Is that bathroom remodel done YET? And how much tiramisu can you eat in 24 hours?

A.  Bathroom remodel is complete, but bathroom looks like a model home before staging: bare.   Hence, the reveal is delayed.  Except for this:

Jerry taped paper over the window for a little privacy.

A. Two large servings and two small within 24 hours of Christmas dinner.   No picture available.

Q.  Why are you showing us a tied-up box of See's candy?
A.  My sister tied it up to prevent me from eating the remaining chocolates so I could offer them to Food Pantry clients on Monday.

Q.  Why is there another picture of a tied-up See's candy box?
A.  Because I cut the knotted-up ribbon and ate two pieces.   See lower right where snip occurred. And below, post-snip:

 Two chocolates missing.

 Q.  Why ANOTHER picture?
 A.  Because I knotted the ribbon again.

 Q.  How many people think I won't eat more chocolates before 1 pm tomorrow?

Looking for Something to Want

So, with the construction dragging on, I've become a slobbette who unhooks her bra as soon as the workmen leave and settles in her chair to binge on "Income Property."  (Canadians!  They all say "hoose.")

I'm supposed to be getting a Christmas list together for my sister and Jerry, because we like sitting in the living room on Christmas Day opening a small pile of gifts and joking around.  But I've been useless coming up with anything, although I've looked:

I even went online to Nordstrom to see if there's yet another robe Jerry could get me to replace the ancient $20 robe from Target that can't be beat (he loves Nordstrom's 800-number ladies, very helpful, AND they gift wrap).  Plus magazines, newspapers, Amazon.  Here's what I found:

Scented is big:

 Especially this--scented sticks.  Very big.

Watches are big:

Dopey sweaters are still  big. (Can you see Jerry in this?):

This caught me off-guard--am I the only one?

Also everywhere:  cashmere sweaters and scarves.  Everyone but me  likes these (scratchy!).

I found things I can't imagine wanting, like a sleeve for a succulent:

And a green tag that says you eat plants:

Why?

Sometimes the copy was the best part:

Infinitely on trend?   

Finally, I came up with a very short list which I'm going to give you right now, in case you are casting about for things you don't need but would like.  Otherwise, skip it.  I don't want to add to the pressure.

A quilt book
A travel umbrella
A Streetwise plastic map of Paris (swear by them)
Bobbi Brown eye cream (trying to offset encroaching hagdom)
A Mighty Bright book light
Also, more in the Jerry budget:  A Le Creuset grill pan, big enough for two, because we're too cheap (and daunted) to buy an actual grill.

In the meantime,  look who I got to sit on the toilet parked in my studio:

Yes, Mr. Adorable visited last weekend and was open to being bribed into posing for a picture.  (He chose a Tootsie Roll Pop over a See's sucker--no accounting for tastes.)

Hanging Out in an Old Robe for Sanity's Sake

$20 at Target years ago

Yesterday I got up whenever the hell I wanted for the first time in six days.  I flung open the bedroom door: no workers.  I didn't brush my hair, put on a lick of lipstick, nothing, nada.  Just me in my hag suit: robe, socks, and slippers.  I hung out in this outfit until 1 pm.  Bliss.

We had two tile guys here even on Thanksgiving Day.  The painter is chomping at the bit now that my sister and I have chosen the paint color ("Frappe").  The contractor is doing the finish carpentry work today and tomorrow.

Here's what the bathroom looks like:

N

Not very gratifying, is it?  The cabinet, vanity, medicine cabinet, and counters are all there but covered in cardboard ("protection").  

Here's the shower, which has required days of work by the tile guys:

The niche for shampoo and soap yet to be finished.  I think of it as the "shrine."

The closet in my studio is ready for a coat of paint and then installation next week of Elfa shelves and rods for double-hung clothes.

In the meantime, my studio itself has become a parking lot for everything that's been taken out of closets:

Nightmare

Just one day of hanging out in my robe in my entirely private house was luxury.  I puttered.  I caught up.   But by 7:30 last night, my sister was sending e-mails about towel racks and lighting fixtures, and the painter called at 7:58 this morning.  No robe-time until next weekend.

The Michael Brown Decision: Sad, Mad, and Who's Bad?

