2013--The wrap-up

Well, 2013 was an interesting year, wasn’t it? What—you can’t remember?

I’ll let Dave Barry remind you. I’m getting myself another glass of bubbly. See you in 2014.

Gratitude Monday: the whole blessed year

Since it’s the last Monday of 2013, I thought I’d take a bit of time to think about all the things I’ve had this year to be thankful for. And it turns out to be quite a robust list.

First of all comes the category of friends, of which I have the absolute primo finest-kind. I won’t recount all the evidence of that this year, or else I’d be writing well into 2014; so just a few highlights.

I’m really grateful that my BFF has received very good news from her oncological radiologist. So happy and grateful.

Also very thankful that when I spoke with her early this month in distress, she invited me down to Palm Springs so I could meet up with family, basically dropping most of her holiday social plans for the weekend to accommodate me. It was a gross imposition on my part to call her on a Wednesday afternoon and then be there by 1000 on the Friday, but it was a wonderful solace to me, and I’m so grateful that she was there for me in all senses of the word.

Also—seriously grateful that her husband was making an apple pie for a party they were going to on Saturday; because when I declined their invitation to go, John made me a rustic apple tart all for myself. I’d show you a picture, except I ate it before it occurred to me to take one. Your loss, totally my gain

I did get some shots of their Christmas lights, though—it was a completely lovely, peaceful evening; a much appreciated gift from the two of them to me.

I’m also grateful for my friend Carol Ann in Virginia, who called me a couple of months ago when she really needed someone to talk with. I was truly glad I could help her—especially considering all the times I’ve called her barely able to talk through the tears. I miss our weekly breakfasts, and I look forward to the time when they can resume.

Thanks to her, BTW, I now have four of the most beautiful wine glasses ever. She gave me the first one before I left Virginia for Washington, and ever since then it’s been the first thing I unpack in a move, so that my first glass of wine in a new place is out of it. I loved that glass with a love that bordered on idolatry, so I was just devastated when about 18 months ago I broke it.

But each Christmas I get another one, so even though that original glass is gone, I could have three people over for dinner and not look like an inhospitable pig by saving the prettiest glass for myself.

(She gave me the little finger monsters, too. Also I get the best refrigerator magnets from her. And articles clipped from magazines. And books about redheads, and about shoes.)

Another friend—dating from my days in Virginia, but out here now—is a staunch supporter. I can always count on Amy to lift my spirits.

Plus—she’s another fan of department store lunch rooms. I love the lunches we’ve had at Neiman-Marcus.

I’m deeply grateful for the friend who took me on a Golden Gate adventure on my birthday. That entire day was a hoot, starting with the most varieties of dahlias I’ve ever seen. Like this:

And this:

And this:

Plus—a ride on a really old carousel:

That day was stellar; what a great gift.

A friend of mine here has taught me a whole lot about social media. Whenever I have a job interview coming up, Mary always gives me perspective and insights. Because of her I talk a much better game than I used to. Plus—I actually understand what I’m talking about, which impresses me no end.

(Mary gave me the key to answering that God-awful “What do you do when you’re not working?” interview question. I’m so waiting for the next interviewer to ask me that.)

Speaking of social media—I have to say that, on the whole, I’m really glad I stepped up my Twitter game. It’s been a half year of thought-provoking, exasperating, illuminating and cringeworthy tweets for me.

I followed an articulate, impassioned ex-con, joined in with the snarkers sticking it to JP Morgan, discovered that there’s a band called Tofu Meatballs (and of course they tweet), and really enjoyed some of the hashtag campaigns—the goofier the better.

I exchange thoughts with (among a whole range of others) British cops, Australian housewives (with really, really big spiders) and people (or entities) of uncertain origin or mental stability.

And very—very—occasionally, one of them actually reads my blog. I was in a frenzy of joy last July when one of them DM’d me—unsolicited—saying (and I quote): “I like your blog.” Most beautiful four words in the English language. Better even than “Will you marry me?” I was doing the happy dance for a week off that.

