Derfing With Mrs. G and Debra

Yesterday morning at 11:30, I hopped into my little silver stickshift car and drove drove drove to the little town of Peninsula, Ohio.   It took about 5 hours (with traffic and whatnot).  I was meeting the esteemed Mrs. G of Derfwad Manor at Debra's gallery, Elements Gallery.

The town is right near a place I used to go for flute lessons, Oberlin.  My flute instructor, Michel Debost, lives in Elyria, which is just up the road a piece.

I found Debra's gallery right where she said it would be, across from the scenic railway station.  And scenic it was!

The moment I came around the corner of the building, I saw this:

Many years ago, a circus was passing through Peninsula and had a crash.  All the animals escaped!  In time, all were recovered except two pythons.  One was eventually found, dead.  The other was never located, and there were numerous python sightings in the area.  So to commemorate this auspicious event, the town hosts Python Fest, including a parade and many artistic renderings of pythons scattered throughout the town.

I love a town that gets handed pythons and makes pythonade.

Catching a quick snapshot of her handmade python was Debra, our hostess for the night, and owner of Elements Gallery.

She's pretty, isn't she?  Oh, wait a second....

There she is!

 We introduced ourselves, and just as we were about to go inside, along came MRS G!

Much laughter and hilarity ensued.  Mrs. G and I oohed and aaahed our way up the stairs and inside.  Debra and her darling husband Stephen have this fantastic gallery/shop/studio where he throws pots (that's where you put the clay on a wheel and spin it and magically it becomes a cup or urn or mug or whatever, not where you toss a pot into a wall and it crashes into smithereens).  

Debra etches her tiles.  I'm sure that's not the right term, but she puts these incredibly complex, detailed patterns and things onto flat tiles (and other things too), and glazes them and puts colors on them and all that fancy awesome art stuff.  And then they sell it.  

Debra explains her approach to art, running a gallery, and life.

Part of the back room of the gallery.  That is one big roll of bubble wrap!

 We hung around there at the gallery for a while, admiring the pots, dishes, metal work, wood work, glass, jewelry, and everything, and met Debra's sweet husband, Stephen, and her charming daughter.

Dad and daughter working on some mugs.

We were starting to get kind of hungry, so we walked over to The Seraglio, a shop/gallery owned by a totally sweet Turkish man named Muffit.  Pronounced "Moooo-FIT."  Not "moooo-FEET." I asked why the party was happening, I was told that Muffit and his lovely wife just wanted to have a party for the neighborhood artists, business owners, councilpeople, etc.  I was so taken by all these wonderful folks.  

One of THREE courtyards at La Seraglio

another one

Muffit made deeeelicious beef kabobs and chicken on the grill, there was fresh hummus, baba ganouj, pita, rice, cucumber/yogurt salad, cucumber/tomato/onion salad, and a wickedly awesome pasta with a very spicy garlic sauce.  Wine flowed freely, and for dessert?  HOMEMADE BAKLAVA.  It was decadent to an extreme I'm not sure I've experienced before.

Sadly, I did not remember to take any photos inside, but apparently the building used to house a bookstore with an upstairs reading loft.  The spiral staircase to the loft is enclosed by A TREE TRUNK.  With a door.  You open the door of the tree and walk up the spiral staircase inside the (faux) tree.  It's so cool, and I can't believe I can't show you. Sigh.

There are such stories to tell you!  I met a tall, gorgeous woman who not only was a Councilwoman, but makes Fairy Gardens!

I met an older man who owns a B&B by a waterfall with his wife.  He is the oldest vegan I've ever met.

Then there was this one elderly woman everyone deferred to was sitting near us who wore an "I <3 Peninsula" pin on her ball cap.  I found out later she was Peninsula's citizen of the year, and had been town librarian.  She said that since Peninsula was an old canal town, they used to have mules that would get roped to the barges in the river and they'd tow the boats through the locks.  Her grandfather had a barn which housed the mules. When she was a girl, she found a bunch of tiny little horseshoes, and thought they were for baby horses.  Her grandfather then told her the stories of the mules that had once lived there.

It was an explosion of amazingness.  Everybody had a story.  Everybody sparkled (in a non-stupid-vampire way).  There was music, laughter, hugs, food, drink, and more laughter.

