Magpie Waltz

It's Got to Get Better, Right?

2011-12-30T11:27:00.005-06:00

So... having actually MET the insane deadline set for today with time to spare (but Jeff can tell you that the stress of that has taken a deep, deep toll), I decided to take a look through the "personal" folder on my work computer. It's a receptacle of photos (mostly of baby Rhett! Yea!), condo stuff that needed immediate attention the past year or so, blog entries written in Word (some of which made it to "print" and some of which did not), the itinerary of a walking tour of San Francisco I wrote up for a work colleague who was headed to my city by the Bay (anyone who wants a copy, just let me know--she gave it a rave review), and a "wish list" of things I hoped to accomplish in 2011.

I did not accomplish one of them. Not one.

True, some of them were rather lofty goals that probably require more than a year, but I haven't even attempted an opening gambit. And some of them are downright embarrassing, such as "Finish Rachel and Chase's afghan." This afghan is a wedding present. Rachel and Chase have been married for more than four years. Sigh. There is no excuse. None.

So, rather than resolutions and wish lists for this coming year, I'm just going to have to do better. At everything. No lofty goals--just living more productively. And I don't mean at work. I mean personally. There's so much to be done in that sector.

Namaste.

Beautiful, Beautiful, Beautiful, Beautiful Boy

2011-12-12T15:29:00.002-06:00

Just sharing this little wonder with everyone! His name is Rhett Hamilton Lindley, and he’s a little more than 5 weeks old. He was born 11/3/11 to my dear stepdaughter Rachel and her husband Chase. Jeff and I are planning to visit them and meet him before the new year gets too old. He’s just the cutest little guy!

I'm back... Not even sure I was gone!

2011-08-24T20:52:00.017-05:00

So, I decided that trolls be damned! I was going to open the blog back up tonight. But when I went to do so, it was open already. Hmmm. The wonders of technology. Or perhaps my less than wondrous grasp of it.

First and foremost, though, I want to let everyone know that the pictures of me and of my friends and family that appear here are private property. They are not to be reproduced anywhere without my express permission--not on message boards, not on other Web sites, not on Facebook... you get the picture! (But you cannot reproduce it, capice?)

In case this doesn't make sense, I will explain. A message board troll--someone who claimed to be of the tea party persuasion, but who really, I think, was simply nuts (and not in a good way)--targeted me as one of her favorite liberals to hate and stalk. She pulled pictures of me from this very blog to post on the message board and deride. Now, I'm a vain kinda gal, and I don't post pictures of myself here on my OWN BLOG that I think are ugly or even less than flattering. So it was a shock to see a picture I kind of liked--the one from years ago where I'm modeling the sweet winter coat I scored at a North Shore rummage sale for $40, brand new, tags still on--captioned with exclamations of how ugly I am. Not that I care what a troll has to say... but it's a gross invasion of privacy, is it not? And not at all nice. So, if by any chance the troll in question reads this, she should know that I can track downloads, and I will take action if happens again. I'm a fairly laid back gal, but I do have limits!

Now, let's forge ahead and forget about the wide world of trolls, shall we?

I know that I've been woefully lacking in updates for lo, these many months, but I'm going to try to change that. So, for your viewing pleasure, I present to you the teeny architectural treasure trove of Hartman's Rock Garden in Springfield, Ohio.

Last October, on our yearly pilgrimage to my hometown of Waynesboro, VA and the incomparable Fall Foliage Festival, we made an overnight stop in Springfield, Ohio. There was not much to recommend the town (sorry, Springfield!), but this little roadside attraction was worth a look-see.

First off, it really IS in the back and side yard of a little house.

Built in the '30s, the place was maintained by the guy who built it and his family until 2007 when he died. The Kohler Foundation (bless them!) has taken over its maintenance and restoration.

The imagery ranges from the patriotic

to the religious

to the medieval

to the colonial

to the western

to the southwestern

to the inexplicable.

So if you find yourself in the vicinity of Springfield, Ohio, one fine day, march on over to the residential side of town

and enjoy!

Jeff and Cathy give it three cups o' joe!

Yanno, those cups o' joe were supposed to be aligned. Sigh. Yet another display of my woeful lack of tech savvy! Feh!

July 10, 1969

2011-07-10T17:22:00.007-05:00

My good pal Lee has requested more entries from the travel diary. While the entry for this date in 1967 is not all that interesting, I did find an entry from a family vacation to New York City when I was 13 (almost 14!). Once again, my comments are bracketed. Note the increase in verbosity and the lack of paragraphing:

Well, wouldn't you know it. Just when I get the hang of the subways and streets and know my way around [LOLOL! As if!], I have to leave! Well, this morning I got up and ate breakfast at Suttons. I had hotcakes and 1/2 & 1/2 coffee again. Then Mommy and Grandpa and Grandma went for a stroll in Central Park, while Johnny, Daddy, and I went to look for a Snoopy Astronaut doll. He [John] found it and we rode back on the IRT subway lines [sic]. It was very nice and clean and modern. Then we decided to find me a souvenier [sic: obviously, a couple of years have not been enough for me to master this word!]. We went into a card shop near our hotel and I got a mini-swinger [here is inserted a sketch of said item: one of those wooden frames with large ball bearings suspended on plastic wires so that when you pull one back and let it go, it hits the others and sends the ball bearing on the opposite end swinging] and some hand-painted, original cards. Then we 4 [?] went for a walk in Central Park. It was very pretty. There was a little baby boy with his nurse in the park and he was so cute! He was laying [sic] in the grass. Then he picked up a stick and was holding it when we we left. Then we went back to the hotel, packed, and caught a cab to La Guardia. The driver told us how to remember the streets. The streets go east and west. The streets going east were even numbers. The streets going west were odd. The avenues went north and south, staggering. [!] We arrived at the [Eastern] Shuttle terminal and I had a doughnut and a coke at the snack bar.

[Whew! A paragraph break!]

Johnny and Daddy had chocolate pudding. We loaded the plane and I got a window seat. When we started to ascend, it felt so cool! [This was my first plane ride; we took the brand new Metroliner train from D.C. to NYC.] We flew over the Unisphere from the 64-65 New York World's Fair [which the family went to in 1965]. We got into the clouds then and were between 2 cloud layers and all that was outside was white as snow. When we started to descend it looked like we were right on top of the city. It only took us 50 mins. to get to Wash, D.C. from N.Y. At the airport, I bought a book called "The Hobbit." I've wanted it for a long time. We got lost going out of Wash, D.C. [It was family tradition to get lost driving into and out of and within Washington, D.C.] This time we got caught in Arlington National Cemetery and also in a fort! We finally got out, without too much difficulty. Then we drove and drove and we ate at a diner in Warrenton [VA]. Boy! The food was good! I had the shrimp platter. Boy was it superb. We drove and drove, till [sic] about 7:00 we reached home. That ends this summary of my trip to New York City.

July 4, 1967

2011-07-04T16:11:00.009-05:00

Okay, okay. I know. I've been lax. More lax than ever.

I'll try to do better. I will. And yeah, Star Wars nerds. I know there is no "try." Heh.

The problem seems to be that, while I come up with lots of ideas for this blog, I've just been too damned lazy to sit down and put fingers to keyboard.

So today, I'm going to call in a guest blogger from the past. Long past? Yes, and my past.

Meet 11-year-old Cathy (so soon to turn 12!) as she reports faithfully in her diary the events of July 4, 1967. She is on a cross-country road trip with her parents, her little brother, and the family dog. My comments/annotations in brackets. Enjoy!

Today we started out thinking that we would reach Yellowstone tonight. Well, we didn't. We stopped for lunch and some shopping at Spearhead [Spearfish?], S. Dakota.

First we went shopping in a souvenier [sic] shop. Johnny bought a Mt. Rushmore T-shirt. I bought a giant Apache tear for Linda [who was, at that point, my best friend]. Then we went to another souvenier [sic] shop. I bought a cedar box. We went to a pizza parlor and we saw the man toss the pizza dough.

On July 1st we saw a butcher cutting up meat for the first time. [Ever?]

Then we went on. I wanted to see the passion play but I didn't have time to.

[As you can see, SOME of my interests have changed over the years. Obviously, shopping for cheezy souvenirs and poking around in rock shops are obsessions that have lasted a lifetime...]

We then went to a place in Wyoming and got some rocks and film. It was called the Alabaster Shop. We went on to the rockies and continental divide and an awful windy [i.e., winding] road. We stopped at a service station and got some rocks. I got Indian Money (aragonite) and some Apache tears.

[Does it surprise anyone that young Cathy grew up to ace the infamous Rock Test in Geology 101?]

We stopped at a place in Shell called Spence's Camper Court and when it got dark enough, we shot off fireworks. Others had firecrackers and scared the dog.

Cathy

Happy Independence Day everyone! Hope we can all spend the holiday as carefree as an 11 year old on a cross-country road trip!

Dam It!

2011-03-03T16:49:00.008-06:00

There’s a storm brewing in my little hometown: a century-old dam is slated for demolition, which will change the character of the river upstream from it beyond recognition and which has the potential to introduce severe toxins to that stretch of water from industrial contamination downstream. No one is happy, except for the board of the condo complex that owns and failed to maintain the dam and the local representative of a trout fishing organization who claims the “restored” river will be a magnet for anglers, who will descend in swarms upon the town, making it the tourist mecca it was always meant to be. Dream on, trout man.

Now, I’m not a huge fan of dams. I’ve read Edward Abbey. I know about the breathtaking redrock landscapes destroyed forever by the Glen Canyon Dam. I have no doubt that before the dam was built in the opening days of the 20^th century, South River was a lovely and bucolic stream, wending its way through the apple orchards that once flourished where the city park now lies. But in the century following the construction of the dam, the impounded waters formed a wider, deeper river where locals used to swim and where they still canoe, fish, and enjoy the river wildlife. They also used the deeper waters as a convenient place to dump their big crap, including appliances, worn out tires, and who knows what else. There are also a number of exposed pipes below the surface, especially near the dam… You can see where this is going, right? Especially since in the century since the dam was built, homes have also been built along the riverbanks, upstream of the dam all the way up to the park boundary. That riverfront property didn’t come cheap. And apparently the owners’ land rights extend to the center of the river. Oh yes, you can see where this is going.

From the time I was two, my family has lived about a block from the river. My mom and brother still live in that house, which is situated on the street that leads down to the city park and dead-ends at the river’s edge. There used to be a boat ramp at the end of the street; now it just diverges into parking lots on either side. My dad used to pull my brother and me in our purple “Happy-Time” wagon down to the river to feed the ducks. He also had an old wooden rowboat that he had painted bright blue, and he used to row us in that boat up and down the river as far as we could go. There was a broad island with shallows on either side that stopped our progress upstream just at the park boundary, but we could go all the way down the river to the dam, which was originally constructed by a factory that made pump parts and later stoves. I was always afraid of going too near the dam—when I was a kid, it seemed to me to as dangerous as Niagara Falls, if not quite as high. In reality, only the highest of water could have swept anyone or any craft (even an innertube, I’ll wager) over what is anything but a precipice. Really, it’s little more than a weir, isn’t it?

Anyway, by the time we rowed up and down the river (and later paddled it in a canoe my dad built, which supplanted the rowboat in our family fleet), the company that built the dam in the first place had gone out of business, and the factory loomed empty and abandoned over the dam. It burned down a good forty years ago, and in its place, a condo complex of townhomes arose. As it turns out, the condo complex owns the dam and, although many of the residents love the sound of the water coursing over the structure (according to an article in the hometown newspaper about the brewing controversy), the condo association never bothered to maintain this part of their property. So now it will cost three times as much to restore the dam as to demolish it. Which the condo association board has agreed to do. Demolish it, that is.

Apparently, the only person outside the condo board who had any wind of the plan before it went public was the aforementioned local representative of the trout-fishing consortium, who has (according to local rumor) been meeting regularly with the board to encourage them to get rid of the dam so that the river can become a fast moving trout stream again. Which, according to trout-dude, will bring tourists in droves. Really, trout-dude? Seriously? This is Waynesboro we’re talking about. As a native daughter (well, almost… I was born in Staunton, 12 miles away), I see the community’s charms. But tourist mecca it ain’t, nor will it ever be.

Now that the trout has jumped the hook, so to speak, and word about the demolition is out, the homeowners who live upstream and many others in the community who enjoy paddling on and fishing (just not for trout) in the waters impounded by the dam are understandably upset.

It may well turn into a community battle the likes of which has not been seen since Phil Sheridan wupped Jubal Early’s ass on the battlefield that eventually became the playground for my elementary school (which is now just ball fields, because the erstwhile school is now the town’s Senior Center) back in 1865.

Which leads me to ask...

WHY?

Didn’t the condo board even consider the ramifications of this decision? Didn’t it occur to them that the property owners upstream of the dam and the people who enjoy the river and its current crop of wildlife might be understandably upset to wake up one morning to find a muddy, trash-filled, pipe-laden ditch with a trickle of water down the middle where a pretty, lazy river used to be? Because I can clearly see that the homeowners will be knocking on the condo board’s door to demand that said board pay for clean-up, landscaping, loss of property values… And I am no math whiz, but even I can do this arithmetic: The cost of demolishing this dam may well cost the condo association a lot MORE than the $250,000 they claim it would take to restore the dam.

Here’s the saddest thing about this: I cannot help but think that homeowners and those who enjoy the river as it is would have been willing to work with the condo association to find a solution to the funding issue. Community members working together for the good of everyone concerned. Civic lessons learned. Civic pride reinforced. BUT, since the board decided to move on this without letting anyone know about it until they had to reveal their plan, the route of cooperation is probably closed to them forever. The route of lawsuits and bad feelings, though, THAT rocky road is wide open.

Sigh.

Wish Lists...

2011-02-11T13:57:00.008-06:00

Aside from wishing for winter to be over, for these stupid shingles to go away forever and entirely and take their prickly little needles with them, and for fabulous wealth to descend on me, no strings attached, so Jeff and I can pick up and travel all over the damned place, the demise of our old (as in tube) TV has got me thinking of what else I want/need/should replace. So here is my paean to consumerism.

First, a new TV and, while we're at it, a modest surround-sound system to go with it. We're shopping for that this weekend, and in anticipation of the new arrival, I have ordered a nice vintage-y looking stand for what I'm sure will be a sleek new flat screen. I mean, priorities here. I must be able to get my daily Daily Show fix. And how kind of our old TV to bite the dust on a week when Jon and friends were on hiatus!

Next, I really need a new computer. My old iMac (one of the cute ones with the half ball and the monitor on the stalk) has done yeoman's service for around a decade, and it's still going strong (oh, how I love Apple!), but we must part ways soon. New apps require the new OS, and it just doesn't have the juice. Time to upgrade. I'm willing to wait to see what kind of tax refund we receive (if any) and proceed from there. I was going to get a laptop--a MacBook Pro--but I think I will actually get a desktop--an iMac with a nice big monitor--more bang for your buck. I can always get an iPad for traveling. That is, somewhere down the line.

With visions of that new computer (and the lastest version of iTunes) dancing in my head, I covet one of those cute new Nanos that you can clip onto your lapel for workouts. I want a red one.

And, of course, once I have that new Nano, I will have no excuse at all for not running more often... well, except that I need new shoes. So I need a new pair of Asics Gel 2160s, Brooks Adrenalines, or Mizuno Nirvanas. Only one pair, mind. I just have to try them out to see which pair feels the best.

It would be great to build a wardrobe of glasses, too. When I got my new pair back in the fall, I was torn between two different frames--and I still think about that other frame. It was a slimmed down version of RayBan Wayfarers, but they only came in black. I have always thought that black was too harsh for my pasty pale complexion, especially now that my hair is mostly gray--I mean, shimmering silver--but then I went to hear Aimee Mann, and she was rocking black frames with her fair skin and blonde hair... so now I at least want those frames. After all, everyone should have a spare pair of eyeglasses, right?

And then Jeff and I need to upgrade our cellphones. Time for a smart phone, although I'm on the fence about whether to spring for an iPhone or go with Android. Although I guess it will all depend on what the data plan costs, etc. I do love that hipstamatic print app for the iPhone still camera. Do they have one of those for Android phones? And I love Apple. Did I mention that already?

Man, that's a lot of moolah we're talking here. And I haven't even started with the trips: to Marfa, to Waynesboro, to New York, to the Big Island, to Ireland, to Paris, to Madison...

And I played a sweet, sweet Martin acoustic at Guitar Works last weekend...

Okay! Dreaming time over! Back to work!

Eleven Things

2011-01-07T13:51:00.006-06:00

I stole this idea from my pal and former colleague, Erin. She, in turn, was inspired by her husband's niece, who listed eleven things her life does not need in 2011. I thought it was a great idea, so, with Erin's permission, I nicked it.

So here, in no particular order, is my list of eleven things my life does not need in 2011:

11. Expectations

Which does not mean hopes or aspirations. THOSE are the lifeblood of healthy emotions. What I'm talking about is counting those proverbial chickens before they are hatched. What I'm talking about is Cathy the Poptart, sitting in a little closet of a dressing room at the Euclid Tavern in Cleveland, OH, between sets, reading a biography of the Beatles and thinking that, finally, she has discovered what she wants to do when she grows up. THIS band. THESE songs. It was the Poptarts' next-to-last gig. What I'm talking about is sitting in my office, envisioning a growing retirement account, four weeks of vacation, and the means to travel to all those places I'd been dreaming about traveling to now that the college expenses are relegated to the past, only to pick up the ringing phone and be summoned into the small conference room to receive a scripted and woodenly delivered "we value your decade of work for us, but times are tough and we had to make difficult decisions" speech... THOSE expectations. Because when one does not have control over all aspects of a situation, expectations are rarely met. Which leads all too often to...

10. Negativity

Because you know, even if the the factors that dashed those expectations of yours are completely outside your control, the likelihood is great that you will blame yourself anyway. At least, if you are me, you will. And that really should change, for no other reason that negativity tends to feed on itself and grow and infect everything like a staph infection. The staph infection know as...

9. Self-Pity

And yeah, it's one of those strange but truisms that blaming yourself goes hand-in-hand with that too-often-unanswered question, "But, why ME?" Even though that connection makes no logical sense whatsoever. And that combo will pretty much assure that you will never find out the answer. If I can avoid entering the "Why ME?" zone, I may be able to make some headway in vanquishing...

8. Procrastination

Look back in this blog to last January. See that entry about getting the guest room/office/junk room painted? Well, despite the new coat of paint and the additions of a wall of bookcases and an armoire for the computer, the room is STILL a junk room. In fact, now more than it ever was before. And the master bath? The one that was a DIY casualty even before we bought the place 11.5 years ago? The one that's been slated for a to-the-studs demo and reno for, well, 11.5 years? And that novel that took me 14 years to finish--the one I've been meaning to revise for lo, these last couple of years? Oh yes, time flies. Right away from us. I need to try to wrangle it. Or at least manage it. And this applies to all aspects of my life, but probably, right now, most of all it applies to...

7. Clutter

What can I say? I grew up in the clutter castle of Magnolia Ave. I'm used to organizing by piles, although I'm well aware that such a method is not the most effective way to live. And I'm a magpie. I love the sparkly things, and the more the better. I may not actually WEAR that flashy rhinestone flamingo brooch or that multicolored sequined collar, but I sure like knowing they are in that overstuffed jewelry box. I have no idea to this DAY where I'm going to hang the pastel-hued chalkware plaque of Our Lady (complete with small pink nightlight and attendant ancient electrical cord), but when I saw it hanging in a booth at an antique mall during a Wisconsin treasure hunt, I knew I had to have it. And don't get me started on the books, the CDs, the books, the DVDs, the books, the VCR tapes, did I mention the books? I have to pare back. See also item 8.

6. Excess Avoirdupois

This is the perpetual "do without," isn't it? And yet, it never seems to go away. I'll try. I always try. I've spent most of my adult life trying. In the past, sometimes, I've actually tackled this problem and banished the extra pounds--for a while, at least. But I cannot and will not starve myself. Whatever else it takes to get fit and healthy and achieve a respectable BMI, it will take some time. Slow and steady wins the race. Eye on the prize. And all those other well-intentioned clichés. But one thing I CANNOT do any longer is allow my embarrassment over the size of my ass and the existence of my extra chin(s) stop me from doing things I want to do.

5. Anger

Let's be honest: This is intimately tied to items 11, 10, and 9. It's the source of so much sadness and frustration and hopelessness. I don't think it's necessarily a bad thing to be angry when your hopes are dashed, when people let you down or downright betray you, when you are three rows from the end of the sweater and you notice that you dropped a stitch nine inches below. Anger has its place. But to hang onto it is to assure a plunge into negativity and self-pity and, ultimately, grinding depression. Of course, ridding oneself of deep-seated anger is not an easy or a pleasant task. I pledge to my best to feel it and then let it go.

4. Envy

I once wrote a song called "Envy." I arranged the chorus with harsh whispers of "En-vy" as the backing vocals. Very effective. Envy's easy. It's easy to envy the friends who travel all over the globe. The freelancer who scarfed up the golden gig. The acquaintance who dropped 60 pounds and 20 years. And so on. But envy itself is nothing but destructive. It is poisonous. And it most severely poisons the person who is envious. Away with it!

3. Regret

Regret isn't such a bad thing, as long as you can learn from it and move on. If you don't, though, it just leads to all those other bad things I've already listed. I mean--I STILL think about (on occasion, not CONSTANTLY) the weird altercation in which I became embroiled on the Muni Metro N Judah car in San Francisco during an evening commute at least a quarter of a century ago. I wasn't even responsible for it--I just happened to become the target of a guy who freaked out because the car was so packed. He blamed me for the crowding--I think because I was reading a book and to him the extra space taken up by my arm, bent at the elbow, and my book was the last straw. He pushed, shoved, yelled...I didn't say anything to him. I just gave him one of my patented eye-rolls (guaranteed to infuriate) and did my best to remove myself from the situation, moving away from him as quickly as I could and wedging myself and my book elsewhere, as he continued to rant and rail. To this day, even though I KNOW I did the right thing by not engaging him in a screaming match, I regret not having just the right comeback to shut him up. Even though I don't have the slightest idea what that comeback might have been. Now, how silly is THAT? So consider what other, more problematic regrets I have lurking... regrets I really must finally let go of.

2. Inattention

Don't get me wrong--I'm a BIG fan of day-dreaming and wool-gathering, and I'm not about to give those pursuits up any time soon. They've been a part of my make up since before I can remember. They loom large in my legend--well, at least in the comments section of my elementary school report cards. Every single one of them. Every single six weeks. However, inattention is something different, I believe. It's a product of being overly tired, overwhelmed, or just plain played out. But it can lead to a lot of mistakes--some larger than others. And when they lead to a mistake that just can't be undone, however small that mistake may seem at the time... I'm going to try to be more mindful of many things. Of all things, really.

1. Indecision

Akin to item 8, and often an excuse for same. It's just easier to let things happen than to expend the effort to MAKE them happen. But consider the consequences: If you can't or won't make decisions for yourself, someone or something will ultimately make them for you. And they may not be decisions you like very much. Face it: With decisions come responsibility for those decisions--very weighty. But ultimately, if you want to be in control of your own life in even the smallest way, you have to be decisive.

And so, in lieu of resolutions, I'm going to be mindful of this list and see what that brings.

Happy, Hopeful New Year!

A Christmas Wish: Can't We All Just Get Along?

2010-12-20T21:43:00.004-06:00

A few days ago, I posted the following status to Facebook:

“Re all the current ‘War on Christmas’ rhetoric posted on FB: No one I know is offended by the phrase ‘Merry Christmas.’ I'm not, and I haven't been a Christian for many years. At this holiday season, does it really do any of us any good to manufacture bad feelings that never existed in the first place? Merry Christmas to those of you who celebrate it, and peace on Earth and goodwill toward all. Namaste!”

