Go. Do.
This is National Volunteer Week. I know because there's a big sign out in front of the shelter announcing the fact and thanking their volunteers. There are cookies and brownies in the staff kitchen and we all got a great e-mail from the staff talking about what a great job we're doing.
And I'd have to agree. Our shelter would close without our volunteers. Like all non-profits, there's just not enough money to pay for the staff necessary to keep us up and running. At our shelter we never turn away healthy animals. And 100% of our adoptable pets get adopted. We will keep them fed, housed, and loved until they find homes. It may take months or, sadly, in some cases years. But we'll get them there.
None of which could happen without people willing to work their butts off for no pay, just because they love animals.
I've worked in a lot of non-profits over the years, mostly doing AIDS work. And I know just how important it is that there are people who volunteer. And I'm proud to be one of them. I miss earning a salary. And I hate knowing that my lack of a job means Husband has to work harder and we have to live with less. But knowing that I'm doing something, however small, for the good makes me wickedly happy.
I urge all of you to find a cause close to your heart and give of your time. You don't need to give tons of time. At the shelter we ask for only 2-hours a week. Most organizations would be happy with that. And the opportunities are endless. You can use your personal skills: got a way with words? Volunteer to work on a local non-profit's newsletter. Like to work with your hands? There's probably a Habitat for Humanity build going on near you. Or just go with your heart and do what needs to be done. You can even just sign on for a one-day project. Signing in walkers at a local charity fundraiser. Serving meals at a local food bank.
Don't want to make a commitment? Then just do something good. Take a garbage bag to your favorite park and clean up trash. Clean out your closets and take the extras to the Salvation Army. No time? Write a check. Just one. For the cost of a pizza you can feed a child, a senior, or a litter of kittens for a week.
People probably think I'm insane for quitting a 6-figure job as a manager at Apple to work for no money cleaning out cat kennels. And maybe I am. But I'm happy I did it. I'm happy knowing I'm making a difference for the better. OK, I'm not Nobel Peace Prize good, but I do what I can and I get so much more out of it than I put in. It's more rewarding than anything I've done. And while it's not like I needed a reason to love Husband more than I do, I'm grateful beyond words that he's willing to support us while I do what I love.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Scenes from Silver Creek: The Mission Summer
California history is very strongly tied into the Catholic Mission system. The 21 adobe missions built by Father Junipero Serra to bring Catholicism to the indigenous people – whether they wanted it or not.
Like all California school kids, I did my fair share of visits to various missions, mostly Mission Dolores in San Francisco and Mission Carmel. I even did an “art” project where I built a mission out of sugar cubes, complete with ice plant “cactus” and paths made out of kitty litter. The ants loved it and played invasion all over the walls Mission San Juan Bautista (the one I drew from the “Mission Hat”).
But between my junior and senior year at Silver Creek High, on the advice of my guidance counselor, I got more involved in Mission history than I really wanted to.
It was called the “work summer” and pretty much every kid in my class was advised, guided, guilted, or bribed into doing something “good” for the summer. Partly it would look good on a college application. Partly no parent wanted their kid to be the one who would choose lounging by the pool over doing something worthwhile.
That’s how it was for me. I didn’t particularly want to spend my summer helping to paint the senior center or providing free day care to low-income kids. I wanted to read trashy romance novels, eat popsicles, have pizza nights with my friends, and generally enjoy the summer.
My parents had another idea. The only saving grace was that my best friend, Sean, had equally persuasive parents and he had to be good all summer too. Since we had both been raised at Our Lady of Angels (whose slogan we decided should be “Eight years of school, a lifetime of guilt!”) we received notice through the church that there was an archeological site going on at one of the Missions and they were looking for summer interns.
It was Mission San Antonio de Padua, built in 1771 an located in a valley southeast of Monterey. Average summertime temperature is roughly that of the surface of the sun. Only without the cooling breezes.
Some random, third class California University was excavating the site of the Spanish garrison. They had grad students doing all the interesting things, and wanted free grunt work to do all the hard stuff. You got room and board, no money, a promise of a letter of recommendation from the site director for your college packet, and they even supplied the sunscreen.
Since the opportunity to be away from our parents for a while was more appealing than staying home and singing show tunes at the senior center, we both signed up. And since they were hardly flooded with applicants, we were both accepted.
So we went. Sean and I. In his root beer brown Capri, the trunk stuffed with shorts and brand new hiking boots that never did break in and caused our feet no end of misery. We listened to “Frampton Comes Alive” endlessly, stopped at every Foster’s Freeze we passed for frosty cones and pee breaks. We planned our glorious futures (I was going to win a Tony Award for Best Actress on Broadway. Sean was going to win the Publisher’s Clearing House Sweepstakes and live in style). And we never envisioned what was ahead.
We only got lost twice. Ended up at a dead-end private road where we asked a cow for directions. But we eventually found the Mission, our summer project, and Dr. Edward Calkman.
The crew consisted of the Dr. (who everyone called “Doctor” and never anything else), 6 grad students, 4 other high school students from around California, and a wonderful cook named Belen. She was the best thing about the gig. Every meal included hand-made tortillas and mouth-scorching salsa.
Wake up call came at 7 am every day. Which to high school students is one of the lower circles of hell. We were on the dig by 9. We worked from 9 to noon and then had from noon to 2 off for lunch and a bit of a break from the heat. Then back on the clock until 6, dinner at 7. Just how I wanted to spend my summer.
The work itself was miserable. Either we shifted huge shovelsful for dirt into sifters, or we crouched in backbreaking positions with hand trowels and toothbrushes (toothbrushes, for god’s sake!) for the detail work. I was there exactly 32 days and in all that time I found only one thing: squirrel bones. That’s it. Squirrel bones. Sean at least found a button. And the way he gloated over it all summer you’d have thought he found the body of Junipero Serra himself. But I was the squirrel bone queen. The first one I found I thought it was yet another onion root. But one of the grad students enlightened me. By the end of job I was extremely proficient in the classification and identification of squirrel bones. I could have majored in them.
The entire dig seemed to me to be a big bust. We had the walls of the garrison, which we already knew. But in terms of artifacts, we didn’t find much. Sean’s much-heralded button. Some old strips of leather. A few old bottles and a knife or two. Hardly the lost treasure of the Sierra Madre. From a historical standpoint it was important. But to two 17-year olds who were tired, sunburned, sore, and longing to have some fun it was hardly the Summer of Love.
The grad students wanted nothing to do with us, being extremely superior in both age and education. The other high schoolers actually seemed to enjoy themselves and were excessively Catholic and, therefore, lame. So Sean and I bonded over our shared misery and blisters. Doctor never did learn our names. For the entire summer Sean was “Sam.” He never even got close to my name. I was just a mumble.
We did learn basic archeology techniques – something that has proved to be an utterly useless skill in my life. Sean got sunstroke and had to go to the hospital one afternoon for fluids. We both got fed up one night, broke curfew and drove into the nearest town for burgers and onion rings. Nobody noticed we were gone so we made it a regular thing. Once a week we’d take off, in spite of the fact that Belen’s enchiladas were the best thing going.
But we got up with the dawn every day, put on our Frankenstein boots and our Gilligan hats and picked up our toothbrushes. We sifted dirt under the melting sun until the sweat and dirt ran in muddy tears down our faces. We found the remains of every squirrel that ever died in California. We worked ourselves into exhaustion and fits of giggles. We told lame knock-knock jokes to relieve the boredom and made up rude limericks about the Doctor.
And we counted off the days until we were done.
On our last day, I think we were actually sad to say goodbye. At least to Belen, who gave us a doggy bag of tortillas and black beans & rice for the road. We pulled out of the compound without a backward glance, eager only for the roadtrip and the chance to sleep past 7 am in our own beds.
