to have found a loving family for this sweet girl. But I think I'm going to regret not taking her myself for a very long time.
Of course Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) would freak out to have a new doggie little sister. And that's the one thing that really kept me from calling Husband. He said he was glad I didn't call -- he has less willpower than I and would have agreed probably sight unseen.
But tonight I am a little sad. She is a truly special girl. Immediately sweet and friendly to all. Calm (almost Zen) and incredibly loving. The way she warmed my lap and my heart, the way she buried her nose in my shoulder when she got tired, the sweet and trusting look her her eyes -- she was a total heart stealer.
It's honestly the hardest day I've had in the years I've been volunteering. Just thinking of her now makes me tear up (of course I've also been awake since 10 am yesterday). Part of me hopes this family's cat will hate Gretchen, that they'll return her and I can snap her up. Part of hates that tiny bit of envy that should be so happy for her.
But all of me is a bit sad. Because I fell in love today. But it was not, alas, to be.
I fell in love today. Totally, head-over-heels in love with the sweetest dog ever.
Her name is Gretchen, a 2-year old dachshund. At the adoption store she climbed into my lap first thing and stayed there for three hours. Occasionally she'd get up, lick my face, turn around, and curl into a perfect circle. She greeted everyone with a lick of the hand and a non-stop tail wag.
If she'd managed to get out of my lap for more than 5-minutes I was going to call Husband to come down to meet her. I was completely serious. She flirted and charmed her sweet way into my heart and I was a goner.
She was so charming that four groups met her in the Get Acquainted Room and before I could talk myself into actually bringing her home, she had found the luckiest new dog owners in the world. A sweet mom and her three kids, all of whom were equally in love with her.
They were very nice people and I'm sure Gretchen will have a great life with them. But I felt like they didn't deserve her, I did. It's the one really selfish time I've had as an animal volunteer.
I actually cried when she left, but the family gave me a minute to say goodbye and she curled into my lap and licked my face one last time.
I know I'm responsible for her finding this home. I answered their questions and showed her off for at least 30-minutes, and I'm so happy to have found a loving family for this sweet girl. But I think I'm going to regret not taking her myself for a very long time.
Of course Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) would freak out to have a new doggie little sister. And that's the one thing that really kept me from calling Husband. He said he was glad I didn't call -- he has less willpower than I and would have agreed probably sight unseen.
But tonight I am a little sad. She is a truly special girl. Immediately sweet and friendly to all. Calm (almost Zen) and incredibly loving. The way she warmed my lap and my heart, the way she buried her nose in my shoulder when she got tired, the sweet and trusting look her her eyes -- she was a total heart stealer.
It's honestly the hardest day I've had in the years I've been volunteering. Just thinking of her now makes me tear up (of course I've also been awake since 10 am yesterday). Part of me hopes this family's cat will hate Gretchen, that they'll return her and I can snap her up. Part of hates that tiny bit of envy that should be so happy for her.
But all of me is a bit sad. Because I fell in love today. But it was not, alas, to be.
Coolest History Lesson Ever!
The mega-talented (and, frankly adorable) Lin-Manuel Miranda (Tony winning writer/composer of In the Heights) performed at a poetry slam at the White House. His Alexander Hamilton hip-hop jam is pure magic. I've watched it half a dozen times and each time it blows me away.
The mega-talented (and, frankly adorable) Lin-Manuel Miranda (Tony winning writer/composer of In the Heights) performed at a poetry slam at the White House. His Alexander Hamilton hip-hop jam is pure magic. I've watched it half a dozen times and each time it blows me away.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Baby It's Cold Outside
Those of you who live in New Hampshire or Quebec feel no sympathy for my thin Northern California blood. But I'm freezing. You have to expect cold if you live in Maine. San Francisco is not known for it's frigid climate. But we're in the middle of rain and cold and possibly even snow. Yes, snow. Not dusting the hills, but at sea level. We're not talking about a blizzard, obviously, but for those of us used to 60, 47 is really cold.
This is such an odd event that it's top story on the news. Forget unrest in Libya, we're all about the snow. The potential of a quarter inch of snow has become the chief topic of conversation. It takes so little to amuse and interest us.
Tomorrow I'm doing an adoption event which, of course, means I'll be outside walking little peeing dogs in the rain and cold. (I sincerely hope the Pee King of Northern California isn't part of the rota).
Those of you who live in New Hampshire or Quebec feel no sympathy for my thin Northern California blood. But I'm freezing. You have to expect cold if you live in Maine. San Francisco is not known for it's frigid climate. But we're in the middle of rain and cold and possibly even snow. Yes, snow. Not dusting the hills, but at sea level. We're not talking about a blizzard, obviously, but for those of us used to 60, 47 is really cold.
This is such an odd event that it's top story on the news. Forget unrest in Libya, we're all about the snow. The potential of a quarter inch of snow has become the chief topic of conversation. It takes so little to amuse and interest us.
Tomorrow I'm doing an adoption event which, of course, means I'll be outside walking little peeing dogs in the rain and cold. (I sincerely hope the Pee King of Northern California isn't part of the rota).
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Book Group Part Deux
Last night's group did not disappoint. We were evenly split on our opinion of The Thirteenth Tale by Dianne Setterfield. I, Husband, and Mama D found it flawed. The Foreigner, the Lurker, and the Actor all found it a good rainy-day read.
But since many of you seem interested in our picks, I'd like to share with you some of our favorites. These were either universally loved or the majority of the group really liked them.
As mentioned yesterday, I highly recommend Shadow of the EInd by Carlos Ruiz Zafon. It's a thumping good read. A page-turning literary thriller with compelling characters and a captivating plot. It was one of the favorite books we've read and absolutely wonderful.
I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith. A sweet, charming, delightful read about an eccentric family and their lives and loves in a falling-down castle in England. It's a gentle and warm book that's perfect for a cozy read on a rainy day.
A contemporary mystery set in a charming French village, Bruno, Chief of Police by Martin Walker is a delightful read. The characters are delightful (and, thankfully, a sequel has just been released!) and the mystery well -planned and executed. It's a well-written story full of delicious food and words. Get out the brie and baguette, pour yourself a glass of red wine, and settle in for a good read.
Not a book group read but a new discovery by me is Louise Penny, a Canadian author of wild talent and scope. She has a series featuring Chief Inspector Gamache of the Surete du Quebec. The first book in the series is Still Life and it's wonderful. Set in the southern Quebec village of Three Pines you'll be introduced to the quirky characters in the town. You must start with the first and read them in order because there is a continuing story that builds through the series. Her last book actually made me cry is was so beautifully written. Almost poetic at times and yet never lets the mystery side of things down. Absolutely great stuff.
Last night's group did not disappoint. We were evenly split on our opinion of The Thirteenth Tale by Dianne Setterfield. I, Husband, and Mama D found it flawed. The Foreigner, the Lurker, and the Actor all found it a good rainy-day read.
But since many of you seem interested in our picks, I'd like to share with you some of our favorites. These were either universally loved or the majority of the group really liked them.
As mentioned yesterday, I highly recommend Shadow of the EInd by Carlos Ruiz Zafon. It's a thumping good read. A page-turning literary thriller with compelling characters and a captivating plot. It was one of the favorite books we've read and absolutely wonderful.
I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith. A sweet, charming, delightful read about an eccentric family and their lives and loves in a falling-down castle in England. It's a gentle and warm book that's perfect for a cozy read on a rainy day.
A contemporary mystery set in a charming French village, Bruno, Chief of Police by Martin Walker is a delightful read. The characters are delightful (and, thankfully, a sequel has just been released!) and the mystery well -planned and executed. It's a well-written story full of delicious food and words. Get out the brie and baguette, pour yourself a glass of red wine, and settle in for a good read.
Not a book group read but a new discovery by me is Louise Penny, a Canadian author of wild talent and scope. She has a series featuring Chief Inspector Gamache of the Surete du Quebec. The first book in the series is Still Life and it's wonderful. Set in the southern Quebec village of Three Pines you'll be introduced to the quirky characters in the town. You must start with the first and read them in order because there is a continuing story that builds through the series. Her last book actually made me cry is was so beautifully written. Almost poetic at times and yet never lets the mystery side of things down. Absolutely great stuff.
Monday, February 21, 2011
The Third Monday of the Month
For nearly 15 years my book group has met in my living room to eat cheese and cookies and to talk about books, life, and friendship. These are some of the people I love most in the world, and the regular chance to see them once a month makes me happier than I can say.
We've been together through thick (Gravity's Rainbow by Pynchon) and thin (anything other than Gravity's Rainbow). And whether the book delights or appalls, the discussion never fails to entertain.
I love it. I love everything about it. Here are our few rules:
* We only read fiction. Within that broad distinction we've read everything from mysteries to romances, sci-fi to westerns, classics to new so-called masterpieces.
* It can't be part of a series. Everything must be a self-contained book. (We broke this rule once to read the first two Harry Potter novels).
* It has to be something busy people can easily read in a month. We've occasionally read longer books over a two-month period, but for the most part we make sure it's something we can finish.
That's about it. We take turns choosing the books, so we're each on the hot seat once or twice a year to select what we read. And that's probably my favorite part of it all. My friends are all fascinating, intelligent people so over the years they've exposed me to many authors I wouldn't pick up on my own.
And our group is diverse. There have been members who have come and gone (due to death or moving away) but we've always been a mixed blend. Male and female. Gay and straight. Religious and atheist. We have had conservative Republicans and liberal Democrats. We have people who have grown up in wealth and privilege, and people who have grown up on welfare. We're culturally diverse as well. And this diversity makes for wonderful discussions.
There have been some books we've universally hated (each year we give The Bellow Award for our least favorite book -- named in honor of the atrociously dull Humboldt's Gift by Saul Bellow) and books we've universally loved (check out Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Luis Zafron). Mostly we have a nice divide -- enough for a good debate.
There have been some books where we've only found an hour's worth of talk, and we spend the second hour catching up as friends. And those meetings are just as enjoyable as those where we spend the entire two hours debating characters, plot, writing styles, and symbolism.
Sometimes people don't finish the book and they just "come for the cheese." And there have definitely been a few books where the reason people didn't finish wasn't because they ran out of time, but because the book sucked. But it's been a hell of a lot of fun. Going back over the list of titles we've read there are certainly some I cannot recall and yet there are others that I will never forget.
I know several members of my book group check this blog occasionally. And I just want to thank them for all the years of discussions, friendship, and cheese. I love you all.
For nearly 15 years my book group has met in my living room to eat cheese and cookies and to talk about books, life, and friendship. These are some of the people I love most in the world, and the regular chance to see them once a month makes me happier than I can say.
We've been together through thick (Gravity's Rainbow by Pynchon) and thin (anything other than Gravity's Rainbow). And whether the book delights or appalls, the discussion never fails to entertain.
I love it. I love everything about it. Here are our few rules:
* We only read fiction. Within that broad distinction we've read everything from mysteries to romances, sci-fi to westerns, classics to new so-called masterpieces.
* It can't be part of a series. Everything must be a self-contained book. (We broke this rule once to read the first two Harry Potter novels).
* It has to be something busy people can easily read in a month. We've occasionally read longer books over a two-month period, but for the most part we make sure it's something we can finish.
That's about it. We take turns choosing the books, so we're each on the hot seat once or twice a year to select what we read. And that's probably my favorite part of it all. My friends are all fascinating, intelligent people so over the years they've exposed me to many authors I wouldn't pick up on my own.
And our group is diverse. There have been members who have come and gone (due to death or moving away) but we've always been a mixed blend. Male and female. Gay and straight. Religious and atheist. We have had conservative Republicans and liberal Democrats. We have people who have grown up in wealth and privilege, and people who have grown up on welfare. We're culturally diverse as well. And this diversity makes for wonderful discussions.
There have been some books we've universally hated (each year we give The Bellow Award for our least favorite book -- named in honor of the atrociously dull Humboldt's Gift by Saul Bellow) and books we've universally loved (check out Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Luis Zafron). Mostly we have a nice divide -- enough for a good debate.
There have been some books where we've only found an hour's worth of talk, and we spend the second hour catching up as friends. And those meetings are just as enjoyable as those where we spend the entire two hours debating characters, plot, writing styles, and symbolism.
Sometimes people don't finish the book and they just "come for the cheese." And there have definitely been a few books where the reason people didn't finish wasn't because they ran out of time, but because the book sucked. But it's been a hell of a lot of fun. Going back over the list of titles we've read there are certainly some I cannot recall and yet there are others that I will never forget.
I know several members of my book group check this blog occasionally. And I just want to thank them for all the years of discussions, friendship, and cheese. I love you all.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
My Day with the Pee King of San Mateo County
The dog I had charge of during today's mobile adoption was a Chihuahua mix named Canelo. I just call him the Pee King.
We were at a local pet store. The Pee King (Or PK) decided that not only did he have to mark his territory on every corner and parking meter between my car and the store, he decided he had to mark everything in the store too. PK peed on $100 dog beds. He peed on a $75 cat tree. He peed on crates, boxes, bags, counters, tables, chairs, and umbrellas. In spite of the pouring rain I took him for 6 walks in 3 hours. I'd walk him in the rain, patiently waiting while he peed himself dry. When he lifted his leg and nothing came out, I'd go back into the store ... where he'd promptly lift his leg and pee on a table.
The store personnel couldn't have been nicer. They wiped up puddles and brought over plastic training pads for him to pee on. He never did stop peeing the entire day.
I was SO happy to get home to Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) who never pees on the furniture.
Not surprisingly, the PK didn't find a home today. Maybe next time ... provided there isn't anything to pee on.
...
In other news I stumbled across the funniest wedding "toast" ever. I don't know this couple (but I'd love to meet the guy making the toast!) (Sorry, Husband.) but this song his absolutely hilarious. By the end I was laughing so hard I was afraid I'd wake up Husband and the cat. (Have I mentioned I'm going through a lovely insomnia phase?) Anyway, if you want a good laugh, check out this bit of creativity. I'd love a friend to do something like this for me!
The dog I had charge of during today's mobile adoption was a Chihuahua mix named Canelo. I just call him the Pee King.
We were at a local pet store. The Pee King (Or PK) decided that not only did he have to mark his territory on every corner and parking meter between my car and the store, he decided he had to mark everything in the store too. PK peed on $100 dog beds. He peed on a $75 cat tree. He peed on crates, boxes, bags, counters, tables, chairs, and umbrellas. In spite of the pouring rain I took him for 6 walks in 3 hours. I'd walk him in the rain, patiently waiting while he peed himself dry. When he lifted his leg and nothing came out, I'd go back into the store ... where he'd promptly lift his leg and pee on a table.
The store personnel couldn't have been nicer. They wiped up puddles and brought over plastic training pads for him to pee on. He never did stop peeing the entire day.
I was SO happy to get home to Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) who never pees on the furniture.
Not surprisingly, the PK didn't find a home today. Maybe next time ... provided there isn't anything to pee on.
...
In other news I stumbled across the funniest wedding "toast" ever. I don't know this couple (but I'd love to meet the guy making the toast!) (Sorry, Husband.) but this song his absolutely hilarious. By the end I was laughing so hard I was afraid I'd wake up Husband and the cat. (Have I mentioned I'm going through a lovely insomnia phase?) Anyway, if you want a good laugh, check out this bit of creativity. I'd love a friend to do something like this for me!
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Yo, Homies
Yeah, I'm lame. I ignore you for weeks on end and then I expect you to check in and see if I've said anything remotely interesting. But then again, it's all about me. So there.
I've been busy with something new at the shelter. I'm working with the mobile adoptions now. Now don't get all "what about the kitties?!" because I'm still all about the cats. But now, on Saturdays, I'm going out into the community and helping doggies find homes. It's great fun to be around dogs again and I love actually seeing them get adopted. You don't often get to see the cats go home with their new best friends. But with the mobile adoptions people can fall in love and go home that day with the pup of their choice.