It got a lot of positive feedback, but it also puzzled a few people. What was I talking about? They hadn’t seen anything like that from their Facebook friends.

So I thought I would share the content of the status that inspired me to post, as well as expand my thoughts on the matter.

First, the inspiration: A former high school classmate posted, “MERRY CHRISTMAS! If that offends you, get over it! JESUS is the REASON for the SEASON!”

Now, throughout the build-up to the big day, I’ve been seeing similar postings, mostly from former classmates, and I’ve let them go without comment. I don’t have any problem with such phrases as “happy holidays” or “season’s greetings,” and I don’t see why anyone would find them problematic, but apparently there’s a lot of umbrage out there about more inclusive holiday greetings—umbrage that to me seems ill-placed. But whatever. It was the tone of this status that I found particularly counter to the spirit of the holiday season. My way or the highway! Almost as if the person who posted it was counting on offending those who don’t celebrate Christmas as a religious holiday. Or those who celebrate other holidays at this time of the year. And was, in fact, proud of doing so.

Initially, I was simply going to post my response as a comment on her status. Then I thought, “No. I think other people need to see this. With the number of similar (though not as strident) posts I’ve seen in the last few weeks, I figured I couldn’t be the only person, Christian or not, who, while not being the least bit offended by the greeting “Merry Christmas,” is plenty annoyed by the ginned up outrage over an issue that doesn’t, in fact, exist, and that the pursuit of which does nothing but divide.

So I posted my reply as my status.

And I simply have to add a bit of a history lesson here—I was a Social Studies editor for years, after all—Jesus is ONE of the “reasons” for the season. In fact, most human cultures that developed in the Temperate Zone of the Northern Hemisphere held some kind of celebration around the Winter Solstice. After all, what better way to encourage a society to work together to brave the cold, dark winter than to celebrate with a festival of warmth and light? For the Celts and other northern European pagans, the festival was Yule. For the Romans, it was Saturnalia—the holiday that the early Christian church actually appropriated as Christmas. A wise move, really, but if those who tout Jesus as the reason for the season want to be accurate, they should acknowledge that Saturn predates Jesus if they want a reason for the season in the first place. The truth is, there are probably as many “reasons for the season” as there are humans who celebrate at this time of year.

And yes, I celebrate Christmas, even though I’ve been an agnostic now for much longer than I ever was a Christian. I give presents to friends. I decorate. I enjoy the company of friends and family. I sing Christmas carols and drive Jeff nuts playing them for hours on end. I force him to endure Mr. Magoo’s Christmas Carol year after year after year. Yes, I celebrate. And no, I’m not the least bit offended when someone wishes me a Merry Christmas.

So to all my friends, Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, Season’s Greetings, Blessed Yule, and to all, a good night!

A Yuletide (Well, Kinda) Memory

2010-12-08T14:44:00.010-06:00

During my walk this lunchtime (which, by the way, has become a futile effort in terms of exercise due to sporadic—at best—neighborhood sidewalk snow and ice removal), my playlist of Christmas favorites offered up the Phil Spector/Bob B. Soxx and the Blue Jeans version of “The Bells of St. Mary’s,” and a memory surfaced.

Back in old Waynesboro, Virginia, my hometown, there was precious little for high school kids to do of a weekend evening. There was especially precious little for kids who hadn’t yet fallen prey to the usual high-school pastimes of dating and drinking and such. Oh, there was the Skyline Drive-In (which was also, I’m sure, a great place for those who dated and drank). We used to pile a bunch of us into a car and go there to watch cheap scare movies and provide running commentary.

We used to collect stuff from our basements and attics and dress up the local statue of David (a be-fig-leafed replica of Michelangelo’s masterpiece) in the finery we scavenged.

We went to the local dine ‘n’ dance dive, the late and maybe lamented by someone High Hatter, where we dared each other to walk through to the ladies’ room (or the men’s room, depending) to buy two-for-a-quarter prophylactics from the machine therein (for prevention of disease ONLY). We then filled the condoms with water and held water balloon fights—usually, though, not in the High Hatter parking lot. Even we knew that was a sure way to get our asses kicked by humorless bikers.

After our evening of hijinks, we often headed to the local Pizza Hut (which is now home to Scotto’s Italian Restaurant, and has been for years) where we shared a pie or two and, invariably, played the jukebox. And this is where the memory starts.

At some point, one of our number—Cindy F., to be exact—discovered that among the usual top-40 offerings on the Pizza Hut jukebox was a version of “The Bells of St. Mary’s” sung by Bing Crosby. And from then on, whenever we went to the Pizza Hut with Cindy in tow, we knew that we’d be regaled with “The Bells of St. Mary’s” somewhere in the mix. Sometimes twice in the mix. And then…

And then came that fateful evening when Cindy loaded up the jukebox with quarters. And played “The Bells of St. Mary’s” over and over and over and over…

Well, it was not hard to tell which table had perpetrated this outrage. Every time the song would start again, howls of laughter would rise from our corner booth. Our crime discovered, our merry band was ejected from the Pizza Hut. A classmate who worked there told us later that the management finally had to unplug the jukebox to stop the onslaught of Der Bingle. It was one of Cindy’s finest hours.

Not really a Christmas memory—I don’t think it happened at Christmas—but brought back to mind by my Christmas playlist.

Ah hear! They are calling the young loves, the true loves, that come from the sea…

Boomers in the Balcony

2010-11-22T14:10:00.002-06:00

Playing catch up again… but I DO want to talk about the wonderful weekend of music we enjoyed at the beginning of November. On Friday, November 5, Jeff, Dan, and I met after work for some nosh and a concert by one of our favorites, Richard Thompson, at The Vic. He was touring, supporting his new offering Dream Attic. He’s such a fine performer, and he had such a wonderful band backing him—tight and loose at the same time, if that makes any sense.

Thompson is in his early 60s, so, as you might imagine, a goodly portion of his audience fits into that particular boomeresque demographic, although his appeal is pretty wide. There were a lot of younger folk down on the floor of the Vic. We, however, were in the balcony. And almost everyone up there with us was ~ahem~ of a certain age. When we took our seats (which were fabulous—such a great view of all the performers), I was kind of surprised at how old everyone up in the balcony looked. All that gray hair! I mean, this was a rock and roll show! And then, of course, it dawned on me. I have gray hair! Jeff has gray hair! Dan has gray hair! We fit right in! Har!

Now, a word about the Vic. It’s an old theater—a former vaudeville house—and if you go there to see a show, you will find that there is only seating in the balcony. The entire main floor is standing room. One of the major reasons, no doubt, that all us gray-hairs high-tailed it to the upper reaches of the house. I’ve spent many a rock show on my feet, dancing and grooving with the best of them. But I think—alas! —that those days may be gone!

Even Thompson noticed the differing demographics of the auditorium.

Well, even we oldsters could appreciate the marvelous and varied show—all two-sets-and-encore’s worth. The first set was from the new CD. The second was a “greatest hits,” although he did only one of the three songs we hoped we’d hear. That one was “Wall of Death,” a classic. The other two—“Keep Your Distance” and “I Misunderstood”—are personal favorites, but, well… can’t have everything you want! His rafter-shaking version of “Tear-Stained Letter” nearly brought the house down.

The next evening saw the three of us noshing again before yet another concert—this time it was Jake Shimabukuro at the Old Town School of Folk Music. Once again, we were seated in the balcony, although there really is not a bad seat in the auditorium of the Old Town School. Intimate room, great acoustics, excellent sightlines. The opening act, Boulder Acoustic Society, were very engaging. I ended up buying a couple of their CDs. Jake, though. OMG. What a uke player. A virtuoso. What a strum! There were times when he was strumming so quickly that his hand was a blur. He played a number of pieces in a host of styles, including his justly famous rendition of “While My Guitar Gently Weeps,” and he treated us to some sneak peeks at his new CD, out in January, I believe. Among those were also a couple of covers—a simple and simply beautiful rendition of Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” and a comprehensive and amusing version of “Bohemian Rhapsody” for solo ukulele.

I left this concert knowing that I could never, ever hope to attain that level of virtuosity on the uke or on any instrument, but I was determined to try to lose my uke pick. He played without one, so I figured that must be the best method. And after all, when I first started playing guitar, I never used a pick. My first guitar was a classical guitar with nylon strings, and I always just strummed chords with my thumb or picked arpeggios with my fingers. I have, however, reconsidered this conviction. The way I play uke, it sounds much more lively and crisp if I use a pick. And so I will do so, from now on!

It HAS been a while, hasn't it?

2010-11-03T21:52:00.005-05:00

I guess updates are in order…

First off, my mom has recovered completely. She’s back to her feisty old self (which is not nearly as old as her 92 years would seem to indicate). Once she was treated for the UTI, she came back to herself very quickly. That said, having my brother living back in the old homestead with her has been an adjustment for both of them. I think it’s still in the working-the-bugs-out stage, and I hope they can learn to live together in relative respect and harmony. Fingers crossed.

As to the rest of the last few months? Well, it hasn’t been a bed of roses, but it IS looking up. Maybe replacing my lost Ganesh keychain with another, more garish image of Ganesh has resulted in the removal of some recent obstacles, or maybe it’s just the passage of time and the swells and troughs of life, but I’m in a hopeful place right now.

Despite a very shaky employment situation, I remain employed (for now) and Jeff has a contract gig that will last through the end of the year. We can take some nice deep breaths and do our best to plan ahead.

We’ve made some home improvements, both planned (our lovely new balcony railing, which has made the balcony an actual living space after all these years) and unplanned (a clogged and leaking pipe that ended up setting us back by four grand… yep, four GRAND). But here’s the balcony:

And I’m making yet another attempt at getting into better shape, which includes workouts on our new cross trainer (lordy, but is that thing big—and we chose that one specifically because it was “space-efficient,” sigh) and restarting my on-again-off-again running program. I realize that I will need new running shoes in the very near future.

Jeff and I are still practicing our jigs and reels and tin-pan-alley stuff every night, and we’re tossing what is in the process of becoming a novel outline back and forth, each adding something and shepherding it along…

So that’s where things stand now: who knows what the future will bring? It’s been such a crazy year on all fronts that I have given up trying to figure out what comes next. There’s a certain calmness and strength to taking life as it comes, isn’t there?

Still... I’m still hoping to snorkel off the Big Island sometime before I get too old to stay afloat!

And I'm really going to try to keep this blog updated a *tad* more often!

Mom Could Use Some Good Thoughts...

2010-05-31T18:13:00.003-05:00

Here I was all ready to write a screed about how nearly impossible it is to find a nice, flattering dress when one is a) short and b) a *bit* stout, when I received news that my mom is in the local hospital in Virginia.

The prognosis is NOT dire: She has a bladder infection, and she's suffering from exhaustion. Apparently, she has not been eating well or sleeping well lately. From what I understand, they think they may keep her a week or so to build her strength back up. During that time we will start to sort out next steps.

I was worried this might happen.

She's a month and a half from her 92nd birthday, and up until earlier this year, she was doing amazingly well for a nonagenarian. Then came the big snow. Or rather, snows. One atop the other, making it impossible for her to get out on her own, and making her frightened to try to negotiate the front walk so that others could drive her places.

I don't know if that was the catalyst for her depression or if it simply exacerbated a bout of depression and anxiety that was already brewing, but...

When I went to visit her in March, she seemed a little down and a fair bit slower than usual. I took her out and about--shopping, dining, church... but her usual spark was simply not there. I offered to go to the doctor with her because she had just started taking some anti-depressants, and she didn't like the way they made her feel--she said she felt more anxious with them than without them. But, no--she didn't see the need. We also talked about the likelihood of my brother, who lives the next town over, coming to live with her and help her out. After all, she has not been up to keeping that house for years. It's much too big for her, and she doesn't climb steps well. It was either that, or move to an assisted living apartment. She really didn't want to do either--but, well, we all knew (me, Mom, and my brother John) that sooner rather than later if she didn't make the choice herself, one would be made for her. It looks as if we're at that point.

In the time between my visit and now, I began receiving messages via Facebook and phone from Mom's neighbors and friends--she seemed confused; she seemed afraid to leave the house; she seemed so sad and tired. John was planning on moving in this very week. He still plans to do so, but I'm not sure if he will become her caregiver or the caretaker of the house while she recovers at an assisted living facility.

So, spare a good thought or, if you are so inclined, a prayer for her tonight.

She's a game old bird. It takes a lot to bring her down. Now we need to build her back up again, if we can.

Namaste!

Wisconsin Treasure Hunt

2010-04-11T12:49:00.016-05:00

Yesterday I arose at an ungodly hour to catch the 6:56 am Metra to Wisconsin, buoyed only by the prospects of fresh treasure awaiting in the wilds of Sturtevant. And it was SO worth it!

Laurie had boarded the train at Ravenswood even earlier than I did in Evanston, and such a schedule had not given us time for more than a cup of coffee before heading to the station, so once our partner in conspicuous consumption Mary picked us up in Kenosha, we headed right over to the The Coffee Pot. Mushroom omelets and stuffed nutty waffles were consumed, and the hearty fare sustained us through the entire day and three antique malls chock-a-block with goodies.

So, now to the loot:

I picked up these pieces of sheet music for a song (sorry!)--and guess what? The only one that doesn't include chords for a uke or guitar is... wait for it!... Aloha Oe! Go figure. But it's worth it to have that cover with its attribution to H. M. Queen Liliuokalani. "Love's Old Sweet Song" I bought for sentimental reasons. It's one of the songs my daddy used to sing to me as he tucked me in when I was very little. His repertoire also consisted of "Red River Valley" and "The Old Spinning Wheel" (for which I also have the sheet music). The other two songs I bought I don't know yet, but they have uke chord diagrams, so I'll figure them out sometime soon. I just liked the covers.

This tablecloth and napkin set had just been set out in one of the booths at School Days Antique Mall when I scooped it up for a mere $10. The tablecloth has some stains and weathering, but I think it a good soaking in a non-chlorine bleach solution should take care of that--or at least mitigate the problem.

School Days was also the place I found the navy blue straw hat with its red embellishments. If I can find a nice dress to go with it, I might just wear it to Erin and Tom's wedding later this spring.

So help me out here--is the little ceramic tsotchke an elven pig or a piggish elf? I could not resist the weirdness. And, remaining true to my magpie nature, neither could I resist the strange nephew-art Christmas tree topper. Why? Well, 1) because it is sparkly and 2) because it is sparkly.

Here are a few more goodies I picked up on the hunt: A box painted with a desert scene, a bracelet with crystal and pearl details (we all bought bracelets, by the way--once I had the case open to inspect MY bracelet, Laurie and Mary could not resist the lure of the other two that shared the velvet board with mine), a transferware Cape Cod souvenir plate and a hand-painted souvenir plate from Los Angeles (one of these days I'm going to have to put my souvenir plates on display again--yet another item on the ever-growing to-do list...), and one of the finds of the day--a school girl's journal from the 1920s. Let's look inside!

First up under "Spreads and Entertainments" is an account of a birthday dinner journal-writer Viola's friend Beverley's mother threw for her. It begins, "Mrs. H--- invited Alma and me over for dinner the day of my birthday.... Mrs. H--- surely would take first prize for her wonderful cooking. Boys, if I were you, I'd shine around Beverley!"

Oh, and for those of you who are wondering what "Elk's Big Production" touted in the clipping was, it was that famous musical "Lets Go Peggy." Heh.

The book has many newspaper clippings reporting on the results of high school football and basketball games, and Viola seems to have had a soft spot for a varsity letterman named Donald. However, in the back of the book there is an empty space where Donald's photo once resided, and his name is struck through. Alas, the vicissitudes of young love. One picture, however, is given the place of honor on its own page where it has lain all these years protected by a small sheet of parchment:

It's hard to top Viola's School-Girl Record, but I think that this might come close:

It's there on the right, sharing a place of honor with Jeff's mystic eye fez. It is not the bejeweled wonder that many Shriner fezes aspire to be, but its cache of cool lies in its simple metallic embroidery and its tassel of delicate brass springs. Not that I wouldn't make a beeline to a bejeweled fez if I saw one for sale (especially if it were from Moolah temple--now THAT would be awesome!)... but I like this simple old guy just fine.

I also scored a pile o' old linen postcards--two of which were of my hometown. No photos of those--at least, not yet.

Oh, and as promised... here's a photo of the lovely new concert uke to close this entry:

Happy Foolery Day!

2010-04-01T14:25:00.002-05:00

But I swear, there are no April Fool's jokes embedded in this entry!

Once again, it’s been a long time since updates… sorry about that.

But let’s get going… here are some random thoughts and general updates, in no particular order:

It’s amazing how much money one can save by brown-bagging it for lunch. Most of the cash that was in my wallet on Monday is still in my wallet today (and I have tomorrow off…). Of course, one trip to Borders or Barnes and Noble and whoosh! Time for another trip to the ATM.

New job is coming along nicely. I like getting a nice stretch of the legs to and from the L, and I like having some time to read coming and going. Good to have a gig accessible by transit.

I can’t tell if the kitties actually like each other or not. They seem to fight a lot, and Mifune growls at Mingus when he pokes around her. But he does bother her a lot. They may have taken his cojones when he was 3 months old, but he’s still a tomcat who appreciates a lovely lady kitteh when he sees one. And he’s almost as big as she is now.

Good grief, but is it a gorgeous day! Although true to Chicago form, we are being warned to expect cooler than seasonal temps by Sunday. Figures.

Guest room/office is painted and new (well, newly assembled!) bookcases are in place. It still is a receptacle for boxes of stuff that we hauled out of there in the first place (not as much, though, as we made a big donation run to the Salvo). We have yet to purchase a new futon and frame, and I’m looking for just the right sized filing cabinet for the room, and then we’ll be closer to finished with it. The new color looks nice. I still haven’t uploaded pictures, but I will soon. You’ll just have to trust me on this.

I’m a bit worried about Mom. She seems to be having a bit of a bad reaction to some antidepressant medicine her doctor prescribed a month or so ago. She’s become rather anxiety-prone and occasionally fearful to leave her house, and that’s not like her at all. Brother John and I are trying to alert her doctor to the problem, but he seems rather sanguine about it. We think it is time she consulted a gerontologist. After all, she is nearly 92. Send some good thoughts her way!

Finally got the tax info and receipts to the accountant. Hope there is a refund coming!

There seems to be a singular dearth of Cadbury Crème Eggs this year. What is up with that? Easy-peasy to find the Cadbury Caramel Eggs, but not the luscious Crème Eggs I so crave each Easter. I have found, purchased, and consumed one package—and that was at the local Aldi.

Speaking of Aldi, I finally shopped in one after all the years I’ve been living in Chicago. For those not in the know, Aldi is a discount supermarket that has knock-off brands for really cheap prices. They opened one up beside our local Pet Smart, so the last time I went to buy Mingus’s kitten food, I dropped into Aldi as well. I’d been waiting to check the store out, as Jeff told me that decades ago he found a whole chicken in a can—bones and all—at Aldi. Well, I saw no canned whole chickens there, but I DID find some gorgonzola crackers—a big box for $1.69—that were surprisingly tasty as well as the aforementioned 4-pack of Cadbury Crème Eggs. And a box of raisins that was also dirt cheap. And fine, except for the raisins are very sticky. Don’t think I’ll make shopping there a regular thing, though.

Oh! And I have a new uke! A concert uke made by Kala. It has a cedar top and Koa sides and back. Sounds lovely! Pictures to come.

Freakin' Squirrels...

2010-02-16T15:37:00.006-06:00

Yesterday morning before we headed out the door for work, Jeff and I noticed that Mifune and Mingus were glued to the windows that look out on the balcony. We peered out ourselves, only to see a fat squirrel luxuriating in one of the flower boxes, trying to nosh on the plastic berries of the fake greenery we put out as Christmas/winter decorations every year. I didn't want the squirrel to try to eat the plastic and choke or die from toxins or whatever, so I rattled the casement to scare the critter off. This did not set well with the kittehs (they were highly indignant), and it didn't faze the squirrel (who was cooly indifferent), but at least I tried.

Fast forward to this morning, when I opened the front drapes so that Mifune could take advantage of her current favorite lookout spot on the arm of our sofa. There, between the window and the cement balustrade (one of the many that bedeck the windows on our building's facade), lay one of the bunches of fake greenery from the balcony boxes. Alongside it lay a scrap of wire and a couple of small lightbulbs--a portion of the string of icicle lights that made up some of the Christmas decor. (And before I get admonished for keeping the Christmas lights up too long, we haven't turned them on since Epiphany, and it's been too cold to go out there and extricate them from the fake greenery, so there.) Great. So our squirrel friend has destroyed the string of lights and dragged some of the greenery around the entire exterior of the sunroom to the northernmost front window.

Fast forward about ten minutes later, when Jeff and I are leaving the building to scrape the dusting of snow and ice off the car and proceed to work. Beside one of the urns that flank the front steps lay another longer length of masticated icicle lights. We looked up at the balcony boxes, and at least two of the sprigs of faux evergreenery have disappeared from the boxes.

Oh well. I figured this might be the last year for those icicle lights anyway... they were getting long in the tooth. But shoot! I can't imagine the squirrels are so hungry that they are trying to eat fake foliage and electrical wire! Especially when you consider how relatively mild a winter it's been here in Chicago and how zaftig the little rodents are at this point in the year.

Guess I'd better add "take in Christmas decorations" to my list of weekend tasks... Sigh.

How Did I Sleep through an Earthquake?

2010-02-10T15:51:00.007-06:00

Apparently, this morning at around 4:00 a.m. the earth moved beneath northern Illinois. A temblor of around 3.8 struck in a farm field near Elgin, at a depth of 3 miles or so. Although there is known fault system called the Sandwich Fault Zone near the epicenter, the USGS is saying this event occurred on a "hidden fault." It was felt over a wide area--apparently reports of shaking came in from as far south as Tennessee. People in Iowa and Wisconsin felt it too. And of course there were reports of it from Chicago, but Jeff and I slept through the whole thing. I wonder if that's because our building is built on sand, which doesn't transmit the seismic waves as well as bedrock does. Hmm. (Edited to add--that is, sand and fill doesn't transmit distant waves as well... if the epicenter is close enough and the shaking severe enough, sand and fill will fall prey to liquifaction--a very bad situation indeed!)

I, however, am taking this as proof-positive that my panic reaction to earthquakes has finally dissipated. Let me explain.

The first earthquake I ever felt was in Syracuse, in central New York state. It struck around six a.m. or so one weekday morning, waking me up in wonderment. What the heck? Is this an earthquake? It wasn't until I turned on the bedside radio for confirmation and heard that yes, indeed! It was a 5.2 or so, centered somewhere closer to the Adirondacks, that I became a tad frightened. Within a few minutes, though, I was over it. Throughout the day, everyone was talking about it and how weird it felt--a kind of rocking sensation, gentle but unnerving.

Fast forward a few years, to when I took up residence in a very seismically active place: San Francisco, CA. A few months before I moved there, the Bay Area had experienced 6.2 temblor that did some considerable damage in Morgan Hill, near the epicenter. Within two months of moving to San Francisco, I felt my first west coast earthquake... although it wasn't all that strong. It was a lot like the one I felt in Syracuse, to be honest. Kind of fun to ride out, once you realize the shaking is not going to intensify. For a while, we were getting earthquakes in the high 4s and low 5s every six months or so. Nothing we couldn't handle. Nothing we couldn't joke about the next day.

And then came Loma Prieta.

