Quilt in Need of a Home

I've finished the scrap quilt I mentioned in an earlier post (July 1), and now I'm trying to figure out what to do with it.  It's scrappy and abstract and not everyone's cup of tea. 

It's 43" x 50," the size of a lap quilt, which can be handy to put over your legs while watching TV or working at the computer in cool weather.

The back

Detail

Would it work in your house?  If so, let me know.  It's a freebie, though you pay postage if you can't come and collect it (hey, I got rid of those scraps!).  It's meant to be used, not hidden away in a linen closet, and it's machine washable.

Ahoy, Russia!

Woke up this morning nearly catatonic.  Jerry returned from a business trip last night, his plane was delayed in Denver, and we didn't get home from Oakland Airport until 12:30 am.  I've drunk quite a bit of Diet Coke to try to rev up, while staring blankly at the computer screen.

Or not that blankly.  I checked my reader stats this morning on Blogger, and I just want to thank whoever it is in Russia who is a regular reader.  Or readers.  I imagine someone working at the American Embassy, but it could be anyone, of course.  Who are you? 

You don't have to answer that.  Lurking--no, too perjorative--investigating blogs anonymously is one of my favorite pastimes.  I'm currently enraptured by one written by a young Catholic mother who's adopted two biracial sons.  I love her babies, her husband, her house (she has photos of every room, including closets), her roses, and her toile valances.  I don't know what we'd say to each other if we met, but I'm really enjoying dipping into her life.

Loaves, Fishes, Beans, and Tuna

 Judy and I swiped two chairs from the garden-furniture display and sat at an information table set up in the Berkeley Grocery Outlet store today.  The Grocery Outlet has sponsored a month-long promotion to collect food and money for the Berkeley Food Pantry.    


The Pantry director, Bill, had selected canned foods that were in "Grab & Give" bags that customers could buy at cash registers for $5 and deposit in a barrel.  The food included canned tuna, fruit cocktail, beans, and canned vegetables.   Thank you, Grocery Outlet!

Stacked"Grab & Give Bags" and a poster display about the Pantry

Our job was mostly catching customers' eyes and smiling.  Some were curious and came over to see what was up.  Others had in mind what they wanted to do and simply took a bag and went to the cash register.   Some had questions about volunteering.  We wore our volunteer nametags to look friendly and vaguely official.

If you ever want  to donate food to a pantry, food bank, or food drive,  here are some always-welcome items.  Packaged food should to be unopened and not far past the sell-by date:

Canned meats (chicken, tuna, other fish)
Peanut butter
Rice
Pasta
Cereal (the kids love cold, but hot's okay, too)
Canned fruits
Cookies and snacks
Boxes of macaroni and cheese
Garden produce (zucchini, lettuce, plums, lemons--anything you got!)

Leapin' Lilibet

Did that really happen?  Did she actually put on that get-up, the sparkly peach dress and that little item in her hair (love that touch of Vegas!), walk the red carpet,  and let a double fling herself out of a helicopter?  That's about as spunky as it gets at 85!  And are you getting just a tiny hit of Aging Showgirl?

Here's another view:

The hand turns to do the Royal Wave

Mr. Adorable Comes to Visit

Rylan came north for a visit, and I spent six hours hanging out with him yesterday with my friend and his aunt,  Claudia.  His moms, Celia and Shannon, were enjoying a little R&R.

Here's a guy who's two, who's alleged  to have the occasional tantrum and time-out and sessions of practicing the word "no."  But I never saw it.  I did see him climb a stool to get at the cookie jar and intercepted him with the lid in his hand. He was a good sport about it (shucks!).


He loves music and drums, just discovered the Beatles ("yeah, yeah, yeah!"-- his favorite word). He is loving and sweet, but he also likes to go fast and be thrown around in the air and the water.   Yesterday he climbed into the hot-tub with Claudia, flung himself about, pushed all the buttons,  and showed no fear getting dunked.  He's affectionate, adventurous, and yes, captivating.

Eager to get into the hot-tub

Hey, people pay good money for that color!

I'm not the only besotted fan: he's got legions who tune in daily to see his mom Celia's videos and photos of him on Facebook. Here's one she posted recently.    Irresistible, no?

That smile!  With his friend, Brooke

An Outing with The Girls

I had a store credit at Nordstrom, so yesterday after I'd swung by my friend Jan's to see how she's doing after falling out of a tree (fine, and she's very adept in her temporary wheelchair), I drove to Walnut Creek to buy bras.

(Male readers may want to stop right here.)

You know how bras are: you find one you like, you buy several, you wear them and wear them, and then the elastic's shot, or you catch sight of your reflection in a window and you'd like to look a little more--pert? Time to tangle with the bra department again.   It's a given that the style you've loved will have been discontinued.

