C-Day Minus Two

This is how the morning began, just past 6:  Sounds of a big truck backing up--beep, beep, beep-- and then pulling forward and then backing--more beeps--like it was parking in a tight spot.  Which is was, right across our driveway.

Our neighbors the hedge fund manager and his wife are hosting their annual family Christmas party, which involves a giant tent, tables, chairs, glassware, cases of wine, and God knows what else.  A lot of it is rolled up their long driveway in metal cases that make a racket as they go.  This will go on for hours.

Event décor within

By 6:30, I said to hell with it and got up.  I was busy worrying about a) getting out of the driveway, b)  finishing a quilt by mid-January,  and c) doing my usual volunteer gig at the Berkeley Food Pantry today, the last day it's open before Christmas.  Chaos.

Quilt first:

Semi-controlled chaos

Jerry says he's never heard as much profanity coming from my studio.  I'm making it up as I go, many pitfalls.

By 9, I'd listened to  a lot of Motown, Carol King, and "The King and I".  Deborah Kerr is right this minute singing, "Whistle a Happy Tune."  (Oh, right, Deborah!)

* * * * *

A few days ago, I realized I've seen no package deliveries addressed to Jerry.  Where were my presents?  I'd given him a list of things I'd like for Christmas, complete with 800 numbers (he can't do online ordering, phobic).  I heard him reading his Visa number over the phone some time ago, so I knew he'd ordered.  But where were they?

This made me anxious.  What would happen Christmas morning?  Why wasn't he worried? 

"Did you remember to order my presents?"  I asked.

"Is Christmas coming?"

"Yes, it is!  What about my presents?"

"Presents?"

"Nothing's been delivered."

"Really?"  He didn't seem worried.  In fact, he looked amused.

One afternoon when he was out, I came THIS CLOSE to inspecting the closet in his study, but I thought that would be juvenile.

I told him this.  He looked more amused.

Two days ago I saw a scrap of wrapping paper on the floor of his study.  He'd been wrapping!  Things were looking up.  (Does Christmas make everyone a big baby?  One year he gave me a big button to wear that said, "Where's My Present?")

Have managed to finish gift-wrapping, with the help of Prosecco and "Sleepless in Seattle"

* * * * *

Dept. of Jumping to Paranoid Conclusions:  I'm one of those people who shopped at Target during the period when credit and debit card numbers were stolen.  On Saturday I studied my Visa bill online.  There was a weird charge I was sure wasn't made by me.  To Best Buy.

I called the number:  It was the Geek Squad.  Never use them.  I hung up.

Called the credit card company.  Waited 16 minutes on hold, during which I took a shower while Jerry babysat the phone, which was on speaker phone.

Finally, post-shower, I heard a woman say her name, and I clicked back to non-speaker. I explained the situation. She assured me three times that I wouldn't be liable for charges.  Then, she switched me over to the Stolen Card Department.

A guy who sounded like a nervous person trying to be reassuring said he could help me.  Was I sure that charge wasn't mine?

"Oh, yes,"  I said. "Certain."

He tapped away on a computer for a long time.

"This charge has been made to your credit card every month for a year," he said, finally.

"What?"

"It has to do with your cell phone purchase," he said.

I apologized madly and called the Geek Squad. The charge was for some sort of warranty I'd forgotten I'd signed up for.  I cancelled it on the spot.

What a dope.

* * * * *

My friend Mabry brought over a big bag of hand-knit scarves and hats to distribute at the Pantry today.  I'm trying to figure out how to do that without causing a riot.

I've got the new aprons for the volunteers--veggie print or stripes.  I'm trying to decide if we should wear our cheery aprons AND a hat and scarf--to model them for clients.   God forbid we should look ridiculous.

* * * * * 

Does anyone have a spouse/partner who ends phone conversations with "Love ya, babe?"    I'm doing a survey.

I'm pretty sure Deborah Kerr didn't hear that from the King, but then she did get to wear that GIANT skirt. 

Flying Along with Desmond and Molly

The other day I was working on a quilt--for hours--and listening to the White Album, the Beatles album that came out my freshman year of college.  That music was everywhere then.  We used to jump on our dorm beds to "Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da."