Mostly we take small dogs (Chihuahuas, terrier mixes, etc.) but we also take bigger dogs at times too. I've learned how to work with pit bulls and saw one of our longest-term pits go home a few weeks ago. It's been quite an education -- and sometimes quite exhausting too.
Most of the time we set up in a mall or a local pet food store. But I've also been working at our "Second Chance Adoption Shop." This is a very cool place, and buckets of fun. A local mall had an empty store and they gave it to us. At first it was only supposed to be for a few months but since they haven't found a tenant yet, we get to keep it on a month-to-month basis. We have kennel space for about 8 cats or dogs and we're only open Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. But we get a huge amount of foot traffic and a great deal of interest. We're almost always busy and have had a good rate of adoptions. Last Saturday I we had two dogs go home. One, an adorable Dachshund, went home with this sweet family with two kids who fell instantly in love. The funny part is that dad fell in love first. He came in, saw this pup, and melted. He came in reluctantly with one of those "kids, we're just here to look" expressions and walked out proudly leading the latest addition to the family.
I love the process of watching people fall in love. When our pit bull was adopted this couple walked up and Penny (the dog) started wagging her tail as if she recognized them. Thirty minutes later the threesome were officially a family. I watched each of the people melt and we knew before they did that it was a done deal.
It's great fun doing something new and I love the chance of working with the public a bit more. Being able to talk to people about the dogs and helping them (the dogs, not the people) to find homes is a total joy. For me, for the dogs, and for the people. It's like when Husband and I adopted Cipher. Total happiness.
Yeah, I'm lame. I ignore you for weeks on end and then I expect you to check in and see if I've said anything remotely interesting. But then again, it's all about me. So there.
I've been busy with something new at the shelter. I'm working with the mobile adoptions now. Now don't get all "what about the kitties?!" because I'm still all about the cats. But now, on Saturdays, I'm going out into the community and helping doggies find homes. It's great fun to be around dogs again and I love actually seeing them get adopted. You don't often get to see the cats go home with their new best friends. But with the mobile adoptions people can fall in love and go home that day with the pup of their choice.
Mostly we take small dogs (Chihuahuas, terrier mixes, etc.) but we also take bigger dogs at times too. I've learned how to work with pit bulls and saw one of our longest-term pits go home a few weeks ago. It's been quite an education -- and sometimes quite exhausting too.
Most of the time we set up in a mall or a local pet food store. But I've also been working at our "Second Chance Adoption Shop." This is a very cool place, and buckets of fun. A local mall had an empty store and they gave it to us. At first it was only supposed to be for a few months but since they haven't found a tenant yet, we get to keep it on a month-to-month basis. We have kennel space for about 8 cats or dogs and we're only open Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. But we get a huge amount of foot traffic and a great deal of interest. We're almost always busy and have had a good rate of adoptions. Last Saturday I we had two dogs go home. One, an adorable Dachshund, went home with this sweet family with two kids who fell instantly in love. The funny part is that dad fell in love first. He came in, saw this pup, and melted. He came in reluctantly with one of those "kids, we're just here to look" expressions and walked out proudly leading the latest addition to the family.
I love the process of watching people fall in love. When our pit bull was adopted this couple walked up and Penny (the dog) started wagging her tail as if she recognized them. Thirty minutes later the threesome were officially a family. I watched each of the people melt and we knew before they did that it was a done deal.
It's great fun doing something new and I love the chance of working with the public a bit more. Being able to talk to people about the dogs and helping them (the dogs, not the people) to find homes is a total joy. For me, for the dogs, and for the people. It's like when Husband and I adopted Cipher. Total happiness.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Scenes from Silver Creek: The Mambo Contest
Between them my mother and father were on every church committee in town. Dad ran the Our Lady of Angels bingo game every Monday night for at least 5 years. He was president of the father’s club. Ran the concession booth at the fall festival. Drove the mini bus for the senior trip to Reno.
Mom was equally busy over at St. Edith’s Episcopal. President of the ladies guild. Did the Sunday flowers every second weekend of the year for a dozen years. Co-chair of the St. Edith’s fashion show.
And, of course, they went to every dinner, dance, and pageant that both churches threw.
And while the adult in me applauds their community spirit, the kid I was cringed as we got roped into yet another horrible job of busing tables, making cotton candy, running a spotlight, and generally used as slave labor for God.
But, in many ways, I was repaid for all of this on the night my parents entered the St. Edith’s Valentine’s Dance Mambo Contest.
As usual I’d been volunteered by my mom for something. I tried to argue that dad was raising me Catholic and my allegiance was to OLA and I had proved that allegiance the previous month by getting up at 6 am on a Saturday to pour coffee at the pancake breakfast.
Mothers do not accept arguments. And so the day of the dance I spent hours climbing ladders (which I hate) and scotch taping red construction paper hearts all over the walls of the St. Edith’s cafeteria. Fun! I also had to sweep, set up roughly 347,000 folding chairs, and frost 8 million cupcakes with Pepto-pink frosting.
And then she dropped the bombshell….oh yes, she had also volunteered me to pour punch at the dance itself. There was I, stupidly thinking that working all day got me out of having to go to the dance itself. Silly me. Nope. She did give in and take me to McDonalds for dinner, but then it was straight back to the chain gang.
No greater hell exists than being 14 years old and being forced to watch your parents and your friends’ parents dance.
But it was actually pretty funny. I mean who would have known that Mr. and Mrs. Foster, owners of Speedy Dry Cleaners, would turn out to be the Fred and Ginger of Silver Creek? They did moves I’d never seen outside of the late-late show. And all without ever looking the other in the face. The looked at the floor, at the other dancers, at my crummy construction paper hearts, but never at each other. It was the weirdest thing.
Our neighbors, the Blocks, turned out to have four left feet. And the Reverend Polehouse and his wife did a fine job of turning every single dance into a foxtrot.
But the big surprise was when they announced the Mambo contest and my mom and dad got onto the floor. Really? My parents could mambo?
Mr. Lucas, who was acting as DJ and master of ceremonies, put on some classic Perez Prado and the couples began to move. Reverend Polehouse seemed to recognize the futility of trying to turn his foxtrot into a mambo and volunteered to be the judge. One extremely apologetic tap on the shoulder and a couple was eliminated.
The Blocks were the first to go. Not surprising considering the fact that before the vocals even began they had bumped into each other and Mr. Block’s glasses had fallen off. But as couple after couple were scuttled, my parents danced on. My dad, who I’d never seen do anything more athletic than mow the lawn, was Mr. Smooth out there. He did this hip wiggle thing that was so hilarious even my mother laughed. And mom….well mom was more uninhibited than I’d ever seen her. If I hadn’t been serving the punch myself I would have thought it had been spiked and she was dancing under the influence.
But nope, she was just having fun. I was so unused to it that it took me by surprise.
But what was more surprising was the fact that my parents, my staid and conservative parents, won the St. Edith’s Valentine’s Dance Mambo Contest. Dinner for two at Mariani’s Steak Pit.
Between them my mother and father were on every church committee in town. Dad ran the Our Lady of Angels bingo game every Monday night for at least 5 years. He was president of the father’s club. Ran the concession booth at the fall festival. Drove the mini bus for the senior trip to Reno.
Mom was equally busy over at St. Edith’s Episcopal. President of the ladies guild. Did the Sunday flowers every second weekend of the year for a dozen years. Co-chair of the St. Edith’s fashion show.
And, of course, they went to every dinner, dance, and pageant that both churches threw.
And while the adult in me applauds their community spirit, the kid I was cringed as we got roped into yet another horrible job of busing tables, making cotton candy, running a spotlight, and generally used as slave labor for God.
But, in many ways, I was repaid for all of this on the night my parents entered the St. Edith’s Valentine’s Dance Mambo Contest.
As usual I’d been volunteered by my mom for something. I tried to argue that dad was raising me Catholic and my allegiance was to OLA and I had proved that allegiance the previous month by getting up at 6 am on a Saturday to pour coffee at the pancake breakfast.
Mothers do not accept arguments. And so the day of the dance I spent hours climbing ladders (which I hate) and scotch taping red construction paper hearts all over the walls of the St. Edith’s cafeteria. Fun! I also had to sweep, set up roughly 347,000 folding chairs, and frost 8 million cupcakes with Pepto-pink frosting.
And then she dropped the bombshell….oh yes, she had also volunteered me to pour punch at the dance itself. There was I, stupidly thinking that working all day got me out of having to go to the dance itself. Silly me. Nope. She did give in and take me to McDonalds for dinner, but then it was straight back to the chain gang.
No greater hell exists than being 14 years old and being forced to watch your parents and your friends’ parents dance.
But it was actually pretty funny. I mean who would have known that Mr. and Mrs. Foster, owners of Speedy Dry Cleaners, would turn out to be the Fred and Ginger of Silver Creek? They did moves I’d never seen outside of the late-late show. And all without ever looking the other in the face. The looked at the floor, at the other dancers, at my crummy construction paper hearts, but never at each other. It was the weirdest thing.
Our neighbors, the Blocks, turned out to have four left feet. And the Reverend Polehouse and his wife did a fine job of turning every single dance into a foxtrot.
But the big surprise was when they announced the Mambo contest and my mom and dad got onto the floor. Really? My parents could mambo?
Mr. Lucas, who was acting as DJ and master of ceremonies, put on some classic Perez Prado and the couples began to move. Reverend Polehouse seemed to recognize the futility of trying to turn his foxtrot into a mambo and volunteered to be the judge. One extremely apologetic tap on the shoulder and a couple was eliminated.
The Blocks were the first to go. Not surprising considering the fact that before the vocals even began they had bumped into each other and Mr. Block’s glasses had fallen off. But as couple after couple were scuttled, my parents danced on. My dad, who I’d never seen do anything more athletic than mow the lawn, was Mr. Smooth out there. He did this hip wiggle thing that was so hilarious even my mother laughed. And mom….well mom was more uninhibited than I’d ever seen her. If I hadn’t been serving the punch myself I would have thought it had been spiked and she was dancing under the influence.
But nope, she was just having fun. I was so unused to it that it took me by surprise.
But what was more surprising was the fact that my parents, my staid and conservative parents, won the St. Edith’s Valentine’s Dance Mambo Contest. Dinner for two at Mariani’s Steak Pit.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Them's Good Eats
Hello lovies. I hope you're all safe and warm wherever you are. That your Christmas/Chanukkah/Kwanza/Solstice was happy and relatively crisis-free. We survived and, once the family obligations were over with, had a lovely time. In spite of my being sick yet again, Husband managed to spoil me on my birthday (the 23rd) and Christmas with Husband and Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) was great.
But on to last night...
Husband and I have some incredibly wonderful friends. Last night we had dinner with one of our favorite couple's at their beautiful home in the Silicon Valley. The Lurker (she reads, but never comments - so Hi Lurker!) and her husband, the Ninja, are warm and wonderful folks. And last night we were also reminded of what amazing hosts they are. The Lurker is a wonderful cook. Everything we had, from the amazing appetizer's to the scrumpy dessert (made my the Ninja's mom) was just mind-blowingly good. Last night I had brussels sprouts that were good. For the first time in my life. After so many people saying "you just haven't had them the way I cook them" only to taste that awful brussels sprouty taste yet again. Last night it was warm and delicious and kind of sweet. There was swordfish so tender that it was practically liquid. A quinoa salad that had just enough heat. A salad with pickled onions. Everything was relatively simple, but so fresh, so tasty that I sat there in a haze of inadequacy at the knowledge that I'd never be able to produce anything even remotely that good.
No, I'm not making a contest out of it. Nor is it. I just meant that the Lurker has the knack for combining flavors that I wouldn't dream of and making everything delicious. Add some good wine and great conversation and you have a perfect evening.
(To the Lurker: A thank-you card is in the mail because I am a very properly brought up young lady.)
Hello lovies. I hope you're all safe and warm wherever you are. That your Christmas/Chanukkah/Kwanza/Solstice was happy and relatively crisis-free. We survived and, once the family obligations were over with, had a lovely time. In spite of my being sick yet again, Husband managed to spoil me on my birthday (the 23rd) and Christmas with Husband and Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) was great.
But on to last night...
Husband and I have some incredibly wonderful friends. Last night we had dinner with one of our favorite couple's at their beautiful home in the Silicon Valley. The Lurker (she reads, but never comments - so Hi Lurker!) and her husband, the Ninja, are warm and wonderful folks. And last night we were also reminded of what amazing hosts they are. The Lurker is a wonderful cook. Everything we had, from the amazing appetizer's to the scrumpy dessert (made my the Ninja's mom) was just mind-blowingly good. Last night I had brussels sprouts that were good. For the first time in my life. After so many people saying "you just haven't had them the way I cook them" only to taste that awful brussels sprouty taste yet again. Last night it was warm and delicious and kind of sweet. There was swordfish so tender that it was practically liquid. A quinoa salad that had just enough heat. A salad with pickled onions. Everything was relatively simple, but so fresh, so tasty that I sat there in a haze of inadequacy at the knowledge that I'd never be able to produce anything even remotely that good.
No, I'm not making a contest out of it. Nor is it. I just meant that the Lurker has the knack for combining flavors that I wouldn't dream of and making everything delicious. Add some good wine and great conversation and you have a perfect evening.
(To the Lurker: A thank-you card is in the mail because I am a very properly brought up young lady.)
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Unpredictably Musicality
When I do my radio show I plan nothing in advance.
I may pull a few CDs from my own library, but most of what I plays comes from the station and I make it up as a I go along. I start with a song and then go from there. Usually I try to avoid jarring segues, like from an upbeat salsa directly into some sad Celtic ballad. But other than that, there are no rules.
Because of this I'm always a bit surprised to go back and look at a show's playlist (tonight's show can be found here) and find unexpected trends. For instance, I seem to have gone heavily into Africa, the Middle East, and Latin music tonight. I have no idea why and it was certainly without malice aforethought. It just happened that way. The Alma Afrobeat Ensemble, Boubacar Traore, Rahim Alhaj, Rachid Taha...they all just sort of fell into my musical mind tonight.
That's one of the things I love about being a DJ at a college radio station, the freedom to play whatever I want. And finding the unexpected thread.
Except for specials (like my annual Thanksgiving week Native American show) there are no rules to my show. If I like it, I play it. And I have been known to stop a song mid-chorus when I discovered I didn't like it. Unprofessional? Sure. But hey, I'm a volunteer DJ and I refuse to play crappy music. And I do tend to go heavily into the upbeat. But when I get home and discover I've gone heavily into Celtic music or played a lot of Cuban tunes, it's always a nice surprise.
In the middle of my show I don't plan more than one song ahead, so I typically have 3-4 minutes to decide what to play next. I don't really put much thought into the theme, just "what would follow what is playing now?" And I do like to break things up so I don't do something like a Latin set followed by a South African set. It's more fun when you play Japanese pop and then lead into Finnish folk music.
OK, I'm rambling...but anyone searching for a dissertation topic might want to look into college radio and what drives a DJ to play, without intention, certain types of music on certain nights.
When I do my radio show I plan nothing in advance.
I may pull a few CDs from my own library, but most of what I plays comes from the station and I make it up as a I go along. I start with a song and then go from there. Usually I try to avoid jarring segues, like from an upbeat salsa directly into some sad Celtic ballad. But other than that, there are no rules.
Because of this I'm always a bit surprised to go back and look at a show's playlist (tonight's show can be found here) and find unexpected trends. For instance, I seem to have gone heavily into Africa, the Middle East, and Latin music tonight. I have no idea why and it was certainly without malice aforethought. It just happened that way. The Alma Afrobeat Ensemble, Boubacar Traore, Rahim Alhaj, Rachid Taha...they all just sort of fell into my musical mind tonight.
