On Mopping

I don't mop my floors regularly.

There it is.

I do clean house regularly. I dust and I lint-brush the furniture regularly. I wipe the windowsills and the blades of the ceiling fan, regularly. I sweep the floors almost every day, and I clean the kitchen floors regularly. But I don't mop the wood floors in the living room and dining room except rarely. We certainly have had guests for dinner without me having mopped the floors.

My mother-in-law regaled me once with stories of how she labored over her first home as a newlywed, including the daily scrubbing and polishing of her hardwood floors. You have got to be kidding me, I thought to myself. Aloud I said, "Good thing cleaning products have come so far since then."

Today I mopped my floors. It was fun - the poorly kept secret to housekeeping is music. Having cleared out the furniture in order to mop, there was lots of space for dancing.

Hurrah! Clean floors!

Then I thought about the Quick Shine floor polish that Mom swears by and had given me last year and I still hadn't used. I had felt bad about not using it, but my bad feelings didn't help the floors, which had gotten pretty dull and, in fact, gray on the well-worn paths used by Chaco and the rest of us (mostly Chaco). My newly mopped floors were clean, but they weren't shiny. They weren't glowing that warm, butter yellow that they glowed four years ago when we moved in.

We keep it pretty non-toxic at home, and that hasn't happened by accident. It takes a good amount of intention to use exclusively natural, chemical-free cleaning products (e.g., dish soap, laundry soap, etc) and personal care products (e.g., shampoo, hair care products, etc.). I read labels like a fiend. I make the simplest products myself, at home, and they've all got real short lists of ingredients. As a result, I've got a heightened sensitivity to chemical fumes and synthetic fragrances -- both a physical sensitivity, and an intellectual one, as in, I've committed to running non-toxic and I can tell you're not that.

So it's unusual that I wouldn't look at the contents list on the Quick Shine bottle. But I didn't. I banished the dog to the yard, and opened some windows, but I didn't look at the contents list before I applied a coat. (This is sounding like a setup, but the story doesn't end badly.)

Initial results? Lovely. In the hardest-worn areas, though, the floor still looked a little parched. I dobbed on another coat, as per instructions. Even lovelier. We'll see how it dries, said my inner skeptic. Any floor looks good wet, even if you're just using vinegar and water.

So there I was, appreciating the second coat in the living room, but as it dried, I was seeing...not streaks, but marks. There clearly were marks, such that even a lackadaisical homemaker like me would find herself thinking, that floor looks like it needs to be buffed.

Buffed! I was unhappy with this thought, because it made me think I would need a buffing machine. Isn't that how you buff a floor? I forget where, but I've met a buffing machine before, and it was there to buff the floors.

At this point, I was getting upset, because I don't where to secure a buffing machine rental, and Quick Shine is not a good cleaning product, if it requires heavy machinery to finish the job. People don't have buffing machines at home. That's not just my personal failing. And what's my alternative, getting down on my hands and knees with a shammy? My mind balked at the image.

And then I remembered I was wearing socks.

Conveniently, that's when Wham! came on the stereo, talking about "Everything She Wants".

I buffed that floor. I gave it one song, and was inventively thorough about it.

Afterwards, even the formerly worn and gray spots achieved a nice kind of patina, like "I'm not worn, I'm seasoned." It was like an eyebrow wax for the floors - not too much had changed, really, but the overall appearance was vastly improved. I credit the Quick Shine, not my buff job, but I think my buff job took it over the top.

Now I can admire the colored lights twinkling on the Christmas tree and in their own reflection on my shiny-ass floors. Looks like holiday cheer.

The Last Brunch

Handsome and I made a point of going out to brunch today, having realized a little belatedly that this is the last weekend of the year 2009, and thus the last opportunity for weekend brunch in 2009.

We've been dining in a lot recently, cooking at home much more frequently than was typical at the beginning of 2009. I'm happy to report that they've been mostly tasty and presentable, these kitchen-based efforts of mine. I feel a sense of accomplishment about that, having wanted for years to improve my skills in that direction.

But my attempts to make a good home-based brunch are more than skill-oriented. I'm learning to make brunch out of an abstract, reactionary belligerence.

Why aren't there more options for delicious, casual, bruncheon dining out in central Denver? (I just made up that word. "Bruncheon". Or maybe I'm bringing it back. Like how your grandma called lunch "luncheon".)

Even on the weekend, I don't feel like driving out to Lakewood or Boulder for a quality casual brunch. Especially when I live in what I consider to be the city center, the heart of the metropolitan area. That not just geographical snobbery, or hometown pride. It's population numbers and demographics. We should be able to produce a better-than-just-decent brunch here. There should be a whole set of options for delicious brunch in Denver.

Instead, I go to places, even places that have come highly recommended, and I think, "Well, shit. I could've done better than this at home." That is not how I like to feel at the end of a meal I'm paying for. I don't burn the potatoes. I don't cram people into my dining room. I don't overly sweeten and salten and fatten my cooking to make up for what I might be lacking in skill or the food might be lacking in freshness.

Offhand, I can think of three restaurants in town that originally seemed promising but ultimately just didn't deliver.

And Denver patrons piss me off, because each one of the restaurants that come to mind as disappointments is still open, and at each one of them, there will be a wait for a table every Saturday at noon. I mean a wait with a line out the door.