I began to wonder what in hell happened to the girls I met that year, who lived in the same dorm hall:  Betsy,  Rockie, Barbara, Nancy.  I'm in touch with my roommate of that year every Christmas, but these other people had become phantoms.

I got out the 1969 UCSB yearbook and looked at our group picture:



My then-friends, all in the front row:  Nancy (third from left), Rockie, Betsy, and  Barbara on the far right.  I'm in the back row, third from right, wearing a scratchy wool Villager dress

Why is everyone wearing plaid? Why are we all wearing skirts, for that matter?  But then that was was a dorm with door-less "date rooms," where at least one person had to have his/her feet on the floor at all times.  We also had a housemother and a curfew and lock-out.

I got so wound up on the White Album, flying on caffeine from a bar of TJ's chocolate,  that I turned on the computer and looked for one of these girls on Facebook, the only one whose married name I knew:  Betsy.  She responded:

"OMG Liz Randal!  Where have you been?"  Like I just stepped out for a minute and forgot to come back.

Her former roommate, Rockie, saw that on FB, and jumped into the conversation.

So!  They're still funny, irreverent, and Democrats.  Rockie even quilts.  Barbara's a portfolio manager in LA,  Rockie's living in New Mexico, Betsy in San Jose, and Nancy is lost somewhere. 

UCSB in 1969

That White-Album winter, we endured forty days and forty nights of rain.  Our bicycles rusted sitting out under eucalyptus trees. We were cooped up in rooms with highly polished linoleum floors and heavy doors that slammed at all hours.  Every bathroom had a can of solvent to get beach tar off our feet.  I transferred to Berkeley my junior year and lost touch.

It's been comforting to find out that these friends went on to become Regular People.  Part of me has always felt that I was less accomplished, surely, than that group of girls with diamond-sharp minds and big dreams.  Not so.   None is Shakespeare or a Princeton professor or a Bill Gates. Most married and had children.  Some were employed.  Some got graduate degrees.  Most seem to be enjoying their lives.

And anyway, who cares?  At 63, it's good enough just to be alive and finding some fun (okay, joy occasionally) in each day.  You have to live to be a certain age to appreciate that.  And this life is so much more restful.

'

Throwing some light

Morning candle

First thing each morning these days,  I light a candle on the kitchen windowsill, before I heat the tea water or glance at the paper.

It's a orange-and-cranberry candle I found at Berkeley Bowl.  I let it burn for an hour, until the house is warmed up by our hard-working furnace and then I blow it out.  Sometimes I light it again while I'm cooking dinner.

I find myself doing this every winter.  I think I'm celebrating a) being alive and b) being sheltered and snug in a warm and comfortable house. It has NOTHING to do with Christmas (even though I've tacked up a row of paper robins over the windowsill, so cheery that sometimes I stare at it and wonder if I've lost my mind.)

* * * * *

This time of year, I'm always a bit obsessed with homeless people and sometimes float the idea to Jerry that we should be sharing our house with people on the street.  This doesn't go over well, and I'm not serious because there'd be about a thousand problem associated with.  But we've had a week of really cold weather, and what do those people do?  Not all go into shelters.

Lots of people don't have what I do, and it bugs the hell out of me.  I'm not comfortable with it.

Sometimes I wish I could fall back on the I-worked-hard-and-earned-this argument that would make me feel better about having so much.  But it's shot through with holes.

I did work hard when I was employed.  But I was also born Caucasian to parents who paid for me to go to college.  I happened into  marriage with a man who made a regular salary doing something he loves to do.     I have a very modest inheritance from my parents as a cushion.

It is totally unfair, and it bugs me, but I still love being snug in my house.

Evening candle

Computer Regains Sanity, Jerry Loses His



Keyboard removed from computer

Yesterday--finally--I took my computer to a fix-it guy and got the space bar function restored.

It's been maddening.   Except for internet addresses, which have to run together, I couldn't type anything thatdidn'tlooklikethis.  I was ready to throw it out the window.

I spent an hour-and-a-half in an unheated shop while a genial guy named Won painstakingly disassembled the computer and then jimmied the keyboard, flexing it, cajoling it.   He was fearless.

