DottyNana

In Mother Words: Bring your Viva

2011-03-13T16:55:00.000-07:00

Driving home from the grocery store this morning my local NPR station reminded me that In Mother Words, now playing at The Geffen, finishes its run on March 27. I made a mental note to call my daughter Jane and find out what night was free for her and her good friend, Jen…my early Mother’s Day gift to both of them.

I had gone on a rain-threatening Saturday afternoon as the guest of a fellow blogger (yeah I know, I haven’t blogged in a while) and in truth, I was more looking forward to lunch with Marsha than the play. Matinée performances are easy, though, and driving across L.A. on a cold(ish), cloudy(ish) and occasionally wet Saturday afternoon in February is no big challenge. Topanga Canyon to PCH to the 10 to the 405 and exit on Santa Monica. Easy. The fact that I’d walked out the door without cash, coat or umbrella didn’t cross my mind until a torrential but thankfully brief shower made me question my lack of preparedness as were having lunch at the always-good Sunnin on Westwood.

When we arrived at the theatre the first thing I noticed, besides the location of the cash only bar, was that the crowd was decidedly younger and there was no ATM machine in sight. Marsha and I cobbled together enough change and crinkled bills from the bottoms of our purses to manage a glass of red before the performance and then in we went. My first impression was right: we were in the small theatre and it was mostly filled with young moms all tangled up in that hormonal web of mothering that is somehow magnified when shared with others in the same boat. Most were thrilled to be out of the house on a Saturday afternoon and most of these moms knew at least a few other gals so there was much squealing and excitement…and you know, it was kind of contagious. We were all looking forward to this play.

Some of us are many years distanced from the thrill of pregnancy and the off-times monotony of hands-on mothering, but in Chapter One of In Mother Words birth, infancy, first steps and playground tedium burn with an intensity to make one’s own memories come swirling with a clarity that is equal parts joyful nostalgia coupled with a vivid recall of the clock-dragging drudgery of many days of those first years.

But never once did I look at my watch and never once did I feel that these stories rang false. And through sniffs, noisy nose-blowing and some out-loud sobby intakes of breath (our row), the 20 monologues marched along at a clip that was perfect. I’m not so sure the non-mothering crowd would enjoy it as much as we did, but I know that I’ve recommended it to every mother I’ve come in contact with over the last couple of weeks and if that isn’t a recommendation, what is.

And here’s what else I know:

Just because your kids are grown up (and your daughter is a mother) doesn’t mean that your love, fears, or dreams for them are diminished in any way.

Being a grandmother is even more thrilling than being a mother because it’s unaccompanied by the day-in, day-out little stuff that can wear a mom down.

Soft, Viva paper towels work better than tissues any day of the week and I was happy to share mine at the theatre.

And here’s what I hope:

While I know that motherhood is full-circle, please oh please let me stay compos mentis until I leave this earth.

Time of Year

2010-10-11T07:42:00.001-07:00

Seasonally, Southern California is confusing...and not just to me. The minute September hits, young girls are wearing their Ugg boots with their short shorts, ready for anything the weather may throw at them. Days and nights can be cool and sweater-worthy while days are hot and sunny and I rarely get it right. My car is filled with discarded layers.

I blame my confusion on the fact that I grew up out East in Washington, DC where there were four seasons:

Winter: Sometimes a nor'easter would hit with a full-bore, head-on snowfall of such magnitude that it closed schools for days, messed with inaugurations and generally delighted every child and government worker within and outside of the Beltway. But most of the time it wasn't like that; it was easy with yellow forsythia budding early and brightening the mild winter greys.

Spring: Soft, sweet, fragrant, pink and white. She sometimes tip-toed into town, feathery and filled with promise but more often a little too warm and steamy, reminding everyone of just what was to come. And then, too many times, those delicate blossoms that had been forced into beauty by the sun, were whacked by winds and pelting rain and sometimes heavy, wet and quick-t0-melt snows.

Summer: A bitch with bite. Sweaty, steamy and kinda sexy. Lots of sun, lots of lightening and thunder and lots of memories of bathing just before bed, a sprinkle of talc and the fan blowing coolish air. We never had air conditioning. Why the hell not? [note to self: ask Mum when I'm in England in the Spring]

Autumn: Usually, perfection.

English seasons were predictably unpredictable, especially in Newcastle where grey, damp, chilly summer days seemed to be the norm. Ditto for winter, spring and autumn. And before my Geordie friends tell me just how wrong I am, I do read your FB postings which seem to mention the weather with some frequency. But you know something, it didn't matter. And even though a rare show of sunshine often dueled with scuttling clouds, we mostly loved our time in the North. The South, though, was definitely not so challenging. Early days in Lymington and then our time in Caversham...easy peasy.

And then there was the upper Mid-West...Milwaukee. Twenty years of weather drama. We flew into O'Hare on New Year's Day 1981. There was a little light left in the sky and dry, powder-like snow whipped 'round our woefully under-dressed selves. I remember looking at Roger over the childrens' heads and mouthing something like, "What the hell?" And I said that (and more), with frequency:

when our snowblower broke and our then teenaged son was v e r y slow to get out of bed to help clear the driveway because Alonzo (our driveway clearer) was even slower;
when trying to explain to my then teenaged daughter that no she couldn't go to the movies because the tornado sirens were going and we had to hide in the basement (in spite of the fact that her father was sitting upstairs calmly reading the NY Times);
when torrential rains flooded our basement;
when our TV reception tanked so I half hung out a 2nd story window using a broom handle to chip ice off the satellite dish;
when ice storms would blind me with their beauty;
when the ash tree failed to leaf for my daughter's May 22 birthday
and when that same wretched ash tree dropped its leaves before my son's October 29 birthday
Winter: Cold
Spring: Cold with odd days that give one hope
Summer: Welcome, but buggy
Autumn: Beautiful, but short-lived

And then we moved to Topanga. Yesterday it was in the upper 90s. September saw the hottest temperatures of the entire summer, well over 100. Several days ago we got an inch and a half of rain...our first since early May. The summer months were deliciously sunny and cool (mid 70s to mid 80s) and anyone who lived along the coast was mostly in fog. And the nights...perfect for sleeping, dry and cool. Winter, Spring, Summer, Autumn could all have days in the 60s or 80s or 90s. Only the rains tell me the time of year. So unless there's a Christmas tree or pumpkin or Easter basket in the photo I haven't got a clue in which month it was taken. And you know, I'm just fine with that.

This and That

2010-10-10T21:21:00.001-07:00

It's been a while and I've decided to start testing the bloggy waters once again. I have fun with Facebook and it's punchy and quick and wonderfully mysterious the way it brings people into my life who have been sadly absent for decades; old high school friends who I am delighted are still of this world but have endured the pain of sickness and loss and the children of old friends who have mysteriously turned into full-blown adults.

Much of the thrust of my writing this year has been focused on Topanga Women's Circle and while I regret not one minute of my time spent with this great group of ladies, I do want to dust off Dotty Nana and attend to her just a little bit more. Just not tonight...

¿Hablas español

2009-11-30T14:34:00.000-08:00

I continue to take French, less formalized now that mon professeur has removed herself to the South of France, but still the four of us (Dan, Paulette, Janaki and I) soldier on and have a practice type class every Wednesday night. In my heart, though, I know I should be learning Spanish.

Living in Southern California, formerly known as Mexico, where every single person who helps me keep the dust bunnies at bay and the ‘garden’ growing, who bravely fells 100-foot gum trees and hacks out tinder-dried palm fronds before they become missiles in a fire, who tiles and wires and routers and fiddles with my home and grounds so that I don’t have to…doesn’t speak French and rarely English.

Last July our gardener, Santiago, hurt his knee. And so his wife Lydia and teenaged son Mayno (I think that’s how it’s spelled) came out each Monday to help him through his day. And because it was two of them working, we suggested they leave at noon instead of 3 PM. Santiago’s knee healed and Mayno eventually went back to school but Lydia continues to come. She’s strong and a good worker but we like having Santiago here for a full day instead of half, and also feel it’s wrong if they’re both working and we’re not paying for both their efforts. So Roger asked Santiago if he could just come on his own because of, you know, our guilt.

But I guess Roger didn’t explain it very well because Lydia came today and we didn’t know quite what to say, so Roger said something that was obviously lost in translation and then she went and sat in their truck. Arghhhhhhhhhhhhh…so I took her a cup of coffee and smiled and said, using Google Translator…of course not really knowing if this was quite what I meant to say (I'm still not sure).

“Lydia, nos encanta tener que venir a trabajar con Santiago, sólo que no tienen suficiente dinero para pagar más dinero por semana que las de Santiago que ya hacemos.”

Yeah, I probably said it that loudly, too. And she, thinking I spoke a kind of Spanish, started speaking to me from her heart. I made all the right faces, I guess, and said, “SI…SI…Entiendo (which I clearly did not)” and so now she will continue accompanying Santiago every Monday because she wants to and we’ll just have to get used to it, I guess.

But before I actually found her in their truck, I wandered around the garden snapping pictures of an almost December day in my back/front/side yards. I was trying to be all natural and didn’t want Lydia to think I was hunting for her.

It’s either Spanish lessons or carrying an iPhone around with Google Translate at the ready. Here's what I saw today.

Goldfinch taking advantage of the seeding Rosemary

They See Me

American Robin (to my European friends...I know, I know, it's a Thrush)

A Tangle of Rosemary

Salvia in Bloom

Working Man

Tequila!

Crap grass through Peppercorns

Two Trimmed Gum Trees next to a shaggier untrimmed one

Season's Over

He's still getting by with a little help from his friends

Afternoon Sun and Shadow on living room floor

My favorite book on color

Coffee Table by the end of the weekend

When it's this dry, I keep this book in plain sight

There's One Born Every Minute

2009-10-10T13:27:00.000-07:00

One of my husband's most poignant memories happened long, long ago, when he was just a small boy in a hamlet called Hound Green (in Hampshire, England), not too awfully far from Rotherwick (where his mean granny lived). A place then so remote that just for fun that poor little boy would watch for motor cars passing on the main road and when one finally came along, he'd enter it into a little book; name, model, color and any other info he could glean as it whizzed by. You see, he was an occasional car spotter... because the motor car was that rare and he is that old and the train tracks were that far away.

One day he and his sister were frolicking in the fields near their home, probably scrumping for apples or some other rural pursuit, when they heard the unmistakable but faint gurgle of the mobile fish and chip van way on the other side of the common, at least 1/2 a mile away. They had become so engrossed in their play that they'd forgotten the thrupenny bit (three pence old money, pronounced thrupknee bit) they'd been given for this special treat. But upon hearing the greasy thrum thrum of the mobile lard wagon, they screamed "RUN" to each other and took off through the fields, hoping it hadn't been there too long already. Blackberry brambles caught at their bare legs but it bothered them not whit. They were salivating and grinning and already tasting the rare treat of hot chips slathered with salt and malt vinegar from the chippie. "Maybe he'll give us a pickled onion for free," screamed one of them, giggling in excitement. They could smell that unmistakable aroma of glorious hot oil, redolent with a light fish and chip overlay and it was getting stronger and stronger with every stride they took.

But as they were halfway across the common, almost tasting the vinegar-soaked, golden chips, they stopped mid-stride and watched, disbelievingly, as the chippie van lumbered away down the village lane, still too far away for them to catch. And all they were left with was the smell, enticingly strong and constantly reminding them of just what they had missed. That and the hot thrupenny bit clutched safely in my husband's tiny hand. So although the noble chip is hardly a regular part of his diet, his judgment of just what makes a chip good has been long in the making...that and he's an opinionated man about lesser things than the quality of his fried tatties.

And because of this history, I bought these...

So I could do this:

to these:

I don't normally have a pan full of oil on the boil so the exhaust fan was working double-time and you woulda thought Santa had just come down the chimney and offered us his first-born elf...the level of excitement was that high in our kitchen and it was all because we were fryin', deep fryin', baby!

And why were we deep frying? Well, it had something to do with the mitts that I'd bought at TJ Maxx that afternoon. I'd never really thought of myself as someone P.T. Barnum would look upon as an easy touch…a sucker, but c'mon, look at them! I couldn’t help it. I looked at the box, the price, the end product and I was hooked. Completely. They're Tater Mitts! Yah, tater mitts, quick peeling potato gloves in case you've never heard of them before and they were advertised on TV, too! Yes, as seen on TV and I have no doubt that if I'd seen them on the telly I no doubt would have bought them (and paid shipping costs) long before they were sequestered to some dusty shelf at TJ Maxx. I wasn't really looking for Tater Mitts when I went to the Maxx, but when I saw that box on the sale shelf I couldn't help but snatch them up quickly, devouring every word.

Peels a Potato in 8 Seconds! (screamed the box)

"Ohmygod, I must have thought (my memory is a little clouded). That's amazing."

I looked at the picture, Gloves that looked a little like my Mrs. Mop gloves but covered in hard blue bits. I read further. And what I read must have convinced me. They're easy to use, comfortable and safe (I won't cut myself, yay) and, ohmygod, there's a free bonus gift...a chip cutter. So now, only the second or third time in my 40 years of marriage that I'd actually cooked chips, I could cut them evenly. Praise Jebus.

So, they came home with me and he laughed a bit (maybe at me, not sure) and then stopped and started reading the box intently. I didn't really plan on cooking chips that first night. My intent was just to zip peel a few tatties for that dinner, throw them in the steamer with some mint and boom, done. It was Roger, the chip connaisseur, who started rooting around in the pantry for the right oil.

"It needs to tolerate high temperatures," he muttered as he peered into the back of the liquor cabinet, which is where I store tall bottles of anything that won't fit in the slidey drawer next to the stove.

"Oh look, one size fits all!" I said, anticipating him spending many happy minutes shredding the skin off with OUR new Tater Mitts.

Blue lava-like chips of something that I think would be dangerous to eat are embedded into the rubber of the glove, more or less semi-permanently. They're rough and tough and can peel spuds, maybe a few seconds more quickly than I can conventionally peel them but they only really work well if you keep the water running while you do the job. Just like the picture on the box! CLUE! So using these things when you live in a Canyon where water's at a premium and you pay over $300 a month in conservation mode just makes no sense.

But use them we did. And I'd sort of forgotten about them until last night when Roger was looking for something (liquory) in the liquor cupboard and he muttered, "What's this?"

We half-smiled as he shoved them back in the cupboard, both no doubt thinking, "I'll toss those out when the other isn't watching." But, and here's a confession, those fresh chips were so good that I'm secretly envious of folks who casually keep their electric chip makers on the countertop (Roger's uncle and aunt in Wales) in their own kitchen, confident enough to not worry about what anyone thinks.

But we live in Southern California and it's common knowledge that deep frying for your own personal consumption, while not exactly a crime, is most certainly a misdemeanor.

9/11

2009-09-11T14:13:00.000-07:00

Today I am remembering New York and specifically Kristen Gould...a beautiful and gracious woman who loved life, travel, the beauty of words and her husband Jim. Kristen died on United Airlines Flight #93, 9/11/01 and will never be forgotten.

Because it Feels Better

2009-07-29T08:00:00.001-07:00

Paella et Adieux

2009-07-27T07:25:00.000-07:00

Mon professeur de français et son mari se déplacent à Antibes le 31 août...or perhaps it should be mon professuer de français et son mari se démenagent à Antibes le 31 août. Or perhaps both of those are wrong and I just need to follow them to the South of France so I can figure out what's correct.

But to celebrate the summer and our class, last night we had a paella dinner chez nous. I know, I know, it's Spanish, but look at a map. Antibes, Toulon, Marseilles, Nimes, Montpellier, Béziers, Perpignan and then you're almost in Barcelona. OLE! And The Gypsy Kings...Spanish? Nope, French. Well, their parents were gitanos from Catalona who had fled to France during the Spanish Civil War. So, yeah, technically Spanish, but un peu français aussi, non? So we had them stomping and riffing and partying in the background and every now and then I'd throw my arms up in a distinctly meant-to-be but ultimately non-flamenco move, overwhelmed by the heat and the Spanishness of it all.

The food was good fun with everyone contributing. I made a couple of paellas, Dan & Martha made the sangria (the best ever), Paulette made a great roasted red pepper dish (fantastico), Nadia brought Spanish cheeses, Andrea and Neal brought a superb salad, Ellen & Steve brought brownies and ice cream, Buzz brought minted melon, Janaki came bearing wines and rendered ice pack therapy for my neck (and elsewhere) and Arlette and Andrew had wines and plenty of sparkling water and, as always, were enormous help. One of the paella pans was so big it had to be cooked in our oven (HOT), while Roger manned the other out on the grill.

It was enormous fun and enormously hot and a little poignant. Fun because of the people. Hot because the living room zoned part of our AC was fried by a leak onto the compressor and woo hoo...needs to be replaced. The estimates to replace it begin this afternoon. Nobody seems hungry enough to cut me a deal in July so if I have to wait until November, I will. I'm stubborn like that. And poignant because of Antibes's lure and also because Ellen and Steve are headed back to Minneapolis. Nothing remains the same, but sometimes moments demand capture and this was one of them.

Fans were blowing everywhere, ensuring that our (especially mine) sweated brows were dried to a degree acceptable in company. I wish I'd thought to capture a few of the other food and friends moments but these will have to suffice.

Always teaching...Arlette with Neal and Martha in the background

Un autre professeur, Buzz with Ellen and Steve

Arlette encore, mais où est-Andrew, son mari? Neal, Martha and Andrea in the background

After the dinner. Sangria glasses emptying quickly, post-prandial collapse to follow.
Dan to the right of Andrea

Paulette, Nadia et Janaki

The MEAT paella

And the overly musseled fish and meat paella. This paella pan is 3" deep by 16" across

Fourth of July

2009-07-04T11:42:00.000-07:00

July 4, '08...white blobs in black sky...those would be fireworks

Happy Fourth, everyone and remember...safety first!

http://www.arsonwatch.com/

Mothering Sunday

2009-05-10T20:56:00.000-07:00

A beautiful day. Lots of fragrant flowers, Roger, granddaughters, daughter and son-in-law. Son Colin, in faraway New York, sent flowers which apparently arrived Friday but the $%^&* FedEx delivery guy left them sitting in a box on our stone wall at the bottom of the drive and who knew until as the kids were heading down the drive this evening, Jane spotted them. Fortunately, the chocolates were in a chill pack and hadn't melted. The flowers, while beautiful, hadn't fared so well.