Make that four restaurants.

I drive by this one restaurant, with its line of patrons that have agreed to wait outside for mediocre brunch in an hour, and I want to heckle them. "Too bad you can't fry eggs at home..."

For real.

So, basically, my at-home brunch is an act of resistance.

Yes, in my imaginary world where it's me against the tyranny of bad food, I'm taking action.

Anyway, it takes something special to lure me out for brunch these days - the company of a good girlfriend, an outrageously good review, a compelling proximity to my house.

Or the reliability of what's tried and true.

Enter Le Central, where the host greets Handsome by name, and we're willing to wait a few minutes for an intimate, wobbly two-top on the invariably sunny patio. You can go in heels, you can go in jeans, you can go with the whole fam damily, you can go a little hungover. The prices are affordable without feeling cheap. The food is consistent without feeling routine. The vibe is casual without being grungy. The ambience is evocatively francais without being intimidating.

Le Central was the obvious choice for brunch today. It's lovely to linger over a meal, sharing bites and munching on crusty bread. As a fan of noontime drinking le weekend, I always appreciate the arrival of my white wine flight, four petite glasses of monochromatic three-ounce selections from the wine list. We tend to stay a while. Today, two different parties were seated, ate lunch, and departed while Handsome and I and several other tables sipped and nibbled. They don't get it, I thought to myself.

I have aggressive at-home cooking goals for 2010, or I should say, aggressive goals for culinary skill-building. I'm really excited about learning more and getting better. I've been enjoying poring over cookbooks, organizing recipe files, and conducting internet research. I've been watching more cooking shows and talking food with a wider variety of people. I love it when dinner tastes amazing and looks attractive and my guests take pleasure in eating with us.

I also love a place that makes me feel glad I chose to eat out.

Happy Last Brunch of 2009! Hope you chose it well!

Happy Winter Dreams

We just got back from the sweetest late nite neighborhood walk with the hound.

Ours isn't usually the neighborhood for late nite walks, being kind of sketchy and Colfax-proximate. But it's a gloriously bright pink glowing night tonite, with the overcast sky and six sparkly, twinkling, untouched inches of snow on the ground. We took Badgin off the leash -- yeah! I know! -- and he left broad, cheerful tracks in the snow, while he looked back regularly to see, You still there? Is this okay?

It was totally okay - nary a car, nor man, nor beast to be seen. The snow twinkled, and the sky glowed, and the pounch scampered. My nose froze.

It was a damn cold night.

It was especially cold earlier, when we were caroling amidst blowing snow and dropping temps. But at every occupied home, the residents opened their doors, and gathered their children to hear us, and clapped, wishing us well, when we had finished our songs. One fellow applauded us and then played us a carol on his steel drum set! (No, seriously. It Came Upon A Midnight Clear.)

I love that crew - my dad, and my dear friends, and the rest of this group of singers, and sons of singers, and friends of singers, and folks of good cheer. Thank goodness we maintain a holiday caroling tradition. What would my Christmas season be without it? "I just love singing with other people," said my beloved L tonite.

Me too.

A lovely black man is president, and a glee club has its own hit tv show.

It's possible that I'm asleep, these are such sweet and funny dreams come true.

Last night I dreamt that a friend and I were dancing on a bar, and as regards our hosts I was thinking, "Well, they really must have expected that this was going to happen when they invited us...", and not regretting a thing.

This Week's Soup: Spicy-Sweet Apple Wine Soup

A special selection for the holidays.

Wednesdays, I mostly come home from Soup Group smelling like sauteed onions. Last Wednesday, when we made the wine soup, I came home smelling of Christmas: cloves and cinnamon and honey and burgundy wine. It was a delightfully aromatic cooking experience.

The soup freezer is full, and Soup Group is on hiatus until January, freeing up us volunteers to handle our Christmas preparations and bask in the enjoyment of the holidays. Personally, I'm going to be spending time making gifts and enjoying company and, apparently, recovering from excessive revelry. Ah, the holidays.

Frere had a birthday party last night and it impacted my morning today, if you feel me. Turns out I'm not a grown up, as evidenced by my inability to refuse a drink. Foolish girl.

Nice party, though. I never know what to expect with Frere. Or, rather, what I expect from Frere, frankly, is to embarrass me. All too often, I'm right on the money: The house will be messy, from clutter, or neglect, or any one of a number of home improvement projects left unfinished. The food will not be ready until hours after the invite time, even for a dinner party planned days in advance. Worst of all, Frere will make mean commentary about me, or give me backhanded compliments in front of his friends.

So why go?

I'll do you one better at the end of 2009: Why include him as a part of my life at all? He is incredibly narcissistic, he stresses and exploits my parents, he has a hands-off parenting style that is truly disturbing sometimes. He makes epic bad decisions, monumental both in scale and in impact. He is nimble and swift like a ninja when it comes to avoiding accountability for his personal failings. He's kind of a jerk.

There is a long list of my complaints with Frere, beginning, maybe, with the time he tried to drown me in a water fountain at age 3, and spanning thirty years' worth of bullshit at varying levels, including an extremely rude interaction he had with The Handsome Man just last month (since which time I've been avoiding him).