Putting it back together

We covered a lot of chatty territory during this operation.  I found out that he's Thai-American, trained as a graphic designer, and switched to computer repair.  He referred to the binary logic of the Start button (!), and he's a Democrat with definite ideas on immigration ("We all came from somewhere").

Scary!

He charged me only $50, despite the $80 minimum charge posted on the wall.   I would have paid a lot more than that.  Lucked out.  Took it home the same day.

* * * * *

Department of Jerry-Stuns-Me-Once-Again:  Last night, after we cleaned up the dinner dishes, I watched him fish a cookie out of a plastic bag, leave a few crumbs on the kitchen counter, and slyly brush the crumbs on to the floor.

I couldn't believe my eyes.

"What are you doing?"  I screeched.  (Yes, I did.)

"They were tiny," he protested, with a sheepish look.

"But why?

"You don't like crumbs on the counter." 

It made perfect sense to him.  I don't like crumbs on the counter, so why not sweep them onto the floor?

* * * * *

My friend Lin and I went shopping in the Elmwood neighborhood of Berkeley on Saturday, and we dropped in at The Focal Point, where I buy my glasses.  We poked around.

Fashion flash:  wire-rims are out.  There are hardly any for sale.  Lots of plastic frames.

I found a pair I really liked,  that were about as flattering as it gets on someone my age:

Pricetag:

That is not a misplaced decimal.  Can you imagine?

And the pair in the foreground:

Pricetag:

Unbelievable!  Fortunately, there were lots of frames

that cost less.

* * * * *

Boxes of stuff have been arriving via UPS, Christmas presents I ordered  for my sister and Jerry.  I've been doing a mental count and decided that each could use another present or two.  (What's this weird equation we do in our heads re "enough" gifts?  I know my mother did it, too, and my pal Lin cops to doing  it, too.)

I asked Jerry for a suggestion or two, and he came up with this item after a long search in his car:

It's golf glove for a right-handed person, meaning it fits on the left hand, but there's no size printed inside.    In the old days, pre-internet, I would have gone to a golf shop, presented this item to a clerk who would have recoiled, but helped me figure it out.  Now I'm off to Amazon.

In the course of searching the car for the golf glove, Jerry found a pair of glasses that are so old he can't remember wearing them:

I told him he could save a lot of money and be fashionable if he just had new lenses put in.

The Computer Has a Sick-Out

Yes, the ThinkPad has lost its  mind. (See  weird spacing?)

First, the "v"wouldn't work, then it came back. Then the"c"packed it in and came back to life a couple of days later.  Then  the Backspace, and now  the  space  bar, which demands to be hit twice.  I'm  waiting to see  if this passes in the  next day or two;  if not I'll call the computer guy,who calls me an "end user."

I think I may need  an exorcist.  Or a lighter touch.

Christmas hoves into view. Sigh.

I was all set to write a post about how the internet has transformed Christmas.   Reduce it to cut-and-dried transactions with Amazon, and you're home free.  No parking, no lines, no hassle.  Sanity restored.  Perfect!

If only. 

My cockiness has caught up with me.   I'm still getting jerked around by Christmas.  Shopping for gifts online helps, but it's still a season that catches me off-guard, saddens me with memories of childhood and also delights me with the whole magical-wonderland business (see below).

For decades, I tried to tame it.  I've experimented with pulling names for gift-giving, eliminating gift-giving,  and going to Hawaii to escape the whole thing (didn't work).  I've hosted potluck Christmas dinners and bought the whole shebang from a deli.  We've gone out for Christmas dinner at fancy hotels in Berkeley and San Francisco.  You name it, I've tried it.


Including a bow in my hair:




c. 1991

You can tell from my expression how well that worked.

When my neighbors Leah and Annika were young, they'd help me decorate my tree.  That was fun, but they were never in on taking down the tree, plus  they didn't cook Christmas dinner, do my Christmas cards, make sure there was enough wrapping paper, or run around town shopping. 

Christmas 1998

 I love it when January finally rolls around.



* * * * *



Sunday afternoon, Jerry and I drove over the hill to the Orchard Nursery so I could buy some potted cyclamen, purely for non-Christmas reasons.   I'd nailed down almost all gifts online and was feeling like I had things under control.

