Tuesday, December 31, 2013

Lots of Bubbly



New Years Eve 2013

266 bottles of Barefoot Bubbly rolled out the door tonight during my three hour and fifteen minute shift. I could hardly keep the sample cups lined-up, answering questions, making up my favorites flavors, based on what I was pouring, and having a ball. I procured a few samples for myself as well as some of the liquor store staff since we had yet to try a few of the varietals.

A number of already tipsy customers arrived to select their resupply bottles from my limited options but they were happy. One woman squealed when I handed her a baby blue rubber ice cube tray with cute little bare feet cut-outs, for their party hostess. I am not certain the lady of the house actually got the gift, it most likely never left the middle man’s purse.

Got 18 out of 18 on my latest test, halfway through week number 5 and I am already getting nervous for the final in another weeks time. Normally I forget my first name when I hear, see, think about the word “test.” Test, test, test. I practice so I am not unjustifiably reactive. I have done well enough on the exams of the previous four weeks to feel more confident, if not giddy, about taking the last assessment of the recently acquired information. Remains to be seen, how I move through life after this class. My aim is to start another business, make a stab at marketing myself, so I don’t have to find a real job ever again. I have some ideas to kick around, resources to do the research, and time to build a plan before launching it. Will keep you in the loop, my friends.

Games People Play



December 30, 2013

We play games as though they mean something. Banana Grams, Heads Up, Sorry!, Apples to Apples, Monopoly are real life, in the moment of rolling the dice, choosing the card, moving the piece across the colorful board, scowling at someone else's luck. Competitive gents rush to choose viable teammates to gain the prize and chalk-up another mark opposite of the LOSERS. Eventually, spirits sag and the one with the least amount of wins, leaves the table for another cocktail, a much-needed restroom break or a toss of the arms and declaration of giving-in. 

Conversation turns to terrible weather, traffic accidents, breaking news, hilarious work situations, devastating family circumstances, tumultuous neighbor relations, heart-wrenching health issues, banal home news, or disastrous sporting event outcomes. Current travel plans are discussed at length and outrageous past experiences come into play. A gathering of long-time friends is precious and should be “order of the day” for each week of the New Year. Ecstatic to be included.

Sunday, December 29, 2013

He Hangs 'Round



December 29, 2013

     He seems lonely, the guy hanging out, yet another night, after the coffee shop closes, watching the comely young women sanitize the countertops, meticulously scour the espresso machine, leaning over the mop to scrub the tiled floor. The ladies are too polite, and a bit intimidated, to ask him to leave the premises. Perhaps he feels deserved, after spending hours lounging around the front table, checking his emails, lurking with a recent innocuous publication in his lap, perusing the baked goodie bags marked down to a few dollars, white crisp sacks that line up along the stainless to lure the frugal clientele. The little man purchased a 12 ounce brew, not needing to demand his usual ceramic cup to slurp in-house. The girls arch eyebrows over his head and nod in agreement. He should not be in the shop yet, at least they are in a clump, keeping an eye on one another until one finally latches the door behind his shadow. Giggles of relief leave their mouths, not truly realizing they were more than a bit on-edge as he scattered his weird energy around their bodies.

Saturday, December 28, 2013

Baking Hockey Pucks



One of My Six Sisters Birthdays, 2013

     Little Brian was telling me about his pee wee hockey game the other night. After the tied game, the family took him out for celebratory ice cream. “My Aunt asked me why I wasn’t so tired this time,” he commented. “It’s ‘cause I got to sit in the penalty box for two minutes to rest.” He got the first penalty of the season, first penalty for the team in it’s short history.  “My Uncle Randy sits in there all the time,” Brian relayed, “so he gets a lot of rest.” What other reply could I possibly have but, “Cool.”
     Much of the time, I end up being the radio announcer at Mrs. “B’s” since she adores football, baseball, hockey and an occasional basketball game. Since she cannot view the screen, I keep track of the score and what inning or quarter we are in at any given time. Games are interrupted with showers, noise of the meal preparation and the off-chance visitor. Fixed pot roast, chicken and sides, hamburger and curly fries, promptly overcooking the muffins I had forgotten about in the oven. Could use them as a hockey puck at Brian’s next game but tossed them out with the garbage. No sense having Mrs. “B” choke to death while sucking in the dust from a dry boxed muffin. Promised her I would call her best friend and request a muffin delivery. There are few delights in life, sweets is one of hers.
     Santa was good to me this year. Mrs. “B” made out like a bandit as well. New fleece pj’s, slippers (so we can now throw out the old ones that fly off her swollen feet at inopportune times,) candies, sweet breads, lap blanket, and many visitors. The grandkids came to collect their goodie sacks. When Cal, the great grandchild told grandma her writing is “Great!” Because I had jotted the kids names on the bags for her, Mrs. “B” asked if his name was written in cursive or printed. “It’s normal, Grandma, just normal.” Two envelopes remained on the table, unclaimed. Mrs. “B” is not pleased that her grandson, who happens to live in town, has not come by for a visit with his wife and children. Luckily, she cannot see the evidence, parked against the reindeer made of plastic pine needles, to make her sad and rejected. Hopefully, by the time I return on Monday for work, they will have come and spent time with grandma, giving her the pleasure of a long visit and bring a muffin or two.