But he's mon frere. He's my brother. And no matter what proclamation I might make in anger about excising him from my heart like a malignant tumor, it's just not possible.

Not because of my exhaustive love for his three perfect daughters, who give my life a whole other beautiful dimension than I would have known to ask for or miss in their absence.

Not because of the way my mom worries after the relationship between her only two children, and her heartache when she knows Frere and I are not getting along.

Not even because of the fact that Frere wants me in his life and, in his own way, values and likes me.

No. Those are all good reasons, I guess, but the thing that really keeps me in his life, or keeps me keeping him in my life, is that he's there regardless. As A described it so perfectly, "You keep bumping into him in your head." Yes.

And then there's the likelihood that one day, he will be all that remains and all that I'll have of my natal nuclear family. That was a happy place for me, a safe place, and a very specific place. My growing-up experience feels to me intimately unique, like nobody else could ever understand it. (Ironically, I think everybody feels that way about their growing-up experience.) It's where I first felt like I made sense. My family was a context that didn't just surround me, it explained me, it was part of what made me who I am.

Frere's my older brother - he was there for all of it. He understands. The tv shows we watched, the rules we flouted, the songs we sang, the tricks we played, the fears we shared, the fevers we endured. When I'm talking about my childhood and I say "We..." (as in "We loved that place!" or "We hated that guy!") I'm referring to "me and Frere".

And because Frere's my older brother, he was also the bossa me. I didn't eat cheeseburgers until I was 10 years old because Frere told me they were nasty...and that was sufficient recon for me - I didn't in all that time feel the need to try one for myself.

Our views and choices and even our recollection and framing of past shared events differ dramatically now, but...

There is no me without him. That's just a fact.

I had a good time at Frere's party. And when his friends toasted his best aspects, I was happy to raise my glass.

Last Friday

Last Friday night ended pretty well, but it started perfectly:

Generously poured wine and
an array of delicious hors d’oeuvres
munched standing
while visiting with old friends and comrades
in the spacious, well-appointed kitchen
of the big, pretty home where I’m welcome like family.

First you feel silly for even considering not coming.
Then you just feel good, and at home, and well cared for -
- Why yes, thank you, I think I will have another.
Then you feel your whole stupid week melt away
and you remember:
This is a celebration.

Among other things, we were celebrating the Denver premiere of William Kunstler: Disturbing the Universe, an excellent independent film made by family of friends of my friends, and showing through this weekend at Starz Film Centre here. One of the filmmakers was at our little pre-party, yukking it up with me, The Handsome Man and my buddy KC about dive bars, bad jokes and New York City. (Well, me and KC were yukking it up, anyway. The director, like Handsome, was actually pretty reserved.)

Within our little crew, the plan was to go see the film where it was premiering at Chez Artiste Theatre, stay for the Q&A with the filmmaker and her sister, and then hit the town to celebrate KC’s birthday.

The movie was fantastic, and I’ve recommended it highly to everybody I know. If you don’t recall, Kunstler was an important civil rights attorney, famous for defending high-profile cases. He was also a dad, though, and the film does a really sensitive and touching job of documenting Kunstler’s accomplishments while exploring what it meant to be his offspring.

A note to any filmmakers: Denver will apparently get all up in your business during a talkback. I was surprised by how bluntly personal were some of the questions to the young auteur, but she handled herself adeptly enough.

I had a personal question, too, but I didn’t ask it. I thought it was overly personal, maybe off topic, and I didn’t know quite how to put it. A recurring theme in the movie was the daughters’ sense of difference from their father - sometimes wonder, sometimes disapproval, sometimes criticism. I wanted to know, What are the moments when you have felt most strongly or inescapably, “I am William Kunstler’s daughter.” I also wanted to know if there were any parts of the movie that she or the other sister present thought their dad wouldn’t agree with their telling of.

Mostly though, I just wanted to applaud her for making such a powerful tribute to her father. A film of this scope is no small project. The making of it must have been rife with challenging moments of analysis and introspection. And now the results stand as a work of art, apart now from either of them, as a record of a man’s achievements and of his daughters’ love for him. Whatever unresolved feelings the filmmakers might profess for their father, this film represents an incredible labor of love, and that’s kind of painfully beautiful to me. Really moving. I want to clap right now thinking about it. Good show.

And then it was time for partying! Handsome graciously was serving as designated driver, so the birthday girl had ridden with us, and the world was our oyster. Being KC, she declared she wanted to end the night at JJ’s Nightclub on East Colfax.

JJ’s is the preferred spot among local, retirement age African-Americans who enjoy a little R&B and dancing with with their well-priced Seven and Sevens. Perfectly harmless, but an unlikely choice for most Denver white girls turning 36. JJ’s is about one mile from my house, and I like it alright, as I’m both African-American and inclined to dance, and did I mention it’s a mile from my house. Handsome likes it alright because he doesn’t like to pay more than $3 for a beer, and he is not opposed to dancing, and internally he is a 60-year old man. KC likes it a lot because she’s just that cosmopolitan and gets along with everybody. Plus, to KC, your small-minded comfort zone is your problem, not hers. And at the end of the day, JJ’s is low-key, plays good music and doesn’t have anything poppin off when you’re just trying to get your drink and/or dance on. What’s not to like?

