Boss of the Year Award Goes to…

My boss Heather gets a big gold star on her forehead… On my desk this morning was a loaf of Zingerman’s delicious paesano bread– just because!

Luncheon today was quite the event… Paesano bread, olive oil, a sliced tomato, and vinegarette… delicious!

A few years ago I had the boss from Hell… I raise my bottled coke to the current supervisor in a hearty cheer. (I’m sticking my tongue out at the memory of the Pinhead of yore.)

Kinder, gentler topic as promised

How much kinder and gentler of a topic can there be but the humble hammock? Up north this weekend I thought that I might take an afternoon cat nap in the new striped hammock hanging in a grove of tall, rustling pines. Everyone else in the cottage had found a spot to doze– Lady in her bed, Alice Marsh napping upstairs, and the rest– Robby, Bethie, and Padre out in the circle of chairs in the sun… I crept with a blanket and book (Elizabeth Jane Howard’s last of the Cazalet Family novels, “Casting Off”) and a tall glass of water and lemons. It was a very gusty day (shades of dear Martin Short’s Ed Grimley character) and the hammock suddenly seemed a bit menacing as it rode out the breeze twisting and flipping and flapping. I set down my things and managed to untwist it, righting it again, only to have the next gust of wind undo the good I’d done. This time I leaned into it when I had it righted and only lost it when, in the process of bending over to retrieve book, blanket, and beverage, I was wacked in the back of the head with the wooden end.

I begin laughing. Somewhat hysterically. Tears rolling down my cheeks, blanket now swung around my shoulders and book pressed firmly under the arm, drink abandoned (something had to give) I tried sitting back into the hammock only to have the darn thing stretch just enough to put me in the unenviable position of not being able to reach my feet far enough to boost me up. And I was stuck. Wind whipping the blanket around my head, book periously slipping, and me caught only by gravity.

I took advantage of the next gust to propel myself forward, back up hill, and out of the offensive sling. Somehow, eyes closed, I launched myself two or three more times towards the billowing sail until I managed to get far enough above it to slip into it tentatively.

Only to realize it was too cold to enjoy a pleasant sway while reading. Book was abandoned. Blanket wrapped around me squaw style and me balled into the tightest scrunch to retain the little body heat that hadn’t escaped through the suddenly mesh like canvas. I lay there stubbornly hoping to be rescued by someone– Lady or Boy who might bring another blanket… but alas, was assumed to be upstairs tucked safely (and snugly) into bed.

When I finally gave up completely, I staggered out into the sun where Robby and Padre sweltered in the shelter of the backyard. Shivering I sat down in the nearest lawn chair and thought lovely thoughts of hot steaming cups of tea or soup or fried bananas…

Foul beast of a hammock.

Pet Peeve o’ the day

Not to be crass… but my pet peeve o’the day is little old ladies who use the bathroom and then dribble urine on the seat.

What in the blue blazes makes them think this is an accepted practice? Is it in that wretched thing masquerading as a poem– “When I am an old woman I shall wear a red hat and purple dress and pee on the seat of all the toilets I meet???” CLEAN UP AFTER YOURSELVES! (By the way– it’s not that shocking to wear red and purple. Princess Diana did it several times in the late 80s and early 90s. Get over the thought that you are rebels breaking all the rules. You’re not. It’s a dumb concept. And it’s selfish. Volunteer at your local museum and socialize while you do something worthwhile…)

An entire generation of women is out there hovering over the public toilets when they urinate lest they contract some dreaded disease… the only danger really is in the urine they leave behind when they exit the stall.

Sheesh.

Next week we’ll be on to a kinder, gentler topic but today this is driving me nuts. If I have to suffer… so do all of you.

Akuna Matada…

Things come in bunches it seems– both the good and the bad. It never fails that when you hear of one death there are suddenly a deluge of others that follow– in our case first our Aunt Susie and then a Lake friend, Lucy, and now an old coworker, Karen. (Ray Charles and Ronald Reagan are in there, too, even if we never met…) It’s the cycle of things I know but, nonetheless, it’s one of the debits in the Being A Grown Up column.