Thursday, December 26, 2013

Take Care of the Servants Day



Boxing Day, 2013

     Whether you are in a country where this official holiday is observed, servants receive presents from their employers, or not, you can have the day off, as far as I am concerned. I am celebrating by giving my Self a gift of not working, day to relax, sleep late and spend oodles of time with my family. Cousins who don’t get to visit frequently take off sledding, after the scrumptious meal of home spun raviolis, made way to the nearest bowling alley for some fun.
    The adults drink wine and catch up on humorous stories about work. One woman has a part-time job at the local dry cleaners and we rolled around the room, cackling until our sides ache. Poor Mrs Hussey was the brunt of our cheer, who suffers from terrible incontinence, bringing in her stained pant to be laundered. As if the teen girl behind the counter could relate to a sneeze attack followed by urinating in her drawers. The employee had the look of terror on her face as she took in the damaged slacks. This led to countless customer tales of odd stains and horrific accidents due to loose bowels or uncontrollable vomiting spells. Remind me never to apply for work at a dry cleaning establishment. I would be chortling all day and never want to leave the front counter, not even for a bathroom break.  
   

Santa Revealed



Christmas Day, 2013

     360 men and a handful of women, bundled in ratty vests, thin coats, lined faces, rough hands and grateful murmurings shuffled into the room. They got a hot meal and a place to sort through their feelings about Christmas while listening to Gail playing carols on the piano. The first group of nine were served their slab of drippy ham, semi-green peas with orange bits I believe were pieces of carrot, a hunk of stuck au gratin potatoes, watery yams and a flaky croissant. I cheerfully asked if they had a favorite Christmas story, and since no one piped-up, I told them of my daughter’s inquiry, at four years of age, about whether Santa is real. Given I wanted to always be truthful to her, I admitted Santa is not real. In her next naive breathe, she demanded “Then the Easter Bunny is you too?” I explained that other parents may want their kids to believe in Santa so she has to promise me she will not tell anyone what I revealed to her. She emphatically assured me her lips are sealed.
     Of course, the very next day at Wee Care Daycare, Taelor spilled the beans and told all of the kids Santa is a fake. Her best friend, Shannon cried all day. Her mother called me that evening, one of many conversations I was to have that night, complaining that Taelor ruined her child’s magic of Santa Clause. It took me some time to convince the parents that all would be well the minute the kids saw him at the Mall or were read a Christmas story.
     The recipients of the Union Gospel Mission’s complimentary meal, and my daughter’s tale seemed happy to spend the time with me and the other twelve tables in the vast, open room that converts to sleeping quarters after dark.
     After milk and cookies, a cup of Kemp’s ice cream and a bit of chatter, the guys were on their way and another group moved forward from the long line out the door. I sat, at one point, to have horrid coffee with powdered creamer and a Danish with the crew. A very grateful Christmas day.

Joyous "J"



Christmas Eve, 2013 share

     An angel is in our midst. A humble and grateful young man who share s himself fully, without the usual connotation of neediness or accepting pity for his situation. A hard, difficult, unbearable upbringing, though he tells bits and pieces as though they belong to a dear friend that he welcomes into his home. Tales of his meager Christmas’ past embrace us. The rest of the group discusses our humorous holiday stories and favorite presents, no one can “top” the Guide. He told us that his mom sat he (at three years of age,) his brother and little sister down, to make them aware that Santa is a fake. He suggests he appreciates that honesty and wouldn’t have had it any other way. A world traveler, calling each place home, spoke of living in the moment, creating space for each adventure, making it, willing it, magnetizing it to him, as though the destinations were chosen specifically for him versus his deciding on the next stopover. Though we shook hands upon meeting, like strangers, I hugged him to me in delight as we departed, to be forever changed.
    

Monday, December 23, 2013

Blackened Christmas



December 23, 2013

     It is a musher’s secret kinda night. That is the gel I have to put on my friend’s little dog’s paws before we go out for a run-as-fast-as-you-can-until-you-poop walk. I shoosh along like a little girl on double-blade skates, with the hopes that I don’t go down for a tumble. A young man ran past me in skimpy pants, a long sleeved-tee and wool hat. I stood for a long while, watching him confidently take-on the sidewalks with envy-stimulating graceful strides.   
     The smoke detector screams each time I turn on a burner, set up the toaster or light a match for a candle. The darned thing is so sensitive and I frantically wave a dish towel in front of it, switch-on the ceiling fan and wave the back door open and shut a dozen times before the squalling halts. If I don’t hear footsteps tromping around upstairs, I have to glance out the front window to peer out into the street to see if the tenant is home. His hours are so erratic, I am afraid I am waking him from a dead sleep with the smoke alarm. He must think I am a horrendous cook, forever burning the chef’s special. Drat.
     A bag is deposited on my door mat with an envelope. Unfortunately, the first thoughts that entered my mind is, “Great, I don’t have time to shop for something for this gifter.” Silly me. I chuckled and opened the card. Sent a quick text to let him know it wasn’t snatched and to thank him for his generosity, Merry, Merry and all that. I do not have to reciprocate but I may do something for him in the future. He certainly wouldn’t expect anything from my kitchen-nothing that wasn’t singed, scorched or black as the night sky.