At the same time, we were rolling that night with a white foursome comprised of KC’s two female coworkers and their fellas (one boyfriend, one husband). One of the couples lives in the straight-up suburbs. I know many a resident of metropolitan Denver is frightened at just the mention of East Colfax, Denver's historic avenue infamous for prostitution, crime and the urban poor. You add the promise of liquor to the equation, and guarantee a majority of black folks, and some of your friends are going to be frantic for a way to politely decline.

“You call the shots, dude,” I told KC. “You’re the birthday girl.” However, I suggested, we might want to ease her friends into the idea of JJ’s. Maybe talk it up while we start off at some place a little more familiar.

But when we took it to the full group, between the aged and the married and the aged married, we couldn’t think of a single “familiar” place we were excited about going to. (With no restrictions. On a Friday night. It was a little sad.) JJ’s almost won by default right then, but instead we decided to go to The Funky Buddha Lounge on Lincoln Ave.

I hadn't ever been there before. Or if I had been, it was with those hard-drinking friends I used to lose evenings with, and as of last Friday, I didn’t have any recollection of it. I’ll say this about the place: the more I drank, the more I enjoyed it.

That's not an endorsement.

It got points for having a comfy seven-person booth near the bar, and I liked the idea of a heated rooftop patio for dancing. (Right?) But the music they were playing wasn’t great, and the crowd was a little young and naked and heavily-fragranced for my tastes. And the drinks were not cheap. For the purposes of boozing, I appreciate cheap drinks.

So, once we’d gotten a little liquor into everybody, we hopped back in the car and Handsome drove us east in The Black Ru to JJ’s.

By this point, I was liking our extended crew aplenty. Wry girl from last month’s art walk, bet. Funny girl laughing at all my jokes, bet. Husky-voiced boyfriend who proclaimed early, “Everybody is racist, there’s no point denying it,” awesome. Mild-mannered husband who was nonetheless relentlessly game, great.

We got to JJ’s, and it was hopping! Classic R&B pumping from the sound system, DJ on hand for requests. A bar loaded with middle-aged ladies and gentlemen enjoying a cocktail. Tables with well-dressed couples, talking closely. At least one table of neatly pressed granddads playing some board game or card game. A dance floor crowded with thick-waisted, graying-haired enthusiasts.

There was a long, empty table situated conveniently between the bar, the dj and the dance pavilion, just waiting for us. Joe went and bought a round of drinks - which you can do casually, even on a budget, at JJ’s. KC cornered the DJ and started laying out playlists. I watched everybody else -- our suburban friends as well as the patrons who were there when we arrived -- try not to stare openly at "the other".

Then, like magic or an injection, everybody relaxed. Those folks went back to what they had been doing before - dancing, drinking talking - and we went back to what we’d been doing before - dancing, drinking, talking. Then, after a little while, we started doing it together. The whole bar seemed to like KC’s selection of songs, and a bunch of us thronged the dance floor as one. Even the mild-mannered husband who supposedly “doesn’t dance” was up on the floor and clearly enjoying himself. His wife was dancing with two ladies and a man we didn’t know.

I chatted up the barmaid (who said she liked my hair, which was my hair, and “down”). I introduced myself to a lady who looked familiar and turned out to be my old Sunday School teacher from Holy Redeemer! (Denver.) Together, she and I got up on the dance floor and did some group dance I don’t know and had never heard of, but yep, danced to regardless. I made friends with the DJ, a powerful presence of a sista, who might have been wearing a yellow turban and matching long robes, but maybe I’m misremembering.

Damn, we had a good time!

I completely didn’t notice when a message came over the sound system saying that a blue Subaru parked in the lot had been hit by another patron’s car. And I hardly cared when it turned out that it was a black Subaru that had been hit, and, uh, ours. Like the good men they are, Handsome and the cap-wearing boyfriend went out to deal with it. Like the good folks they are, the owner and the bouncer at the club had witnessed it all, and the departing patron had stopped and waited to give her insurance to us. Handsome and the dutiful boyfriend collected the driver’s information, with the owner and bouncer offering helpful suggestions.

I did my part, too: I told the DJ that ours was the car that had been hit (the DJ made some sympathetic noises), and asked if she would please play my husband’s favorite jam when he got back in, but please to wait until he returned, because right now he was outside dealing with the car, and if he heard his song happening inside, it would just add insult to injury. She agreed to help me out.

“You two make a beautiful couple,” she told me. As I thanked her, she leaned in closer, to confide, “I like white guys, too.”

Surprised, and then tickled, I didn’t bother to inform her that The Handsome Man is Latino.

Handsome returned shortly, pleased that the damage was not major and the incident had all been handled in such a civilized fashion. (The last time our parked car was hit, in the parking lot of Whole Foods, the perpetrator denied he was responsible, then lied to his insurance company saying that we had hit him, which was totally preposterous and contradictory to eyewitness testimony and videotape evidence. It worked out eventually to our satisfaction, but was very disappointing vis a vis our faith in humankind.)

Just as soon as Handsome had finished briefing me, the opening strains of his song came over the system.

“You wanna dance about it?” I quipped, taking his hand and leading him to the floor.