Seriously grateful for that, Twitter Guy.

This was a year when I drank in appreciation—one of my friends assured me, “No one who writes as wittily and well as you do can possibly be as boring as you allege.” Roo is a guy who knows from wit, so really basked in that. Another friend commented that my post on the battle of Gettysburg “would have graced the NYTimes, or any other publication.” Like Roo, the Pundit’s Apprentice’s opinion on such matters get my respect, even when he’s talking about me.

I’m grateful that I’ve got a couple of very attractive job prospects, with interviews presumably to take place in early January. And that I’m confident that I have a story to tell them about how I can contribute, and supporters who recharge that confidence all the time.

All in all, this has been a most excellent year, and I’m grateful for all the people who tipped it into the positive side. Watch out, 2014!

  

A little flash

Well, I’m not letting the Christmas season get away without a “Hallelujah” flash mob. This one is from Paris. France.

There’s a whole lot of credits at the beginning, so if you want, you can click to about the 60-second mark and start from the actual, you know, heart of the matter.

It’s frankly not the best-ever “Hallelujah” flash mob—those sopranos are straining a whole lot at the top notes. But still—compliments of the season.

Joyeux Noël et Bonne Année.

Home peace

Sometimes you just want to slow down the holiday frenzy—you know, when even the eleventy-seven film versions of A Christmas Carol on the tube won’t do. That’s when you turn to…books.

My two go-to Christmas tales are the original A Christmas Carol, of course, and the “Dulce Domum” chapter of The Wind in the Willows. Like the overall book, “Dulce Domum” is all about friendship, care for one’s fellow animal and the simple joys of home.

I’ve written about the set-up elsewhere, but here’s how it ends:

"Mole and Rat kicked the fire up, drew their chairs in, brewed themselves a last nightcap of mulled ale, and discussed the events of the long day. At last the Rat, with a tremendous yawn, said, `Mole, old chap, I'm ready to drop. Sleepy is simply not the word. That your own bunk over on that side? Very well, then, I'll take this. What a ripping little house this is! Everything so handy!'

“He clambered into his bunk and rolled himself well up in the blankets, and slumber gathered him forthwith, as a swathe of barley is folded into the arms of the reaping machine.

“The weary Mole also was glad to turn in without delay, and soon had his head on his pillow, in great joy and contentment. But ere he closed his eyes he let them wander round his old room, mellow in the glow of the firelight that played or rested on familiar and friendly things which had long been unconsciously a part of him, and now smilingly received him back, without rancour. He was now in just the frame of mind that the tactful Rat had quietly worked to bring about in him. He saw clearly how plain and simple--how narrow, even--it all was; but clearly, too, how much it all meant to him, and the special value of some such anchorage in one's existence. He did not at all want to abandon the new life and its splendid spaces, to turn his back on sun and air and all they offered him and creep home and stay there; the upper world was all too strong, it called to him still, even down there, and he knew he must return to the larger stage. But it was good to think he had this to come back to; this place which was all his own, these things which were so glad to see him again and could always be counted upon for the same simple welcome.”

I hope your holidays have this same sense of peace, comfort and love.

Gifts

Okay, look—I know Christmas isn’t all about the presents; well, not if you’re older than about third grade. And frankly, I’ve found it kind of hard recently to get excited too much about them—even though I’ve received some lovely ones.

This year, though—I’ve so far opened two, and, well: Santa been berry-berry good to me.

First of all, I have this lovely collection of Oregon pears. Even if these particular pears hadn’t been sent by my friends in Palm Springs, I’d think of them. Because I’ll always associate luscious, dripping-with-perfection pears with the picnic my sister and I had with them four years ago.

I’m making a pear salad tonight with one of them, candied nuts and crumbled chevre. (Had a bit of a to-do when I went to Whole Foods earlier this week, because the recipe actually calls for bleu cheese, and I’d rather dive face-first into a pool of vomit than eat bleu cheese. In fact, it’s pretty much all the same thing to me. Anyhow, when I said I needed a substitute for the bleu cheese, which I don’t care for, the cheesemonger said, “Maybe you should make a different salad.” Fortunately, his colleague suggested the chevre, so I’m happy.)