That one started much the same as the others: the building began to shake a bit, back and forth, the timbers began to whine and squeak... I made my way to my usual spot, which was the bathroom door frame, near the core of the building. We didn't really have a sturdy table to dive under, and our very sturdy desk was in the window bay--too close to glass for comfort. I figured I'd stand there in the doorway, a hand on each jamb, and ride it out as usual. But this time it didn't peter out. This time it DID intensify. And how! And it didn't just shake. It rolled. The building twisted. At the height of the shaking, the entertainment center came into view... it was located on a wall parallel to the wall in which the doorway where I stood was located. Impossible, I thought. But I saw it. And the TV ended up in the middle of the living room floor, so...

From that day forth (until this morning?), I have never been cavalier about earthquakes again. Even the small ones--the 3.8s and such--sent me into near panic. One thing a big earthquake can do is undermine your belief in the phrase "solid ground." Nuh-uh. Ain't no such thing. And even after I moved to a place where the ground is fairly solid--more solid than the ground of California, at least--my panic response held. Once, a few years after I became a Chicagoan, we took the kids to the Museum of Science and Industry where we watched an IMAX film on earthquakes. Loma Prieta was featured, and the security camera clips of things shaking and falling and breaking triggered an anxiety attack of rather massive proportions--something I really thought I was past. It was all I could do to stay in my seat and be quiet while tears streamed down my face.

And so, I'm amazed that I didn't feel this particular earthquake. Maybe I am over this 20+ year old psychological trauma. That would be nice.

Although I must say, it explains why the cats were so darned weird this morning. I mean, weirder than usual.

A coda: Many of the accounts I've read online of people who experienced this morning's little shaker mention the sound of it. Some reports describe a low, deep rumbling. Others mention a sonic boom or loud explosive sound right before the shaking began. I have to say, though, that in all the earthquakes I've experienced, weak or strong, I have never heard anything like that. The only sounds I've ever heard are the floor joists screaming and stuff falling and glass breaking. Although it makes sense that rock grinding against rock would make some kind of sound...

On Doors that Close and Doors that Open

2010-02-05T10:07:00.005-06:00

It's been quite a crazy ride, these last couple of weeks!

One of these days (say, when I've collected all my severance?) I'll tell you a story of how NOT to lay people off, but for now, let's just let that lie.

The good news is that I will start at my new job as a project manager at a development house on the north side of Chicago in the middle of March. It is as laid-back a work environment as a development house can be. It is close to public transit, so I will get some exercise walking to and from the L stations at either end of the route (maybe drop a few pounds?), and I will be able to catch up on the mounds of books I have amassed in the last few years--you can't read while you're driving to work! At least, you should not attempt it. I anticipate working on a number of projects, but I especially look forward to tackling social studies again. I will be working for and with people I have admired and respected since my first forays into educational publishing. I could not have anticipated a better outcome for what I took, at first, to be a devastating and embarrassing setback.

Most of you who read this blog know me personally, and you know that I'm a skeptic (although I admit to watching way too many of those ghost-hunting shows... a trait that puzzles Jeff, although I attribute my interest to a fascination with supernatural tales that goes back to childhood--but I digress). I generally have no use for platitudes such as "When one door closes, another will open." But I have to say, since January 25 it's as if I've been routed through a series of doors--revolving ones! So quick was the turn of fortune that I'm practically spinning. Happily so!

So worry not, my friends. I have landed on my feet once again. And for that, I am very grateful for all your good wishes and positive thoughts!

Namaste!

The Ax Falls Once More

2010-01-25T10:58:00.002-06:00

Nothing like coming to work on a chilly, flurrying Monday morning and being met with the old "We appreciate all you've done for us, but you're canned as of a month from now" speech.

I went through this whole thing a year and a half ago when my employer decided to shut down my department and start it back up at another location a few years down the road. I took the position in Reading because it was convenient, and it was a bird in the hand. In the intervening months, I've often wondered if I should have just moved on back then. I really have felt very stuck in an uncomfortable holding pattern for a while now. Maybe having a bird in the hand isn't always the best situation.

Right now, I'm kind of shell-shocked. I know there are far more talented and experienced editors out there pounding the pavement than there are positions for them. And it has become harder and harder to freelance, at least in educational publishing.

I hope one day I'll look back on this and see it as the kick in the pants I needed to put me on the right path to fulfilling work again. But for right now, it just feels like I've been kicked. Hard. In the head.

New Year... So What? Maybe Something...

2010-01-22T15:14:00.009-06:00

So it's a new year, and true to form, nothing really changes when the ball drops, does it? Resolutions from last year remain essentially unchanged. Time marches on. But the days get a bit longer one by one, so that helps a little.

One thing is about to change, though. Our legendary red room is about to become our pretty, soothing blue room. This has been very long in coming... as in, since we bought the place more than a decade ago. Back then, I searched and searched for a color chip I liked, and I hit on the color "Wedgewinkle," a purply-blue from the Behr line of paints. It is a blend of Wedgewood blue and periwinkle--a soft and soothing color with enough presence to kick it out of the pastel range. Since we hired our upstairs neighbor (a professional house painter by trade named Will) to paint the exteriors of our sunroom windows, I figured why not throw in the red room, finally.

Embarrasing, huh? And THIS was when it was not all THAT bad!

And so tomorrow morning the old mattress and box springs I bought right before Jeff came to visit me in San Francisco lo, these 15 years ago are being collected by Will's brother. After that, I'll haul all the stuff in that room out--it really has become more a junk room than a guest room or office--set up the computer on the dining room table for the duration, and have the thing painted. The ugly and mismatched bookcases will go out in the alley, as will the way-too-big-for-my-Mac computer desk. Someone with the strength to haul them away may get a few more years' worth of use out of them.

When the paint is dry and the room still empty, I'll use the modest expanse of floor to unbox, lay out, and construct the new matching bookshelves that have been cluttering up our entryway for more than a year and a freakin' half (procrastination? my middle name). Then I'll move the computer armoire purchased about, oh, four or five years ago (which is also too big for my Mac, to be honest, but which offers some needed storage space) from its post in the dining room to its true home in the office/guest room. I'm not sure what will happen to the pink filing cabinet, one of the last vestiges in my life of my ex's obsession with pink and black, the hallmarks of rockabilly fashion and decorating. I guess I should chuck it too and buy a new and taller model. And finally, Jeff and I will select and purchase a nice futon and frame to serve as a bed for guests and as a sofa all other times.

Oh yeah--and the hideous blinds will be removed from the windows and placed in the alley for scavengers. Not sure what to put up in their place--any suggestions for window coverings aside from drapes are more than appreciated!

My hope is that redoing this room will start us on our mission to redo the remainder of the condo--the part that has been untouched (save a few new light fixtures here and there and a glass block window in the master bath) since we purchased the money pit. That means the to-the-studs master bathroom renovation, repainting and buying some new furniture for the master bedroom, a reconfiguration of the bedroom and foyer closets (which abut each other), and the bringing to fruition of our grand scheme for the living room: a wall of built-in bookcases and cabinets; stripping decades of paint off of the woodwork and hearth; restoring the gas logs in the fireplace; getting rid of the horrid popcorn on the ceiling; installing a ceiling fan and light in the main living room (as opposed to the sunroom); painting the living room, sunroom, and hallway a color that does not suck up every single particle of available light; and rigging up a nice big flat-screen TV and surround sound speakers.

So... any bets as to when all this will be finished? I'm sure it will be just in time to renovate the kitchen, yet again.

Oh, Hai!

2010-01-02T21:15:00.002-06:00

Happy New Year, one and all!

Au Revoir (or Adieu?) to Normal

2009-12-15T16:34:00.005-06:00

Greg is now a college graduate, and in mid-December we spent what may well be our last weekend in Bloomington-Normal!

We headed down there early Friday afternoon--after several years of starting just a bit too late and getting stuck in afternoon traffic filled with motorists who, like us, were impatient to break the steely bonds of Chicago for the weekend, we finally made in on the road before the great exodus. Smooth sailing, all the way!

Friday night we took Greg out to Kobe, one of those Japanese restaurants where they cook your meal flamboyantly right at your table. The food was tasty and the show was amusing. A good time was had by all.

Saturday was commencement day, and a bit past noon we headed over to Redbird Arena and took our seats for the 1:00 ceremony. Right on time, the procession began: The doctoral candidates, the masters degree candidates, and the baccalaureate candidates, followed by the faculty and administrators. I have to say, every time I watch one of these processionals, I covet the regalia. My undergrad institution, Madison College (now James Madison University), provided hoods to the baccalaureates, albeit modest ones, so I have a black hood lined in purple and gold (the colors of that alma mater) and white (to signify my Bachelor of Arts degree). I didn't attend commencement to receive my Master of Arts degree, so I don't know what the hood for a Syracuse University MA would be. I love the doctoral robes and hoods, though, as well as the puffy hats and luxurious tassels. I really am a magpie, huh?

Anyway, back to the proceedings. It was a very nice, economical ceremony, without long speeches about how this was the first day of the rest of their lives or why it's called "commencement." Just hearty congratulations for attaining this milestone and good wishes for the future.

After the crowd had cleared and the pictures were snapped, we headed back to Greg's apartment to load the bulk of his possessions in his mom's car, and from there we drove to Destihl, a local brewpub with wonderful beer on offer as well as excellent food. The four of us--Greg, his mom, Jeff, and I--celebrated the new grad with toasts of ale, lager, and pilsner brewed on the premises and good wishes for a happy and fulfilling future.

Allow me to get a bit sentimental here: Greg had just turned eight a few days before I met him, and I met him on my very first day in Chicago. He was a bright kid, and a sweet kid, and, as I was soon to learn, a whiz at strategy games. He soon learned that I WASN'T, and he took great pleasure in beating me at Risk, Battleship, and (to my dismay) chess. He had his academic ups and downs during his elementary, middle, and high school career, but I never, ever doubted that he would make it through. And on December 12, he did us all proud... but most of all, he did himself proud. I won't lie, I shed a few proud and wistful tears as he strode across the stage to receive his degree. Congratulations, Greg! Here's to a happy and fulfilling future to the best stepson an evil stepmama could wish for!

In Praise of an Unjustly Ignored Thanksgiving Movie...

2009-11-29T17:53:00.002-06:00

With both the annual day of feasting AND the annual day of consumer insanity behind us, I want to address what I believe to be an egregious example of cable television's dropping the holiday ball: Why was Home for the Holidays not in heavy rotation throughout the last week or so?

This film was released fourteen years ago (say... the very year Jeff and I tied the knot!), and it captures in a mere hour and forty or so the essence of all we love and hate about Thanksgiving spent with the family. The aging parents who are loathe to accept that their children are adults. The tension between siblings who have moved far away and those who have stayed in the old hometown. The dotty relative who can be counted on to reveal family skeletons in full view of the poor outsider who has been dragged in as a guest. The painful realization that you can't really ever go home again, and the warmth you'll find there nevertheless. And of course, it is all wrapped very loosely around what might turn out to be a love story.

I was looking for this movie on cable all week before the big day, but when it did not materialize I dug out our relatively ancient VHS copy so I could get my yearly fix (yes--our DVD player plays videos as well... we are SO out of media step).

I guess it's a mixed blessing, this failure by the powers that be to recognize a potential holiday classic. At least it won't be played to death like It's a Wonderful Life or A Christmas Story. But if you are seeking a film to put you in the proper frame of mind for a fraught family gathering, this is your film.

Life with Kittehs

2009-11-22T18:18:00.004-06:00

Ah, yes. You heard correctly. We now have two kittehs in our family!

A little more than a month ago, we went to Tree House Humane Society shelter and fell in love with a little gray kitten whom the shelter folks had named "Arcadian." We brought all of his three-month-old, three-pound-nine ounce self home with us and renamed him "Mingus." I think it suits him better, don't you?

He is a little scamp, that's for certain! While we had him sequestered in the back bathroom, parcelling out introduction time to his new big sis Mifune, I tried to take some photos of him. He was just such a blur of activity, though! A feline dervish! Just take a gander:

I finally had to use the flash and risk demon-eye...

It took us about five days or so to do a full introduction, and at first Mifune was rather distant to the little tyke. I don't think she quite knew what to make of him. After all, he was just as pesky as little brothers tend to be.

He stalked her tail. He ate her food. He grabbed every toy right out from under her--and since she didn't have such a safe, secure kittenhood (feral as she was), she seemed kind of flabbergasted at such kittenish behavior. She engaged in a lot of observation.

And then THIS began.

And this.

And this.

It took us a while to realize that it was mostly just play, although it got a bit fraught when we brought the cat tree home.

Do not be fooled by the peaceful nature of this photo. They both want the top perch.

In fact, we've had the tree for a couple of weeks now, and only yesterday did they share the top perch without resorting to fangs and claws. Ah, sweet domestic bliss!

So, what're YOU lookin' at?

Adieu to BHG

2009-11-10T13:00:00.003-06:00

Ten years ago now, when Jeff and I first bought our "luxury lakeside condo" (heh), we were faced with a lot of unforeseen and undisclosed problems... and a few we knew about and took the plunge anyway. In my quest to figure out what we might be able to fix on our own and what we needed to hire professionals to tackle, I found my way to the message boards at Better Homes and Gardens online. There I posted my queries on the renovation board and the kitchen and bath board--I received some good advice, too. And from those boards I wandered over to the Family Issue board, where I became hooked.

It was a glimpse into a world I don't actually inhabit: a world of moms and housekeepers, mostly. But in that mix were a few kindred spirits. I started posting there and on the Mind, Body, and Spirit (MBS) board, where the topic was mostly religion. In those early days, there was a nice mix of folks posting at MBS. Sadly, it was eventually overrun with fundamentalist Christians of a single sect who pretty much told everyone they were going to hell--even their fellow fundamentalists on the board who had the audacity to be *gasp* Baptists instead of their particular cult. Given that, you can just imagine how this small band addressed those of us who were NOT Christians. Sigh. The board devolved to "them or us" type of arguments and a single troll who c&p'd some evangelist's daily online essay but never bothered to discuss her posts. Eventually, the troll was the last poster standing on that board.

Meanwhile, over at Family Issues (FI), some cyberfriendships were getting strained by the 2000 election. Bush supporters were aghast that anyone would call him on his blatant lack of intelligence... and so, to maintain good feelings, the powers that be began a new board called "General Debate" to attract the type of folks who like a good dust up away from the more sedate FI board.

It was a place for fairly hot and heavy discussions, especially in the run-ups to the disastrous Iraq war and the Bush-Kerry election. Come the primaries in 2008, though, things got really, really nasty. That's when the wingnuts started showing their true colors. And once Obama won the election, those same wingnuts now started singing the teabaggers' chorus... and throughout all this, the wingnuts (several of whom were the same religious cult members who killed the MBS board, interestingly enough) began reporting posts of liberal posters that they deemed to be violations to the board's Terms of Service. In other words--posts where they got their hats handed to them again and again... posts that showed their utter lack of logic and their absolute love of straw men arguments... basically, any post that disagreed with them. In turn, the board's liberal posters began reporting some of the more trollish and truly nasty posts of the wingnuts, several of whom were banned from the site for good... but who came back again and again under new names anyway. Sigh. General Debate was getting, well, tiresome. But who wants to just pack up and leave the board to the yahoos?

Which brings us to the past few days, since the horrific event at Fort Hood. As you might imagine, the wingnuts were and are all up in arms about Islam. Of course, the investigation is ongoing. The perpetrator has yet to offer a motive. But to the wingnuts, there's one and only one thing behind Hasan's actions: It was an Islamic Terrorist attack and proof that no Muslim can be trusted. You should see the posts. Or maybe they are best left unseen. I'm sure you can all imagine. What it boils down to for these benighted, terrified souls is that in their minds--because their own versions of mullahs have assured them it is true--all Muslims are terrorists. All Muslims are to be feared... and that's because Allah (no realization that Allah is Yahweh is God, of course) insists that all Muslims must kill those who are not Muslim. Sigh.

Anyway, religious bigotry is something that really chaps my hide. And so, I call the wingnuts on it. Particularly one wingnut who, after posting about how Allah insists all Muslims should kill all infidels, claims on another thread that she would never, EVER tar all Muslims with the terrorist brush. So I posted one of her screeds from another thread, which sets her off. And what do I get for my gentle rebuke?

I get a "time-out" from the BHG boards for violating the Terms of Service (although how showing a liar to be a liar violates any rules escapes me). But does SHE get a "time-out" for spewing her hatred and bigotry? No, of course not.

And so, after a decade of posting, I have decided to willingly extend my "time-out" into infinity. I figure it will give me back some precious free time I've been devoting to trying to debate idiots, in hopes that some lurker may see the light of day. And I'll bet it will bring my blood pressure down a few points too. I may even be more inclined to spend time here, updating more frequently.

And so, to my BHG friends who may find their way here, I say thanks for the decade. It was mostly fun. It was certainly a learning experience. I now leave the battle to those who still care to fight it.

Namaste.

Road Trip!

2009-11-03T13:50:00.005-06:00

Ah. Lovely Waynesboro, Virginia. And what better time to drive there from Chicago than late September?

Jeff and I have made this trip many times, and only once in the past have we stopped overnight either to or from. That was many years ago when Jeff came down with pneumonia and the drive back to Chicago was just too tiring for the both of us to attempt in one day. This time, though, we decided to take a couple days to drive down to Virginia and a couple days to drive back. Take our time. Slow down a bit and enjoy the scenery. So we did.

On the way down, we stopped for the night at Carter Caves State Resort Park in eastern Kentucky. There are two caves open to the public there (and many more on park land--most of them used to be open to cavers with permits, but the white-nose syndrome has become such a threat to local bats that such excursions have been halted for now): Cascade Cave and X Cave. We arrived in time to tour the latter. It was a small but interesting cave, formed when the bore holes of two streams met, forming an X, literally. One of the passages is highly decorated, and the other is very sparse and spartan. I wish I had photos to show, but alas! I discovered all too late that I had left my data card at home, and the gift shop did not carry them. Sigh.

At any rate, here's a set of photos I found on flickr:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/dandeeshots/sets/72157617560136344/

Many thanks to DanDee!

It was a rainy, rainy night, but the lodge was comfortable and boasted a decent restaurant.

The next morning dawned foggily, and I worried that the mist would interfere with my morning driving plans, but by the time we reached Charleston and left the interstate for U.S. 60, most of the fog had burned off. At first I didn't think much of the scenery of this "scenic drive." The road hugged a river, the opposite bank of which sported mills and shacks and, well, lots of the accouterments one associates with Appalachia... and not in a good way. But as the road veered away from the river and climbed higher into the hills, the scenery improved. And the frequency of hairpin turns increased. Finally, we got to Hawks Nest, a lofty perch overlooking the New River Gorge. Of course, no photos--still hadn't found a data card--but well worth the detour.

We had hoped to be able to check out the Mystery Hole, which is located along highway 60 near Hawks Nest, but alas! It was closed! But here's the beauty part: When I got to Waynesboro, my BFF Barb presented me with a lovely sweatshirt from there! Yea! At least I have the appropriate apparel should I ever be lucky enough to pass that way again and find the attraction up and running.

We rolled into Waynesboro in plenty of time to take Mom to dinner.

The highlight of the weekend was a gathering of Fools to eat pizza and attend the production of Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street featuring the incomparable Barbara Spilman Lawson as Mrs. Lovett. It was an accomplished production, with the leads (Brian Holsopple played Sweeney Todd) bringing performances that would have been welcome on any major stage in the world. It was great to spend a bit of time with old friends and see a wonderful, creepy play in the bargain.

We were a bit early for the full fall color display, but we did manage to catch a few glimpses of what was in store for the valley a few weeks on:

Jeff and I strolled around the old neighborhood and down to the park, where we discovered that the old boat ramp was returning to its natural state and hosting a few ducks to boot.

And of course we enjoyed Sunday brunch in Staunton with Mom and brother John. We went to the Clocktower, where they prepared our omelets to order. Tasty. We rolled out of there more than satisfied.

We headed back to Chicago on Tuesday, breaking for the night at Batesville, Indiana, where we ate at the historic Sherman House. Good German food to be had here!

We got home in the early afternoon on Wednesday, weary and ready to rest from the road. For a while. Only for a while.

Prism-wrapped Planes and Such

2009-10-31T11:56:00.004-05:00

A while back now, in late August, I flew down to Waynesboro to visit my mom and to witness first-hand the unveiling of the spiffy new marquee at the venerable Wayne Theater.

In order to avoid spending Friday in transit, I arranged an early-ish Thursday evening flight out of O'Hare to Richmond. It worked well. I got to Richmond around 9:30, rented a car, and by 11:00 I was at the old homestead. By far the best reward for this strategy, though, was something I glimpsed from the plane: As the sun was setting and it's rays grew long, I gazed out the window to see the shadow of the plane passing along a wall of clouds. And surrounding the shadow was a full spectrum--as if we were flying within a prism. Of course, my camera was in my computer bag, which was in the overhead because the plane was too small for it to fit under my seat. Sigh. You'll just have to take my word for it and envision it yourself!

Oddly enough, the spectrum theme was repeated the next afternoon when, only an hour or so before the marquee was scheduled to be unleashed on the world, a sudden downpour produced one of the nicest rainbows I've seen in many a year.

By the way, for those in the know (or who want to be), that photo was snapped from Linden. The house in the foreground used to be where my primary-school friend Ginny used to live. Ginny had one of those skeery kit-kat clocks with the moving eyes and tail. And her parents always stocked cases of Mountain Dew in the fridge. Lot's of good memories of sleep-overs and dancing to the latest Beatles single with that house...

At any rate, the rain subsided in plenty of time for the downtown festivities to begin.

There was music, an installment of a serial radio play, stand-up comedy, more music...

A moment of utter serendipity occurred when a folk-singer was warbling about hearing that old train whistle that reminded him of home, and the train that just happened to be passing through town as it does every evening sounded its whistle loud and long.

Young and old attended the festivities--everyone had a great time!

And once the sun set and the program drew to a close,

the band kept on playing so those who felt so moved could groove to their hearts' content!

Please note that Barb is prepared to move and groove in safety through the night with those reflecto shoes! Heh!

In the time that's elapsed since the August visit and now, I have yet another trip to the Big W under my belt... so stay tuned for more Waynesboro hijinks soon!

No excuses...

2009-10-20T15:42:00.006-05:00

Damn! But it's been a long, long time between updates.

I have lots of news and some nice pictures to post, but hey--I'm lazy, okay? It's a fact of life.

Since I'm grabbing time to post in the midst of a storm of pages here at work, I figure I will be brief now and more loquacious later.

Anyway... here's something I've been pondering since last Friday: Jeff and I stopped at Buffalo Joe's in downtown Evanston on the way home from work to get wings and chips to take home for dinner. As we were walking back to the car, toting our bag of spicy goodness, I looked down at the brick sidewalk for a moment and was struck by how familiar it was. How it just spoke the word home to me. And in an instant that thought took me back fifteen years or so to my last year in San Francisco. One evening as I was walking down Post Street to the Montgomery Muni station after my writing group, feeling so alone and sorry for myself amid the mix of quaint old businesses and soaring skyscrapers... I glanced down and noticed that the sidewalk was sparkling! Whatever components went into the mixing of the concrete for that sidewalk, one of them was catching the light and glistening like tiny pieces of mica--or gold--at my feet.

Not sure what the lesson is in that recollection--if there is any. But I was as struck then as I was last week, just by glancing down at the sidewalk.

Going Gray

2009-08-06T16:44:00.000-05:00

I’m giving it a try.

I found my first gray hair the year I went to grad school. I was 21, and I was horrified. I liked my chestnut locks, and I was in no way ready to color my hair, so I just pulled out the coarse gray interlopers as they showed themselves.

