Delights: Artistic, Culinary, Domestic, and Meteorological

What a week!

First, the artistic experience: Went to the de Young Museum Wednesday with Betty-Lou and Nancy to see Bouquets to Art, some 150 floral arrangements spread throughout the museum, all designed by florists and garden clubs to interpret or complement art in the museum’s collection.

The floral homage to Superman was the funniest. A crowd favorite was a small dog, made completely of plants and flowers, with drooping petals for ears. Some arrangements were inspired, even breathtaking. Some were confusing. Some, I think I could have done myself in a free afternoon. Or maybe not.

Then it was off to Bursa in West Portal for a shrimp kebob, wonderful creamy hummus and a HUGE glass of my beloved Zinfandel. What a great place! More glorious food on Thursday, when Susan called to say she was inviting the family over for corned beef and cabbage for St. Patrick’s Day.

Alas – I was the only one who could make it, but what a wonderful evening! One moment of panic on the bus, where everyone – Asians, African Americans, Caucasians – was wearing green except me. I had on my blue San Francisco sweatshirt and jeans. Oops! On the other hand, I wear my face every day, and it has Irish tendencies, to be sure.

Susan had set the table with a green and white tablecloth and napkins, yellow tulips, a wee flag of Ireland, a shamrock garland and assorted St. Pat’s Day trinkets. The place looked great but the décor was quickly overshadowed by the food. Oh – the food! Mouth-watering corned beef, a colorful mixture of boiled vegetables (pass me another potato, please) and the best Irish soda bread I’ve ever had in or outside of Ireland. 

We swapped stories of our Irish heritage, toasted our native counties, and spoke of our mutual desire to go to Ireland with our children to introduce them to the culture. (Considering I can’t get anybody to go to Disneyland with me, getting to the Emerald Isle may not happen either.) Then I do believe we sang a bit of “Danny Boy.”

All this – and Susan sent me home with plenty of leftovers. In 24 hours, I have devoured my weight in Irish soda bread, toasted and smeared with butter and apricot preserves. I didn’t mean to pig out, yet my waking thought this morning was, “I must have Irish soda bread for breakfast.” It tastes like cake.

How good is this bread? It’s so good that I have asked Susan to make Irish soda bread for my birthday instead of a cake. I made my legendary tiramisu for her birthday, and for the first time in a long time, it turned out “tiramisoupy,” runny instead of custardy. Susan’s son, Michael, kindly said maybe an atmospheric difference between San Francisco and St. Louis caused it. Then he gamely spooned out a serving. I have no idea, but will give it another go.      

On the Domestic Delights scene, after much research (on line, on the phone and in the form of actual driving expeditions), I decided what cookware to buy to replace mine, which was unsuited for the radiant glass cooktop on my lovely stove, which was delivered just days before I moved into the apartment. The cookware I brought to San Francisco was deemed likely to scratch the cooktop, and the worst-case scenario had it overheating and fusing to the glass.

No, really! I talked to the people who made the stove and the people who made the cookware and I read accounts by people who had experienced just such upsetting events.

Anyway, I headed out in the car Wednesday morning, determined to buy one particular product. When I got to the store I changed my mind -- downsizing the dollars spent but still choosing lovely cookware that will not harm my stove. I left the mall through a back entrance and promptly got lost.

Looking up and down streets to get my bearings, I noticed really enthusiastic waves, waves I knew needed to see up close. My new cookware and I headed west until I reached the Great Highway, with the churning water just beyond. I parked and scrambled up the sand – it was magnificent! I waved to migrating gray whales (I couldn't see them,  but I know they saw me) and headed back to the car.

As though crashing waves weren’t enough excitement, this morning a funnel dropped from a cloud and played splish-splash just off Ocean Beach. I didn’t see it in person, but this video is fun: http://sfist.com/2011/03/18/video_small_cloud_funnel_touches_do.php

Technically, a funnel cloud over water is called a waterspout, known as a “non-supercell tornado over water.” Still, I thought it was super. An hour later, tiny balls of ice pelted my wall of windows – hail! And tonight we had a thunderstorm, with great flashes of lightning and pouring rain. So many meteorological delights!