That's one of the things I love about being a DJ at a college radio station, the freedom to play whatever I want. And finding the unexpected thread.
Except for specials (like my annual Thanksgiving week Native American show) there are no rules to my show. If I like it, I play it. And I have been known to stop a song mid-chorus when I discovered I didn't like it. Unprofessional? Sure. But hey, I'm a volunteer DJ and I refuse to play crappy music. And I do tend to go heavily into the upbeat. But when I get home and discover I've gone heavily into Celtic music or played a lot of Cuban tunes, it's always a nice surprise.
In the middle of my show I don't plan more than one song ahead, so I typically have 3-4 minutes to decide what to play next. I don't really put much thought into the theme, just "what would follow what is playing now?" And I do like to break things up so I don't do something like a Latin set followed by a South African set. It's more fun when you play Japanese pop and then lead into Finnish folk music.
OK, I'm rambling...but anyone searching for a dissertation topic might want to look into college radio and what drives a DJ to play, without intention, certain types of music on certain nights.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Radio, Radio
Tune in tonight from 5:30-8 (Pacific time) to At the Cafe Bohemian my weekly world music show. No idea what I'm going to play but I can promise most of it won't be in English.
Tune in tonight from 5:30-8 (Pacific time) to At the Cafe Bohemian my weekly world music show. No idea what I'm going to play but I can promise most of it won't be in English.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Scenes from Silver Creek: The Santa Factor
In the wonderful world before mega malls and Walmarts, towns like Silver Creek had one-off so-called department stores where most people did their shopping. Ours was called Brightman’s and, yes, it was owned by a family of that name.
On the day after Thanksgiving Brightman’s would always open their Winter Wonderland. This spectacle, rivaled only by the Rockettes, consisted of a badly-painted North Pole backdrop and a moth-eaten red throne where Santa would sit while legions of Silver Creek’s kids poured out their desires for Red Flyer wagons and Malibu Barbies.
In my senior year of high school I applied at Brightman’s for the Christmas rush. I really wanted to work in the gift wrap department. What I got was elf duty. Oh god, no. Appearing before all my friends in a red and green elf costume, complete with turned-up shoes, was a trauma from which I thought I’d never recover. But I needed the money and I had just enough of a weird sense of humor to see the lunacy in it all. So I took the job.
Santa was played by Major Thackerman. Retired Marine. He didn’t so much ho-ho-ho as order kids to tell them what they wanted and then get the heck off his lap. He asked “have you been a good little boy?” in such a way that the child felt a “no” would result in having to drop and give him 50 pushups.
My fellow Catholic sufferers from OLA always had a bit of confusion going on about Santa and the confessional. So when Santa would ask about our naughty or niceness, we’d take it as instructions to get our sins off our chest, not a yes or no question. And any kid who felt honest enough to fess up to tiny infractions like “I suppose I could have been nicer to my mom and cleaned up my room before she asked” received a stern lecture on obedience to authority that would lead the child to feel so unworthy of receiving Christmas gifts as to render the very act of asking Santa irrelevant. Usually we’d slink off with our tiny cellophane-wrapped candy cane with a firm determination to be a better person and to suck it up on Christmas morning when all we got was new socks.
But I was a teenager then and no longer afraid of Santa, though I was still kinda freaked out by Major Thackerman. On those days when the Major was off, he was replaced by Waldo Hicks. Mr. Hicks ate more candy canes that he gave away because he mistakenly thought they masked the intense scent of scotch that emanated from him. Waldo was, of course, an alcoholic. But back then we would just say he drank. He was a happy drunk, not a maudlin one, so his ho-ho-ho was genuine. As was his red nose. And, unlike our retired Marine, Waldo needed no padding.
Children weren’t afraid of Waldo the way they were with the Major. And the Waldo Santa as fun. He told silly knock-knock jokes and bad riddles and laughed a lot. Sure he once got in trouble for telling Billy Morrison that he deserved the 10-speed bike he wanted because Billy’s mom was a fine-looking woman. But hey, the kids liked him and he fit the suit.
So there I was, mostly mortified by the costume. Working with General Patton and Foster Brooks. It was my job to stand by Santa’s throne and help the kids on and off his lap, helping to position them correctly so that Sandy (photography elf) could get the requisite shot of terrified kid meeting Saint Nick. Oh yes, and I handed out candy canes.
It was quite an education, I must say. Mostly cementing my conviction that I had no maternal instincts and never, ever, ever wanted to have kids. All that screaming and crying. The ear-splitting shrill cries that only kids can achieve.
But there was one perk to the job and that was working the Brightman’s employee Christmas party.
The best thing about it was being in on it when the employees, exhausted by a long season of long hours and crazy customers, got looped on the contents of an open bar and spilled their secrets to our crazy Santas.
For that party, Waldo was always in the chair because (between you and me) the Brightman’s were just as terrified of the Major as the kids were. (Antlhough the major was always invited.) But the combination of drunken Santa and drunken adults telling him their wishes was ripe for blackmail material. Too bad I didn’t take notes.
There was Mrs. Linker, who managed the cosmetics department, asking for a date with James Garner. (Who knew she had a thing for Rockford?) And Mr. Leary of the sporting goods floor who said he wanted season’s tickets to the 49ers and a date with Mrs. Linker. (Sadly, Mr. Leary looked nothing like James Garner.)
Marian Franklin, sister of my Chemistry teacher, asked Santa for naughty underwear in a voice that made poor Waldo blush under his beard. (I later learned that Miss Franklin and Waldo had a thing going on.)
In between tipsy wishes, Waldo refreshed himself from his thermos of “coffee,” which amused me because there was an open bar and he was still hiding his liquor. And since I didn’t have to do much that night but stand around in that stupid elf suit, I was able to raid the dessert table for chocolate éclairs and buttery Christmas cookies.
My friend Sean was working that year in the men’s department and aside from deriving years of inside jokes about how I look in red and green felt with a pointy hat, having him at the party was golden. The rent-a-bartender was pretty lax about IDs so Sean and I got pretty hammered as well. And with free food, a DJ, and endless freedom to mock all the people we’d had to put up with over the past two months, the night was pretty damned fun.
Until Major Santa realized we’d been hitting the free booze. Unsurprisingly, a hard-assed retired Marine had little patience for underage drinking. “I want your names,” he commanded in tones that booked no question. But hey, I never was good with authority.
“You jerk,” I said, “I’ve been working next to you for two months now and you don’t even know my name?”
And then Sean, never one to leave well enough alone, felt compelled to add. “I think you mean Major Jerk.”
At which point, we both ran.
The next day I burned the elf costume. When I had recovered from my hangover, that is.
In the wonderful world before mega malls and Walmarts, towns like Silver Creek had one-off so-called department stores where most people did their shopping. Ours was called Brightman’s and, yes, it was owned by a family of that name.
On the day after Thanksgiving Brightman’s would always open their Winter Wonderland. This spectacle, rivaled only by the Rockettes, consisted of a badly-painted North Pole backdrop and a moth-eaten red throne where Santa would sit while legions of Silver Creek’s kids poured out their desires for Red Flyer wagons and Malibu Barbies.
In my senior year of high school I applied at Brightman’s for the Christmas rush. I really wanted to work in the gift wrap department. What I got was elf duty. Oh god, no. Appearing before all my friends in a red and green elf costume, complete with turned-up shoes, was a trauma from which I thought I’d never recover. But I needed the money and I had just enough of a weird sense of humor to see the lunacy in it all. So I took the job.
Santa was played by Major Thackerman. Retired Marine. He didn’t so much ho-ho-ho as order kids to tell them what they wanted and then get the heck off his lap. He asked “have you been a good little boy?” in such a way that the child felt a “no” would result in having to drop and give him 50 pushups.
My fellow Catholic sufferers from OLA always had a bit of confusion going on about Santa and the confessional. So when Santa would ask about our naughty or niceness, we’d take it as instructions to get our sins off our chest, not a yes or no question. And any kid who felt honest enough to fess up to tiny infractions like “I suppose I could have been nicer to my mom and cleaned up my room before she asked” received a stern lecture on obedience to authority that would lead the child to feel so unworthy of receiving Christmas gifts as to render the very act of asking Santa irrelevant. Usually we’d slink off with our tiny cellophane-wrapped candy cane with a firm determination to be a better person and to suck it up on Christmas morning when all we got was new socks.
But I was a teenager then and no longer afraid of Santa, though I was still kinda freaked out by Major Thackerman. On those days when the Major was off, he was replaced by Waldo Hicks. Mr. Hicks ate more candy canes that he gave away because he mistakenly thought they masked the intense scent of scotch that emanated from him. Waldo was, of course, an alcoholic. But back then we would just say he drank. He was a happy drunk, not a maudlin one, so his ho-ho-ho was genuine. As was his red nose. And, unlike our retired Marine, Waldo needed no padding.
Children weren’t afraid of Waldo the way they were with the Major. And the Waldo Santa as fun. He told silly knock-knock jokes and bad riddles and laughed a lot. Sure he once got in trouble for telling Billy Morrison that he deserved the 10-speed bike he wanted because Billy’s mom was a fine-looking woman. But hey, the kids liked him and he fit the suit.
So there I was, mostly mortified by the costume. Working with General Patton and Foster Brooks. It was my job to stand by Santa’s throne and help the kids on and off his lap, helping to position them correctly so that Sandy (photography elf) could get the requisite shot of terrified kid meeting Saint Nick. Oh yes, and I handed out candy canes.
It was quite an education, I must say. Mostly cementing my conviction that I had no maternal instincts and never, ever, ever wanted to have kids. All that screaming and crying. The ear-splitting shrill cries that only kids can achieve.
But there was one perk to the job and that was working the Brightman’s employee Christmas party.
The best thing about it was being in on it when the employees, exhausted by a long season of long hours and crazy customers, got looped on the contents of an open bar and spilled their secrets to our crazy Santas.
For that party, Waldo was always in the chair because (between you and me) the Brightman’s were just as terrified of the Major as the kids were. (Antlhough the major was always invited.) But the combination of drunken Santa and drunken adults telling him their wishes was ripe for blackmail material. Too bad I didn’t take notes.
There was Mrs. Linker, who managed the cosmetics department, asking for a date with James Garner. (Who knew she had a thing for Rockford?) And Mr. Leary of the sporting goods floor who said he wanted season’s tickets to the 49ers and a date with Mrs. Linker. (Sadly, Mr. Leary looked nothing like James Garner.)
Marian Franklin, sister of my Chemistry teacher, asked Santa for naughty underwear in a voice that made poor Waldo blush under his beard. (I later learned that Miss Franklin and Waldo had a thing going on.)
In between tipsy wishes, Waldo refreshed himself from his thermos of “coffee,” which amused me because there was an open bar and he was still hiding his liquor. And since I didn’t have to do much that night but stand around in that stupid elf suit, I was able to raid the dessert table for chocolate éclairs and buttery Christmas cookies.
My friend Sean was working that year in the men’s department and aside from deriving years of inside jokes about how I look in red and green felt with a pointy hat, having him at the party was golden. The rent-a-bartender was pretty lax about IDs so Sean and I got pretty hammered as well. And with free food, a DJ, and endless freedom to mock all the people we’d had to put up with over the past two months, the night was pretty damned fun.
Until Major Santa realized we’d been hitting the free booze. Unsurprisingly, a hard-assed retired Marine had little patience for underage drinking. “I want your names,” he commanded in tones that booked no question. But hey, I never was good with authority.
“You jerk,” I said, “I’ve been working next to you for two months now and you don’t even know my name?”
And then Sean, never one to leave well enough alone, felt compelled to add. “I think you mean Major Jerk.”
At which point, we both ran.
The next day I burned the elf costume. When I had recovered from my hangover, that is.
The Cat Thief
Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) will steal any warm spot in the house. If you get up from the sofa for two minutes to refill your water bottle, you will come back to find your seat has been turned into a cat bed.
If you get up to pee at 3 am you can count on returning to a bed that includes a cat where you were just sleeping.
Sometimes she looks so darned adorable we just don't have the heart to kick her out, so we change seats or move to the center of the bed instead of the side where you usually sleep.
In my case, this cute thievery runs to a non-stop power struggle for control of the most prized object either of us have access to the heating pad.
I have chronic back pain and the heating pad helps. (Not as much as the Vicodin helps, but it helps nonetheless.) I often will curl up on the sofa with the pad set on low to help ease my soreness, while Cipher plots her scheme to steal it from me. Sometimes she comes right out with her paws and tries to slide it out from behind me. Surprisingly enough for her, this doesn't work. So she curls up and gives me the "I am a pitiful cat and nobody loves me" look that she is convinced will get her everything she wants. This, too, doesn't work. So she waits. And the moment my ass lifts off the sofa, she's there. I don't even get to take a step away from the couch before she's moved in for the kill. She'll pull the pad down so it's flat on the sofa and then she'll curl up on it.
And I come back to a rather smug kitty trying hard to look innocent and failing miserably. But I'm such a pushover that she frequently gets to keep it.
Because Cipher is the queen.
Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) will steal any warm spot in the house. If you get up from the sofa for two minutes to refill your water bottle, you will come back to find your seat has been turned into a cat bed.
If you get up to pee at 3 am you can count on returning to a bed that includes a cat where you were just sleeping.
Sometimes she looks so darned adorable we just don't have the heart to kick her out, so we change seats or move to the center of the bed instead of the side where you usually sleep.
In my case, this cute thievery runs to a non-stop power struggle for control of the most prized object either of us have access to the heating pad.
I have chronic back pain and the heating pad helps. (Not as much as the Vicodin helps, but it helps nonetheless.) I often will curl up on the sofa with the pad set on low to help ease my soreness, while Cipher plots her scheme to steal it from me. Sometimes she comes right out with her paws and tries to slide it out from behind me. Surprisingly enough for her, this doesn't work. So she curls up and gives me the "I am a pitiful cat and nobody loves me" look that she is convinced will get her everything she wants. This, too, doesn't work. So she waits. And the moment my ass lifts off the sofa, she's there. I don't even get to take a step away from the couch before she's moved in for the kill. She'll pull the pad down so it's flat on the sofa and then she'll curl up on it.
And I come back to a rather smug kitty trying hard to look innocent and failing miserably. But I'm such a pushover that she frequently gets to keep it.
Because Cipher is the queen.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Deconstructing The Big Sleep
Husband and I both love old movies. Give us Astaire and Rogers, the Marx Brothers, or Bogart and Bacall and we're in heaven. There are some movies that we've each seen dozens of times and will always watch when we see them in the TV listings. I am genetically incapable of not watching Casablanca if it's on. Never mind that I could probably quote the entire movie, if it's on I'm there. Popcorn, Husband, and Sam playing "As Time Goes By"...life doesn't get much better.
One of those must-watch films is The Big Sleep. Based on a Raymond Chandler novel, the Big Sleep is a crime classic with Bogart as Philip Marlowe and the plot has something to do with a kidnapping, blackmail, a couple of murders, and general law breaking. I say "something to do with" because in spite of the fact that I've probably watched the movie upwards of 50 times, I do not understand what the hell is going on. It has a storyline that is not so much complex as incomprehensible.
There are perhaps 20 characters that either appear or are referred to in the script and many of them I couldn't tell you who they were. There's an old guy who talks about orchids being "too like the flesh of man." There's Bacall smoking hot as one daughter of the old guy. Her younger sister is a drug addict who is being blackmailed and who I don't think appears sober in the entire film. There's a missing chauffeur who doesn't actually appear but his existence is crucial to the plot. Too bad I'm not sure why he's crucial. Bogart is, of course, Marlowe -- the smart-talking, world-weary private dick hired by old guy to help with the blackmail. There's another offstage character named Geiger who owns a bookstore that's a front for something (still no clue what). He's got a sexy adenoidal receptionist who knows nothing about books but who has a small guy with a big crush willing to drink something lethal rather than sell her out. There's some sort of charade about Bacall being at a casino and pretending to win money so a payoff looks nothing like a payoff. And there's a shoot-out at the end.