This morning I searched The New York Times for clarification/commiseration about the Michael Brown case in St. Louis and the grand jury's decision announced last night that the policeman who killed Brown would be indicted for nothing.                               

The Times didn't seem to have an opinion, perhaps because the decision was announced so late, so at 7:45, I called my friend Elisabeth, who comes from St. Louis and who has been obsessed with this case for months (and rightfully so).  She said she felt very sad, and that she, too, had searched The Times for reaction.  Both of us long for an in-depth New Yorker piece with solid information and analysis.  Both of us felt sad, outraged, and just shy of hopeless about race in America.

In the meantime, I'll give you my reaction, because it helps me to write it down:

Here's what I think:

1. We've got a lot of work to do, we Americans.  Ideally, we'd drop everything and have every reputable therapist and sociologist leading groups of people of all races talking, talking, talking.  And some groups of Caucasians only, so we can air our racist assumptions, however subtle and shameful.

2. Gun control is part of the issue.

3. Caucasians know very little about how African Americans experience life in our society.  Very little.  I think this because of my work at the Berkeley Food Pantry, where about half of the clients are African American.  I have polite, but way-less-than-authentic interchanges with many of them.  The chasm between races is wide and deep.

4. There are people of goodwill out there who want to make it better.

Thanksgiving Do's and Don'ts

So, here comes a copy of Bon Appetit in the mailbox.  (If only they knew--I'm the last person they should send a complimentary copy of that magazine to.).

I flipped through it and found an article  "modern manners" for Thanksgiving by Ben Schott.  Some tips seem helpful, some pointless. See what you think:

For hosts:

• Always invite a non-family member to lighten the atmosphere.  I agree. The more, the merrier. 
• Don't tell guests when dinner will be or some will arrive at the last minute.  Really?
  
• Bathrooms should be well stocked and absolutely spotless.  I guess that's a no-brainer, but it shows what an octopus-like commitment hosting Thanksgiving Dinner is and why I try to get out of it whenever possible..
• No scented candles.  "Roasting turkey and stuffing should be the only aromas."  Least of my worries.
• Don't carve the turkey at the table.   For God's sake, why not?  Norman Rockwell shows it that way.
• Suggestions for non-alcoholic drinks:  sparkling apple cider, cranberry or cherry juice and seltzer, iced Earl Grey tea.  And two things I've never heard of--please enlighten if you can: Blenheim ginger ales and homemade vinegar shrub.
• How to seat people:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    










And for guests:

• Never arrive empty-handed, even if the host tells you to bring just yourself.  Schott's suggestions: candied fruit or caramels; pumpkin-seed brittle; granola; artisanal white bread; really good bacon; small potted herb, such as lemon thyme. 
• Resist the temptation to bring wine, unless asked.  Alternatives: good olive oil, vinegar, or liquor.  Not sure I agree with this--even if the hosts have chosen wine for the dinner, they can drink it another time, when you're not around and they've unbuttoned their waistbands.
• Never surprise your host with food that requires oven time.  Boy, do I agree with this one.
• Ahead of time, feel free to Google guests you haven't met.  This is supposed to break the ice, but won't you look nosy if you seem to know too much? 
• Thank the host within 12 hours via phone call, text, e-mail.  I vote for e-mail. 

We're going to the Claremont Hotel for dinner--yay!  Remodeling got me off the hook this year. But there's even advice for slackers like me:  Tip like Sinatra.

And for everyone:  don't be banal or offensive, argumentative or rude. (Doesn't it sound boring? Or just peaceful?)

Happy Thanksgiving!  We're still here, and Obama's still President.

The Mysterious Structure in the Front Yard

 

What the hell is it?

a.  Shelter for a homeless person

b.  Sculpture transported from the Albany Bulb

c.  Tent made to protect a tile-cutting machine from rain

The answer is "c."    It's actually raining.

Yes, we're still in the middle of a remodel that affects three rooms and the upstairs hall.  I have a toilet parked in my studio, and there's a sink in the living room. 

Haven't had it together to write a blog post, due to having to watch "Selling New York," in a stupor, in which I study one turn-key upper East Side apartment after another.  If I'm not binge-watching,  I'm out running errands, anything I can think of, except buying Christmas presents, which I can't even think about.

More later.