Fast forward a few years to the band days. As one, all of the Poptarts except Susan fell under the spell of henna. Henna seemed to have many things going for it. It—supposedly—was not permanent. The woman in the salon who sold us our first fix told us that if we didn’t like it, it would wash away in a few weeks, no problem. (I soon discovered this to be completely untrue.) It was also available in many bright shades of red. A nice statement for New Wave superstars at that time.

So we all went home and slathered on the mud pack, except for Susan. Some of us went redder than others. Gael went vivid red. Meegan used burgundy henna, which was deep and striking. Margie, with her nearly black hair, went for the eggplant color, which gave her spiky ‘do a purple cast. I went with plain old red at first, which gave me subtly auburn hair, except for the gray strands, which ended up glinting bright ginger, like tendrils of sunlight. I loved it! I loved that the henna was translucent, so that lighter hair really shone through.

And over the years, I’ve kept using henna, although as my streaks of gray beneath the henna got wider and more defined, I shifted from red to a mixture of red and burgundy, to straight burgundy, to a mixture of burgundy and brown—the brown to tone down the red in the burgundy so that I don’t look TOO much like mutton trying to dress as lamb, if you know what I mean…

And I’ve always gotten compliments on my hair color, because the highlights of henna on gray look so organic, even as the color itself does not… if that makes any sense. Heh.

But over the years, it’s gotten harder to cover the gray. I have to henna more and more often, and I have to leave the henna on my hair for longer and longer for it to “stick.” Sometimes it does fade, although not completely. And if I DO get it to stick really well, I end up looking kind of skunky in no time. Well, if skunks had red fur.

And the process itself is simply ponderous. Messy. Time-consuming.

So I’ve decided to see what my hair REALLY looks like.

Now…this isn’t the first time I’ve toyed with idea of going gray just to see. In fact, the first time I broached the subject with anyone other than myself was on a walk home from Marnee Thai to the flat in the Haight more than 16 years ago. I asked Tom what he thought of the idea, and he said it was fine with him. Of course, unbeknownst to me, he was planning on dumping me the next day, so, yeah. It wasn’t as if he was planning on sticking around to witness the results of that experiment, was he? Hmmm? And I didn’t follow through… just kept henna-ing and henna-ing.

And it’s not all that easy to go from years of henna-ing to natural locks, believe me. It’s not as if I can go to a salon and ask them to strip the color because henna, as it turns out, bonds with hair rather than coating it. It is MORE permanent than commercial hair color from a box. Sigh. And I don’t want to shave my head and let it grow in as it will. I fear my skull is way too bumpy and lumpy for that to work! But if I’m going to do this, I need to take the plunge sometime, right?

But, why now?

Well, I really do NOT want to end up one of those old dames with the flaming red hair who isn’t fooling anyone. And I’ve seen many women with chic haircuts and gray hair and it looks lovely. From what I can tell as I start to go skunky, the gray I have (and I’m sure I’m at more than 50% at this point) is nice and silvery—not drab and mousey. I do want to see if I can pull off the gray look and not look way old. And the last time I hennaed was one of those times when it started to fade rather than skunk. So it looks as if I’m going gray (very quickly!) rather than letting my dye-job grow out. Jeff is cool with the idea, although he likes me as a redhead. Matches my fiery personality. Heh.

So I’m giving this gray hair thing a whirl.

If I don’t like it, there’s always Lady Clairol… Right?

Sunday in Andersonville with Jeff

2009-07-27T16:52:00.005-05:00

Sunday was such a lovely day that we figured we should do something, walk somewhere, you know. Make a Sunday of it. We decided to stroll around Andersonville.

Andersonville, for those who aren’t familiar with Chicago’s North Side neighborhoods, is an area surrounding Clark Street, its business heart, from around 5000 N to 5700 N or so. The local Web site says it goes all the way north to Elmdale (which is 6000 N), but we used to live on Elmdale, and I would put that street very firmly in Edgewater. But enough geographical quibbling.

Since it was such a nice day, we decided to park in our old neighborhood, on Norwood, the next street north from our old Elmdale digs. The parking is more available on that street. At any rate, we parked and hoofed it south to Andersonville.

On the way, we passed through our old neighborhood, taking in the changes and drinking in nostalgia for the places that hadn’t changed. We passed by Senn High School, a massive building that we used to joke conjured up visions of Soviet municipal architecture. But somehow, it looked much more inviting than it used to. Did they plant more trees on the expansive grounds? I don’t know, but it didn’t look nearly as forbidding as it once did.

We hit Clark at Balmoral and proceeded south along the east side of the street. Our first stop was the Kopi Café, a neighborhood fixture. That strip of Clark has gone through many changes in the last few years—it retains its eclectic nature, but it now has a Starbucks and a few other coffee houses, and I worried that the Kopi Café might be overwhelmed by the competition. I shouldn’t have bitten my nails over it. It was just the same as ever, with great, fresh food and superlative coffee. They still have the little boutique in the back, and I bought a turquoise sundress—on sale!

From there, we strolled down the street, checking into dress shops (poor Jeff!) and antique shops, and a great ephemera store called Foursided where I bought a couple of cool retro tile coasters—on sale!

I don’t recall the name of the antique shop we poked around in--it was on the west side of the street—but it was a good old-fashioned junk shop with merchandise piled chock-a-block throughout the store. Jeff spied a Royal manual typewriter, the very model of which he had used for years in his youth. There was a VERY cool library card catalog that we both coveted, but since we were on foot… Ah well. There was also a skeery stuffed and mounted goat head, which could be had for a mere $48. But one must ask oneself, why on Earth would someone want to stuff and mount a goat head? It’s not as if it were some kind of wild game a hunter would be proud of bagging. Maybe it was a family pet? A superlative milk giver? A top-notch can nibbler? Who knows? Anyway, it had a yellow straw Easter bonnet perched on its head. Yeah.

On the way back to the car, we strolled down Berwyn, where one of the most baroque, eccentric graystones in the city is located. That place is so cool to look at. I wonder what it’s like inside. Although if this thread is to be taken seriously, maybe this book is better not judged by its cover.

We walked back toward our car along the shaded blocks of Glenwood, amidst the sun dappling down on the two-flats and the shouting of joyful sports fans filtering out of the open windows. Something amazing must have happened, but we forgot to check and see what it was by the time we returned home. We chuckled at a Statue of Liberty lawn sprinkler along our route—I wish we had one!

We turned west on Elmdale to take a turn by our old building—the first place we shared together in Chicago. It still looks nice—a modest but well-kept courtyard building. We proceeded north to Norwood and east to our car, passing one of my favorite houses along the way. In the midst of two-story, foursquare homes, this little brick bungalow always captured my heart on my runs around the neighborhood. One day as I ran past, I saw the family whose home it was having a picnic in the front yard on blanket, and a cuter little family you could never hope to find. I’m ashamed to say that my gut reaction to that was deep and nasty envy: how come THEY get to have such a cute little house??? No fair!! The negative and visceral nature of my response upset and shamed me. Then I came back to reality: what better folks to live in and love that home? And love it they (or whoever lives there now, if not them) clearly do—the place is neat as a pin and sports a lovely garden in the front and in the side yards. On Sunday, under bright blue skies, that made me smile.

Two Weekends in Wisconsin (Part 2)

2009-07-10T12:42:00.027-05:00

Or, House on the Rock: premier weird-ass tourist attraction in the nation

or the creepiest and/or campiest house of horrors in the world?

Our second foray into Wisconsin was a weekend jaunt to Madison, where we did a lot of strolling, shopping, and pub-grub sampling. And where Jeff purchase a lovely new mandolin... but on the way we simply HAD to visit HOTR yet again. Now, you can read about and see photos of an earlier foray to this uber wonder cabinet in this blog's November 2007 archives (although I note that Photobucket has taken it upon themselves to deem some of the naked statuary depicted therein to violate their code of decency... go figure!), so I won't take you through yet another tour. This time I'd like to discuss this attraction in terms of the macabre: If you observe the details (and there are hundreds of thousands to observe), you will have to admit that it is a very spooky place.

First off, it's very dark throughout. I think in the house proper that this serves several purposes. It lends an air of rustic serenity.

For example, this seating area. The thick slabs of tempered glass set horizontally in the wall are one of my favorite design features in the place. I would love to have something like this in my home, honestly. And yet, if you take the same picture with a flash, the whole feel of it is lost. It's just garish (not that being garish isn't part and parcel of HOTR--oh, it very much is!--but not here in the house portion... well, not so much).

In addition, the house portion of the tour has a number of Tiffany and other stained glass lamps on display, and the general gloom of the living area highlights the jewel-like glow of these fixtures quite nicely.

And then, of course, there is the cobwebby state of the place in general--more light would require a much, much larger cleaning staff. Or a cleaning staff to begin with.

Once you have made your way through the original house and into the maw of the display buildings, the gloom only increases. This allows items that would be cute and colorful in more brightly lit display situation to appear incongruously sinister. Case in point:

Shudder!

Of course, the Streets of Yesteryear are "gaslit" and, of course, very dark. All the better to highlight the somber moving tableaux that beckon for your tokens throughout.

The Drunkard's Death

The Death of the Miser

I don't recall what this one is called--something to do with a magician, I think--but it's creepy, don't you agree?

Then there's the overwhelming Heritage of the Seas display with its huge sea monsters battling to the death in the past-twilight darkness, surrounded by ever-mounting catwalks.

But even so the nautical displays, which consist of ship models of all sorts and lots of scrimshaw and memorabilia, can't escape the subtle (or not so subtle) creepitude that permeates the place:

Nothing enhances a detailed scale model of a battleship better than a hovering sailor's torso!

This theme recurs throughout the attraction. Even in the nostalgic 40s-era cafe in the Spirit of Aviation exhibit, we encounter the disembodied:

What's with that guy peering out from the kitchen?

Then there are the creepy dolls just about EVERYWHERE.

Not to mention that the place has not one, but TWO whole carousels of dead-eyed, staring DOLLS.

Penny arcade attractions such as this one abound throughout:

Note the disembodied arm atop this treasure...

Don't get me wrong--I LOVE this aspect of the House on the Rock. I love it that in among the opulent (if, yes, dark)

the nostalgic

and the oddly fanciful

there are also things such this seemingly abandoned tzotchke-mobile

and this

and THIS

All of which makes a sign like this one

make me wonder: Do they actually realize where this guy's true genius lay?

Two Weekends in Wisconsin (Part 1)

2009-06-28T21:22:00.013-05:00

Okay, yes. It's been almost an entire month since I wrote in this. And I know I keep promising to do better, but... well. I'm a backslider of the highest (or perhaps that should be lowest?) order.

At any rate, earlier this month, I found myself in Wisconsin two weekends in a row! The first was a Saturday sojourn in Racine and environs, treasure hunting with Laurie and Mary. The second was Jeff's and my long weekend getaway to Madison by way of the incomparable House on the Rock. This entry will deal with treasure hunting... the next one (which I promise you won't have to wait another month for) will deal--for the most part--with what I've come to think of as the nation's quintessential house of horrors.

But first, treasure hunting!

Here's the way it works: Laurie and I take the train from Chicago to Kenosha (only $5.00 round trip on a weekend!), where Mary, who lives in a grand old house and work in progress in Racine, picks us up. From there, we visit some of the local antique malls and such... but our main destination is always the School Days Antique Mall in Sturtevant. It is a veritable TROVE of treasure, as you will see...

Just look at what greeted us as we entered the main room, which used to be the gym of the old school in which the mall is housed. Yes. It's a stuffed bear cub, horrified at a book about Hitler.

This booth, near the entrance to the gym, is always densely but artfully arranged by themes. This is a garden theme. It's also way overpriced. I've coveted many a treasure from this booth, but alas, I have never treasured any of it enough to pay the asking price.

Most of the booths have a more reasonable pricing policy, yet even so, sometimes it is hard to justify paying the prices asked. The souvenir pillow above, for example. I believe it was in the neighborhood of $20 or so. Not exorbitant, but not cheap either. I still think I should have sprung for it, but the thought of schlepping it along with my other treasures back on the train made me snap the photo and keep only the memory of it.

Here's another item I decided to forego:

I love the decorative foliage, but what really attracted me (magpie that I am) was the ring of lavender glitter around the photo. But it was really quite too expensive--in the $30s, I think. Too dear for my blood, even though it sparkled.

One thing I love about treasure hunting (aside from treasure finding) is the inevitability of odd tableaux created when a bunch of old stuff is put on display. Not arranged with a theme or motif in mind, but just kind of jumbled together, as here:

The Indian is aiming at the cowboy, who in turn has the tin bunny in his sights...

Or here,

where Rudolf referees a cage match between Santa and a plush soldier.

This one is a tad more disturbing:

Naked doll parfait.

The theme of this treasure hunt shaped up to be all about creepy ceramics, however. Just take a look:

I actually brought the one directly above home with me--it now graces our mantel.

I came close to bringing this little number home:

I am very partial to tiaras (although I have absolutely nowhere to go where it would be appropriate to wear one). I wore this one around the mall for a while and then put it back on the pile where I found it, lagniappe for another magpie.

But I tried VERY, VERY hard to justify bringing THESE treasures home:

Oh. My. God. Sparkly, multicolored, pointy-toed shoes. Made. For. Me. But no. These were made for Cinderella, and I was but an oafish stepsister who could not cram my toes in them, much less make any real attempt to claim that they fit. And I do NOT have big feet! Wah! I was disconsolate!

So what other treasures beside the creepy pixie planter did I bring home with me? Well, I bought several kitschy souvenir plates (I collect them, and one day I will build a plate rail around the dining room on which to display them), a candy dish in my crystal pattern (Cambridge Caprice--vintage glass and crystal), and the most amazing find: a 1930s needlework book with instructions for crocheted hats and bags. Not winter toques or stocking caps or berets, either, but stylish little confections of that era. I'm crocheting the "jockey cap" now--if it works out who knows? I could have a little sideline going in a few months... IF it works out!

Stay tuned--I promise, promise, PROMISE that I will regale you with more Wisconsin wonder in a few days!

Marfa 5.0

2009-05-29T15:35:00.005-05:00

Gosh, it's been more than a month since I promised to write more frequently--alas! I will try to do better in the future! And I know I also promised a little post on Mifune and her ongoing battle with the Ugly Dolls, but that will have to wait. First, I'd like to bring you up-to-date on our latest foray into far west Texas--our fifth trip to Marfa.

As we traveled the now-familiar route from El Paso to Marfa, it dawned on us that we knew a lot of the landmarks... more than we would have expected! For example, I knew within two minutes prior to seeing the sign that we were approaching the immigration checkpoint near Sierra Blanca, and I even made a comment to Jeff along those lines. Then voila! There it was. And this time, for the first time, we were actually questioned as opposed to waved through--of course, this time I could not figure out how to lower the windows on the rental car... sheesh. But they bought our story that we were American citizens (heh), and on we went. Anyway, the landmarks kept coming: the pecan orchard that signaled we were getting close to the ruins of Lobo (a town sold and bought on ebay), the famous Prada Marfa installation north of Valentine, Valentine itself, the drug blimp... and then Marfa, where we checked into our usual digs at the Hotel el Paisano

and headed to Maiya's for a lovely dinner with Rachel and Chase. We ended the evening at the town's new watering hole (well, new to us since the last time we were in town), Padre's. Good bar--lots of room indoors and out, plus game tables, a great jukebox, and live music on many occasions.

Our stay in Marfa reinforced our opinion that it is a charmed place. Our adventures this visit included a jovial cocktail party thrown by the brothers who host the book review program on Marfa Public Radio. It was great to find yet more kindred spirits in the Chihuahuan Desert. We had excellent meals, both out on the town (or should I say "towns," as we fine dined in both Marfa and Alpine) and prepared by Rachel and Chase. They are good vegan cooks, and quite a few of the dishes they prepared were right out of their own garden. There are a number of good breakfast places in town, from the basic bacon and eggs and migas (including the superlative pecan waffles at the Austin Street Cafe,) but we really loved the breakfast at Cochineal, a restaurant that has opened since our last visit.

We witnessed several storms making their way across the vast expanse of desert toward and over the mountains,

but no rain fell on Marfa while we were there.

We went to Ft. Davis, where we browsed a used bookstore,

hunted treasure at an antique mall,

and observed this little guy, a street-wise horned lizard.

We drove a bit farther to Balmorhea, a town with a very productive spring that feeds the local state park swimming pool, and the run-off from the spring gathers in one of the most unexpected land- (or should I say water-) scapes in west Texas: Lake Balmorhea.

The town itself, although Rachel and Chase say they love the place and want to buy a vacation home there, is--to be most charitable--a diamond in the rough.

Seen better days, if you know what I mean. And this was downright scary:

Back in Marfa, we had great milkshakes at the laundromat/ice cream stand. On Saturday night, we attended a reading by Ibrahim Muhawi at the Marfa Book Company, followed by a wind orchestra and choral concert--a benefit for Marfa Public Radio--at the local auditorium, followed by a launch party at Padres to celebrate the release of local artist, musician, and Food Shark maven Adam Bork. Somehow in the midst of all that, we managed to grab dinner at Cochineal... whew! I got pulled over by a cop in Alpine for exceeding the speed limit (got off with a warning--thanks, officer!), and that same night, I saw a meteor streak turquoise and gold across the broad western sky.

During almost every one of our sojourns in Marfa, either Jeff or I comment that we could live in that little town. After all, the more we visit, the more people we get to know--and they remember us when we return... But that comment is always the cue for the other of us to say "What? Are you kidding? It's TEXAS, fergodsake!" This time, the comment came when we were walking up Highland, facing the courthouse... and neither one of us said a word... That said, I don't think we're cut out for small-town life OR life as Texans. However... we do love to visit, Rachel and Chase are such fun to be with, and they make us feel so welcome that we get a tad melancholy when it's time to leave.

And so ends another trip to the high desert. We definitely are looking forward to next time!

Weirdness of Late

2009-04-14T14:50:00.004-05:00

So it's been a strange week so far.

On Friday, a work colleague collapsed and died in the company cafeteria. She was a lovely and talented lady who always had a smile and a word or two of encouragement for her fellow editors. Apparently, she suffered a massive heart attack. The EMTs said that she probably died instantly. It was sudden, and she didn't suffer, but of course our entire department is grieving and more than a little unnerved. We all used to joke that the crazy schedule attached to the program we're working on would kill one of us. And now it has. She had just turned 40. Sigh. Namaste, Nichole, wherever your spirit is now.

Late on Friday night, after we had returned from seeing Bill Frisell and his trio at the Old Town School of Folk Music and after I was tucked up snuggly in bed, Mifune got herself tangled up in a pile of plastic bags that had been sitting under the kitchen table, waiting to be tied up and hauled to the recycling bin. Somehow, she got inside one of them, which had a few more bags inside IT, so she really got ensnared except for her little legs and feet! She tore off down the hall, bumping into the walls, and somehow she found her way underneath our bed (her safe place when she was more feral). The bags snared on the bed frame and ripped, allowing her to get free. She cowered under the bed for a couple of hours after that. But the thing was, in her panic she emitted an awful stench. Just horrid. We couldn't find any urine or feces on the floor or in the erstwhile bags, but the odor was just overpowering. So overpowering, in fact, that it triggered a very bad bronchial reaction in me (the gal with the cat allergy!). Thank goodness for Benadryl. It was quite an evening!

On Saturday, we went to Riverside to have lunch with Greg. He was home from college for the Easter weekend. He suggested a new Thai place in La Grange called Thipi, and it was great. We had standard Thai fare: satay, pad thai, and spicy basil, but the dishes were so rich and tasty, with a depth of flavor we didn't expect from such basic offerings. I can highly recommend it.

Sunday, of course, was our usual Easter feast. Jeff, nephew Dan, pal Diana, and I chowed down on the traditional Love Ham, along with steamed veggies, mashed potatoes, etc. For dessert, we had strawberry shortcake. Yum!

So... that's my latest news. I hope to have some new pictures of the kitty to regale you with soon--let's just say that she had decided that Moxy and Ox--the ugly dolls--are her sworn enemies. And you don't want to be her sworn enemy! Stay tuned!

An Update--Finally!

2009-04-02T21:41:00.005-05:00

So the last time we talked, I was in Florida, biding my time until I could get back to sweet home Chicago. And I promised pictures from the trip. Well, time and tide--in the form of our cable TV connection being on the blink--have finally allowed me to make good.

The photo above is from the Harry P. Leu Gardens, a lovely local landmark, and one that I'll bet few visitors to Orlando ever bother to see. It was private land until the early 1960s, when it was bequeathed to the city by its owner, whose name it still bears. The centerpiece of the gardens is the Leu home, which was built in the latter half of the 19th century and added onto by subsequent owners over the years. It was a fairly modest house as the houses of the affluent go. The gardens and land are the real showstoppers. But it had been nicely restored with botanical wallpapers, period details, and many of the Leus' personal effects. I was amused by this framed advert in the kitchen (which was quite small by today's standards):

The Dionne Quintuplets! Now, who even remembers why they were so famous?

Of course, the things that interested me were the odd details. The master bedroom sported this rather creepy lamp:

and this mannequin head, with its feathery chapeau.

I sense a theme...

The real attraction, though, was the garden itself. It boasted the nation's (maybe the world's) largest collection of camellias, and they were not kidding. Just look:

Camellia bushes. Camellia TREES! Gorgeous!

And, of course, the ubiquitous Spanish-moss-draped oaks.

And some more tropical plants, such as this one with eyes on the trunk:

Ooohh!

There was also a rose garden--supposedly a famous one--but it was too early in the season to appreciate.

The garden visit was on Saturday, and it was the perfect day for it. Warm, sunny, just a lilt of a breeze.

Sunday, though, dawned rainy and windy, so my colleague Margo and I decided to do some flea marketing. At what turned out to be a huge market that had the market cornered on tacky! Joy!

It doesn't look like much (and by the time I snapped this, on our way out, the rain had cleared), but this low-slung building is like a warren--nay, a labyrinth--of cheesy and/or tawdry commodities. Don't believe me? Just look!

These little piggies went to market, for sure!

Bagged geishas and pre-9/11 NYC skyline motion lamps. Sigh.

A dreamcatcher, an Our Lady, or a frou-frou asymmetrical clock for everyone!

Less than two months 'til Easter! Get your bonnet here!

Have refrigerator, will decorate!

What's with the foot thing? Yikes!

Margo got into the spirit, haggling with the woman at this jewelry booth. The proprietor kept trying to interest Margo in necklaces to go with the bracelets she was admiring. I tell you, I've never heard "I'm not interested in necklaces, thank you!" repeated so emphatically so many times in such a short time span.

Margo knows how to haggle!

All in all, it was an entertaining way to spend a rainy afternoon, but I wish there had been more funky old stuff--vintage stuff--there. Oh well... if I had wanted the Rose Bowl Swap Meet, I should have been assigned a two-week gig in Pasadena, huh?

Home Soon!

2009-03-05T15:46:00.002-06:00

The stint in Florida is winding down--by this time tomorrow, I will be waiting at the Orlando airport, more than ready to board my flight back to Chicago and Jeff and Mifune. While the weather has been almost uniformly nice (aside from some rain on Sunday), and while the folks at the comp house have been wonderful--so competent AND accommodating, nothing takes the place of home.

I'll have some photos to share once I get home and can upload them--then I'll give a more complete account of our ramblings over the weekend--but until then, I want to give some impressions of Orlando.

First off, the tap water just stinks! Sulfur! I don't believe the tap water in the little cabin we stayed in at Yellowstone had such smelly water, and it was situated right in the middle of a volcanic caldera! I know it's ecologically unsound to drink bottled water, but I'm not ingesting water that stinks! It's bad enough to use it to brush my teeth and wash with!

