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.)
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
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.
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