You know, of course, who FLOTUS is? Michelle Obama, First Lady of the United States.
I like to see what she's up to and what she's wearing to whatever it is. One of my favorite blogs is "Mrs. O", which features her fashions in great detail, with up-to-the-minute pictures. Mrs. T, who writes the blog from New York City, identifies the designers of various outfits, and if she can't, her considerable following can. Most of the comments are adoring, although there was a cat fight last week over what Karl Lagerfield REALLY said about Michelle's clothes.
Google "Mrs. O," and you'll see. Last night's outfit at the Black Congressional Caucus fundraiser drew raves. And POTUS didn't look too bad himself.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Having said good-by--
I am so glad I went to say good-by to Rob. I was very nervous about going, and it was one-foot-in-front-of-the-other drudgery getting to the airport and through the security nuisance, waiting around, finding a seat on the plane, arriving at LAX, getting a cab.
But when I arrived at his house, I was welcomed into a zone where people spoke the truth about the scariest thing in the world, and that was a big relief.
Rob insisted on getting up and dressed to talk to me in the living room, and he made his way tentatively up the stairs from his bedroom with the help of his partner, Emanuel, and a walker. He settled in a big comfortable chair, and I pulled a side chair close so I could hear him (his voice is dimmed by illness and morphine). We did not review times we had in junior high, high school, or college, which is somehow what I'd expected. Instead, it was very much in the moment, where he finds himself right now and what he thinks about it. After about 45 minutes, he was fatigued. Emanuel reappeared, and we guided Rob to a sofa and urged him to take a nap. I reached out and touched his smooth bald head. He dropped off instantly I watched him sleep and stitched on a label I'm making for Carling and Scott's wedding quilt.
After about an hour, Rob woke up, and I sat next to him on the sofa and said what I'd gone to say and had come close to saying during the two years he's been ill. I'd kept putting it off, and I was very lucky that I got one last chance to say it. Lots of people want to see Rob now, but I was among the last who will get to. Note to self.
Then I called a cab to take me back to LAX, and Rob insisted on taking his walker out on a balcony so he had a view of a nearby cross street and he could make sure I gave the cab company the right street name. I left and started to cry the minute the wheels of the plane left the runway at LAX, knowing I was leaving him for the last time.
POSTSCRIPT: Nora Ephron said in the director's comments for "Julie/Julia": "I do think writing a blog would be one of the hardest things you could do, writing every single day, that every single thing you did, you'd barely experience it before you'd be processing it into material for your blog. You would be like a predator sitting watching your own life.."
True. It took me some days to decide to post this account, although I wrote it right after I returned from Los Angeles.
But when I arrived at his house, I was welcomed into a zone where people spoke the truth about the scariest thing in the world, and that was a big relief.
Rob insisted on getting up and dressed to talk to me in the living room, and he made his way tentatively up the stairs from his bedroom with the help of his partner, Emanuel, and a walker. He settled in a big comfortable chair, and I pulled a side chair close so I could hear him (his voice is dimmed by illness and morphine). We did not review times we had in junior high, high school, or college, which is somehow what I'd expected. Instead, it was very much in the moment, where he finds himself right now and what he thinks about it. After about 45 minutes, he was fatigued. Emanuel reappeared, and we guided Rob to a sofa and urged him to take a nap. I reached out and touched his smooth bald head. He dropped off instantly I watched him sleep and stitched on a label I'm making for Carling and Scott's wedding quilt.
After about an hour, Rob woke up, and I sat next to him on the sofa and said what I'd gone to say and had come close to saying during the two years he's been ill. I'd kept putting it off, and I was very lucky that I got one last chance to say it. Lots of people want to see Rob now, but I was among the last who will get to. Note to self.
Then I called a cab to take me back to LAX, and Rob insisted on taking his walker out on a balcony so he had a view of a nearby cross street and he could make sure I gave the cab company the right street name. I left and started to cry the minute the wheels of the plane left the runway at LAX, knowing I was leaving him for the last time.
POSTSCRIPT: Nora Ephron said in the director's comments for "Julie/Julia": "I do think writing a blog would be one of the hardest things you could do, writing every single day, that every single thing you did, you'd barely experience it before you'd be processing it into material for your blog. You would be like a predator sitting watching your own life.."
True. It took me some days to decide to post this account, although I wrote it right after I returned from Los Angeles.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Saying Good-By to Rob
My mind is pretty much taken up right now with flying to Los Angeles on Friday to say good-by to my friend of nearly 50 years, Rob Remley. He is dying of duodenal cancer. I've seen him intermittently during the time he's been sick, and he 's always been full of hope, but the disease has caught up with him. Doctors predict he will live only another week.
I don't know what I'm going to say, which has me a little worried, but I figure (hope) it will come to me while I'm sitting with him. In the meantime, my sister has sent a recipe for excellent oatmeal cookies, which I may make tomorrow and take with me for other friends of Rob's coming to say good-by. I'm also taking a quilt label to embroider and a book to read while I fly and while I wait, which is going to take up most of the day, except for the half hour or so I have with Rob.
I don't know what I'm going to say, which has me a little worried, but I figure (hope) it will come to me while I'm sitting with him. In the meantime, my sister has sent a recipe for excellent oatmeal cookies, which I may make tomorrow and take with me for other friends of Rob's coming to say good-by. I'm also taking a quilt label to embroider and a book to read while I fly and while I wait, which is going to take up most of the day, except for the half hour or so I have with Rob.