If I'm vague on the details it's because i am vague on the details. Again, I could quote entire blocks of dialog but I'm still not sure who killed the driver.
And yet, in spite of my ongoing confusion, I love this movie. Most movies that are incomprehensible just annoy the crap out of me. But this is an exception. Perhaps it's because of the razor-sharp dialog (William Faulkner was one of the co-writers of the screenplay). When Bogart and Bacall flirt you can feel the heat coming off the screen. There's a great scene where they're talking about horse racing and it turns into verbal foreplay with Bacall commenting that when it comes to "going the distance" that "it depends on who's in the saddle." Maybe it's the way Marlowe alternates between confused, amused, and just plain angry throughout the film. It could be the intelligent and slightly sly direction by Howard Hawks. But there's something in the magical alchemy that went into this film that captivates me every single time.
And every single time that Husband and I watch it, we turn to each other as the end credits roll and ask "what just happened?"
Husband and I both love old movies. Give us Astaire and Rogers, the Marx Brothers, or Bogart and Bacall and we're in heaven. There are some movies that we've each seen dozens of times and will always watch when we see them in the TV listings. I am genetically incapable of not watching Casablanca if it's on. Never mind that I could probably quote the entire movie, if it's on I'm there. Popcorn, Husband, and Sam playing "As Time Goes By"...life doesn't get much better.
One of those must-watch films is The Big Sleep. Based on a Raymond Chandler novel, the Big Sleep is a crime classic with Bogart as Philip Marlowe and the plot has something to do with a kidnapping, blackmail, a couple of murders, and general law breaking. I say "something to do with" because in spite of the fact that I've probably watched the movie upwards of 50 times, I do not understand what the hell is going on. It has a storyline that is not so much complex as incomprehensible.
There are perhaps 20 characters that either appear or are referred to in the script and many of them I couldn't tell you who they were. There's an old guy who talks about orchids being "too like the flesh of man." There's Bacall smoking hot as one daughter of the old guy. Her younger sister is a drug addict who is being blackmailed and who I don't think appears sober in the entire film. There's a missing chauffeur who doesn't actually appear but his existence is crucial to the plot. Too bad I'm not sure why he's crucial. Bogart is, of course, Marlowe -- the smart-talking, world-weary private dick hired by old guy to help with the blackmail. There's another offstage character named Geiger who owns a bookstore that's a front for something (still no clue what). He's got a sexy adenoidal receptionist who knows nothing about books but who has a small guy with a big crush willing to drink something lethal rather than sell her out. There's some sort of charade about Bacall being at a casino and pretending to win money so a payoff looks nothing like a payoff. And there's a shoot-out at the end.
If I'm vague on the details it's because i am vague on the details. Again, I could quote entire blocks of dialog but I'm still not sure who killed the driver.
And yet, in spite of my ongoing confusion, I love this movie. Most movies that are incomprehensible just annoy the crap out of me. But this is an exception. Perhaps it's because of the razor-sharp dialog (William Faulkner was one of the co-writers of the screenplay). When Bogart and Bacall flirt you can feel the heat coming off the screen. There's a great scene where they're talking about horse racing and it turns into verbal foreplay with Bacall commenting that when it comes to "going the distance" that "it depends on who's in the saddle." Maybe it's the way Marlowe alternates between confused, amused, and just plain angry throughout the film. It could be the intelligent and slightly sly direction by Howard Hawks. But there's something in the magical alchemy that went into this film that captivates me every single time.
And every single time that Husband and I watch it, we turn to each other as the end credits roll and ask "what just happened?"
Thursday, December 09, 2010
Chronicles of a Cat
Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm), like most cats, prizes her coolness. Cats are cool. The jazz hipsters of the animal world. Sure they get crazy when they play. Every cat does that "run as fast as you can around the house for no reason" thing. But for the most part, they are smooth.
Which is why it's so funny when they do something totally spastic and then give you that "I meant to do that" look. Cipher (again, like most cats) likes to sleep on the top of the sofa. So there she was, napping away. Having hip cat dreams. And then the UPS guy rang the doorbell. Cipher, surprised out of her sleep, twitches and falls down onto the sofa. (Luckily she fell forward and not down the back onto the floor.) She immediately scrambles up into a sitting position and looks at me as if to say "you laugh at your peril, woman." Of course I laughed. So hard I gave myself a coughing fit.
It was just so endearingly absurd and she was trying so hard to pretend it never happened. Ah, if only I'd had a video camera.
Working with shelter cats I see a lot of those "I meant to do that" moments. Cats, in spite of their insistence on hipness, do a lot of unintentionally stupid things. There are the cats who run into the window while chasing a toy. "I totally knew that window was there. I was just using it to change my trajectory." The cats who fall off the bench "just testing to make sure gravity still works." And cats who pounce on an object and completely miss it "just putting the fear of Cat into that hapless pipe cleaner."
One of the things that cats don't realize is that it's impossible to play and look cool at the same time. They try, poor things, but never succeed. It defies the laws of nature to maintain a hipster vibe while being menaced with the creature that is your own tail. And that little chirping at the birds noise they make? So not threatening. "Yeah, you stupid finch. come over here and see whose boss!' That's what they think they're saying. But what they're actually saying is "I'm trying to fool you with my bird call but I just sound like I've got a goldfish down my throat."
As any cat owner will tell you, cats have marvelous personalities. Dog owners will say "cats are too aloof" when the truth is that cats, for all their posing, are just Vaudeville comedians with tails. Dogs are fun, sure, but because they are naturally goofy it's not that much of a surprise when they do something that makes you bust out with a laugh. But cats, by their nature, are unexpectedly hilarious and that makes it all the funnier when they break through that wall of poise and fall down onto the sofa.
Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm), like most cats, prizes her coolness. Cats are cool. The jazz hipsters of the animal world. Sure they get crazy when they play. Every cat does that "run as fast as you can around the house for no reason" thing. But for the most part, they are smooth.
Which is why it's so funny when they do something totally spastic and then give you that "I meant to do that" look. Cipher (again, like most cats) likes to sleep on the top of the sofa. So there she was, napping away. Having hip cat dreams. And then the UPS guy rang the doorbell. Cipher, surprised out of her sleep, twitches and falls down onto the sofa. (Luckily she fell forward and not down the back onto the floor.) She immediately scrambles up into a sitting position and looks at me as if to say "you laugh at your peril, woman." Of course I laughed. So hard I gave myself a coughing fit.
It was just so endearingly absurd and she was trying so hard to pretend it never happened. Ah, if only I'd had a video camera.
Working with shelter cats I see a lot of those "I meant to do that" moments. Cats, in spite of their insistence on hipness, do a lot of unintentionally stupid things. There are the cats who run into the window while chasing a toy. "I totally knew that window was there. I was just using it to change my trajectory." The cats who fall off the bench "just testing to make sure gravity still works." And cats who pounce on an object and completely miss it "just putting the fear of Cat into that hapless pipe cleaner."
One of the things that cats don't realize is that it's impossible to play and look cool at the same time. They try, poor things, but never succeed. It defies the laws of nature to maintain a hipster vibe while being menaced with the creature that is your own tail. And that little chirping at the birds noise they make? So not threatening. "Yeah, you stupid finch. come over here and see whose boss!' That's what they think they're saying. But what they're actually saying is "I'm trying to fool you with my bird call but I just sound like I've got a goldfish down my throat."
As any cat owner will tell you, cats have marvelous personalities. Dog owners will say "cats are too aloof" when the truth is that cats, for all their posing, are just Vaudeville comedians with tails. Dogs are fun, sure, but because they are naturally goofy it's not that much of a surprise when they do something that makes you bust out with a laugh. But cats, by their nature, are unexpectedly hilarious and that makes it all the funnier when they break through that wall of poise and fall down onto the sofa.
Sunday, December 05, 2010
Ratzilla
I ranted a few weeks ago about this gigantic rat that ate my car and did $700 worth of damage. Well apparently sucking on my transmission wasn't enough so he decided he needed our Christmas decorations as an appetizer. Serves us right for not making chicken wings available for him. But hey, we ain't Hooters.
Husband and I got our Christmas tree today and went up into the loft in our garage where we store Crap We Only Use Once a Year. Like our huge suitcase (nibbled on). Our folding chairs (nibbled on). And our Christmas decorations (eaten).
Luckily our favorites are in a heavy-duty Tupperware container and suffered no damage. But the box containing our lights had a huge hole eaten out of the side, so we'll need to make sure the wires are OK before we string them. But we had a document box (with lid!) filled with some of our second-tier ornaments and Ratzilla ate himself a lovely door and then proceeded to go all a la carte on the contents of the box. I am sad to say that Santa has been eaten by a rat. We had a cloth Santa ornament and the little fucker ate all the stuffing out of him. He also shredded a small, dark blue cardboard box so everything else is covered in blue confetti. He also seems to have eaten the head off an angel. (Shame on him!)
Being an animal lover, I must confess to feeling guilty about setting about to kill something as sentient as a rat. I have no problem squishing spiders and am the scourge of any hapless ant unlucky enough to come into my society. But rats are cartoon characters and I was sort of upset when Husband and I put out lovely little trays full of lovely little ratsbane. But considering the $700 and the demise of Santa, I can only say the miscreant got just what he deserved.
I just hope he wasn't part of a gang.
Yes, at our home we support the death penalty for the consuming of angels and Hondas.
I ranted a few weeks ago about this gigantic rat that ate my car and did $700 worth of damage. Well apparently sucking on my transmission wasn't enough so he decided he needed our Christmas decorations as an appetizer. Serves us right for not making chicken wings available for him. But hey, we ain't Hooters.
Husband and I got our Christmas tree today and went up into the loft in our garage where we store Crap We Only Use Once a Year. Like our huge suitcase (nibbled on). Our folding chairs (nibbled on). And our Christmas decorations (eaten).
Luckily our favorites are in a heavy-duty Tupperware container and suffered no damage. But the box containing our lights had a huge hole eaten out of the side, so we'll need to make sure the wires are OK before we string them. But we had a document box (with lid!) filled with some of our second-tier ornaments and Ratzilla ate himself a lovely door and then proceeded to go all a la carte on the contents of the box. I am sad to say that Santa has been eaten by a rat. We had a cloth Santa ornament and the little fucker ate all the stuffing out of him. He also shredded a small, dark blue cardboard box so everything else is covered in blue confetti. He also seems to have eaten the head off an angel. (Shame on him!)
Being an animal lover, I must confess to feeling guilty about setting about to kill something as sentient as a rat. I have no problem squishing spiders and am the scourge of any hapless ant unlucky enough to come into my society. But rats are cartoon characters and I was sort of upset when Husband and I put out lovely little trays full of lovely little ratsbane. But considering the $700 and the demise of Santa, I can only say the miscreant got just what he deserved.
I just hope he wasn't part of a gang.
Yes, at our home we support the death penalty for the consuming of angels and Hondas.
Friday, December 03, 2010
Scenes from Silver Creek: Busing Tables for God
Our Lady of Angels, like most churches, was constantly having fundraisers. Monday night bingo was a staple and my dad was the caller for many years. The annual Fall Carnival. Selling Christmas seals. Selling candy bars. Selling Christmas trees. Car washes.
And, of course, food.
The St. Patrick’s Day corned beef & cabbage dinner.
The 4th of July pancake breakfast.
The Columbus Day spaghetti dinner.
The end of Fall Carnival bar-b-que.
The Easter brunch.
I swear I spent my entire childhood waiting tables. Because, of course, all the kids were free labor.
The parents did all the cooking, of course, but us kids got roped in for everything else. We swept and cleaned the cafeteria. We set up the tables. We made centerpieces and laid out silverware and glasses. We took tickets. And we schlepped food for hours. Delivering endless plates of food to people who were used to dealing with actual waiters and waitresses and expected us to behave in kind.
We cleared the dirties. Brought coffee and dessert. Fetched and carried. And hated every minute of it. We grumbled about child labor laws and wondered if this would cut our time in Purgatory. But we were not allowed to back out. For days before these events every Catholic kids all over Silver Creek would come down with mysterious illnesses. A combination of flu-like symptoms and scurvy. Perhaps gout. Maybe a touch of the plague.
But their heartless parents would accept nothing less than loss of limb as an excuse to get out of serving duty. In spite of our protestations and our no-doubt wildly contagious illness would infect the entire population of Silver Creek, mothers would deliver us to the cafeteria on time and tell us to behave ourselves.
We’d say goodbye our families with a note of “I’ll never see you again as I’m going off to be a Catholic martyr since serving spaghetti to the pious is just the same as being burnt at the stake” and off we’d go to do our duty. Sadly the parents never gave us the goodbyes our sad state deserved and we were left with the feeling that they didn’t actually care about us.
Sister Luke always seemed to be in charge of the children’s waiter corps and would check our names off on an ancient clipboard. Then she’d hand us aprons so big we’d have to fold them over three or four times so we wouldn’t trip on them. Then she’d give us a crash course in how to deliver food (“crash” being the operative word as someone always managed to drop an entire tray of whatever the night’s meal was) and set us loose.
The parental cooking staff always seemed to be made up of the bossiest people in the parish. Looking back I’m sure they were exhausted by the weeks of planning and days of cooking. But as a child they were something out of Uncle Tom’s Cabin and we lived in fear of being noticed. God forbid you should actually make eye contact with one, they’d take that as free reign to make you their personal child slave and you’d spend the rest of the night being ordered about by Mrs. Cruson or Mrs. Peterson.
Consequently the children of OLA were notorious for their bad posture as we all developed a habit of looking at the floor and not actually at anyone. Being repeatedly told to “stand up straight” was better than having Mr. Freire say “You! More garlic bread on the table by the Virgin Mary.” (Invariably your personal slave driver called you “you.” On the nights of fundraiser dinners, every child became “You.” We even had name badges on our aprons. But the cooks were too busy slicing and stirring to read.
I remember one night, I think it was the corned beef & cabbage dinner, when You McKay, You Carpenter, You Folsom and I were on salad duty. We’d walk around the drafty room with huge wooden bowls of salad. These things were the size of taiko drums and weighed a ton. And they were filled with a gourmet mix of iceberg lettuce and an oil and vinegar dressing that slopped over the rim and stained our aprons with a pink tinge. In the middle of serving one us hapless kids, I think it was Marty Carpenter (Sorry, “You” Carpenter) tripped over an untied shoelace and sprayed salad and dressing over half of the women’s club table. There were screams. There was iceberg in the bouffant. And there was Father Sheehey throwing napkins into the fray and muttering “Jesus, Mary, and all the saints!” repeatedly under his breath.
The background accompaniment to all this chaos was the song stylings of Tony Cavalerro and the Cavaliers.
How do I describe them?
Well, “bad” pretty much sums it up. But they really achieved impressive nuances of bad. First off Tony C (as he liked to be called) couldn’t sing. But he insisted on belting out “Volare” every single show. Followed by “That’s Amore” and, of course, “Volare.” No, that’s not a typo. He always sang it twice. Tony C always wanted to be Dean Martin, Frank Sinatra, and Vic Damone. But he was more like the sound I’ve always pictured a cow made when stuck in them mud.