Secondly, the hotel is pretty bare-bones. Yes, every "room" is a suite, and that is nice. Yes, it's cleaned every day. And yes, it offers breakfast each morning (although the scrambled eggs--a constant on the menu--are constantly overcooked). It's entirely adequate. And no one is ever in the workout room, so the elliptical trainer is always available. There is no restaurant or bar, though--save for the "Teekey Bar," which is supposed to be open poolside each evening from 4-10, but which is really only open sporadically. Not that I am jonesin' for a drink from the Teekey Bar (I'm not kidding--I don't know if the name is supposed to be ironic or if it's a typo...), but if they say they are open, they should be open. Oh yeah--and it was FOUR BUCKS to do laundry! FOUR BUCKS! Two to wash and two to dry. Sheesh.

The town also seems to be one big strip of chain restaurants, chain hotels, $1.99 T-shirt emporia, and general tourist attractions, no matter what street you are on. I must say this, though--the Capitol Grille, where we splurged on dinner last night (and I do mean splurged) is superlative. Just wonderful. And tres chere!

So, I'm going to be really, really happy to get home to my husband, my cat, and my washer and dryer! And Jeff's cooking. And Mifune's quacking. And a stack of mail (most of which are probably bills...

Fun in the Sun...

2009-02-28T16:42:00.003-06:00

Okay, so I've been in Orlando all week. But it's not been all that much fun... I've been reading pages and pages and pages and trying to keep another work ball up in the air back in Chicagoland at the same time. I'll be here for another six days, and then I can come home to Jeff and Mifune, whom I miss an awful lot. And, of course, my lovely new guitar, which I also miss!

I would be lying if I said that I didn't appreciate the warmer weather here. It's been quite lovely, although there has been precious little time to enjoy the out of doors. Today Margo and I (the other editor who is down here for the duration of this assignment) went to the Harry P. Leu Gardens, a lovely botanical gardens in town. We had originally thought a nice afternoon at Sea World, which is within walking distance from our hotel, would be just the ticket... until we found out how expensive tickets actually were! Close to sixty bucks per! And you can't expense a ticket to a theme park!

But the Leu Gardens were lush with camelias of every conceivable variety and citrus trees heavy with lemons and grapefruit. There was a historic home on the property, begun in 1888 and added onto over the next fifty years or so. Not a huge mansion, but rather a modest but well-appointed home that reflected the eras in which it was constructed and renovated. There was a butterfly garden, a floral clock, vegetable and herb gardens, and a rose garden that must be spectacular in season, but which was not in bloom yet. Rhododendrons were were blooming all over the place, though, making me yearn for the Blue Ridge in late spring. It was a nice way to spend an afternoon, if you couldn't spend it being amused by porpoises and orcas.

This hotel--a modest suite hotel--is completely adequate and until the weekend hit, it was very quiet and sedate. Now it has become a madhouse. This is the weekend of Megacon, apparently THE big comic book convention in the Southeast. So the hotel (and the sidewalks all up and down the nearby stretch of International Drive where the big convention hall is located) currently swarms with teens and twenty-somethings dressed in all their gothic and/or fave comix character splendor. It's very amusing, I must say, but some of the costumes are, well, more successful than others.

Tomorrow Margo and I are braving Fleaworld, the self-proclaimed largest flea market in the world. We will see. I only hope it is not the world's largest flea market selling nothing but tube sox, cheezy T-shirts, and T-fal cookware.

I will keep you posted!

I'm in Love...

2009-02-18T21:29:00.005-06:00

I have the bug. I think I may have caught it from Jeff. But last Saturday when we went to Guitar Works so that Jeff could get a nut for one of the tuning pegs on his mandolin, I wandered into the room of acoustic guitars, and there it was:

A Blueridge Adirondack guitar. And what a honey.

Now, I would be lying if I told you that the magpie in me was not first attracted to the inlay on the headstock:

But I know by now that sparkles and sheen and mother of pearl and that spiffy dalmation tortoise pickguard do not matter if a guitar doesn't sound or play well.

So I picked it up and played a little, and I was swept off my feet. The tones were so round and mellow; the action was smooth and the neck was so playable... and, although it claims to be a dreadnought, the body is much smaller than my current acoustic: a Washburn D10S. That's one of the problems with the Washburn--I like it a lot, but it's so big that I can't really sit down and play it. And it's really loud--it tends to drown out Jeff's mandolin, even when I try to play softly. Apparently, the Blueridge is made in an old-fashioned, pre-war style. I was smitten.

And then I looked at the price tag. Not so bad, compared with what you would pay for a Martin or a Taylor, but still more than I've ever paid for any instrument for myself. I figured there was no way to justify buying it--after all, I have a perfectly fine (but big) guitar. Still, as I sighed to Jeff as we drove off to continue our Saturday errands (with a tip o' the hat to Hepburn and Grant), "My, she was yar."

So now, I'm thinking that despite all the economic uncertainty, despite the fact that it is a rather frivolous purchase when weighed against the downward spiral of our retirement accounts, despite the indisputable fact that I'm not a particularly accomplished musician, I want to buy this guitar. It is calling to me as no instrument has since I walked into House of Guitars in Rochester, NY, in 1979 and saw my short-scale Rick hanging there waiting for me...

Tomorrow I'm going to call Guitar Works and see if I can trade the Washburn in to get a bit of a break on the Blueridge. And then, I'm going to have to take my playing a little more seriously, with an instrument like this one!

So... this will stimulate the economy, right? It is my patriotic duty to buy this guitar, n'est-ce pas?

Oh My Goodness Gracious!

2009-02-10T16:57:00.003-06:00

It's been more than a month since my last post! Shame on me!

I really have no excuse, except for the usual: insane work schedules (including weekends), general fatigue in the few moments of the day when work does not call, and the time-sucker that is Facebook.

Facebook is wonderful. Facebook is also horrible.

First, the wonderful part. I've gotten back in touch with friends I thought I'd never hear from again. People I went to school with long ago (one of them is my nursery school teacher's son!), one or two old pals from my comedy widow past, several people from my brief reign as a Syracuse new wave superstar... And, of course, it allows me to keep up with the closer friends who lured me into the Facebook experience in the first place--on an hour-to-hour basis if I so wish--and I've been able to have several live chats with stepson Greg, which is great, and one wonderful chat with my old pal Amy, who is in London at the moment. How cool is that?

But there's the horrible part, too: It eats up so much time. Once you start catching up with people, you can't stop. The urge to view every photo posted by someone you haven't seen in twenty years or more is surprisingly strong--almost impossible to resist! And there are the invitations to join this cause, to play that game, to become a fan of just about any performer, artist, writer, etc. you could think of (except, apparently, the incomparable Irma Thomas! Feh!)... and then there are the friend requests. Because one of my original Facebook friends (one of the folks who lured me there in the first place) is a rather well known genre writer, she has LOTS of friends. And a whole bunch of them suddenly wanted to be MY friends. Not wanting to be rude, I accepted most of them. But now I have all these friends I don't know, asking me to join this and become a fan of that. Enough!

The die is cast--I'm a confirmed Facebook addict now. But I will try my best to stop ignoring my poor little blog here!

I have lots of kitty pictures I can bore you with (Mifune, it turns out, is much smarter than Shelly was... and just as much of a pill), and I think I will take advantage of the scanner to upload old road trip photos, since the odds of a road trip in my near future are slim (given the aforementioned craziness of work). I'll do my best!

An Old-Fashioned Tree

2009-01-09T18:52:00.006-06:00

Remember a few days ago when I was waxing nostalgic about mid-twentieth century Christmas trees, dripping with tinsel icicles made of lead? Well, I've been looking through the family photos in my possession, trying to find a good example. And look! I did.

That is yours truly up there, all of five years old, ripping paper off what looks to be a rather large present.

See the way the icicles drape and shimmer? They are heavy, and so they weigh the boughs down a bit. I just love this look.

Here's the same tree on the same day back lo, those many years ago:

Look how sedate I am! But don't be fooled.

During my photo-hunt, I came across a lovely picture--one that warms my heart. It's my mom and dad on their first or second wedding anniversary, in front of their Christmas tree just dripping with tinsel. My dad, an amateur photographer, put the camera on a tripod and set the timer--and this was the result:

Aren't they a cute couple? This would have been in their apartment in Schenectady, NY, in either 1946 or 1947.

Anyway, I know that Christmas is over and that even Epiphany is a memory, but it's always nice to get all misty-eyed over a past that shimmers.

Just Thought You All Might Like to Know...

2009-01-08T19:20:00.005-06:00

We have a very literate kitty.

The Christmas of the Unbreakable Tree

2009-01-05T21:50:00.007-06:00

You know I like the shiny stuff. And among the shiniest of shiny stuff are Christmas ornaments--especially old glass ones with a shimmery patina that evokes those old fashioned trees dripping with tinsel and baubles.

The tinsel I gave up on years ago. After they stopped selling the lead tinsel icicles (and for good reason, don't get me wrong!), it was nearly impossible to get that old look with the plastic substitute. I did see a tree once that came close. It was the huge lobby tree at the Fairmont Hotel in San Francisco in the late 1980s, and it was festooned with tinsel--gobs of it. I realized then that the trick was to put on as much as the tree could possibly hold, and you'd approximate the look of an old-fashioned tree. But with a kitty, such things are impossible. The very least that can happen is that the kitty will end up prancing around with a thread of silver plastic hanging from her butt. The worst--you don't even want to go there.

So, we started using aluminum icicles with hooks on the end. They're not exactly the same, but they look nice, and no kitty will try to ingest them. Well, maybe a kitty will TRY, but the kitty will not succeed. If you look closely, you will see them on this tree--our 2008 tree:

If you look closely, you'll notice something else as well. The only glass ornament on the whole tree is the spire at the top.

This was for all our protection.

You see, the late, lamented Shelly would lounge beneath the tree, but the zaftig feline queen would not attempt to climb it. Too much effort. And too much cat. And she knew it, too.

But Mifune...

The little demon. You can just tell what she's contemplating, can't you?

She was up in the tree before I could even get the thing put together all the way.

So, reluctantly, I kept the vintage glass ornaments in their tissue paper. Instead, I trotted out the nonbreakable ornaments--and I was surprised at how many of those I had! Little elves with candy canes. A plastic penguin. Some spangled Christmas balls, adorned with paillettes. Little wreaths and candy canes my mom made with plastic beads on a crafting kick a quarter of a century ago... Lots of things I had forgotten. Not as shimmery a tree, no. But not a bad tree, all told.

Nothing but a spray bottle of water kept the little samurai kitty away from that tree. The expensive spray we bought at the pet store didn't do a thing. Neither did the moat of aluminum foil we placed around the tree. She hopped over it. The orange extract and water mixture we sprayed on the tree kept her at a distance for a while, but it wore off pretty fast.

No, the only thing that would keep her away from the fake conifer was the spray bottle--by the time the tree was up a week, all I had to do was pick the bottle up, and she took off down the hall.

Of course, I know she was up there when we were gone or otherwise engaged... after all, I caught her headed down the hall with a papier-mache dinosaur in her mouth, hook hanging.

And as I took the decorations down the other day, I couldn't find one of my favorites--not a glass ornament, but one that I've hung on the tree every year since I bought it my first Christmas in San Francisco, at Macy's where I was temping in the personnel department. I feared the worst--after all, it was a little nest with two little birds in it. It wasn't until I started unhooking the lights one by one that I found it, under the tree on the far side. Clearly, the fearsome huntress had snagged it from its place on the tree. And clearly, she had tried to eat it. And succeeded in part. One of the birdies was missing its feathery tail.

Hmmm. No wonder Mifune seems partial to the food with chicken in it.

Well, maybe next year I'll try a glass ornament or two, provided she has calmed down a bit. Right now, she's just a bundle of energy, and most of the time we're home with her is proverbial kitty crazy time.

No matter--I hope everyone's Christmas was peaceful and full of joy.

Welcome, 2009!

2009-01-01T11:53:00.007-06:00

Wow, I have been slacking off of late, huh? Only one post in December! But it's been a crazy month, what with condo woes (burst pipes in empty units, my being tapped to take over the financial responsibilities of what is currently a very challenging budget, etc.), more than usual insanity at work, terrible weather, and colds all around... Let's just say that I was not sad to see the back end of 2008, the year I lost one job and managed to shift into another, the year that took our fluffy white diva-cat and our dear friend Harry... but also the year the nation woke up and elected a President I hope will lead us out of the horrors of the Bush administration and its robber baron mindset and into the 21st century. And also the year that delivered us our little samurai girl, Mifune.

I have lots of pictures to share, but I've been too busy (yes! that's the ticket! BUSY--not LAZY!) to upload them. I promise I will soon.

So, I guess it's time for the resolution check. Here's what I wrote last year, about this time:

"I resolve to get in better shape (and that includes weight management and exercise--I want to run the Ricky Byrdsong 5K in May), to polish up my guitar skills, to knit more (and actually sew up and finish my projects), and to finish the daggone novel!"

So, let's take these one by one:

Get in better shape: That was an epic fail, I'm afraid. While I haven't put back all the weight I lost in 2007, I'm pretty close. And far from running the Ricky Byrdsong 5K, I've avoided exercise of any kind since Shelly died. I'm not sure what the connection is, or if there even IS one, but up until then I was faithfully working out on the Nordic Track... but not running very much. Or eating all that well. And since then? Feh.

Polish up my guitar skills: This one is a success story, I'm happy to announce! Jeff and I started practicing Irish music together (Jeff on mandolin, me on guitar) early last year, and we've made some good progress. We practice nearly every night, and I'm a lot more accomplished than I was. I even do a bit of flat picking. In the last year, we've added Jeff's tenor banjo and my ukulele to the mix. We even have a name: The D'strukto Rays. So big yea on this resolution!

To knit more: This result is mixed. I've been doing some knitting (I made a sock--my first in all these years!--but I have yet to stitch up the toe and knit the mate) and crocheting (I'm working on a wedding present--grossly belated--for Rachel and Chase that involves crocheted afghan stitch). I haven't finished the projects I had lying around to finish when I posted that list of resolutions last year, however.

To finish the novel: This I did! Although I have yet to start revising it and adding the kicker it needs at the beginning. So two steps forward, at least.

Okay... so meet the new resolutions, same as the old resolutions... Get in better shape, continue playing and improving on guitar and uke, devoting more time to knitting, revise the novel, and try to find time to read more. In addition, I want to get the guest room repainted and redecorated--I have a new computer armoire (assembled) and new bookshelves (still in big boxes in the hallway, unassembled), and I need to get rid of the old guest bed and replace it with a sleeper sofa. Also, I very much need to deal with and move on from the crisis of confidence I suffered when my department was closed. I'm still very angry about that. Despite everything, I took it very personally. As I say, I still have some emotional work to do on that... and I resolve to do so.

So, to all of my friends, family, readers... well, to everyone... a happy, prosperous, healthy new year!

Are You Ready for More Cat Pictures?

2008-12-17T20:23:00.005-06:00

No? Well, too bad, 'cause that's what you're going to get.

But first, I apologize for the long wait for a new post. There doesn't seem to be enough time in the day lately...

I hope kittie pictures are well worth the wait!

She's now the queen of the castle, although she still has wild swings between being a little 'fraidy cat and a fearsome huntress, intent on bagging our ankles. Above, she appears to be contemplating making the acquaintance of our resident Ugly Dolls, Ox and Moxy. As you can see, she decided to do so!

Don't be fooled by the innocent expression, though. This gal is dynamite. Just look at THIS evidence: Mifune v. the catnip mouse on a string:

The Approach

The Thwack

The Return

Oh, she goes nuts on the catnip mouse. Don't ask me to confess the amusement I experienced when she made herself dizzy chasing it around in a circle. Yes, I laughed. But I felt bad about it later.

After a long day of playing and, lately, sneaking her tiny (but growing!) self into the Christmas tree (NOTHING keeps her out of it!!), she does what all kitties do: Snooze.

I promise my next post will be about something other than Mifune, but she's such a hoot (to us, at least)!

Dinner Disaster Deftly Dodged!

2008-11-30T21:17:00.004-06:00

Not every Thanksgiving celebration goes smoothly. There was that first year we hosted after we purchased our condo... we blew a fuse, but we didn't realize it until I went to baste the turkey and found the oven was not as hot as it might be. (Until we had the kitchen renovated, there was not enough power coming into the kitchen, and if you ran the microwave and the coffeemaker and the range at the same time, oops! And sometimes it just blew for no discernible reason. But there were no lights on that particular circuit, so it was sometimes hard to tell when it had blown.) No problem... we just flipped the fuse switch, turned the heat up a bit, and finished cooking the turkey. Dinner was just a tad later than usual and no harm done.

Then the oven temperature started to waver. That made for some years when the bird was done sooner, and some when it was done later. We always rolled with the punches.

But this year, we faced an unforeseen problem that threatened to derail the whole thing: a putrid bird.

The stuffing was all mixed and ready when I hauled our fresh (or so I thought) bird into the sink and started to remove its plastic casing. I had just lifted the sheathing and slid in the knife point, making that first inroad toward the bird itself, when the odor of rotting fowl wafted up to my horrified nose. Not a scent one wants to encounter at any point in one's life, but triply so late on Thanksgiving morning, when one knows that the chances of finding a fresh turkey in what few supermarkets are open will be slim to none.

Sigh.

Nevertheless, Jeff volunteered to go on a turkey hunt 'round the nearby stores.

Of course, no fresh turkey. But they did have fresh turkey breasts at Dominicks. And some barbecued turkey wings. That's good enough in a pinch, and there were only four of us to feed. And anyway, most people just eat the breast anyway. And the wings, if they are good and crispy.

Thank goodness the turkey breast was, indeed, fresh. And it made a nice feast for our little band of Thanksgivers.

Now, although I know it was the turkey and not our new fridge (the fridge having that great digital temperature monitor on the door), I'm not purchasing a fresh bird anymore. I'm buying a frozen fowl and thawing it out. I think it's unlikely that such a bird would from its plastic cocoon smelling to high heaven.

It HAS been a while, huh?

2008-11-23T19:01:00.007-06:00

Sorry for the gap in posts... No excuses, just spending a lot of time on other things.

But let me bring you up to date.

First, the kitty.

Isn't she pretty? She's coming right along. She is still skittish--I don't think we quite realized just how close to feral she was. She loves being petted and cuddled, but we still have to wrangle her to do so.

Here's Jeff, giving her a dose of socializing.

She also loves to play. For the first couple of weeks with us, she didn't do much other than hide. In that time, though, she managed to find just about every toy of Shelly's that the late divacat had batted underneath dressers, the buffet, etc., never, we thought, to be seen again. But Mifune found them all, I think! And she would play with them when she thought we weren't looking. Well, we've made great strides!

Now she will play with balls and little things we toss or roll to her, and she will also play like crazy with her favorite toy, the stick with the bell and feathers on it. Jeff has given it a name: the Giant Claw (in honor of the MST3K-caliber film of the same moniker). She goes CRAZY on the Giant Claw, jumping and darting and trying to fake it out--and even ambushing it.

She also has started following us around the place, but she freaks and runs away when we let on that we know she's there. She's like the little kids who go into the haunted house, I think--she's testing her mettle, satisfying her curiosity, and getting a great rush from being scared. What can I say? She's an adolescent.

She came through her spaying just fine--never seemed sore or irritable and had no complications whatsoever with the stitches.

We got her this queenly cat bed in anticipation of her returning a bit under the weather from her surgery, but aside from this photo-op and plenty of catnip strewn in it, she prefers sleeping under our bed amid our overflow of guitars and enough shed white fur to make up twelve Shellys. Needless to say, we haven't yet gotten around to clearing up that part of the house. I mean, the rest of the place is hard enough to keep neat (as if).

So, you may well be thinking that we don't do anything in our free time but attend to Mifune, but you'd be wrong! We spent a lovely but chilly weekend in Normal visiting Greg and shopping (as always when there) in every chain store known to man. The suede duffle coat I bought fifteen years ago in anticipation of my solo trip to the Grand Canyon (it was November; I knew it would be cold...sure enough, it snowed) finally bit the dust--the left sleeve just ripped for no reason that I could see. So, I ended up at Kohls, searching for a new winter casual jacket. Lucky for me that I had a 15% coupon and the coat was already 60% off. What a deal!

But the highlight of the weekend was something far more exciting and disturbing than shopping! It was ULTIMATE FIGHTING. Greg and his flat-mates and other assorted friends invited us to share their reserved table at Bloomington's Hooters-wannabe sports-bar where for $3 a head we could take in the pay-per-view match of the century so far: the reigning heavyweight champ Randy Couture pitted against a behemoth named Brock Lesnar.

That's the back of Greg's head in the foreground, chin on hand. The screen action is the preliminary to a lesser bout, several of which took up time before the big event. By the time we got to the championship match, I was too much in the moment to snap any pictures, alas!

Ultimate Fighting is a hybrid of Greco-Roman wrestling, bare-knuckles boxing, kick-boxing, and any other martial art you can imagine. It's really no-holds-barred and looks a lot like a street fight translated into an arena. Greg and his buddies were firmly in the Couture camp. They were in awe of Couture's strategic advantage and staying power--he is in his mid-40s, which is really old for this type of sport. Lesnar is more a freak of nature--a really muscle-bound dude, which makes his head seem really small in comparison with his body. He has one of those brow ridges that suggest that Neanderthals may just have interbred with Homo Sapiens Sapiens. He is massive. And yet, he is very quick and agile. Quite an opponent. But I wanted the old guy to win, too. You have to stick by your peeps.

The first round appeared to go to Couture. He outmaneuvered the massive Lesnar and controlled just about every move that was made within the octagon (which is the shape of the ring). At one point, Couture punched Lesnar in that massive brow, and the giant began to bleed. I heard myself cheer "He's bleeding! He's bleeding!" Good grief. I'm not proud of that, but I was swept up in the moment! It was looking good for Couture. Brains v. brawn. And some blood. Yes.

But then... oh, but then... early in the second round Couture made a misstep, went down, and Lesnar pounced and pummeled the living crap out of the old dude. It was shocking to see how fast the monster's fist was flying. Lesnar won by knock out--and not a technical one, either. Sigh.

I was all set to hate the big lug. I expected him to be dumb as a post and all braggadocio and bluster when they put the heavyweight title belt around his waist. But he was very humble. He gave a lot of credit to Couture for being a role model and for fighting such a tough match. He was sincere and--dare I say it?--warm. Friendly almost. And fairly well-spoken. Hmmm. That will teach me to judge a guy based on his brow ridge.

Will I be shelling out for additional pay-per-view fixes of Ultimate Fighting? Nah. But if I find myself in Bloomington/Normal when there's another bout scheduled, I might go and share buckets of beer with Greg and his pals.

Oh, and this evening Mifune came up to me and rubbed her head against my hand, asking for petting. And she actually let me pet her on her own terms. A breakthrough!

As Promised...

2008-11-04T18:27:00.007-06:00

More fall foliage.

First, a view of the Shenandoah Valley from the Blue Ridge Parkway:

I believe the colors reached their peak last weekend, which was about three weeks or so since this was taken. Still you can see how lovely it was, even at maybe a quarter of peak. This is a special spot. This was the spot from which we scattered my dad's ashes over the valley. Illegal, yeah. But my guess is the statute of limitations has run out on that misdemeanor. It was his wish, and we made it happen. And now it's my mom's wish, and mine as well.

Here's another view, a glimpse through the trees down a path from the overlook, very near the scene of the crime.