Monday, September 5, 2011
A Wedding in the Gold Country
It was magical. Three miles outside of the tiny town of Mountain Ranch, about a half hour from where we stayed in Angel's Camp. The high heels were left in the car, flats substituted, when I saw the downhill trek we'd make to get to where the wedding was held. No matter. One of the bridesmaids wore flipflops after the ceremony.
A generous clearing encircled by oaks and Ponderosa pine, the moon rising, dragonflies circling, a slow-moving creek, and a laidback, loving crowd. Carling, the bride, told me later that there were about 20 doctors present, med school classmates from New York, but you couldn't pick them out. Scott was tie-less, the groomsmen jacket-less and wearing suspenders. Strings of lights crisscrossed the meadow.
Most of the 80 or so guests were under 30, but they were friendly, interesting, and interested.
The ceremony was brief, no obeying but "as long as we both shall live." A blue grass band played during the cocktail hour (four kegs of home-brewed beer from a Berkeley friend, plus wine and the usual drinks). There were two very long tables, about 20 people to a side and a vegan buffet presided over by a caterer in a cowboy hat. For dessert, a pie buffet. ( Jerry's favorite kind of wedding: a short ceremony, no ties, and plenty of pie.) Lots of funny, articulate toasts with tiny cups of champagne.
The sun went down, someone flipped the switch, and the lights came on. You could just make out dragonflies circling over the tables. No mosquitoes. We stayed for the first dance, and then slipped away about 8 pm, as other older people did. The young woman who sat next to me, a snow-boarder and mechanical engineer, said that at midnight hotdogs were going to be served.
 |
| Carling and Scott |
A generous clearing encircled by oaks and Ponderosa pine, the moon rising, dragonflies circling, a slow-moving creek, and a laidback, loving crowd. Carling, the bride, told me later that there were about 20 doctors present, med school classmates from New York, but you couldn't pick them out. Scott was tie-less, the groomsmen jacket-less and wearing suspenders. Strings of lights crisscrossed the meadow.
Most of the 80 or so guests were under 30, but they were friendly, interesting, and interested.
The ceremony was brief, no obeying but "as long as we both shall live." A blue grass band played during the cocktail hour (four kegs of home-brewed beer from a Berkeley friend, plus wine and the usual drinks). There were two very long tables, about 20 people to a side and a vegan buffet presided over by a caterer in a cowboy hat. For dessert, a pie buffet. ( Jerry's favorite kind of wedding: a short ceremony, no ties, and plenty of pie.) Lots of funny, articulate toasts with tiny cups of champagne.
The sun went down, someone flipped the switch, and the lights came on. You could just make out dragonflies circling over the tables. No mosquitoes. We stayed for the first dance, and then slipped away about 8 pm, as other older people did. The young woman who sat next to me, a snow-boarder and mechanical engineer, said that at midnight hotdogs were going to be served.
 |
| Wedding party in a joyful scrum after the ceremony |
 |
| Cups for beer and punch |
 |
| One of two long tables set for dinner |
 |
| And there were more pies to come... |
 |
| Bride and bridesmaids' bouquets |
 |
| A centerpiece |
Thursday, September 1, 2011
A Daily Challenge to Sanity
I hate leafblowers. Especially the gas-powered ones, which sound like a jet taking off, a roar that makes me drop my cereal spoon. The roar often starts early in the morning and goes on randomly throughout the day, like a really obnoxious alarm clock.
The electric alternative is much quieter and less fume-y, but gardeners don't like them because a) they have to find an outlet, and b) the electric ones are less powerful.
But, thank God, the City of Berkeley has outlawed gas-powered blowers. Mow-and-blow gardeners do not like this, but knowledge is power, and I've managed to persuade most of the ones within the my range of hearing to switch to electric blowers.
The other day, walking to the mailbox, I encountered a gardener a few houses away using a gas-powered blower. I gestured to him to turn it off, and I delivered the message, politely, I thought, that an electric one is quieter and legal. He said, "I know," turned his machine back on, and resumed blowing at ear-shattering volume. This rather badly ticked me off. I stalked home and called my neighbor, his employer. Again, I was polite, but the conversation was tense. She hadn't heard of the ordinance (which I was reluctant to bring up, did not want to sound like a narc; after all, this is Berkeley). I emphasized the noise. Reluctantly she said she would talk to her gardener, and we parted with me feeling guilty and she obviously put out.
Came home a brooded about this: her right to efficient gardening and mine to peace and quiet.
The electric alternative is much quieter and less fume-y, but gardeners don't like them because a) they have to find an outlet, and b) the electric ones are less powerful.
But, thank God, the City of Berkeley has outlawed gas-powered blowers. Mow-and-blow gardeners do not like this, but knowledge is power, and I've managed to persuade most of the ones within the my range of hearing to switch to electric blowers.
The other day, walking to the mailbox, I encountered a gardener a few houses away using a gas-powered blower. I gestured to him to turn it off, and I delivered the message, politely, I thought, that an electric one is quieter and legal. He said, "I know," turned his machine back on, and resumed blowing at ear-shattering volume. This rather badly ticked me off. I stalked home and called my neighbor, his employer. Again, I was polite, but the conversation was tense. She hadn't heard of the ordinance (which I was reluctant to bring up, did not want to sound like a narc; after all, this is Berkeley). I emphasized the noise. Reluctantly she said she would talk to her gardener, and we parted with me feeling guilty and she obviously put out.
Came home a brooded about this: her right to efficient gardening and mine to peace and quiet.
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