Adding to the merriment was the Cavaliers. I think the rule was if you owned an instrument you could be a Cavalier. Didn’t matter if you could play it. Mattered less if your instrument went with the rest of the band. So at any one time the Cavaliers included an accordion, drums, guitar, violin, trumpet, French horn, bagpipes, triangle, more drums, clarinet, cello, dulcimer, drums, another accordion, tuba, and marimba. We lived in fear of the Cavaliers.
The only good thing about them is that about the third rendition of “Volare,” people actually hope the child waiters spill salad dressing down their dresses so they’ll have an excuse to leave early.
Our Lady of Angels, like most churches, was constantly having fundraisers. Monday night bingo was a staple and my dad was the caller for many years. The annual Fall Carnival. Selling Christmas seals. Selling candy bars. Selling Christmas trees. Car washes.
And, of course, food.
The St. Patrick’s Day corned beef & cabbage dinner.
The 4th of July pancake breakfast.
The Columbus Day spaghetti dinner.
The end of Fall Carnival bar-b-que.
The Easter brunch.
I swear I spent my entire childhood waiting tables. Because, of course, all the kids were free labor.
The parents did all the cooking, of course, but us kids got roped in for everything else. We swept and cleaned the cafeteria. We set up the tables. We made centerpieces and laid out silverware and glasses. We took tickets. And we schlepped food for hours. Delivering endless plates of food to people who were used to dealing with actual waiters and waitresses and expected us to behave in kind.
We cleared the dirties. Brought coffee and dessert. Fetched and carried. And hated every minute of it. We grumbled about child labor laws and wondered if this would cut our time in Purgatory. But we were not allowed to back out. For days before these events every Catholic kids all over Silver Creek would come down with mysterious illnesses. A combination of flu-like symptoms and scurvy. Perhaps gout. Maybe a touch of the plague.
But their heartless parents would accept nothing less than loss of limb as an excuse to get out of serving duty. In spite of our protestations and our no-doubt wildly contagious illness would infect the entire population of Silver Creek, mothers would deliver us to the cafeteria on time and tell us to behave ourselves.
We’d say goodbye our families with a note of “I’ll never see you again as I’m going off to be a Catholic martyr since serving spaghetti to the pious is just the same as being burnt at the stake” and off we’d go to do our duty. Sadly the parents never gave us the goodbyes our sad state deserved and we were left with the feeling that they didn’t actually care about us.
Sister Luke always seemed to be in charge of the children’s waiter corps and would check our names off on an ancient clipboard. Then she’d hand us aprons so big we’d have to fold them over three or four times so we wouldn’t trip on them. Then she’d give us a crash course in how to deliver food (“crash” being the operative word as someone always managed to drop an entire tray of whatever the night’s meal was) and set us loose.
The parental cooking staff always seemed to be made up of the bossiest people in the parish. Looking back I’m sure they were exhausted by the weeks of planning and days of cooking. But as a child they were something out of Uncle Tom’s Cabin and we lived in fear of being noticed. God forbid you should actually make eye contact with one, they’d take that as free reign to make you their personal child slave and you’d spend the rest of the night being ordered about by Mrs. Cruson or Mrs. Peterson.
Consequently the children of OLA were notorious for their bad posture as we all developed a habit of looking at the floor and not actually at anyone. Being repeatedly told to “stand up straight” was better than having Mr. Freire say “You! More garlic bread on the table by the Virgin Mary.” (Invariably your personal slave driver called you “you.” On the nights of fundraiser dinners, every child became “You.” We even had name badges on our aprons. But the cooks were too busy slicing and stirring to read.
I remember one night, I think it was the corned beef & cabbage dinner, when You McKay, You Carpenter, You Folsom and I were on salad duty. We’d walk around the drafty room with huge wooden bowls of salad. These things were the size of taiko drums and weighed a ton. And they were filled with a gourmet mix of iceberg lettuce and an oil and vinegar dressing that slopped over the rim and stained our aprons with a pink tinge. In the middle of serving one us hapless kids, I think it was Marty Carpenter (Sorry, “You” Carpenter) tripped over an untied shoelace and sprayed salad and dressing over half of the women’s club table. There were screams. There was iceberg in the bouffant. And there was Father Sheehey throwing napkins into the fray and muttering “Jesus, Mary, and all the saints!” repeatedly under his breath.
The background accompaniment to all this chaos was the song stylings of Tony Cavalerro and the Cavaliers.
How do I describe them?
Well, “bad” pretty much sums it up. But they really achieved impressive nuances of bad. First off Tony C (as he liked to be called) couldn’t sing. But he insisted on belting out “Volare” every single show. Followed by “That’s Amore” and, of course, “Volare.” No, that’s not a typo. He always sang it twice. Tony C always wanted to be Dean Martin, Frank Sinatra, and Vic Damone. But he was more like the sound I’ve always pictured a cow made when stuck in them mud.
Adding to the merriment was the Cavaliers. I think the rule was if you owned an instrument you could be a Cavalier. Didn’t matter if you could play it. Mattered less if your instrument went with the rest of the band. So at any one time the Cavaliers included an accordion, drums, guitar, violin, trumpet, French horn, bagpipes, triangle, more drums, clarinet, cello, dulcimer, drums, another accordion, tuba, and marimba. We lived in fear of the Cavaliers.
The only good thing about them is that about the third rendition of “Volare,” people actually hope the child waiters spill salad dressing down their dresses so they’ll have an excuse to leave early.
Thursday, December 02, 2010
And They Took My Hound Dog...
I'm gonna write a country song about the tragedy that is getting a smog check in California. You'd think that for something so many people need it would a fairly easy thing to do. But no.
Smog place #1: Our smog guy is out sick. (They had about a dozen people working there. Only one guy knows how to give a smog check?)
Smog place #2: Our smog machine is broken. (Maybe you can lend your healthy, but apparently not busy today, smog guy to the first place?)
Smog place #3: Our smog guy is out stick. (A sudden, serious virus seems to be hitting smog check guys pretty hard.)
Smog place #4: It'll be a two-hour wait. (No doubt because all the other smog places are useless.)
At smog place #5 I finally got it done. But I had to stand in the rain for 15 minutes while they did it. Oh yes, and they're a new place and didn't have their credit card machine in place so I had to pay at the gas station next door and the new girl on the register had to call someone and be talked through the credit card process. In Spanish.
Since when is such a simple process so complicated? I'd rather drive my truck off the bridge because my wife stole my hound dog and my mother broke parole then do this again.
I'm gonna write a country song about the tragedy that is getting a smog check in California. You'd think that for something so many people need it would a fairly easy thing to do. But no.
Smog place #1: Our smog guy is out sick. (They had about a dozen people working there. Only one guy knows how to give a smog check?)
Smog place #2: Our smog machine is broken. (Maybe you can lend your healthy, but apparently not busy today, smog guy to the first place?)
Smog place #3: Our smog guy is out stick. (A sudden, serious virus seems to be hitting smog check guys pretty hard.)
Smog place #4: It'll be a two-hour wait. (No doubt because all the other smog places are useless.)
At smog place #5 I finally got it done. But I had to stand in the rain for 15 minutes while they did it. Oh yes, and they're a new place and didn't have their credit card machine in place so I had to pay at the gas station next door and the new girl on the register had to call someone and be talked through the credit card process. In Spanish.
Since when is such a simple process so complicated? I'd rather drive my truck off the bridge because my wife stole my hound dog and my mother broke parole then do this again.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
At the Cafe Bohemian
I'm on the air tonight from 5:30-8 (Pacific time), with my world music show At the Cafe Bohemian. You can listen online via KZSU and share the love.
I'm on the air tonight from 5:30-8 (Pacific time), with my world music show At the Cafe Bohemian. You can listen online via KZSU and share the love.
On the Night Shift
I'm going through one of those lovely insomniac phases where I'm averaging 2-3 hours sleep a night. Fun!
The up side is I'm getting a lot of reading and movie watching done. The bad news is that I'm exhausted. But this too shall pass.
I don't know about you, but there's a hole list of books that I think I've read, but I haven't. Classics, mostly. So I have this rule of reading my way through the list, a few books each year. My latest is The House of the Seven Gables, which I thought I read in high school but after looking at it I realized was completely unfamiliar to me.
I read a lot and I always have. And I love reading the classics, though it's not always an "enjoyable" process. I cannot say that I've had fun getting through some of Dickens, let's say. A marvelous writer and I'm glad to have read him, but I have to admit that getting through The Old Curiousity Shop wasn't filled with unending joy. And I'm finding "Seven Gables" to be like that. When I'm done I'll feel a sort of modest pride that I've read another must-read. But at the moment I do find it hard going at times.
OK, I'm a Philistine. I like Agatha Christie and Dorothy L. Sayers, Elizabeth Peters and Tony Hillerman. True, I also love Jane Austen, the Brontes, and most of Dickens; Mark Twain and the Dumas (pere and fils). But I am, at heart, someone who loves enjoyable books. Give me "a thumping good read" and I'm happy. Which means I mostly read for pleasure. But occasionally I read because I should. Because I want to know that I've actually made it all the way through Crime and Punishment. (Which, by the way, I never will because my goal to read all the classics does not apply to dreary Russian novels that are 600 pages long and full of peasants and potatoes.)
I'm going through one of those lovely insomniac phases where I'm averaging 2-3 hours sleep a night. Fun!
The up side is I'm getting a lot of reading and movie watching done. The bad news is that I'm exhausted. But this too shall pass.
I don't know about you, but there's a hole list of books that I think I've read, but I haven't. Classics, mostly. So I have this rule of reading my way through the list, a few books each year. My latest is The House of the Seven Gables, which I thought I read in high school but after looking at it I realized was completely unfamiliar to me.
I read a lot and I always have. And I love reading the classics, though it's not always an "enjoyable" process. I cannot say that I've had fun getting through some of Dickens, let's say. A marvelous writer and I'm glad to have read him, but I have to admit that getting through The Old Curiousity Shop wasn't filled with unending joy. And I'm finding "Seven Gables" to be like that. When I'm done I'll feel a sort of modest pride that I've read another must-read. But at the moment I do find it hard going at times.
OK, I'm a Philistine. I like Agatha Christie and Dorothy L. Sayers, Elizabeth Peters and Tony Hillerman. True, I also love Jane Austen, the Brontes, and most of Dickens; Mark Twain and the Dumas (pere and fils). But I am, at heart, someone who loves enjoyable books. Give me "a thumping good read" and I'm happy. Which means I mostly read for pleasure. But occasionally I read because I should. Because I want to know that I've actually made it all the way through Crime and Punishment. (Which, by the way, I never will because my goal to read all the classics does not apply to dreary Russian novels that are 600 pages long and full of peasants and potatoes.)
Monday, November 29, 2010
CD Pick of the Week: De Temps Antan
Totally loving this wonderful new CD from Quebecois band De Temps Antan. Les Habits de Papier features fun and happy folk music based on les pieds (a form of seated clogging unique to Quebec). Hot fiddles, sweet accordion and warm male vocals. Mostly upbeat and so cool. From members of Quebecois supergroup La Bouttine Souriante. Every track is delicious. It's joyous, infectious, and so much fun.
Totally loving this wonderful new CD from Quebecois band De Temps Antan. Les Habits de Papier features fun and happy folk music based on les pieds (a form of seated clogging unique to Quebec). Hot fiddles, sweet accordion and warm male vocals. Mostly upbeat and so cool. From members of Quebecois supergroup La Bouttine Souriante. Every track is delicious. It's joyous, infectious, and so much fun.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Home Made
Thanks to everyone who commented on my Christmas shopping post. Murr, who has a wonderful blog, mentioned how she makes her gifts. Which I love.
Husband and I decided our first married Christmas to make each other something. And I was instantly outdone. Let me say upfront that I have no artistic or craft skills. I cannot knit, sew, paint, draw, or otherwise create. I can bake, but as I bake cookies all the time that's hardly a gift. So I wracked my brain and came up with the only thing I can do which is write. I wrote a packet of letters from me to him as if we were living in early 1900s and I were touring Egypt. I wrote about the archeological sites I'd seen, going down the Nile, and various stories about my fellow travellers. Then I aged the paper with tea and creases, tied it all up in a red ribbon, and that was it.
And then Husband went and made a book.
Here's the background.
Years ago my friends and I wrote a parody of cheesy Romance novels entitled The Adventures of Aphrodesia Lovejoy about an incredibly clueless heroine working as a governess in a brooding castle full of handsome rakes and one well-hung carriage driver. This book was really special to me and my friends and remains a source of happiness. But it was really a collection of stories written about all of us printed out on a Mac and stapled together. So Husband, who has a background in publishing, hand made a hardcover book. Complete with a dust jacket and slipcase. He even got my friends to write those blurbs like you see on bestsellers. Imagine Husband contacting ex-husband for an author's blurb! He hand sewed the folios together, put in end papers, it looks like an actual published hardcover book. There are even illustrations gathered from some of the worst romance covers ever published.
It is, in short, amazing. I mean no slight to my "took all of an hour" letter project, but holy cats! He must have spent two or three months formatting, getting the info from our friends, learning how to actually make a book by hand, and doing the work. And, to top it off, he wrote a hilarious epilogue to the saga. It was easily the most incredible gift I've ever received.
The problem is, how do I compete with that? I mean I know it's not a competition, but really. It's like I give someone a hand-made ashtray and they give me a Porsche. And no, of course not, he never made me feel like that. It's just my natural insecurities coming out when faced with amazement. Husband pronounced himself delighted with the letters, but that book...!
So that ended the handmade gift thing. The next year I looked at what I could do in terms of making things and said "nope, not gonna." And, frankly, I think Husband was relieved too because he couldn't top it either.
My hand made, hardcover Christmas gift remains a treasured possession. And, to make it even better, Husband went above and beyond and made books for every one of my friends who had written chapters. And they treasure them as well.
Husband is incredible. But I'm glad I don't have the pressure of making something or, worse, coming up with an idea of what to make. Besides, I love buying him gifts. And yet I live in awe of those of you who can, and do, hand make.
Thanks to everyone who commented on my Christmas shopping post. Murr, who has a wonderful blog, mentioned how she makes her gifts. Which I love.
Husband and I decided our first married Christmas to make each other something. And I was instantly outdone. Let me say upfront that I have no artistic or craft skills. I cannot knit, sew, paint, draw, or otherwise create. I can bake, but as I bake cookies all the time that's hardly a gift. So I wracked my brain and came up with the only thing I can do which is write. I wrote a packet of letters from me to him as if we were living in early 1900s and I were touring Egypt. I wrote about the archeological sites I'd seen, going down the Nile, and various stories about my fellow travellers. Then I aged the paper with tea and creases, tied it all up in a red ribbon, and that was it.
And then Husband went and made a book.
Here's the background.
Years ago my friends and I wrote a parody of cheesy Romance novels entitled The Adventures of Aphrodesia Lovejoy about an incredibly clueless heroine working as a governess in a brooding castle full of handsome rakes and one well-hung carriage driver. This book was really special to me and my friends and remains a source of happiness. But it was really a collection of stories written about all of us printed out on a Mac and stapled together. So Husband, who has a background in publishing, hand made a hardcover book. Complete with a dust jacket and slipcase. He even got my friends to write those blurbs like you see on bestsellers. Imagine Husband contacting ex-husband for an author's blurb! He hand sewed the folios together, put in end papers, it looks like an actual published hardcover book. There are even illustrations gathered from some of the worst romance covers ever published.
It is, in short, amazing. I mean no slight to my "took all of an hour" letter project, but holy cats! He must have spent two or three months formatting, getting the info from our friends, learning how to actually make a book by hand, and doing the work. And, to top it off, he wrote a hilarious epilogue to the saga. It was easily the most incredible gift I've ever received.
The problem is, how do I compete with that? I mean I know it's not a competition, but really. It's like I give someone a hand-made ashtray and they give me a Porsche. And no, of course not, he never made me feel like that. It's just my natural insecurities coming out when faced with amazement. Husband pronounced himself delighted with the letters, but that book...!