On the plus side– there is a wealth of babies on the way or newly born. My secret Hollywood galpals like Courtney, Gwyneth, Julia, and J. Lo are all, I’m sure, struggling to work in playdates with my forthcoming babe. And, on a much more personal level, two of my oldest friends are expecting, too– all of us within 3 months of delivery dates.

One friend moving, two others engaged, one starting a new job… it’s all woven into the minutae of Every Day in such a fast fashion that it’s hard to keep track. Cliched or no it’s astounding to think that there were days and days of boredom when we were kids where nothing at all seemed to happen for weeks at a time. Today I’m looking at weeks down the line just to schedule brunch with a friend.
Sigh.

The circle of life is getting to be like the merry-go-round at one of the elementary schools I went to (yes, I know, this dates me. Children can’t play on such a thing now without a prescription medication from their doctor, a helmet, and teflon padding…)– okay if you’re in the dead center and could keep a spot to focus on but sickening if you were flung to the edges and having to hold on for dear life.

Anybody want to hit the swings with me?

Motherless Father’s Day

Went up north for the weekend to the cottage for Father’s Day Weekend with my father-in-law, Padre. It was a very relaxing weekend– not one of us did very much. I tried to put meals together (the operative word being “tried”), Robby washed cars, and Padre mowed the grass… but that was about the extent of our labor. The rest of the time we lolled around the living room while the television rotated between the local news, various sporting events, and the sweet bliss of the CBC channels. We did talk the things we might do if we did them… but mostly we just changed the subject. Occasionally we might venture out to the backyard to play ball with the pup but thankfully the little dog has short legs and only needs a few passes before he’s ready to nap again.

We managed to throw together a smashing dinner for Padre on Saturday night– bacon-wrapped filet mignon with steakfries and asparagus, salad, and Dutch Oven pie… but I’m afraid the poached eggs weren’t very dippy on Sunday, the soup was too peppery on Saturday and Sunday lunch had completely slipped my mind. (Unless handfuls of Good n Plenty count?)

And that brings me to Lady, my mother-in-law. She normally sees to it that we are all clothed in clean clothes, fed, and watered appropriately when she’s up there. Without her we fell into our own haphazard habits. I spent a great deal of time reading Elizabeth Jane Howard novels and Padre and Robby catnapped much more than they would have had Lady been there to rouse them into activity. We all slept in a great deal longer than usual and abandoned the table to eat off of TV trays… And Robby pointed out that we all three had basically the same things on when we left on Sunday that we’d arrived in on Friday.

We had a very nice weekend– don’t misunderstand, but it was lacking a crucial ingredient for it to be a normal weekend. Lady will be home this week from her trip to Georgia to visit Granpa and next weekend there will be better meals and a reason to rouse ourselves out of bed in the morning. Godspeed Lady… and, any chance we could have BLT’s (sans the L) on Saturday???

Blog Birthday

Let us all eat cake tomorrow and sing “Happy Birthday” to this little blog as it turns one year old. Thank you Wallis for this silly gift of a place to blather on.

Meanwhile, baby (fetus, “BR,” the creature) swims happily about in my belly especially when I type (I’m hoping that means it will love words, too, or maybe go Gregory Hines on us and be a professional tap dancer?). Our 24 week check-up was remarkably normal and without fuss– a very nice place to be– and the only fanfare was hearing the steady beat of a heart.

Our bedtime ritual now is to read “Goodnight Moon.” Last night was Robby’s turn though we both have it memorized now and tend to chant it together. Even the pup seems to enjoy this and crawls up on Rob’s chest to hear our favorite part with the hushing old lady bunny. We add in a “good night little black dog” so that he is not forgotten in the great green room with the bunnies and kittens and jumping cow. (And we’re getting past Robby’s engineer-induced concern that the little bunny is left sleeping in a room with an open fire and a bowl of mush left to congeal.)