Finally, Mrs. G was starting to wilt after a LONG day of driving (a long month, really), so we wended our way out.  Debra rode in Mrs. G's car with her (her husband wanted to check the kiln, so he drove their car separately), and I followed along.  Mrs. G is very law-abiding when it comes to driving.

We arrived at Debra's Palatial Country Estate a mere 15 minutes later.  (Can't you hear the capitals?)

It was getting to be dusk, and it looked very cozy.

We were greeted by a flying pig (of which I also have no picture), and her three delightful dogs.

This is Lily, the dog that liked me.  The others were not so sure.

Her home was the home of artists.  Sculpture, paintings, books, funky furniture, many mysterious doors, cool odds and ends.  There was a beautiful mural on the stairway walls and ceiling, done by one of her daughters.  One of my favorites was a door painted by a daughter.

Isn't that lovely?

We sat on the couch with the dog, chatting, laughing, pausing, pondering.  We talked about kids, husbands, life, death, the Universe, books, art, education, wine, and Kitty Gigantica.

One thing I noticed about Mrs. G. that I didn't expect:  her voice.  Have you ever watched Sex and the City?  You know Samantha, the sex-crazed one?  If you've ever heard the actress speak (when she's not being Samantha), you'll marvel at her soft, gentle voice, as opposed to the pushy, aggressive, tough-girl voice on the show.  With Mrs. G, it's kind of like that.  Her online voice is so spunky and witty and edgy that her sweet, gentle voice was a real surprise.  I've even heard her online videos, and in person?  It's like her voice is made of that loopy, scrunchy yarn that some scarves are knitted from.  It wraps around you ... like a cuddle from a favorite aunt. She was so fun, insightful, and open to new experiences. 

Debra is a marvel.  She's raised two daughters, homeschooled both, and is a prolific artist.  She talked about "the art of business" and the beautiful community they have there. Oh, and she's wickedly funny.

I don't know what they thought of me, but I was pretty honored to be there with those two ladies.
We all went to bed (including the three dogs and all the chickens), dreaming out-in-the-woods dreams. 

The next morning, I woke to the sound of her puppies clattering on the old wooden floors, and followed my nose to the coffee.  My mug was one of their handmade ones, and Debra also made me "a glass o' pink," which was a smoothie (in a Vitamix blender, no less) made from strawberries, blueberries, banana, yogurt, and fresh pineapple. There were also muffins, but I wasn't quite ready for food.

Soon, it was time for Mrs. G to hit the road, so we gave hugs all around, and drove off (Stop Sign, LEFT, Stop Sign, RIGHT), and I drove home, my head full of new people, ideas, art, community, and stories.

Ghosts With Blue-Green Eyes

Today, I had an extraordinary opportunity.  I got to see a woman who I first met when we were both 5 years old.  Kindergarten.

She was always slightly quicker on the draw in "find the word in the dictionary" games, and waaay ahead of me in multiplication tables.  One thing that helped take the edge off of my defeat was her friendly smile.  She had a lovely, un-selfconscious smile. Her eyes were this kind of sea green with sky blue around the edges.

I haven't looked into those eyes for ... a good long while.  Junior high graduation, I think.

Today, I saw her and her two youngest kiddos.  And WOW if I didn't see THREE pairs of those eyes!  It was weird, seeing her there.  I remember her as the skinny little tomboy who could ALWAYS beat me in math quizzes.  (Not that it's setting the bar too high, really.)  I saw her now, lovely, long blonde hair, nice smile.  But overlaid on top, I saw the other her.  The kid.  The gawky "elbows and knees" her.

And you know what? The present-day her is even better.  We're both moms.  She's got bigger pile of kids than I do (much bigger), and one more husband, but we're the same age.  I'm one month and 2 days older.

But it's awesome to be grown up.

My Birthday Party, and Why It Was Awesome

In a word (two words.  Yes, I know), "DOWNTON ABBEY!"