Christmas Came Early



December 22, 2013

     Knuckles swollen like an old man’s. Happens when I the weather changes and I am wetting my hands constantly. None of the physicians seem to know what causes it, let alone how to correct it. So, I wring my paws in agony, holding them against the warmth of wool or thick cotton gloves, cradle a cup of tea or coffee, sit on them or snuggle up to someone to hold hands. Since it is a seasonal issue, I have a reason to cuddle and no one minds the strange woman with an obsession to be close.
     Exchanged gifts in the middle of the restaurant, over coffee and meatless Eggs Benedict. People within the vicinity hovered to see what present would come next. Despite the crinkled re-purposed wrap, my guest was not in the least hesitant to obey my order, to open a few of the things I delivered on Santa’s behalf. The joy, amazement and pleasure coming from a sixty-something year old (it is unforgiveable for me to reveal her true age) woman’s face was precious. Thrilling games, gorgeous specialty cards, hedgehogs scented with lavender tags for the car, a humorous magnet, lovely notebook, wipes for the obsessively clean, and a handmade card. The table of folks next to us continued to make comments about the items, enjoying them as much, if not more, than her. They insisted on asking where I purchased these delightful things and whispered the question of price. I could hardly reveal my sources. The three year old darling Hispanic girl, hair curled for the occasion, dressed in a lavender pants suit made for a princess, with lace trim, made her way through the obstacle course of tables, to peek over my girlfriend’s shoulder to catch a better glimpse of the gifts. Her big brownie eyes took in the celebration behind a pinched hairpiece. Elegant Mary Janes completed the ensemble, along with her busy hands, flapping a bit with each prize being removed from the rumpled Victoria’s Secret sack.          
    Adore shopping for someone, if I am not in a time crunch. I like to think about them and their interests, how they decorate their bedroom, what they do in their spare time, how they dress, and what they read. Most difficult are the people who buy everything they want and need for themselves. Stop doing that!

Saturday, December 21, 2013

Demo Duties 101



December 21, 2013

     The GNC was actually closed when we arrived yet the front door was still unlatched. “Sorry, we are shut!,” came the voice from the back of the register. “That’s okay, we understand, we just have a question, do you have avocado oil?” “No” As we departed, the clerk shouted out “Thank you for being nice! Have a wonderful night.”
     This was our last stop of the night, searching high and low for things like expelled or cold-pressed Caster Oil, Avocado Oil, Sunflower Oil, the ingredients to make some sort of facial wash for holiday gifts.  According to the website, they are common items, found in any grocery store. Sure. The level of anxiety increases as the retail hours draw to a close and Christmas gifts are attended to, after finals week, end-of-Semester performances, work study employment coming to a close before Break and exhaustion has taken over. Santa’s helper wasn’t much of a resource, unfortunately. The “in” I have with the 88 ¾ year old wasn’t particularly helpful in this case, either.
     One must have persistency, consistency, patience, commitment, be willing to sacrifice and yell, scream and cry-out at times, in order to be a creative, spontaneous, have a need for achievement, some pride, and time, to make-your-own goodies for Winter Solstice, Christmas, Hanukkah, and such.
     Tonight, as I arrived for my wine demo, the Manager commented “I thought you were coming yesterday.”  I could have argued that I spoke to her directly on Monday, giving her an idea of the varietals of product I need to pour, confirmed the time and date, and let her know I am looking forward to selling their full line of Barefoot product. Quite a few customers, whom I nearly tripped-up to get them to sample the Bubbly, gave me the shaft. I was inept and frustrated this evening. Word to the wise, eye contact and a smile to the demo person is always a bonus to us. Even if you don’t try the samples, at least acknowledge we are there, in front of you, and doing our job.
Thank you!

Syrupy Sales



December 20, 2013

  Pounding at the door at 8:30am. Carol wants to buy two quarts of syrup for stocking stuffers. This is why I hesitate to jump into retail again, customers can be sooo demanding.
  Guy upstairs is traipsing around early, he has been working all hours of the day and night, can’t keep track of his schedule. Now I hear running so the kids must be over. The dog races back and forth across the floor when they are here as well. Not a peep from the cat, however.
  “This makes me want to climb a tree like a monkey and grab a coconut,” exclaims Mrs. B as I open the top of her new cream last night. I knew she would like it. Added to her holiday card, “Since you are 88 ¾, you must know Santa personally. Could you put in a good word for me?” She laughed like a little girl and we got her undressed for our shower. Difficult not to get soaked while bathing someone in a large shower with close-quarters bathroom. Last week I had failed to bring along my extra pants so I took her in with just my top layers, leveling the playing field. She got a kick out of that, despite the fact that she can’t see anything. I just hoped no one would come over, most family and complex staff family just       
walk in, announcing themselves as they come through the door. As Mrs. B was talking with her best friend on the phone later (whom I also know well) she mentioned my showering technique. Mrs. F squealed back “I am picturing it now.” And the rumors flew. Great.                        