The day started with breakfast in bed. Sophie beside me munching on dry French bread. Offered butter and jam she said, 'No sanks, Nana.' She prefers her bread neat. Note to self: vacuum bed before thinking about sleep.

Big Sunday lunch...organic roast chicken, fresh herbs and lemons shoved unceremoniously inside, minted tatties, carrots not long pulled out of the earth and a huge salad, followed by brownies and fresh berries.

And lots of pool time. A good day.

Revlon Run/Walk for Women

2009-04-25T07:45:00.000-07:00

No one can forget where he or she was on 9/11. Roger and I were in California, anxiously awaiting the birth of our first grandchild. We spent one week trying to process the horror of that September day before Charlotte was born, healthy and beautiful, and filling us with joy once more. And then the day after her birth we flew back to Milwaukee where I had my final chemo cocktail on September 20th.

Bye bye ovarian cancer, hello life. And so this year, as in others, my daughter Jane and I will walk to celebrate life and to remember others who haven't been so fortunate. If you can help in any way, I'd so appreciate it. Thank you. xoxo

When Aioli is Not Just Aioli

2009-04-20T08:47:00.000-07:00

Mon professeur de français, Arlette, et son mari Andrew sont les hôtes fantastiques. And last night was no different. Arlette is from Antibes, near Nice, and thus knows a thing or two about regional cooking, southern French style.

In Provence, an aioli is not just a home-made mayonnaise, deliciously heavy on the garlic, but an entire meal that honors the bounty of spring/summer. A room- temperature meal, the preparation happens before the heavy heat of the day turns cooking into a dreaded duty. Then you call friends. "J'ai fait un aioli. Allez plus." Or something like that (my class is tonight so I'll find out if that really is what they'd say).

Our aioli included cod that was poached most deliciously, langoustine and, well, here are a few pictures that convey the meal far better than my words.

The cod

Langoustine

Magnifique, n'est-ce pas?

The aioli

The location (the view, the view!), the home and the company conspired to make this a special evening.

Hummer Mum

2009-04-15T16:14:00.000-07:00

The last few weeks have been magically cool, for the most part, with some fairly high winds. We've kept an anxious eye on the hummingbird's nest which has been built with great skill and sophistication in the low-hanging and weedy-thin branches of the Chinese Elm on the patio just outside our kitchen. We've tiptoed in and out to the grill and finally moved our main outdoor dining table to the back patio to discourage anyone from sitting within 10 feet of the nest. Then we fixed the screen door to stay in the open position just because we were tired of yelling at one another for letting the door slam. And then we kept a close watch.

We started pointing out some of the nest's materials, the minute twigs and fluff and spidery web lashings that she gathers. There is this obviously artificial, plastic-looking stuff which she has favored with this nest and which renders it near artificial, almost as if an artist wanted to create the most perfect hummingbird nest ever and stooped to use non-natural materials to achieve her goal. We've finally figured out what that fake material is, clever sods that we are. A couple of years ago we'd had a shoot at our house for this green, yoga(y) type catalog that actually has some wonderful things in it. It was only April but this was for their annual Christmas catalog. Our Topanga Canyon home was turned into a rustic and cozy Maine cottage. Organic, flannel sheets were lovingly Army tucked into our bed which was moved into our little family room, right off the kitchen. Christmas wreathes were hung and dusted with snow. Fake snow. Plastic stuff that even months after their departure we were still finding in the oddest of places like the inside of a camellia flower or dusted along the ledge of a rarely opened window. Grrrrrrrr, I would think and then promptly forget it. Until the nest presented itself in all its snow-dusted glory.

Were there eggs in it? We didn't dare get close enough to look in case some of our garlicky human breath left an unfavorable impression on the hummer mum.

What if the nest falls? The winds are so high. Jesus, what kind of hummer mum is she to build her nest in such an obvious spot. I'll tell you what kind of mum she is, she's a good one. Only a hovering bird could raid the nest and hummingbirds leave one another's young alone. There is no way any scavenger bird could perch on the willowy branches of the Chinese Elm, try as they may.

She sat patiently on the nest for what felt like weeks, disappearing every now and then for some nectar or the odd bug but flying back before I began flapping my hands in baby worry. If I happened to go out the kitchen door and lingered too long in the vicinity of her nest, she'd swoop up and around me, leaving the fast thumping flutter of her wings echoing in my head for tens of seconds after her erratic switch-back departure. Gradually she became more and more comfortable with our habits and would just hang on her nest staring at us as we went back and forth, always giving her a wide berth.

And then she stopped sitting there. Oh Christ, has she abandoned her babies? Should I call the Hummingbird Rescue folks? Should I climb up there and...? And then she started flying around my head and I knew everything was okay. I came inside and got my camera and oh...babies! See their little beaks? Those black things aren't so cute (fecal sacs) but a necessary part of keeping the nursery tidy.

And then they just started growing and growing until the nest was beginning to look decidedly too small. (Hah, I thought it looked small at this point)

But now, half the time they're just draping themselves over their snug roost dreaming, no doubt, of flying. Oh Christ, please be careful (and tell your Mum to clean up that fake snow that's loosening and making your perfect home look a little shop-soiled...like any nursery, I guess).

And now look at them...I turn away for two days and this happens. They're almost ready to fly the nest, I can just tell. It happens so quickly. So very quickly...just like with our own babies. So fleeting.

Happy Endings

2009-04-08T10:35:00.001-07:00

A couple of weeks ago when I was wiping down our kitchen/dining room table, I got a small splinter in my palm. It wasn’t the first time and I silently reminded myself to be more flippin’ careful at that end of the table. I looked at my hand, back at the table and thought idly about what grade sandpaper we’d need to smooth it down and fill the knotty holes that over time had started to deepen and, because Santiago was at that moment sanding down our outside doors (that take a terrible beating from the sun), I wondered if he could do the work, lazy cow that I am.

Then I wondered if maybe we should just polyurethane the table after we’d made the repairs. Would that change the look? We bought this table in part because it had an aged patina to it and it wasn’t a formal dining room table. Our kitchen/great(ish) room is where we have casual family meals and also dinner parties. When we’d moved from Milwaukee seven years ago, I sold our large mahogany dining room table to the folks who bought our house. The transaction went something like this:

Her: Ohmygod I LOVE your dining room. The table is beautiful and I can’t imagine anything else in here.

Me: Wanna buy it?

Her: What? Really?

Me: Yep. (unsaid…I don’t want it and it won’t work in our Topanga house).

Her: I’m sure it’s more than I can afford. Just buying this house is stretching us to breaking point.

Me: Hey, I may have paid a lot for this table, but I’ll sell it for next to nothing (unsaid: because I’m a lazy cow and who the hell cares about the table…you bought our house for almost full asking price).

Her: How much (said with absolute fear that it would be too much),

Me: $250

Her: What? Are you kidding?

Me: No. Want it? If not, I’m going to advertise.

Her: (Whipping out checkbook) Yes, Yes…I want it! Ohmygod, I can’t believe it’s mine.

Me: I’m so happy it’s going to stay here (unsaid: Hoofuckingray!).

And that’s how it came to be that when we moved to Topanga we had no dining room table. The owners of this house had a big wooden table that I thought could probably work for us but it never occurred to me to ask them if it was for sale. Their real estate agent had told us its story, as well. No need to sit down, boys and girls: it’s short.

One day, the owners (hereinafter referred to as the morons) were having a dinner party and, apparently on the very day that 10 people were coming to their house to dine, they thought, “OHMYGOD, we have no table upon which to serve the dinner.” At that point, the male moron proceeded to whipstitch together a dining room table. Boom. Done.

“Wow, that’s amazing,” I said to the agent. Skull cinema was thinking, “They didn’t realize they had no table until the day of the dinner party?”

And so it came to pass that they had a very large table (10 feet long and almost 5 feet wide) which, while it fit this kitchen fairly well, probably wouldn’t ever fit any other kitchen again.

And then they put their house on the market and we offered to buy it and then the moron said, all casual like, “Would you be interested in buying the table? It fits the kitchen so well.” (Unspoken: it won’t fucking fit in any room in our new house in the Palisades, please buy it).

And I said, “Sure, we’d be interested. While it’s a little bigger than we wanted, it would probably work for us. How much?” (I’m remembering, of course, that I charged $250 for a pretty nice mahogany table with two leaves and full table pads just a few weeks prior).

And that fucking moron looked me straight in the eyes and said without blinking, “I was thinking $1,500.”

And I looked him straight in the eye and said, “No thanks.”

And so he went from having a sale in his pocket to nothing and so said, “We could negotiate.”

And I said, “No we can’t. You made the mistake of starting too high and I’ve seen a table I like at Restoration Hardware that is just under a grand.”

And he said, “ We could go below a grand.”

And I said, “No thanks. I’ll stick with the table at RH.”

And you know what? I’m really, really glad that I did because after I got that second splinter I sent an email to customer service at RH telling them the issues I was having with this seven-year old table. They listened hard and I sent them some photographs illustrating the problems and then, last week, they said, “We are happy to replace the table. We stand by our products at RH and while we do not stock your table any longer, we are pleased to offer you either the Gun Barrel Salvaged Wood Table or our Trestle Salvaged Wood Dining Table…whichever you prefer. Just go to www.restorationhardware.com and make your choice and we'll deliver it at your convenience.

I’m still reeling that they have been so responsive to one of their customers and I know one thing for very certain…I will continue shopping at Restoration Hardware and if you think I haven’t already told this story one hundred times…

Location, Location, Location

2009-04-02T22:28:00.000-07:00

Tightly lashed to a low-hanging limb of our Chinese Elm, this Hummingbird's nest has survived high winds, rain and us creeping back and forth for weeks now. One, maybe two chicks have been hatched so we'll be giving her a wide berth for a few more weeks.

Grace in Small Things 2

2009-03-29T21:23:00.000-07:00

And today, because I needed a reminder of what beauty there is in the world, I'll share with you what I made myself see, inside and outside.

An appreciative goldfinch

A nesting Hummingbird who's built her baby house in the Chinese Elm right
outside the kitchen door. Low to the ground. So trusting.

Model of a roman head that I bought in Conimbriga , nr. Coimbra, Portugal
Magical ruins

A beautiful heart-shaped, ceramic bowl that the Malones gave us filled with mint-shaped pieces of marble I found on the beach in Nerja, Spain at least 15 years ago.

Our house in Milwaukee, under a typical winter's snow. I loved the house and miss my friends but I am grateful to be living in a different climate...a different state.

My Tiffany paperweight heart. Thank you, Elissa. xox

A Ceanothus Silk Moth hanging on my front porch light fixture

A Thinking Seven Year Old

2009-03-18T21:16:00.000-07:00

My granddaughter Charlotte thinks...a lot. And when she gets to thinking, she normally puts pen to paper, as you'll see in this letter she wrote to her best friend, Violet. Marriage, exploding sun, angint (ancient) times...lots of stuff. She wrote this letter before going off to sleep the other night.

God I love this kid.

March at the Huntington

2009-03-14T15:39:00.001-07:00

I'm still trying to figure out what I'm doing wrong with Flickr, but clicking on this pic will take you somewhere.

IMG_5271
Originally uploaded by lililsley

2. Grace in Small Things at Home in Topanga

2009-03-04T13:31:00.001-08:00

Sweet Olive Blossom
(each blossom is no bigger than an infant's fingernail)

Brand New Fig Leaf

The Sweetest Little Climbing Yellow Roses

Solitary Almond Blossom

Sunset Outside my Front Door

Grace in Small Things

2009-02-25T22:45:00.000-08:00

Miz Pickles' Grace in Small Things. Such a simple idea. Since I received Schmutzie's first email asking me to join her in this positive movement, I've thought of it. Almost every day, but it was only tonight that I decided to copy and paste the Gracie logo and like all ideas that I embrace later rather than sooner, I'm overthinking it.

What I daily feel most thankful for is my family and so I shall start with them.

1. I am forever grateful that I married the man I'd only known three weeks and that now, 40 years later, I still feel such relief that we made the right decision...to spend our lives together.

2. It makes me so very happy that aside from loving my children with the love that every mother knows, I really, really like them as people. They are smart, funny and sassy.

3. My granddaughters. Who knew such joy could exist. I didn't.

4. My mother. She is 83 and still rides her bike to the shops each day and walks it home, when the panniers are filled. She is a proud and independent woman who has a wonderfully active silly streak.

5. My mother's husband who is 10 years younger than her. Because of him I can go to bed at night, knowing my mother, thousands of miles away in England, is well cared for and loved.

A Nobel Peace Prize for Pete Seeger

2009-01-26T22:12:00.001-08:00

Maybe some of you are too young to remember Pete Seeger and his incredible contributions through music and protest to the peace movement, but I hope not. Pete remains as incredible and vital as ever, witnessed by his performance at Obama's Inaugural Concert, We Are One.

And now something that to me is long overdue...the nomination of Pete Seeger for a Nobel Peace Prize.

Barbara Lee, Congressional Representative from the 9th District, California, has agreed to carry the nomination of Pete Seeger for the Nobel Peace Prize.

The petition has grown to over 21 thousand signatures. If you go to this website, you'll see where you can click to sign the peitition and also see what moving and sincere comments people have made about how Pete opened their consciousness in so many ways. The petition will hopefully be kept open until the end of the year so that the final document will be sent to the Smithsonian Institution, or whereever Pete's archives will eventually be housed, as a document for posterity.

Thanks for signing.

A Big Day for All of Us

2009-01-20T19:12:00.000-08:00

A lot of folks claim the District of Columbia as their home and those who claim native Washingtonian status are asked one question and one question only. It isn’t what high school did you go to. It isn’t where’d you live. It remains to this day, "So, where were you born?" Hint: It doesn’t count if you were born in Maryland or Virginia, no matter how close your hospital was to the District line.

It's a city that's full of transients…folks who are there for a brief idealistic while after college, for the four to eight years of a new administration or working in one of the departments and bureaus that are scattered throughout the City and into Maryland and Virginia. But, to this day, a rarity is the native Washingtonian.

When I was a kid, Washington was a small, Southern city, easy to navigate and laid out on a pretty logical grid by L’Enfant in the eighteenth century. I first lived in the Adams-Morgan area of Washington, close to the National Zoo, but my family became a white flight statistic in 1956 when we moved to Silver Spring, Maryland. The City remained familiar, though, and Christmas and back-to-school shopping all happened downtown on F Street. Woodward & Lothrop (Woodies), The Hecht Company (Hecht’s) and Garfinkels…these were our big department stores. Sure, a few suburban branches existed but they were nothing like the downtown stores. There was even a Best & Co., in Chevy Chase as I remember.

And because it was Washington, DC and politics is the main game in town, most kids had family or family friends who were involved in the business of government or reporting on the business of government. May Craig, an important journalist and frequent panelist on Meet the Press, was neighbor Buzzy’s Claggett’s grandma, and frequently in the neighborhood for Sunday dinner, regaling all with insider tales. I can remember parties where young Al Gore, one of David Brinkley’s sons (can’t remember his name now) and various embassy kids were regulars. I guess it’s like L.A. Sooner or later you’re going to be partying with someone who doesn’t know you but you know all about him.

And elections always were big deals in Washington, even to kids. Most children knew the names of the players at a pretty young age. "I Like Ike." That’s what I remember about Eisenhower. That and a black and white photo at our neighbors, the Rowe’s house. In the picture, my friend Jere's mom, Mary Lou Rowe, one of Eisenhower’s secretaries, is sitting on the corner of a desk (Ike’s?) with a coke bottle in one hand and a cigarette in the other and in the background, there’s the president. The first presidential race I vaguely remember was the 1956 (I was eight) election. I had an "Adlai Stevenson…The Thinking Man’s Candidate" button. Secretly I wished I could wear an "I Like Ike" button. Much catchier. More fun and punchy. Hard for a kid to talk up Stevenson’s superior intellect. I was disappointed that the guy on my button didn’t win, but it didn't run deep.

And then it was 1960 and though I wouldn’t be able to vote in a Presidential election until 1968, John F. Kennedy energized American youth, including elementary school children, similarly to Barack Obama today. A week or so before the inauguration one of our very liberal neighbors asked my parents if I could come with them and their daughter, Ellen, to the Inauguration and the parade. They’d moved to the area the year before from Washington State and would only be in DC for two years while Ellen’s dad was a visiting professor at Georgetown. That connection somehow secured tickets in the stands and transportation (from the University) to the Mall. Because a lot of dignitaries hadn’t been able to make it to Washington due to the winter storm the night before, people were encouraged to sit pretty much wherever they wanted so if you were able to make it through the snow, you could pretty much be assured of a decent seat in the stands.

I remember being pretty excited about missing school and am ashamed to say that most of my memories of that very special day involve the bitterly cold weather. We’d had heavy snow the night before, although you’d never know it by looking at the parade route. Pennsylvania Avenue and any important access roads along it were clean and dry, the snow having been plowed, shoveled and dumped into the Potomac by what I now know to be thousands of members of the military. Grassy areas were piled high with snow that hadn’t been moved and Ellen and I spent most of the parade climbing the frozen mounds, doing cartwheels, making snow angels and running around having snowball fights with other random kids under the bleachers.

But what do I remember of the important stuff? Not much. Even the entreaty from Ellen’s parents to hurry up, the President’s limousine is almost here fell on deafish ears. We got there in time to see the black convertible’s tail lights disappearing slowly up Pennsylvania Avenue, the President and Jackie barely visible. Can I tell you how disappointed I am in myself?

And then years later, my daughter Jane, who was asst. press secretary for Wisconsin in the first Clinton-Gore campaign (and we have the picture of her with the President to prove it) drove off to Washington after the election to work on the Hill for Wisconsin Representative and now Milwaukee Mayor, Tom Barrett. She went to an Inaugural Ball (I don't remember which one) and lived the DC life for seven years, until she and her husband moved to Los Angeles.