You know what it is.  That PBS surprise hit featuring the Dowager Countess We All Want To Grow Up To Be, Lord Grantham (or He Who Strides), Lady Mary Grantham (Who Went Up The Hill a Bit@h And Came Down Halfway Decent), Bates the Valet (basically a basset hound in valet form), Anna The Maid (the girl we all wish lived in our basement, making our beds and helping us do our hair), and a variety of Turks, Americans, and Scullery Maids.

"But how, Kate?  How does this figure into your party?"
Oh, silly, silly reader.  It was a Downton Abbey Party.

First, I polled the potential attendees.
 "EAU MAH GAH!  I love Downton!  Don't you?"  If they responded, "Where down town specifically?" I mentally put them on the B List.  But those who crooned, "OH, BAAATES!  Love him!  And Matthew?  Such eyyyyyes!" I knew had to be invited.

Second, I had to plan the viands (fancy Downton-speak for food and drink).
I ordered a plethora of petit-fours (those adorable little decorated cakes), procured Mimosa-makings (orange juice and champagne), made a heap of Gougeres (little cheesey puff pastry thingies), and so on.  (OK - also I ordered a few dozen tacos from this COMPLETELY dive-ish place that is fantabulous; I bought 2 boxes of wine and some vodka, a bunch of frozen mini spinach pies, and lots of hummus and veggies).

Third, attire had to be considered.
I made the appropriate headgear.  Fascinators.  Those are little mini hat type things that are attached to headbands.  Mine were feathery (black feathers plus peacock plumes) with sparkly things on little wires, and turquoise, black, and pale blue ribbons.  I HOT GLUED until my fingers looked scary.  But I must say, the headdresses were AMAZING.

Example 1

My daughter, modeling Example 2

Entertainment needed to be arranged. Of course, I planned to show some episodes from D.A.  But how to involve the guests?  A-HA!  Downton Abbey BINGO!  I created BINGO cards for the attendees, and instead of the squares containing numbers (B3! G27!) they contained actions that might occur during an episode. "Dowager Countess verbally smacks someone down," or "Lord Grantham strides into/out of a room."  "Daisy gets yelled at," and "A bell is rung."  Each BINGO card was different, and as we watched the episodes, we'd cross out our squares until we scored a BINGO.  Our prizes were little jeweled hair clips that attached to their headbands.  They were gaudy in the extreme.

The stage was set.  I pulled out all of my finest china (Limoges, naturally), crystal goblet, flutes, and bowls.  I pulled out the beautiful lace-filled linens and silver candlesticks.

Like this, but green instead of blue.

My friends began to arrive, and they chose their feathery headpieces in a flutter, sat on the couches, the floor, the chairs, and poured mimosas and vodka tonics.  We ate Brie, nibbled the endive-wrapped Bleu cheese salad, filled up on Indonesian spicy tofu/shrimp coconut stew.  We laughed and laughed and oohed and ahhed over the Grantham girls' clothes

and we sighed over Bates and Carson and Matthew.

Oh, Mr. Bates. 

And SIGH.  How could Mary have been so stupid for so long?

It should be noted that I have thrown myself big festive birthdays exactly ZERO TIMES before this.  (I have had parties, but never one I planned and executed myself)  It was DELIGHTFULLY fun.  I enjoyed the planning and preparation and shopping nearly as much as I did the event itself.

The moral of the story is that we should sometimes put our money where our mouths are and CELEBRATE ourselves and our friendships.  And Dame Maggie Smith.

Do not forget the Dowager Countess.  Remember what almost    happened at the flower show?  You don't want to mess with her. 

Allie & Friend's Kitchen: A Loose Transcript

Right this minute, my 11 y.o. daughter and her 10 y.o. across-the-street best friend are trying to make cupcakes or muffins or something.  I can hear them from the next room, but can't see them.  BTW: I have NO idea how any of this relates to VAMPIRES.  No idea.

Overheard:
BFF: How are we going to do this?  Can we just make it up?
A: Well, yeah.  But...
BFF: Maybe we can use a recipe?
A: But that's boring.
BFF:  Well, we could just ... let it guide us.
A:  YEAH!  WE can add stuff!