“Did you request this song?” he asked me with a smile.

“What do you think?” I asked coyly.

The night was getting late, and the dance floor was nearly empty. We danced together, while I serenaded him and he serenaded me. I could see the tension melting off of his face and his shoulders. The DJ’s voice came on and called us out by name: “...this one’s for you!” Oh, how Handsome grinned at me!

There were only a couple more dances before the bar was closing and the night was over. We thanked our fine hosts on the way out, hugged our new friends goodbye in the parking lot, and drove home a happy, tipsy KC.

On the way back to our house, as is my wont, I gabbed to Handsome about our night -- the pre-party, the movie, the filmmaker, the coworkers, their husbands, the bar, the nightclub, our smashed car door, KC, getting older. Then, spent and satisfied, I sat back and smiled to myself. Something “bad” had happened to us, something that certainly could have derailed our good time for the night. But to the extent that it even registered in the context of our fun time, secure world and blessed lives, what did we do?

We danced through it.

I have a funny inkling of a hope that it is within me to feel that powerful all the time.

Last Thursday

Praise Jesus, my computer has been returned, fully functioning, to me!

Tomorrow I will be distressed by how adrift I became when the computer went defunct. That is evidence of a kind of dependency that’s alarming, really. Tonight, though, I’m just happy it’s back!

My recipes and menus in MacJournal, returned to me. My calendar in large view, returned to me. My journals, returned to me. My 17-inch screen, returned to me. My internet bookmarks and cookies and setup, returned to me. I've gathered a glass of mineral tea, my warmest robe, a blanket, and three cookbooks, and headed to the easy chair. In the golden light of the lamp, I feel like I’ve stumbled across an oasis.

Time to get you all caught up.

Last Thursday, I went to the dentist, which was unremarkable in the usual, wonderful ways. I like to just space out and do what I’m told for a thirty-minute stretch. I adore the feeling afterwards of glossy clean teeth. And I get a kick out of the way the dental staff admiringly talk amongst themselves about my x-rays. I don’t have perfect teeth, but I have extremely good un-doctored teeth, great teeth for having had no work done (this is known as “good genes” in some offices). Ironically, dental professionals appear to get off on the lack of intervention in my mouth, and they’ll call over their colleagues, so they too can have a look and a wistful murmur about my ideal spacing, my lack of cavities. I take some pleasure in this, I’ll admit.

All the usual good stuff happened at last Thursday’s check-up, but there was one wrinkle that was unusual: I wore a wig. Specifically, I wore the black, pixie-cut wig that I’ve had for about twenty-five years, having stolen it as a child from the collection of Mom, who had owned it since the sixties, when ladies apparently just rolled like that. It is my favorite (of my two) wigs, and it is the preferred short-hair wig. (That’s a joke - I have only the one short-hair wig.) It is also the more realistic-looking of my two wigs.

I felt very cute when I entered the dental office and greeted the receptionists. I felt fine as I introduced myself to the new hygienist who’d be cleaning my teeth. I started to feel a little funny as I thought about how very close and well-lit this hygienist’s experience of my head was about to be, and wondered if she’d be able to see the netting of my ratty old headpiece. I decided that if she did notice, she’d be a lady about it, and I comforted myself that I had nothing to worry about. About the hygienist’s discretion, I was right: if she noticed anything especially yak-hair about my wig, she said nothing.

Then entered the dentist proper. And immediately she exclaimed, “Oh what a cute haircut!”

If she had said, “Your hair looks so cute,” I wouldn’t have perceived there to be a moral quandry. It’s my wig, and it does look cute. That’s all accurate.

But she inferred haircut. It’s not a haircut. It’s a wig.

I wanted to own up to the wig, I did want to. I really wouldn’t have minded coming clean to just the dentist and the hygenist. But this dental office is like a hair salon: a row of chairs in one semi-open room. Even though probably no one was paying attention, I felt too self-conscious to announce to the whole room that I was wearing auxiliary hair.

I muttered something noncommittal like, “Oh, well, not really, thanks, though...” hoping she’d drop it.

But no. She went on, “It’s a big change, isn’t it? Your hair was pretty long.”

She gets points for accuracy in observation. I’m in there twice a year, tops, and I hardly ever wear my hair “down” for something like a dental check-up, plus my kinky-curly hair doesn’t read as “long” to most straight-haired people like herself even when it is “down”. So, good on you, Sherlock. I honestly had not thought anyone in that office would notice.

In the end, I didn’t confess. I just muttered some more, and blushed, and was awkward until she finished with me and I left.

I intend to wear wigs more often, I think. But if part of the fun for me is going from one look to another with reckless abandon, I’m going to have to craft some responses for occasions like these. I could be funny, I could be ridiculous, I could be mysterious, I could be forthright, I could be evasive. But I don’t want to walk away feeling dishonest.

It makes the wig self-conscious.

The Best Part

Did I mention that my niece X demolished the Casa Bonita donkey pinata in just two swipes? A whole crowd of children waiting to get their three hits each, and X takes out the thing on her second try.

A proud moment for the family.

This Week's Soup: Indian Green Pea with Coconut Milk

Gobs of green peas double-pureed with potatoes, onions, veggie stock, coconut milk, ginger, green chiles, coriander, roasted cumin, cilantro, lemon juice...