Looking back on that summer, I wish I could say it’s now colored in the pale rose light of all good flashbacks. But I can’t. It was hot and miserable work with unfriendly people. But it did give me a new appreciation for the eternal hardiness of squirrel bones.
California history is very strongly tied into the Catholic Mission system. The 21 adobe missions built by Father Junipero Serra to bring Catholicism to the indigenous people – whether they wanted it or not.
Like all California school kids, I did my fair share of visits to various missions, mostly Mission Dolores in San Francisco and Mission Carmel. I even did an “art” project where I built a mission out of sugar cubes, complete with ice plant “cactus” and paths made out of kitty litter. The ants loved it and played invasion all over the walls Mission San Juan Bautista (the one I drew from the “Mission Hat”).
But between my junior and senior year at Silver Creek High, on the advice of my guidance counselor, I got more involved in Mission history than I really wanted to.
It was called the “work summer” and pretty much every kid in my class was advised, guided, guilted, or bribed into doing something “good” for the summer. Partly it would look good on a college application. Partly no parent wanted their kid to be the one who would choose lounging by the pool over doing something worthwhile.
That’s how it was for me. I didn’t particularly want to spend my summer helping to paint the senior center or providing free day care to low-income kids. I wanted to read trashy romance novels, eat popsicles, have pizza nights with my friends, and generally enjoy the summer.
My parents had another idea. The only saving grace was that my best friend, Sean, had equally persuasive parents and he had to be good all summer too. Since we had both been raised at Our Lady of Angels (whose slogan we decided should be “Eight years of school, a lifetime of guilt!”) we received notice through the church that there was an archeological site going on at one of the Missions and they were looking for summer interns.
It was Mission San Antonio de Padua, built in 1771 an located in a valley southeast of Monterey. Average summertime temperature is roughly that of the surface of the sun. Only without the cooling breezes.
Some random, third class California University was excavating the site of the Spanish garrison. They had grad students doing all the interesting things, and wanted free grunt work to do all the hard stuff. You got room and board, no money, a promise of a letter of recommendation from the site director for your college packet, and they even supplied the sunscreen.
Since the opportunity to be away from our parents for a while was more appealing than staying home and singing show tunes at the senior center, we both signed up. And since they were hardly flooded with applicants, we were both accepted.
So we went. Sean and I. In his root beer brown Capri, the trunk stuffed with shorts and brand new hiking boots that never did break in and caused our feet no end of misery. We listened to “Frampton Comes Alive” endlessly, stopped at every Foster’s Freeze we passed for frosty cones and pee breaks. We planned our glorious futures (I was going to win a Tony Award for Best Actress on Broadway. Sean was going to win the Publisher’s Clearing House Sweepstakes and live in style). And we never envisioned what was ahead.
We only got lost twice. Ended up at a dead-end private road where we asked a cow for directions. But we eventually found the Mission, our summer project, and Dr. Edward Calkman.
The crew consisted of the Dr. (who everyone called “Doctor” and never anything else), 6 grad students, 4 other high school students from around California, and a wonderful cook named Belen. She was the best thing about the gig. Every meal included hand-made tortillas and mouth-scorching salsa.
Wake up call came at 7 am every day. Which to high school students is one of the lower circles of hell. We were on the dig by 9. We worked from 9 to noon and then had from noon to 2 off for lunch and a bit of a break from the heat. Then back on the clock until 6, dinner at 7. Just how I wanted to spend my summer.
The work itself was miserable. Either we shifted huge shovelsful for dirt into sifters, or we crouched in backbreaking positions with hand trowels and toothbrushes (toothbrushes, for god’s sake!) for the detail work. I was there exactly 32 days and in all that time I found only one thing: squirrel bones. That’s it. Squirrel bones. Sean at least found a button. And the way he gloated over it all summer you’d have thought he found the body of Junipero Serra himself. But I was the squirrel bone queen. The first one I found I thought it was yet another onion root. But one of the grad students enlightened me. By the end of job I was extremely proficient in the classification and identification of squirrel bones. I could have majored in them.
The entire dig seemed to me to be a big bust. We had the walls of the garrison, which we already knew. But in terms of artifacts, we didn’t find much. Sean’s much-heralded button. Some old strips of leather. A few old bottles and a knife or two. Hardly the lost treasure of the Sierra Madre. From a historical standpoint it was important. But to two 17-year olds who were tired, sunburned, sore, and longing to have some fun it was hardly the Summer of Love.
The grad students wanted nothing to do with us, being extremely superior in both age and education. The other high schoolers actually seemed to enjoy themselves and were excessively Catholic and, therefore, lame. So Sean and I bonded over our shared misery and blisters. Doctor never did learn our names. For the entire summer Sean was “Sam.” He never even got close to my name. I was just a mumble.
We did learn basic archeology techniques – something that has proved to be an utterly useless skill in my life. Sean got sunstroke and had to go to the hospital one afternoon for fluids. We both got fed up one night, broke curfew and drove into the nearest town for burgers and onion rings. Nobody noticed we were gone so we made it a regular thing. Once a week we’d take off, in spite of the fact that Belen’s enchiladas were the best thing going.
But we got up with the dawn every day, put on our Frankenstein boots and our Gilligan hats and picked up our toothbrushes. We sifted dirt under the melting sun until the sweat and dirt ran in muddy tears down our faces. We found the remains of every squirrel that ever died in California. We worked ourselves into exhaustion and fits of giggles. We told lame knock-knock jokes to relieve the boredom and made up rude limericks about the Doctor.
And we counted off the days until we were done.
On our last day, I think we were actually sad to say goodbye. At least to Belen, who gave us a doggy bag of tortillas and black beans & rice for the road. We pulled out of the compound without a backward glance, eager only for the roadtrip and the chance to sleep past 7 am in our own beds.
Looking back on that summer, I wish I could say it’s now colored in the pale rose light of all good flashbacks. But I can’t. It was hot and miserable work with unfriendly people. But it did give me a new appreciation for the eternal hardiness of squirrel bones.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
In the land of coolness....
Catching up on cool stuff from around the interwebs.
- Rube Goldberg does Bach. Just a happy thing.
- the Lion of Gripsholm Castle. The cutest non-scary lion ever.
- Library porn. If you like books and, especially, libraries this will take your breath away.
Ok, that's it. Go forth and smile.
Catching up on cool stuff from around the interwebs.
- Rube Goldberg does Bach. Just a happy thing.
- the Lion of Gripsholm Castle. The cutest non-scary lion ever.
- Library porn. If you like books and, especially, libraries this will take your breath away.
Ok, that's it. Go forth and smile.
Friday, April 08, 2011
Go Giants!
I love the San Francisco Giants. Always have. I spent a lot of time at Candlestick Park, freezing my ass off. And now I love going to AT&T Park, the most beautiful ballpark in the country. Nothing like sitting there on a sunny day, with the Bay Bridge in the background and the sun sparkling on McCovey Cove. It truly is spectacular.
When the Giants won the World Series I was too sick to really enjoy it. Husband went to the victory parade and said he'll never forget it. I wish I could have been there. But today I'm watching the home opener (and wishing I could be there) and loving every minute. The pre-game ceremony was typically Giants, the old guard and the new. Willie Mays was there. One of the reasons why I love the Giants is that they take care of their old players. Willie Mays and Willie McCovey were both part of the victory parade.
I've never cheered for a team that won a championship before. I suppose I was a Niners fan in the 80s when they dominated the Super Bowl during the glorious Montana-Rice years. But this was different. This was a team that I've cheered for since I was a kid. And for them to finally win the championship was, even in my sick haze, a total thrill. Today I got that thrill again, watching the championship flag being passed from Willie Mays through the lineup to crazy Brian Wilson and his amazing beard who ran across the field. Of course it had to go to him, our favorite wild man. Running through the stands and up to the top of AT&T to hoist the flag over the park. Running past the iconic cable car (where the bell rings every time we hit a home run) and running up the flag while We Are the Champions blasted over the PA. It was one truly glorious moment that I'll never forget. I actually cried.