I didn't have to hurry because Jerry was in the car listening to the '49'ers game.   Instead,  I wandered around looking at the displays:

 

 

 

 

 

So many possibilities

 

 

Even this: 

  

 

 

 

I went to the nursery for three cyclamen and ended up with $80 worth of plants  (but no poinsettias). 

 

Came home and distributed pots around the house and front yard, which I can see from the kitchen.  I felt perked up. 

 

I was trying to describe this to a friend and the best I could come up with was,  "Christmas is a pain in the butt with some good moments."    She agreed.    (I still think online shopping is great, though, especially from my Stressless Reclining Chair.)

Christmas Cactus in the kitchen window

 

Very Thankful for: Community

It's Thanksgiving morning, and Jerry's strategizing about what time is best to go line up to collect a fancy cake for my sister's birthday. 

Not early--he already missed that boat--but late, he thinks, because the bakery workers "won't be chatting" and the line will go faster.

I've got a mountain of green beans to prepare.

But here's a thankful thought:

I'm so grateful for the communities I'm part of.

Thanks for the pool community, especially Anne, Val, and Ellen.  In the past year, we've helped pack up Ellen, so she could move to assisted living in New Hampshire.  We miss her.

Thanks for the quilting community, especially the No Problems mini-group. This includes Mabry, Ann, Rebecca, Claudia A., Marion, Angie, Sue, Deanna, Peg, Agnes, and Karen.  It was a golden day when I was invited to join 11 years ago.  These are ladies who will never let you down, about quilting or anything else.

 

Thanks for  my block community.  There are 24 houses, and we recognize and "know" each other in a comforting way, but I'm especially grateful for Laura, Leah, Annika, and Reina.  This year Jerry and I flew to Boston for Leah's college graduation, and we're having Thanksgiving dinner with them today.

And thanks for the Berkeley Food Pantry community, particularly Barbara and Anne.  My friend and co-volunteer Judy (back row, left) moved to Boston this year, but we're still in touch..

I realize as I write this that there's cross-over between these communities: pool/Pantry, quilt group/Pantry, and, come to think of it, blog readers/Pantry.   (Hmm, I may be a little over-enthusiastic about recruiting Pantry supporters.)

Communities anchor me.  I feel very lucky.
.

Walking Wombs?

 
In the past week or so, there have been a number of truly scary (and maddening) news stories:

1.  The Supreme Court will hear Hobby Lobby's challenge to the Affordable Care Act mandate that employer-provided health insurance provide contraceptives, including the morning after pill.  Can a corporation claim the religious freedom and therefore control a woman's fertility?

2.  A woman lost custody of her baby because a judge agreed with her ex-boyfriend, Olympic skier Bodie Miller, that she'd left California while pregnant in order to avoid a custody battle with him.  In fact, she moved so that she could accept a graduate fellowship at Columbia University.  Their relationship had lasted one month, and he had urged her to get an abortion when she first discovered she was pregnant.  The father and his wife got custody after the baby was born and are fighting to keep him.

3.  The "personhood" movement is attempting to define a fertilized egg as a person.  Think about where this could go--not just in the definition of viability vis a vis abortion, but about controlling pregnant women, making  them conform to proscribed standards of prenatal care and behavior or be arrested or lose custody of their child.

4.  PBS and the New York Times have investigated a case in St. Augustine, Florida, in which the girlfriend of a deputy sheriff died of a supposedly self-inflicted gunshot wound.  The investigation was so tightly circumscribed that neighbors and the victim's family were never interviewed.   Despite ample evidence that the boyfriend killed her, he was never prosecuted and continues to be a deputy sheriff. 

The pro-life lobby has a hand in #1 and #3, which means there are other women who want to control a woman's fertility (and life).   Ignorant judges are part of the problem (#2).  The closed-ranks attitude toward police officers who are perpetrators of domestic violence is another (#4).

We are 50% of the population!  There are doctors, lawyers, and scholars among us, and yet these blatant attempts to control women's lives go on and on.  Where are Hillary, Nancy, DiFi, and, for that matter, Elizabeth Warren?  Women's rights, our worth, our stature are being eaten away at.   (Not so much mine personally, because post-menopausal women seem to be invisible.)