So that ended the handmade gift thing. The next year I looked at what I could do in terms of making things and said "nope, not gonna." And, frankly, I think Husband was relieved too because he couldn't top it either.
My hand made, hardcover Christmas gift remains a treasured possession. And, to make it even better, Husband went above and beyond and made books for every one of my friends who had written chapters. And they treasure them as well.
Husband is incredible. But I'm glad I don't have the pressure of making something or, worse, coming up with an idea of what to make. Besides, I love buying him gifts. And yet I live in awe of those of you who can, and do, hand make.
Friday, November 26, 2010
In the Christmas Spirit
I put myself through college and grad school by working in bookstores. Some day I should write a book about it. All the ridiculous questions. ("Do you have A Hundred Years of Solid Food?" All the silly customers. ("Do you have that book with the red cover?")
But working retail during the Christmas season has a way of making you hate Christmas. When I stopped managing bookstores I told myself that I'd never set foot in a store between Thanksgiving and Christmas. For the most part, I've been able to keep that vow. I'm almost always done with my shopping by T-day. This year I'm not but I've got an easier task. For the first time ever were drawing names for Christmas rather than everybody buying gifts for everybody else. To which I can only say "thank goodness!"
For one thing we really can't afford to spend a lot. For another, I really don't want more crap from my family. Typically the crap in question goes from my mom's house (where we open gifts) into my car. The car pulls into my garage, we open the trunk, take out the crap, and it goes immediately into the Salvation Army bag. It never even makes it into the house.
Husband and I have vowed to cut back on each other -- which makes me sad as I like nothing better than buying him gifts. But being broke means I can't spoil him the way he deserves.
But I'm already getting into the Christmas mood, which is rare for me. We're going to get our tree this weekend. I've already ordered a few small things for Husband. Our neighbors spent the afternoon putting up lights so from where I sit I can already see a little bit of holiday cheer.
And the first Christmas card arrived today. It's from the shelter where I volunteer and one thing they do, which I love, is that the cards are signed by about 5 of the employees. It's not an impersonal card it has little hand-written notes from the heads of various departments so it says things like "thanks for your work in the kitten nursery" or "it was great to see you at the last adoption fair." So it makes it feel like they know who I am and that my work is actually appreciated.
That, plus leftovers from yesterday's yummy dinner at my brother's, has put me in a very happy mood.
I put myself through college and grad school by working in bookstores. Some day I should write a book about it. All the ridiculous questions. ("Do you have A Hundred Years of Solid Food?" All the silly customers. ("Do you have that book with the red cover?")
But working retail during the Christmas season has a way of making you hate Christmas. When I stopped managing bookstores I told myself that I'd never set foot in a store between Thanksgiving and Christmas. For the most part, I've been able to keep that vow. I'm almost always done with my shopping by T-day. This year I'm not but I've got an easier task. For the first time ever were drawing names for Christmas rather than everybody buying gifts for everybody else. To which I can only say "thank goodness!"
For one thing we really can't afford to spend a lot. For another, I really don't want more crap from my family. Typically the crap in question goes from my mom's house (where we open gifts) into my car. The car pulls into my garage, we open the trunk, take out the crap, and it goes immediately into the Salvation Army bag. It never even makes it into the house.
Husband and I have vowed to cut back on each other -- which makes me sad as I like nothing better than buying him gifts. But being broke means I can't spoil him the way he deserves.
But I'm already getting into the Christmas mood, which is rare for me. We're going to get our tree this weekend. I've already ordered a few small things for Husband. Our neighbors spent the afternoon putting up lights so from where I sit I can already see a little bit of holiday cheer.
And the first Christmas card arrived today. It's from the shelter where I volunteer and one thing they do, which I love, is that the cards are signed by about 5 of the employees. It's not an impersonal card it has little hand-written notes from the heads of various departments so it says things like "thanks for your work in the kitten nursery" or "it was great to see you at the last adoption fair." So it makes it feel like they know who I am and that my work is actually appreciated.
That, plus leftovers from yesterday's yummy dinner at my brother's, has put me in a very happy mood.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Scenes from Silver Creek: The Pilgrim’s Progress
In the childhood oddness of growing up in Silver Creek was the annual Thanksgiving pageant. Unlike the all-inclusive Christmas festivities where all the local churches participated, the Thanksgiving pageant was all Our Lady of Angels.
Which is weird, because the pilgrims weren’t Catholic. But Father Sheehy decided to opt it as an OLA holiday and so the pageant was born. Father Sheehy didn’t actually claim that the pilgrims were Catholic, but he did rewrite history somewhat to have them saying the Hail Mary every time someone turned around.
I was in 7th grade and really wanted to be one of the Indians. Which meant, of course, that I was cast as 4th Pilgrim from the Left. In retrospect, considering that the whole event was about as politically correct as a Nuremberg rally, I am so glad that no blackmail photos exist of me as an Indian. But back then I was pissed. The Indians had all the fun. They got to whoop around and say things like “White man need food. We give cranberry sauce.” No….really….that was in the script.
Meanwhile, as a pilgrim, my sole contribution to the event consisted of a lot of nodding as the boys had all the good lines. Other than that, nothing except an itchy costume that smelled like last year’s pilgrim and was so tight at the collar that it left a red line around my neck when I finally took it off. I also had the requisite white pilgrim hat and black shoes with buckles.
I woke up Thanksgiving day wanting nothing more than to watch the balloons in the Macy’s parade on TV and was immediately roped in to my mother’s usual holiday panic. Every year she’d by some poor turkey the size of a Volkswagen and every year she’d have no clue how long to cook it. It would be 9 am and she’d be there with her arm up a turkey butt shoving stuffing into it and telling us not to fill up on corn flakes as dinner would be early. In her mind, nobody should be allowed to eat from noon on Wednesday until Thanksgiving dinner itself. And, given her cluelessness on turkey cooking, that dinner could be anywhere from 1 pm to 10 pm, depending upon when she panicked and put the bird in. Invariably she’d look at the turkey at some point, typically two hours before she thought it would be done, and pronounce the turkey cooked. Then we’d all be shanghaied into frantically mashing potatoes, making gravy and, of course, opening a can of Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom soup for the dreaded Green Bean Surprise Casserole with Canned French’s Onion Rings on Top. I lived in fear of this dish every year. I still do. Oh yes, and the last thing on the table was always canned cranberry sauce. The kind where you can see the rings of the can on it when you tip it into the dish.
That year I’d hoped pilgrim duty would get me out of KP. But the 47-pound turkey was upsetting mom’s delicate equilibrium, which meant all hands on deck. I was set to peeling potatoes – not wanting to point out to my already mad mother that we wouldn’t be boiling them for at least another four or five hours. But I was able to snag the one seat at the kitchen table that afforded a view of the TV in the living room so I did get to see Smokey the Bear float along Broadway. But I couldn’t hear the marching bands – just mom muttering to herself weird alchemy about poultry pounds, oven temps, and timing. When she was so distracted by advanced math that she couldn’t pour on the guilt, I told her I needed to get into costume and head down to the church. She nodded. I ran.
I would have preferred to put on my costume at OLA, but it was a two-people job and I’d rather get help from Kathleen or Diane rather than one of the church ladies. They always smelled like dead flowers and I was vaguely afraid of them.
Diane was looking for an excuse to get out of celery chopping (celery being the only fresh vegetable anywhere near our Thanksgiving table). So she volunteered to tie me into my pilgrim suit and walk with me to the church. But she lied about the church bit. As soon as we were out the door she dumped me to go flirt with Keith Vandersloot and I was left to walk the few blocks to the church alone. Ridiculous in my pilgrim costume.
Old people smiled. Everyone who was in school with me but not in the pageant laughed. I tried to swallow in my tight collar and found myself daydreaming of wild ad-libs during the play. I had a big crush Timmy Ryan who played the Indian chief and envisioned myself saying “Screw the Hail Mary, I’m running off with Chief Blue Eyes Like the Sky in Spring. (OK, he was just called “Indian Chief” in the program, but Timmy did have great eyes.
Mrs. Murchison was, as usual, in her garden and told me I looked just like Priscilla Alden. Which confused me because I thought she meant I looked like Vicky Templeton (the bitch), who was playing Priscilla in our show. And I looked nothing like her.
Shannon Carey was sympathetic enough to my plight to not say anything when she saw my pilgrim self walking down the street – but I did hear her laugh as I went by. And even one of Silver Creek’s police cars slowed down, perhaps making sure I wasn’t hiding a bootleg turkey under that black dress.
By the time I got to OLA I felt like an idiot and had no good thoughts about Father Sheehy, Thanksgiving and, especially, the pilgrims. The pilgrims were all idiots who didn’t know how to dress and who ruined a perfectly good day by giving us canned cranberries and making small children put on silly costumes to recite embarrassing lines.
Not even the thought of pie (Sara Lee, of course) could redeem the day for me.
But then I saw the god that was Timmy Ryan. And even though he looked wild and romantic in his Indian costume, he also seemed to be as uncomfortable as I. Our eyes met over the baptismal fount. “This is it,” I thought. “This ridiculous costume will be worth it if it finally brings Timmy and I together as we should be.” But all he said was “hey” before walking on and talking to…..Vicky Temple (the bitch).
Sigh….there’s really nothing to be thankful for when you’re in 7th grade.
In the childhood oddness of growing up in Silver Creek was the annual Thanksgiving pageant. Unlike the all-inclusive Christmas festivities where all the local churches participated, the Thanksgiving pageant was all Our Lady of Angels.
Which is weird, because the pilgrims weren’t Catholic. But Father Sheehy decided to opt it as an OLA holiday and so the pageant was born. Father Sheehy didn’t actually claim that the pilgrims were Catholic, but he did rewrite history somewhat to have them saying the Hail Mary every time someone turned around.
I was in 7th grade and really wanted to be one of the Indians. Which meant, of course, that I was cast as 4th Pilgrim from the Left. In retrospect, considering that the whole event was about as politically correct as a Nuremberg rally, I am so glad that no blackmail photos exist of me as an Indian. But back then I was pissed. The Indians had all the fun. They got to whoop around and say things like “White man need food. We give cranberry sauce.” No….really….that was in the script.
Meanwhile, as a pilgrim, my sole contribution to the event consisted of a lot of nodding as the boys had all the good lines. Other than that, nothing except an itchy costume that smelled like last year’s pilgrim and was so tight at the collar that it left a red line around my neck when I finally took it off. I also had the requisite white pilgrim hat and black shoes with buckles.
I woke up Thanksgiving day wanting nothing more than to watch the balloons in the Macy’s parade on TV and was immediately roped in to my mother’s usual holiday panic. Every year she’d by some poor turkey the size of a Volkswagen and every year she’d have no clue how long to cook it. It would be 9 am and she’d be there with her arm up a turkey butt shoving stuffing into it and telling us not to fill up on corn flakes as dinner would be early. In her mind, nobody should be allowed to eat from noon on Wednesday until Thanksgiving dinner itself. And, given her cluelessness on turkey cooking, that dinner could be anywhere from 1 pm to 10 pm, depending upon when she panicked and put the bird in. Invariably she’d look at the turkey at some point, typically two hours before she thought it would be done, and pronounce the turkey cooked. Then we’d all be shanghaied into frantically mashing potatoes, making gravy and, of course, opening a can of Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom soup for the dreaded Green Bean Surprise Casserole with Canned French’s Onion Rings on Top. I lived in fear of this dish every year. I still do. Oh yes, and the last thing on the table was always canned cranberry sauce. The kind where you can see the rings of the can on it when you tip it into the dish.
That year I’d hoped pilgrim duty would get me out of KP. But the 47-pound turkey was upsetting mom’s delicate equilibrium, which meant all hands on deck. I was set to peeling potatoes – not wanting to point out to my already mad mother that we wouldn’t be boiling them for at least another four or five hours. But I was able to snag the one seat at the kitchen table that afforded a view of the TV in the living room so I did get to see Smokey the Bear float along Broadway. But I couldn’t hear the marching bands – just mom muttering to herself weird alchemy about poultry pounds, oven temps, and timing. When she was so distracted by advanced math that she couldn’t pour on the guilt, I told her I needed to get into costume and head down to the church. She nodded. I ran.
I would have preferred to put on my costume at OLA, but it was a two-people job and I’d rather get help from Kathleen or Diane rather than one of the church ladies. They always smelled like dead flowers and I was vaguely afraid of them.
Diane was looking for an excuse to get out of celery chopping (celery being the only fresh vegetable anywhere near our Thanksgiving table). So she volunteered to tie me into my pilgrim suit and walk with me to the church. But she lied about the church bit. As soon as we were out the door she dumped me to go flirt with Keith Vandersloot and I was left to walk the few blocks to the church alone. Ridiculous in my pilgrim costume.
Old people smiled. Everyone who was in school with me but not in the pageant laughed. I tried to swallow in my tight collar and found myself daydreaming of wild ad-libs during the play. I had a big crush Timmy Ryan who played the Indian chief and envisioned myself saying “Screw the Hail Mary, I’m running off with Chief Blue Eyes Like the Sky in Spring. (OK, he was just called “Indian Chief” in the program, but Timmy did have great eyes.
Mrs. Murchison was, as usual, in her garden and told me I looked just like Priscilla Alden. Which confused me because I thought she meant I looked like Vicky Templeton (the bitch), who was playing Priscilla in our show. And I looked nothing like her.
Shannon Carey was sympathetic enough to my plight to not say anything when she saw my pilgrim self walking down the street – but I did hear her laugh as I went by. And even one of Silver Creek’s police cars slowed down, perhaps making sure I wasn’t hiding a bootleg turkey under that black dress.
By the time I got to OLA I felt like an idiot and had no good thoughts about Father Sheehy, Thanksgiving and, especially, the pilgrims. The pilgrims were all idiots who didn’t know how to dress and who ruined a perfectly good day by giving us canned cranberries and making small children put on silly costumes to recite embarrassing lines.
Not even the thought of pie (Sara Lee, of course) could redeem the day for me.
But then I saw the god that was Timmy Ryan. And even though he looked wild and romantic in his Indian costume, he also seemed to be as uncomfortable as I. Our eyes met over the baptismal fount. “This is it,” I thought. “This ridiculous costume will be worth it if it finally brings Timmy and I together as we should be.” But all he said was “hey” before walking on and talking to…..Vicky Temple (the bitch).
Sigh….there’s really nothing to be thankful for when you’re in 7th grade.
Thanks Full
Tomorrow is my favorite of the holidays. I am all about the food. Turkey. Cranberry sauce. Mashed potatoes and gravy. Even when my family ruins it, the remnants of goodness are there.
This year is the first time we're doing Thanksgiving someplace other than my mom's. My newlywed brother and new sis-in-law are hosting (which means dinner might actually be good!). I'm in charge of pumpkin bisque and homemade cranberry sauce (with orange juice and cinnamon stick). And I'm going to start the cranberries soon because they actually taste better the next day.
So before I get all caught up in cooking, I wanted to say thank you to you all.
Thanks for reading, even when I'm dull. Even when my dyslexia is so bad that I'm incomprehensible. Even when I haven't posted for a week or two because life intervenes.
Thanks for commenting, for making me feel like my words aren't just disappearing into the ether. For the ego boosts and the laughs and the thoughtful words that never fail to make my day.
Thank you for your words. Most of you have blogs that inspire and amuse me, make me think or teach me something new, make me laugh or make me think. You are all of you amazing people.
I wish you and all that you love a wonderful Thanksgiving. May your turkey be moist and may the company be good.
Smoochies,
Decca
Tomorrow is my favorite of the holidays. I am all about the food. Turkey. Cranberry sauce. Mashed potatoes and gravy. Even when my family ruins it, the remnants of goodness are there.