Thank you to the 2010 Giants for an unforgettable season. For taking a bunch of misfits and becoming a team. For seeming to know how much it meant to The City. For being our team in our town. For being so wonderfully weird with your beards and your rally thongs, your 21-year old enthusiasm and your "I thought I was a has-been" fire. It was a total goosebump season and today's ceremony just capped it off.
I love you guys. Always will. Go Giants!
I love the San Francisco Giants. Always have. I spent a lot of time at Candlestick Park, freezing my ass off. And now I love going to AT&T Park, the most beautiful ballpark in the country. Nothing like sitting there on a sunny day, with the Bay Bridge in the background and the sun sparkling on McCovey Cove. It truly is spectacular.
When the Giants won the World Series I was too sick to really enjoy it. Husband went to the victory parade and said he'll never forget it. I wish I could have been there. But today I'm watching the home opener (and wishing I could be there) and loving every minute. The pre-game ceremony was typically Giants, the old guard and the new. Willie Mays was there. One of the reasons why I love the Giants is that they take care of their old players. Willie Mays and Willie McCovey were both part of the victory parade.
I've never cheered for a team that won a championship before. I suppose I was a Niners fan in the 80s when they dominated the Super Bowl during the glorious Montana-Rice years. But this was different. This was a team that I've cheered for since I was a kid. And for them to finally win the championship was, even in my sick haze, a total thrill. Today I got that thrill again, watching the championship flag being passed from Willie Mays through the lineup to crazy Brian Wilson and his amazing beard who ran across the field. Of course it had to go to him, our favorite wild man. Running through the stands and up to the top of AT&T to hoist the flag over the park. Running past the iconic cable car (where the bell rings every time we hit a home run) and running up the flag while We Are the Champions blasted over the PA. It was one truly glorious moment that I'll never forget. I actually cried.
Thank you to the 2010 Giants for an unforgettable season. For taking a bunch of misfits and becoming a team. For seeming to know how much it meant to The City. For being our team in our town. For being so wonderfully weird with your beards and your rally thongs, your 21-year old enthusiasm and your "I thought I was a has-been" fire. It was a total goosebump season and today's ceremony just capped it off.
I love you guys. Always will. Go Giants!
Tuesday, April 05, 2011
Those Darn Veggies
Husband and I have gone lightly vegetarian. (We do fish.) And it's quite a strain.
I hate to cook. I hate learning to cook new things. And here I am confronted with chickpeas and cocoanut milk. We have a couple of good cookbooks, but I'm just not interested in spending hours chopping and peeling so I can experiment. Husband loves it. He's a great cook and really has fun.
But because he works like a dog all day it's my job to do the cooking. Tonight we're trying Potatoes and Carrots in cocoanut curry over rice. It sounds good, but we'll see....
I've never enjoyed cooking. Baking I like. The process of making cookies is fun to me. The process of peeling eggplant or chopping endless carrots just isn't fun for me. But I suppose I'll learn.
But it'll take a lot of doing for me to get over the process of having to consult recipes and dealing with unfamiliar with ingredients.
Yeah, I'm cranky. But i'm allowed. It's part of my charm. Hell, it's all of my charm.
Husband and I have gone lightly vegetarian. (We do fish.) And it's quite a strain.
I hate to cook. I hate learning to cook new things. And here I am confronted with chickpeas and cocoanut milk. We have a couple of good cookbooks, but I'm just not interested in spending hours chopping and peeling so I can experiment. Husband loves it. He's a great cook and really has fun.
But because he works like a dog all day it's my job to do the cooking. Tonight we're trying Potatoes and Carrots in cocoanut curry over rice. It sounds good, but we'll see....
I've never enjoyed cooking. Baking I like. The process of making cookies is fun to me. The process of peeling eggplant or chopping endless carrots just isn't fun for me. But I suppose I'll learn.
But it'll take a lot of doing for me to get over the process of having to consult recipes and dealing with unfamiliar with ingredients.
Yeah, I'm cranky. But i'm allowed. It's part of my charm. Hell, it's all of my charm.
Sunday, April 03, 2011
Keepin' it Home
Yesterday Husband and I had sammiches from this great local deli we go to. And it reminded me of how much I love patronizing local, independent businesses. The people are great, they remember our "regulars" they're friendly and the food is so good. I had a chicken salad sammich that I swear I dreamed about last night it was so good.
It's a husband-and-wife place with the walls covered with photos of them at Giants games. (Yet another reason to love them.) And when their dog was sick and needed surgery, they put up a collection box and got over $1000 in donations for his care. (Sadly, they lost him.)
Today we went to our favorite bookstore. The one we can't get out of for under $100. It's a wonderful independent in Menlo Park called Kepler's and it's like heaven. Books you won't find anywhere else. Shelves and shelves of delicious, must-have reads. Clerks who love to read and make recommendations that tend to be spot-on. My newest favorite contemporary mystery author, Canadian Louise Penny, I discovered because a Kepler's clerk wrote a review that sounded too good to miss. And she was right.
One of the best things about Kepler's is the "book group shelf." People all over the area have book groups and many of them buy in groups at Kepler's. So there's a whole section showing what other groups are reading. It's been inspiring when it's my turn to pick our group's read and I have no clue. I know interesting, literate people have checked out and discussed this particular book, so maybe I'll check it out too. I've found some great reads that way. Plus people are allowed to bring their doggys in, so there are always cute pups wandering around or curled into a nap at the foot of one of their cushy leather chairs.
Sure we'll drop into Barnes & Noble occasionally. And there are times when I think we keep Amazon in business. But I honestly prefer to shop local.
We've got lots of interesting shops nearby. There's an Asian-owned produce store that is incredible. Half the stuff you pick up you have no idea what it is. Or what to do with it. But since Husband and I have recently gone vegetarian, we're going to do a lot of experimentation soon.
I love going into stores where they know you by name. Our favorite Chinese place all the waiters call me by name and remember when I come in for lunch that I don't want the soup. At the deli I don't even have to order they just ask "the usual?" and I get my favorite sandwich. It makes me happy, plus I love supporting the little guy.
Every weekend Husband and I go to a coffee shop called Neals. It's like an old-school diner. All the waitresses are total characters who call me "Baby Girl" and call Husband "Sweetie." They hug us. They'll slide into the booth next to you and talk about sports. The food is good -- wonderful filling breakfasts -- but I think we just go for Carol, Linda, and Mimi.
Sure there are times when a place like Target is needed. If I need socks, laundry detergent, and a CD on the same day I'll go to a big store. But mostly I prefer to keep it at home. Help support some couple putting a few kids through local schools. Buy from the store where the owner knows your name. Eat at the place where the waitresses hug you.
It's a happy thing.
Yesterday Husband and I had sammiches from this great local deli we go to. And it reminded me of how much I love patronizing local, independent businesses. The people are great, they remember our "regulars" they're friendly and the food is so good. I had a chicken salad sammich that I swear I dreamed about last night it was so good.
It's a husband-and-wife place with the walls covered with photos of them at Giants games. (Yet another reason to love them.) And when their dog was sick and needed surgery, they put up a collection box and got over $1000 in donations for his care. (Sadly, they lost him.)
Today we went to our favorite bookstore. The one we can't get out of for under $100. It's a wonderful independent in Menlo Park called Kepler's and it's like heaven. Books you won't find anywhere else. Shelves and shelves of delicious, must-have reads. Clerks who love to read and make recommendations that tend to be spot-on. My newest favorite contemporary mystery author, Canadian Louise Penny, I discovered because a Kepler's clerk wrote a review that sounded too good to miss. And she was right.