 I worked in the lingerie department of the Emporium one summer while I was in college, and I can tell you I don't like being on the selling or the buying end of a bra purchase.  Unless you go to Costco or Target--and I have friends who have good luck there--buying a bra is time-consuming and uncomfortable.

During my absence, a few things had changed.  For one thing, cup sizes now to go GG. 

 "Why?" I asked Shannon, my young salesperson with perfect make-up and flaming red hair.   "Is everyone having boob jobs?"   She laughed nervously.  Nearly all bras now have molded cups, which the salespeople recommend you wash by hand. If you look too stunned, they'll back down and say, "or in a lingerie bag on the gentle cycle."

Shannon helped me find my size and preferred style and installed me in a dressing room. The lighting was merciless. The bras didn't fit. She didn't appear. I studied my hair color in the three-way mirror; definitely fading. For the hell of it, I pulled on my t-shirt over one of the ill-fitting bras and decided I looked, well, lifted. Finally, I dressed and went to find Shannon.

"Oh," she said brightly. "Do you want to be fitted?"  

She measured me and handed me a test bra.

"Settle the girls in," she directed. Turns out I'd been wearing the wrong size.   The right size felt tight. She left me to decide between the "right" size and one I could breathe in.

I didn't get home until 8:30. I dropped the shopping bag on the kitchen floor, where it still sits. Maybe I'll try on what I bought, or maybe I'll procrastinate on that, too.  You see why.

Remember these ads?  So confident and with such a firm midriff.

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Oakland Art Walk

On Saturday,  Annika and I drove down to Oakland for the monthly Gallery District Guided Walking Tour sponsored by Oakland Art Murmur.  I'd heard about this organization, which also sponsors a First Friday Art Walk (6-9 pm), but I didn't know much more than its name.  Turns out it was started by 8 galleries/art spaces in 2006 to promote art in Oakland. Now there are 21 galleries and 9 mixed-use art spaces.

Four Doors, Daniel Emoree , at Farley's Cafe

A group of us assembled at Farley's Cafe on Grand Avenue at 2 pm.  Maya Kabat, a painter and member of the Mercury 20 Gallery, rounded us up and led us across Broadway and along Telegraph Avenue to 25th Street,  the heart of the Oakland gallery district.



Our first stop was the Manna Gallery, where a member of the cooperative talked about how it works: members rotate showing their work in the gallery and also include some non-members in shows.   A few doors down, we dropped by the FM Gallery, which is a cooperative with a large space in the back where members have set up studios.


We spent an hour visiting galleries and looking at art until we had to sprint back to our car to head off the zealous Oakland meter maids.

Heart of the Oakland gallery scene

Several galleries in one building at 473 Telegraph

The Manna Gallery, a cooperative where members take turns showing their work

Work space in the communal studio at the back of  the FM Gallery, a cooperative of nine artists

Escape in Blue, Hadas Tall, at The Wall Gallery

Flowerpots stacked in the window of a studio on 25th Street

Warehouse416 Gallery on 26th Street.  The space includes a gallery, studios, performance space, and a meeting room for Toastmasters. The space was formerly a garage.

Black and White Armchair, Jody Medich, at Warehouse416

Map of galleries/spaces that are part of Oakland Art Murmur, also available on their website

C'mon, Ann

I wish I liked Ann Romney more.   She's struggled with multiple sclerosis and has had breast cancer, and she's still on her feet.  But this morning I read one more thing about her that made my heart sink.

She told an interviewer on "Good Morning, America" that "we've given all you people need to know and understand about our financial situation and how we live."

It wasn't so much her opinion that the Romneys have given all the information about tax returns and off-shore accounts that they need to.   It's the  "you people."
 

What people?  The press?   Or us,  the great American public?  Or only the segment of the American public that isn't rich and therefore doesn't understand the polite zone of privacy around finances that the wealthy take for granted, even those running for President?


Whatever, I'm feeling blown-off and excluded here, Ann.


I'd be cranky, too, if I had to reveal my personal financial information to the world, but then I'm  married to a guy who couldn't give a stump speech if his life depended on it and thinks all politicians are "rottentothecore."  And I've never had any political ambitions myself.


It's odd how the more money people have, the more comfortable they are in their insulated lives, the more uncomfortable they are about anyone else finding out about it. The specifics, I mean, like having two Cadillacs and off-shore accounts.  On some level, they must know it doesn't play well,  and it might not even be fair.

Finding a Temporary Nest in London

We get to go to London next year!  We managed to score free Business Class seats with frequent flyer miles, thanks to our travel agent, Jenny.  I held my breath while she tangled with the airline. 

Now I'm casting about trying to find a flat to rent, which is much less expensive than a hotel room, plus you have more room, including a kitchen.  I have a big map of  London spread out next to the computer, so I can plot various flats while I review apartments listed on the rental agency's website.