And I’m enjoying my second gift already, even though I’ve not officially used it. I was at Neiman-Marcus last week to have lunch with a friend, and was killing some time in the fragrance department. I went back on Friday and got serious, with the help of one of the staff, and came up with a couple of suggestions for a friend of mine to give me.

I’ve not had a new fragrance for more than ten years when I went on a binge in Caen, buying stuff by Dalì (yes—there was a line of scents with really great bottles). So I thought it might be time. 

This is Orangers en Fleurs (yeah, sorry, but I don't get that many Neiman-Marcus boxes, so I had to include it in the shot), and it’s filling my living room with orange, jasmine and some other things even though I’ve not opened the bottle yet. I’m so looking forward to wearing it—having a really good fragrance is kind of like knowing you have the good lingerie on. It just makes you feel more with-it.

And I believe I’m ready for with-it in the new year.

So I hope you’re as happy with your gifts as I am with mine (and the friendships they represent). And that you had as good a time as I did in the lead-up to it.

Guided by the lights

I’ve told you about how people here in the Valley they call Silicon go all-out at Halloween in terms of yard displays. And earlier this month I did a short spin through one Mountain View neighborhood to check out Christmas decorations.

But that was in daylight, so I thought I’d return at night to see how the displays played out in their natural environment.

Holy crap!

At least two of them were coordinated to music, although thankfully for the local residents, the volume on the players is low.

One of them was the yard with Yoda and Darth Vader:

There was more going on there theme-wise than a Tarantino flick.

And I have to say that Yoda and Darth didn’t seem all that engaging in the dark:

The Peanuts portion of the yard was a little better—Snoopy’s doghouse with another Snoopy on some kind of track in front of it. (Look—I have multiple degrees from respected academic institutions, and I really couldn’t figure it out):

Then it turned out that the other side of the house apparently fronted Sesame Street:

Well, spoilt for choice, really—but I’ll leave you with the nutcracker that guarded the walkway:

Oh, and they gave the deer something to drink, which I thought was kinda cute:

I walked on over towards the house with all the nativities. They also had music going; nothing, as you might imagine, involving a holly, jolly Christmas, though. Still, lot happening there; Nativity 1:

Nativity 2:

Moving on, this being the Valley they call Silicon, naturally, there was a festive Angry Bird:

Balanced off by the odd angel:

But I think my favorites were the geese; anyone can have deer, or angels--but geese!

They reminded me of Petunia’s Christmas, one of my favoritest ever children’s Christmas stories.

If you haven’t read it—get it from your library. Pronto.

Okay, I liked the polar bear, too:

I have to say that it wasn’t until I was walking down one of the unlighted side streets, dressed in black and hauling two cameras, that it occurred to me that it might look just the teensiest bit, uh, suspicious that there was someone out there shooting pictures of people’s houses—including of the interiors when they had their curtains open.

I started looking over my shoulder for patrol cars—I figured being a middle-aged white woman with no ID on her person wouldn’t be much of a mitigating factor when time came for me to ‘splain what the hell I was doing there. Fortunately, the need did not arise, or I doubt they’d have let me post from the slammer.

I’ll leave you with one last house that’s going to have a PG&E bill the size of the defense budget:

I hope your Christmas day is as bright and peaceful as these displays. Pax vobiscum.

Gratitude Monday: Noble heart and gentle manner

I was devastated this weekend to open a Christmas card from my friend Edna with an enclosure letting me know that her husband Bob was dying and not expected to last the night. Multiple organ failure from multiple causes, some of them long-standing. 

Edna summed him up beautifully: “He was a decent, caring man with a noble heart and gentle manner. I can hardly remember a life before him nor can I imagine a life without him.”