One of the best things about Kepler's is the "book group shelf." People all over the area have book groups and many of them buy in groups at Kepler's. So there's a whole section showing what other groups are reading. It's been inspiring when it's my turn to pick our group's read and I have no clue. I know interesting, literate people have checked out and discussed this particular book, so maybe I'll check it out too. I've found some great reads that way. Plus people are allowed to bring their doggys in, so there are always cute pups wandering around or curled into a nap at the foot of one of their cushy leather chairs.
Sure we'll drop into Barnes & Noble occasionally. And there are times when I think we keep Amazon in business. But I honestly prefer to shop local.
We've got lots of interesting shops nearby. There's an Asian-owned produce store that is incredible. Half the stuff you pick up you have no idea what it is. Or what to do with it. But since Husband and I have recently gone vegetarian, we're going to do a lot of experimentation soon.
I love going into stores where they know you by name. Our favorite Chinese place all the waiters call me by name and remember when I come in for lunch that I don't want the soup. At the deli I don't even have to order they just ask "the usual?" and I get my favorite sandwich. It makes me happy, plus I love supporting the little guy.
Every weekend Husband and I go to a coffee shop called Neals. It's like an old-school diner. All the waitresses are total characters who call me "Baby Girl" and call Husband "Sweetie." They hug us. They'll slide into the booth next to you and talk about sports. The food is good -- wonderful filling breakfasts -- but I think we just go for Carol, Linda, and Mimi.
Sure there are times when a place like Target is needed. If I need socks, laundry detergent, and a CD on the same day I'll go to a big store. But mostly I prefer to keep it at home. Help support some couple putting a few kids through local schools. Buy from the store where the owner knows your name. Eat at the place where the waitresses hug you.
It's a happy thing.
Friday, April 01, 2011
Churches
I'm going through some rough times these days. And in my quest for inner strength and all that blah-blah, I went to a church.
Not for mass, but for stained glass.
As an art historian I have an appreciation for beauty. And I find stained glass to be beautiful. I think it's all the incredibly rich colors, but I find myself quite peaceful under the gaze of a dozen or so stained glass saints. There's a Catholic church nearby that has amazing windows. Probably a dozen saints on each size, a small rose window over the altar, another row of panels in the choir loft. It's gorgeous. The church itself is really beautiful too. Tall, with dark wood crossbeams overhead and a deep, rich, red carpet down the center aisle. It must be a gorgeous church for weddings.
I did find peace, at least for a while. And I'm hoping I can hold on to that when things get crazy.
I'm not about god, but he's got some nice houses.
I'm going through some rough times these days. And in my quest for inner strength and all that blah-blah, I went to a church.
Not for mass, but for stained glass.
As an art historian I have an appreciation for beauty. And I find stained glass to be beautiful. I think it's all the incredibly rich colors, but I find myself quite peaceful under the gaze of a dozen or so stained glass saints. There's a Catholic church nearby that has amazing windows. Probably a dozen saints on each size, a small rose window over the altar, another row of panels in the choir loft. It's gorgeous. The church itself is really beautiful too. Tall, with dark wood crossbeams overhead and a deep, rich, red carpet down the center aisle. It must be a gorgeous church for weddings.
I did find peace, at least for a while. And I'm hoping I can hold on to that when things get crazy.
I'm not about god, but he's got some nice houses.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
So where have I been?
In the hospital, again.
Went into ER late Thursday/early Friday and was released on Sunday. I had every test in the book. X-rays. CT scan. Endoscopy. Colonoscopy. Blood tests every 15 minutes (that's what I get for going to Dracula Memorial Hospital). The verdict:
I have two ulcers in my colon. They should heal by themselves with antibiotics and a soft diet. I also tore a hole in my esophagus. This too will take care of itself. I'm on a soft diet, have lots of drugs, and am generally on the mend.
Being in the hospital is one sure way to appreciate home. In missed our 11th anniversary, I didn't sleep for two days. I missed my cat, my bed, and being able to move my right arm. (Damned IV.)
My IV machine was a total drama queen and went off with a peeved beep every 10 minutes. I eventually learned how to reset it myself. When I did have food it was a liquid diet and consisted of feet-flavored broth. They weirdest menus. I'm sick, throwing on a regular basis, and generally feel like crap. And they give me a tray consisting of feet soup, strawberry jello, cranberry juice, and a cherry popsicle. My God, I couldn't eat that assortment at my best, how to they expect me to combine it when I'm sick?
The biggest problem was the pain. On a scale of 1 to 10 I was regularly 8 or 9. I was on 4 ccs of morphine every 2 hours and it wasn't enough.
Luckily I'm home, I've slept, I'm feeling better, and I have a Husband and a cat taking good care of me.
I hate hospitals.
In the hospital, again.
Went into ER late Thursday/early Friday and was released on Sunday. I had every test in the book. X-rays. CT scan. Endoscopy. Colonoscopy. Blood tests every 15 minutes (that's what I get for going to Dracula Memorial Hospital). The verdict:
I have two ulcers in my colon. They should heal by themselves with antibiotics and a soft diet. I also tore a hole in my esophagus. This too will take care of itself. I'm on a soft diet, have lots of drugs, and am generally on the mend.
Being in the hospital is one sure way to appreciate home. In missed our 11th anniversary, I didn't sleep for two days. I missed my cat, my bed, and being able to move my right arm. (Damned IV.)
My IV machine was a total drama queen and went off with a peeved beep every 10 minutes. I eventually learned how to reset it myself. When I did have food it was a liquid diet and consisted of feet-flavored broth. They weirdest menus. I'm sick, throwing on a regular basis, and generally feel like crap. And they give me a tray consisting of feet soup, strawberry jello, cranberry juice, and a cherry popsicle. My God, I couldn't eat that assortment at my best, how to they expect me to combine it when I'm sick?
The biggest problem was the pain. On a scale of 1 to 10 I was regularly 8 or 9. I was on 4 ccs of morphine every 2 hours and it wasn't enough.
Luckily I'm home, I've slept, I'm feeling better, and I have a Husband and a cat taking good care of me.
I hate hospitals.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Dog Tired
You can tell just by looking at him that he's a troublemaker, can't you? His name is Ricky (name has been changed to protect the guilty), and he was my charge at yesterday's adoption event. His parentage is a mystery but he looks a bit Chihuahua and acts a lot like a terrier. Um, I mean terrorist. He's a sweet, playful, happy dog, about 3 years old, that will make someone a great pet. Provided they get him some serious obedience training.
Yesterday's event was at an upscale pet supply store -- the kind that has a frozen food for pets section. And because it was pouring all day we stayed inside. Ricky, who has the attention span of a fruit fly, kept getting restless so I'd take him for a wander around the store. That's where his shoplifter tendencies came out.
A customer stopped me to ask about Ricky. Hey, that's what we're there for. While I'm extolling his expertise as a lap sitter and face licker, Ricky manages to snag a dog toy from the shelf and proceed to eat the tag and pretty much render it unsellable. Yes, I ended up buying him a dog toy. Luckily for me it was on sale already and they gave me their employee discount, so it was less than $3 (if he were four inches taller I'd have been stuck with the $9 toy!), but it was highly amusing. Later on he tried to steal a rawhide bone that looked like it came from a Mastodon. The fact that it was twice the size of his mouth didn't seem to bother him. Luckily for my wallet it was wrapped in plastic and still sellable.
Later on I had another dog and Ricky was in the care of one of the other volunteers who was snaking from a little bag of Cheez-its. Ricky found them and proceeded to get the bag stuck on his nose -- after eating all her crackers. He also managed to snag a bite of another volunteer's hotdog.
Ricky also has leash problems. As in he doesn't like it and wants to pull you around as if you were on skates. Let's go over here! No, this way! No, I changed my mind, we're going over here! All this in the pouring rain.
He's a lot of dog for such a small package. But just look at that face.