We liked the area where we had a flat last year, near the Kensington High Street tube station, but we didn't like the old carpet full of allergens, doors that slammed shut unless they were propped open, and a toilet that trickled night and day.

I've  narrowed the search to three flats, the most promising of which is on a street called  "Palace Gardens Terrace,"  near Kensington Palace.  The agency website says,  "This attractive first floor flat (no lift) is elegant and stylishly decorated in a contemporary style."   First floor means second floor to Americans, so that's okay, although no elevator means a challenge hauling our bags up the stairs when we arrive. We'll cope.

Here's what I've got to go on:

"Sitting Room"--including dining table where I can work on my trip journal and Jerry can review manuscripts.

TV in sitting room and armoire with unspecified contents

King-size bed and "ensuite bathroom"

Kitchen with "hob" (stove) and other necessities.  Washer/dryer is in "hallway cupboard"

"Over shower" in bathroom, which also has "wash hand basin" and "loo."

Could Be, Maybe, Do I?

Can you walk backward and count down from 50,  while maintaining a steady gait?  If you can, then you may not have Alzheimer's Disease. I read this in the New York Times this morning.  Five  new studies have linked hesitant,  slow, or unsteady gait to an eventual diagnosis of dementia, including Alzheimer's.


The studies could lead to developing a tool that doctors could use "to forecast if not diagnose,"  possible Alzheimer's Disease, the article said.  This is one of the top ten most-e-mailed articles in the Times today.  People are scared of Alzheimer's. 

I am. My mother  was diagnosed with it when she was seven years older than I am now, and watching her decline was the saddest, most searing experience of my life.   Ever since then, I've worried about it.

I monitor every memory lapse.  I read articles like this one.  Researchers are always throwing out possible markers for an Alzheimer's diagnosis (impaired hearing is another), but what can you do with that information?  A neurologist I consulted about a sleep problem told me that she strongly advises patients not to have a brain scan to see if they have Alzheimer's because there's nothing that can be done.  I agree with her, but I still want to know.  I think.  What I really want to know is that I don't have it.

 Last night, before I read the gait article,  I decided that, given recent lapses,  I may very well have Alzheimer's.  What would I do differently if that were true?  The first thing that came to mind was getting our gardener to come more often because  I'm tired of maintaining the front and back yard.  That was all I could think of.  And in general to use my time more wisely, even if I have to be ruthless.

Now I just tried walking backward and counting down from 50, and I could do it!  Shall I call the gardener or not? Yes.

Different, But Not Second-Rate

Trolling around on the internet, I came across a blog written by a young woman who is trying to have a baby but cannot conceive.  She and her husband are struggling with infertility, which is known as IF.  Trying to conceive is known as TTC. 

After reading several posts, plus all the comments, I felt a lot of empathy for this young woman. She says she doesn't want to look back with regret because she didn't have a baby, but also doesn't want to miss the life that's going on right now while she's distracted by crushing disappointment each month.  She and a number of people who leave comments on her blog seem not to want to adopt a child.

During my thirties, I struggled with whether or not to have a baby, going  back and forth, feeling sad, not wanting to go to baby showers, feeling as though there was a gun at my head in the form of the biological clock, to mix metaphors.  It was now or never; what to do?


Ultimately, I chose not to have a child, which was a loss, but the right thing for me.  By the time I was in my forties, I was at ease with that choice. As I read this young woman's posts,  I wished I could communicate that one can have a very good life without having children, and I decided to write a comment to her, which has been ignored by her readers (no responses), but who knows, maybe someone found comfort in it:

As a 62-year-old woman who did not have children but who really struggled in my thirties about whether or not to be a mother (I know, this is not the same situation you're in), I can say that it's possible to have a very good life without being a mother. Not better, not worse, but very good, and with a strong marriage. I wish I had known that then. It is not a second-rate life, but it is a different life from that of people who become parents.  All the best---LizR

Falls and Other Mishaps

On Saturday, my friend Jan called me up to see if I'd like some plums from her garden to take to the Food Pantry on Monday.  Sure!  That would be a treat for the clients.

When I  didn't hear back from her by Saturday evening to make plans for me to collect the plums,   I vaguely wondered what was going on.

Yesterday morning she called from the hospital to tell me she'd fallen out of a pear tree and shattered both  heels.  She's awaiting surgery.   Her doctor called this "a life-altering event," which she didn't want to think about, and I don't blame her.  We're the same age, and we share the same views on changing our behavior just because we're older.  To hell with THAT.

She was surprisingly--heroically,  I thought--matter-of-fact.  Her husband was going to pick the plums and leave them by their front door for me to pick up.   No point inviting yellowjackets into her garden by leaving windfalls.  She's thinking she'll be on sick leave from her job for awhile, but can probably work from home. 