It was a pain in the ass to make. But the vegetarian raved about it, so maybe we got some payoff.

Tonight the family celebrated my niece X’s 9th birthday at...wait for it...Casa Bonita! (At least it wasn’t Chuck E. Cheese.)

Frere and I regularly hosted our birthday parties at Casa Bonita when we were small (through, like, 1985 when Celebrity Sports Center and its sweet-ass water slides became the venue of choice). For all the years we held our “Destination: Casa Bonita” parties, Frere and I and all our little friends thought it was great and so much fun.

Frere’s children are just as enamored of Casa Bonita as Frere and I were as kids, so I’ve been back a few times as an adult. My niece Fine, who is now 14, had birthday parties there as a kidlet. I’ve gone with out-of-town guests who come thinking it’s something they want to see (they are frequently disappointed, though it’s a disappointment you can laugh through).

On the whole, Casa Bonita is remarkably unchanged from 25 years ago: the strolling mariachi band, the waiter-summoning flags on the tables, the terrible food, the cowboy cliff divers, the rampaging gorilla, who gave me a thrill tonight as he dashed past me and Handsome on the bridge.

Nowadays, I don’t really dig on skee ball. (I totally used to.) A glow-in-the-dark necklace doesn’t make my week. (It totally used to.) And the joint is located in a strip mall, people. It’s impossibly gaudy. The food has always been bad beyond belief.

But the kids were gleeful and adventurous, and even Handsome and I giggled our way through Black Bart’s cave before we left.

Plus, we scored the pink party pavilion at the top of the ramp -- remember the ramps? -- all to ourselves.

Pretty sweet.


Daddo enjoying the festivities
Photo credit: The Preferred Daughter

Interview

Ooooh, Handsome got an interview for the job in Pueblo.

And now we’re all aflutter - Would we really move? Would we sell our house? Would we leave our families - COULD we? Would we plan to STAY in Pueblo? What about if/when we have kids?

Gee.

Handsome and I like some restaurants in Pueblo. We enjoy the Colorado State Fair. There are some lovely residential districts.

But it’s an acknowledged fact that part of what we enjoy about Pueblo is the drive down and back. I am always glad to come home.

Pueblo.

Unthinkable to certain Past Crystals. A full range of versions of me would have dismissed the idea out of hand. And even now, an alarmed inner voice is asking, What about arts & culture? What about Black people? What about choice in health care? Do they have any of that in Pueblo?

Handsome and I tend to like the people we meet in Denver who come from Pueblo. Chaco is from Pueblo. We could totally reinvent ourselves in Pueblo.

But how can we even be considering leaving our friends? My dear Mae? Our sweet-ass neighbors? Soup Group? How did leaving town get put on the table?

Well, it’s on the table because this town is starting to feel like a cage to me. Denver is such a known quantity at this point. I grew up here, feeling stifled and wanting different. My nuclear family lives here, my extended family lives here, Joe’s family lives here. My whole professional career has been conducted here. There’s so much duty and obligation and decorum -- and I am somebody who loves duty and obligation and decorum. I am a firm believer in duty and obligation and decorum.

But sometimes I just want to scream. I want to be somebody completely different than I am today and have everybody believe it. Or I want to be left entirely alone and have nobody feel slighted. I want to believe that life will be more tomorrow than it was yesterday, and that I’ll be able to achieve at least some of my dreams that look so distant and unlikely right now.

I feel like if we stay in Denver now, things will just remain the same, forever maybe, and that would suck, in a word. I’m craving major change. Change has been sounding like liberation to me for some time now. And I don’t want to cut off all my hair again.

(I might start wearing wigs, though. And while Denver might would have an opinion about that, nobody in Pueblo gives a shit about me! I could so rock the panoply of wigs in Pueblo!)

This feels a little childish, a little adolescent. Maybe that's because the last time I thought Denver was my problem, I was an adolescent. Maybe it's because I think wigs are part of the solution.

Ugh. If Denver was my husband, it would be time for us to have a heart-to-heart and try to rediscover that spark we once had. Because this relationship is on the rocks.

And it’s just that I’m taking Denver for granted is all, really. I just called it “a known quantity”, for goodness sake. I’m Denver’s dissatisfied wife with a wandering eye, but that’s not poor Denver’s fault. Denver is wishing we’d take salsa lessons together, or start a volunteer project, or vacation in the mountains, get to know one another again. Me and my reclusive ways have barely scratched the surface of what Denver has to offer, but I know enough to have a sense of some of the cool shit I’m not doing. It’s a great city, a peerless city, and so much better-suited to my wants and needs than the small-town version I grew up in. I’m being an asshole.

I’m just going through some things.

It’s not you, Denver. It’s me.

But here’s how Denver isn't like a husband: I can leave and come back.

Denver and I maybe need to go on a break.

Can we DO that?

Pueblo.


At the Colorado State Fair in Pueblo, 2009
Photo credit: The Handsome Man

Badass Jackson

This week, I've been really happy for my friend who finally got over her commitment issues and bought a house, and I'm so glad she decided to do it here in our hometown.

You know you're happy for someone when you feel enthusiastic about helping them move.

