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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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).

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.)

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.

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.

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.