Whoever Invented Stretch Jeans Should Get a Nobel Prize

Senator Chew Toy

So the Republicans triumphed; Mitch McConnell, who my friend Val thinks looks like a chew toy, trumpeted; and the horrible conservative columnist for the SF Chronicle, Debra Saunders, said, "it was a beauteous night."

Wretched

Oh, to hell with her.  It's just one more election.  There will be another one in two years, and Hillary might even win.

I don't think I'm in denial about the election--I just went micro.  There are definitely some things to be glad about around here, such as the new cabinet that just got installed in my studio closet:

 Even without drawers, it's thrilling.

And a rose bloomed on a plant I thought had had it:

 Of course, we still have a toilet in the hall.

* * * * *

This morning in the dressing room at the pool, I overheard a couple of women talking. The first said that her mother died two weeks ago.  Then she said some things I couldn't hear, and the other woman responded, "Oh, you mean she chose to leave."

She chose to leave.  Which is how I've been thinking about Brittany Maynard, who ended her life last weekend at the age of 29,  because she had terminal brain cancer.

I went over and asked the woman who'd said that, a regal African American lady (I wondered if it was a  very wise cultural saying) if I'd heard her correctly.

"Yes," she said.  "My mother chose to leave a few years ago."

"Did she use drugs to do it?"  I asked.

"No," said the woman.  "She just gave up.  Too much cancer pain.  She didn't want to live anymore."

"I like that saying," I said.

"People can choose to leave, however they do it," she said.  "It's fine."  She said this in such a deeply grounded, gentle way that I felt she was giving all of us permission to choose to leave, if we find ourselves in the state her mother or Brittany Maynard were in.

(Of course, Debra Saunders railed against Brittany Maynard.)

* * * * *



 Yeah, right

 Claudia M. and I went to buy some clothes in Walnut Creek.  She's employed, so she needed some outfits that look pulled together, and she found a couple of shirts, blouses, and sweaters.  I bought two pairs of jeans and a t-shirt.

What on earth did we do before stretch jeans?  That's about as foreign to me now as wearing a garter belt every day of high school (or rolling my hair each night, for that matter.  Every. Single. Night.  From 1964 to 1968.).  So uncomfortable.

Clothes sizes now are so insane that I'm wearing a size or two smaller than I did in high school, and I weigh 15 pounds more (or 20,  let's be honest). When I pointed this out, the saleswoman nodded and said "It's American sizing."   I said, "What do you mean, obese?"  She said, "You're funny."  Politely.


She kept urging us into smaller sizes, because--guess what?--stretch fabric stretches out.  I thought, So what? They'll be comfortable.

Afterward, we went to Starbuck's for a drink and a couple of chocolate-coated graham crackers, since we were we were smaller than we thought.  Why not?

Banished Toilet, Sneaky Conservatives, Hotdog with Champagne

And now what I know you've all been waiting for:  An update on the bathroom project.

The drywall is in and now the "tape-ers" have taken over.

The before picture:

 And now:

The toilet is mostly out of sight!

I know, in the Age of Ebola, ISIS, and Marjorie Dannenfelser (see below), this is not a very big deal, but I'm very happy about this transformation, 30 years overdue.  And there are SEVEN NEW DRAWERS for fabric stacked in the basement.

* * * * *

Yesterday, when I flipped open the latest issue of The New Yorker yesterday and found this photograph,  I thought, Whoa!

Does anyone else think this woman looks scary?  Her name is Marjorie Dannenfelser, and  she's the president of the Susan B. Anthony List.   Sounds feminist, right?

"Oh, good, she's on our side!" I thought.

But, no.  The sole aim of the Susan B. Anthony List is to abolish abortions; the group funnels money to anti-abortion candidates.   If you're a person who believes in reproductive choice for women, she's as scary as they come--clever, glib, and passionate about her cause,  a one-issue gal.

"We can't have a Democratic majority in the House or the Senate right now," she said.  "If we're close, I can't in good conscience, for the cause of life, support even a great pro-life Democrat."

The article's called, "The Intensity Gap," and, boy, can you see it in her face.

And why "Susan B. Anthony?"   Because in 1869, Anthony decried, "the horrible crime of child-murder...Guilty?  Yes, no matter what the motive, love of ease, or a desire to save from suffering the unborn innocent, the woman is awfully guilty who commits the deed."