While the trees in the valley and on the Blue Ridge were lovely in their early changes, the colors we encountered in West Virginia on our way home to Illinois were gorgeous. Here's a sample, snapped on the go, out the car window.

As we were passing through the West Virginia mountains in the early morning, the mist obscured some of the deciduous patchwork...

But it made the road ever so much more mysterious and compelling. Damn, but I love road trips!

We returned home to Chicago with our own northside foliage display right out our sunroom windows!

Quick kitty update: Mifune has the run of the house now, which means she spends a lot of her time hiding under the bed and other low-slung furniture. We capture her a couple times a day for socializing time, and she seems to like being petted and cooed over and fussed over once she's gotten past the indignity of being wrangled. She goes in Thursday to be spayed...

Introducing...

2008-10-30T18:58:00.003-05:00

Mifune!

She's a teeny-weeny tortoiseshell kitty that our upstairs neighbor, cat rescuer extraordinaire Marygrace, saved from the alley. She's a mere four and a half pounds, so we thought she might be about four months old or so, but the vet said that judging from her teeth, she's more like seven or eight months old. Which means we're taking her in to be spayed next weekend.

Right now, though, we're doing our best to socialize her. This is our third night with her, and she's coming around (although she won't come out of the back bathroom, where we've assembled a veritable kitty palace: litter pan, food, toys, carrier for a hidey-hole, scratching post, her blanky), but the first night she was simply terrified.

She hid in her blanket and looked out upon her strange new world with those saucer eyes of hers... we didn't even know at that point whether she was male or female (we now know that almost all torties are female), but we had decided a while ago that we'd name our next kitty "Mifune" for Toshiro Mifune, one my crushes, even though he is long dead. Since "Mifune" is a surname, it works for our little gal, even though she is about as far from a samurai at this point as you can get!

We really had not planned to adopt another kitty for a while. We're still mourning Shelly, and I was looking forward to having tinsel on the Christmas tree this year... but who could refuse such a little sweetheart? I mean, look at those eyes!

When Shelly died, my old grad school flatmate and erstwhile bandmate Gael posted "She's gone back to her home planet to 'report in' on her anthropological observations, I'm certain. But they'll send another soon -- they always do!" And look! They did!

I think she's still a little shaken up from the journey, though!

Now that you've met our latest addition, I promise I'll have fall foliage pics next post!

Fall Foliage and More

2008-10-28T21:05:00.009-05:00

A couple of weeks ago Jeff and I took a brief road trip down to Waynesboro, VA to visit my mom and our pals there and to take in the glorious local Fall Foliage Festival. If you've been following this blog for more than a year, you know this is an annual pilgrimage for me, but Jeff hadn't been down to Virginia for this weekend for eleven years. It just never worked out, vacation-wise, for him. But this year--yea!

We started the festival off at the pancake breakfast, served in the social hall of Main Street Methodist Church. What memories that room has, as it was the venue for many a Junior Girls Choir practice. That's where I met Barb and Susan (aka, Chibby), who were to become my fast friends through the vicissitudes of junior high school, and beyond. And this year the pancake breakfast proved to be a reunion of sorts, with Susan and Laura--a fellow former Young Fool, now a psychologist--providing some of the entertainment.

That's Laura on the left, Susan on the right. They sang folky duets, including an old Girl Scout camp fave, "Walk, Shepherdess, Walk." I'd forgotten the song completely until they began singing it, and every word came back.

Barb met us there, and Susan's mom joined our merry band as well--we were the fun table.

That's my mom, of course, mugging for the camera.

After the breakfast, we headed down Main Street hill to the legendary art show.

There, at the fabulous Ed Brownlee booth, we met up with Beth and Cortney to check out the ceramics.

And check them out, we did:

Barb found a couple of kindred spirits and spirited them home with her.

Jeff and I each bought our own ceramic jar. Mine has insane bunnies on it, as you can see:

And Jeff's has a sad ghost.

It didn't take long for us to walk off our pancakes and sausage among the many booths of photography, ceramics, pottery, watercolors, glassware... and I really should have taken a picture of the guitar-playin' dude in the purple suit. He had flowing curly blond locks that he threw back in ecstasy as he strummed, his long teeth bared in the rictus of what can only be called orgasmic pleasure. Or pride. Or pain? But anyway, before we knew it, we were lining up for some fried rice.

Alas, we did not partake of the sacred funnel cake at this festival, but it was available had we wanted to. As always, Barb, this snap's for you:

Notice the shorts on the dame in the picture above? Everyone was dressed for summer. It was well into the 70s--maybe even 80 degrees. As I noted last year, that seemed way too warm for early October in the Shenandoah Valley. In fact, I have a picture of myself about 20 years ago at the FFF, and I'm wearing a sweatshirt, jeans, and a thick corduroy jacket. And a hat! Times have changed, or at least, the climate has. Everyone was in shirtsleeves, including Beth, who also seems to have a spindle sticking out of her cranium.

In reality, it is the steeple of the aforementioned Main Street Methodist Church.

There were other, more troubling changes to the Big W... for example, I found this sign to be rather disconcerting for a returning ex-pat:

Yikes!

Well, the bulk of the fall foliage pictures (and there ARE more than the mere teaser at the top of this post) will have to wait for the next entry.

Time to get some shut-eye. I'll have more tomorrow or the next day...

Catching Up

2008-10-26T21:27:00.005-05:00

Okay, okay. I've been lax. I've been lazy.

I have pictures to post from our trip to Virginia at the beginning of the month, including some lovely shots of the fall foliage snapped along the highway in West Virginia on our way back to Illinois--I'll be doing that sometime in the coming week.

For now, rest assured that Jeff and I are fine, although I am having a whole series of "baggage" dreams--that has to be what they are about, because in them I've been saddled with all kinds of weird stuff to carry around, most notably a small but very squirmy and strong porpoise wrapped in a blanket (I carried this around the dream tucked under my left arm) and a normal sized cello in an enormous double-bass hard-shell case (this was my responsibility throughout a camping trip that shifted venues from the backwoods to a city sidewalk to a stripmall parking lot).

Now, I KNOW I carry around my share of baggage... after all, few folks get to my age without acquiring at least a carry-on or two. I just wish I knew what baggage, specifically, my subconscious is telling me to jettison. I'd like to jettison some averdupois... Perhaps another round of therapy is in order? Or maybe Weight Watchers? Heh.

Stay tuned for the pretty pictures!

Harry Fassl

2008-10-14T19:56:00.003-05:00

Today is a sad, sad day. Jeff and I just found out that our pal Harry--he of the gruff voice and heart of gold and impeccable taste in wine and indisputable genius for creepy photography--passed away on Sunday. According to his sweetheart Diana, he fell ill last week with a flu-like illness that was making the rounds, but it set his health into a tailspin and, early Sunday morning, it claimed his life.

My heart is heavy for us and for all the folks who were fortunate enough to call him friend. My heart is breaking for Diana, who loved him and faced life together with him for at least the last quarter century.

Namaste, Harry.

Our New Fridge!

2008-10-08T19:25:00.003-05:00

Well, we finally bit the bullet and shelled out for a nice new (and BIG) fridge. Isn't it pretty?

Our old fridge had been making scary pings and knocking noises for quite a while, and we managed to sock away enough that we could pay cash for it (important in these days of crunchy credit), so we trundled off to Abt after work a couple of weeks ago (as the stock market was tanking, as a matter of fact) to see what we could find. We lucked into this floor model for many hundreds off list price. It has a lot more features than we were looking for!

This filtered water dispenser, for example. When we had the kitchen remodeled four years ago, we kept the old range and fridge to save some money. And, though the contractor wanted to include a water hookup for a fridge, we declined that too, to save money. But this fridge had the water in the door and an ice maker in the freezer, and it was cheaper than any model we liked without those features (and, since our space required a counter-depth, which for some reason is much more expensive than the huger standard models, all our options were pricey), so we opted to have the delivery guys install the water line too... And that was almost a disaster.

At first it appeared as if they wouldn't be able to do it, because there wasn't a way to get into the water wall without taking out a chunk of drywall. Then--Whew!--I thought to look behind the washer, which is located right behind the wall where the fridge stands. Voila! an access panel into the water wall. Yea! Filtered water, right in the door! And a whole array of buttons to tell you exactly what the temp of the fridge and freezer are. And a bunch of other stuff I haven't figured out yet.

As you can see, it has lots of room, and the shelves slide out so shorty me can reach it all.

We opted for the freezer on the bottom because I would rather haul the Thanksgiving turkey or some other heavy hunk of frozen stuff up and out of a drawer than run the risk of pulling it out from a space over my head. Although my back may not much care about the difference.

So, now (barring any major appliance malfunction) the kitchen is done and thoroughly updated. Now on to the rest of our old condo.

Fall Is upon Us...'Tis Time to Rummage!!

2008-10-04T15:40:00.006-05:00

Yes! This past week, I took a day off so that my fellow treasure hunter Laurie and I could make our biannual pilgrimage up to Winnetka for the big rummage sale. The fall rummage mecca is Christ Church, and its sale is always a doozie. So... let's get right to the spoils:

First, the shiny things:

The box is an old tin candy box with a hinged lid. I love the detail--it would have been way cooler if the flowers could have been some kind of paisley-esque motif, but hey, you can't have everything. The crocheted thing with the paillettes is a tote bag from Von Maur... it still had the tag on it. It's probably the least practical thing I got at the sale, but I cannot pass up paillettes. Nosiree! I didn't get the moniker "Magpie" for nothing!

Of course, the rummage has become a pretty reliable place to find cool table linens, and this year was no exception.

The small vintage tablecloth was a steal at $4.00, while even the large cloth (which will grace our Thanksgiving table this year) was a tad steep at $7.00... but it is pristine. The napkins are the coolest green paisley. I don't have anything to go with them... yet. But they are lovely and in such good shape. And at $2.50 the lot, who could resist?

Then there were the books...

I was much more disciplined this year than in years past, but to tell you the truth, we arrived a tad later than usual this year, and we had to park about a mile from the sale. Knowing you have to schlep your purchases offers a little incentive to rein in impulse buying. (Okay, okay... the damned spangled tote bag was an impulse purchase. But it weighs ounces, I tell you! Ounces!)

One book I couldn't resist, though, was this small journal:

Now, I already have more journals than I'll probably fill for the rest of my life (or, at least, until civilization implodes and we no longer have access to the Web and blogs and stuff), but I couldn't resist this one. And why? Well, I know you can't read it, but just take a gander:

It was inscribed! And very sweetly, from Gina to Brian, with hopes that he will record his travels, thoughts, and adventures. On the first page of the journal, Gina has copied out and slightly adapted the first sonnet in Christina Rossetti's "Monna Innominata: A Sonnet of Sonnets." It is dated May, '94. What a lovely gift! But, alas, one that doesn't appear to have been appreciated:

All the rest of the pages are untouched. It certainly appears this journal was a gift to a departing lover, but did Gina know that Brian would never come back to her? Given the way she adapted the sonnet, it could well be a parting gift, with the hope (probably vain) that Brian might reconsider. At any rate, I felt so sorry for this little book (there I go, anthropomorphizing again!) that I had to purchase it. Fifty cents is not too high a price to pay for this artifact--and who knows? Maybe it will inspire a story, or more.

Of course, the sale yielded the usual big man's shirt (only one, this time) and a couple of pairs of designer shoes in never-worn condition...

You know, Laurie and I were talking about all the shoes we've picked up at the rummage over the years, and how even if you figure that the shoes averaged about $3.00 a pair (this year, the going rate was $6.00, which we thought a bit steep, but these ARE Italian and never worn), the sum of all our purchases would not equal the original price of one pair of them. Ah, rummage, sweet rummage!

But, the piece de resistance, the BIG find, was this never-before-worn winter coat:

Only 40 smackeroos! Now, that's kind of pricey for the rummage, but, as I said, this coat has never been worn. And, as luck would have it, I have been pricing winter coats of late, as my trusty overcoat--which I bought in 2001 when my pals Barb and Beth came to visit--is getting a tad threadbare. That now-old coat cost at least a C-note more than this coat, BUT now that even mid-priced wool coats were going for $400+ at Carson's last weekend, I would say that 40 bucks is a really good deal. I'm happy. Can you tell?

Next up, in a day or two, I'll present our newest appliance. Oooohhhhh.....

A Shot in the Arm

2008-09-27T20:18:00.003-05:00

Literally, and figuratively.

The other day when I was a the doctor's office for a routine blood pressure check (which, surprisingly, was just fine), my internist offered me a flu shot. Now, I've been getting an annual flu shot since 1993, when I knew I was going to fly to my parents' house for Christmas. I had been having asthmatic symptoms, and I worried I might pick something up on the flight. I guess I should knock on wood or something after I type this, but I haven't gotten a full-fledged, honest-to-goodness case of influenza since I started getting the annual shots. So... I mean, I had already made the co-payment. Might as well get my $15 worth, huh?

Well, damn! Flu shots, I've found, are pretty tame as far as administration is concerned. Sure, there's a bit of a sting, but it's not the "this is going to hurt so bad that I'm going to need a lollipop to shut me up afterwards" searing bee-type sting. And this one was no exception... but later... oh, later. It was like someone had slugged me in the shoulder with a baseball bat. It wasn't just my upper arm. The throbbing ache spread throughout my upper back and up my neck. I don't think I've ever had such an intense reaction to an inoculation. It took a couple of days to abate.

I'm not saying you shouldn't get the shot this year, 'cause who knows how it's going to affect you, and avoiding the flu is a good thing. But shoot--I might just take some kind of painkiller before I subject myself to another shot!

Now, for the figurative.

I really need something to motivate me. Maybe it's not a shot in the arm. Maybe it's a kick in the ass. I don't know. The boxes with the pieces of the new bookshelves for the office/guest-room/once-was-Shelly's-hangout have been here for a couple of months, and they are still propped in the hallway, just inside our door. I've been foregoing my usual salad in the lunchroom at work for the heavy "comfort food" fare they always serve. It's never all that good--truth to tell, the salad bar is a much tastier choice all around--but it's almost as if it's too much of an effort to assemble my own healthful meal. I've worked out maybe once in the last three weeks--and it's prime time for running along the lakefront! Crisp temperature, soft lake breeze... but I can't get my lazy butt in gear and my shoes on. And man, I'm starting to feel the effects of crappy food choices and lazing around. And don't, whatever you do, ask me about the novel. I think about the little preface. I do. I have about four or five docs started with different options. Operative word: started.

So... I need a shot in the arm, a kick in the ass, a knock upside the head.

Maybe I need to start making obsessive lists again...

A Restful Weekend

2008-09-13T20:44:00.007-05:00

No, not this weekend, which is rainy but warm and sticky. And which will only get more so, what with the remnants of Ike on track to bluster through starting sometime tomorrow.

Now, LAST weekend, that was a keeper. The perfect last gasp of summer at the Michigan shore, our annual weekend at Gintaras Resort in Union Pier.

Although at first we had to contend with the remnants of a previous hurricane--Gustav--that brought some clouds, some sprinkles, and some very rough water. This year, our room overlooked the beach, so we were lulled to sleep by the sounds of the waves. Thing is, they were so loud we could hear them even through the closed windows!

The next morning, though, was lovely. It was sunny, but not hot, so rather than swim, we decided we'd go antiquing. Or rather, I dragged an accommodating Jeff with me to explore the local treasure hunting.

He was rewarded by a chance to strum down memory lane on an old Silvertone electric.

The only treasure I found to take home was a small print of a cabin amidst a snowy birch forest (it was a comforting scene, and comfort is very important to me these days...), but the photo ops were rich this trip.

Skeery dolls AND bronzed baby shoes... ah, a tableau after my own heart.

At close to two grand apiece, I could never afford to have my own Timothy Treadwell Memorial (and yes, I know that these are black bears and not grizzlies), but a girl can dream, can't she?

This is one of the great joys of treasure hunting: discovering the bizarre juxtapositions of American culture placed just so for our edification.

I don't think anything can beat this strange assemblage: a reading primer, its cover graced with a frightening clown and the title Many Surprises,, presiding over the head of a roughly decapitated mannequin. I think the placement of the head was not really intentional, as I could not find a price tag anywhere on said cranium. But you knew I looked, right?

It was a lovely, calm weekend spent with an eclectic mix of folks. Bittersweet, because we were still aching from losing Shelly (and we are still), but restorative. A nice walk on the beach can soothe many an ache.

The P Stood for Psycho

2008-09-09T19:20:00.015-05:00

And our mutual friend Amy gave Shelly that moniker before I ever laid eyes on her. Amy had paid a visit to Chicago a few months before I first came to visit Jeff (both Amy and I were living in California at the time), and she brought back stories of the quickly growing kitty who had a crazy streak a mile wide. And she did, there’s no denying that. She had an attitude. She also seems to have been a tad mis-wired (especially after she was slow to come out of the anesthesia after she was spayed). But Amy’s assessment came before the spaying. And Jeff’s landlady’s little daughter who came to play with Shelly when she was but a tiny kitten also used to claim she could turn evil in the blink of an eye. Yep.

Even so, Psycho was just the last of her string of names, and really, we rarely appended it.

According to Rachel, who picked her out of a litter of kittens offered by her cousin’s neighbor in south suburban Lansing, IL, Shelly began life as “Snowball.” That’s fitting—she was a little white fur puff. Rachel brought her home and, with the help of little brother Greg, named her “Purr-cy” (get it?) because she purred so loudly. This was a trait she retained for her entire life. Alas, Rachel was not allowed to keep Purr-cy, so, being the tenderhearted dad he is, Jeff agreed to take her in.

Her first act as his kitten was to run under his car, garnering her a big black oil spot on the top of her snowy white head.

(Just for perspective, she's perched on--and about ready to jump off of--Jeff's tiny rocking chair from his childhood.)

He took her to the vet for her routine kitten checkup, and the vet asked him what her name was. Jeff blanked on it. Suddenly, a name surfaced: Shelly. You know, as in Shelley? Percy Bysshe? And rather than Purr-cy, he blurted out “Shelly! Her name is Shelly.” The vet dutifully wrote the name down. A few minutes later, Jeff remembered the name the kids had given her. He told the vet. The vet just looked at him, and looked at the cat, and looked at him again and said, “That’s not a Purr-cy. That’s a Shelly if I’ve ever seen one.”

And so, she became Shelly.

I met her when she was about seven months old and about seven pounds or so. That’s about a month or so after this picture of Shelly and Greg was taken. Active, friendly, seemed to like me just fine. Of course, I was high on allergy meds during my whole visit to Jeff’s place (soon to be my place, too). You see, I’m allergic to cats. Always have been. And it was, at that point, not a sure thing that I would be able to live in an apartment with a cat. But I managed the visit, and I went back to San Francisco to pack for my move to Chicago.

When I showed up about a month and a half later, Shelly seemed happy to see me. She was sweet and affectionate… that is, until the movers came, and I started unloading boxes. At first, she loved the boxes. She could play in them. She could climb on them. And she could hide in them. But then it dawned on her teeny feline brain: She is staying. This person is staying!

That is when she started stalking me. All around the tiny apartment. She tried to trip me up. She did the hunch dance at me. She stood in the door of the bedroom, growling and yeowling and hunching and daring me to pass her. Of course, even I knew I could just step over her… which ticked her off even more! Finally, Jeff and I decided to leave her alone to decompress for a while. We went to a movie. When we returned, she was fast asleep. And when she awoke, she was all lovey-dovey again! Ah, P. Shelly, indeed.

As you can tell, she was not the most affectionate or social of felines. Oh, she had her moments! She could snuggle and purr with the best of kitties. She seemed especially attuned to my moods, and when I was very sad or worried, that was when she would seek me out and want to sit with me and snuggle and purr. But usually, the dynamic at our house was that I was her servant (I fed her, brushed her, administered her compounded medicine and her hairball remedy), and Jeff was her god. Still—she would let me pick her up, while she rarely allowed Jeff to do so.

She also did not like company much. When Beth came to visit, she slept on the futon that Shelly claimed for her own. Beth woke up in the middle of the night to find the fluffy white diva planted at the end of the futon, staring interloper Beth down with the most disdainful and threatening glare.

She was not the smartest cat you’ve ever encountered—for example, we started making sure the lid of the toilet was down at all times it was not in use the day we returned home to find her drenched. Tell-tale wet paw-prints around the toilet and a bit of litter in the bottom of the bowl told the tale: she had fallen in, apparently while playing in the water! But she sure was beautiful. So beautiful. And she knew it.

Sometimes she surprised us with her antics. Several times we came home from work to find that Shelly had unrolled one or the other of the toilet paper rolls, but somehow she always rolled them back up again. Badly, as you might imagine. But she never left any reams of toilet tissue puddling on or strung across the bathroom floors.

She also liked to play fetch with little wads of paper. This was a bed-time ritual for a couple of years: I would go to bed, and she would hop up in the bed with me, paper wad in her jaws. She would drop it, and I would toss it off the end of the bed, into the hallway. She would bound after it and bring it back, hopping up into bed again, dropping the crumpled paper at my side, and sitting expectantly for the next toss. This went on three, four, sometimes even five times before she would return empty-jawed. But still, even though she had not returned with the paper wad, she expected me to throw it. Hmmm.

She liked my shoes. And since I have a bad habit of kicking my shoes off just about anywhere around the condo, she had many opportunities to drag them around and fashion them into little shoe nests. She did this most often in the dining room. And Jeff tells me that when I would be out of town visiting my mom or on business, she would sit in the midst of my shoes and look forlorn. In fact, this picture of her amid my shoes is her last picture ever.

She loved the Christmas tree. She never tried to climb it—I think even she knew that her zaftig frame and a spindly tree would not mix. When we had live trees, she always drank the water. And no matter what kind of tree we had—live or fake—she would park herself under it, as if reliving her collective unconscious past as an alpine cat. She also loved Christmas paper, because it was always wadded up and tossed for her.

Although she was a tiny thing when Jeff first brought her home, she grew and grew and grew. She liked her kibble, and she was not the most fastidious of diners. This, by the way, is the very first picture ever taken on my digital camera.

She weighed more than 15 pounds at her heaviest. And as you can see, she liked lounging much better than playing.

But she did love her sock toy. Jeff got it for her to comfort her when he moved to the apartment on Elmdale, where we first lived together. She dragged the thing around with her—sometimes cooing at it as if it were her kitten, and other times tossing it up in the air and catching it or flinging it away from her so she could run after it and attack it. As you can imagine, it got pretty dirty over the years. It really wasn’t something you could wash, and I never had the heart to take it away from her. We had her cremated with it, she was so attached to it. You can see it off in the corner of this photo of the strumpety gal.

We miss her. Almost every night I catch myself heading to the back bathroom to get her compounded Atelonol to administer her nightly dose before I head off to bed. Most nights, she would just give in and hop on the bed and wait for me, much as she disliked the goo in the ear routine. I keep thinking she’ll hop up on the bed in the middle of the night and cuddle up. I keep hoping she’ll strut into the living room each night when we practice our Irish repertoire. But she’s gone. She lives only in our memories. And they are fond indeed.

Oh, and the allergy? While I could never pet her and then touch my face or rub my eyes without a reaction, I tolerated her allergens very well, thank you. And now I do pretty well among other cats, too. We’ll be servant and god to more felines, I’m sure. But there will never be another Shelly. And she was ours.

P. Shelly Osier-VanPatten, 1994-2008

2008-09-03T19:34:00.003-05:00

We said good-bye to Shelly tonight.

I'll post a fitting obituary in a few days, but for right now, all I can do is miss her.

She was a pistol!