---
BFF: Let's divide it up.  It says "wet" and "dry" ingredients are separate.  You be wet, I'll be dry.
---

BFF:  Ok.  Um.  How much flour?
A: 2 cups?
BFF: You sure?
A.  Uh.  Let me check.  OH.  2 and a half.
BFF: Is that 'two AND a half' or 'two halves'?
A: I think two and a half.  It says .... "two, one slash two." That's two and a half.
BFF: OK

--
 BFF:  Now it says "baking powder." What's that?
A: It's up there.  The round one ... no.  Not that one.  The next one.  Right there... yup.
BFF: How much?
A: I think.... um.  A tablespoon.
BFF? Tablespoon?
A: The big one.
BFF: You sure?  Or is that 'teaspoon'?
A: "T B is tablespoon.  T S P is teaspoon."
BFF: ohhh
---

A: Ok. Butter.
BFF: How much?
A: It says a half stick.  How much is that?
BFF? Well, a half of a stick.
A: But our butter comes in a round thing.
BFF: Hm.  Let's see.  OH!  It says "4 TB" also.
A: Oh.  Ok. Then four tablespoons.
BFF: Just dump it in? OK
A: WAIIIIIT!  It's supposed to be melted!
BFF:  Whoops.  (clinking sound heard)  There.  Took it back out.
(microwave beeping)
A: Careful.  You never touch the bowl when you've heated something like butter.  It's really hot.
BFF: Ok.  (drawer opening heard) Can I use this?
A: Yes.
---
(Beeping of oven temperature being set)
-----
A:  LET'S ADD OUR STUFF TOGETHER!
BFF: YAAAAY!
(much clanging of spoon on bowl heard)
A: GO GO GO GO GO!
BFF: Stir hard to get ALL the lumps out!
(clangclang)
-----

A: what do you wanna add?
BFF: chocolate?
A:  YEAH!  And maybe ... strawberries?
BFF.  Oooh. yeah.
---
 BFF: I wanna use the big, BIG spoon.
A. Here.
---
 A: I, like, got this pan for CHRISTMAS.  It has an anti-stick thing on it so if you spill stuff on it, it just slides off.  It's so awesome.
BFF: (giggles)
---
BFF: (giggle) Allie! You're squeezing the strawberries.  Eeewwww.  Let ME do it now.
A:  HA!  Oh no! Teddy (the dog) is eating something!  NO, TEDDY! Oh dear.  He's eating the butter wrapper.
 ---
BFF: Ok.  I need to wash my hands now to make mine.
A: Ok. Good idea.
BFF: I'm going to add strawberries ON TOP.  To make them attractive.
A: Oh, they're SO ADORABLE!
---
BFF: (clanging of spoon) Oh.  That is SO chocolatey and gooood.
A: Mine don't taste too strawberryish now, but I think they will once they're cooked.
BFF: Oooh!  They're nice! I can taste the cinnamon.
---
A: Oops.  OhhhH!
BFF: How much did you ADD just now?  DON"T STIR IT IN? DON'T!
A: Well.... too late.
BFF: HAHAAAA! Oh, that is PINK! Get your mom to see. HA!
---
(concentrated quiet, with the occasional clang of a spoon on bowl, and the crunching of muffin papers being rearranged)
---
(Beeping of the oven timer being set)
---
BFF: I'm going to do the strawberry ones now.
A: I'll do the chocolate.
BFF: Ok.
---
BFF: We should probably do the dishes.
A:  Mmmmmmph.
---
BFF: I only did one major one.  I mean, one that's completely full.  I wonder how it'll turn out -- probably splat out all over the place.
A: mmHmmm
---
A:  I have an idea!  We'll each use a big big big big pan and use the rest of the batter.
BFF: What kind of pan? Can we use cooking spray?  Do you have spray?
A: MOM!  WHERE'S THE COOKING SPRAY?
---
(spraying sounds heard)
---
(giggling and clanking)
----
BFF: Here, put some of THESE over there.  What did YOU DO, Allie? ALLIE.
A: Ooops.
BFF: Oh, Allie.
---
(many more short sprays heard)
---
A: C'mon batter! Go faster! (tapping sounds heard)
BFF: Maybe we could just.... (clanging sounds)  Hmmm.
A: Oh, LOOK!
BFF: Both of 'em?
A: Yes.
---
(Oven door opening, cautious sliding sounds heard.  Beeping of timer being started)
---
And then?  CLEANING sounds begin. Rumbling of chairs being dragged around, cabinet doors opening and banging closed.
---
BFF: When these are done? You can like, put them on a special tray, but don't put them there yet.  Vampires. You know?
A: Mmmmhmmm.
----
A: WHOA!  Look at YOURS!
BFF: WHOA!  Look at YOURS!  Look at YOUR Neapolitan one!
A:  LOOK at YOUR Neapolitan one!
---
BFF:  ALLIE!  50 seconds left!
A: OH!  OK!
Together: 10! 9! 8! (giggles) 7! 6! 5! 4! 3! 2! 1!