I’ve been inundated lately with birth stories and comments from people that I have two catergories for– the first being kind, well-meaning people that encourage and support… and the second being petty mean-spirited people who deserve a special place in Hell. Why, pray tell, would I want to hear terrible things right now? Why would I want to be reminded of our utter lack of experience? (Well of course we don’t know what we’re doing– how could we possibly? That’s like asking someone from New Guinea to describe their New York itinerary when they’ve never been there.) Thankfully my sister has been through all this before (twice) and has sage advice for Robby and I. Sister Trish tells us to enjoy ourselves and we’ll do that. And I suspect that this little person will survive our inadequacies as all first borns do.

The little bunny in the mouse infested room has seemed to do just fine.

“What’s your middle name… Grace?”

My sister and I are many things but graceful is probably not at the top of the list. We blame it on the fact that we weren’t signed up for dance classes as little wee girls but I suspect it is far more rooted in our genes. (Besides, little Baptist girls didn’t take dance classes in the seventies…)

Luckily, my nieces have not inherited this curse. Both take ballet, tap, and jazz and both are quite lovely to see dance. The younger, Keegy, can go instantly from monkey goofiness to serious concentration– in the process executing some complicated series of steps. And the older, Maddie, flits and floats all the while beaming with some deep inner happiness.

We watched them dance last night at their recitals and I marveled at the utter chaos backstage– little girls and older girls, tutus, shoes, make-up, hairpins, headpieces, and exploding duffel bags– transformed into (relative) serenity on stage.

Speaking of grace. I went to the dentist this morning to repair a filling that had broken. Now I’m of swollen jaw and tongue with that wretched feeling of “am I drooling?” ever present. Baby kicked during most of it. I like to imagine that he/she was protesting the indignities done to his/her mother but, more likely, it is just his/her regular little cancan-in-the-morning pattern.

Harry Potter & The Prisoner of Uncomfortable Theater Seats

Went to see Harry Potter & The Prisoner of Azkaban the other night with Robby and our movie pal Nat. Overall it was an enjoyable movie… but I did have some beefs. Mainly that I can’t comfortable sit in a theater seat for 2.5 hours as easily as I might have sans bebe. (Baby, by the way, seemed to really enjoy the flick. He/She moved about in a happy wiggling fashion through most of the movie. Of course, that might have been the chinese food. Or the popcorn. Or the deliciously caffeinated Dr. Pepper. Or the Reese’s Pieces…?)

Cuaron, the new director, did a fine job with his additions… it’s the subtractions that bother me. SPOILER ALERT (skip the italics if you haven’t seen it yet) For example, Hagrid’s dear little hut has been replaced by this odd little mushroomy pair of rooms. And apparently Mr. Filtch has been ailing since the general upkeep of Hogwarts has declined into a rather dark and dim appearance. [Yes, I know, it's supposed to add to the growth of the characters and reflect their adolescence... but it's a big leap from Chris Columbus' clean interpretation...] Where was Trewlany’s ladder? What happened to the rest of Harry’s classes? Christmas and Mrs. Weasley’s jumpers??? Hogsmeade was a sad little disappointment.

On the plus side, the additions of the bridge and clock tower work. They fit in seamlessly with Rowling’s world. Loved that Hermione was so present in the last half hour and the way the time turner was handled. The casting was superb– Lupin, Sirius, and Trewlany especially. The new Dumbledore works.

And I heartily disagree with many of the reviews out there that champion this as the first of the Potter movies that needs no prior reading… Thank goodness we could fill in the missing pieces with our memory of Rowling’s perfect details.

The worst part of the movie by far is the anxious wait that ensues for the next book/movie to keep us happily fed in Hogwarts mythology. Bring on book six! Bring on Goblet of Fire the Movie!