You can tell just by looking at him that he's a troublemaker, can't you? His name is Ricky (name has been changed to protect the guilty), and he was my charge at yesterday's adoption event. His parentage is a mystery but he looks a bit Chihuahua and acts a lot like a terrier. Um, I mean terrorist. He's a sweet, playful, happy dog, about 3 years old, that will make someone a great pet. Provided they get him some serious obedience training.
Yesterday's event was at an upscale pet supply store -- the kind that has a frozen food for pets section. And because it was pouring all day we stayed inside. Ricky, who has the attention span of a fruit fly, kept getting restless so I'd take him for a wander around the store. That's where his shoplifter tendencies came out.
A customer stopped me to ask about Ricky. Hey, that's what we're there for. While I'm extolling his expertise as a lap sitter and face licker, Ricky manages to snag a dog toy from the shelf and proceed to eat the tag and pretty much render it unsellable. Yes, I ended up buying him a dog toy. Luckily for me it was on sale already and they gave me their employee discount, so it was less than $3 (if he were four inches taller I'd have been stuck with the $9 toy!), but it was highly amusing. Later on he tried to steal a rawhide bone that looked like it came from a Mastodon. The fact that it was twice the size of his mouth didn't seem to bother him. Luckily for my wallet it was wrapped in plastic and still sellable.
Later on I had another dog and Ricky was in the care of one of the other volunteers who was snaking from a little bag of Cheez-its. Ricky found them and proceeded to get the bag stuck on his nose -- after eating all her crackers. He also managed to snag a bite of another volunteer's hotdog.
Ricky also has leash problems. As in he doesn't like it and wants to pull you around as if you were on skates. Let's go over here! No, this way! No, I changed my mind, we're going over here! All this in the pouring rain.
He's a lot of dog for such a small package. But just look at that face.
Friday, March 18, 2011
To Rembrandt or Not to Rembrandt
Every so often I have to dust off my Master's Degree. Having a graduate degree in art history means never having to say you're employed.
So, what is art? Discuss.
It's the eternal question among art historians, critics, artists, and people who dress in black everywhere.
About 20 years ago the Dutch decided to set up the Rembrandt Commission to answer part of this question.
It seemed there were hundreds of Rembrandt's, supposed Rembrandt's, and out-and-out crap with fake Rembrandt signatures on them. And they wanted to deal with it. So they put together a panel of art historians, scientists, scholars, and others to examine every so-called Rembrandt in the world and give it a thumb's up or down.
Museums and collectors all over the planet held their breath as the fate of their art rested in the hands of these experts. Some were so concerned they wouldn't allow the commission to examine their art. Who wants to be told that they Rembrandt they paid $4 million for was, in fact, a worthless fake?
There was, as you can imagine, great controversy. The commission had a few verdicts. Paintings were graded as authentic Rembrandt's, from Rembrandt's workshop, in the style of, by a 17th century artist not Rembrandt but not a forgery, real forgeries, and various other categories.
And this raised the question of: why does a name de-value a painting? If a painting is beautiful why is it suddenly worthless just because some guy named Rembrandt didn't paint it? That's the big question. Is it the artist or the art that defines it?
Who or what really decides the label "art?" It seems to be a matter of opinion. And I have a very narrow one.
I am a Classicist. To me good art ended with Impressionism and everything done after that it crap. (Yes, I exaggerate.) But I do find myself responding more to representational art than splotches on a canvas. I will always, always, always think Van Eyck was more talented than Picasso. I get PIcasso. I understand why people consider him a genius. But I don't have an emotional reaction to him.
I marvel at brush strokes, use of light, reflections, the creation of life. I can lose myself in the detail of the sleeping dog in the town square, the peasants in the field, the glow of candlelight in a quiet chamber. But when confronted with a square of black and a square of red, I don't lose myself. Usually I laugh. I'm just that much of a Philistine.
I love art that you can describe in literal detail. "Vermeer perfectly captures the quiet moments of a quiet life." True. On the other hand, I usually screen with laughter at phrases like "this painting conveys the disharmony between the curious now and the unbalanced when." Oh bite me. This shrimp-pump claptrap isn't a real art conversation. It's a way to convince people you're worth having sex with.
Every so often I have to dust off my Master's Degree. Having a graduate degree in art history means never having to say you're employed.
So, what is art? Discuss.
It's the eternal question among art historians, critics, artists, and people who dress in black everywhere.
About 20 years ago the Dutch decided to set up the Rembrandt Commission to answer part of this question.
It seemed there were hundreds of Rembrandt's, supposed Rembrandt's, and out-and-out crap with fake Rembrandt signatures on them. And they wanted to deal with it. So they put together a panel of art historians, scientists, scholars, and others to examine every so-called Rembrandt in the world and give it a thumb's up or down.
Museums and collectors all over the planet held their breath as the fate of their art rested in the hands of these experts. Some were so concerned they wouldn't allow the commission to examine their art. Who wants to be told that they Rembrandt they paid $4 million for was, in fact, a worthless fake?
There was, as you can imagine, great controversy. The commission had a few verdicts. Paintings were graded as authentic Rembrandt's, from Rembrandt's workshop, in the style of, by a 17th century artist not Rembrandt but not a forgery, real forgeries, and various other categories.
And this raised the question of: why does a name de-value a painting? If a painting is beautiful why is it suddenly worthless just because some guy named Rembrandt didn't paint it? That's the big question. Is it the artist or the art that defines it?
Who or what really decides the label "art?" It seems to be a matter of opinion. And I have a very narrow one.
I am a Classicist. To me good art ended with Impressionism and everything done after that it crap. (Yes, I exaggerate.) But I do find myself responding more to representational art than splotches on a canvas. I will always, always, always think Van Eyck was more talented than Picasso. I get PIcasso. I understand why people consider him a genius. But I don't have an emotional reaction to him.
I marvel at brush strokes, use of light, reflections, the creation of life. I can lose myself in the detail of the sleeping dog in the town square, the peasants in the field, the glow of candlelight in a quiet chamber. But when confronted with a square of black and a square of red, I don't lose myself. Usually I laugh. I'm just that much of a Philistine.
I love art that you can describe in literal detail. "Vermeer perfectly captures the quiet moments of a quiet life." True. On the other hand, I usually screen with laughter at phrases like "this painting conveys the disharmony between the curious now and the unbalanced when." Oh bite me. This shrimp-pump claptrap isn't a real art conversation. It's a way to convince people you're worth having sex with.
Monday, March 07, 2011
The Big Sleep
Last week I was sick girl. ER on Tuesday. ER (via ambulance, no less!) of Wednesday. Overnight Wednesday. Out on Thursday. Still no real diagnosis, but the drugs they gave me have done their job and I'm feeling OK. In about an hour I'm off to the doctor's for a more thorough testing. Oh boy, more peeing in cups!
But yesterday I was totally in the middle of The Big Sleep. I've been in an insomnia phase (so what else is new) and being in the hospital, sick and in pain, have made it worse. But yesterday, for some reason, the sleeplessness caught up to me. I fell asleep about 1 in the afternoon and woke up at 10 am. Total coma.
It felt wonderful! After two weeks or so of never sleeping more than 2-hours in a row, getting some solid sleep was amazing. And I woke up feeling better than I have in a long time. I'm hoping that lack of sleep was part of the problem and now that I've caught up a bit it'll help. I'll know more after a visit to my old pal, Dr. F (who I love, by the way). But for now just having slept makes me so incredibly happy.
I have no idea how it feels to "sleep normally." To put my head on the pillow and know I'm in for 7 or 8 hours of down time. My usual night it 3-4 hours of trying to sleep, 2 hours of sleep, waking up and starting all over again. Throw in a cat that is your typical nocturnal critter and we have a nighttime of waking chaos.
Meanwhile, Husband is sleeping the sleep of the just. His average fall asleep time is about 2-minutes. I hate that about him.