Post Script: 
Muffins were good. A trifle tough, but quite good.  And there were two very proud little girls who made a nice memory of an afternoon off of school.  But I'm still wondering about the vampires.

"But on the Upside..." Bleaching Hair, and Flat Tires

I am a hopeless "on the upside-er."  I can almost always find some obscure positive in a negative (true calamities, unfortunately, make me want to smack myself with the horrifying positives I find.).

Example 1:
Today, I'm giving myself highlights in my hair.  It's with one of those caps that you pull the strands through.  I got it all set up, pulled through, and so on, and got the gloves on.  (Rather I put on ONE glove.  I never seem to put on both at once.)
Then I mixed the little envelope of highlight powder (read: Clorox, I think), mixed it with the little bottle of activator, and added in the little squeezy tube of "hair protector," which is probably just glue.

Mixmixmix.  Spread it all on my hair (the stuff sticking out of the cap).  THEN.  Then? I happened to glance over on the counter.  THERE WAS ANOTHER PACKET OF BLEACH POWDER.

Whoops.
So I added a few drops of water to the bottle of activator and shook it to death, and poured the leftovers into the little mixing bowl thingy, and squoze the little tube to get any remaining driplets of that out, and added the extra packet of powder.  Stirstirstir.  Swear to self. Stir.
Then, with the OTHER glove, grab random handsful of the mixture, which is suspiciously doughy and dry, and smear it into and (hopefully) let it meld with the OTHER gloop on my hair.

As I stood there in the bathroom, willing my hair to not turn orange and/or fall out, I thought, "Well, on the upside, I have TONS of hair.  If it all falls out, my hair will be so much less DENSE and will dry faster!"

------------------------
Example 2:
  Child #1 was in 1st grade, and Child #2 was in preschool.  Got Allie to the bus for school, and took Simon to preschool.  Dr. Smartypantz took the minivan to the airport to go to Iceland for a conference. It's January in Michigan.
Got back home, did things around the house.  All is well!
Looked up, and realized that it's time to go get Simon from preschool, 5 miles away.
Car will not start.
January.
New to town.  Know no one.
Too late to call a cab.

Do I panic?  NO!  I figure, call Allie's school.  Inform them of my issue, and ask the wonderful teacher who lives down the street to please keep Allie with her, and then drive her home and keep her until I arrive back home.  Sure, no problem.

THEN.  Call the preschool.  Inform them of the quandry.  Ask if Simon can stick around with them for 20 minutes or so while I make my way over there.  Sure, no problem.

Go to garage.  Get out wrench to attach bike-trailer to 10-speed.  Throw a few blankets in the trailer, since it's roughly 0 degrees F out.  Child chills easily. Add one more blanket.

Get on bike to ride over to the preschool 5 miles away.  Tire.  Is flat.  PANIC? NO!!
Walk/run bike and trailer over to the gas station 1/2 mile away (on the way to the preschool, thankfully), and try to get air.
Did not bring purse.  Need quarter.  Panic?  NO!  Search ground for dropped coin, when the gas station attendant takes pity and manually turns on the air for me.  WOOT!
Fill tire.
Ride bike to preschool.  Forgot gloves.
Panic?  NO!
Sweater sleeves, when pulled down far enough, can be like mittens.
Did not realize it was actually uphill for much of the drive.

Preschool calls cell.  "Where are you?"
"I'm (puffpuffpuff) ON THE WAY!"

Child sounds worried in background.