Friday, December 20, 2013

Department 56 Arrives



December 20, 2013

     Followed a semi full of rolled and tied Christmas tress, bumping along the highway, slowing down the terrific traffic. Reminds me of the Charlie Brown Christmas trees we always had, Taelor and I, from Norfolk pine plants, to Palm trees in Hawaii to Christmas cacti with ornaments weighing down the branches. I don’t have a tree this year, wasn’t in the plan for last year in Brasil. the year before that I was renting a room and that house was minus a tree as well.  
     In my Middle and High School years, we obtained our family Christmas trees from the Middle School across the street when Winter Break started. My mom collected them for the needy families and we nabbed one for our front room as well. As little children, we marched into the woods, following dad with an ax over his shoulder like Paul Bunyan, to choose just the perfect tree, that may have a slight lean to one side. He hacked away at it, and down it went with loud squeals of excitement from the little mob of a family crowded around.                  
     We weren’t a sit-on-Santa’s-lap-and-take-a-picture-at-the-Mall kind of family, so we avoided that fiasco. Memories of Christmas’ past with the family are blurry and unkempt. Far too early parental awakenings led to opening gifts Christmas Eve. I vaguely recall those Christmas mornings or the scenes that followed jumping on the parents in their bed. One present stands out-a dog robot that walked and it’s eyes lit-up when the switch was turned on. I adored that gift. It came with a leash and collar. I walked it everywhere, an attentive and responsible owner.   
     Our traditional Italian meal, a day-long preparation, home-made pasta strung on wire hangers around the kitchen, marinara sauce bubbling on the stove. Hunks of bread were dunked, sneaking samples of grandma’s famous recipe throughout the day. Home-made delectable pasta with to-die-for marinara sauce, scrumptious cannoli, mom’s famous meatballs (I was a meat-eater back then,) and crusty rolls were greedily consumed before the rituals began.
     Singing Christmas carols around the house, some of us laden with the nativity scene characters, including the cow, donkey and lambs, that strode along, though mute as stones, part of our Christmas Eve ordeal. I think candles were also involved. We resisted the tradition, in later years, but mom persisted so we sang and rolled our eyes back into our heads at one another a lot.
     Typically starting from the youngest to the oldest, we opened our gift, handing the present from the person sitting next to the tree, to the recipient. No gifts really stand out in my mind yet the sensation of family togetherness is powerful. Although Taelor and I have a very different tradition, we continue to honor our time alone and cherish the years we have as a family. It’s a Wonderful Life or another classic movie will be viewed, snuggled on the couch Christmas Eve.
     It had been three years since we arranged the North Pole Series Village. The little houses light-up, reindeer pull the sleigh with Santa aboard, and little people have fun among the festive snow-tipped trees. A jolly scene.

Wednesday, December 18, 2013

Horrible Horace



December 18, 2013

     My assignment is to write a Christmas story under seven hundred words, within thirty minutes:

Horace is saddled with his five year old daughter for Christmas this year. He inevitably works his sister then, mother, and when all else fails, his little rat of a brother, Stephen, to accept Josephina into their homes for a day or two, while he presumably scrambles for work to pay off his divorce debt, back child support and his snake charmer lawyer. In truth, he usually holes up in his fifth wheel, playing video games and gambling with the guys.
Driving home from the tool and die company where he works as a machinist, Horace catches sight of a white cat, black splotched across its head, skulking along the road, crossing, stopping, seemingly judging the driver’s compassion, before continuing onto the sidewalk. He grinned in admiration for its survival instincts, living outdoors in sub-zero weather, making it in the world. The question arose in his mind whether he had what it takes to thrive in the wilderness, alone and unprotected.
The first plea is to Candace, his baby sister, number uno on his speed dial. He drops his leather jacket on the worn plaid sofa and pushes the button with confidence. Candace adores Josephina but has three sons of her own that take up far too much of her time, needing to be carted from one sports event, part-time jobs, meals out with friends, the Mall or any other lame excuse to push their mom around. Horace jumps into his perfect solution for the both of them, by offering to drop off Josephina, pay for all of the kids to go to the movies, and he will pick them all up afterwards. Candace cuts her older sibling off before he gets three words out. She assures Horace that she would love to have Josephina come for the holidays but she and the family are all headed up to Truckee for a ski weekend at her best friend, Rhonda’s new boyfriend Chet’s perfect lakeside chalet. Sorry!
Horace jumps off the phone as though it is a time bomb and rings his mother. She is always complaining about her swollen legs, sore throat, throbbing back, or some other deadly ailment that will keep Josephina away from her house. Damn, he can hear her moaning before she even answers the phone! He cradles the cell on his shoulder and prepares for the whine. No answer. Without hesitation, and not without some relief, he hits number three, Stephen.
Stephen had much better luck with his high school sweetheart, Rosie. They have a house in Eldorado Hills, a membership to the Country Club, where Horace is currently banned from entering the bars, any of the restaurants, and the outdoor pool area, including the patio, and array of parking lots. Hard to get past feeling a bit smug about that incident. His brother always plays hard to get and in the end, usually can’t take the pressure, and he gives-in with a lot of fuss. Horace has his card ready. He bought tickets to the Kings, Stephen’s favorite team, and will gift them to his agreeable babysitting brother when the time is ripe.
Stephen lets the cell phone ring into voicemail. He got the phone call from Candy, the moment she hung up with Horace. He can play the game well too. Horace glances out the window during the recorded message and sees, much to his astonishment, a white cat with black blotches sitting in the middle of the sidewalk. It stopped, watching a sizeable dog approaching, its owner creeping far behind. The apparent canine attendee sees the cat and appears to call the dog, distracting it. As the pup turns to follow the owner’s direction, the feline continues down the cleared path.
The recorded message stopped and Horace left word that he is on his way over with Josephina, and she will be spending the night with Stephen and his family. She is, in fact, so looking forward to spending Christmas with Kelley and the rest of her awesome cousins.