Ouch, Ouch, Ouch

I fell down the stairs last night.

Those would be the steep wooden stairs that lead down to the cement floor of the basement.

It was my own fault. They are treacherous stairs - “The Stairs of Death!” was how Handsome and I described them to the bunnies when we moved in. (“The Stairs of Caution!” was our amended nomenclature after the bunnies became overly wary and were reluctant to go to the basement.) We drilled the rules of stair-safety into them:

Always hold on to a rail when using the stairs.
Always go down the stairs one by one.
No rushing on the stairs.
No rough-housing on the stairs.

Last night, I was carrying my laptop, and balanced on top of that, a basket containing two cell phones and an ipod. Both of my hands were full.

Before I started down the stairs, I leaned left to try to turn on the light by nudging it with the basket perched atop my computer. The next thing I knew, my foot had landed wrong and I was falling.

For a split second, I tried to hold on to my computer. I was at the top of the stairs, after all. And between the wood of the stairs and the cement of the floor below, there wasn’t going to be a soft landing for any of us.

And my computer was expensive! And my Apple Care plan has expired!

Then I hit my head, hard, against the stairs, and that knocked some sense back into me. Let go of the computer, came an intelligent voice from within. You’re in trouble. Save yourself.

Then, a collection of sounds much larger than clattering. Crash went the computer. Crunch went my left hand as it smashed against the bookcase. Slam went my right hand as it smashed against the wall when I tried fruitlessly to brace myself. I heard someone screaming.

I fell, and then I slid, painfully, down the rest of the stairs -- thud, thud, thud, thud, thud -- until I found myself in a heap at the bottom.

I wanted to cry out, but someone was still shrieking. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!”

It was the Handsome Man.

(At the time, that was far more annoying than endearing or funny.)

“Are you okay?” he hollered, even as he came in a clambering rush down the stairs from the kitchen.

From my position on the floor, I was conducting a near motionless, internal scan: I am conscious. I can see. I can lift my head. I don’t see any blood or feel any wetness.

I think I’m okay, I thought, but snapped at him: “When I fall down the stairs, you don’t get to yell. I get to yell.”

I didn’t yell. I whimpered as I limped over to the daybed. I can walk, I thought. My entire left side, from the back of my head to side of my ankle, was throbbing. It occurred to me that even without obvious injury, there was no way my bones and/or organs hadn’t shifted during flight.

I passed my computer where it lay, surprisingly, intact. Huh, I thought.

I crawled onto the daybed and Handsome crouched over me looking concerned.

A strange little knot was forming on the top of my left hand. That doesn’t look right, I thought.

“I’m going to want some ice,” I said, going for brave and composed. “Now!” I said, failing.

Handsome hustled away towards the stairs and then stopped over the fallen computer. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw him reach for it. “People first!” I snapped at him, and he continued up the stairs for my ice.

This morning, I am sore and achy and bruised, ugh, the bruising. My head hurts, my hand hurts, my back hurts, my neck hurts, my shoulder hurts, my hip hurts, my shin hurts, my ankle hurts. I feel a bit like I did after the car accident that totaled the Jetta. (Though just a bit - that car accident was pretty serious pain - and this is mostly just on one side.)

The computer? It’s got a bulge where it didn’t before, and the front of the case is peeking open on the left side. But it’s working like a charm.

We both came through alright.

All the same, the computer’s going to make a visit to the Genius Bar, and I’m going to make an appointment with a chiropractor.

Today's Soup: Hearty Beef Minestrone

Rich, flavorful stock plays host to a crowded gathering of tender cubes of beef, red kidney beans, pasta shells, green peas, green beans, celery, carrots and tomatoes, seasoned with onions, garlic, fresh basil, fresh parsley and bay leaves.

My Soup Group colleagues are a cultured bunch. They support the visual arts, music, dance, and especially theatre. I realized today that several of them hold subscriptions with the Denver Center for the Performing Arts. So naturally, theatre reviews feature frequently in our soup-making conversation: what shows we've seen, what shows we want to see, what shows we recommend the others go see.

(Arts patronage is only the tip of the cool, cool iceberg that is these ladies' spare time activities. They travel internationally, they get outdoorsy in the mountains, they host anniversary blowouts. They all have other volunteer obligations that they take seriously and where they make a serious contribution. They're passionately committed to their families. I'm taking notes.)

Today Elizabeth announced that she had been to see Spring Awakening at the Denver Performing Arts Complex. We were instantly interested. Mom said she'd heard that the NYC production had received mixed reviews, and Jodi piped up that she'd heard a review on National Public Radio that the show was pretty strange. All of us were eager to hear from Elizabeth what the story was about and what she thought of the local production.

It only got more interesting when Elizabeth began by saying that she had left, walked out, at intermission.

People just about stopped working. I know I put down my spatula and turned around to look at her. Elizabeth is a dedicated patron of the arts, so even a schlock production wouldn't put her off that much. Furthermore, she's worldly and a little tough, I think it's safe to say. She has not yet struck me as the type to shy away from ugly truths. What on earth could this musical have done in the first two acts that would provoke an Elizabeth to leave without seeing the resolution?