I can’t picture Edna without Bob. When I first met them, they were dating—Edna and I were Sherlockians (which is a bit like Trekkies, but without the aliens). Bob was an accountant, with a lot of the attributes you’d associate with that: quiet, unassuming, blah, blah, blah. But completely laid back, with an exceptionally sharp mind and a wicked sense of humor. And he’d do anything for Edna, including going to costume balls dressed up as a character from the Holmes stories.

And, lord, could he tell a tale. You should have heard him telling the one about a fellow resident of the apartment building he once lived in in LA—the guy who’d on occasion get tanked, step out onto his balcony and shout, “I am the great Filipino god!”

They got married in my senior year of college. A lapsed Catholic and a non-practicing Jew—the ceremony was performed by an Episcopal priest who was part of our scion society (The Loungers and Idlers of Empire, if you’re asking). I vaguely recall the reception. Bob probably didn’t give a toss about the particulars; he was marrying Edna and that’s all that mattered to him.

They used to have me over for dinner a lot while I still lived in LA. The conversation was always stimulating, entertaining and educational. I got such different perspectives on things.

As I mentioned, Bob had left Judaism behind long before he traded New York for LA. (Edna was the one who made sure that the menorah was up alongside the Christmas tree, and that the Seder dinner had all the requisite components.) He thought people put too many artificial barriers between them, and once said, “Everyone should just marry everyone else until we’re all beige-colored and don’t believe in any religion.”

I do think that notion has considerable merit, especially if we end up as kind and generous as Bob.

He was a huge Star Trek fan; when Star Trek: The Motion Picture came out, Edna and I went with him to see it the first week it hit the theatres. And, oh—it was such a dog; when the lights came up Bob looked kind of stunned and…betrayed, in a way.

Shortly afterwards, Edna and I wanted to see Polanski’s Tess, so Bob went along. When the lights came up after it was finally over, he turned to us and said, “We’re even.”

About eight years ago, I had a calendar printed up using photos I’ve taken over the years—the UK, France, Reston, Canada, Minnesota, Italy, Oregon… I gave it to people as Christmas gifts, and was astonished that no one—no one—twigged to the fact that they were my pictures. I mean—Reston? Where I lived?

No one, that is, except Bob. As I understand it, the conversation went something like this:

Edna: Look at these pictures—all these different places. I wonder who the photographer is?

Bob: I think [Bas Bleu] took them.

Edna: No—they have to be by someone…

Bob: Well, we have this picture of that church in Minnesota on our wall, and [Bas Bleu] took that, so…

Edna: No, there must be a photographer’s name here somewhere.

I about wet myself when I heard that exchange. It was so…so Bob: he recognized straight away that if one of the shots was mine, the rest had to be; but he wasn’t invested in being right, Even when he was.

I wish I had a photo of him to share with you, but there are some friends whose presence is so vividly imprinted on your memories that you just never take pictures. And even if you did, a two-dimensional representation isn’t adequate.

In recent years, Bob had been ill—badly ill; but he steadfastly refused to go gentle into that good night. Until now. Even the strongest heart can’t withstand the assaults forever.

I am so grateful that I knew Bob, that I benefited from his friendship, expanded my horizons through his perspective, took comfort from his encouragement, appreciated his generosity and shared so many laughs with him.

If there’s a Bob in your life, step away from your device right now and give him a call or a hug. He’s the most precious thing imaginable.

Otter nonsense

I should really give you a holiday-related Friday funny, but this breaking news out of Plymouth, England, just, uh…broke in.

To be more precise, an otter apparently broke in to a “fish store” (not entirely clear to me from the story whether that refers to an actual bricks-and-mortar shop or some kind of storage compound/area for quantities of seafood) and was wreaking havoc as only an otter can do when the staff arrived for work in the morning.

They called the cops, but they were “unable to attend as the thief is believed to be an otter.”

The assessment from local cop Sgt. Ryan Canning had me snorting coffee onto my keyboard, “Probably too fat to swim now.”

Also, I loved the strategy, worked out, after consultation from the Otter Sanctuary, the RSPCA & the Dartmoor Zoo, to leave a trail of fish from the compound to the open water.