Tuesday, December 17, 2013

Henri the Heroic Horse



December 17, 2013

     Henri, the mini horse died today. He was the sweetest little pony that frequented the local nursing home, to nuzzle the elderly, delight the staff, nibble on baby carrots, and make new friends. It was sad, sad news. I am sorry for his owners as well as all of the others, who have been so deeply touched by this pretty little horse. Difficult having these wondrous creatures in our lives, knowing they leave behind a vast abyss, when they depart.
     This is the season for losing folks (and animals) as you may know. People tend to break away during the holidays, leave the suffering, weak bodies, loneliness, aftermath of disease, heartache, and agonizing pain behind. It is difficult to imagine why they would choose to exit, especially when there are family members, loved ones who weep and mourn their death. Yet, I look at the 90th birthday photo of a friend’s mother, who lost her husband this summer. Her face shines vacant and weary, worn and empty, with an Alzheimer’s stare. She disappears into the lap of her son, melding into the Christmas tree behind. I pray she still has the ability to experience joy, the passion of life and awe of each breath.
     When a child leaves, it becomes an even greater challenge to accept the loss. I recall a young couple, very close friends of my boyfriend, whose daughter drown in the pool out back. The words, tragic accident, are unfulfilling in this case. I recall the victim’s father, Brian’s face, just after, pale, astonished, disbelieving and terrified. The faith, he once carried like a sure trophy, was swiped, when he failed to turn in time, to see her sink to the bottom. Brian had left the gate unlatched to the pool as he ran to his truck for the contract. The family Black Labrador, barking frantically at the descending form, alerted his business partner. The ambulance was beckoned, arrived seemingly in time, yet the EMT, unable to resuscitate, switched off his siren, in dejection, on the way to the hospital. Brian, following in his work truck, at a racecar pace, nearly crashed in horror. It was clear he had to be the one to tell his wife, the mother of their three year old, that she was dead, because of his neglect.
     As much as we plead, beg, promise, scream, cry, pant, rave, stomp and wail, it does not change the outcome. Prayers certainly help one feel productive and calmer, sometimes. The aftermath is traumatic and everyone has to deal with it in their own way, their own time. I can only promise to listen, lend an ear, make a dish, take over the laundry, send a card, hold a hand, and listen. Nothing is worse that having someone you care about suffer the emptiness and loss. Yet, it is inevitable.
     I am sorry for your loss.      

In a Pickle



December 16, 2013

     My friend in Washington state had just donated a significant amount of money to the Tent City Project in Seattle. The work is a homeless encampment in a large parking lot, housed at places of worship, which allows about one hundred people to set up tents on the property each night. The donations are applied to dumpsters, porta potties and a shower. As my buddy left the agency and his large check behind, he shared his donator's remorse, kicking himself for giving away so much of his hard-earned income. While he visited the local Walgreens to pick up some supplies, he berated himself. The exit door swung open, a gust of wind pinched the receipt out of his hand, and it stuck onto the wet pavement. As he reached for the paper, he spotted a shiny object, just beyond the document, scooped it up and discovered a considerable diamond had been lying there. True story. This happened to be the exact day I took a sprawl across the wide city street.
     My fall-down-and-go-boom incident was a bigger deal than I had anticipated. I finally sat still, that evening, and the knee swelled, became excruciatingly painful, bad enough to toss and turn all night as I poured water into the hot water bottle, exchanging that for two ice packs every twenty minutes, to apply to my bad left knee. The injury is debilitating enough for me to request the guy upstairs do the shoveling from a recent snowfall. A very uncommon act since he works 13 hour days, seven days a week. I am humbled to texting him with an awkward plea. My dog looks longingly at the door, pacing between back and front access, yet I cannot risk the fall while giving him a romp. He simply has to be willing to feel restless and bored with me, lounging on the couch, and in bed all this time. He’ll gain an extra bone in his stocking, when I can get out to shop.