Pill Pockets Product Review, and a Word or Two about Gustav

2008-08-31T15:55:00.004-05:00

Well, we THOUGHT the Pill Pockets were a hit... Although we've been quite successful pilling Shelly with the pill popper thingy of late, I wanted to try the pill pockets, because if they work, a cat sitter could make them up and give them to her, and we could go out of town for more than a day at a time... But alas...

This morning, we had our first pilling failure in several weeks, so finally I went out to PetSmart and bought the Pill Pockets treats (salmon flavor, as Shelly seems to like fish much better than chicken... at least if her penchant for wet food flavors is any indication). She gobbled up an empty one (and that's good, because she wouldn't eat this morning... sigh), so I made up a treat with the little pill pieces in it and gave it to her. (Note: we usually put the pill pieces--all four of them!--in a capsule so that she takes them all at once.) She lapped up the treat, but she kept worrying it in her mouth. Turns out, she had isolated the pill pieces, tiny as they are, with her tongue and spit them out! What a crafty cat she's turned out to be in her infirmity. And here we call her our dumb blonde! Not as dumb as we thought, huh?

Oh well... I think these would work great for most cats. And they might work better with only one piece of pill in each. We might try that next. But I think we have to keep at the pill popping for the time being.

And now, a word about Gustav: Damn.

Ever since the Katrina disaster, I've been following the blogs of writer Poppy Z. Brite and, once he got it up and running, her SO, chef Chris DeBarr. They evacuated for Katrina against their better judgment, leaving their home and most of their many rescue cats and other pets behind, hoping against hope for the best. They lost their home and a number of pets, even though some of their furbabies were rescued and returned to them after they returned to rebuild their lives. Poppy's blog, in particular, has been an eloquent and often raw account of life in NOLA after the failure of the federal levees and the obstacles and triumphs attendant to making a home there despite everything. I don't know either one of them, but I feel as if I've learned a lot from them.

This time, though, they are not leaving. I respect their decision. Having followed their story for so long, I understand it completely. But as I look at the storm track forecast and hear the labels "category 4" and "category 5" bandied about, I can't help but be very, very worried about them. So, even though they don't know me from Adam, I'm sending this message out to them: Stay safe. Keep each other close. I'm pulling for you to weather this storm well.

Please add any good thoughts you can send their way, and to all the folks now in the storm's sights.

Next Best Thing...

2008-08-22T11:26:00.010-05:00

Since we are rather housebound with the sick kitty, we can't make our usual summer pilgrimage to the Big W this year, so I searched back over the photo archives and found a set of pictures I snapped at

the Factory Antique Mall in Verona, about ten miles or so from Waynesboro.

This is one of my favorite places to visit when I have some time to kill in the Shenandoah Valley. It's huge (as you will see), and it can be just a teeny bit overwhelming, but over the years it has yielded a number of treasures: a fun patchwork quilt done mostly in red and green tartans and a few brightly colored calicoes; numerous old linen postcards of places I've been to and places I dream of going to, including a growing collection of big name state postcards with which I used to decorate my office door back when I was working on social studies textbooks; a weird little guy made out of a green sock with glass eyes, a pom-pom nose, and felt features and hat (he sits on my computer desk, a mascot of sorts); and a copy of Virginia's History, my fourth grade social studies textbook.

I can't claim that you can find ANYTHING you are looking for at this antique mall, because I have rather long wish list and I haven't satisfied it there by even a quarter, but it certainly provides plenty of treasure hunting opportunities.

Are you a glass hen covered bowl collector?
Hope you brought a credit card and a car with a big trunk!

Or maybe you covet a more utilitarian type of glassware...
Think of the deposit money!

Are you looking to go retro during during the holidays?
For cross-eyed Santa mugs and splendidly spindly aluminum trees, look no farther!

If books are your passion, there are plenty to choose from here!

And, of course, every antique mall has at least one booth of plush toys and skeery dolls...

Really skeery dolls...

I always find something surprising at this place, and sometimes it isn't even an item on display. On this particular visit, I discovered--gasp!--some bathroom graffiti in the normally pristine restrooms...
I mean, I'm sure the perp's intentions were good, but you have to ask yourself--What would Jesus tag?

So next time you find yourself in the midst of the Shenandoah Valley, stop off at Verona and take a stroll around this place!

Fishnets for Vigoda!

2008-08-12T18:38:00.008-05:00

Feel free to borrow this picture and post it on your own blogs, any of my many readers and fans! My pals G.W. and Wayne are trying to drum up lots of hits to provide Abe Vigoda with fishnets for life. Judging by the gams on that guy, he was MADE to wear the risque hosiery. Do your part!

And now, an update on the fluffy white divacat.

She's holding her own.

We went through a patch where she wouldn't allow us to give her the pill (a cat's tongue can be almost prehensile if said feline does not want you to cram something down her throat) and she wouldn't eat. Anything. And you know, she's a gal who always liked her food. We took her to the vet, expecting to hear the worst--she was fading pretty fast. But lo and behold, they did an x-ray and determined that her chest was clear of fluid. All her signs were good, except for she was down to nine pounds (this from a gal whose top weight was fifteen, and who weighed fourteen pounds at last year's visit). And the blood work they did indicated that her electrolytes were seriously out of balance due to the heavy duty diuretics she was no longer allowing us to give to her.

So the vet fed her, hydrated her with fluid infused with potassium, gave her her pill with this gadget that shoots the pill right back into the cat's throat... we bought one post-haste, and gave us an additional prescription for potassium to add to her daily capsule. She made a few return visits for feeding and such, and then she started eating on her own. Now she's scarfing the food down like there's no tomorrow (and who knows?), and she's back to her diva-ish, hissy self. Cooing to her sock toy, grooming, even letting me brush her as long as I don't get near the massive mats she has on her hindquarters from when she wouldn't let me brush her... So far, she's doing a lot better. Who knows how long she actually has, but hey--we'll take what we can get.

Here she is in all her infirm splendor, with her new Ugly Doll:

Lucky 13!

2008-08-04T21:04:00.004-05:00

Thirteen years ago Jeff and I went down into Grand Caverns as single persons and emerged a married couple. I know, I know. It's so kitsch to get married in a cave. Except it was just perfect for us. Outside on that early August evening it was 95 degrees with probably 95% humidity. Inside the cave, a nice, cool 60 degrees or so. Maybe even fewer. The candlelit limestone ballroom deep beneath the rolling hills of the Shenandoah Valley was beautiful, and the music reverberated through the chamber as if it were written to be played there.

And here we are, thirteen years later, happy and healthy and hoping for many, many more years together.

A bit of trivia. Although it appears that the photographer captured a moment of starry-eyed, lovey-dovey eye-making in this snap, the reality is that Jeff has just told me that the air conditioning in our car made a squealing sound and died just as he drove off to the cave. My smile is in transition towards a very worried look indeed!

Here are a few more pictures of the festivities:

We danced...

we dined (although I don't have a picture of us scarfing down pizza, which was what we served (it's a long story...)

and we drank the evening away.

Then we headed off to ride go-karts and face the happily ever after.

Oh--and for the big finish? We went to dinner tonight at Prairie Moon up in Evanston (lovely spot--great wine, excellent food!), and as fate would have it, we headed home in the midst of a raging thunderstorm, complete with tornado warning! Yes! Warning. None of your wimpy watches for us. We actually found a parking spot on our block, and we sat for a moment or two waiting for the deluge to abate. Then, in the middle of a particularly flashy lightning display, we realized that the car we were sheltering in was parked right under a big tree. We hauled it (I mean, our own keisters, not the car) down the block and into the building, but not before we got DRENCHED. Ah well, at least the run helped us digest all that great food...

More Skeery Graveyard Stuff...

2008-07-30T17:28:00.012-05:00

Well, it's not ALL skeery. But due to popular demand, here are some more pics from our cemetery stroll.

Judging from the previous post, you might think that all the monuments in Graceland are of the vintage variety, but they are still burying folks there to this day, as far as I know. Witness this relatively modern example, which graces the grave of an architect. Magpie that I am, I was attracted by the big hunk of aqua glass, glistening in the sun.

Here is the final resting place of another famous Chicago architect. Nice bas relief, Louie.

Speaking of bas reliefs, check out this portly fellow.

Not too far from Mr. Huck, just across the lane, is this monument to a fireman. I would say "fire fighter" to be politically correct, but I think the guy considered himself to be a fireman back in the day, and so I will honor his self-perception.

The stonework and detailing of some of these monuments is just stunning. Note the Celtic tracery on this cross...

and on the wall of this vault.

Speaking of vaults, check out this one with its subterranean entrance and its own ventilating system. I have to say, that creeped me out a bit...

This angel, rather the worse for erosion, resides near the Sullivan stone and the Celtic cross.

Although the cemetery is incredibly well-kept, vandals have managed to make some inroads. I'm not sure how long ago this damage was done, though. This place has been around a long, long time, and this looks like an old, old monument.

This is one of the newer monuments, but, since it features an angel (or specter) emerging right out of the granite, I think it's also darned sinister.

Finally, I think this sculpture most aptly portrays the atmosphere that pervades a cemetery. If only we could have one moment more...

A Trip to Graceland

2008-07-27T20:48:00.014-05:00

No, not to the shrine of white trash decorating aesthetics, although somewhere I have some pictures from my visit there with Beth several *ahem* yes, several years ago, but to the vast cemetery on the north side of Chicago where so many of the city's greats are buried. Jeff and I went for a stroll through the necropolis several weeks ago, and I've been meaning to upload and post my pictures of the place for a while now... so turn on all the lights (or, depending on your mood, douse them) and enjoy.

This is the infamous Graves (yes! Graves!) Monument, which, before the days of digital photography, was reported to resist all attempts to photograph it clearly. As you can see, it photographs just fine. But it IS way creepy!

I found the door of this monument to be much more chilling than a huge honkin' statue of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. The door, slightly ajar, chained and padlocked against... vandals who would break in? Or something that might break out? Hmmmm?

Well, I guess if you were born far too late and in far too distant a land to be interred with all the trappings of a pharaoh, if you have the do-re-mi you can do the next best thing--insist upon your own pyramid. All kidding aside, this tomb has lovely details.

The angel,

the steely eyed sphinx,

the stained-glass window, visible through the door to the mausoleum itself... Say, that dude has some keys--think that might be St. Peter?
And I'm sure it all had some deep, meaningful symbolism connected with it. Or else the guy (or his family) just thought it was cool.

Daniel Burnham, whose architectural vision shaped Chicago as it rose from the ashes of the great fire, is buried in Graceland, and you might think he would also command an imposing tomb such as our pyramid guy's. But you would be wrong. Here is Daniel's grave, set on a tiny, wooded island on Graceland's small lake--an island he shares with his wife, his children, and their spouses:

Among the other famous markers in Graceland, this purportedly haunted statue has a particularly remarkable history:
It is supposedly the final resting place of Inez Clarke, and the statue is alleged to move around in her little case and sometimes even disappear from it. Over the years, children visiting the cemetery are said to have encountered Inez playing near the monument. Odd that, because it turns out that Inez never existed in the first place! Check out the link for the whole story.

There's just no way to do justice to all the weird variety of monuments to life and death in this place. I have far more photos than I can share here, but rest in peaceful assurance that the place has stone trees
and real trees (skeery ones at that!), rows of tombs worthy of inclusion in a Hammer horror movie, and silent sentinels, keeping constant prayerful vigil and creeping out passersby for the foreseeable future and beyond.

But I think the most unnerving photo of the bunch was this one, which shows how wind, rain, and ice can all but obliterate images on stones that we know were meant to last, well, if not forever, for some approximation thereof:

I mean, what the heck WAS this supposed to picture?

Pleasant dreams!

Ukulele!!

2008-07-20T19:55:00.006-05:00

This is my most excellent birthday present!! Isn't it cute? It's so tiny and tuneful!

Why a ukulele, you may ask? Well, I've been joking about getting a uke for ages now, but I was never serious. I mean, who plays a ukulele these days? Tiny Tim's been dead for years.

But then I ran across the Stringbusters, the alter-egos of Pete and Maura Kennedy (aka the Kennedys), who are among my favorite folk acts. Maura came out of the same Syracuse music scene that spawned the Poptarts, and she once played in a band with my little brother (although I don't think they got along well at all--heh!). Anyway, once while googling the Kennedys to see if they had a new CD coming out, I ran across the info on the Stringbusters. I was quick to buy their CD. And I was hooked. What I love is that it's fairly easy to play (although ukulele virtuosity, I think, is a bit harder to achieve), and it lends itself so well to the old tin pan alley standards I so love.

So now, after Jeff and I run through our nightly practice, I sit and do my own little uke practice--I'm getting pretty good at "When the Red, Red Robin Comes Bob, Bob, Bobbin' Along"!

And super-extra wonderful?? Jeff bought a teensy AQUA case for the ukulele!! It was a happy birthday!

Tag! I'm It! (and some updates)

2008-07-17T19:03:00.004-05:00

My cyberpal Anne-Marie has tagged me for the meme that follows, so here goes:

What was I doing 10 years ago?

On this day exactly? I don't recall. But I know it was at about this time ten years ago that Jeff and I seriously started considering buying a condo. The rent on our tiny apartment kept climbing, and I started doing mortgage calculations online and realized we could buy something twice the size for the same monthly payment. Given, of course, that we could pull a down payment together. That's when I really started freelancing in earnest to supplement our earnings.

5 Things on my to-do list:

1. Bills
2. Order Mom's birthday present
3. Send Mom's birthday card
4. Clear out guest room/office to make way for new bookshelves
5. Assemble new bookshelves and contact Erin to pick up old bookshelves (yeah, I know... I snuck in an extra thing).

Snacks I enjoy:

How long a list can this be? I absolutely LOVE dried cherries, but I can decimate an entire huge bag of them from Costco in one sitting, so I don't purchase them anymore... avoiding temptation! I also love to snack on pecans, but I tend to over-snack on them too. I like fresh fruit, in season. And my new discovery, snack-wise, are Weight Watcher's giant latte popsicles. They are only one point and huge and insanely yummy.

What would I do if I were a billionaire?

I would buy one of the lakefront homes I covet up in Evanston (Jeff and I would have to hash this out, because we have different favorites, and I don't think either one of us would want to compromise...). The house would have to be retrofitted with a huge, soundproofed music room with state of the art recording facilities, though. We would insist. I would hire someone to help my mom keep house, and I would have her entire house refurbished. I would buy a few vacation homes... in the Shenandoah Valley, in Wisconsin, in San Francisco, in London, in Paris... maybe in New Zealand, although I'd have to travel there first to see if it is really as amazing as it seems. I'd donate to a bunch of charities: Doctors without Borders, Habitat for Humanity, Macular Degeneration Research, etc. I'd also go back to college and get another degree... this time in geology.

Places I have lived:

Waynesboro, VA
Harrisonburg, VA
Syracuse, NY
Boston, MA
San Francisco, CA
Los Angeles, CA
Chicago, IL

Jobs I've Had:

Day camp counselor
Fast food handler (no kidding, that was the official Burger King job title)
Cashier
Inventory taker
Factory/testing area clerk
College instructor
New wave superstar (well, almost: rhythm guitar, backing vocalist, harmony arranger)
Music store clerk and sheet music buyer
Public relations assistant
Admin assistant in a brokerage firm
Temp, temp, temp, temp
Manuals editor
Surface designer (fabric, giftwrap)
Freelance writer and editor
Textbook editor and editorial manager

5 people I'm tagging:

Oh gosh... hmmm. I'm trying to think of five. Okay guys--do it or not, entirely up to you!
G.W. Ferguson
Erin
Jenn
Von
Gina

And now, for updates.

First, on the job front. Today was supposed to be my last day. I had been talking to the folks up in Reading, because they are really in a crunch and can use experienced folks, but the offer was slow in coming. I dragged myself into work this morning, fully expecting to drop off my pass, my corporate Amex card, and my laptop and all its accouterments to the powers that be at around noon. Then I was going to head out, licking my wounds and running some errands. At five minutes to noon, I got the call: an offer from Reading. It's as a supervisory editor rather than a manager, but the salary's the same... I took it. So for now, I still have my view. Actually I think it's going to be a good gig for now. We'll see what the future brings. But DAMN!! If HR had made the call ten minutes later!! Yikes!

Second, a Shelly health update. We've been able to cram the capsule down her gullet every morning. She hates it, and she fights it, but so far we have prevailed. Her breathing is much better. She's not eating very much, though, which worries me. And she seems very listless. It's really clear that she's fading. She still hops up in bed with us and snuggles and purrs, though. She doesn't seem to be in pain. So for now, we watch and wait. We're taking her in for some blood work in a couple of weeks (if she lasts) to see if the meds need adjusting. I just wish it would cool down a bit. I know she's not too comfy with that fluffy coat, although it's not nearly as fluffy as it used to be. Poor kitty!

Third... Next post (unless something momentous intervenes), I will introduce you to my excellent birthday present! So cute! So tuneful! And relatively easy peasy to play!! Stay tuned!

Part Two of the Street Fair Stuff

2008-07-11T19:02:00.009-05:00

A week after Custer's Last Stand (scroll down a couple of posts if you need a refresher), Evanston holds its Fountain Square Art Festival. Fountain Square is right in the heart of downtown Evanston, and the art festival is one of the jewels in Evanston's street fair crown. I wrote up last year's festival--you can find it in the archives--and this year I headed there on the last Saturday in June to take it all in.

But first, just for my pal Barb...
Ah, the Funnel Cake. Staple of street fairs the nation over--maybe even the WORLD over. But I am proud to say that I withstood temptation and refused to partake of the sugar-dusted confection.

There were a variety of arts and crafts that spanned the spectrum from incredibly expensive original oil paintings to fun stuff to hang in a window on a patio. Here are some "tree earrings" I thought were sufficiently sparkly to whet my magpie's appetite.
I love the autumn hues.

My favorite stuff, though, was, as last year, the guy who made funky creatures and busts out of old found household objects. Here's the tent:

And here are a few closer glimpses of his handiwork:
Some masks,

some cool heads,

and these strange creatures. How I would love to purchase some of his work! Maybe one day. Maybe next year!

This year I picked up a card from his tent, so I can reveal that this funky finery is the brainchild of Steve Meadows of S. D. Meadows Folk Art Gallery in Palestine, Illinois.

I made one purchase at the festival, and that was this woodblock print from Marvin and Wendy Hill that I have coveted since last year:

A few years ago, I purchased a very cool piece from Marvin and Wendy at this self-same show. Since then, though, Marvin has passed away. His wife Wendy is keeping his art and his memory alive, though, by continuing to print, color, mat, and frame his woodblocks. I just love his stuff!

And look what else was at the art festival:
The soft-serve ice cream booth! Yay and yum!

Alas, just as with the fair at Main and Custer the previous week, the weather stepped in to wreak havoc. About a half hour after I returned home, there was a scary blast of wind followed by an intense thunderstorm. But the wind--I've never experienced anything like it. According to news reports, it was 65 miles an hour. And it wasn't just a quick, intense whoosh. It lasted for fifteen seconds or more and it sounded like freight train, with doppler effect and everything. It tore limbs off the trees all up and down our street (a major thoroughfare), and it apparently devastated a large part of the Fountain Square Art Festival. Here's a entry from an eyewitness's blog. I only hope that the artists who lost so much were adequately insured. Still, it's hard to lose work that represents so much imagination, effort, and time.

Next Evanston fair up is not really a street fair at all, but the Evanston Ethnic Arts Festival in Dawes Park. That's next week. I love this fair. I hope we can make it this year. If we do, and if the weather cooperates, I'll provide some pictures and commentary!

When Pet Ownership Sucks...

2008-07-08T18:56:00.004-05:00

Shelly is sick. Really, really sick. She's not going to get better, but we may have as many as six more months with her, or as few as a couple of weeks.

She's always had a heart murmur. A few years ago it was diagnosed as a congenital problem that could be managed but not cured. We were managing it, but it has caught up with her. A couple of weeks ago, I noticed that she seemed to be breathing quite hard and fast. It was hot, though, and it seemed to pass. I made a mental note to take her to the vet for a look-see, but other things always got in the way. Then on Sunday I noticed that it was alarmingly bad, although she seemed fine otherwise. We took her to the vet yesterday evening, and the vet sent us right on to the emergency pet hospital, where she spent the night in an oxygen chamber, IV'd on heavy duty diuretics.

Part of her heart muscle is dead (result of the structural problem that produced the murmur), so fluid is building up in her chest around it. Last night, our regular vet was worried she would not survive until today, but today the kitty cardiologist gave us the six months v. two weeks prognosis. We're going to try a mix of meds to slow down the process--that is IF we can get her to take them--but they will only slow it. Not stop it.

She's 14. She's had a good life. A cushy life. We dote on her. We'll dote on her some more.

I'm just so sad.

Summer's Here and the Time Is Right...

2008-07-06T17:20:00.007-05:00

For art fairs in the streets!

Which of course mean lots of food vendors. This picture is expressly for Barb, and she knows why!

Because we live so close to Evanston, almost all of our street fair-going of a summer takes place up there. At the end of June, we hoofed it up to Main Street and Custer for Custer's Last Stand. It's not so much an art fair as a boisterous street fair with lots of arts, crafts, and geegaw vendors:

Oh yeah. And food vendors galore!

See, Barb? EVERYONE had funnel cakes for sale!

We opted for less ostentatious fare--Jeff got some satay from a Thai food vendor, and I indulged my inner Cajun fille with some red beans and rice from these good folks:

Among the food stalls, this incongruity caught my eye:

The sacred flag of the Old Dominion, flying proudly over an Illinois street fair! And the vendor wasn't even selling ham biscuits. The stall purveyed Pan-Asian vegan food! Go figure.

After strolling around and perusing the wares,

(Hubba, hubba! Spicy, indeed!) we gave in to the siren song of the soft-serve booth.

Alas, one cannot always control the weather, for that very afternoon (once we had made our way safely and mostly dryly home) the skies opened.

And they spewed forth dime-sized hail!

I know it's nothing at all like the hailstorm my cyberpal Anne Marie experienced several months ago--we didn't have to replace the roof, for example!--but it was not the kind of weather anyone would want to be caught in strolling around or manning a booth at a street fair!

This is getting kinda long, so I'll save the pictures of the following week's street fair for the next post. See you there!

IKEA, Oprah, and a Possible Mirage

2008-07-03T22:21:00.003-05:00

Tonight is random night... just some recent incidents, thoughts, and such...

First, IKEA. Now, I like to go to IKEA occasionally. I like their candles and their kitchen gadgets, and I live in hope of finding a duvet cover in a pattern I like. I don't like it enough to go on the weekends. It's a zoo there most of the time, but weekends are impossible. Since I'm really just biding my time at work, using my office as a staging center for my job hunt, AND since IKEA is having sale, yesterday I decided to take off right after lunch and drive through the half-hour or so of suburban sprawl to get there.

I grabbed a cart and started filling it, but sparingly. Since I was alone, I had to make sure I could carry everything to the car by myself in one trip. Those of you who are IKEA veterans know that you cannot take carts to the parking lot. And there is no system to guard your cart if you have to leave it on the dock to bring your car around.

So anyway, I got some candles, some picture frames, some glass jars with airtight lids, some wooden hangers, a big tote bag to use at the farmers' market...I'm sure there were a few more items. After about an hour of shopping, I headed to checkout where the only real option was the self-serve kiosks. The lines for a cashier were ridiculous, and I had just shy of 15 (smallish) items, so self-serve it was for me. Except the scanner at my kiosk was for shit. I don't know if it's IKEA's self-checkout system in general, or if it was just the kiosk I got stuck with, but the scanner rang almost everything in twice. And you can't just delete the double ring yourself--you have to wait for an attendant to come and key in his or her code. Annoying, but simple, Right? Except that there were nowhere NEAR enough attendants working the self-serve lanes. Each time I double-rung something, it took longer for an attendant to acknowledge the blinking red light that summoned him or her to the problem kiosk. After the fourth double ring, I waited a full ten minutes for an attendant to show up, at which point I just gave up and left all the stuff at the kiosk, half checked out.