I really hope there’s a follow-up story on the status of the otter, and whether it managed to waddle away or if it’s invited its extended family back for an otter frat party. That would be something for the news.

Close encounter

You know, on the whole, I really love Twitter. I don’t know where else I’d come across something like this:

Not actually Number 1

I rented a car last week to drive down to Palm Springs. My car runs fine, but on a 500-mile each-way trip down California’s Central Valley, I just feel better knowing that if something goes wrong, someone else is going to have to fix it.

Plus, there’s a Hertz store about a mile from me, which means I can walk there and back. And usually it’s a decent experience.

But this time—whoo.

I got a deal on an “intermediate” class car—although I have to say that I don’t know when Corollas became “intermediate”. As a Gold Club reservation, the damned thing should have been waiting for me, but the rep at the counter had to fish around for it—it was in the computer, but not in the slot.

Then he told me, “The tank ¾ full.” What? When did Hertz start handing out vehicles without a full tank? What a crock. But imagine my surprise when the instant I drove out onto El Camino the needle dropped to 5/8 of a tank.

This really irritates me—first of all, not giving you a full tank not only means you’re starting your journey not fully ready. But it’s also much more difficult to fill fuel to a particular line on the dial instead of full-up. The likelihood is that you’ll either over-fill, and they won’t credit you for excess; or you’ll under-fill, and they’ll charge you $9/gallon to hit the mark. (And of course you don’t know whether they hit that mark or just keep on filling it.)

It makes me think Hertz is trying to chisel its customers for a couple of gallons of petrol every time, and that they think we won’t notice. Which is kind of a crappy approach to customer experience.

Moreover, the Jetta I was given about gagged me with the perfumed car-freshener smell. And it has the least ergonomic steering wheel design I’ve ever seen. Try driving that for 500 miles and see how flexible you are when you get out.

But the worst thing was—the car had no cruise control, and I didn’t think to check until I started out at 0200 the next morning. Who the hell even makes cars without cruise control? (Well, Volkswagen, apparently, but WTF?)

Let me just say that the 300 miles down the central valley were a gigantic pain in the tusch, literally. And that, without CC, your tendency is to speed. Partly because you can’t keep your eye on the speedometer all the time, and partly because you subconsciously just want to get the bloody drive over.

Well, made it to PS, saw family and friends, and drove back up in record time. And I did manage to add just enough (I hope) fuel to reach the 5/8 mark (I’d called the store the evening I picked it up and had them change the contract) before I returned it to Hertz.

And I completely cracked up when the rep handed me the receipt with an invitation on the back to take an online survey. “If you rate us 9, you’ll get $25 off your next rental,” he advised. And he wrote it on the receipt so I’d not forget:

Nine is the highest rank you can give on that all-important Net Promoter Score (NPS—“How likely are you to recommend us to family or friends?”).

Seriously, Hertz? What kind of low-rent pathetic enterprise collects “voice of the customer” information that’s completely invalid because your employees tell them they have to give the top rating to get a $25 discount?

Guess what score I gave them?

O brave new world

This story came to me Sunday, through Twitter-pal UK Cop Humour, who usually tweets a lot of silly stuff. But this one is different.

Background: there have been a lot of cutbacks to frontline policing in the UK—I don’t know the details, but there have been huge numbers of tweets about it, and the basic research I’ve done indicates the usual: Parliament demands value for money, do more with less, etc. Same thing for fire and ambulance services, and public (NHS) hospitals.

(As an aside, and you can interpret the politics on your own, Parliament has also just voted themselves an 11% pay raise. This was their response to the continuing scandals about what they were claiming as expenses—well, if we can’t be reimbursed for theatre tickets, duck blinds and packets of crisps, then I need to make much more than £66,396 per year for a half-time job. And, Bob’s-yer-uncle, an extra £7300!)

You should read this story all the way through because you need to catch the tone, but the summary is that—apparently due to budgetary cutbacks—a local station in some unnamed city was deemed adequately staffed at four officers…to cover 12 square miles…on a Saturday night.