And now the Obamas!

This morning my best DC girlfriend, Kathy, sent me this email.

"I am on my way down to the Inauguration. Wind chill 8 degrees! Help! Hardest part so far has been finding someone to go with me. One of our former law clerks. A really sweet guy whose wife said no way. John is going, but is biking down the canal. That sounded a little bit too ambitious for me, so we will be taking a train/bus and will then walk. Look for me on your telly!

Isn't it all just too much?!?!?!

Love, K"

And then later on she made more to say...

"Okay, so I was dressed in so many layers I looked like a kid in a snow sujit, but did it ever pay off. I never got cold. Did get a little stiff standing on the frozen ground for 4+ hours. Getting down to the mall was a breeze. Left on Metro at 7 this morning and got down there on the mall in about 45 minutes. We were halfway between the Capitol and the Monument watching the whole thing on the jumbotron with the Capitol straight ahead of us. Close enough to see the bunting. It was cool staring at the Capitol in the distance while we watched Obama take the oath on the big screen. Getting off of the mall took a lot longer. Abut 2 hours to get to the Metro, but then it was clear sailing. Linda, the whole experience really was incredible. We were hugging strangers. Lots of tears. Everyone around so jubuliant, and hopeful and happy, happy, happy. Every time they showed Bush's stupid face on the Jumbotron the crowd would start singing "na, na, na, goooood byyye!" Great to be with millions of like minded people! As we were standing around trying to get home we actually saw Bush's helicopter fly away. Isn't that neat? Later, Jeremy and I got separated -- the crowd was so huge -- but we already agreed that if that happened we would just go it alone. I think I made better time. Got home at 3:15. Not bad.

I am so sorry that you couldn't text me. I just got a new phone and that would have blown me away! Gosh, I would have loved having you with me! What did you think of his speech? Wasn't it great when he took those shots at the past administration? I couldn't believe that Michelle did not wear a coat! She looked kind of bulky, so I'm hoping that was long underwear. And why didn't those girls have on hats? Linda, you can't imagine how cold it was today (yes you can, you lived in Milwaukee for all those years). By the way, Amy Holmes is talking now. I can't stand her. Can't they find someone less Republican?

Okay, I've got to take a hot shower. I've been watching the parade, but I am stiffening up. I think I walked about 10 miles today!

Love to you, and aren't we all incredibly lucky to have that wonderful family in the White House? Yippee!!!!

XXXKathy"

This is not a woman prone to multiple exclamation marks. To me, she says it all with..."aren't we all incredibly lucky to have that wonderful family in the White House."

Yes, Kathy, we are.

And, in case you’re interested. I was born in Sibley Memorial Hospital…the old one, in Washington, DC.

Sosie's Third

2009-01-11T07:32:00.000-08:00

The party hours were specific: 10 AM to Noon and the castellated bouncy house was delivered and inflated shortly beforehand. No games were planned but there was a picnic table disguised as a craft table where butterflies could be decorated with glitter and style. Numerous mini wheeled vehicles and balls of every hue and stripe were at the guests' disposal while bowls of goldfish nibbles and a cooler filled with water and juice boxes were there for the taking. As we cast our collective eye over the set-up, checking for last minute omissions, the doorbell rang and the first of the 30-odd folks, ready to party, arrived.

It was as though each child had an entourage: This one had two parents and a brand new sibling while that one came with an older brother, younger sister and a dad but the mom was in hospital recovering from pneumonia. Daughter Jane wisely decided not to exclude anyone and just to make it a loose affair with good food. She made four terrific quiches, a big green salad, a fruit salad and good bagels and cream cheese. Odette, a darling three-year old who is going through some asthma issues (hold the dairy), told me that she couldn't have keem tzeez but liked buddor on her bagle. Everyone loved the food and because the kids just aren't given as much sugar as kids of yore, when the cake came out they were psyched!

Sosie (our Sophie who can't pronounce the 'f' sound on any word) was happy and then overwhelmed...every 15 minutes or so. She changed her outfit at least four times so all our pictures look like they're from different days. And here's the day as I saw it, in no particular order.

Uncle Colin getting things moving in the bouncy house.

Best friends, Charlotte and Violet.

Birthday girl (wearing one of two cake cutting outfits) and Mommy

We were then entertained with an après-dîner extravaganza of dance and music.

The day couldn't have been more perfect.

Choccy Treats

2009-01-06T09:46:00.000-08:00

Good chocolates, who needs ‘em? I do, but not at Christmas.

We’ve eaten our share of lofty chocolate over this holiday. Michel Cluizel from Paris, oui, fantastique. B. Castellain (Macaibo and Coffee-flavored), Bonnat and (if you get real lucky) Utopia are all merveilleux. The spicy, chili flavored Vosges bars are amazing. Our son introduced us to Alma chocolate, out of Portland, endearingly shaped into squirrels and owls. Delish. Hell, even Trader Joe’s has Vahlrona Noir Amer and even sometimes 70% Ecuadorian and/or Venezuelan chocolate bars by Chocovic…for a great price.

But at Christmastime, when I drape my home with yard after yard of tack, my taste buds search the familiar. Quality Street…I bought you in England and hauled your sweetness westwards to my Canyon and then gluttony forced me to hide you somewhere in this not-so-vast house in September when I couldn't stop plunging my hand into your jolly, foil-wrapped tin of excess. And now Christmas and New Year’s have done their thing, my tree droops ever more, pinging needles and tinsel across the floor every time the slightest of breezes hits it, and I can’t fucking find you. Quality Street, where are you? Talk to me. Give me a clue. Quickly. My family is beginning to suspect I ate the whole tin.

Magical

2009-01-05T17:43:00.000-08:00

Some days I need to remind myself just how lucky I am to wake up every morning to this view. Taken from my bed. Camera in one hand, mug of tea in other.

And below, at night.

Some days I need to remind myself just how lucky I am to wake up every morning to this view. Taken from my bed. Camera in one hand, mug of tea in other.

Waiting for the Boy

2009-01-04T09:15:00.000-08:00

Before our dinner guests arrived last night I called my son to see if his delayed flight from Madrid/Heathrow/NY had arrived but his cell went immediately to "Hi hi you've reached Colin..." and I knew no such luck.

He'd gotten stuck in Madrid when one-third of the poxy air traffic controllers decided that Saturday was as good a day as any to not show up for work, resulting in two of four runways being shut down and a missed connecting flight out of Heathrow to NY for him and his partner, Anne. In itself, none of this is that big a deal except that Colin has to be in LA tonight on business. He's got a shoot out here and just called us from JFK...where he's waiting for another flight to wing him even further westwards.

The Year in Wild Things

2009-01-02T21:55:00.000-08:00

All in my back garden...

All Bright and Shiny and New

2009-01-01T21:55:00.000-08:00

I tried reflecting on New Year's Eve, but Lottie & Sophie came over and all I could think about was what if they wake up at 6 and how I would be pitifully weak and exhausted if I didn't get more than six hours of sleep and so I insisted we go to bed NOW, minutes after watching the ball drop in Times Square. And Roger fell into a deep and heavy sleep within 15 seconds of his head touching the pillow but at 2 AM, with him snoring and snockering away, I was still awake, unable to tell him to roll over or shut up since he's had some back issues of late and it would be unkind of me to tell him to move, what with him being comfortable and all. I grabbed my duvet in a huff and left the room, thinking unprintable, non-jolly thoughts. And the girls woke up at 7! YAY! This year went as quickly as any other and each month had its share of memories. Here's my lame attempt at remembering this past year.

I just had a look at how all these pictures 'took.' They didn't. It worked for the first few months. Pictures all lined up tidily with captions...and then it just got all untidy. Captions and pictures all over the damned place. Oh well...much like my year!

January

Sophie’s Second Birthday

January Hikes. Winter in Socal suits us just fine.

February

Dear Friends, Betsy y Lee’s Going Away Dinner

They’re in Portland now, which suits them just fine but is still causing some adjustment by those they left behind!

Winter Rains Bring Color to the Canyon Which otherwise have a barren beauty

March

A Bumper Crop of Meyer Lemons on one of our trees

And fabulous produce from our local Farmer’s Market

And Easter

May

Lee’s Birthday in Portland and Uncle Colin's Visit from NY

Jane's Birthday. So wonderful to be in the same city so we can celebrate together

June

We're always celebrating something in my French class and
always with a princess cake

July

Fourth of July Watching the Fireworks

I celebrated a BIG birthday

We pimped our house, taking pictures of it from the best possible angles for
a house exchange.

August

We went to France and all the pictures
are on the other computer and I'm too lazy to get them.

But we also went to England to visit Mum.
No, she doesn't live in Canterbury

September

Charlotte’s Seventh Birthday
Wearing a Crown of Flowers from Betsy

No photos, but another September highlight was bloggity friend, GrannyP's visit. We packed a fair amount into a few days and we just finished the wonderful cardoman fig jam she brought with her from Lanzarote.

October

Soccer Games

Roger’s uncles visiting from Wales. Hoover Dam, Vegas and Riding the Waves in Malibu.

Colin's Birthday

November

Yes!

Birthday Boy and his Bride of, gulp, 40 years.

December

Chinatown, Brooklyn, with Colin and Anne post Dim Sum

Dancing in the New Year

Thanksgiving

2008-12-02T09:05:00.000-08:00

The company and food were great. Susan and Buzz joined us for the first time bringing a memorable sweet potato, carrot and ginger dish. Bridget, Clark, their two children Charlie and Annie and Clark's mum Judy joined us as well. They brought a great apple crisp and pumpkin pie and plenty of whipped cream and ice cream. There was a Chicago connection between Buzz and them which was great. My daughter Jane, her husband Matt and my granddaughters, Charlotte and Sophie were also here. Jane brought a fabulous sausage outsidethebird stuffing which was yummy and provided kitchen backup through the day.

Turkey unbrined by choice and roasted per Martha Stewart's instructions turned out better than normal. Didn't use the convection oven. Just roasted the damn thing and ignored all the to brine or not to brine, convection or regular oven, stuffing in or out (both...who can have enough stuffing...ever?), how many cranberry relishes (one, Mama Stamberg's full stop) ad nauseum advice that fills the airwaves the week leading up to the day. Meant to take pictures of the food. Didn't. Barely got the following snaps due to who knows what. Because I'm the official family photographer, one would think I was somewhere else on the day!

Charlotte, aged 7, in all her gap-toothed glory.

Sophie, three in January...a rare moment of stillness.

This shoe thing went on for a while, as I remember.

Baby Annie, minutes after she snagged Bridget's phone, chattering away.

Charlotte and Charlie (4 1/2)

Grub's up!

Anyone would think Sophie actually had plans to eat. "I don't yike turkey, Nana," and then she got down from the children's table and let us all know that she really isn't quite ready to give up her nap!

Tickle, tickle, tickle...and then me saying..."Um, that table, it's glass...and the edges look tetanus shot worthy. Be careful!

Hiking behind our house. I love November in Southern California.

Birthday Boy. Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I'm 64...
Babu's glasses askew, looking at one of his new books.

And that was our day. Wonderfully simple.

A Little [too much] Sitar

2008-11-27T12:17:00.001-08:00

Turkey's about ready to be committed to the final indignity...the penultimate, the stuffing, just recently completed. As is my want, I was watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade and trying not to cry over every marching band from the country's midsection while prepping for the feast to follow. I like it and folks who know me well understand the sorry, sentimental side of me. The parade finished and Roger asked me if I'd like a little music while I was finishing up. I said sure and he chose a little, light sitar music for me. Maybe that works when you're tripping, but right now...Ravi is doing no more than making me want to throw my oven mitt at the ipod. SHADDDDDDUP already.

Happy Thanksgiving

2008-11-27T06:46:00.001-08:00

How I know It's Almost Thanksgiving and why I Probably Won't Ever Buy An Appliance That Starts with a V again

2008-11-25T15:09:00.000-08:00

How long do you think a gas stove should last that cost around $7,000? Five years, 10 years, 15 years, 20? I think it should pretty much last for flippin' ever, but the reality is this.

We moved into this house seven years ago. We love the house, we love the look of the kitchen. We've replaced the fridge and that's when we discovered that the entire kitchen had been built by a high-end W. Hollywood kitchen design firm located in The Pacific Design Center. When the fridge was shimmied out of its snug, we found the designer's label stuck on the side of the cupboard. They did a good job with this kitchen and I'm sure listened to the client and did what she wanted. Apparently, she wanted her whole kitchen built around a white Amana refrigerator that was already about 20 years old. Don't ask. So, a year ago we replaced that fridge. We knew we were limited in what we could do because the cupboards had been built around this ancient appliance. I'm still shaking my head about that. Anyway...old fridge out, new fridge in...but no, it was about 5/8" too wide. I blogged about this so I won't go into the details except to say I had to empty ALL the cupboards that abut the fridge while the Pacific Design Center hotshots came in and reconfigured the cupboards. Okay, so now I have a stainless fridge...nothing fancy...still an Amana because that's all that fits, even with the fancy design team adjustments.

Then there's a stainless dishwasher. Asko or something. It works fine. The racks could be better, but I'm not complaining and I'm also knocking on wood.

And now on to the V appliances...seems I'm not alone. The stoves: one electric and one gas. I thought I'd died and gone to heaven when we moved here. I had a stainless steel, gas, restaurant quality V range with a great extraction system. AND, I had a V electric convection oven, full-size and mounted under the counter. Two full-sized ovens. Two full-sized ovens that have had the V repairman here at least four times in the past seven years. Each visit by Vlad, the smooth-talking Russian repairman, is progressively more expensive.

And today, since the gas stove wouldn't start and it's almost Thanksgiving, he came back. Vlad is here right now and he just gave me the estimate. $597.00. One hour's work to make Thanksgiving possible.

And what are my options? Replacement isn't an option right now, but when it happens, I guarantee that the applicance will start with the next letter of the alphabet. I'm going for a Wolf.

Oh, and guess what Vlad just told me. Her heard my fridge make a weird noise and he turned around and said, "Oh, Amana. Das iss med by Viking."

The Thanksgiving Recipe Post

2008-11-25T13:28:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving Recipes (that are good)

I post these recipes every year at Thanksgiving. They're so good that the turkey will become incidental (lies, lies, lies). Here at Chez Dotty, we don't eat canned vegetables with fried canned onions on top. We just can't. It's not allowed. It's a violation of some law I cast in stone when the kids were little. Frozen peas, they're okay. Canned peas. Not okay. The list goes on and frequently makes no sense. It's not that we're such enormous food snobs that we don't eat this stuff at someone else's table, because we do, so just in case I ever don't cook Thanksgiving dinner in the future, I'm up for the canned beans combo dish. But, if you feel like trying something outside your normal repertoire and if you like some flavor surprises, try one of these.

Mashed Sweet Potatoes with
Maple Syrup and Chipotles

adapted from Bobby Flay, Bolo and Mesa Grill

This recipe is fantastic and fortunately, or unfortunately, a friend is bringing her own Sweet Potato surprise to our gathering this year. I love this one and usually add more chipotles than called for. I like the way the smokey and spicy heat of the chiles tangos with the sweetness of the potatoes. This can be made a day or so ahead of time, put in a gratin dish, dotted with butter and reheated at the annointed time at 350 'til hot. Yield 6 to 8 servings. Most people don't eat huge quantities, so you can stretch this to serve 12 if you have the traditional mashed potatoes with the Thanksgiving meal, as well. I always make a small mashed sweet potato and marshmellow dish for any children joining us (and any adults who still love that wonderfully Elvissy dish).

5 lbs (about 10 medium or 5 large) sweet potatoes, scrubbed
1/3 to 1/2 cup maple syrup (the real thing)
3/8 cup creme fraiche (can't be dealing with french accent marks so forgive)
4 tsp purée from canned chipotles (some I mince a bit, too if you want it spicier hotter)
1 1/2 tsp ground cinnamon
Salt to taste and some ground black pepper

Put oven rack in middle position and preheat oven to 375 degrees. Place potatoes on large backing sheet and bake until soft, 35 to 40 minutes for medium potatoes, up to an hour for large.

Or...use a fork and poke some holes into the raw tuber. Wrap in a paper towel and throw in the microwave until soft.

Meanwhile, combine syrup, creme fraiche, chipotle puree, cinnamon and salt in a small bowl. Whisk until smooth.

When potatoes are tender, remove from oven, slice in half lengthwise. Scoop hot flesh into a potato ricer or food mill, puree into bowl with other ingredients. Stir with rubber spatula to combine. Potatoes should be light and fluffy. Taste for seasoning and if serving immediately, transfer to warm serving bowl. Otherwise pop into the fridge and feel smug that you've done something in advance.

Now onto the Brussel(s) sprouts. For ease of pronunciation, I'll say Brussel sprouts. Some of us have brussel sprouts every Thanksgiving, and some people don't like to even be in the same house where a sprout has been cooked in the last week. We're the former. We like small, round, green things. So, here's a recipe for every person who has ever said, "I hate brussel sprouts." I assure you, if they don't like these, they're philistines or young.

This is for four...we generally have to at least treble this recipe since even the brussel sprouts haters will eat it.

Brussels Sprouts Leaves cooked with
Pancetta and Mirepoix

1 lb. brussel sprouts
2 tbsp. rendered duck fat or olive oil
Mirepoix (dice one small carrot (2 oz or so), 1/2 large stalk of celery (2 oz) and 1/2 yellow onion (3 oz or so)
2 oz. pancetta, thinly sliced, diced
1/3 cup water
1/2 tsp salt
freshly ground white pepper
white wine vinegar

Working with one sprout at a time, remove as many of the outer leaves of each sprout until you reach those firmly attached to the core. Trim the stem end, freeing more leaves and repeat until you reach the dense center. Slice the center thin.

Warm the olive oil or duck fat in a six-quart non-corroding saucepan. Add the mirepoix and pancetta and cook over medium heat for 6-8 minutes, without browning the vegetables, until they have softened. Add the water and the Brussel sprouts leaves, sprinkle with the salt and stir well to combine. Cover the pan and cook 15-20 minutes, stirring every so often until the leaves are tender. Season the leaves with freshly ground pepper, correct for salt and add a dash of vinegar. Serve while the color is still vivid...this is not a dish to make ahead of time. Do the prep earlier, but cook just before serving. It's a good thing to cook while the turkey is being sliced.