Of Magic 8 Balls and the Oscars

Remember those Magic 8 Balls -- the Mattel toy that pretended to tell the future? You would ask a yes-or-no question, turn the ball in your hand and peek in the cloudy window to see your answer. Usually, the answer made no sense whatsoever.

Magic 8 Balls were developed in 1950. They are out, over, now merely nostalgic souvenirs, sometimes found in retro shops. I haven't used one in years. Now, late at night,  I sit at the computer and ask Google, “What’s the best way to get to the San Francisco airport?”

(Yes, this is crazy – but not as crazy as when I used to type, “When will the condo sell?” And “Where will I find an apartment I can afford?” And “Will the condo sell soon?)

In its way, Google is no more satisfying than the Magic 8 Ball. Does it tell me whether I should book a taxi, reserve a spot on a shuttle, drive my own car or take BART to the airport? No.

I know from experience that taxis do not always come when called. (See the Sept. 24 post.) On Yelp, I found reviews dissing every airport shuttle service in town, complaining about being stranded completely or, worse, being picked up on time but making so many stops en route to the airport that people missed their flights. Also, apparently no airport shuttle companies in town actually answer their phones.

If I drive myself – and I do trust me to leave home on time, park and make the flight – I am worried that when I get back home a couple days later, there will be no place to park my car. (See the July 21 post.) And I really don’t want to drag my bag and haul my backpack on two buses and BART.  I love riding the Muni when I’m out playing or even going to appointments, but making my way to the airport on public transportation right now sounds like a drag.

Is money an issue? Yes. And no. A taxi one way will be $40-$45. A shuttle will cost $17 plus tip one way. Driving and parking will be about $70 total. Public transportation would cost $10 round trip. I’m careful about my money, especially now that Lee Enterprises (publisher of the Post-Dispatch) helps themselves to half my pension each month as payment for health insurance I was promised would be free for life. (My life, not the life of Lee’s tolerance for unions.) But I also am willing to pay for convenience, especially when traveling.

“You’re over-thinking this,” says my son. Yep. That’s how I survive. I over-think and then make a decision and move on to the next problem to be solved. I’ve been taking good care of myself since I got divorced in 1980, and I don't apologize for my methods.   

Skipping merrily off to another topic here, I do apologize for setting aside this evening to watch the 83^rd Academy Awards. Thirty minutes in, shortly after the excellent Morgan Freeman’s part of the show was over, I declared on Facebook that the show sucked. Somehow it got worse as the evening went on. And then even worse.

I played a few Scrabble games on line, tried to keep myself from being drawn in to the hideously depressing world and national news in the New York Times and chatted with a friend. Okay, I also looked up more reviews of airport shuttles.

Fast-forwarding through the Oscars show, I did find myself transfixed a time or two by the statue itself because earlier this week I met two actual Oscar winners. On the mantel in their living room were two Oscars and two Emmys. Ever cool and sophisticated, when I saw the statues, I blurted, “Wow! I’m looking at Oscars and Emmys!”

The occasion, part of an incredibly kind and generous “Introduce Pat to Our Friends” project undertaken by old friend Nancy and new friend Betty-Lou, was a visit to the home of two extraordinary people, gifted filmmakers and bright, fun individuals. We sat in their kitchen, drinking tea and nibbling on outstanding fig bread and cookies, talking for hours about our lives, movies, our kids, theater, our health problems, and books.

We laughed a lot, too, most unexpectedly when I mentioned my cat. Suddenly, the couple’s two dogs raced for the back door, barking and snarling and ready to protect their property from any marauding felines. I once had a dog that knew the words “bye-bye” and “walk,” but these dogs heard “cat” and went wild. When I realized what I had said, I immediately began to refer to the cat as an iguana, an elephant, even an okapi, in hopes of calming the dogs.

Anyway, it was a wonderful afternoon of leisure and delight that nicely leavened a week otherwise full of work -- and wondering how best to get to the airport. It’s just a transportation detail. I’ll get there.

   

A Play Date on Saturday

Saturday morning showed up clear, sunny and warm, so I hopped in the car at 10:30 and didn’t get home until close to 5 p.m. Where did I go? Everywhere – a mountain, a forest and a seaside town. All in a day.

That’s no miracle – here, it’s typical.