And then drove empty-handed back to work. At least a gallon or so of gas wasted... which really sucks nowadays.

Sheesh.

I wonder how long it will be before I venture back there again? Maybe never.

Now to Oprah.

I was "working from home" today, so I decided to do something I very seldom do: watch Oprah. Today was a summer version of her big "favorite things" show where she talks about great products and gives the audience piles and piles of merchandise. When the studio audience found out that this was a giveaway show, they went completely NUTS! The elation! The prayerful, upturned faces mouthing "Thank you, Jesus!" The middle-aged ladies jumping for joy as if they were high-school cheerleaders! The greed was palpable, just oozing out through the TV. It was raw and unfettered. It was so ugly. And all this for stuff I'll bet most of them never, ever use.

The big ticket item was a Weber grill. Audience members received it so that they could grill the to-die-for turkey burger Oprah wants them all to taste made from a recipe from Donald Trump's Palm Beach resort. Other stuff included (and this is not an exhaustive list), a tank top with spandex built in to smooth the torso, "Fit Flops" (a kind of Earth-Shoe-like flip flop), a wheelie weekender bag with a Garvin GPS system and a $200 hotel chain gift card tucked within, lots of make up, a cookbook, a self-help book, a CD of some lady singer...I'm sure there was more, but I don't recall it all.

My point is, how much of this stuff will those lucky ladies (and the handful of men) in the audience ever use? Maybe it's my situation (like, facing the possibility of having to tighten the belt in the fairly near future) that made me find this display of conspicuous consumption and raw greed to be, well, disgusting.

And finally...I walked up into Evanston this afternoon for a little stretch of the legs, and as I returned to Chicago along the lakefront curve, I noticed that I could see downtown, crystal clear. There was the John Hancock building. There was the Sears Tower. And the condo highrises all along the lakefront, marching row upon row all the way down to the Loop. It was beautiful! I wished I had my camera. But it was weird, because I've walked and jogged that stretch a hundred times before and NEVER seen downtown from there.

Later, when Jeff came home from work, we decided to walk up to Evanston again to eat at Cross Rhodes,a small Greek restaurant we like. I grabbed my camera, because I thought that the city would look GREAT in the waning light.

Alas, when we rounded the curve on our way home, the scene was as it always was: lake and more lake. No towering buildings glimmering in the distance.

And now I wonder... did I see a mirage?

Bird Attack!!! (Part 2)

2008-07-02T18:30:00.003-05:00

It turns out that the bird wasn't clumsy or woozy from eating fermented berries--the damn thing WAS attacking me!

Check this out:

Male Blackbird Intent on Protecting Turf

From the link:

"Nesting season is in full swing for the red-winged blackbird, making the males extremely aggressive. Walk or bike too close to one's nest and expect to hear its high, menacing squawk overhead. Then comes the peck-peck-peck on your head, victims say, or claws rustling your hair."

So, it was a red-winged blackbird and not a starling that was the culprit! But I didn't hear any squawk. Oh. Maybe because I had the Sex Pistols cranked? "Now I got a reason, now I got a reason..." SLAM!

At least I didn't get PECKED!

Bird Attack!!!

2008-07-01T19:37:00.004-05:00

After yet another red-letter day, I decided take a nice, long, iPod-fueled walk up along the lakefront to work off my frustrations. And they are many. The way this layoff business is sorting itself out has churned up so many demons I thought had been dealt with and banished years ago, but I guess I always knew they were lurking, just waiting for the perfect moment to surface. Which is why a brisk, five-mile hike after the slough of perfidy in which I've been spending my days lately is just what the shrink would order (if, indeed, I had actually GONE to one--and I may yet). It makes me a little easier to live with of an evening. I think.

Anyway, I was strolling (well, really, more like striding. Or maybe stomping) along the lakefront just north of Dempster thinking of serrated verbal retorts to fling at those who deserve them, when something slammed me in the back of the head. It felt like someone hitting me with the palm of their hand, just a bit TOO hard for a friendly "hey there!" that was meant for the shoulder but came down wrong. Already primed and steaming, I whipped around to find... nothing. But I didn't IMAGINE it. I was still kind in shock from the blow. Then I saw the starling swinging rather woozily on the branch of a nearby bush. It looked as if it had had the sense knocked out of it (if starlings HAVE any sense to begin with). All I can think is that it was headed for its perch and somehow I got in its way...

Well, it was so absurd that I had to laugh about it. Which lifted my spirits a bit.

I did look around to see if there were any OTHER starlings gathering, perching, waiting, beady eyes shining. Nope. Just the one scatterbrain.

Once I got home, though, I washed my hair. Two times. You never know where those birds have been!

Me, Me, Me!

2008-06-27T22:06:00.005-05:00

First, an update. I'm pursuing all kinds of leads on the job front, some more promising than others. I might even stay put, but change departments if such an offer comes through. Keeping all options open, as they say... I'm reasonably hopeful that something will materialize.

At any rate, this little episode kind of blind-sided me, both professionally AND emotionally. I made a vow to myself lo, these fifteen-plus years ago that I would never again let anything or anyone except me determine who I was--I would never wrap my self-image in any particular person or any particular job. And when the announcement that they were dissolving my department came down last week, I was stunned to realize just how much of my self-worth I had invested in my position, and how bereft I felt at the thought that I could no longer claim that title. It was weird. In my worst moments, I was feeling like a fraud--I'm a good editor (although don't expect me to edit my own deathless prose... I have no eye for my own foibles), but I always worried that I was a bit laid back and type-B to be an effective manager. I had to remind myself rather vehemently that even without the title, I had the skill set, the experience, the track-record. And then I heard something through the grapevine that made me feel a bit better: that one of my former reports who had moved to another department said that I was the best manager she had ever worked for--that I was kind and patient, and that she tried hard to do good work for me, not because I demanded it, but because I expected it. Wow. Maybe the world can use more type-B managers...

At any rate, in keeping with the title of this post, I'm going to be completely self-centered and haughty and post three pictures of me from the 80s and 90s that I like a lot. They are of me in my habitat, if not at the time the photo was snapped, then at some time in the increasingly distant past.

In chronological order...

Here I am in about 1985 (note bright yellow Reebok hi-top Freestyles... SO mid-80s!) in the Japanese Tea Garden in Golden Gate Park. The gentleman is Charlie, who was the lead guitar player in the band my ex had fronted back in Syracuse. He came to visit us in San Francisco, and I went into full tour-guide mode. Man, was I ever the booster for that city! I just loved hiking the hills and strolling the parks, and I think I generally walked all my victims'--I mean, guests'--legs off! Just ask Jeff, whom I regaled with all my tours within the span of a few short days about a decade after this picture was taken. I still have that shirt, by the way, but it has seen better days. I love it, though, and so I keep it, threadbare as it is! The Reeboks? I no longer have those.

Who's that behind those Foster Grants? Why, it's me again. Although those are Rayban Wayfarers. This was taken at a statuary yard on Melrose in Hollywood, back around 1989 when I was splitting my time between San Francisco and LA. I'm not a fan of LA, as most of you know, but I like this photo. The cheesy milk-maid and Venus statues, the shy Virgin Mary, the white lawn jockey... I was letting my hair grow out, trying to affect that Veronica Lake peek-a-boo coif. I never felt that I fit into the whole Angelino look, but I believe I pulled it off in this snap.

And here I am in Boston, in 1990, six years after my brief residence there. I had given up trying to be the brunette Veronica Lake and had gotten a short, loosely waved bob instead. I was visiting friends, who took me to the bocce courts along the Charles River to show me how to play. The gentleman in the photo was one of the regulars at the court who took a shine to me and wanted to take over as my bocce coach! I was the only female on the courts, and given the attention I received I got the distinct impression that I was the only female who had ventured onto the courts in quite some time! Heh!

I look back at those pictures and I think how far I've come from there. I may have looked happy and self-assured but I was struggling. I didn't know who I was, really. I am much more comfortable in my own skin now than I was then... despite the fact that there is more of me for that skin to cover than there used to be. Even with the layoff, I'm happy with who I am. Not complacent. But happy to be me, where I am, with my true countertop (that's an in-joke). And that's quite a gift.

Thanks for indulging me! I promise I will post something a tad less self-absorbed next time! And maybe one day I'll see a recent picture of me that I like enough to post here. But don't hold your breath. Heh.

Losing My View...

2008-06-19T19:10:00.006-05:00

I snapped this photo from my office window back in the spring, after I found out that my employers were planning to renovate the building and my department would be moved to an entirely different part of the "campus." I love the crab apple tree when it blossoms, and the whole scene looks lovely at every time of the year. I'm so fortunate to have landed that office! But alas, I AM losing the view and the office, and not to the renovation. I've lost my job.

Yep... come the middle of July, I will turn out the light in that office with the lovely view and head off to... well, a new job, I hope! Or maybe a few weeks of rest and relaxation and interviews before taking up the career cudgel again.

Ah, the joys of right-sizing! My entire department was dissolved and its responsibilities shifted to the Boston office. This despite our proven track-record of sweeping adoptions. Oh well.

One of the ironies of this situation is that Jeff and I were just this past Sunday regaling some old high school chums of mine, Rob and Shary, and their delightful daughter Ginny, with stories of educational publishing over bits of flaming cheese in a Greektown taverna (and they were regaling us with anecdotes of vodka swilling and cow-head stewing experienced while visiting Ginny during her Peace Corps posting to Azerbaijan). And lest you think educational publishing is not nearly as exciting a topic as drunken hi jinx and ew-factor food in western Asia (and you'd be right...), all three of our audience work or have worked in education, so there was common interest! I hope! At any rate, it was a wonderful lunch. And since Ginny is staying in Chicago for a while, I hope we will be able to repeat the experience again!

For all my pals who may read this and worry--I don't think this will turn out to be all that dire. I have to admit that I've been rapid-cycling emotionally through all the phases: denial, anger, sadness, etc., etc.--so much so that I sometimes think my head is literally spinning, but I'm starting to cycle closer and more often toward acceptance. I have some promising leads. I'm good at what I do; I know the vagaries of major adoption state standards; books I've edited and projects I've managed have returned millions of bucks into the coffers of my soon-to-be erstwhile employer. So I should find something. I might even try my hand at freelancing again, should the opportunities arise. This might actually be a blessing in disguise.

Anyway, if you're so inclined, spare a positive thought or two or three for me! I'll keep you posted on developments!

Oh, and any of you who might by chance run into my mom... I haven't told her yet, so mum's the word. I'll break it to her gently, probably soon, but I'd like to solidify some of those leads a bit before I do. She'll worry, and I want to spare her that for a while. (By the way, she's a technophobe, so there is zero chance she will read this!)

Stellar Customer Service

2008-06-13T21:47:00.005-05:00

Okay, I know I've been rather slow to blog lately. There is no excuse for this. I've just been lazy is all.

Anyway, a few weeks ago, my friend Erin posted about some really crappy customer service she received when she tried to change the date for a truck rental. I'm sure we all can empathize: call, get put on hold, get cut off, rinse, repeat and repeat and repeat. And it seems that in recent years so much of what passes for customer service is so bad that we just expect it. Sigh.

But in the last month or so, I've been the recipient of TWO (count 'em!) instances of great customer service, and I want to give credit where credit is due.

The first award goes to Midwest Bags. Ever since I got my laptop at work, I've been scouting out a nice, practical but chic bag for it. Oh, the powers that be give you a bag with the laptop, but it is black, and ugly, and heavy as all get out. The only good thing I can say about is that it can slip over the expandable handle of a rolling suitcase so you don't have to schlep it around the airport on your shoulder. Except, of course, when you check your rolly bag. Anyway, I knew I was going to have to fly out of state for focus tests, so I hoped against hope I could find something acceptable.

And then I saw it! A colleague had this very cool red leather rolling laptop bag! This was it, although I hesitated to covet the red leather... didn't want to be a copycat or anything. She was happy to tell me all the wonderful things about the bag. It's a McKlein bag--Chicago made!--and the model is Glen Ellyn, named for a Chicagoland suburb. Not cheap, but it's a beauty! It has the rollers, or you can zip them off and carry it if you wish. It has a cushy interior sleeve for the computer and lots of room for other stuff (files, books, iPods, etc.). Anyway, I did some searching and found the best price here, with free shipping even! And check out the colors!! Aqua!! That's the bag for ME!

Just one problem...I found it on Monday evening while surfing at home, and the trip began on Thursday morning. Overnight shipping was REALLY expensive. I ordered it anyway, but resigned myself to schlepping the ugly black bag this go-round. But guess what? I had it on WEDNESDAY! With free shipping, it took fewer than two days!! That's what I call GREAT service!

The second award goes to FedEx. I ordered some furniture the other day and, while half of it has been back-ordered until July, part of the order arrived today via FedEx (luckily, today was one of my "summer Fridays," a perk we get at work for putting in more hours the other days for a couple of weeks, so I was home to receive it). It was delivered just a little after noon, and when the doorbell rang, I headed down to sign for it. I was planning on having the guy haul the box (long, flattish, and heavy--this is the kind of furniture you put together yourself) into the interior foyer. I figured that Jeff and I could work together to get it up the stairs when he got home.

But when I told the delivery guy my plan, he said, "I'll take it upstairs for you, no problem!" and he hauled the thing up to the second floor and even put it in our hallway, where it will rest until I get around to unboxing and assembling it (i.e., until who knows when...).

I was stunned! Who does that anymore? Well, this particular FedEx guy, obviously! He said it was his pleasure, and that he was just glad to find someone at home on a weekday!

So... my hat's off to Midwest Bags and to FedEx for providing stellar customer service--above and beyond the call of duty!

Our Only Fan

2008-06-02T20:29:00.005-05:00

Jeff and I have been spending our evenings of late (well, a portion of them) playing Irish jigs and reels--he on the mandolin and tenor banjo and I on my spiffy new guitar:

It's the same kind of guitar we bought Greg for Christmas--a Washburn D10S. A dreadnought. Which means a honkin' BIG guitar. I'm kind of dwarfed by it, actually (although some would say that I'm dwarfed by just about everything...). It's a nice, loud instrument!

Anyway, Shelly (who, alas, is starting to show her age as a geriatric 14-year-old feline) will come sauntering in, hideous sock toy in her jaws, about two or three songs into our repertoire. She will sit on the floor in front of us, watching and listening, for another song or two. At some point during those songs, she drops the hideous sock toy (sometimes in my open guitar case), and ambles over to the sofa. She launches herself up on the arm thereof and settles herself in for the rest of the set, purring loudly enough for us to hear between songs. It's really funny, because in her whole life she hasn't shown much interest in music, except for Laika and the Cosmonauts. Well, we're playing stuff like "Kesh Jig" and "Old Hag You Have Killed Me" instead of "Aztec Two-Step" and "The Man from H.U.A.C.," but to her, I think there must be SOME connection!

An aside... a couple of months ago when Jeff was in Boston on business, I hauled the guitar out to practice by myself. It didn't take but two or three chord changes before Shelly loped into the room, all happy and expecting, it appeared, to find that Jeff was home. When she didn't see him, she was visibly disappointed. (Don't ask me how I know when the cat is disappointed. It's really obvious.) Anyway, she did me the favor of listening to me plink away on my lonesome!

Time to Plant!

2008-05-19T18:32:00.008-05:00

Finally, we appear to have passed the point of frost warnings (although it WAS in the 40s last night and may be again tonight), and so I made my first foray into planting my balcony container garden this weekend.

First things first--we went to the Farmers' Market and I picked up a couple of nice, healthy basil plants. I'll probably get one or two more within the next few weeks.

Then I went out to the garden center, where they always have nice (but pricey) plants.

This haul plus the potting soil set me back more than $90!! And this is only enough to plant the balcony boxes and the two window boxes I put outside our west-facing sunroom casements!

You'll notice that there is a singular lack of yellow flowers. I used to buy marigolds to provide some sunny blooms, but they never do well in my boxes. They go nuts on the raised beds on the parkway in front of the building and in the little niches beside our walkway, but they hate my boxes! So I had hoped to find some yellow million bells to vary the color a bit, but no such luck!

Another missing element in this assortment of annuals is the infamous trailing accent plant. A few years ago, I found a bunch of nice creeping jenny plants. Yes, I know. Invasive weeds. Which is probably why they have disappeared from the market. But really, in second-floor balcony boxes they are lovely! Last year I substituted vinca, but I found them to be stringy and annoying. I thought maybe some sweet potato vines, but they were SO expensive at the garden center that I thought I would search them out at Lowes or Home Depot... but again, no such luck. They were all sold out. Sigh. At any rate, the million bells are great trailers and so are the scaevola I placed in the front of the boxes... I just like to have some foliage trailing as well as flowers. Maybe I'll find some in the next few weeks.

I planted them all, with the scaevola, million bells, and lobelia in front, some begonias in the middle, and these weird squiggly leafed coleus bringing up the back (they are supposed to grow to a foot tall). With the next paycheck I'll buy some more plants for all the pots I have tucked away on that balcony, and I'll uncover the lawn chairs so that I can sit and enjoy my little (well, miniscule) urban garden.

John R.

2008-05-13T18:41:00.010-05:00

If you were to look up the word curmudgeon in the dictionary, odds are you'd find his picture illustrating it. No, not the one above, which as far as I can figure is from sometime in the early 40s. No, more the post-50s John R., a guy who loved a good argument almost as much as he loved his Marlboros, his bourbon on the rocks, and his Wurlitzer organ. And, of course, his family. We loved him right back. And cut our teeth arguing politics with the old geezer.

He and my mom met in Vallejo, California, where he was stationed at Mare Island Navy Yard after the war. They knew each other for a few weeks and decided to get married.

People said they were crazy--it couldn't last. But more than 50 years later, they were still man and wife.

He was one of the smartest people I have ever known, but he could be easily persuaded to don one of our play hats for a goofy photo-op.

It's appears that he never really shed that tendency!

He took his leave of this world ten years ago today. The Marlboros and the bourbon and his own stubborn nature took their toll, alas. Time has taken the edge off the grief, but I'll miss him until the end of my own days.

Here's to you, Daddy!

A Cool Antique High Rise

2008-05-05T19:19:00.008-05:00

Although about a mile and a half or so south of us the lakefront is festooned with thirty and forty story condo and apartment buildings, once you make your way north of Loyola University into East Rogers Park you are in the land of three or four story buildings--except for this one. It is our sole lakefront high rise, built in 1923 if you are to believe the cornerstone. (An aside here--when one builds on sand, which really does provide the underpinnings of most of the land near the lake in our neck of the woods--one has to expect that the building will settle. Forever, maybe. Our six-flat, built in 1920, is STILL settling. I shudder to think how that settlement plays out in THIS edifice, cool though it is.)

The wonderful thing about this building is not its general Addam's Family ambience, although that is atmospheric indeed. It is its strange stonework that sets it apart--you won't find anything like it in modern architecture, and certainly not in a modern apartment block.

For example... the atlantes that support the faux gothic window pediment:

Atlantes--isn't that a wonderful word? Thank goodness for Jeff's little architectural details field guide!

Here's a closer look:

Thing One and

Thing Two.

Now let's pull back a little, and look at the central facade detail:

Notice the sculpted lozenges set in regular rows all up the front of the building. Perhaps they are simply decorative geometric motifs or a more ambitious array of heraldic shields? Mais non, mes amis.

They are faces.

Here are a couple of examples:

Mr. Get-Out-of-My-Yard-You-Young-Hooligans! and

Mr. He-Found-WHAT-Lurking-in-the-Pantry?

Now, scroll back up to the photo of the whole building and turn your attention to the demi-turret that hugs the corner. Near the base of this turret, at one story above ground level, are three friezes.

Two bratty little girls with sloppy socks (here is one) flank an Old-King-Cole-esque figure:

He's even identified as "the owner."

But my favorite parts of the building are these:

These caricatures put me in mind of similar stone heads that adorn the walls of the Temple Church in London. This is but one phalanx of these caricatures--there are two of them, and not one head is the same on either of them.

Here, take a closer look:

There's this world-weary fellow,

and this big lug, who looks kindly enough (but I wouldn't let him pet any rabbits),

but my favorite is THIS guy, who is clearly belching!

I love this building. I have no idea what it looks like inside, and I'll bet after 85 years of settling there is not a level floor or plumb wall in the entire pile, but the stonemasons who carved the details of this facade were masters of their craft. I'm so glad that such a building still stands, and so close to me.

Around the 'hood

2008-05-03T22:34:00.003-05:00

A few weeks ago, I took a little constitutional around the neighborhood carrying the camera. I thought I'd share a few snapshots from the photo foray.

These buildings are one block to our east, right on the lakefront. As you can see, a couple of weeks ago the trees were still winter-bare. Now they are budding like crazy. Spring was late in Chicago this year, but it's catching up!

The building directly across the alley is covered in ivy. In fact, every year the landlords (it's an apartment building) have to cut the ivy back to reveal all the back windows.

Here's something we didn't see much of in Chicago this winter!

And here is a peek (tantalizing, I hope!) of one of the most fascinating buildings in the neighborhood. It's three blocks south of us, and it's the tallest building in our part of the neighborhood. I'm going to devote my next post to the amazing details on the facade of this building. Let's just say that you don't see work like this anymore on anything. Stay tuned!

High Drama among the Geese

2008-04-25T22:08:00.004-05:00

You may recall last year when it fell to me to recount the sad tale of Isaiah Hopwood Gooseworthy, "Hoppy" to his friends and admirers (scroll down to May 7, if you wish, but be sure to bring a hankie)...

Well, the geese are back. This year there are two moms incubating eggs in the courtyard: The parents of the unfortunate Hoppy and a new couple (the gander of this pair is hardly ever around...) who have set up nest at a respectable distance. Everyone at work is watching the bucolic scene and waiting for the goslings to hatch.

This morning, though, the courtyard was anything but bucolic. In fact, it was like Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome: Two ganders go in...

Actually, the drama apparently began yesterday when the newer momma goose launched herself off her eggs, neck thrust out like a honking spear, to admonish some goosey interloper. This was duly reported via email throughout the building.

Whatever kind of goose-ish warfare was going on hit its peak early this a.m. I witnessed it as I headed back to my office after procuring my morning caffeine fix from the company cafeteria. This time, Hoppy's parents were the aggressors. The mom was standing over her eggs, neck thrust toward the trespasser, honking loudly. The dad was flying menacingly at the uninvited guest, who was huddled rather pitifully in one corner of the courtyard. Suddenly, the set-upon goose tried to take flight. Alas, the courtyard was not wide enough (or it was just too pooped) for it to get enough lift to fly out of it. It crashed right into a second-floor window and fell to the ground, whereupon both mom and pop Gooseworthy started pecking angrily at its motionless carcass.

I was horrified! I was certain the downed goose had broken its neck and was dead on the ground. It was as I gazed at this awful scene that I became aware of other eyes watching... and I looked up at the roofline to see a number of other geese, evenly spaced along the perimeter of the courtyard, observing the action. Shudder!

It turns out that the gathered geese and I were not the only witnesses to this fowl violence. Just about everyone whose cube or office overlooks the courtyard had front row seats for the action. The altercation and goose/window collision so upset one of the fact checkers that she had to go home, sobbing.

It turns out that the interloper was NOT killed... at least, not outright. Apparently it arose from its stupor to shrug off the peckers and fly, much the worse for wear but this time successfully, out of the courtyard.

Never a dull moment in textbook publishing... trust me on this one!