Hint: The brussel sprouts take for flippin' ever to prep. I usually do it a day or two before Thanksgiving because doing it on the day is more than I could bear.

Mama Stamberg's Cranberry Sauce

So easy, so delicious, it easily trumps any other cranberry relish in my book. I was given this recipe by dear friends, George & Kathleen Malone, formerly of Milwaukee, WI, then Apalachicola, FL and now Asheville, NC. People either love it or hate it. Dotty's family loves it.

2 cups raw cranberries
1 small onion (not tiny like a pickling onion, but not huge like a vidalia)
1/2 cup sugar
3/4 cup sour cream
2 tbsp white horseradish (prepared) I generally use double the amount the recipe calls for

Grind the onion and cranberries together in a food processor or blender. Pulse and stop before it turns into mush.
Add the other ingredients and mix well. Put in a plastic container and freeze.
One hour before servicing, move to the refrigerator to soften. It always takes me longer. I take it out of the freezer at least four hours before dinner. And THAT'S IT! Let someone else bring the favorite relish, but watch which one people try...a small amount at first and then great dollops on their plate. A wise cook doubles this recipe.

And now the history...Susan Stamberg, former co-host of NPR's "All Things Considered" used to recite this recipe on air every Thanksgiving, giving full credit to her mother. Turns out her mother copied it from an old Craig Claiborne column in the NY Times. Whoever claims it, few are neutral about this wonderfully Pepto Bismally,shocking pink, strongish relish. We love it. If you have young children who don't like horseradish, put a little aside for them without the horseradish. If we're coming to dinner, put lots more horseradish in it.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

The Atascadero Grade

2008-11-19T17:55:00.000-08:00

It isn’t called the Atascadero Grade, but that’s what Roger called it as we committed to the climb in the pitch-blackness of the 101 on Saturday night. A foreboding freeway sign could well have read OUTTA GAS? YOU ARE FUCKED instead of Next Exit 10 Miles.

“Did that sign say the next exit was 10 miles?” I asked Roger.

“Yeah, what’s the gas gauge say now,” he asked calmly. It had dinged to tell me I had 40 miles left in the tank in what only felt like minutes before and now it was, wait, now it was empty?

Looking down, briefly, because after all how long does it take to read one fucking number, I grimly read, “ZERO, it says zero.”

We were on this road and in this place because we’d both awakened to a strong smell of burning that morning. Even in the dim early morning light it was apparent that the opposing hills were under smoke, just like us. Pretty sure that it wasn’t drifting smoke from the Montecito fire in Santa Barbara, I ran into the living room and turned on the TV and my computer. Every station was filled with news about the firestorm in Sylmar, just across the Valley and East from us. The wind was obviously blowing in this direction and the air was dense with smoke and ash.

It didn’t take Roger long to make the call that he wanted to leave. Not because he feared we were in fire danger, although thinking back, everyone was in fire danger at that time, but because he didn’t want to breathe the air for the next couple of days if we could be somewhere else. It sounded good to me, so we packed [very] lightly and were out the door by 10:30. An adventure.

Stupidly, we didn’t bring our insurance papers or computers or the file drawer with copies of everything we’d need in case our house burned down and I’m still not clear why we were so casual about it all.

But, change of underwear and toothbrushes packed, in case we wanted to overnight somewhere, we headed down the hill to Malibu where the air was thick with smoke. Driving a little further north, we pulled over to look at some shore birds this side of Port Hueneme. Still smoky. So we headed over to the 101, continuing north, and thought about lunch in Santa Barbara, wondering if the air would still be fouled by the two-day prior and not yet fully contained fire in Montecito. The further we went, the sweeter the air and so Santa Barbara was our first stop. Their smoke was obviously blowing south and not bothering the town at all. It was one of those bright blue days, just perfect. We picked up some apples and dates at the Farmer’s Market and then found a good little restaurant on State Street.

After eating and mulling over our next move, we decided to press on to the north, thinking San Luis Obispo, a favorite little town of ours, would be a good place to spend the night.

It was such a perfect afternoon that we pulled into the State Park beach at El Capitan, nosing our car under a tree and with the waves crashing below, contentedly read for half an hour or so before wandering down to the beach. The shore birds were all hungry and feeding and the air and light couldn’t have been more perfect.

We were in no particular hurry, except to find some good restaurant in San Luis Obispo and somewhere to stay.

I drove this leg of the trip while Roger called for reservations. “You want HOW much for a room at the Hilton?”

“You know, I’m a Hilton Honors Gold Club member…don’t I get some discount?”

“It’s not a Hilton…it’s an Embassy Suites…uh, no, we’ll check around and get back to you if we can’t find anything cheaper.”

“They want $220 a night for a room at the Embassy Suites in SLO,” he said with total amazement in his voice.

We were both remembering that we’d stayed in an Embassy Suites last year, the one near the site of the Twin Towers in Lower Manhattan…and I think our room was $345 a night, so $220 did seem a little steep.

Eventually we settled on a Ramada which, tax included, came to about $82. SCORE!

Directions from the nice, but kinda stoned-sounding desk clerk were simple. “Stay on the 101 and exit at Santa Rosa Street and boom, there it is, dude.” Roger dutifully wrote it down. He’s like that…thorough. As we got off the 101 to turn back northwards, I noted a 76 gas station and then hopped back on the freeway. And then the exits: Madonna, Marsh, Walnut (or something like that), but no Santa Rosa.

And so there we were, on the Atascadero Grade, running on fumes and betting the bank on the next exit. And nothing but blackness and the Los Padres National Forest to our right and left. “Do you think there will be a gas station and why didn’t they mention gas on that sign. Did they mention gas on that sign?” I worried.

“Oh fuck, what if there isn’t one?”

“Go more slowly. Put your flashers on.” He was full of advice (and pissing me off), as I drove up the long grade with an ominous zero flashing on my gas gauge.

“Oh fuck,” he intoned, just to make me feel even more comfortable. I continued cursing myself and wondering why, why, why I hadn’t pulled into that 76 Station just five miles back when we’d taken the wrong exit. Jesus, anyone would think we were looking for a hotel in Rome and not the Ramada Inn off the Santa Rosa exit in San Luis Obispo. We’d already driven north (not far enough), then south (too far) and were now committed north again but this time I didn’t get off at the ‘last’ exit for SLO. This time I truly fucked up.

Big rigs whizzed past me as I did a sedate 55, remembering the days when the gas shortage gripped America and I queued weekly in the Washington suburbs with my newborn baby sleeping in the back and my tiny girl in pre-school. And as much as I missed them being tiny, I was really happy I didn’t have two little kids in the back of a yellow Pinto as we lumbered up the hill in our far more comfortable ride.

“Bugger. Why didn’t I stop at that 76 station at that next to last wrong exit we took.”

“Slow down,” barked Roger.

“If I go any slower I’ll be stopped…I’m not going any bloody slower. Just shut up.”

And so it went, back and forth, as we crawled up the Atascadero Grade, emergency flashers winking crazily and the pair of us sniping sharply. We’re both pictures of calm in a crisis. No, really. Give us a true crisis and we’re good. This kind of bullshit, though, leaves us just pissed off, collectively and individually.

Every now and then there’d be a left-turn lane that seemed to appear suddenly in the dark and Roger would yell, “There, on the left, turn left and head back to San Luis Obispo.” But I wouldn’t. That just seemed nuts to me.

“Okay, let me get this right. You want me to drive across two lanes of freeway traffic, RIGHT NOW, so I can then turn left going south on the 101 with downhill, fast-moving traffic bearing down on me from the right when there’s the odd chance that I may run out of fucking gas and get T-BONED???? That’s what you want?” I screamed inside my head.

What he heard was, “No fucking way.”

And then we crested the hill. “Praise the Baby Jesus,” I muttered.

Roger said, “Put it in neutral and coast.” And I did…gathering speed as we hurtled downhill doing at least 50 mph. And then in the dark, a sign.

“Santa Margarita. Maybe they’ll have a gas station,” the voice of doom intoned.

“Of course they bloody will. It’s illegal for any town not to have a gas station in America, isn’t it?” I sniped.

Heading down the exit ramp I slipped the car out of neutral and into drive, against the advice of the Grim Reaper and we both said, “Oh fuck.” Total, sodding blackness. Nothing. There was not one flipping light welcoming us to Santa Margarita.

“Maybe we should have turned left,” he worried

“No, no, they would have told us if that were the case,” she said not having the slightest idea if she was right or not.

If our dashboard could have screamed, “YOU NOW HAVE NEGATIVE GAS IN YOUR TANK YOU MORONS” it would have.

We continued another three miles or so and joy of joy, houses. Not many, but some and then a hand-painted sign that said, simply. GAS, one mile ahead!

Sweet relief. At this point we knew that even if we ran dry, we’d be okay. And we were. Because Pintor's was open. Pintor's. Heard of them before? They're not big, but are very important.

Back on the freeway headed South, up and down the Atascadero Grade was a snap. Our moods were light. “Pass the Bolly sweetie darling!”

And 10 minutes later we saw the sign for Santa Fucking Rosa Roadand were able to tell the nice young man at the front desk at the Ramada Inn that actually, one can only exit on Santa Rosa Street if you’re going south…there was no way we would ever have seen it heading north because it wasn't bloody there.

But we didn’t scream because now we were the happy clappy couple who were just so bloody jolly and ecstatic that we weren’t sitting on the side of the 101 on a Saturday night, emergency flashers mocking us in the pitch black, waiting for AAA to come to our sorry rescue.

And the next day was all sunshine and surfers and sea otters and satisfaction.

And, luckily, when we drove home Sunday night, our house was still standing. And all we have had to deal with us black ash everywhere. And that's a lot more than can be said for hundreds of other Southern Californians. We got lucky.

When you wish upon a star...

2008-11-18T17:54:00.000-08:00

Dream hard...sometimes they do come true.

Obama Meets With Dangerous World Leader Without Preconditions

2008-11-11T10:42:00.000-08:00

Birthday Boy

2008-11-10T16:57:00.001-08:00

Originally uploaded by billifornia

Taken by a friend of Colin's...my birthday boy.
Brooklyn, NY late October '08.

It Was 20 Years Ago Today (times two)

2008-11-09T11:17:00.000-08:00

Yeah...so I got lucky 40 years ago and met this guy in England at a party and then I went back home to Washington, DC but before I flew home my mum invited this guy and my godparents' son (they were good friends) to visit us for a few weeks in Washington, DC and they did and we fell in love (the guy, not my godparents' son) and we were 'intime' and then he went back to England and I sobbed at the airport and we declared unending love for one another and his plane took off from Dulles and I sobbed some more and then we decided that I would drop out of college and go and live with him in London and then I found out I was pregnant even though I was on the pill (I double ovulated but didn't find that out for another five years) and so I (an only child) told my shocked parents my plans and, well, they were not happy, but this was August of 1968 and it was a selfish time so I flew to England in October of 1968 and we married in November of 1968...as a matter of fact, we married on 9 November 1968 in Hampstead at a registry office which is no longer used and I was having a few problems with morning sickness but made it through the perfunctory ceremony and then we ate Greek food with some friends and my godparents and threw plates on the floor and then we were on a train...bound for glory.

Here I am, newly 20 and wearing a tourquoise blue maternity dress that I'd bought at Lady Madonna in Golder's Green and there is my husband, almost 24, wearing a brown suit he'd worn to his stag party the night before, feeling all hung over and probably a little 'oh shit i'm married' and stuff and me feeling another wave of 'oh shit i'm pregnant' and stuff.

Like I said, we got lucky. I am one lucky woman.

British Rail...on the way to Cornwall

Forty years later...Malibu, this afternoon, November 9, 2008

Prop 8...My Response to all of you who voted Yes on 8

2008-11-06T23:20:00.000-08:00

Tuesday was a great day for most Americans, but amid all the sweetness and joy there was one very sour, mean-spirited, selfish, exclusionary proposition on the California ballot...Prop 8. It read as follows...

Proposition 8 is a California State ballot proposition that would amend the state Constitution, to limit marriage to unions between a man and a woman, overturning a recent California Supreme Court decision that had recognized same-sex marriage in California as a fundamental right. The official ballot title language for Proposition 8 was "Eliminates Right of Same-Sex Couples to Marry". On the day after the election, the results remained uncertified. With 100% of precincts reporting, the vote was 52.5% in favor of Proposition 8 and 47.5% against, with a difference of about 504,000 votes;[1] as many as 3 million absentee and provisional ballots remain to be counted.[2] The organizers of the "No on Prop 8" campaign conceded defeat on November 6, issuing a statement saying, "Tuesday’s vote was deeply disappointing to all who believe in equal treatment under the law".[3]

And it passed. There were enough mean-spirited, homophobic bigots in this state to pass it. I'm still reeling. But, Jeni had an answer for them.

And then so did Gwendolyn...and then Gwendolyn tagged me to show my disappointment, which I've done. Not nearly so youngly or prettily, but in the designated style.

And I took even more...just trying to take that perfect picture where the bags under my eyes and the wrinkles in my exposed chesty area aren't so glaring. But oh well...i yam what i yam.

And I'm going to tag eight more of you...Let's get this thing rolling, all over the world. And don't forget to pass it on.

Betsy (in Portland)
Sarah (in the O.C.)
Marsha (in the Valley)
Vanessa (down under)
Penelope (in Lanzarote)
Antonia (in London)
Lucy (in Portugal)
Maryanne (in Tokyo)

Here's the News Across the Nation

2008-11-06T14:32:00.000-08:00

The Day After

Barack Obama elected

November 5, 2008

Happy Days are Here Again

2008-11-04T22:44:00.000-08:00

...Happy days are here again
The skies above are clear again
So let's sing a song of cheer again
Happy days are here again...

Indeed

2008-11-04T07:47:00.001-08:00

Four Years Ago

2008-10-16T09:35:00.000-07:00

It was four long years ago and this graphic was making the rounds. It's how I felt watching the election coverage. We had been fucked and knew we were going to be fucked even more but still worse to me is the fact that the rest of the world has had to suffer at this bastard's hands, too. Let's hope the next four years really do bring change.

Thanks, Rolling Stone

2008-10-14T08:13:00.000-07:00

Four years ago, Roger and I flew to Milwaukee for a week to volunteer on the Kerry/Edwards campaign. Wisconsin was a swing state and while our input was small, it remains a point of absolute pride that that Midwest state voted our way and that maybe, just maybe, we had a small something to do with it. I have been incapable of bloggy writing the last few months. As with most everyone I know who is living and breathing the current campaign, email flurries and real-time conversations are what I'm living just now and at night instead of writing a few words, I'm trolling through the millions of words and videos on my computer for updates. For the moment, the words of others are working just fine for me. I post, try and make sure the attribute to the other is front and center, and am still asked if I wrote that. The answer is most likely NO because I'm too fucking flipped by the prospect of another four years of a destructive Republican president to put anything even marginally clever on this blog.

If you still think John McCain is a true war hero and patriot, and a calm and reasoned voice and a good choice for president, then you're probably not reading anything I ever write (rare as it has been of late). I'm most likely preaching to the choir but with only 21 days remaining before the election, I'll preach to anyone who will listen.

Tim Dickinson of Rolling Stone posted this yesterday. It reaffirms just how dangerous and reckless McCain is and, if you think for one minute that having yet another maverick in the White House is a good thing, then you're nothing short of demented.

Sarah Sodding Palin Debate Flow Chart

2008-10-13T16:27:00.001-07:00

And because yesterday's post may still be confusing you...

2008-09-16T07:48:00.000-07:00

Milwaukee friend, Dan, forwarded the following which makes it all even clearer. Forgetting Palin and focusing on McCain...

*From Letters to the Editors @ Fort Worth Star-Telegram, Kelvin LaFond, Fort Worth

How racism works

What if John McCain was a former president of the Harvard Law Review?

What if Barack Obama finished fifth from the bottom of his graduating class?

What if McCain was still married to the first woman he said "I do" to?

What if Obama … left his first wife after she no longer measured up to his standards?

What if Michelle Obama was a wife who not only became addicted to pain killers, but acquired them illegally through her charitable organization?

What if Cindy McCain graduated from Harvard?

What if Obama was a member of the "Keating 5?

What if McCain was a charismatic, eloquent speaker?

If these questions reflected reality, do you really believe the election numbers would be as close as they are? This is what racism does. It covers up, rationalizes and minimizes positive qualities in one candidate and emphasizes negative qualities in another when there is a color difference.

This Should Help All of You Who are Confused

2008-09-15T16:16:00.000-07:00

I've been pretty quiet on the bloggity front, but my fingers have been in over-drive, tapperwhacking emails and forwarding anti McCain-Palin snippets to everyone in my address book, much to the annoyance of some who I didn't actually realize were Republican. Used to be you could be a Republican and we'd maybe be friends. Pretty unlikely, but maybe. Nowadays, quite frankly, I don't have the time for you. You're too fucking dangerous and your votes for Reagan, for Bush and again for Bush have damaged this country and contributed to so much horror in this world that we're through. Unless, of course, you could clear up my confusion...

A friend, Susan, sent the following on to me...

You see, I truly am a little confused. Let me see if I have this straight... (I hope I'm not offending anyone).

If you grow up in Hawaii, raised by your grandparents, you're 'exotic, different.'

Grow up in Alaska eating moose burgers, you're a quintessential American story.

If your name is Barack you're a radical, unpatriotic Muslim.

But if you name your kids Willow, Trig and Track, you're a maverick.

Graduate from Harvard law School and you are unstable.

Attend five different small colleges before graduating, you're well-grounded.

If you spend three years as a brilliant community organizer, become the first black President of the Harvard Law Review, create a voter registration drive that
registers 150,000 new voters, spend 12 years as a Constitutional Law professor,
spend eight years as a State Senator representing a district with over 750,000 people, become chairman of the state Senate's Health and Human Services committee, spend four years in the United States Senate representing a state of 13 million people while sponsoring 131 bills and serving on the Foreign Affairs, Environment and Public Works and Veteran's Affairs committees, you don't have any real leadership experience.