I look at Mount Tamalpais every day, as it is north of my wall of windows. Mt. Tam – whose profile is said to resemble a sleeping Indian maiden -- is 34 miles from San Francisco, in Marin County. The highest point is 2,571 feet. You may walk up, bike up or (thank goodness) drive right to the top. I headed for the East Peak Visitors Center, driving up a road that twists and turns for more than 10 miles at a time through redwood groves and oak woodlands.

At the top, I put on my hat, bought some fruit and nuts at a small snack bar and headed off on a paved .07-mile path marked accessible for wheelchairs. It was, but I quickly discovered that I was not entirely comfortable walking where no rail separated me from the steep drop-off. Halfway along, I sat down on a comfortable wooden bench and breathed in the beautiful day. 

Graceful turkey vultures and huge ravens soared below me. I pondered how small, how like a toy, the magnificent city of San Francisco appeared. The island of Alcatraz looked as though it were idling momentarily, and would head out under full steam any minute. On the trail once again, I watched a man teach another man the sport of rock climbing. I eavesdropped as a little boy (maybe 4) told his sister (maybe 6) that he, too, would learn rock climbing when he is bigger and stronger.

Only one spot along the trail was windy, and buena vistas surrounded me: Mount Diablo to the east, the Farallon Islands to the west, my home to the south and more of Marin County to the north. I didn’t know to look for this, but I learned later that sometimes you can see the snow-covered Sierra Nevada mountains, some 150 miles away.

Driving back down the mountain, I saw a sign for Bolinas. I headed west, driving through silent stands of redwoods and along rolling hills decorated randomly with carpets of purple flowers. Bolinas is a seaside town of about 1,500 and the adjacent estuary laps quietly above the San Andreas Fault. The people there are described as “independent,” and they have exercised their independence by removing all signs that tell how to reach the town.

I found it, only because Charlie and I had visited Bolinas a year or more ago. I parked and strolled down the street to the edge of the land, where kids and dogs splashed in the surf and people my age sat on benches staring out to sea, enjoying the day. On the way back to the two-block-long business district, l passed an art gallery, a museum and a shop that sold locally made cotton socks and plenty of items from Thailand and Nepal. 

Hungry, I took an outside table at the Coast Café, across the street from a 100-year-old saloon and hotel established in 1851. In some ways, the café seems lost in time, with stained oilcloth covering the tiny tables. The menu, however, is completely up to date, and emphasizes local produce. I ordered an omelet made with fresh local mushrooms, cheese and scallions. Then I settled in to watch people passing by – lots of people with young kids (one mom was barefoot, which didn’t look comfortable), lots of Serious Bikers in Serious Spandex, a handful of older folks.

Waiting for lunch, I glanced through the wooden trellis just to the left of my table. The trellis partly obscured a public altar to Yemanja, a goddess of the sea and an old friend of mine. Coins had been left on the altar. Everyone passing by was going along with the “Respect This Space” sign until a young couple plopped their crying baby on the altar and started rummaging through a cloth bag. I was worried that a diaper change was in the offing, but they simply retrieved a bottle and moved on. In some incarnations, Yemanja also is a protector of children, but still…

Walking to the car after my late lunch, I saw this sign: “Open Studio – Welcome.” Tucked back off the street was the door to Emmeline Craig’s one-room abode that serves as her home and her studio. A watercolorist, Craig is from Provence, France. She paints Provence but also Bolinas, where she has lived for 10 years. Her work is beautiful -- check it out at http://www.emmelinewatercolors.com.

Driving home, I passed though tiny Stinson Beach (half the size of Bolinas), waved at The Sand Dollar (where Beth and I had lunch last year), and caught glimpses of the sun sparkling on the sea. Mostly, I kept my eyes on the twisty, winding road, much like the one I took earlier in the day. What a grand Saturday!

 

 

Making Old Friendships New

Cheri is coming to town.

Cheri, who lived behind the house we moved to when I was in sixth grade, Cheri who was my college roommate, Cheri who was my bridesmaid.

In the early years, we walked home from school together (except when it rained and her mom picked us up), went to the park and went to the pool. We considered our options for the future. She wanted to be a humanist-scientist (a term I think she made up), I wanted to be a writer.