Get nearly to preschool, when Teacher Down the Street calls.  "I'll come there and pick you up.  It's insane for you to be riding a bike in this weather. And it's going to start snowing any time."
YAAAY for Teacher Down the Street!

Get to preschool.  Realize I've sweated entirely through the back of my thick down-filled jacket.  Ew.  It's all wet now.
Simon is fine, but disappointed that he doesn't get to ride in the trailer in the snow.

Teacher gets there.  We realize that the bike/trailer will not fit in her car.
Panic? NO!

I leave the bike and trailer inside the school entrance, willing to take my chances.  Leave a "please don't steal my bike, since it would really make a bad day worse" sign on the bike.

Look down.  Realize that bike tire is flat again.

Go home.  Call garage and ask them to come tow the car.  Pour a drink.


"But on the upside, IT COULD HAVE RAINED!"

[Edit: My darling brother pointed out that this makes me look rather Pollyanna-ish.  And it's true.  Until you read my NEXT post (which hasn't been written yet) about the evil OTHER side of this phenomenon.]

BFF

Here I sit, comfortably, in my living room.  My best friend in the entire world is in pain right now.  Her knees are killing her.  She's been forced to go off the very meds that would help.  Why, you ask? Because she is getting the aforementioned knees replaced in a week from tomorrow.

She has Rheumatoid Arthritis, and has had it for nearly 30 years.  She didn't deserve it.  Not at all.  She was gorgeous, young, funny, sweet, and snarky. She is all of these still, just older. (just a bit)

This is my sister.  She and I have been best friends for -- well, forever.  I don't know if she knows that she is my best friend. She's the person I call when I'm happy, and the person I call when I am sad.  She's the person I ask for advice when I am arguing with a friend, and the one I think of when I am so mad I could throw things.  She's a calming influence, a stimulating conversationalist, and a loving big sister. 

But really?  She's my bestest friend in the entire world.  [Note: My mom is also my bestest momfriend, but she's my mom, and that's a whole other category.]

I'm dying of anxiety because she is going to get surgery.  Again.  My best friend is gonna hurt.  More.  Again.  God.  I don't hurt anywhere, in any significant way.  How is this the least bit fair?  I just hope like hell the doctors do a spectacular job, and maybe give her a complimentary boob job while they are in there.  (Her boobs are perfect, but honestly, shouldn't you get some kind of frequent-flier miles for surgeries?)

Gah. 
If you're a praying/meditating/juju-sending kind of person, please send some towards the Southwest USA on Wednesday of next week.  And maybe juju for a pro-bono boob job or something.

Where IS Everybody?

I am a devout fan of a few blogs, including Rants From Mommyland and Derfwad Manor.  The ladies who write there are impeccably, fantastically wonderful, and the commenters ("ranters" and "derfs," respectively) are supportive, funny, articulate, and loyal. 

I find myself wondering, "where ARE all these amazing women, and when can I have a few of them over for coffee?"
This thought is reflected in the comments too, because so very many comments say "I wish you lived near me!  We'd be besties!"

It occurred to me;  these ladies ARE near me.  They are sitting at home or at work, reading the blog, commenting.  I pass them in the grocery store or at the intersection.  I go to PTA meetings (ok - no, I don't, but SOMEONE does) with them.  I listen to them on the radio and tip them at the restaurant.  They have their children come take lessons from me, they teach my kids.

We're all just too shy to talk to each other.  I honestly wish we could all get bracelets or pins or something, identifying each other as Us.  But writing takes thought (if done well).  Our everyday conversations are usually so distracted, so information-driven (so, what time is that appointment? did you want regular or decaf? what was my kid's grade?) that we don't spend any time on personal development between us. 

I wonder how to do this.  I want to be REAL friends with my pharmacist, with my kid's 2nd grade teacher, with that one woman I see walking her dog.  Would they find me weird to approach them?

Is it any wonder that we feel alone?  That we find our best companions in the ether of chatrooms?  That is one of the few times when we can stop asking questions, stop making arrangements, stop doing for others, and just talk.  Talk like we did at summer camp when we were ten.  Share secrets, make up nicknames, get girl-crushes, gossip, laugh, cry.

I think "we" are out there.  Right under our collective noses.  We need a secret code.