If your total resume is: local weather girl, four years on the city council and six years as the mayor of a town with fewer than 7,000 people, 20 months as the governor of a state with only 650,000 people, then you're qualified to become the country's second highest ranking executive (and according to the actuarial tables, you have a greater than 30% chance of succeeding the president during your first term).

If you have been married to the same woman for 19 years while raising two beautiful daughters, all within Protestant churches, you're not a real Christian.

If you cheated on your first wife with a rich heiress, and left your disfigured wife and married the heiress the next month, you're a Christian.

If you teach responsible, age appropriate sex education, including the proper use of birth control, you are eroding the fiber of society.

If, while governor, you staunchly advocate abstinence only, with no other option in sex education in your state's school system while your un-wed teen daughter
ends up pregnant, you're very responsible.

If your wife is a Harvard graduate lawyer who gave up a position in a prestigious law firm to work for the betterment of her inner city community, then gave that up to raise a family, your family's values don't represent America's.

If your husband is nicknamed 'First Dude', with at least one DWI conviction and no college education, who didn't register to vote until age 25 and once was a member of a group that advocated the secession of Alaska from the USA, your family is extremely admirable.

Clearer?

Farmers for Obama

2008-09-07T15:35:00.001-07:00

DSC_0045
Originally uploaded by Barack Obama

Thanks, Grace. This picture gives me more hope than anything I've read in the past few days.

Wingin' It

2008-07-21T23:27:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow we're headed eastwards. LAX to Heathrow, then a drive to Stansted and on to Tours the following day. And we're staying in a stranger's house. And they're staying in ours. And tomorrow, at LAX, we're going to give him the keys to our car and the keys to our house and just say, 'Au revoir, Hervé.' And that's it. Trusting souls, aren't we. Back in a month. xoxo

If I'm disinclined to post words, I'll try and post pictures.

Quick Fixes

2008-07-18T08:50:00.001-07:00

My two-year old granddaughter, Sophie, still uses a pacifier at times. She doesn't call it a pacifier. She calls it 'this' because when my daughter would be looking for whatever soother Baby Sophie needed she would ask, "Do you want this (holding a bottle), or this (holding a toy), or this (her blankie) or THIS (her pacifier). Sophie would point and say, "this." And Jane would give her the pacifier. To this day, when times are tough, she will ask for her 'this.'

And so today I am celebrating a significant birthday. I could get all serious on you and talk about how seven years ago I was bald and sick and wondered if I would celebrate another birthday and now, here I am, not bald and hopefully healthy. But I wouldn't do that. Because really, now besides wishing for continued good health, I find myself wishing for a more youthful appearance. I don't want to look young...just younger. But I'm cheap so easy low-cost fixes are the only option.

And this morning the answer arrived. Thanks, Pat. xoxo

$1,000,000,000

2008-07-18T07:17:00.000-07:00

Well, the trial is over and I guess I'm glad I was an alternate. As an alternate I was allowed to spend six weeks in the Malibu courthouse but I wasn't allowed to vote or to sit in on the final deliberations by the jury. While I don't agree with the jury's final decision, I do understand that their jury instructions made it difficult to find differently. But I also wonder, deep in my heart and in spite of what people say to the contrary, if the plaintiff's attorneys didn't maybe turn a few stomachs when they threw out the number $1,000,000,000. One billion. It doesn't taste right, does it?

The decision will be appealed and I suspect Johnson & Johnson/McNeil Pharmaceuticals will settle some enormous sum (but not a billion) on the plaintiffs and that will be it...for a while anyway. There is bound to be another, equally heinous adverse reaction to ibuprofen.

Alternatively, We Could Play Pictionary

2008-07-15T07:58:00.000-07:00

So, closing arguments were on Friday and yesterday I was given the stellar news, along with three other gals, that we are alternates. Those three other folks, the ones who fell asleep with some regularity during the trial, the one who never took one fucking note and the ones who hacked and generally didn't feel all that well for many days of the proceedings...those three are on the jury. So the past six weeks and the four legal pads (front and back) that I filled with notes are worthless and, most horrifically,I just have this deep-in-my-gut feeling that eight of those 12 jurors are going to find for the defendants...and in this instance that fills me with a feeling close to despair.

And while those other 12 jurors are in the deliberation room talking non-stop about the minutae of the last six weeks, the three alternates and I sit in the 'snack' room with an impromptu table crafted out of a trash can with a cunningly placed cupboard shelf perched on top...playing Pictionary, still instructed to say notonefuckingthing about the case.

Why Can't We All Just Get Along

2008-07-05T20:49:00.001-07:00

So, I'm still a juror. We are now beginning week #4. A couple of days ago there was an official check in the mail...for me. It won't quite cover my daily lunches in Malibu, but it will help.

Thank you yet again, Huffington Post

2008-06-22T19:49:00.000-07:00

McCain's wife, camera-perfect and as poised as you could ever imagine an ex-rodeo queen could be, has been given a pretty easy ride by the press and I have puzzled over that for a while. I was prepared to ignore her thieving and chemically altered history until she made that snide little comment that was a direct dig at Michelle Obama. You know, the one where she pretty much let it be known that as opposed to Michelle, she has always been proud to be an American. Yeah, that one...

And Stephen Elliott couldn't have put it better.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/stephen-elliott/as-long-as-were-talking-a_b_108

and back in the last century there was this article in Salon.com...

And she's not even safe from The Daily Telegraph...

Why Some Folks are Voting Republican

2008-06-19T19:55:00.001-07:00

Come on Down

2008-06-14T08:35:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, when I'm really sure about something, I forget to knock on my head (née Wood) and naively imagine results that couldn't be further from fact. Yesterday was one of those days.

Six weeks or so ago I received another jury summons and closer to the appointed day I called the Malibu Courthouse for instructions (and yes, I am well aware that jury duty in Malibu isn't the biggest hardship in the world). I was told to check in Monday at 8:30 AM and so I did...with another 125 or so people. We were called in before the judge and the attorneys, given the run-time of the trial and asked if that would present any financial hardship. If it would present financial hardship you were asked to stay in the courtroom and explain the circumstances. Those people, half of whom I'm sure were lying, were dismissed. The case was then explained in simple detail to the remaining 50 or so of us and we were given a 20-page questionnaire which we were asked to fill in (in detail), and return it to the jury coordinator after which we too were dismissed and instructed to return first thing on Thursday morning.

Thursday was even more chaotic and crowded than Monday had been and I got to talking to a few of the other potential jurors and found that some of them had initially been called on the previous Friday morning and some where from Tuesday and Wednesday's calling. We had been whittled down, from the initial hundreds, to a core group of about 60. Out of this core group, 24 of us were sat in front of the bar and the remainder in the gallery seats.

Each of us in the smaller group were questioned by lead attorneys for the plaintiffs and the defendants...in depth. I have never known jury selection to feel quite so much like one big audition. But then this is Malibu/L.A. and there are a lot of unemployed actors out there and maybe, just maybe, there's a producer or a director or a casting agent in the jury pool. Or maybe one of the attorneys has a cousin or a friend in the business and will say casually over dinner, "There's one potential jury who has, oh hell I don't know what it is, but s/he has it."

And slowly, one by one, the group was dismissed. This one owned stock in the defendants' company. That one couldn't be impartial and listen to both sides. This one taught the ethics of law and assured the attorneys that he was their worst nightmare...and so on. One woman stated that she already had found for the plaintiffs and that there's no way she would change her mind.

So yeah, I was picked, in spite of some compelling (I thought) reasons to dismiss me. But then I thought they'd excuse my new best friend on the jury, the judge's wife, too. This trial is slated to finish on July 18th. I have been assured by the judge that this trial WILL finish on the 18th and that I'm free to leave the country, as planned, on the 22nd.

Let's hope for an early settlement.

Preparing for "It"

2008-06-08T14:00:00.000-07:00

When we moved to California, I routinely felt the ground move even when it was, in fact, quite still. I would turn to Roger and ask, "Did you feel that?" and he would give me that sideways questioning look which implied quite strongly that no, he hadn't felt that but that he was, in fact, a bit concerned for my sanity. I was also hyper-sensitive to the possibility of wildfires and would routinely ask him, "Do you smell smoke?" The same raised-eyebrow, incredulous look would be shared with me. Given my obvious discomfort with the wild and woolly ways of my new Canyon home, anyone with half a brain would assume that I would understand the utmost importance of being prepared for anything.

I routinely would run different disaster scenarios through my head (rumbling ground and ashy air) and would run into the bathrooms and turn on the taps, filling the tubs with water that might potentially save our lives. In these artfully staged skull cinemas of mine I would also call everyone on my speed dial, giving them an update of our situation and reminding them that we will meet at our pre-arranged (safe) location. I always had a plug-in phone at the ready in case the power went out and candles stored in dry and cool tuck-aways, complete with ever-dry, safety matches. Oh yeah, I was on top of things. My basement shelves were stocked with water, protein, cleaning/sanitizing supplies and backup medicines and our cars' gas tanks were kept topped up at all times, never allowed to dip below three-quarter's full. Artfully hidden in secret corners of my house were hundreds of dollars in singles. I had been told that when the power goes down, the ATM machines no longer work and gas pumps...well, they'll pump gas, but only if you prepay with cash. But in truth, aside from some gallon jugs of drinking water and a few cans of Dinty Moore Beef Stew left over from the rare car camping trip, I have done nothing to make me or my loved ones safer should disaster strike.

But, change is afoot thanks to the gentle prodding of California Volunteers.

California Volunteers is the lead oversight agency for the California Citizens Corps Program which was created post 9/11 to coordinate and make more efficient volunteer activities State-wide so that responses to disasters can be efficient and well-coordinated. Within this hard-working group, a new campaign has been instituted to help families in communities across the State be better prepared for natural disasters by helping them customize their own personal Family Plans and familiarizing them with disaster prepared resources. Downloadable PDF files are available on the California Volunteers We Prepare website but one of the best links on this website is to the Ready Kids, a site for children, parents and teachers. It's great when parents are prepared, but school-age children can be enormously helpful and feel less frightened and more in control of scary situations when there is a disaster response plan in place and discussions have been had (and not just once) regularly about this plan. No one wants their children to be fearful of the unknown, and while talking about earthquakes may frighten them a bit, just knowing that there is a course of action to be taken in the event of such an occurrence goes a long way toward calming a fearful child.

In my Santa Monica Mountain home preparing for disasters most likely means earthquakes or fires and while we Topanga residents are fortunate to live in a community that actually has solid disaster action plans in place through T-CEP (Topanga Coalition for Emergency Preparedness) and that has provided every single household in the Canyon with a spiral-bound Topanga Disaster Survival Guide, the We Prepare campaign has spurred me on to concretely (not just in my dreams) prepare my family and home for potential disasters. See that backpack...that's going in my car. But everything in it is going to be duplicated a number of times over and will be kept in my house.

These are emergency supplies, but every family should have at least several days supply of food and water for themselves and their pets. This isn't the time to introduce your child to canned sardines or smoked oysters so stick with the familiars. If peanut butter is a favorite of your child, make sure you have enough. I've started my list of foods and am organizing a place to store them safely should they be needed. A friend of mine who has little storage space inside her home bought a couple of large Rubbermaid type containers. Tight locking lids keep the contents dry and safe from any curious animals and packed snugly within these boxes are a small camping tent (in case their home is severely damaged and they need to sleep outdoors), sleeping bags, flashlights, batteries, food, water, first aid kit, medicines and pet supplies. They reckon they have enough for themselves and their two dogs for five days. According to my friend, Susan, their previous lack of preparedness hit home pretty convincingly after the Northridge Quake. It was quickly apparent to them that they were ill-prepared for such events and they vowed to change. It's important for non-natives, such as myself, to talk to folks who have experienced earthquakes, about not only the event itself but the subsequent impact on their lives. What did they do for the first few days post-quake? What do you do when power is down over wide areas, especially today when most everything is reliant upon electricity? Believe me, everyone seems to like to talk about disasters and what they felt and what they did and what they'd do differently. You'll find no shortage of people happy to share and offer advice!

And after they'd told you about their experiences, you can share with them the California Volunteers and We Prepare website. We owe it to our families to be prepared. Organizing disaster plans and emergency supplies can be a daunting prospect, but this community program can truly make such a task feel so much more easily achievable and infinitely easier.

And one more thing, in a more local vein, Mayor Villaragosa has announced The Great Southern California ShakeOut on November 12-16, 2008. When it comes to earthquakes, the more resources near to hand, the better off you are. Stay safe everyone!

And finally, I know there are number of California moms who read my blog. There are loads of ways to get your community involved in earthquake preparedness and you can begin by just talking to your childrens' teachers and their friends' parents. Here's a note from Maria Shriver showing you just how easy it is.

As moms, the safety and security of our children is our top concern. That’s why it is so important that we make sure our families are prepared for disasters. By now, you’ve hopefully taken the first step toward becoming disaster ready by creating your own family disaster plan using the tools and templates found on this Web site.

Next, we’re asking you to motivate other moms to follow your lead by becoming disaster prepared, too. CaliforniaVolunteers created the "Moms Brigade," a group of influential mom advocates being recruited to help spread the word to other moms to get their families prepared for disasters. By joining the Moms Brigade today, you can help us make sure your friends and neighbors Get Ready!

Getting started is easy! Simply fill out the information below and click "submit." Once you’ve joined, you will receive a packet in the mail with the tools you need to help us empower other moms to follow your lead by becoming disaster ready.

Cerne Abbas

2008-06-07T14:31:00.000-07:00

Google Earth is such a great tool. Earlier today I was plugging in a friend's address in Cerne Abbas, Dorset. Cerne Abbas is home to the Cerne Abbas Giant or 'Rude Man' or Man with the Big Willy...always a good place to take friends for UK photo ops if you're in the Dorchester area, but when I was wandering through the mapping site, I found this photo (credit below) of the very modest Homer visiting the Giant...doughnut or discus in hand.

by ajoaj

Um, Hello. I'll Just Make Myself Scarce for Awhile

2008-05-29T15:16:00.001-07:00

I spent the night at my daughter's and just got home a few minutes ago. Her hubs is out o' town in Prague on a film shoot and she'd bought tickets a while back for The Police/Elvis Costello concert at The Hollywood Bowl. And while I know your amphitheaters are great, I'm telling you, this one is probably at least as good or better. It's hard to beat the location. So this afternoon when I got home, I watched the hummingbirds do their pissed off dance around my fountain and knew it was time to top up the water level. I was wearing my shoewear of choice this year...Croc's flipflops (you can run in these). Two years ago, when I had a similar sighting (as the one below), I was wearing Havaiana flipflops (not so easy to run). If these discoveries continue, I'm just going to wear my sturdy, red walking shoes at all times.

Wait, oh shit, don't move, let me go get my camera

Study of snake and broken wind chime pipe
Snake and hose.

I'm not really sure what to do when I see a snake, besides run away flapping my hands and screaming, "ohmygod, ohmygod." This time I wanted to take pictures first, then doing the flapping bit and then call the fire department. Part of me hates doing that but the other part, the grandmother part, knows you have to do it in case the snake is nesting or living in one's 'garden.' And the reason I hate doing that? Because this is what they do...or what they did...a year ago. Today's snake was a lot bigger than last years, though.

Below are copied and pasted bits from the previous snakeie posting.

Can you see it...look carefully, on the right. A rattler. And I almost stepped on it. Shit. It had obviously just crawled out from some chilly undergrowth and was searching for some warmth. Luckily, it was still a slow mover. I took the other stairs back up to the house and got Himself who was on the phone with his sister in Wales. I mouthed, "IT'S IMPORTANT! IT'S A RATTLER!" We both ran back down so I could show him what had almost killed me and we both determined that it should be moved, back up into the canyon, away from homes and humans and we did try to get him in big plastic rubbish bin but he rattled furiously and slithered away. Freaky fast and then he was under a rock. Himself kept an eye on him while I dialed 911. They put me on to the local Topanga Fire Department and they dispatched a pair of firefighters to, I presumed, move this rattler, perhaps to Topanga State Park.

But no, they didn't come to move it, they came to kill it. And I felt like shit because they killed a creature that has more claim to this land than I. Sure, I rationalize it. Little kids play here. Rattlers are beyond dangerous. But I still don't feel good about today.
Tomorrow we're going to buy this grabbing device that will allow us to capture, contain and move any future snakes that choose to visit.

And guess what...we still haven't bought the grabbing device thing.

Update: We think it was a Gopher Snake...which may be why it didn't rattle at me.

How Do You Say Brunch in French?

2008-05-24T08:11:00.001-07:00

I suspect the French don't eat brunch, but today my French class (and spouses or boyfriends) are coming here for brunch. It's a joint affair, everyone wanted to bring something and while I like that idea, I can't remember what they said they'd bring. I know I'm making the eggy dishes and I did write it all down, somewhere between Que préferéez-vous, la cuisine francaise tradionelle ou la nouvelle cuisine and de quelle partie des Etats-Unis etes-vous a l'origine but can I flippin' find it? And the gal who was promising a fruit salad...did she change her mind and say she'd bring ginger scones and, if so, is she doing both?

Update: She brought both! And they were incroyably fabulous.

Olbermann To Bush: "This War Is Not About You...Shut The Hell Up!"

2008-05-21T17:51:00.000-07:00

Keith Olbermann, yet again, says it so very well.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2008/05/14/olbermann-to-bush-this-wa_n_101831.html

Back from Portland

2008-05-17T14:42:00.001-07:00

Man, when I take a break, I'm serious about it. April 28 was my last post and while I have thought countless times per day, "That would be a fun/sad/miserable/
fucking awful thing to write about," apparently nothing really made its way to my fingertips. Still, I am giving myself points for bloggity thoughts.