Last week I was sick girl. ER on Tuesday. ER (via ambulance, no less!) of Wednesday. Overnight Wednesday. Out on Thursday. Still no real diagnosis, but the drugs they gave me have done their job and I'm feeling OK. In about an hour I'm off to the doctor's for a more thorough testing. Oh boy, more peeing in cups!
But yesterday I was totally in the middle of The Big Sleep. I've been in an insomnia phase (so what else is new) and being in the hospital, sick and in pain, have made it worse. But yesterday, for some reason, the sleeplessness caught up to me. I fell asleep about 1 in the afternoon and woke up at 10 am. Total coma.
It felt wonderful! After two weeks or so of never sleeping more than 2-hours in a row, getting some solid sleep was amazing. And I woke up feeling better than I have in a long time. I'm hoping that lack of sleep was part of the problem and now that I've caught up a bit it'll help. I'll know more after a visit to my old pal, Dr. F (who I love, by the way). But for now just having slept makes me so incredibly happy.
I have no idea how it feels to "sleep normally." To put my head on the pillow and know I'm in for 7 or 8 hours of down time. My usual night it 3-4 hours of trying to sleep, 2 hours of sleep, waking up and starting all over again. Throw in a cat that is your typical nocturnal critter and we have a nighttime of waking chaos.
Meanwhile, Husband is sleeping the sleep of the just. His average fall asleep time is about 2-minutes. I hate that about him.
Friday, March 04, 2011
Way off the Surreal Scale
Today my mom received last rights.
It's a huge Catholic thing. My sister saw her at lunch and thought she looked really bad so she asked one of the parish priests over. Father C-- (oh dear, I've already forgotten his name!) is a stereotypical Irish Catholic priest. In and out in about 5 minutes. Which is probably a good thing -- didn't give Sister a chance to freak out.
But it was a weird experience and I'm not entirely sure that my brain has fully accepted what I just saw.
Today my mom received last rights.
It's a huge Catholic thing. My sister saw her at lunch and thought she looked really bad so she asked one of the parish priests over. Father C-- (oh dear, I've already forgotten his name!) is a stereotypical Irish Catholic priest. In and out in about 5 minutes. Which is probably a good thing -- didn't give Sister a chance to freak out.
But it was a weird experience and I'm not entirely sure that my brain has fully accepted what I just saw.
Why...?
Why is a whistle the pinnacle of cleanliness?
Why are clams the hallmark of happiness?
How well does anyone know the back of their hands?
Common phrases baffle me. Of course, most of life does.
When I was a kid and would look for something, whenever I found it someplace obvious my mom would say "if it was a snake it would have bit you." Well if it was a snake, I wouldn't have been looking for it.
Just some musings under the influence of Vicodin. I was in the hospital this week. (In ER on Tuesday, back on Wednesday, admitted overnight and home today.) Another of my rampant mystery infections. Woke up to a breakfast of morphine. Hoping to doze off to an equally heady mixture of cat purr and cozy mystery.
Why is a whistle the pinnacle of cleanliness?
Why are clams the hallmark of happiness?
How well does anyone know the back of their hands?
Common phrases baffle me. Of course, most of life does.
When I was a kid and would look for something, whenever I found it someplace obvious my mom would say "if it was a snake it would have bit you." Well if it was a snake, I wouldn't have been looking for it.
Just some musings under the influence of Vicodin. I was in the hospital this week. (In ER on Tuesday, back on Wednesday, admitted overnight and home today.) Another of my rampant mystery infections. Woke up to a breakfast of morphine. Hoping to doze off to an equally heady mixture of cat purr and cozy mystery.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Puppy Update
I'm doing better with accepting that I couldn't have Gretchen. I know she'll be happy where she is. I know Cipher will be happier as the solo queen of the house. But yesterday's adoption event was a little weird because I swear I kept looking out the window to see if Gretchen's new family were bringing her back. Of course I hope they don't! I was just in a weird mood.
While out walking yesterday's cutest member (Red, a 7-month old chihuahua puppy that absolutely struts and actually stopped traffic), I was stopped by the family that adopted another of our wonderful dachshunds. Abby was at an adoption event last month, spending most of it in my lap. Her family came in and fell in love. They called dad into the store. The first words I heard out of his mouth as he reluctantly came in was "Ok sweetie, but we're looking, we are not getting a dog." I swear he took one look at Abby in my lap and I could see him fall in love. Dad was the one who adopted the dog. He was hooked.
The family told me all about Abby. How she slept on their bed the first night. How after only a 30-minute standoff, Abby and the resident cat achieved detente. In the month Abby has been with her family they've gone up to the snow where she leapt from the car into a 3-foot snow bank and completely disappeared. Her family immediately panicked, but Abby pops up a few seconds later, long snout covered in snow and happy as a, well, really happy dog.
They kept saying how lucky they felt. How a friend who is a vet met Abby and told them what a special dog she is. The mom of the family teared up telling me how happy they all were. And she hugged me, because I had helped point them in the right direction.
All of this made me feel so much better about Gretchen going home. It reminded me of why I volunteer at the shelter. And it reinforced what I had already accepted -- that once again it's all about doing what's best for the dog, not what's easiest for me.
Sorry for my wallow into selfishness. You know how it is with unrequited love.
I'm doing better with accepting that I couldn't have Gretchen. I know she'll be happy where she is. I know Cipher will be happier as the solo queen of the house. But yesterday's adoption event was a little weird because I swear I kept looking out the window to see if Gretchen's new family were bringing her back. Of course I hope they don't! I was just in a weird mood.
While out walking yesterday's cutest member (Red, a 7-month old chihuahua puppy that absolutely struts and actually stopped traffic), I was stopped by the family that adopted another of our wonderful dachshunds. Abby was at an adoption event last month, spending most of it in my lap. Her family came in and fell in love. They called dad into the store. The first words I heard out of his mouth as he reluctantly came in was "Ok sweetie, but we're looking, we are not getting a dog." I swear he took one look at Abby in my lap and I could see him fall in love. Dad was the one who adopted the dog. He was hooked.
The family told me all about Abby. How she slept on their bed the first night. How after only a 30-minute standoff, Abby and the resident cat achieved detente. In the month Abby has been with her family they've gone up to the snow where she leapt from the car into a 3-foot snow bank and completely disappeared. Her family immediately panicked, but Abby pops up a few seconds later, long snout covered in snow and happy as a, well, really happy dog.
They kept saying how lucky they felt. How a friend who is a vet met Abby and told them what a special dog she is. The mom of the family teared up telling me how happy they all were. And she hugged me, because I had helped point them in the right direction.
All of this made me feel so much better about Gretchen going home. It reminded me of why I volunteer at the shelter. And it reinforced what I had already accepted -- that once again it's all about doing what's best for the dog, not what's easiest for me.
Sorry for my wallow into selfishness. You know how it is with unrequited love.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Love in a Day
I fell in love today. Totally, head-over-heels in love with the sweetest dog ever.
Her name is Gretchen, a 2-year old dachshund. At the adoption store she climbed into my lap first thing and stayed there for three hours. Occasionally she'd get up, lick my face, turn around, and curl into a perfect circle. She greeted everyone with a lick of the hand and a non-stop tail wag.
If she'd managed to get out of my lap for more than 5-minutes I was going to call Husband to come down to meet her. I was completely serious. She flirted and charmed her sweet way into my heart and I was a goner.
She was so charming that four groups met her in the Get Acquainted Room and before I could talk myself into actually bringing her home, she had found the luckiest new dog owners in the world. A sweet mom and her three kids, all of whom were equally in love with her.
They were very nice people and I'm sure Gretchen will have a great life with them. But I felt like they didn't deserve her, I did. It's the one really selfish time I've had as an animal volunteer.
I actually cried when she left, but the family gave me a minute to say goodbye and she curled into my lap and licked my face one last time.