Sunday, December 15, 2013

Ghost Tales



December 15, 2013
     “In The Middle” CD release is happening at Famous Dave’s restaurant in Uptown tonight. Kevin Pertinen and Tony Comeau are shining the audience with their tunes, sweating under the sweltering stage lights as we clap and cheer them on. Friends I have not seen for over fifteen years meet us at the joint, encouraging us to partake in the slabs of meat coagulating on a platter in the center of the table. I brought home my share for the dog since everyone got their fill. Will make up for not having an evening walk, I’ll bet.
Mostly hefty folks in the crowd, slithering along the dance floor, using up so many glasses, the bar is constantly running out and we are forced to wait a lifetime for our drinks. I chat with Tony’s parents a bit and find out he plays at the Ocean Shores Music Festival in Washington state, within long spitting distance to where I ventured quite a few times.
      The fact that there are CD’s for sale at the front of the establishment is announced repeatedly and I pray KP sells enough to cover his production costs. The young whippersnappers have gone in the red to get their music out into the world. It is incredible to witness just how much fun they have on stage, sharing themselves, their skills, and energy. Tony is an incredible fiddler, exceedingly shy (hope I am not revealing his secret) and humble about his talents.  
      I am thankful to be out of the cold, having a tumbler of Summit in front of me, until the darned empty flung itself on the floor on its own fruition. I kid you not, the fan above the table tossed my mug and earlier, another woman’s full Light Coors on the tiles below. No wonder the place runs out of glasses so rapidly.

Sideways



December 14, 2013

Well, I got slipping on the ice, cracking my bony left knee on the asphalt, flinging my body across two lanes of a busy street, out of the way this winter season. My sunglasses flew to the other side of the big patch of glass as I glance up to see a young guy, staring at me from the corner of the crosswalk, seemingly oblivious to my shaken form, and obvious distress. When I met up with him in the Half Price Book Shop moments later, he met my eye without a glimmer of compassion. Then again we swish past, rounding a corner in the travel section. He couldn’t be moved to pass a kind word. I’m dismayed.

Crossing the street, after browsing aimlessly in the store for forty-five minutes, I commented on the perilous ice, to the woman wobbling next to me in fashionable high black boots. She shared that she had fallen, on her journey in the opposite direction, awhile ago. Claimed she splayed on the concrete while people drove past, knowing she was a spectacle, and she was helpless to do anything about it. We commiserated and parted ways. I gave her arm a brief squeeze before stalking the slush to the parked car.

I feel wary and anxious, traumatized by the fall, hours later. Arnica rub helps the stiffness in my joint but the suffering from vulnerability will not recede. Suppose dark chocolate meant for someone’s stocking will come in handy.

Friday, December 13, 2013

Bad Luck



     No wonder I got stood up for a Progressive Dinner tonight…it’s Friday, December 13, 2013. Shoulda saw it coming.
     Got Mrs B in her new flannel pajamas, all snuggly and warm after a shower, hemmed the pants (before helping her into them) and set her up at the table with pot roast, sautéed onions, broccoli, side salad and buttered toast. The oven was full-up with a pork lion, slab of meatloaf, marinated chicken breast, pan of curly fries with seasoned tilapia cooking in a frying pan on the stove, vegetables steaming and three eggs getting hard-boiled. This is my life on Friday nights. We opened the mail, I wrote five Christmas cards on her behalf, massaged and wrapped her bloated legs, dripped eye drops, cleaned the bathrooms, kitchen floor, counter tops and loaded up plates for the next four nights. In the back of my mind, I was preparing for a fun night out with friends. They would be nibbling hors d'oeuvres, moving onto the dinner spot, awaiting my phone call.
     It was later than I expected before I got out to my vehicle. My cell phone was acting up, spinning the numbers and not connecting properly so I had to take out the battery and re-set it, while shivering in the parking lot of Mrs. B’s apartment complex. I refer to the area as  The Ice Skating Rink since I pray, when I walk through the exit door, that I don’t fall flat on my face, purse flying across the slick concrete, contents spewing with embarrassment.
     Pushed the CALL button for one friend, no response, the next friend didn’t pick up so I chose to drive home versus drive around the city, attempting to locate the party. Sigh. Very disappointed. Friday the 13th struck.

Thursday, December 12, 2013

In the Face of Death



December 12, 2013
     “What do you think happens when we die?” The question shot out of my mouth before I thought twice about it.  “I don’t know and I don’t want anyone telling me what I should believe,” was the immediate response from Mrs. B.  “Do you think that we should know?” I refused to allow her to get sassy on me, nevermind suggesting I have any agenda here, she outta know me better than that by now. Then we got down to the nitty gritty, sharing stories about the process we each witnessed, while gently resting alongside someone who was actively dying. Oh, isn’t it an honor to be present with a soul, leaving the loved ones behind, not having one iota of control, or do they?
     Discuss.  