Those of you with a Marauder’s Map will see my little name heading for more Reeses Pieces…

The morel of the mushroom is

My favorite food in the whole wide world (I think) are morel mushrooms. When I was a kid we’d go spend the weekend with my Granpa and Granny at their cabin between Mesick & Manton and there would be long treks into the May woods in search of the elusive shrooms. Well. That depends on who was looking. My grandparents and their daughter, my mother, could pick up whole bagfuls while my Dad and I slapped away mosquitoes and usually ended up standing unawares in a clump of the tasty little morsels. (“Don’t move. Stay!”) Where my sister was I don’t know. She was probably smart enough to get out of the whole expedition that seemed to last for miles and days but probably wasn’t so strenuous?

Back at the cabin Granny would stand at the stove and fry up morels dredged in flour and salt and pepper and egg filling a platter full of them. We ate something else on those nights– potatoes maybe? But all I remember are the feasts of morels until the stomach could hold no more.

I say this because now morels are about $21 a pound market value. So the days of a platter full are probably forever behind me. Dad used to get brown sacks of them from the guys in the shop where he worked but he’s gone now. My mushroom hunting abilities have not at all improved with age. Robby once tried to go in search of them for me… he wandered quietly away while the rest of us whiled away the day on the boat. When he returned hours later, in the middle of supper, he was covered in dirt and scratches and bug bites and with empty, mushroomless hands. Sigh. He had better luck buying them out of a guy’s refrigerator the next weekend on a tip from a gas station in Gaylord.

Still, he understands why it isn’t spring until I’ve had a morel and the last few years he’s gamely driven to Lansing to buy me a 1/3 pound or so. This year, however, my mother came through and delivered a pound of the delectable little gnome hats. I fried them up over the weekend and must say that both baby and I enjoyed them very much. (Thanks Mom)

Today, I was telling this story at work and a few people gasped that our family would pay so much for mushrooms… Which I guess I don’t get. A good bottle of wine might cost that much and it’s consumed at one sitting– what’s the difference?

Someday, when I go to prison (probably for knocking off somebody in the heat of hitting my limit of stupidity) and I am on death row I will ask for a platter of morels as my last meal… If nothing else it will get me through to the next May? In the meantime I’ll savor my yearly fix. Yum.

More at Eleven

Watched a lot of television this weekend up north.

Ronald Reagan’s death brought out all the usual sober-voiced hoopla that a past statesman’s death warrants. Cynically, I am aware that most of this stuff might already have been in the can with little interns having wrote up the biographical stuff months or even years ago in readiness… and then quickly putting a twist on to include the D-Day references. But still, I like this kind of television. I’m not a maudlin person but there is something about the pomp and circumstance of a statesman funeral that sucks me in everytime. I remember watching Tip O’Neil’s funeral and weeping though I was not Tip’s biggest fan by any means.

The announcement of Reagan’s death was, extraordinarily, followed almost immediately by the Belmont Stakes and the drawn out coverage that precedes a horse race. In this case we were all mesmorized by Shorty Jones and his trainer and owners’ stories. Alas, it wasn’t Shorty’s day after all as he was passed in the final stretch leaving the crowd disquiet. The winner’s owner was a socialite whose large hat trembled with her voice as she apologized again and again for Shorty’s loss. Making it all a rather sad race– no triple crown and a winner that feels wretchedly guilty for spoiling the day for so many.

That night we turned to CBC hoping that the Calagary Flames would put a firey end to the stupid Tampa Bay team. (I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again– if you cannot support outside ice in your area during the winter for at least 3 months then you should NOT be allowed to have a NHL franchise in your town. Done. It’s ridiculous. The ONLY exception I’d make would be to Anaheim since the town is virtually owned by Disney and Disney is it’s own little world.) Alas, again we were disappointed after an overtime and then some we watched the games tie up. Sigh.

On Sunday, after a little Reagan coverage in the morning, we turned back to CBC and watched the D-Day ceremonies from Juno Beach. The Queen’s hat was magnificent. The program was well choreographed and moving. And it was interesting to see the reactions of the aged veterans in the front rows to the young people of Normandy promising “we won’t forget.”

And then some golf tournament where the highlight was some pro golfer yelling “Fore!” as his ball went scudding into the gallery. Good times that.