We both wore the clunky desert boots that were in fashion – and they seem to be back, as I saw a pair in a shoe store window three days ago – and we wore cranberry skirts and sweaters, the hot color of the moment.

In high school, we walked home from school together (except when it rained and her mom picked us up), went to the park and the pool and played canasta for hours. Days. Weeks, even, in the summer. And we continued to consider our options for the future.

In college, we roomed together in a dorm for my junior year and her senior year. I remember discussing boys, getting drunk together on her 21^st birthday and discussing boys, some of whom wanted to be options for our future.

I remember something else. These were the dear, ancient days when girls’ dorms had random “bed checks,” to make sure all the girls were in by curfew. Seniors could check out keys and come in late. The rest of us talked friends into propping open a back door so we could sneak in after curfew.

One night, Cheri was out for the evening – most likely for the night – without a key. As I said, the bed checks were random, and should someone in authority ask where a particular girl might be, a friend could always fib and say she was on a different floor studying or sobbing in the stairwell over a lost love or in one of the “fancy” gang showers that had a tub in a private room.

But when bed checks were held, everyone was expected to be in the dorm.

One night, the Resident Adviser – a friend -- whispered to me that bed check was on the schedule that evening and I should figure out how to get Cheri back to the dorm in time. I knew where Cheri’s boyfriend lived, but I didn’t have a car. I didn’t know his phone number or even the name of his roommate, who likely had the phone listed in his name.

I did not panic. I ordered a pizza sent to Cheri’s boyfriend’s apartment, with “CALL PAT” spelled out in sausage. The pizza got delivered, the phone call came and Cheri made it back in time for bed check.

After Cheri walked down the aisle in my wedding, I moved to Oklahoma while she went on to earn her master’s degree in microbiology. She married and moved to Delaware with her husband, Tom. In some order that I do not recall, I had a child and she had four. I do remember that one of her daughters is named for Jenny Lake in Grand Teton National Park.

At some point maybe 25-plus years ago, I traveled to the East Coast and spent some time with Cheri and Tom and then headed for New York City. I honestly can’t recall if we have seen each other since, though we have exchanged greetings and pertinent news at the holidays. Also, Cheri was kind enough to post a glowing review of one of my books on amazon.com.

Over time, her children married and moved to different parts of the country. My son moved to San Francisco and married in 2009. As regular readers know, I moved here seven months ago. I learned last week that Cheri and Tom’s son and his family also live in San Francisco, so 50 years after we met, Cheri is coming to town.

We have a past in common. Our futures took us in different directions. Now we have a chance to share some present time with both our families. What a gift!

Another Hundred People

In light of the heart-rending events that occurred last Saturday, I have been reluctant to prattle on here about the places I go, the people I see and the things I do in my new city. 

Today, though, I started thinking that the many experiences we have on a day-to-day basis are life affirming, and give our lives a richer texture, and that is always worth celebrating. So with no disrespect intended to the families in Tucson who are hurting so deeply, I’ll get back to filling space in “Late to the Haight.”

Did you see Stephen Sondheim’s “Company?” In the course of my explorations, I often find myself humming “Another Hundred People” from that show, especially when I am  getting off of the bus or off of the train. This “city of strangers” fascinates me. Read on!

Last Sunday, riding the bus to Susan’s, something happened that was like a small flash mob, only it was spontaneous. Four people were sitting in the front of the bus: Two older men, a college student and me. The student, a young man, was on his cell phone telling a friend that he might go see “True Grit” or “Country Strong” --  he couldn’t decide.

One of the older men, who had a serious case of bed head, looked at the young man and said, “True Grit.”  The other older man, with white hair and beard, a ruddy complexion  and green tennis shoes, said, “That’s right”  and nodded in agreement. I chimed in too. “Yep – go see ‘True Grit.’”

The younger man looked at each of us in turn and reported to the person he was speaking to on the phone that the decision had been made for him by people on the bus, and then ended his call. Looking our way, he said, “Tell me why.” So we did.

Once that was settled, we started telling each other about ourselves. The young man, a student at Stanford, said he was the product of six generations in Hiroshima but was “mixed,” with some Italian, French, and Spanish ancestry as well. He grew up in Whitehorse, in the Yukon Territory of Canada. I have been to Whitehorse and said so. The man with unruly hair said that he was from Canada but had lived in Japan for several years. The other man revealed that he grew up in a town in rural Northern Ireland.