This year is the first time we're doing Thanksgiving someplace other than my mom's. My newlywed brother and new sis-in-law are hosting (which means dinner might actually be good!). I'm in charge of pumpkin bisque and homemade cranberry sauce (with orange juice and cinnamon stick). And I'm going to start the cranberries soon because they actually taste better the next day.
So before I get all caught up in cooking, I wanted to say thank you to you all.
Thanks for reading, even when I'm dull. Even when my dyslexia is so bad that I'm incomprehensible. Even when I haven't posted for a week or two because life intervenes.
Thanks for commenting, for making me feel like my words aren't just disappearing into the ether. For the ego boosts and the laughs and the thoughtful words that never fail to make my day.
Thank you for your words. Most of you have blogs that inspire and amuse me, make me think or teach me something new, make me laugh or make me think. You are all of you amazing people.
I wish you and all that you love a wonderful Thanksgiving. May your turkey be moist and may the company be good.
Smoochies,
Decca
Monday, November 22, 2010
Sorry About the Smallpox
Tuesday marks my 10th annual Thanksgiving week Native American Music special. Join me from 5:30-8 pm (Pacific time) to hear a mix of traditional and contemporary indigenous music from a variety of First Nations artists.
Tuesday marks my 10th annual Thanksgiving week Native American Music special. Join me from 5:30-8 pm (Pacific time) to hear a mix of traditional and contemporary indigenous music from a variety of First Nations artists.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
And So They Were Married....After Some Sushi
My brother's wedding was last night and it was quite nice. And a bit odd. About 30 people in a private room at a yummy restaurant. (The food was amazing.)
But the whole night was a bit weird. The bride and groom were mingling before the wedding. Invitations said 6 pm. The ceremony didn't actually start until 7:30. Before the ceremony, the bride and groom were a bit peckish so decided to have appetizers first. So we all sat down at our tables and ate sushi, pulled pork sliders, and calamari. I think husband and I have a new private joke....would you like some sushi or would you like to get married?
After some yummy sushi, brother said to me "well, let's get started." So we mosied over to a cozy corner of the room and called for quiet. We were going to start the ceremony when the bride realized she'd forgotten her flowers across the room so said "wait" and scurried across to grab her bouquet.
She got her flowers, walked back, and we started.
My family and free alcohol. A bad combination. I think Husband and I were honestly the only sober ones there. No, really. But nobody was obnoxious. Just very happy.
Considering the fact that I finished the ceremony at noon yesterday, I think it turned out well. It was personal and romantic, a bit funny and relaxed. Brother and new sister-in-law said they were thrilled. I also put together a few CDs of background music which seemed to be a big hit as well.
After the ceremony, things were equally relaxed (OK, disorganized). Several of the guests had already left before the cake was cut. (I never did get any cake!) But the room was beautiful, the bride was gorgeous, and the groom was beaming. When they said their personal vows both were near tears. And the night was full of laughter.
And more weirdness. Someone hit the wrong photo slideshow and dinner was accompanied by the photos of the happy couple -- at Alcatraz. Nothing like a picture of a morgue to put you in the wedding mood.
My brother's wedding was last night and it was quite nice. And a bit odd. About 30 people in a private room at a yummy restaurant. (The food was amazing.)
But the whole night was a bit weird. The bride and groom were mingling before the wedding. Invitations said 6 pm. The ceremony didn't actually start until 7:30. Before the ceremony, the bride and groom were a bit peckish so decided to have appetizers first. So we all sat down at our tables and ate sushi, pulled pork sliders, and calamari. I think husband and I have a new private joke....would you like some sushi or would you like to get married?
After some yummy sushi, brother said to me "well, let's get started." So we mosied over to a cozy corner of the room and called for quiet. We were going to start the ceremony when the bride realized she'd forgotten her flowers across the room so said "wait" and scurried across to grab her bouquet.
She got her flowers, walked back, and we started.
My family and free alcohol. A bad combination. I think Husband and I were honestly the only sober ones there. No, really. But nobody was obnoxious. Just very happy.
Considering the fact that I finished the ceremony at noon yesterday, I think it turned out well. It was personal and romantic, a bit funny and relaxed. Brother and new sister-in-law said they were thrilled. I also put together a few CDs of background music which seemed to be a big hit as well.
After the ceremony, things were equally relaxed (OK, disorganized). Several of the guests had already left before the cake was cut. (I never did get any cake!) But the room was beautiful, the bride was gorgeous, and the groom was beaming. When they said their personal vows both were near tears. And the night was full of laughter.
And more weirdness. Someone hit the wrong photo slideshow and dinner was accompanied by the photos of the happy couple -- at Alcatraz. Nothing like a picture of a morgue to put you in the wedding mood.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Catching up
Some links I thought you might like...
First off, I don't even like babies. (Or this song) but this had me cracking up.
Speaking of music, here's a French music video with cool animation, a fun sound, and a scary storyline.
Seriously one of the sweetest, most joyful things ever. I watch this every few months and sometimes it makes me so happy I cry. No, honestly.
Some links I thought you might like...
First off, I don't even like babies. (Or this song) but this had me cracking up.
Speaking of music, here's a French music video with cool animation, a fun sound, and a scary storyline.
Seriously one of the sweetest, most joyful things ever. I watch this every few months and sometimes it makes me so happy I cry. No, honestly.
Greetings
Yeah, it's been a while. Bronchitis followed by mono. Trust me to get mono. Here's a quick update:
- We have a rat. Scrabbling in the walls behind our kitchen cabinets. Fun. Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) just noticed today. We've heard it for a week now. We've bought some ratsbane and are keeping our fingers crossed.
- Next week: book group, Husband doing an interview at a San Francisco library and, oh yes, my brother is getting married, I'm performing the ceremony and I haven't written it yet.
- Mom is sometimes OK with her new place. Sometimes not. Eldest sister is freaking out big time and seems to be having a harder time than mom is. We're visiting her and doing our best to help her settle in. The people there are doing a wonderful job of making sure she has plenty of company and things to do. When I went the other day one of the managers was sitting with her doing a puzzle. He left when I arrived and when he saw me leaving later he told one of the aides to go up and make sure she wasn't alone. It's hard seeing her there. It's weird because at home she was just mom but when I go there and see all the old people with walkers it makes me realize how fragile it is. It's only been two weeks but so far it seems to be going as well as can be expected.
- I went to dog training night at the shelter so now I can help at mobile adoptions. I haven't signed up for my first one yet as I have so much going on, but I should be scheduled for one by the end of the month. I'll still be concentrating on cats, but at the adoption events I'll be helping out with both cats and dogs. I can't wait.
- This is perhaps the most boring update I've ever written.
Yeah, it's been a while. Bronchitis followed by mono. Trust me to get mono. Here's a quick update:
- We have a rat. Scrabbling in the walls behind our kitchen cabinets. Fun. Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) just noticed today. We've heard it for a week now. We've bought some ratsbane and are keeping our fingers crossed.
- Next week: book group, Husband doing an interview at a San Francisco library and, oh yes, my brother is getting married, I'm performing the ceremony and I haven't written it yet.
- Mom is sometimes OK with her new place. Sometimes not. Eldest sister is freaking out big time and seems to be having a harder time than mom is. We're visiting her and doing our best to help her settle in. The people there are doing a wonderful job of making sure she has plenty of company and things to do. When I went the other day one of the managers was sitting with her doing a puzzle. He left when I arrived and when he saw me leaving later he told one of the aides to go up and make sure she wasn't alone. It's hard seeing her there. It's weird because at home she was just mom but when I go there and see all the old people with walkers it makes me realize how fragile it is. It's only been two weeks but so far it seems to be going as well as can be expected.
- I went to dog training night at the shelter so now I can help at mobile adoptions. I haven't signed up for my first one yet as I have so much going on, but I should be scheduled for one by the end of the month. I'll still be concentrating on cats, but at the adoption events I'll be helping out with both cats and dogs. I can't wait.
- This is perhaps the most boring update I've ever written.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Trick, No Treat
The siblings have decided on a senior home for mom and we're moving her in on Halloween.
After weeks of talking about it, it suddenly seems to be happening quite fast. My brother is organizing things and there are e-mails flying. My eldest sister is taking mom for a ride on Sunday and the rest of us are moving her things in. I haven't seen the room, but apparently it's nice and sunny. There's room for her bedroom set, a chair and TV. A small dining area. She has a mini-kitchen with fridge, microwave, coffeemaker and toaster oven. And her own bath. There are lots of windows and she'll have a view of SFO, which will make her happy as she loves to watch the planes take off and land.
And I feel like crap.
I've been dealing with bad daughter syndrome for years now because I'm not closer to her. And egged on by family guilt at not doing more, I've had it worse and worse. But it's finally sinking in that we're putting my mom in a home. Oh it's a nice one. Not a hospital. More of a retirement center with very nice people and lots of activities. I think it'll actually help her to have regular stimulation and company and things to do doing the day. But it remains that we're moving her out of the house she's lived in for nearly 60 years.
And she doesn't know. We haven't told her because 1) we don't know how and; 2) they advise us not to upset her until the last minute. They're the experts and know what to do. We've gotten some anti-agitation medicine and we'll all be there to show her around and make sure she's comfortable before we leave. Plus she's lost so much of her memory that even if we did tell her she wouldn't remember when she got there and we'd have to tell her all over again.
I know it's the right thing. We all do. She fell again the other day and bruised her forehead. Not seriously but, again, proof that she need more care than we can give her. They'll check in with her regularly, make sure she socializes, give her her medicine on time and, all and all, seems like the best solution.
But I still feel like crap.
The siblings have decided on a senior home for mom and we're moving her in on Halloween.
After weeks of talking about it, it suddenly seems to be happening quite fast. My brother is organizing things and there are e-mails flying. My eldest sister is taking mom for a ride on Sunday and the rest of us are moving her things in. I haven't seen the room, but apparently it's nice and sunny. There's room for her bedroom set, a chair and TV. A small dining area. She has a mini-kitchen with fridge, microwave, coffeemaker and toaster oven. And her own bath. There are lots of windows and she'll have a view of SFO, which will make her happy as she loves to watch the planes take off and land.
And I feel like crap.
I've been dealing with bad daughter syndrome for years now because I'm not closer to her. And egged on by family guilt at not doing more, I've had it worse and worse. But it's finally sinking in that we're putting my mom in a home. Oh it's a nice one. Not a hospital. More of a retirement center with very nice people and lots of activities. I think it'll actually help her to have regular stimulation and company and things to do doing the day. But it remains that we're moving her out of the house she's lived in for nearly 60 years.
And she doesn't know. We haven't told her because 1) we don't know how and; 2) they advise us not to upset her until the last minute. They're the experts and know what to do. We've gotten some anti-agitation medicine and we'll all be there to show her around and make sure she's comfortable before we leave. Plus she's lost so much of her memory that even if we did tell her she wouldn't remember when she got there and we'd have to tell her all over again.
I know it's the right thing. We all do. She fell again the other day and bruised her forehead. Not seriously but, again, proof that she need more care than we can give her. They'll check in with her regularly, make sure she socializes, give her her medicine on time and, all and all, seems like the best solution.
But I still feel like crap.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Superstitions
Husband, who is normally a very rational man, has definite superstitions when it comes to sports. His all revolve around hats.
At the start of every hockey season he buys himself a new Philadelphia Flyers cap. This must be worn at all times when the Flyers are on the ice. However, if the Flyers should start to suck, the hat comes off because (obviously) the hat mojo isn't working. Of course he doesn't actually believe his headgear affects the outcome of games, but it's a superstition nonetheless.
At the start of tonight's playoff game between the Giants and the Phillies, Husband was wearing his Giants cap. However, the Giants soon began some form of suckage and the hat came off. And Husband (who didn't wear the cap last night, when the Giants won) proclaimed this a no-hat series as far as he's concerned.
Superstitions are odd things. I started my college career as an acting major and that's a profession overcrowded with superstitions. No whistling backstage. Saying "good luck" is bad luck. And, the biggie, you must never, never, never say the name Macbeth in a theatre. If you even quote from it, the production is jinxed until you go out of the theatre and turn around three times clockwise. (Who comes up with this shit?)
I don't believe in these, but I adhered to them because everyone else did and I didn't want to piss them off. But it's a weird thing.
I don't know that I have any superstitions. I work around tons of black cats. I've walked under ladders. I've broken mirrors. I don't knock wood or throw salt over my shoulder. But I respect other's superstitions so I don't do things to upset them. But it's odd how these things start and continue.
Husband, who is normally a very rational man, has definite superstitions when it comes to sports. His all revolve around hats.
At the start of every hockey season he buys himself a new Philadelphia Flyers cap. This must be worn at all times when the Flyers are on the ice. However, if the Flyers should start to suck, the hat comes off because (obviously) the hat mojo isn't working. Of course he doesn't actually believe his headgear affects the outcome of games, but it's a superstition nonetheless.
At the start of tonight's playoff game between the Giants and the Phillies, Husband was wearing his Giants cap. However, the Giants soon began some form of suckage and the hat came off. And Husband (who didn't wear the cap last night, when the Giants won) proclaimed this a no-hat series as far as he's concerned.
Superstitions are odd things. I started my college career as an acting major and that's a profession overcrowded with superstitions. No whistling backstage. Saying "good luck" is bad luck. And, the biggie, you must never, never, never say the name Macbeth in a theatre. If you even quote from it, the production is jinxed until you go out of the theatre and turn around three times clockwise. (Who comes up with this shit?)
I don't believe in these, but I adhered to them because everyone else did and I didn't want to piss them off. But it's a weird thing.
I don't know that I have any superstitions. I work around tons of black cats. I've walked under ladders. I've broken mirrors. I don't knock wood or throw salt over my shoulder. But I respect other's superstitions so I don't do things to upset them. But it's odd how these things start and continue.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
I Am Not Crazy
I've always harbored a bit of a resentment towards those who think I'm "a crazy cat lady." This New York Times piece explains it nicely, thank you.
I've always harbored a bit of a resentment towards those who think I'm "a crazy cat lady." This New York Times piece explains it nicely, thank you.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Scenes from Silver Creek: The Hiram House
I think every town has, or should have, a haunted house. With Halloween approaching, it seemed fitting to tell you about Silver Creek’s.
It was called the Hiram House and, sadly, it is no longer there. With typical Silver Creekian respect for the past it was torn down to build a picture-framing store. There was a movement to save it, but it was so dilapidated that it was deemed a fire hazard and, in spite of some civic spirit, there was nobody willing to fund a restoration. And, really, no point. It was just a shell. A shell with an interesting history, and some weird architecture, but beyond hope really.
Hiram House was one of the first five buildings in Silver Creek. Part of the original Spanish land grant to a man named Israel Hiram who did some dubious service and was rewarded with a plot of land in an as-yet-unnamed part of what would be California.
Hiram brought up a fat wife and some skinny cows from Mexico and started a dairy. And he built a house. It was just a square of four rooms at first. But as the dairy grew, and his fortunes along with it, he added rooms and kids at regular intervals. Eventually it was two stories with porches all around and mismatched windows. Some tall and skinny. Some arched. Two in one room. Three in another. Nothing matched and yet it all seemed to fit somehow. As if their disunity was what united the whole.
But, as with all good ghost stories, there was a tragedy. In this case an influenza epidemic that wiped out the fat wife and the numerous children. Only tough old Israel was left. He lost interest in the cows and stopped building the house and grew old and died. End of story.
But Hiram House sat there while Silver Creek grew up around it. The building falling apart. The land that the dairy was on turned into subdivisions and fast-food joints. And the old building of adobe and pine settled into lumps and ruins; an anomaly in suburbia.