Wednesday, December 11, 2013

Efficient Elf



December 11, 2013
     My first job, outside of a carhop/general server, at the family-owned A&W was being an Elf at the Dunkin Jewelers at West Town Mall in Madison. I had an ugly green cap that slung off to the side, trapped alone in a bay window with mounds of gifts to wrap while the customer waited. To this day, I wonder how many same-sized boxes went to the wrong woman. Wasn’t on purpose, mind you, yet the receipt slips occasionally slid to the floor and became detached from its box. Without a price tag, would she notice it wasn’t so special, just as shiny and bright as the ring a few hundred dollars less expensive. Nonetheless, I learned to wrap efficiently, using the least amount of paper. The end result, a beautiful gift to present to its recipient. Whether it was hers or not. Yes, the majority of our customers were men.
     Spread all of the presents out on the livingroom floor this afternoon, wrapping paper, tape, scissors, tissue (mostly crumpled bits with holes here and there but colorful, nonetheless,) cheerful tags, and black Sharpie marker accompanied me.
     It used to be, when I traveled for my job, to a different city each weekday, for nine long years, that I could find wonderful items for each of my people, unique and charming, throughout the year. Now, I have to be very intentional about the person, have them in mind as I search for the right thing, the present that will amaze them in its exclusivity, it shouts the friend’s name as she/he opens the gem. It seems to be getting more difficult to be the wower.
     I also have a number of friends and relatives who have the audacity to have a birthday within spitting distance to Christmas. Makes it even tougher to track down the non-sensible gift item. What do you get someone who has everything, returns everything, collects nothing, buys whatever they actually want or need, has a completely different taste in clothing than I, eats no chocolate, doesn’t drink anymore, has only a shower for bathing, doesn’t need anything, has too many health issues to eat or drink anything fun, and is too old to enjoy nearly everything. I have two weeks before the holiday in question. Think I am down to the option of a box of Chiclets for the remaining parties on the list.  

Tuesday, December 10, 2013

Give me a Brake



December 10, 2013
     The brake bid came in just over $1000. Heard a squeal, like a squad car was following behind me, on Saturday, during the snow fall. Only the next day, when it happened several more times, did I realize it must be the brakes.
     Jim, at Pace Auto in West Saint Paul, is such a welcoming guy. Who shakes your hand anymore when you arrive to get your oil changed? Who greets the dog with the same enthusiasm? I asked him to look into the high-pitched shriek, hoping it was an ailing squirrel or the vehicle simply needing more brake fluid added. The service took longer than expected this morning so I sat, with the guys, chatting a little, about nothing in particular after walking Tyrus around the neighborhood for 45 minutes. He started lifting his paws up in the air, one at a time and my toes were numbing, so it was time to turn in.
     The owner announced his birthday is coming up and he isn’t looking forward to turning 60. Said he had forgotten all about it until his wife mentioned having cake and ice cream to celebrate. The big bearded fellow with a heavy pockmarked face, ill-fitted burnt orange bib overalls and clunky salt-stained boots suggested he doesn’t want to get old and lose control over his bowels. Then added, without a breath in between, “Well, I just lost it pushing the truck out of the driveway so I guess I shouldn’t worry about that part of being old anymore!” And I shot back “And you were probably relieved since it warmed you up!” Everyone bust a gut, and we all rambled on like old war buddies after that.
     The mechanic came out of the back to hand me my key ring, loaded enough to make a janitor jealous, telling me I’m ready to go. Jim promised to email me the brake quote, told me the usual brake inspection fee of $20 is waived, and gave me a $19.95 coupon for the future. He extended a large palm and told me to have a good day. I opened the door for the dog, realizing my windows are immaculate, inside and out, and the floor mats were hair-free. I ran a pint of maple syrup in to Jim, wishing him a Merry Christmas. Suppose, deep down, I was hoping it would butter him up so he wouldn’t charge me an arm, leg and one ear for the brakes. I should have known better.

Monday, December 9, 2013

Short Listed



December 9, 2013
     It’s someone’s birthday out there! You cannot pretend you don’t know that I know. 

     So cold my breath numbs my lungs as the air proceeds down my wool scarf-covered mouth. The dog insists on going out for a walk after I strolled down to the library and back for my meeting. Far better than to slip and slide in my vehicle along the slippery streets after dark. We race around the neighborhood, collecting greetings from the folks out shoveling, spinning motionless in their cars at the edge of the driveway, or coughing up smoke at the back step as they smoke and croak “Hey.” It has been a shivering day, avoiding the light dusting we got last night because my back reminds me just how much I do NOT want to attempt shoveling and encouraging pinching and stabbing pains in my lower torso. I’ll make a stab at it tomorrow, in the heat of the sunshine. Right.
     The Seed Library meeting outcome leaves me with more homework than I anticipated. I have assignments for my Developing Innovative Ideas for a New Company class and need to read my three Chapters in the book. Four video classes and notes (don’t do shorthand) force me to be in front of the laptop for hours per day. I am in charge of writing an article and press releases for the Seed Library group as well as putting together a list of gardening books to read to the children during story hour about plants and gardens and community-building fables to encourage the little minds to want to grow food. I am able to read Spanish at the preschool level, as long as I am not having to translate for the parents. Hmong is another story. I’ll be at the Riverview Branch Tuesdays at 10:30am, in case anyone wants to join me for story hour. I’ll be the one reading the book. In case you are wondering.