During  the fracas with the young Catholic woman blogger over my generation and their views on Planned Parenthood, someone left a comment on that blog referring to me and my cohort as  "elderly ladies."  That stopped me cold.  But a couple of weeks ago I tripped going upstairs, banging up and cutting my right pinkie and and denting my laptop.  My friend Claudia fell taking ice skating lessons and broke a bone in her arm.   You see where this is going.  Jan's husband has forbidden her to climb any more trees.  Ugh.

Prisoners

A segment on NPR's "This American Life," this morning featured the story of a San Quentin prisoner and his chances for parole.  In California, even if the Parole Board recommends parole for a prisoner (a rare event), the Governor can reverse it.  Which Schwarzenegger did in this case.  A model prisoner, the man was crushed.  Eventually he was released, after a court case determined that some prisoners must be released on parole, if  the possibility of parole is part of their sentence.

I thought about the number of men I've signed up at the Food Pantry who've told that they've just been released from prison.  They have nothing.  They are among the most grateful and vulnerable clients I've met, which is completely at odds with how I used to view prisoners: scary, dangerous, to be avoided at all costs.  Now I think, what are they going to do?  How're they going to make their way in this world?   They've got one hell of a steep mountain to scale.  Boggles the mind. 

Art Trek: Cindy Sherman at SFMOMA

Yesterday, Lin and I went to the members' preview of the Cindy Sherman show, just opening at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, here until October 8.

If you can, go see it.  The show spans her work from the 1970's, when she was a student, to the present.  Working as her own model, she uses make-up, wigs, and even protheses, to become one convincing persona after another, all stunningly photographed.  Afterwhile, I began to wonder what she'd make of how I look, what cultural clues she'd seize on about my class, milieu, and values.   Naked, we all look about the same, but after that, it's just about limitless what kind of person we want to project to everyone else, especially for women.

Sherman herself was at MOMA yesterday morning, apparently.  A man who intercepted us in the last gallery told us he'd heard that from a docent.   What does Cindy Sherman really look like?  She could have been standing next to me, and I wouldn't have known.

None of the photographs is titled, so the viewer's on her own decoding what it's all about.  I found myself inventing lots of life stories for these people.

From the Untitled Film Stills, 1977-1980.  Sixty-nine black-and-white photographs.

From Centerfolds/Horizontals, 1981

Untitled #458, 2007-2008

From Untitled Clowns, 2000

From Society Portraits, 2008 (all fictitious women)

Backlog

As of today, I'm 25 issues behind of The New Yorker and 52 of The New York Times Magazine.

When a new magazine arrives, I scan it greedily, particularly the snippets in "Talk of the Town," and the personal essays in "Lives."  Ditto, the pieces on Callista Gingrich and her hair and Calvin Trillin and what he eats.  

But then it all breaks down.  I hit a wall with the serious articles that require concentration and time, and the magazine goes on a growing stack.

This now adds up to 8 inches of printed matter I need to get to.

This came to my attention recently when my friend Judy mentioned that she was only three issues behind of The New Yorker and was going straight home to catch up.  Does she read the articles on Afghanistan, I'd like to know?  Or the European debt crisis (or any debt crisis, for that matter)?  How about the machinations of studio heads in Hollywood?  If she does, she's better informed than I'll ever be.

I have the magazines stacked next to my chair in the living room, and I've started looking at them.  I've gotten as far as tearing out movie reviews from The New Yorker so I'll know what to rent from Netflix.  Mostly I just feel guilty.

Is this a common problem?


'

Cone Bras and Corsets

On Saturday, we drove to San Francisco to see the Jean Paul Gaultier exhibit at the de Young Museum as part of our Gala 35th Wedding Anniversary Weekend.  I'd heard that a number of the mannequins "speak," and I was almost more interested in that than in the clothes.

We wandered around the mammoth show, which involves a revolving catwalk and scads of outlandish but fascinating fashions with an emphasis on cone bras and corsets (he has supplied Madonna).   Men in grand tie-on trains;  men in pink jackets made of suspenders and corsets and garters, with cone-bra elbow patches. And lots of too-skinny-to-be-believed female mannequins.

Some of whom talked.  Their faces were molded to the contours of the models who posed for them, and then video of the speaking model was projected onto the face.  The faces seem amazingly plastic and lifelike.

The show is at the de Young Museum through August 19.  (The next day, we took a hike, which was more up Jerry's alley.)

Palm Leaf Jacket Hat, 2003

The mannequin that spoke for Gaultier, explaining inspiration for his work

La Mariee, 2008, a wedding gown with shell cone bra detail designed for a mermaid.

Gaultier's childhood teddy bear, for whom he designed his first cone bra

Naomi Campbell wearing a body suit, 1993.  The pubic hair is cylindrical beads.

A pick-me-up afterward, with creme brulee tart

World's most adorable man, on the terrace of the DeYoung