We had a substitute teacher today in my water aerobics class. Her name is Gina and she is kept buoyant by dint of the large and floatiness of her fake tits. She's nice enough, albeit a little on the dull side but I was doing well enough with all her crazy ways of keeping us busy, deeply sighing so only I could hear and wearing an unnaturally sunny half-smile. Gina is always bouncing around the club, happily drawing attention to her 22" waist and 40" perky globes and I rarely think anything aside from "oh there's Gina...she looks happy." Seriously. I see that many enhanced women when I wander into the Calabasas Gelson's every day that I rarely think "oh for chrissakes" anymore. As a matter of fact, the day we moved to Topanga (almost six years ago) I had to head down the hill for milk and stuff and I went into Gelson's since I knew where it was. Driving back home I was pretty astounded that I'd seen half the porn movie industry doing their grocery shopping at the same time. Amazing, I thought and drove faster so I could get up the hill and tell Roger about the excitement of it all. I had seen Boogie Nights and knew that the Valley was porn central, but I didn't realize it was located quite this far west. But I'd read it all wrong. These weren't the actors or the extras, these were just Calabasas moms doing their grocery shopping, pants slung precariously low with Juicy emblazoned across the ass and necklines way south of cleavage to enhance the allure of their jutting mammaries. Funny how you get used to things.

But yesterday we flew home from our four days in Portland which I do believe is the complete and total antithesis of Los Angeles and Gina, therefore, was almost a little shocking. We went there to help our friend, Lee, celebrate his 60th and to hang with Betsy who had just had her first chemotherapy a couple of days before we arrived and it was wonderful to be with them both in their new digs. Still, Portland is so very different from L.A.

Things I noticed in Portland:

Tits that are low-slung, not blouses. So not only does the average gal in Portland seem to shun implants, she also shuns the humble bra.

Socks on grown-ups when it's hot outside. Socks with skirts. Socks with shorts. Socks with sandals. Socks.

Frizzy hair. It's a lot more humid up there.

People who aren't that good looking but very hip in a resale shop/retro kinda way. You get used to the beauty in Los Angeles and it's almost shocking when you see normal looking people in such abundance.

Lots of hip wine bars filled with lots of women. Even women with babies having a glass of wine with the baby nestled comfily in a sling. I particularly liked that approach to babies and life and nursing.

Smiles. These people seriously smile a lot. And nice? I've never been around such overtly nice people. It made me a little uncomfortable at times but I was gradually getting used to it.

People apologizing for nothing...you know, stuff like this woman not holding the bathroom door open for me when she went in a good 10' in front of me and didn't notice me until the door was closing when she hauled it open and said, seriously, 'ohmygodi'msorryididn'tsee you.' That kind of thing. I hate to sound all city-hard, but for a minute I thought maybe she was crazy. She wasn't. Just nice.

A woman taking her cat, Salami, for a run down a busy street...without a leash. Salami knew how to hang tight with her owner (who was nice and had frizzy hair, wasn't wearing a bra and was wearing socks with her sort of dressy sandals).

Fantastic restaurants all over the place. The choice was staggering. This is a seriously food and wine-driven town and the choices are pretty exciting. We had dinner on Thursday night at Le Pigeon (no french accent please) and aside from their throwing foie gras into stuff for what I believe to be the shock value (a peanut butter mini cookie laced with foie gras was hideous, in my opinion), the food was superb. Seriously good stuff.

Ten minutes. That's how long it takes you to get anywhere in Portland. At least it seemed that way. Amazing.

Urban Planning. It's pretty impressive when it works.

Rhododendrons and azaleas and roses and dogwood trees...in abundance. So beautiful. And moss. They say it doesn't rain that much, but there's a lot of moss around which makes me believe that even if it doesn't rain all the time, it has to be damp and cloudy (a lot).

Slow drivers. It's a good thing, I'm sure, but it sort of felt uncomfortable, like everyone was just a little weirded out by this newfangled four-wheeled invention. They are that used to good public transportation, walking and biking.

Pedestrian's rights. A car will cheerfully stop for you and wait until you're safely on the other side of the road before proceeding even when you're not in a crosswalk. I tried not to make eye contact with drivers whenever I thought about crossing the street. I felt badly that they would screech to a stop just because I wanted to cross.

Betsy and Lee. They could be anywhere and we'd go, but I'm sure glad they chose a city as cool as Portland.

If we hadn't lived in Newcastle-upon-Tyne for several years, Portland may have tempted me a bit more as a place where I'd consider living. But all that moss...for now I was happy to come home to the brilliant sunshine and insane temperatures (early heat wave), the heavenly scent of sage, lavender and rosemary that permeates the hillsides around my house and most of the things that make Southern California our home for now. The scene at Gelson's? That not so much.

Lulls in the Conversation

2008-04-28T08:07:00.000-07:00

This is the only time I'll write about this here, but I've been quieter than normal mainly because I haven't known quite what to say. Betsy, who I love as much as it's possible to love a friend (in other words fiercely and with total acceptance) has been diagnosed with lung cancer. For the last two weeks I feel as though I've been pushing my way through a fog; brief and bright openings at times only to have it close in abruptly and without warning at other points in the day. Sleep was elusive for that first week. All I could think about was Betsy. They'd moved in February, far away from their Monte Nido home and many friends, pursuing adventures and lifestyle changes further north. And then. This. So while it's been tough for me and all who love Betsy (and there are many of us) I know from personal experience how other-worldly and difficult this has been for her.

But in the last few days, I have had this injection of confidence about Betsy's future. It's not just a positive feeling, it is something deep in my soul. I know she will be going through some very rough days, but I also have a very strong feeling that Betsy will be fine. It will not be easy, but she is going to be fine. Don't ask me how I know this, but I just do.

We're going up to see them in a couple of weeks and I can't wait.

Women in Art

2008-04-15T07:25:00.000-07:00

Try and watch this Women in Art short video sent to me by my friend, Pat. It is exquisite and with Yo Yo Ma celloing in the background, a beautiful treat.

Les oiseaux en ma gorge

2008-04-14T23:00:00.000-07:00

Um, did I tell you I was taking a weekly French class, a language in which I used to be fairly comfortable but in which I now sound like a Parisian toddler...sheesh, rereading that sentence should alert everyone to the fact that I also seem to have some trouble with English.

Anyway...here are some birds that were in my garden yesterday.

A Hooded Oriole on my Blooming Aloe.

And the Great Horned Owl that has taken up residence in my yard.

Springtime in the Canyon

2008-04-02T16:40:00.000-07:00

The sage greens and greys and colors of the earth and stone are suspended in the spring when the winter rains have done their job. These Santa Monica Mountains are particularly beautiful when that happens.

Wild Lupine and Grass growing on a hillside that in just a couple of short months
will be dry and dusty

Pride of Madeira and a Christmas light

Calabasas Farmer's Market

Rununculus at the Farmer's Market

Farmer's Market Beets

Orange on Little Tree...one of the few not pecked to rot by the birds. A neighbor has an orange tree that he doesn't irrigate or fuss over that produces oranges by the hundreds and interests the birds not at all. We do everything the book tells us to do and the birds seem appreciative.

We are getting more orange blossomsthan last year and the air is thick and sweet.

Western Tiger Swallowtail

The Madagascar Jasmine giant pods burst

Aloe in full flower

And finally...what gets us all excited around here.
It's Coming our Way!
Rain

October, 2004

2008-04-02T16:22:00.000-07:00

I thought I knew enough frustration and anger and disappointment and shame that surely, surely I was not alone. Roger and I talked about what we could do, how we could most help, where we could go and we decided we'd head back to Milwaukee, the city we'd moved from two years prior. That way we could see old friends by night and do what the young campaign staffers in Wisconsin told us to do by day. Democrats and Republicans campaign hard in Wisconsin and it's difficult to know which way elections will go, so according to all the pundits this state was up for grabs. And the final tally proved that to be true.

We were going to work on the Kerry/Edwards bring out the vote efforts for that week before the November election. I had voted for Edwards in the California primary, given small sums of money to his campaign and fervently believed in his message. His wife, Elizabeth, was also a powerful intellect and I knew she'd bring much to the office. I wanted him to be my president and enough of the rest of America felt the same that Kerry chose him to be his running mate. While he was one of the reasons I decided to get active in the election, the primary reason was my fervent opposition to the Bush/Cheney ticket.

I can't remember what the weather was like when we left Los Angeles in late October, but I'm assuming it was dry and hot and that we were desperate for summer to end. It ended abruptly four hours later when we arrived at General Billy Mitchell Field (or Mitchell Airport as it is now called). I remember beautiful autumnal colors, rain, dampness and sleet; in other words, typical late October/early November days along Lake Michigan. And I remember our optimism, not only for the Wisconsin elections, but for the country. We were going to get this one trick pony out of office and it was going to happen soon. (Here's where I shake my head in disbelief and say fuckfuckfuckfuck over and over again, still horrified that we've had to endure another four years of the dangerous ineptitude of the current administration.)

And so when I read about the excitement generated by Obama or Clinton, I feel a tickle of a sneer cross my face. Yeah, it's great that we Americans are excited about this election but why the hell weren't we jacked up enough about the election in 2004? Indifference by too many in the last election allowed another four years of the current administration to inflict their misery on too many. And now I read about the surge in popularity of McCain. All I can say is too many Americans seem to suffer from short term memory loss. Don't think, fellow Democrats, that we've got this election in the bag.

So?

2008-03-29T14:08:00.000-07:00

ABC reporter, Martha Raddatz interviewed Cheney on the fifth anniversary of our invasion of Iraq. In part, this is how it played out:

CHENEY: On the security front, I think there's a general consensus that we've made major progress, that the surge has worked. That's been a major success. (Duplicitous sack of shit)

RADDATZ: Two-thirds of Americans say it's not worth fighting.

CHENEY: So? (smug, flip, murdering bastard)

RADDATZ: So? You don't care what the American people think?

CHENEY: No. (nasty, detestable fucker). I think you cannot be blown off course by the fluctuations in the public opinion polls.

In case there is any doubt, comments in red are mine.

And Michael Moore says..."I would like every American to see Cheney flip the virtual bird at them, the American people. Click here and pass it around. Then ask yourself why we haven't risen up and thrown him and his puppet out of the White House."

And if you want to read all of what MM has to say, click here.

Some of my stuff

2008-03-27T07:09:00.000-07:00

Reading one of my favorite blogs today, I thought it would be interesting to wander around my house and take a good look at some of the very things that clutter my life in a good way: sugar bowls and vases, artwork and favorite bowls, all the things that make the layers of life a little more interesting. Things that have some memory attached to them.

Glancing over the top of my computer screen, two old prints from my Great-grandfather's brewery pub in Waterloo, Liverpool (England) immediately catch my eye. They're advertising prints, hand-colored and show some guys playing cards, one of them cheating. I have no idea what they're advertising and when I google the signatures, I come up empty, although one of them looks like the Pears soap signature. Not sure, though. They need reframing and are going to be hung in the basement when my husband gets his wine cellar up and running. Right now it’s just crates and odd bottles of wine, but we’re getting closer…walls have been finished, floor has been tiled, great lighting is in and soon the shelving will go up. And then we’ll hang the prints. As long as I can remember, these prints were in my parent’s home. Then, a good few years after my Dad died, my mother decided to sell her Washington, DC home and move back to England, permanently. We were still living in Wisconsin, so I made the 15-hour drive shortly before she jumped continents and brought these prints back north with me. Now they're in California and almost six years after moving here, they're still waiting to be hung. My great-grandfather succumbed to the solitary lure of the bottle and died young. These prints were in a closet in one of my great-aunt's homes until moving to D.C. in the 1950s.

And while I was training my camera on the prints above, I noticed the copper tub by the fireplace. This is used as a woodstore now but it originally saw use as a copper boiler (I think). After that it served as storage for recycling newspapers and bits of kindling for our dear friends (The Malones) who now live near Asheville, NC and no doubt wish they had it again. They gave it to us when they were moving to Florida and thought, I'm sure, that they'd never have use for any fireplace storage again.

And then there's this dear little (maybe 5" high) bud vase...one of a long-ago broken pair, this one just surviving, but irreparably damaged anyway. Still, I keep it because when I close my eyes I can see them sitting on my mother's dressing table in her bedroom. I always put one flower in this vase and a leaf from any random plant that just drapes over the edge, covering its imperfection.
And then that first autumn in Milwaukee when we drove down to Alpine Valley where there was some random Oktoberfest/antique's fair. Roger fell in love with the silver, filigree over cut glass vase. It was affordable because of a hairline crack and was originally part of the Ringling Bros. estate in Baraboo, Wisconsin. Or so we were told. I used to keep it polished when the formality of our old house demanded such a thing. Now I just bung it up on the shelf with other vases and polish it when the mood strikes. You can see that rarely happens. To its left is a 60s retro(ie) bud vase that my son gave me. To the right is Japanese teapot that I've used once, though its shape charms me. This picture tells me one thing. That shelf is a mess and needs a more artistic touch. Tomorrow...

And used everyday is my daughter's effort from a woodworking class she was forced to do at age 12. Emblazoned with her initials, but given to us as a present, it has been used faithfully for the last 25 years. I love this.

And then this portrait of an ancient Asian man, done by our son as a Christmas present to my husband six or seven years ago. It sits on our bookcase in the living room and is well loved.

And here's my Great Auntie Irene's sewing table. Intrically carved, the top is damaged in a way that looks intentional...almost saw cut. Its style is pretty much the antithesis of ours, but there is an alcove in our hallway into which this table fits quite perfectly.

And here's an art-deco sugar bowl given me by my long-dear friend in D.C., Kathy. It is used faithfully and reminds me daily of our friendship.

And there's so much more. But it's an interesting exercise. Looking, really looking at one's things and then taking the time to remember.

Great Horned Owl

2008-03-24T22:53:00.000-07:00

Around 6:30 this evening I wandered outside, camera in hand. I wanted to get some pictures of our grass so I could ask the knowledgeable ladies at the Garden Center just what the hell is going on...it's green in spots, white in others and dead in others. Grass doesn't do well in our Canyon and while we don't have much, what we have we enjoy. Yes, I know it uses water and yes I feel guilty about that, but the rest of the 'garden' is pretty drought tolerant.

As I turned my camera on, there was a loud whooshing as something flew off the grass and towards a densely wooded area. It was close enough that I knew it was an owl, assumed it was a Great Horned and hoped it would stop and perch somewhere within range. The westering sun had sunk behind the ridge, but there was still enough light to capture these shots. They're not the greatest pix but the bird, well it is quite simply brilliant.

Easter '08

2008-03-23T22:55:00.000-07:00

Though not a particularly (strike particularly) religious family, we're big fans of carols at Christmas and Evensong in random English cathedrals but that's pretty much where it ends. We seem to be disgustingly sanguine about the commercialization of Christian holidays, equally comfortable with Santa and elves and Easter bunnies and tooth fairies. We're not actively anti-religion in that we have no emotional investment in our lack of belief. We don't enter into arguments of faith with friends who are deeply religious or scoff and shake our heads in pitying wonderment when religion is discussed. It's just not a part of our lives. But may I say again that we very much embrace the rabbit who delivers high end chocolates and jelly beans and Peeps, ohmygod, the Peeps which I kindly eat for my grandchildren due to their seeming indifference. I use them as table decorations, thus allowing the sugary outer layer to crispen up a bit. It brings back memories of my own Easter basket peeps, sugar hardened and plastic Easter grass embedded deeply. Biting into a Peeps was sometimes a little like flossing if the grass got wedged uncomfortably high on the gum.

My husband's sister, who lives deep in the heart of Wales, is quite the opposite. One day when two clean-shaven, close-trimmed, white-shirted and tie-clad American Mormon boys tapped on her door with some good news, she listened and bought the package. Completely. Yeah, I know...we don't talk about it much. There passed a few years when she was deeply troubled by our lack of commitment to a religion and when the church no doubt told her we were ripe for the plucking, she dutifully airmailed us an awful lot of LDS literature. And then there was that year we were wintering in Pasadena so Roger could better recover from back surgery and not have to make the weekly commute from Milwaukee to L.A. for a project he was then working on. About a week after his surgery (and he was none too comfortable), two young women knocked on our door one evening with some good wishes and better news. Who wouldn't be excited by that? Mormons are notoriously pretty when young and exceptionally clean. But when they said, "We received a letter from your sister in Britain and she said you (my husband) had just had back surgery and we have come to pray with you and to invite you to explore the Wonderful World of Mormon with us," I did more than bristle. Now my husband is by nature far more polite than I am. He's also more inclined to talk to strangers. I'm more inclined to say, when I don't like the message, "You're going to have to fuck off now because this is starting to really rub me wrong." Whereas he may listen for 10 minutes and then enter into theological discussions with strangers (WHO KNOW OUR NAMES AND ADDRESSEs) even though he knows SFA about the LDS and Joseph Smith and Brigham Young. I haven't exactly studied the Mormon faith, but I've read a fair amount about it because, let's face it, it's fascinating stuff. I became interested in these folks when a behemoth LDS Temple was being built on the Beltway (495) in Washington, DC. Very Disneyesque and mysterious. I think I've mentioned before that a bridge crossing the freeway just before the Temple has RUN DOROTHY RUN emblazoned across it. Every six months or so it is cleaned off and then, within a week, mysteriously reappears.

So back to our lack of religion. As lazy parents, we decided to let our kids be introduced to the Holy Bible and mysterious rites of Christianity via their schools in England...Church of England and a convent school for my daughter taught by the La Sagesse teaching order of nuns. We figured that would give them an almost sufficient amount of confusion so they could almost sort out any Biblical cultural reference to a deficient degree. May I just state categorically that it worked. They half understand (like their parents) a lot of stuff and are mightily confused by the rest.

And so while we sat around the table yesterday, we listened to Charlotte as she tried to figure just what the hell this holiday was all about. None of us felt like getting into death or resurrection. So we listened to Lottie. She started with..."So, Easter is all about this guy Geebus..right?"

It's hard to get this Bunny to stop moving long enough to capture a still image.

These two bunnies, Charlotte and Charlie, were displaying some sugary behavior that lasted well into the night.

Sophie is ready to go to the beach...enough of Easter. The only candy she likes are lollipops. Jelly beans are yucky. By eating lots of sugar, the other kids are achieving near-Sophie status in the active stakes.

Charlie's still looking for eggs and it's pitch black outside.

The evening is winding down. We're desperate to get a picture of both girls sporting the ears. Sophie won't cooperate. Fortunately, we don't care at this point. That's my daughter, Jane..the grown up one.