Listen—12 square miles in any British city is going to include double- or triple-digit numbers of bars, clubs, pubs, liquor stores and other venues that invite all kinds of troublemaking, so to declare minimally-acceptable staffing on a Saturday night as four officers is kind of eye opening to begin with.

But the story’s not about that—not directly, anyway. It’s about a cop being called out to the home of a 95-year-old woman, whom he calls Doris for purposes of narration (and I’m referring to the constable as “he” for purposes of narration, as well, since I don’t know his/her anatomical disposition), who needs an ambulance to take her to the hospital that discharged her only hours before. Doris had got up at 2100 to make a cup of tea, slipped, fallen and cracked her head. It took her four hours to drag herself to the phone to call 999; at the time of the call, no ambulance “could commit”, so they sent out one quarter of the available police, the only one not already involved in some action.

Once at the scene, our guy tried for two hours to get an ambulance to take Doris to hospital…a couple of miles away. He couldn’t move her for fear of breaking something—she’s 95, for pity’s sake, and he’s only got himself there. He couldn’t even get her sitting up without massive pain, so she lay on the floor until finally, at 0320, the paramedics arrived. It took these trained professionals 40 minutes to get her into their bus and stabilized for the journey.

Well, the bare bones of this story don’t do it justice, so you have to read the original. Because the anguish, the frustration, the helplessness and maybe some fear, are all evident in the cop’s account. Which, he points out, is going to repeat by some order of magnitude when they close down his station and move those four officers seven miles away. To save money.

(I’m sitting here wondering how many police stations or extra ambulances could be funded by the approximately £4.75M per year MP raises will amount to. But I understand we’re talking different pots of money. And nobody’s going to pry that dosh from the parliamentary fists. As with pols pretty much the world over, when it comes to money, they’ve got the grip of a pit bull.)

Now, here’s the thing that struck me about this: at age 95, Doris has survived the influenza pandemic of 1918-19, the General Strike of 1926, the Great Depression, World War II, post-war austerities that lasted through much of the 1950s, Thatcher and a whole raft of other things. This is obviously a woman with heart and nerve, even if her joints are rheumatic and her step a bit uncertain.

And the 1942 Beveridge report that led to post-war social changes in Britain was based on the notion that everyone had made sacrifices to defeat Nazism, and therefore the nation owed its citizens some basic things—housing, education, employment, healthcare. You can make the case that subsequent generations have taken the piss over this social contract, and God knows that the NHS is completely swamped and falling further behind every day.

But the Dorises of Britain fucking earned these services, including not being discharged from hospital if there was any question of her ability to care for herself (no intermediary care facility? WTF?), and to have an ambulance respond without having its metaphoric ankles chewed on for hours. By cops—so they knew the need was genuine. Even, as our narrator points out, deploying a pair of constables might at least have got Doris comfortable for that unconscionable wait.

As you know, I’m acutely aware of emergency services here in the Valley they call Silicon—every time the engines from Fire Station No. 4 roll I listen for any follow-on sirens on El Camino that might indicate there’s something really awful going on.

But it’s all awful; whenever these guys are called out, it’s always awful for someone. As the story of Doris and our lone, frustrated, helpless cop illustrates. So there’s just something fundamentally wrong about this situation.

I’m not talking about fairness—we all know that life isn’t fair. This is about a social contract made with people like Doris, which her elected government has reneged on; in fact, her elected government is pretending it doesn’t exist.

I understand that the budgetary problems didn’t show up last week; they’ve been building for decades. And there are multiple layers of causes and blah, blah, blah. And for all the people involved in the various melees, robberies, road accidents and whatnot that went on while our constable remained with Doris—really sorry your government thinks that four officers constitutes adequate staffing for a Saturday night.

Meanwhile, the Dorises of the country lie in pain on their floor, the constables are weeping (inside if not outright) at their inability to help, and Parliament is spending £65,000 to do up a couple of toilets for the House of Lords because what they have now isn’t befitting their status in the world.

O brave new world indeed that has such people in’t!