I know I'm responsible for her finding this home. I answered their questions and showed her off for at least 30-minutes, and I'm so happy to have found a loving family for this sweet girl. But I think I'm going to regret not taking her myself for a very long time.
Of course Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) would freak out to have a new doggie little sister. And that's the one thing that really kept me from calling Husband. He said he was glad I didn't call -- he has less willpower than I and would have agreed probably sight unseen.
But tonight I am a little sad. She is a truly special girl. Immediately sweet and friendly to all. Calm (almost Zen) and incredibly loving. The way she warmed my lap and my heart, the way she buried her nose in my shoulder when she got tired, the sweet and trusting look her her eyes -- she was a total heart stealer.
It's honestly the hardest day I've had in the years I've been volunteering. Just thinking of her now makes me tear up (of course I've also been awake since 10 am yesterday). Part of me hopes this family's cat will hate Gretchen, that they'll return her and I can snap her up. Part of hates that tiny bit of envy that should be so happy for her.
But all of me is a bit sad. Because I fell in love today. But it was not, alas, to be.
I fell in love today. Totally, head-over-heels in love with the sweetest dog ever.
Her name is Gretchen, a 2-year old dachshund. At the adoption store she climbed into my lap first thing and stayed there for three hours. Occasionally she'd get up, lick my face, turn around, and curl into a perfect circle. She greeted everyone with a lick of the hand and a non-stop tail wag.
If she'd managed to get out of my lap for more than 5-minutes I was going to call Husband to come down to meet her. I was completely serious. She flirted and charmed her sweet way into my heart and I was a goner.
She was so charming that four groups met her in the Get Acquainted Room and before I could talk myself into actually bringing her home, she had found the luckiest new dog owners in the world. A sweet mom and her three kids, all of whom were equally in love with her.
They were very nice people and I'm sure Gretchen will have a great life with them. But I felt like they didn't deserve her, I did. It's the one really selfish time I've had as an animal volunteer.
I actually cried when she left, but the family gave me a minute to say goodbye and she curled into my lap and licked my face one last time.
I know I'm responsible for her finding this home. I answered their questions and showed her off for at least 30-minutes, and I'm so happy to have found a loving family for this sweet girl. But I think I'm going to regret not taking her myself for a very long time.
Of course Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) would freak out to have a new doggie little sister. And that's the one thing that really kept me from calling Husband. He said he was glad I didn't call -- he has less willpower than I and would have agreed probably sight unseen.
But tonight I am a little sad. She is a truly special girl. Immediately sweet and friendly to all. Calm (almost Zen) and incredibly loving. The way she warmed my lap and my heart, the way she buried her nose in my shoulder when she got tired, the sweet and trusting look her her eyes -- she was a total heart stealer.
It's honestly the hardest day I've had in the years I've been volunteering. Just thinking of her now makes me tear up (of course I've also been awake since 10 am yesterday). Part of me hopes this family's cat will hate Gretchen, that they'll return her and I can snap her up. Part of hates that tiny bit of envy that should be so happy for her.
But all of me is a bit sad. Because I fell in love today. But it was not, alas, to be.
Coolest History Lesson Ever!
The mega-talented (and, frankly adorable) Lin-Manuel Miranda (Tony winning writer/composer of In the Heights) performed at a poetry slam at the White House. His Alexander Hamilton hip-hop jam is pure magic. I've watched it half a dozen times and each time it blows me away.
The mega-talented (and, frankly adorable) Lin-Manuel Miranda (Tony winning writer/composer of In the Heights) performed at a poetry slam at the White House. His Alexander Hamilton hip-hop jam is pure magic. I've watched it half a dozen times and each time it blows me away.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Baby It's Cold Outside
Those of you who live in New Hampshire or Quebec feel no sympathy for my thin Northern California blood. But I'm freezing. You have to expect cold if you live in Maine. San Francisco is not known for it's frigid climate. But we're in the middle of rain and cold and possibly even snow. Yes, snow. Not dusting the hills, but at sea level. We're not talking about a blizzard, obviously, but for those of us used to 60, 47 is really cold.
This is such an odd event that it's top story on the news. Forget unrest in Libya, we're all about the snow. The potential of a quarter inch of snow has become the chief topic of conversation. It takes so little to amuse and interest us.
Tomorrow I'm doing an adoption event which, of course, means I'll be outside walking little peeing dogs in the rain and cold. (I sincerely hope the Pee King of Northern California isn't part of the rota).
Those of you who live in New Hampshire or Quebec feel no sympathy for my thin Northern California blood. But I'm freezing. You have to expect cold if you live in Maine. San Francisco is not known for it's frigid climate. But we're in the middle of rain and cold and possibly even snow. Yes, snow. Not dusting the hills, but at sea level. We're not talking about a blizzard, obviously, but for those of us used to 60, 47 is really cold.
This is such an odd event that it's top story on the news. Forget unrest in Libya, we're all about the snow. The potential of a quarter inch of snow has become the chief topic of conversation. It takes so little to amuse and interest us.
Tomorrow I'm doing an adoption event which, of course, means I'll be outside walking little peeing dogs in the rain and cold. (I sincerely hope the Pee King of Northern California isn't part of the rota).
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Book Group Part Deux
Last night's group did not disappoint. We were evenly split on our opinion of The Thirteenth Tale by Dianne Setterfield. I, Husband, and Mama D found it flawed. The Foreigner, the Lurker, and the Actor all found it a good rainy-day read.
But since many of you seem interested in our picks, I'd like to share with you some of our favorites. These were either universally loved or the majority of the group really liked them.
As mentioned yesterday, I highly recommend Shadow of the EInd by Carlos Ruiz Zafon. It's a thumping good read. A page-turning literary thriller with compelling characters and a captivating plot. It was one of the favorite books we've read and absolutely wonderful.
I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith. A sweet, charming, delightful read about an eccentric family and their lives and loves in a falling-down castle in England. It's a gentle and warm book that's perfect for a cozy read on a rainy day.
A contemporary mystery set in a charming French village, Bruno, Chief of Police by Martin Walker is a delightful read. The characters are delightful (and, thankfully, a sequel has just been released!) and the mystery well -planned and executed. It's a well-written story full of delicious food and words. Get out the brie and baguette, pour yourself a glass of red wine, and settle in for a good read.
Not a book group read but a new discovery by me is Louise Penny, a Canadian author of wild talent and scope. She has a series featuring Chief Inspector Gamache of the Surete du Quebec. The first book in the series is Still Life and it's wonderful. Set in the southern Quebec village of Three Pines you'll be introduced to the quirky characters in the town. You must start with the first and read them in order because there is a continuing story that builds through the series. Her last book actually made me cry is was so beautifully written. Almost poetic at times and yet never lets the mystery side of things down. Absolutely great stuff.
Last night's group did not disappoint. We were evenly split on our opinion of The Thirteenth Tale by Dianne Setterfield. I, Husband, and Mama D found it flawed. The Foreigner, the Lurker, and the Actor all found it a good rainy-day read.
But since many of you seem interested in our picks, I'd like to share with you some of our favorites. These were either universally loved or the majority of the group really liked them.
As mentioned yesterday, I highly recommend Shadow of the EInd by Carlos Ruiz Zafon. It's a thumping good read. A page-turning literary thriller with compelling characters and a captivating plot. It was one of the favorite books we've read and absolutely wonderful.
I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith. A sweet, charming, delightful read about an eccentric family and their lives and loves in a falling-down castle in England. It's a gentle and warm book that's perfect for a cozy read on a rainy day.
A contemporary mystery set in a charming French village, Bruno, Chief of Police by Martin Walker is a delightful read. The characters are delightful (and, thankfully, a sequel has just been released!) and the mystery well -planned and executed. It's a well-written story full of delicious food and words. Get out the brie and baguette, pour yourself a glass of red wine, and settle in for a good read.