For some reason, Lottie kept taking her basket apart and putting it together...this was the night before Easter. Easter Eve? She was prepping the basket for the bunny.
Even Baby Annie had to wear ears. Nobody gets off easily in this house. Impressively, with only two front bottom teeth, Annie also ate a jelly bean (and didn't choke) and moved pretty quickly when she spied another errant one. We kept it at one.

Finally...Sophie looking ready for bed.

Some Years Spring Comes Easily

2008-03-18T08:17:00.000-07:00

No idea how to end this underlining or why this particular post has chosen to add such emphasis to itself, but hiking up Red Rock last Saturday almost made me break into the rousing chorus from 'He Arose or Low in the Grace He Lay' as it's more commonly known . In my memory, ranked second only to the noble Peeps , are the rousing Easter Sunday hymns from the Southern Baptist church I occasionally attended with neighbors (when my mother just couldn't be arsed enough to take me to the local Episcopal church). I loved the whole idea of death not being exactly what it implied, thus making anything possible. An appealing thought and one that helps keep religion firmly rooted in the stratosphere for many.

It's Not Jacquie Lawson

2008-03-13T11:55:00.000-07:00

My new favorite card site is this one.

Meme'd...Again!

2008-03-08T07:11:00.001-08:00

Seven Weird Things about Me

GrannyP got me. As I was cyber-running through space I thought I'd arched my back enough in that critical last moment when she was stretching forward to tag me but I felt that slightest of taps and her 'gotcha' tones in my head and knew she'd done it. Still, she's headed this way in September and has thrown out the lure of some good figgy jam, and I'm a notoriously easy touch so...

1. I count things. Lots of things. Not just the steps up to my house (which are the same as the steps down) but lots of things. And then I apparently forget the number because the next day, I do the same damned thing.

2. I once faked an asthma attack in high school to get out of taking a test. Full blown attack. Parents called. Ambulance summoned. I guess I didn't properly think it through. You know, consequences.

3. I have always had demanding teeth. When I was three, I heard my dentist at Georgetown Dental School (Washington, DC) say to a group of his dental students, "That poor child. She will be lucky if she has a tooth in her head by the time she's 30." My mother swears there's no way I could have heard this, that the dentist was a good 25' away and whispering, but I heard it...and remember to this day exactly what he said. As a result, until I was 30, I had nightmares about biting into bananas and having my teeth fall out.

4. When my father almost lost his finger in a lawnmower accident, my mother was so horrified that she ran and locked herself in her bedroom and screamed "Linda, quick...go help your father!" I did. In fact, he had already positioned the half-severed finger in place and put pressure and ice and towels 'round it. I drove him to the hospital in part on the new and as yet unfinished Washington, DC beltway. Not all the segments were finished, but the bits that were open I drove upon, per my pa's instructions. I was almost 12 and my father was nothing but encouraging. I can still hear him saying, "Good girl. You're doing fine. Sugar, try and keep between the lines." I was sitting on pillows and at the edge of the seat. The car was automatic and I'd had some driving experience. On Sundays, back when everything closed on that day of rest, my Pa would take me to the vast supermarket parking lots and let me drive around to my heart's content. Those lessons paid off.

5. In one three month period of my life, my final summer holiday while at university (before I dropped out and married my stranger), I held three jobs, simultaneously. I was making money hand over fist and had never felt quite so flush. From 9 to 5 I was a cub reporter for The Georgetowner newspaper...a small local paper in Washington, DC, then owned by the ancient Amy Stewart. From 5:30 to 7:30 I sold New York Times subscriptions by telephone. It was the first year home delivery was offered in our area and while I can't remember how much money I made from that gig, I do remember it was pretty amazing. It seemed like everyone I called was so excited at the idea of getting a NY Times on their doorstep that they just said yes. And then at the weekend, three other gals and I danced on a bar in Georgetown. It was 1968 and I wore cut-off jeans and a t-shirt. Weird, I know. And when I finished, I was walked to my car and I drove home. Didn't tell my Mum about that job. But the money was great. Old Charlie Chaplin and Harold Lloyd movies would be flickering in the background and I'd be dancing. Oh well.

6. As an older child (around 11 or 12 years old), I was often left to my own devices while my parents worked. During the summer holidays when time obviously hung a little too heavily, I would wait for my parents to head off to work and then I'd jump on my bike and race to The Greyhound Bus station in Silver Spring, Maryland (a good five miles away). I'd look at the fronts of the buses to see where they were headed, ask how long a trip it was and then buy a ticket. I could get to Richmond or Baltimore or Frederick and once when my parents had plans and were going to be home a bit late, I took the express bus to Philadelphia. As long as I didn't hang around too long when I got to those places, I could catch another bus back in time to beat my parents home. Ever hung around a Greyhound or Trailways bus station? Without fail, they are in the worst parts of town. I still have not shared those adventures with my Mum.

7. I have not shared that I have a blog with most people I know. Not sure why.

And I'm tagging anyone who reads this blog. And Birthday Bob, that means you...use this as a springboard to write your second posting. Seven weird things about you. NOW GO!

Prized Brownies

2008-02-29T10:50:00.000-08:00

The last couple of weeks have brought some lovely surprises. Firstly, a prize which has been languishing in my bag, unsure of quite where to go. Today I rather surprised myself as I was actually able to physically put my prize from Vanessa on this posting. For well over a week I have struggled, along with the most excellent blogger, Granny P, to place this shiny gift tidily in the sidebar. The fact that Granny was unable to post her award has given me great solace as I've seen her sidebar, and it's a damn sight prettier than mine. I have never quite got the hang of anything in the sidebar so have been forced to lug my prize around in my purse all week...not missing any chance to whip it out and explain to friends and strangers alike, Oh, I won a prize, did you know? How lovely for you, Dotty, they all exclaim in patronizingly soft voices. Hmpff, I thought. How could they know what a honor this is. They don't know Vanessa. Vanessa's written a real book, a proper book, and I've got it on order from the UK. Only three left (or so Amazon.co.uk) told me. I'd tried to order this book when it was first published and ran into obstacles. This time it was easier, but I still got the run-around with the first order. Could it be because I'm in the States? I think the US dollar is losing its allure. It sure as hell is losing its value.

And then the equally wonderful Gwendomama tagged me for a meme with a promise of her own special brownies if I cooperated. While I had never eaten her sweet confections before, I've been following her blog for a couple of years and what that woman can't bake isn't worth eating. And so I meme'd for brownies and then they arrived, along with handmade Japanese stationery AND a custom-crafted Dotty Nana necklace. Here's evidence of the meme loot sent my way. Life should be easy now that I have my MacBook Pro...but I'm struggling to get pictures into my blog. The only way it is working for me at this point is to insert a photo from my Flickr file directly to my blog...each picture becomes it's own blog entry (nutz I know) and then I copy and paste that picture into my current blog posting, finally deleting the post the picture was sent to. I'm sure you're yawning by now, but if you know what I'm doing wrong, I'd love to know. I know it's me, not the computer and my limitations (in many endeavors) continue to bug me. Betsy, who's now in Portland, told me only today that anyone can just go to the Apple store for free lessons. Next week that's where I'll be.

The jewels posed on a plate

The jewels posed 'round my neck

Icing scraped from the wrapping...yes, they are that good. 72% pure cacao, the baker assures me...pure heaven.

See that sweet, little blue plastic pig? He's filled with French salt. Instructions were to sprinkle a little on top of the chocolate before eating. We obliged and it was a fantastic combination.

Obama Fever

2008-02-24T13:57:00.001-08:00

This country is pretty excited about Mr. Obama and while I'm overjoyed that people are so ready for change, I'm still puzzled by their apparent reluctance to effect change at the last election. Are we as a nation so candidate (and not issue) driven that we can only get excited by the person running and not their platform? I can only assume that things have to be not just bad but fucking awful before the need to become active in the cure becomes compelling for so many. And that bothers me. And the other thing that bothers me (and I admit I'm one sensitive broad) is that Obama is beginning to sound too preachery to me. Preachery in an old time revival kinda way, a sort of MLKy style. And that doesn't suit me. It just doesn't. So I'm trying to remind myself to listen to myself and while I'm a Clinton gal through and through, I need to stop focusing on the candidates and more on the issues. And in doing that, I have discovered that I still want Hillary to be my president. Not because of who she is or isn't, but because of her platform.

Meme'd

2008-02-22T15:55:00.000-08:00

So Gwendomama meme'd me and how could I say no? I mean she's handicapped right now plus promises of brownies AND cupcakes mean something to me and if you don't think I'm sending her my address (and a pre-stamped box if she so demands), then you don't know how much I love such confections. I've seen plenty of photographs of her baked marvels so not only am I cooperating, but I'm cooperating quickly (in order to get the first batch once she's up on her two pegs again). Note to Gwendomama: j'aime beaucoup le chocolat. (I'm taking French lessons, encore, so will be throwing the odd phrase into future postings. That's it pour maintenant. Oops, sorry.)

So this meme is all about secrets. Things you haven't spilled to the internet already. Hmmmm... I don't tend to keep much in, and I kinda think I've already done one of these, but sowhatwhocares I'm doing another and I'm doing it for the sugar.

1. I knew my husband for three weeks when we got married in November, 1968. Well, I'd spent three weeks in his company and then he was back on one side of the Atlantic and I on t'other, so in reality I'd known him three months when we married, but I'd only spent three weeks in his orbit. He was a guest (along with my godparent's son who was his best friend and introduced us) of my parents. My mother had invited him and Richard to come to America and stay for several weeks. She had not invited him to impregnate her daughter. Her only child. Oh well. So, we got married and after a Greek meal where plates where thrown (oompa) we got on a train (British Rail, First Class [cos we were feeling flush]) and went somewhere. I am being very honest when I say in all honesty that I can't remember where. I don't know if we went down to Cornwall, where Roger's parents were then living, or to my godparent's house. To say that our wedding was a non-event is no exaggeration. Here's a picture of us, on the train, looking completely exhausted and a bit shell-shocked. I'm wearing a fetching intensely blue maternity dress that I picked up at Lady Madonna in Golder's Green.
I don't have a scanner, so these are snaps of pics.

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2. I remember when bershon was all the chatter. I am embarrssed to say that I am still inclined to bershon at times. A year or so ago I started looking for this picture of my Great Auntie Doris and me. I am 12 years old and we are standing in a park just outside of Liverpool, England, 1960. I can still remember my mother holding the camera and asking me to smile. I bershoned instead. Auntie Doris no doubt thought I was smiling. My mother had curled my hair and I think that probably was pissing me off, too.

3. I can be a selfish heifer. When I was 16, my 10 year-old cousin Cathy came to live with us for a year. Her mother was ill and hospitalized at Duke Univ. Hospital and Cathy came up to Washington, DC to be with us. I had a car, a 1965 Mustang. I had a bike, a Raleigh, three-speed, British racing green. I was such a bershon bitch that when my mother suggested that I could give Cathy my bike to use [since I had a car for fuck's sake and her mother was seriously ill], I can remember being shocked that she could ask such a thing of me. Cathy got the bike and years later I apologized to her for not being a better surrogate big sister. She looked at me blankly and said she thought I had been super nice to her, much nicer than her own older sister. I should have auditioned for RADA.

4. I used to have really thick hair. During chemo it all fell out, even the psyllium in my nose. It grew back but is not the same. I miss it. Yeah, being young too. I miss that.

5. I find it hard to say no to a nicely packaged tea. Well, PG Tips are hardly beautifully packaged, but builder's tea is a secret vice of mine. See that singular bag to the right of the PG Tips box? It's a Mighty Leaf tea, bag my husband's vice. The bags are made from silk (a bit fey for me). I got him 100 bags for Valentine's Day and since they cost just under a buck a bag, I thought I was being generous.

So there, Miz Gwendomama...meme finished. I'll send you my address later on!

Hillary

2008-02-22T11:57:00.000-08:00

She gets my vote. And if you didn't see the debate last night, take a minute to listen to this.

My Shack for your Château

2008-02-19T11:19:00.000-08:00

We never saw that house swap flick, The Holiday (meant to) but a few years ago we met the parents of one of my daughter's friends and they were raving about how they exchange their shack (their words, I think) in San Pedro for châteaus in France. It all sounded a little suspect to me, as who in their right mind would do such a zany thing, but alright, I'll go along with you. We talked about it in some depth with promises to get together (didn't happen) and promises that they'd send us links to the group they belong to (happened). A few more years went by and my husband asked me if we'd chosen one of the house swap organizations yet, knowing that I can be slow to move if it involves work on my part, and so I finally joined. And then a few months later I finally posted some shots of our nest (moved crap out of way so house looks very tidy and inviting) and then I eventually figured out how to post those pictures on the website and then I wrote glowingly about my area of the world. You know, in a way that would entice a complete and total stranger to come and stay in my house and sleep in my bed. Kinda creepy, non? Just to be sneaky I left out the part that the final drive up to my house entails driving past alternate lifestyle chicken shack type houses where my neighbors hang (okay along with some nice places, too). But Topanga is a mixed bag...a very mixed bag. Ever read Tortilla Curtain? I loved that book and read it not too long before we moved here and understand that it is fiction (no gated communities in Topanga or housing estates) but with underlying truth. You know, fiction. Some people up here are still offended that the book made this area appear even marginally posh and unfriendly.

So because this is Topanga and not Beverly Hills, you'll also understand just why this made me laugh out loud...an email I received from another home exchanger a couple of days ago. And after going to his listing, I figured out that just maybe those folks in San Pedro weren't exaggerating about exchanging their 'shack' for a château!

THE MESSAGE:
Probably July for a full house swap. But available through the end of September
for the guest house/apt here. See our site for an explanation, pics.

A good swap would be for our guest house/apartment in exchange for your guest
house/apartment, about equal, though we have 2 bedrooms in our guest house and
it is a bit fancy. And if we are here, we can be here to show you around this
amazing Island. But you will find everything eventually on you own too. Our
Guest House is really nice, fully equipped.

If we are not here, we would keep much of the estate open, ie., the pool,
cabana, bikes, etc; and there is always the beach, resturants, museums, sites,
fun, etc. Of course if we aren\'t here, we will be at your place! But you can
always call us for tips, etc., It is a great island Palm Beach, in the summer,
the best.

Your area we know very well, been there many many times, don\'t need any help
therefore... two or three weeks or whatever stay, we are open... only my wife
and I traveling, no kids. If interested, let us know soon, as we are getting a
lot of response in only the 3 days we listed

January/February, Topanga

2008-02-13T17:52:00.001-08:00

I can't get the text to go where I want so the pix are as follows.
Thirsty Goldfinches and one brawny looking purple finch out back.
After the deluge and the grass still looks like shit.

After the deluge and the grass still looks like shit.

Babu and Lottie hiking up Red Rock, the old Boy Scout Trail

Looking out over the Valley towards the Santa Susanna's...after their snowfall

Chair and geraniums...my favorite color

This stuff grows where the grass is supposed to grow, but only in the winter.

Moving Day

2008-02-07T09:13:00.000-08:00

Last night we met Lee and Betsy for dinner. They were exhausted but buzzed with that adrenalin level we pull out of our cores when needed. Last night was fun and not nearly as bitter sweet as I'd almost dreaded. I didn't want to sit opposite them tearing up and choking over my food. The conversation and food were good and Lee and Betsy loved their dirty martinis.

When we moved to California year-round, six years ago, L&B were headed to Italy with their two girls on holiday days after we arrived. Late in the day after out movers had schlepped load after load up our driveway and then up the stairs to the house, L&B and their two beautiful girls, Mercedes and Loulou arrived bearing wine, cheese, bread, good olives and friendship. And then two days later, never mind that they had a house to organize and animals to take to caregivers, they had a party for us to honor our arrival. We were introduced to their inner circle of friends and felt an immediate connection to our new home. Last night as we sat across from them, laughing and so very comfortable, I regretted that I couldn't greet them in Portland and offer them the very same. Good wine, friendship and a sense of immediate belonging.

See you soon, good friends.

My Friend is Moving

2008-02-06T12:00:00.000-08:00

When we said we were leaving Milwaukee and moving to Topanga almost six years ago, some of my friends appeared shocked that we would do such a thing and took it personally (which bugged the shit out of me and still does). And other friends, although sad that we were leaving, embraced the excitement of the move and were thrilled that we were doing what we'd talked about doing before words like chemo and infusions and staging and tumors became part of our everyday lives. They were also glad we were moving somewhere they'd like to visit! Their excitement for us made our much-anticipated move easier and I hoped and prayed that they would visit us with regularity, even though we were a four-hour flight away. And they did/and they do. Some still act surprised that we could leave the Midwest and while it was tough saying goodbye to friends, it wasn't so hard leaving the area.

They asked how we could leave our house. "How could you just leave it," they'd ask? That question always left me a little flat. I did like the house a lot, but it's not like we had designed it, built it, birthed our children in it and swore up and down that we'd die in it. It was just a beautiful, old house. And Milwaukee, to us, was just a town. I had no childhood memories, although after almost 20 years of living there, my children certainly did. But they, too, had moved away. Roger's work brought us to the Midwest and we had arrived on a bitter cold New Year's Eve at Chicago O'Hare, not knowing what to expect, aside from cold winters and beer. And we left knowing that it was a wonderfully vibrant city, filled with extraordinary people who became and remain my most special of friends.

As the years we've been away stretch (almost six now), their visits aren't quite as frequent, but the depth of the friendships remains. We care deeply about one another. I have often tried to examine why this move, as an adult with adult children, was easier on many levels than other moves we'd made. Cell phones, cheap long distance calling plans and more money in one's pocket help, they all help. It is understood that visits and phone calls will continue, while separations made in the past with small children were hard. Then I knew I most likely wouldn't see people for years. Travel and phones were expensive. And I knew that when I saw them, their children wouldn't run to hug me or remember me. And I knew I wouldn't truly know them, just as my children, their very best friends (forever they promised through goodbye tears), would be strangers to them. You get used to missing someone, and then the pangs lessen, they just do. It's life.