As a child I lived about four blocks from Hiram House and walked past it on my way to Our Lady of Angels or the library. My friend Sean, however, lived on the same street, Hiram Road (imaginatively enough) and could see the old place from his bedroom window.
Being imaginative kids we, of course, invested the place with all sorts of specters. Not content with old Israel wandering about the place mourning the loss of his family, we came up with everything this side of Anne Boleyn wandering the place “with her head tucked underneath her arm.”
But we didn’t really believe the place was haunted. Not really. Sort of.
It was a hot August night when Sean, his elder brother Nick, and I were walking home after a midnight showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. We were in high school and not afraid of anything. Certainly not walking past the Hiram House at 2 am.
We’d sort of run out of conversation by then and were just enjoying the warm night and good friends. I was walking in-between the brothers, holding Sean’s hand. Nick was whistling "The Time Warp" quietly. Then we walked past the overgrown lot where the Hiram House stood. And we saw the man.
He was pale and scrawny. Seemed to be covered in dust. And was illuminated perfectly by the blue light of the moon as he stood staring at the empty house. And I stopped. And I looked. And then we all looked. And then he turned from the house and stared at us. He opened his mouth, but no sound emerged. Sean, always a chicken, made a sound like a wounded spaniel and high-tailed it for home. Nick and I took off after him without thought.
And once in the safety of the Logan house, we said nothing. And we never did. Not to each other. Not to anyone else. We all three saw him and all three knew the others had seen, but it was never spoken.
About six years later Hiram House was torn down. The only reference we ever made to that night was that Sean always referred to “The Haunted Picture-Framer” as the business that moved in.
I think every town has, or should have, a haunted house. With Halloween approaching, it seemed fitting to tell you about Silver Creek’s.
It was called the Hiram House and, sadly, it is no longer there. With typical Silver Creekian respect for the past it was torn down to build a picture-framing store. There was a movement to save it, but it was so dilapidated that it was deemed a fire hazard and, in spite of some civic spirit, there was nobody willing to fund a restoration. And, really, no point. It was just a shell. A shell with an interesting history, and some weird architecture, but beyond hope really.
Hiram House was one of the first five buildings in Silver Creek. Part of the original Spanish land grant to a man named Israel Hiram who did some dubious service and was rewarded with a plot of land in an as-yet-unnamed part of what would be California.
Hiram brought up a fat wife and some skinny cows from Mexico and started a dairy. And he built a house. It was just a square of four rooms at first. But as the dairy grew, and his fortunes along with it, he added rooms and kids at regular intervals. Eventually it was two stories with porches all around and mismatched windows. Some tall and skinny. Some arched. Two in one room. Three in another. Nothing matched and yet it all seemed to fit somehow. As if their disunity was what united the whole.
But, as with all good ghost stories, there was a tragedy. In this case an influenza epidemic that wiped out the fat wife and the numerous children. Only tough old Israel was left. He lost interest in the cows and stopped building the house and grew old and died. End of story.
But Hiram House sat there while Silver Creek grew up around it. The building falling apart. The land that the dairy was on turned into subdivisions and fast-food joints. And the old building of adobe and pine settled into lumps and ruins; an anomaly in suburbia.
As a child I lived about four blocks from Hiram House and walked past it on my way to Our Lady of Angels or the library. My friend Sean, however, lived on the same street, Hiram Road (imaginatively enough) and could see the old place from his bedroom window.
Being imaginative kids we, of course, invested the place with all sorts of specters. Not content with old Israel wandering about the place mourning the loss of his family, we came up with everything this side of Anne Boleyn wandering the place “with her head tucked underneath her arm.”
But we didn’t really believe the place was haunted. Not really. Sort of.
It was a hot August night when Sean, his elder brother Nick, and I were walking home after a midnight showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. We were in high school and not afraid of anything. Certainly not walking past the Hiram House at 2 am.
We’d sort of run out of conversation by then and were just enjoying the warm night and good friends. I was walking in-between the brothers, holding Sean’s hand. Nick was whistling "The Time Warp" quietly. Then we walked past the overgrown lot where the Hiram House stood. And we saw the man.
He was pale and scrawny. Seemed to be covered in dust. And was illuminated perfectly by the blue light of the moon as he stood staring at the empty house. And I stopped. And I looked. And then we all looked. And then he turned from the house and stared at us. He opened his mouth, but no sound emerged. Sean, always a chicken, made a sound like a wounded spaniel and high-tailed it for home. Nick and I took off after him without thought.
And once in the safety of the Logan house, we said nothing. And we never did. Not to each other. Not to anyone else. We all three saw him and all three knew the others had seen, but it was never spoken.
About six years later Hiram House was torn down. The only reference we ever made to that night was that Sean always referred to “The Haunted Picture-Framer” as the business that moved in.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Into Compulsion
I've been reading Jon Krakauer's fascinating book Into Thin Air. For those of you who don't know it, it details the 1996 tragedy on Mt. Everest in which nine people were killed. He's a great storyteller and it's a page-turning read.
It's also one of those books that makes you think about what you'd do in a particular situation.
In this case, I wouldn't be in that situation.
When I was a kid I decided that I was going to climb Everest. I think I saw it on The Wonderful World of Disney and, of course, planned on making the climb. After all, how hard could it be? You climb. End of story.
But somewhere in between Tinkerbell flying over the castle and my reaching the age I am now, I've changed my mind. I got smarter. Or lazier. Or something. But looking on it now, I wonder that anyone wants to do it. Forget "because it's there" it's insane!
You're sick all the time. You're exhausted. You alternately cough up blood or feel like you're otherwise going to die. People do die, every year. And you pay at least $75,000 for the privilege.
In many ways I'm in awe of people who achieve this. The discipline required to get your body into shape for an Everest climb is beyond my comprehension. And the drive necessary to achieve this one goal through pain, deprivation, fear, and threat of freezing to death is equally mysterious. Frostbite is nearly certain, apparently. Who really needs all 10 toes? And sure I'm willing to forsake family and friends for three months while I acclimatize my body to 29,000 feet. Sure, I want to live at the altitude that planes usually cruise at.
The whole thing seems both pointless and admirable -- crazy and and fascinating. I'm glad I read the book, but equally glad i'll never do it myself.
I've been reading Jon Krakauer's fascinating book Into Thin Air. For those of you who don't know it, it details the 1996 tragedy on Mt. Everest in which nine people were killed. He's a great storyteller and it's a page-turning read.
It's also one of those books that makes you think about what you'd do in a particular situation.
In this case, I wouldn't be in that situation.
When I was a kid I decided that I was going to climb Everest. I think I saw it on The Wonderful World of Disney and, of course, planned on making the climb. After all, how hard could it be? You climb. End of story.
But somewhere in between Tinkerbell flying over the castle and my reaching the age I am now, I've changed my mind. I got smarter. Or lazier. Or something. But looking on it now, I wonder that anyone wants to do it. Forget "because it's there" it's insane!
You're sick all the time. You're exhausted. You alternately cough up blood or feel like you're otherwise going to die. People do die, every year. And you pay at least $75,000 for the privilege.
In many ways I'm in awe of people who achieve this. The discipline required to get your body into shape for an Everest climb is beyond my comprehension. And the drive necessary to achieve this one goal through pain, deprivation, fear, and threat of freezing to death is equally mysterious. Frostbite is nearly certain, apparently. Who really needs all 10 toes? And sure I'm willing to forsake family and friends for three months while I acclimatize my body to 29,000 feet. Sure, I want to live at the altitude that planes usually cruise at.
The whole thing seems both pointless and admirable -- crazy and and fascinating. I'm glad I read the book, but equally glad i'll never do it myself.
Saturday, October 09, 2010
Plots
Ah, fall. The Giants are kicking baseballbutt (go Giants!). Halloween decorations abound and I have an excuse to accidentally eat two peanut butter cups. And the countdown has already begun for NaNoWriMo.
Last year I started a book with the deliriously bad title of Anton Schickler Sings Bad Songs of a German Childhood. I am still in love in love with title. It went no where, which was helped by my flu. So I started but didn't finish. Husband, however, being a stud not only wrong a book in a month, but he wrote a damned good one. He published it through Blurb and sold about 50 copies. Mostly to friends but a few times to total strangers (with good taste).
So we're coming up on 2010 NaNoWriMo and I am already panicking. No idea. None. Not a clue. No setting. No characters. No genre. Not even the merest hint of an idea. Should be fun.
Ah, fall. The Giants are kicking baseballbutt (go Giants!). Halloween decorations abound and I have an excuse to accidentally eat two peanut butter cups. And the countdown has already begun for NaNoWriMo.
Last year I started a book with the deliriously bad title of Anton Schickler Sings Bad Songs of a German Childhood. I am still in love in love with title. It went no where, which was helped by my flu. So I started but didn't finish. Husband, however, being a stud not only wrong a book in a month, but he wrote a damned good one. He published it through Blurb and sold about 50 copies. Mostly to friends but a few times to total strangers (with good taste).
So we're coming up on 2010 NaNoWriMo and I am already panicking. No idea. None. Not a clue. No setting. No characters. No genre. Not even the merest hint of an idea. Should be fun.
Thursday, October 07, 2010
Now With Platypus Liver!
I find cosmetics marketing hilarious.
First off, I don't really understand it. Aside from an insane high school addiction to root beer lip gloss I've never worn make up. The only so-called beauty product I buy is moisturizer.
But most women wear cosmetics and advertising it is a huge market. But what gets me is when they suddenly announce that an ingredient you never heard of or never knew would make you beautiful is suddenly touted in TV ads.
Now with Platypus Liver! They'll proclaim. Really? Who knew platypus liver was good for you? The big thing seems to be random oil. New Like Me Mascara enriches your lashes with Aspidistra Oil. What the heck is aspidistra oil when it's at home?
Men's products don't seem to suffer from the same problem. You never see an ad for shaving cream that's now made with trout scales or oak cream.
And since I'm on a rant (and when am I not?) what is it with too many made-up flavors. Nothing is chocolate anymore. It's Belgian Chocolate Creme Originale. Vanilla Bean Tahitian. There's always one weird geographic reference, I suppose to make it more cosmopolitan. But it's too much. Canadian Caramel Dream is not a flavor. It's a stripper.
I find cosmetics marketing hilarious.
First off, I don't really understand it. Aside from an insane high school addiction to root beer lip gloss I've never worn make up. The only so-called beauty product I buy is moisturizer.
But most women wear cosmetics and advertising it is a huge market. But what gets me is when they suddenly announce that an ingredient you never heard of or never knew would make you beautiful is suddenly touted in TV ads.
Now with Platypus Liver! They'll proclaim. Really? Who knew platypus liver was good for you? The big thing seems to be random oil. New Like Me Mascara enriches your lashes with Aspidistra Oil. What the heck is aspidistra oil when it's at home?
Men's products don't seem to suffer from the same problem. You never see an ad for shaving cream that's now made with trout scales or oak cream.
And since I'm on a rant (and when am I not?) what is it with too many made-up flavors. Nothing is chocolate anymore. It's Belgian Chocolate Creme Originale. Vanilla Bean Tahitian. There's always one weird geographic reference, I suppose to make it more cosmopolitan. But it's too much. Canadian Caramel Dream is not a flavor. It's a stripper.
Tuesday, October 05, 2010
The Genius that was William Topz McGongall
If you are unfamiliar with the poetic oeuvre of Mr. McGonagall then you are in for a delight. Billed as "McGonagall the Prince of Dioggerell: and "The Worst Poet in the English Language" the poor man more than lived up to his name. This 19th century hack was firmly convinced of his Divine Talent and his duty to his Muse. He had no sense of humor regarding his work. At one point he wrote with great seriousness that while reciting his verses, people began throwing peas at him. And when you read his works, you really ca't blame them. His favorite subjects were train disasters, burials of famous peoples, bridge crashes, fires, and various other lyrical calamaties. Here I give you but a sample of the magic that was William McConagall's "talent":
The Late Sir John Ogilvy
Alas! Sir John Ogilby is dead, aged eighty=seven
But I hop his soul his now is heaven;
For he was a generous-hearted gentleman I am sure
And in particular, ery kind unto the poor
He was a Christian gentlemen in every degree
And, for many a years, was an M.P. for Bonnie Dundee,
And while he was an M.P. he didn't neglect
To advocate the rights of Dundee in every respect
He was a public benefactor in man way,s
especially in erecting an asylum for imbecile children to spend their days
Then he handed the institution over as free
As a free gift and boon to the people of Dundee
He was chairman gentlemen in his time,
and he now lies buried in the family vault in Strathmartine
but I hope his sould has gone alonft where all troubles cease
amonsgt the blessed saits where all is joy and peace
to the peple around Baldovan he will be a great loss,
because he was a kind hearted man and a Solder of the Cross
He had always a kind word for every one he met
And the loss of such a good man will be felt with deep regret
Because such men as Sir John Ogilvy are hard to be found,
Especially in Christian charity his large heart did abound
Therefore a monumentshould be erected for him most handsome to behold
And his good deeds engraven thereon in letters of gold
If you are unfamiliar with the poetic oeuvre of Mr. McGonagall then you are in for a delight. Billed as "McGonagall the Prince of Dioggerell: and "The Worst Poet in the English Language" the poor man more than lived up to his name. This 19th century hack was firmly convinced of his Divine Talent and his duty to his Muse. He had no sense of humor regarding his work. At one point he wrote with great seriousness that while reciting his verses, people began throwing peas at him. And when you read his works, you really ca't blame them. His favorite subjects were train disasters, burials of famous peoples, bridge crashes, fires, and various other lyrical calamaties. Here I give you but a sample of the magic that was William McConagall's "talent":
The Late Sir John Ogilvy
Alas! Sir John Ogilby is dead, aged eighty=seven
But I hop his soul his now is heaven;
For he was a generous-hearted gentleman I am sure
And in particular, ery kind unto the poor
He was a Christian gentlemen in every degree
And, for many a years, was an M.P. for Bonnie Dundee,
And while he was an M.P. he didn't neglect
To advocate the rights of Dundee in every respect
He was a public benefactor in man way,s
especially in erecting an asylum for imbecile children to spend their days
Then he handed the institution over as free
As a free gift and boon to the people of Dundee
He was chairman gentlemen in his time,
and he now lies buried in the family vault in Strathmartine
but I hope his sould has gone alonft where all troubles cease
amonsgt the blessed saits where all is joy and peace
to the peple around Baldovan he will be a great loss,
because he was a kind hearted man and a Solder of the Cross
He had always a kind word for every one he met
And the loss of such a good man will be felt with deep regret
Because such men as Sir John Ogilvy are hard to be found,
Especially in Christian charity his large heart did abound
Therefore a monumentshould be erected for him most handsome to behold
And his good deeds engraven thereon in letters of gold
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
CD Pick of the Week: Salif Keita
Salif Keita's new release is a must-have for fans of Afro-pop. This Malian superstar has struggled his whole life against intolerance shown towards his albinism. In this release he sings about his life experiences as “a white man with black blood.” Featuring rhythmic guitar riffs and stylish kora groove plus his gorgeous voice set against a female chorus, this is all delicious.
Even better? All proceeds from the sale of this CD benefit his charity Salif Keita Pour Les Albinos which helps to combat the stigma that albinism has in Africa.
Salif Keita's new release is a must-have for fans of Afro-pop. This Malian superstar has struggled his whole life against intolerance shown towards his albinism. In this release he sings about his life experiences as “a white man with black blood.” Featuring rhythmic guitar riffs and stylish kora groove plus his gorgeous voice set against a female chorus, this is all delicious.
Even better? All proceeds from the sale of this CD benefit his charity Salif Keita Pour Les Albinos which helps to combat the stigma that albinism has in Africa.
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