Okay, now I'll give thanks:  that I live in Berkeley, where enlightened attitudes about women prevail (but not without exception).  That I'm married to a man who respects women.  That I live in the 21st century when women--at least technically--are not property.

Or are they?

Thanksgiving Lines and Cuties

We were amazed yesterday at the Berkeley Food Pantry when we totaled up the names and found we'd given out food to 111 clients.  They just kept coming.

The line twisted around the parking lot, but the mood was mellow despite the wait. (Not so on Friday, apparently, when people came close to blows over double parking.)

The volunteers worked liked demons, checking people in, bringing out bags, helping people to their cars, moving people along. 

The little girl at the left is named "Cheyenne."  She came in with her dad.  After I took her picture, I gave her some M&M's, holding up the line while I went in the back room to find them.  The kids are a definite lift, even though I hate to think of children not having enough food.

People bring in big grocery carts, which take up a lot of room, but what else can they do?  Many are on foot.  Some wanted to know if we had turkeys--no, because we have nowhere to store them.  Instead the Pantry was giving out large frozen chickens, $4,000 worth, according to Tami, the director.

Some other  very cute clients showed up:

Brothers who showed up with their mom. They got M&M's, too.

Mr. Adorable Returns

Rylan, who is Claudia M.'s nephew, visited this weekend.  It's enough to make me want to have a baby, but would I get one this charming?

At three-and-a-half, Rylan has a big vocabulary, insatiable curiosity, and boundless energy, except when he doesn't, and then he fights sleep.  He goes to pre-school, wears fancy shoes that light up when he walks, and is seriously besotted with trucks.

I briefed him on the Tooth Fairy and played up the money he'd collect on his baby teeth. He seemed borderline apprehensive.  Then I told him that the Tooth Fairy gives children's teeth to old people who've lost theirs.  I heard a child talk about this on NPR.  (Why not?)

Then I made a deal with him:  if he'd let Claudia take a picture of him with me, he could take pictures of her and Jerry.

Here's what we came up with:

Obediently still while Claudia takes a picture



 

The devoted aunt rewarded with this shot

 

 

A blurry rendition of Jerry

But then, he's always on the run:

Outcomes

 

Energy hog?

Breakfast this morning consisted of me trying to eat while Jerry ran around the kitchen flipping on appliances to see if the lights dimmed.

"How about this?" he asked, trying the toaster.

The lights did dim--but why?  Switch on the hot pot and lights flicker.   Forget the microwave--it whirs almost silently and the food is stone cold.  What's up?  High winds last night blew down some power lines?  Or  is the ancient electrical system in this house packing it in?

Do I call PG&E and see what's up?  Or wait, because after all we do have some power, unlike some neighborhoods on the Peninsula. 

* * * * *

Quilt winner:  Margaret, my sister's college roommate,  put in the winning bid of $275.  My sister pledged another $25, rounding it off  to an even $300.  She now owns one square of the quilt.

Margaret plans to hang the quilt in her law office, replacing "a cheesy 'painting' from Costco."

Congratulations to Margaret, and many thanks to blog readers/bidders, who've contributed a total of $700 to the Berkeley Food Pantry through quilt auctions this year! And thanks to Angie Woolman, who donated the machine quilting.

I'm already thinking about the next quilt.  Scraps from Margaret's quilt?

 

 

Or leftovers from the big quilt I'm working on now:

 

More undertstated

 

No idea.  

* * * * *

Aprons:  Opinion was evenly divided, so I bought some of each for the Monday crew at the Pantry.     I have an idea that some of the more staid  (sane?) volunteers will prefer stripes, and the exhibitionists among us will go with veggies.

For the more manic?

I feel as though this is a bit like  rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic, but it's either this or buying a lot of See's candy and offering a piece to each client--this is where my mind goes in the face of all the need.  Pretty much inconsequential, but after donating time and money and food, what else to do?

* * * * *

 

We're going next door to my friend Laura's for Thanksgiving.  Her daughter Leah is flying in from NYC to mastermind the dinner.  Hurray!  Practically stress-free, plus much better food than we'd have here AND fun people to drink prosecco with.

 

My assignment is a vegetable, and I broke out into a sweat over that until I decided being myself was the best policy, put away the cookbooks,  and committed to simple buttered green beans.   Leah says fine, so that's that.