Sunday, December 8, 2013

Disheveled Driver



December 8, 2013

     Raw, scraped knuckles are a direct result from an hour long freeway drive with seven hundred other vehicles, dodging snow flakes, skidding over ice patches on the off ramps, listening to my heavy breath since I am too nervous to have the radio on, praying I get to my appointment on time. Slide from one lane, avoiding the 20 mph brake lights only to be tailed by people in an OJ chase scene reenactment. The onslaught of real winter weather sets me in panic mode. I hesitate to go out at the slightest threat of snow, despite my tree-climbing-capable vehicle. I have never used four wheel drive in my life and I don’t intend to start now.  
     They cracked the wine bottle at 10:00 this morning so I was already behind upon arrival. I declined the bottle and requested coffee with cream (yes, milk is fine but, skim? I shudder and pour a splash in my cup, discouraged by the horrible taste and add white sugar, to make it even more despicable. The food consists of cut cheese, Ritz crackers, a bowl of dog chow (crispy Chex cereal sprinkled with powdered chocolate milk, I believe) salami and ham slices and canned pineapple. I was feeling sorry I didn’t eat before I left the house. Stabbed a few squares of cheddar and threw in a coupla crackers to appease the crowd. It is going to be a long day. I add more white stuff to my coffee for good measure.
     A couple of knuckleheads follow behind me, just off the trailer hitch. Little do they know I nailed one car on that baby in my driving career. The passenger must have made some noise because after I raised my arms in surrender, he backed-off a tad. He could not get around me on the single lane highway so he must have been ranting and raving for some time, before swinging into a turn after weeks of hugging my bumper. The sweat trickled off my brow and I meandered down another route only to find yet another guy in a big hurry. I let out a sigh that no one seemed to hear.
     Passed the Co-Op in frustration, realizing it is too late to stop and pick up real chocolate and/or pizza, pretzels, chips and salsa, authentic cheese and such. Drat! The dog and cat are surely waiting by the door, waiting to be served dinner or supper, depending upon where you are from.
Love, your fair-weather driver

Saturday, December 7, 2013

Dodge a Bullet



December 7, 2013

     Michelle inquired about my Xterra. She wants to know if it is still for sale. I nearly deleted the message, thinking it is a crazy person from Craigslist and yet, a sensation in my gut, one that compelled me to put my vehicle on the market in the first place, urged me to reply to her. If in fact, it is a ”her.” She responded before the ink dried, with a slew of questions about the history of the car, which I do not know very well. In fact, I bought it from the parents of the owner, since she was unavailable, a veterinarian student, I was told, who drove back and forth, over the mountain passes, from Boulder to Seattle, to visit her folks. Story seemed viable enough. Dog hair is the second layer of the back seat and rear of the vehicle, impossible to vacuum out so I simply pass the wand over the top of it, hoping for the best. I explained to “Michelle” what I knew, promised to take photos of the interior, when it isn’t sub-zero temps and light enough to focus the camera properly, and sent the reply along the VIN.                   
     My first car was a three-on-the-tree Dodge Dart Swinger, yellow and rust. I didn’t even know how to drive a stick so my roommate, Ann, an auto mechanic, helped me pick it up. Dan, the bartender I worked with at The Valley in Dinkytown, asked if he could drive it and I let him behind the wheel, in exchange for driving lessons. He took me to a railroad crossing, happened to be on a perilous incline, and insisted I start it up. Soaked through my shirt that day but ended up back at home, intact, and here to tell the story. 
     Since the Dodge Dart, I have owned numerous Toyotas (solo new car was a Corolla) a few Volvos (wagons and sedan) and one Subaru. I drove a company car, at one point in time, in Dallas, a Fiero, black and sassy. It went back to the leasing agency, once the pragmatic company decided corporate cars were not cost effective.
     Tyrus has been limping a lot these days, jumping out of the tall vehicle seat. I choose to get something more gas efficient and lower to the ground, for the poor beast to travel comfortably.  He has one hundred pounds crashing into his shoulders. Not a good combination, in addition to long walks twice a day, chasing cats and squirrels in the neighborhood. I will take him along to test drive the new car, to be sure he approves.     

Friday, December 6, 2013

Tow Required



December 6, 2013

     Mrs B was angry with me for washing her blue bath towel tonight. I could not understand her reasoning. Maybe she thought I was wasting water and her clothes soap or because it might delay her bath time. I told her about an episode on New Girl” my new favorite show. One guy always came out of the shower to find his bath towel  damp and eventually one of the other guys suggested it was because HE  used that same towel. When was the last time you washed the towel, the first guy asked and the second chimed “You wash your towel, why?” She didn’t get the significance of the share. Yes, every once in awhile, I decide to throw her bath towel in the washer, to mingle with the other clothes in the basket. I gave up trying to figure it out and apologized for the inconvenience.
     My bad ankle is throbbing and swollen. Has been since I realized it was HOT in the shower, red and puffy. Dang, I kind of freaked out a bit, thinking something is terribly wrong, the bones aren’t healing properly, who can I call, what should I do. Spoke with my Essentials Oil Guru and she told me what to dribble on it, for good measure.  Slathered it in Frankincense  heat rub, tightly would an ace bandage around the sore foot, up to the knee and elevated it. Doubt I will have to extract the screws and plate but time will tell.
     No out of control sliding happening today, at least from behind my wheel. Crawled past two women on Highway 13, standing next to a car turned perpendicular to the ditch and the other vehicle slammed into its passenger door. The ladies, both young, dressed professionally, on their respective cell phones, appeared calm and rational. I tootled by, thanking my lucky charms it wasn’t me standing there, in a bad way. Also very grateful my car was parked in the garage from the night before and I only had to be subjected to the frigid cold long enough to unhook the gate and drive through the opening. For many years, I had to park on the street or in the driveway, often exposed to the elements, scraping the ice off the windshield with a credit card, nostril hairs freezing with each inhalation of bitter air.