So, when friends move, I do not take it personally (I try, anyway). I know they are doing it for their reasons, not to hurt me. I am not a part of their decision-making and I jolly well shouldn't be. I know that we all move for various reasons and I also know it's so very difficult to say goodbye. To be left behind.

So here's a little story about my friend Betsy who is moving, tomorrow, to Portland. And why I know our friendship won't diminish because of her move, but will become different. Less day-to-day certainly. But not smaller.

Here are a few words about the importance of embracing new friendships. Something I wrote not long after I met Betsy.

Betsy, January 2008
Topanga, CA

Establishing friendship in adulthood is a much more delicately trod road than that traveled in childhood. When you’re a young adult, say just out of your teens, you still enthusiastically embrace people who you think you could be friends with, only to find by the time you’re in your thirties that they’re an absolute liability and take up more time than you’re willing to give. At this age, too, time is usually consumed by young children, complex career paths (and if you’re a stay-at-home mother, even more complex issues) and inordinately high expenses that seem to have nothing in common with your earnings. When you’re a parent, most of your friends are parents. It’s just a fact. It happens that way. That’s how completely and wonderfully invasive is parenting. In fact, inviting childless friends into your kid-smudged world usually just makes them uncomfortable. You’re used to it, though. It’s the life you inhabit and the one you embrace…for the time being, anyway.

But then when you’re fifty-something most of your friends have at last packed their kids off to college. Of course you do have friends (men, mostly) who didn’t become parents until their late 40s and they’re just going to be leaping to a different piper until the day they die. But as an early starter, you have gotten used (again) to a good night’s sleep and no longer listen for the first whimper of a little one or the burglar-quiet entrance of your teen, long past curfew.

You aren’t looking for friendship with people whose lives are consumed by young ones. Hey, not that it’s all bad; it’s just that since you’ve already done that, so have most of your friends.
So, when you do meet someone who you just know you could be friends with, and she’s only a few years younger, and she’s funny and cool and all those things that make a whole woman whole, a little dinger goes off inside you that screams, almost like when you were in your twenties, DING DING DING DING, she could be your NEW BEST FRIEND! You look at the drawbacks, and there are a few. She lives 25 miles away from you when you’re wintering in her part of the world, and 2,000 miles away from where you spend most of your life. You can’t help but think that these are definitely drawbacks. She has two young girls (uh oh), younger than 11 but older than 7. While we all know that’s not criminal, it most definitely is a drawback. The timing for get-togethers will be much trickier.

She also has a husband and while that is good, it’s also an obstacle. I have a husband, too. For some people that wouldn’t impact a friendship at all, but for me, it does. One sounds as though it has nothing whatsoever to do with friendship development, but believe me, it does. What if we want to get together at night, as couples? What if my husband doesn’t like her husband or hers doesn’t like mine or she and I can’t understand why on earth we married this other person? If that happens, then you can believe the friendship will never be as open or unguarded as one where everyone in the foursome is fond of the other. We got lucky, truly lucky. Not only did our husbands like one another, they seemed to prefer each other’s company to the exclusion of us. It was novel, but we got used to it, and came to like it. Seems like they had found a new, good friend as well.

So, there seemed to be no major impediments to this friendship and we both set about establishing it with an intensity and joy that continues to this day. How did we do that, given the physical distance from one another and the very different demands of our lives? We wrote to one another, and not just little how are you notes, but emails full of details. We called each other. We commiserated with one another and, because we had a true fondness for the other’s family, we were able to talk about them with honesty, humor and annoyance. We didn’t let 2,000 miles get in the way; we had the Internet and we had a nickel-a-minute plan for long-distance calls. We used the Internet like the Victorians used the Penny Post, and we wrote.

Writing to one another became a cure-all for the frustration of the day. The minute I typed my frustration, I felt it dissipate. So much so that frequently, when I got a letter back from Betsy which stated in no uncertain terms that she completely agreed with me and would be angry with (insert any name here) too, I had more frequently than not forgotten what I was angry about. Therapists were unnecessary expenses and chiropractic visits decreased in accordance with my stress level.

Writing became a requirement of this friendship. If one didn’t write, or ignored a received letter for too long, the other became pushy, wanting good, solid reasons for such indifference.

And I expect that now, 11 years after our friendship began and six years after the physical distance between us shrank to only 10 miles, out friendship will endure.

Tomorrow Betsy and Lee say goodbye to Southern California and begin the drive northwards to Portland, perhaps a temporary home on their way even further northwards to Vancouver. Maybe they'll return to the Santa Monica Mountains and maybe they won't. Tomorrow I'll share with you a little story on how we met one another.

Vote

2008-02-04T22:07:00.000-08:00

RESUME

GEORGE W. BUSH
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue
Washington, DC 20520

EDUCATION AND EXPERIENCE:

Law Enforcement:
I was arrested in Kennebunkport, Maine, in 1976 for driving under the influence of alcohol. I pled guilty, paid a fine, and had my driver's license suspended for 30 days. My Texas driving record has been "lost" and is not available.

Military:
I joined the Texas Air National Guard and went AWOL. I refused to take a drug test or answer any questions about my drug use. By joining the Texas Air National Guard, I was able to avoid combat duty in Vietnam.

College:
I graduated from Yale University with a low C average. I was a cheerleader.

PAST WORK EXPERIENCE:
I ran for U.S. Congress and lost.
I began my career in the oil business in Midland,Texas in 1975. I bought an oil company, but couldn't find any oil in Texas. The company went bankrupt shortly after I sold all my stock.

I bought the Texas Rangers baseball team in a sweetheart deal that took land using taxpayer money.

With the help of my father and our friends in the oil industry (including Enron CEO Ken Lay), I was elected governor of Texas.

ACCOMPLISHMENTS AS GOVERNOR OF TEXAS:

I changed Texas pollution laws to favor power and oil companies, making Texas the most polluted state in the Union. During my tenure, Houston replaced Los Angeles as the most smog-ridden city in America.

I cut taxes and bankrupted the Texas treasury to the tune of billions in borrowed money.

I set the record for the most executions by any governor in American history.

With the help of my brother, the governor of Florida , and my father's appointments to the Supreme Court, I became President of the United States, after losing by over 500,000 votes.

ACCOMPLISHMENTS AS PRESIDENT:

I am the first President in U.S. history to enter office with a criminal record.

I invaded and occupied two countries at a continuing cost of over one billion dollars per week.

I spent the U.S. surplus and effectively bankrupted the U.S. Treasury.

I shattered the record for the largest annual deficit in U.S. history.

I set an economic record for most private bankruptcies filed in any 12-month period.

I set the all-time record for most foreclosures in a 12-month period.

I set the all-time record for the biggest drop in the history of the U.S. stock market. In my first year in office, over 2 million Americans lost their jobs and that trend continues.

I'm proud that the members of my cabinet are the richest of any administration in U.S. history. My "poorest millionaire," Condoleezza Rice, has a Chevron oil tanker named after her.

I set the record for most campaign fund-raising trips by a U.S. President.

I am the all-time U.S. and world record -holder for receiving the most corporate campaign donations.

My largest lifetime campaign contributor, and one of my best friends, Kenneth Lay, presided over the largest corporate bankruptcy fraud in U.S. history, Enron.

My political party used Enron private jets and corporate attorneys to assure my success with the U.S. Supreme Court during my election decision.

I have protected my friends at Enron and Halliburton against investigation or prosecution. More time and money was spent investigating the Monica Lewinsky affair than has been spent investigating one of the biggest corporate rip-offs in history. I presided over the biggest energy crisis in U.S. history and refused to intervene when corruption involving the oil industry was revealed.

I presided over the highest gasoline prices in U.S. history.

I changed the U.S. policy to allow convict ed criminals to be awarded government contracts.

I appointed more convicted criminals to my administration than any President in U.S. history.

I created the Ministry of Homeland Security, the largest bureaucracy in the history of the United States Government.

I've broken more international treaties than any President in U.S. history.

I am the first President in U.S. history to have the United Nations remove the U.S. from the Human Rights Commission.

I withdrew the U.S. from the World Court of Law.

I refused to allow inspector's access to U.S. "prisoners of war" detainees and thereby have refused to abide by the Geneva Convention.

I am the first President in history to refuse United Nations election inspectors (during the 2002 US election).

I set the record for fewest numbers of press conferences of any President since the advent of television.

I set the all-time record for most days on vacation in any one-year period. After taking off the entire month of August, I presided over the worst security failure in U.S. history.

I garnered the most sympathy ever for the U.S. after the World Trade Center attacks and less than a year later made the U.S. the most hated country in the world, the largest failure of diplomacy in world history.

I have set the all-time record for most people worldwide to simultaneously protest me in public venues (15 million people), shattering the record for protests against any person in the history of mankind.

I am the first President in U.S. history to order an unprovoked, pre-emptive attack and the military occupation of a sovereign nation. I did so against the will of the United Nations, the majority of U.S. Citizens and the world community.

I have cut health care benefits for war veterans and support a cut in duty benefits for active duty troops and their families in wartime.

In my State of the Union Address, I lied about our reasons for attacking Iraq and then blamed the lies on our British friends.

I am the first President in history to have a majority of Europeans (71%) view my presidency as the biggest threat to world peace and security.

I am supporting development of a nuclear "Tactical Bunker Buster," a WMD.

I have so far failed to fulfill my pledge to bring Osama Bin Laden to justice.

RECORDS AND REFERENCES:

All records of my tenure as governor of Texas are now in my father's library, sealed and unavailable for public view.

All records of SEC investigations into my insider trading and my bankrupt companies are sealed in secrecy and unavailable for public view.

All records or minutes from meetings that I, or my Vice-President, attended regarding public energy policy are sealed in secrecy and unavailable for public review. I specified that my sealed documents will not be available for 50 years.
PLEASE SEND THIS TO EVERY VOTER YOU KNOW!

"Of course the people don't want war. But after all, it's the leaders of the country who determine the policy, and it's always a simple matter to drag the people along whether it's a democracy, a fascist dictatorship, or a parliament, or a communist dictatorship. Voice or no voice, the people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. That is easy. All you have to do is tell them they are being attacked, and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism, and exposing the country to greater danger."

-- Herman Goering at the Nuremberg trials

My choice, but not the nations...an email I got today

2008-01-30T17:44:00.000-08:00

Dear Linda,

Let me start by saying, "Thank you." You have stood with Elizabeth and me throughout this campaign. Your support has sustained us as we have traveled across this country.

Earlier today, I suspended my campaign for the Democratic nomination for the presidency. I made this announcement from where our journey began just over 12 months ago: New Orleans.

I began my presidential campaign in New Orleans to remind the country that all of us -- as citizens and as a government -- have a moral responsibility to each other, and what we do together matters.

Now, it's time for me to step aside so that history can blaze its path. We do not know who will take the final steps to the White House -- but what we do know is that our Democratic Party will make history.

And, along the way, all of you who have been involved in this campaign and this movement for change and this cause, I am asking you to continue speaking out for those who have no voice, just as Elizabeth and I will continue to do. We need you.

Do not turn away from the great struggles before us. Do not give up on the causes that we have fought for. Do not walk away from what's possible, because it's time for all of us -- all of us together -- to make the two Americas one. We need you.

I hope you will take a few moments to listen to the video clip of my speech in New Orleans earlier this afternoon or to read it below.

In the meantime, Elizabeth and my family join me in thanking all of you for your support and for working so hard on my behalf. We are truly blessed to have such friends.

Thank you.

John Edwards
January 30, 2008

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Thank you all very much. We're very proud to be back here.

During the spring of 2006, I had the extraordinary experience of bringing 700 college kids here to New Orleans to work. These are kids who gave up their spring break to come to New Orleans to work, to rehabilitate houses, because of their commitment as Americans, because they believed in what was possible, and because they cared about their country.

I began my presidential campaign here to remind the country that we, as citizens and as a government, have a moral responsibility to each other, and what we do together matters. We must do better, if we want to live up to the great promise of this country that we all love so much.

It is appropriate that I come here today. It's time for me to step aside so that history can blaze its path. We do not know who will take the final steps to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, but what we do know is that our Democratic Party will make history. We will be strong, we will be unified, and with our convictions and a little backbone we will take back the White House in November and we'll create hope and opportunity for this country.

This journey of ours began right here in New Orleans. It was a December morning in the Lower Ninth Ward when people went to work, not just me, but lots of others went to work with shovels and hammers to help restore a house that had been destroyed by the storm.

We joined together in a city that had been abandoned by our government and had been forgotten, but not by us. We knew that they still mourned the dead, that they were still stunned by the destruction, and that they wondered when all those cement steps in all those vacant lots would once again lead to a door, to a home, and to a dream.

We came here to the Lower Ninth Ward to rebuild. And we're going to rebuild today and work today, and we will continue to come back. We will never forget the heartache and we'll always be here to bring them hope, so that someday, one day, the trumpets will sound in Musicians' Village, where we are today, play loud across Lake Ponchartrain, so that working people can come marching in and those steps once again can lead to a family living out the dream in America.

We sat with poultry workers in Mississippi, janitors in Florida, nurses in California.

We listened as child after child told us about their worry about whether we would preserve the planet.

We listened to worker after worker say "the economy is tearing my family apart."

We walked the streets of Cleveland, where house after house was in foreclosure.

And we said, "We're better than this. And economic justice in America is our cause."

And we spent a day, a summer day, in Wise, Virginia, with a man named James Lowe, who told us the story of having been born with a cleft palate. He had no health care coverage. His family couldn't afford to fix it. And finally some good Samaritan came along and paid for his cleft palate to be fixed, which allowed him to speak for the first time. But they did it when he was 50 years old. His amazing story, though, gave this campaign voice: universal health care for every man, woman and child in America. That is our cause.

And we do this -- we do this for each other in America. We don't turn away from a neighbor in their time of need. Because every one of us knows that what -- but for the grace of God, there goes us. The American people have never stopped doing this, even when their government walked away, and walked away it has from hardworking people, and, yes, from the poor, those who live in poverty in this country.

For decades, we stopped focusing on those struggles. They didn't register in political polls, they didn't get us votes and so we stopped talking about it. I don't know how it started. I don't know when our party began to turn away from the cause of working people, from the fathers who were working three jobs literally just to pay the rent, mothers sending their kids to bed wrapped up in their clothes and in coats because they couldn't afford to pay for heat.

We know that our brothers and sisters have been bullied into believing that they can't organize and can't put a union in the workplace. Well, in this campaign, we didn't turn our heads. We looked them square in the eye and we said, "We see you, we hear you, and we are with you. And we will never forget you." And I have a feeling that if the leaders of our great Democratic Party continue to hear the voices of working people, a proud progressive will occupy the White House.

Now, I've spoken to both Senator Clinton and Senator Obama. They have both pledged to me and more importantly through me to America, that they will make ending poverty central to their campaign for the presidency.

And more importantly, they have pledged to me that as President of the United States they will make ending poverty and economic inequality central to their Presidency. This is the cause of my life and I now have their commitment to engage in this cause.

And I want to say to everyone here, on the way here today, we passed under a bridge that carried the interstate where 100 to 200 homeless Americans sleep every night. And we stopped, we got out, we went in and spoke to them.

There was a minister there who comes every morning and feeds the homeless out of her own pocket. She said she has no money left in her bank account, she struggles to be able to do it, but she knows it's the moral, just and right thing to do. And I spoke to some of the people who were there and as I was leaving, one woman said to me, "You won't forget us, will you? Promise me you won't forget us." Well, I say to her and I say to all of those who are struggling in this country, we will never forget you. We will fight for you. We will stand up for you.

But I want to say this -- I want to say this because it's important. With all of the injustice that we've seen, I can say this, America's hour of transformation is upon us. It may be hard to believe when we have bullets flying in Baghdad and it may be hard to believe when it costs $58 to fill your car up with gas. It may be hard to believe when your school doesn't have the right books for your kids. It's hard to speak out for change when you feel like your voice is not being heard.

But I do hear it. We hear it. This Democratic Party hears you. We hear you, once again. And we will lift you up with our dream of what's possible.

One America, one America that works for everybody.

One America where struggling towns and factories come back to life because we finally transformed our economy by ending our dependence on oil.

One America where the men who work the late shift and the women who get up at dawn to drive a two-hour commute and the young person who closes the store to save for college. They will be honored for that work. One America where no child will go to bed hungry because we will finally end the moral shame of 37 million people living in poverty.

One America where every single man, woman and child in this country has health care.

One America with one public school system that works for all of our children.

One America that finally brings this war in Iraq to an end. And brings our service members home with the hero's welcome that they have earned and that they deserve.

Today, I am suspending my campaign for the Democratic nomination for the Presidency.

But I want to say this to everyone: with Elizabeth, with my family, with my friends, with all of you and all of your support, this son of a millworker's gonna be just fine. Our job now is to make certain that America will be fine.

And I want to thank everyone who has worked so hard – all those who have volunteered, my dedicated campaign staff who have worked absolutely tirelessly in this campaign.

And I want to say a personal word to those I've seen literally in the last few days – those I saw in Oklahoma yesterday, in Missouri, last night in Minnesota – who came to me and said don't forget us. Speak for us. We need your voice. I want you to know that you almost changed my mind, because I hear your voice, I feel you, and your cause is our cause. Your country needs you – every single one of you.

All of you who have been involved in this campaign and this movement for change and this cause, we need you. It is in our hour of need that your country needs you. Don't turn away, because we have not just a city of New Orleans to rebuild. We have an American house to rebuild.

This work goes on. It goes on right here in Musicians' Village. There are homes to build here, and in neighborhoods all along the Gulf. The work goes on for the students in crumbling schools just yearning for a chance to get ahead. It goes on for day care workers, for steel workers risking their lives in cities all across this country. And the work goes on for two hundred thousand men and women who wore the uniform of the United States of America, proud veterans, who go to sleep every night under bridges, or in shelters, or on grates, just as the people we saw on the way here today. Their cause is our cause.

Their struggle is our struggle. Their dreams are our dreams.

Do not turn away from these great struggles before us. Do not give up on the causes that we have fought for. Do not walk away from what's possible, because it's time for all of us, all of us together, to make the two Americas one.

Thank you. God bless you, and let's go to work. Thank you all very much.

Latitude	Longitude