Well, she said the play dealt with themes of adolescent sexual awakening, incest and child abuse; and she talked about the juxtaposition of quasi-19th-century costumes and modern rock music that she didn't connect with. We waited for her to say more, because so far, to me at least, that didn't seem like enough to run off someone like Elizabeth. And indeed, she went on to say that the deal-breaker was what she described as a very graphic rape scene early in the play, maybe in the first act. And with that explanation, our soup group seemed to understand.

I understood. I mean, I can understand that you don't want to look at some things, some times. I overheard Elizabeth saying a little later that there are ways to convey violence without explicitly enacting it for the audience. And that is certainly true.

It got me thinking, though.

For one, I got tangled up in the unanswerable question of "what makes good art". Sometimes there's an artistic bravery in presenting negative things in all their graphic realism. Sometimes art makes a greater impact when the audience is allowed, encouraged or required to use their own imaginations to fill in some of the blanks. There's no one way, no "right" answer. And to my mind, asking the question is only a philosophical exercise anyhow. We as a people should always leave room for artistic license - I believe it's vitally important that society grant artists the freedom to express their vision. (I'm pretty sure that's what I believe. There is art that tests this value of mine.)

Elizabeth's tale of walking out also got me thinking about the responsibility to self that any one of us might have to look away sometimes.

And about the tension between the personal responsibility to look away sometimes, and the social obligation not to look away. (Ever?)

And about the privilege it is to have the option of looking away.

And about the role of censorship in art and in media.

I saw a girl die on YouTube. I'm more than embarrassed that I don't know enough about world politics to remember which nation-in-conflict she lived/died in. She might have been Palestinian, she might have been Iranian. She was very pretty, and there was war in the streets, and she was just a bystander, but a stray bullet struck and killed her. It killed her in front of her dad and her brother and someone videotaping the violence. We see her fall and her eyes glaze over. We see the men with her cradling her and begging her to respond, and we see them begin to howl when the blood starts pouring from her mouth and her nose and maybe from her eyes, too.

I shouldn't have watched that, I immediately thought to myself when it was over. And I'm not talking about government censorship, here. I'm not saying it shouldn't have been available for watching. (Separate issue.) I'm saying that my own personal peace-of-mind patrol should have been on higher alert and stopped me from pressing the "play" button.

But there is a question that raises for me, and it's a question similar to the one that gets raised in arguments about government censorship: If something terrible is happening, why should I be protected from seeing it? How is the fact of an event's atrocity the argument that I shouldn't see it? If anyone has to bear witness, then why should I be spared? If it's reality, and I want the truth...

Why should I protect myself? Why should I look away?

Why do we look away? I'm reminded of images of the burning towers on 9/11/2001, and how the networks edited out the people who were jumping/falling from the windows on the upper floors. The fact that people were dying that way is completely brutal. And maybe on top of all of the other horror and carnage and shock of 9/11, we didn’t need to see people falling to their deaths.

But what’s that language - “didn’t need to see”? Why don’t I say what we mean: “Maybe on top of all of the other horror and carnage and shock of 9/11, people’s minds and psyches wouldn’t be able to handle it. Maybe we would have been irreversibly damaged by seeing it.”

It's to some extent an individual matter, though, what’s damaging. Because to some extent it's a question of what the human mind can stand, that is, what any one human mind can stand. There do exist some broad, obvious parameters that we mostly agree on as a society about what's highly disturbing - for example, apparently, the broadcasting of Americans falling to their deaths as a result of a terrorist act. Most often, though, individuals themselves make the best judge of what their own mind/psyche/spirit can handle.

(I am aware that this doesn't even address those who don't have a choice about what they're exposed to, who have no control over their exposure to whatever daily horror might be engulfing them. And that's not a separate issue.)

I guess a lot of us have learned to put some limits on what we take in. (Those of us with a choice in the matter, anyway.) Of course, on the far end of that spectrum are ostriches - those who bury their heads in the sand so they don’t have to see what’s scary and acknowledge that it's happening.

I can't help but think that maybe we should strive to be stronger than that. Stronger of heart, stronger of stomach, sounder in mind.

Shouldn’t we?

I’m not going to link to the video of that girl’s death in the streets because I tend to avoid linking to anything that’s notable because of its negativity. I’m not going to participate even in the promotion that comes from saying, “This is so gross/wrong/horrific, have a look.” This ain't a news outlet.

I am going to link to a really thoughtful and thought-provoking short film called “The Falling Man” that addresses the absence of jumpers/fallers from the images of 9/11. It’s tough stuff, but maybe just tough enough. Consider it in the vein of a healthy workout for a spirit striving to be strong enough to handle a range of life’s realities.

On December 1st

Can you tell that there is a "partridge"? In this "pear" tree? Mom and I came across this holiday display on our morning walk, and it's really quite adorable.

Regrettably, this photo comes courtesy of my iPhone's camera, which I'm constantly wishing had a bit more oomph. Case in point: At Thanksgiving dinner last week, I snapped a few photos. And I'm thankful for them. Go cell phone camera function! As a family, we don't bring cameras, we don't take pictures, and there are few records of our many good times together. So having even the crummy photos is the upside.

The downside is that they're crummy photos. (iPhoto's editing functions help a lot.)

Anyway: A partridge in a pear tree. Well done.


Photo credit: The Preferred Daughter