Not a book group read but a new discovery by me is Louise Penny, a Canadian author of wild talent and scope. She has a series featuring Chief Inspector Gamache of the Surete du Quebec. The first book in the series is Still Life and it's wonderful. Set in the southern Quebec village of Three Pines you'll be introduced to the quirky characters in the town. You must start with the first and read them in order because there is a continuing story that builds through the series. Her last book actually made me cry is was so beautifully written. Almost poetic at times and yet never lets the mystery side of things down. Absolutely great stuff.
Monday, February 21, 2011
The Third Monday of the Month
For nearly 15 years my book group has met in my living room to eat cheese and cookies and to talk about books, life, and friendship. These are some of the people I love most in the world, and the regular chance to see them once a month makes me happier than I can say.
We've been together through thick (Gravity's Rainbow by Pynchon) and thin (anything other than Gravity's Rainbow). And whether the book delights or appalls, the discussion never fails to entertain.
I love it. I love everything about it. Here are our few rules:
* We only read fiction. Within that broad distinction we've read everything from mysteries to romances, sci-fi to westerns, classics to new so-called masterpieces.
* It can't be part of a series. Everything must be a self-contained book. (We broke this rule once to read the first two Harry Potter novels).
* It has to be something busy people can easily read in a month. We've occasionally read longer books over a two-month period, but for the most part we make sure it's something we can finish.
That's about it. We take turns choosing the books, so we're each on the hot seat once or twice a year to select what we read. And that's probably my favorite part of it all. My friends are all fascinating, intelligent people so over the years they've exposed me to many authors I wouldn't pick up on my own.
And our group is diverse. There have been members who have come and gone (due to death or moving away) but we've always been a mixed blend. Male and female. Gay and straight. Religious and atheist. We have had conservative Republicans and liberal Democrats. We have people who have grown up in wealth and privilege, and people who have grown up on welfare. We're culturally diverse as well. And this diversity makes for wonderful discussions.
There have been some books we've universally hated (each year we give The Bellow Award for our least favorite book -- named in honor of the atrociously dull Humboldt's Gift by Saul Bellow) and books we've universally loved (check out Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Luis Zafron). Mostly we have a nice divide -- enough for a good debate.
There have been some books where we've only found an hour's worth of talk, and we spend the second hour catching up as friends. And those meetings are just as enjoyable as those where we spend the entire two hours debating characters, plot, writing styles, and symbolism.
Sometimes people don't finish the book and they just "come for the cheese." And there have definitely been a few books where the reason people didn't finish wasn't because they ran out of time, but because the book sucked. But it's been a hell of a lot of fun. Going back over the list of titles we've read there are certainly some I cannot recall and yet there are others that I will never forget.
I know several members of my book group check this blog occasionally. And I just want to thank them for all the years of discussions, friendship, and cheese. I love you all.
For nearly 15 years my book group has met in my living room to eat cheese and cookies and to talk about books, life, and friendship. These are some of the people I love most in the world, and the regular chance to see them once a month makes me happier than I can say.
We've been together through thick (Gravity's Rainbow by Pynchon) and thin (anything other than Gravity's Rainbow). And whether the book delights or appalls, the discussion never fails to entertain.
I love it. I love everything about it. Here are our few rules:
* We only read fiction. Within that broad distinction we've read everything from mysteries to romances, sci-fi to westerns, classics to new so-called masterpieces.
* It can't be part of a series. Everything must be a self-contained book. (We broke this rule once to read the first two Harry Potter novels).
* It has to be something busy people can easily read in a month. We've occasionally read longer books over a two-month period, but for the most part we make sure it's something we can finish.
That's about it. We take turns choosing the books, so we're each on the hot seat once or twice a year to select what we read. And that's probably my favorite part of it all. My friends are all fascinating, intelligent people so over the years they've exposed me to many authors I wouldn't pick up on my own.
And our group is diverse. There have been members who have come and gone (due to death or moving away) but we've always been a mixed blend. Male and female. Gay and straight. Religious and atheist. We have had conservative Republicans and liberal Democrats. We have people who have grown up in wealth and privilege, and people who have grown up on welfare. We're culturally diverse as well. And this diversity makes for wonderful discussions.
There have been some books we've universally hated (each year we give The Bellow Award for our least favorite book -- named in honor of the atrociously dull Humboldt's Gift by Saul Bellow) and books we've universally loved (check out Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Luis Zafron). Mostly we have a nice divide -- enough for a good debate.
There have been some books where we've only found an hour's worth of talk, and we spend the second hour catching up as friends. And those meetings are just as enjoyable as those where we spend the entire two hours debating characters, plot, writing styles, and symbolism.
Sometimes people don't finish the book and they just "come for the cheese." And there have definitely been a few books where the reason people didn't finish wasn't because they ran out of time, but because the book sucked. But it's been a hell of a lot of fun. Going back over the list of titles we've read there are certainly some I cannot recall and yet there are others that I will never forget.
I know several members of my book group check this blog occasionally. And I just want to thank them for all the years of discussions, friendship, and cheese. I love you all.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
My Day with the Pee King of San Mateo County
The dog I had charge of during today's mobile adoption was a Chihuahua mix named Canelo. I just call him the Pee King.
We were at a local pet store. The Pee King (Or PK) decided that not only did he have to mark his territory on every corner and parking meter between my car and the store, he decided he had to mark everything in the store too. PK peed on $100 dog beds. He peed on a $75 cat tree. He peed on crates, boxes, bags, counters, tables, chairs, and umbrellas. In spite of the pouring rain I took him for 6 walks in 3 hours. I'd walk him in the rain, patiently waiting while he peed himself dry. When he lifted his leg and nothing came out, I'd go back into the store ... where he'd promptly lift his leg and pee on a table.
The store personnel couldn't have been nicer. They wiped up puddles and brought over plastic training pads for him to pee on. He never did stop peeing the entire day.
I was SO happy to get home to Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) who never pees on the furniture.
Not surprisingly, the PK didn't find a home today. Maybe next time ... provided there isn't anything to pee on.
...
In other news I stumbled across the funniest wedding "toast" ever. I don't know this couple (but I'd love to meet the guy making the toast!) (Sorry, Husband.) but this song his absolutely hilarious. By the end I was laughing so hard I was afraid I'd wake up Husband and the cat. (Have I mentioned I'm going through a lovely insomnia phase?) Anyway, if you want a good laugh, check out this bit of creativity. I'd love a friend to do something like this for me!
The dog I had charge of during today's mobile adoption was a Chihuahua mix named Canelo. I just call him the Pee King.
We were at a local pet store. The Pee King (Or PK) decided that not only did he have to mark his territory on every corner and parking meter between my car and the store, he decided he had to mark everything in the store too. PK peed on $100 dog beds. He peed on a $75 cat tree. He peed on crates, boxes, bags, counters, tables, chairs, and umbrellas. In spite of the pouring rain I took him for 6 walks in 3 hours. I'd walk him in the rain, patiently waiting while he peed himself dry. When he lifted his leg and nothing came out, I'd go back into the store ... where he'd promptly lift his leg and pee on a table.
The store personnel couldn't have been nicer. They wiped up puddles and brought over plastic training pads for him to pee on. He never did stop peeing the entire day.
I was SO happy to get home to Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) who never pees on the furniture.
Not surprisingly, the PK didn't find a home today. Maybe next time ... provided there isn't anything to pee on.
...
In other news I stumbled across the funniest wedding "toast" ever. I don't know this couple (but I'd love to meet the guy making the toast!) (Sorry, Husband.) but this song his absolutely hilarious. By the end I was laughing so hard I was afraid I'd wake up Husband and the cat. (Have I mentioned I'm going through a lovely insomnia phase?) Anyway, if you want a good laugh, check out this bit of creativity. I'd love a friend to do something like this for me!
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