You can read the article here and see how the quote was taken way out of context by the S.B. Anthony List.  Hey, I was taken in.  How many others?

* * * * *

On Sunday, I was feeling so housebound from being sick for two weeks that I has to get out of the house, away from remodeling detritus/chaos, all of it.

So, we drove over to San Francisco to see a new show at the Legion of Honor, "Houghton Hall: Portrait of an English Country House."  

Go, if you're an Anglophile like me.  Don't go, if you are driven mad by the gap between the rich and the poor and can't be seduced for an hour by paintings, china, furniture, tapestries, and other what-nots collected by the family of the Marquess of Cholmondeley.

 Houghton Hall, Norfolk.  Built in the 1720's for Sir Robert Walpole, Britain's first prime minister.

 The Cabinet Room  (the remarkably small bed is in the show)

.

 

 The Marble Parlour  (some of the furniture is in the show)

 The Saloon in Houghton Hall

Portrait of Sybil, Countess Rocksavage (Later Marchioness of Cholmondeley), John Singer Sargent, 1913.  She used funds from her family, the Sassoons, to restore the house.

 They're even selling English tea towels in the gift shop! Bought one, of course.  But the high point of the day was lunch: a hotdog and champagne.

Had to come home and take a nap

The Houghton Hall show is up through January 18, 2005.  Hard-core Anglophiles can even have an English tea in the cafe.

Taking Leah to Lunch

Yesterday, I took Leah to lunch, because she was leaving this morning for New York, where she lives now (boohoo), and we hadn't had a chance to talk.

Going somewhere with her when she's home is pretty easy, because she's right next door, and she's game for anything.


Me on Saturday:  Want to come over and get dead drunk?

Leah:  Sure!  Oh, wait, I can't.  Someone's coming over.

(Too bad, but really, I'm too old to get dead drunk.  Can't even remember what it feels like.)

Me yesterday after a harried morning:  How about lunch?

Leah: Yes!

Me, later:  Can it be late?

Leah: Sure!

Me, even later:  I got a reservation at Chez Panisse.

Leah:  Yay!  (Of course, who would say "no"?)


So we went.  We didn't arrive until 2:30, and it was quiet and spacious, and the food was wonderful.

Here she is at the Upstairs Cafe--the incomparable Leah B. at 23:

 Isn't she adorable?  As she was at seven...

...and nine:

I looked at my watch this morning when her plane was supposed to leave from San Francisco and felt sad, sad, sad that she was leaving, bu that's what she's gotta do.  Hoping she'll be back at the end of the year.

Nurses: What Would We Do Without Them?

My friend Jan called a couple of days ago and happened to mention that her 35-year old son, a nurse, is now working nights in the ER at San Francisco General Hospital.

Pause while I collect my wits and marvel that anyone would choose that work.  Also thank God that someone will do it, because anyone who can bring compassion and care to sick, scared people in the ER deserves much more respect and money than he's probably getting.

I asked her if he was apprehensive about Ebola, and she said he'd reported that the staff was about to "get some training on that."  This sounds astoundingly matter-of-fact to the layperson.  Get some training?  Not "how do I transfer out of here?"  I can't believe what nurses sign on for.

And what about the two young nurses in Dallas who've been diagnosed with Ebola?  First, they pitched in and worked with a desperately ill patient, and then very responsibly checked their own temperatures daily, and, in the case of Amber Vinson, even called the CDC several times about whether it was okay to fly.  Conscientious and brave.

I've had nurses hold my hand during procedures when I was scared, and that care always stayed with me more than the skill of the doctors who did whatever it was.  Their care made it bearable.  And being in isolation with a possibly terminal disease--the worst--what would people in that situation do without the patience, care, and company of nurses?  

That's what's been going through my mind as this Ebola outbreak unfolds, and with all the scary news. 
Whatever the CDC says, or NIH, or hospital officials says--so confusing--I'm thinking that nurses are the one reliable source of comfort for anyone with Ebola or any other serious disease.  What would we do without them?

 I read this series when I was a kid, but even thenI knew I wasn't brave enough to be a nurse.  (Loved the cap, though.)

This Says It All

Yes, I would put this on my windowsill.

Weary, weary, weary of cooking despite a pretty good meatloaf last night.