In the middle of this lively conversation, a well-dressed woman boarded the bus and sat down near us. When she heard the young man say that he attends Stanford, she asked the  lot of us whether she should get her Ph.D. in anthropology at Stanford or the University of California at San Francisco. We all stopped talking and stared at her. Somehow, she did not fit in. I missed what happened next, because the bus came to my stop.

On a clear, sunny day last week I went to the beach to sit and stare at water. The wind was up and every breaking wave was topped with a frothy lace. Walking along, I came upon a tangle of 10 or more thick strands of bull kelp snarled in rope. I stared at it for a long time, half expecting the bull kelp to start wriggling. It didn’t.

On the N train heading out to the beach, I started a conversation with a dog named Pumpkin who spent part of the trip under the seat and part of the trip soliciting ear scratches from passengers. Pumpkin was quite engaging, as was her owner, a pretty red-haired woman who has lived in San Francisco all her life. In the course of our conversation, I learned that she is 38, plays in a band, and is thinking of moving to Austin. When she got off the train, she called out, “I’m also an astrologer!”

Riding home from the beach, I saw a man wearing those shoes that have toes and look like feet (http://www.vibramfivefingers.com/index.htm). He also wore silver nail polish --  an odd choice considering he had on a three-piece suit. He topped off his ensemble with a baseball cap with a great drawing of a merman on it.

Two weeks ago, while waiting for a bus back home after seeing “True Grit,” I met a woman from Peoria whose dad is a cousin of Ken Boyer, the former Cardinals player.  I can’t remember how we went from talking about movies – she saw 100 in 2010 and now writes a blog about movies --  to Cardinals baseball, but when she mentioned Boyer I jumped off the bench and squealed, “I have a baseball with Kenny Boyer’s autograph on it.”  Of course, I didn’t have it with me – that would’ve been too weird. Daddy got the baseball for my brother in the early ‘60s. Stan “The Man” Musial,  Joe Cunningham and Lindy McDaniel also signed it.

So you don’t think I’m spending all my time with complete strangers, I need to mention that I had lunch twice recently with a woman who read my letter in Oprah's magazine last summer about picking up and moving to a new life. She's 52, from Atlanta, and thinking of doing the same thing. She spent three weeks here exploring San Francisco. If she decides to move here, this particular stranger will quickly become a friend.

Bin-ging for the Future

On the first day of 2011, I spent the morning living in the past, opening crumbling yellowed tear sheets from newspapers printed in days gone by -- and eliminating more than half of them. Before you think I may be a candidate for that TV show on hoarding, let me explain.

Time was when a closet shelf was stacked high with tear sheets, pages clipped from the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, USA Today, the Portland Oregonian, the Contra Costa Times and other papers where my work has appeared. Before I moved to San Francisco, I donated 95 percent of those clippings to the media archives at the University of Missouri/St. Louis.

I kept the travel sections – my favorites – and a handful of other features I couldn’t bear to part with. (Ken and Alex, This Means You.) Before I moved, I did not separate the pertinent pages from the sections, some of which were 18 or 20 pages. (You won’t see that today!) I remember thinking as I packed the condo in Creve Coeur that I could cut a lot of bulk by pulling out just my pages, most of them cover stories (with glorious color photos) that continued on a “jump” page. But I didn’t.

Flash forward to this morning. Next to my desk in my excellent apartment that looks out over Golden Gate Park to the Pacific Ocean (have you admired my sunset photos here and on Facebook?) sit two big black plastic bins. Fortunately, they are mostly hidden by the love seat. One holds copies of books I’ve written, maybe five or six copies of each, and there is no room for more. The other is jam-packed with clippings, past and present, as well as copies of magazines that have published my work, newsletters I have edited and a couple articles about me.

In the last six months, that bin has filled up and overflowed. I started sticking tear sheets into desk drawers, in wire baskets on my desk and in the occasional nook and/or cranny. Why do I keep copies of my work? Good question. I had work published in national magazines when I was 17, and newspaper bylines in metropolitan dailies that long ago as well. With 45 years of experience, why would I need to prove to anyone that I can do what I do, and do it well?  

That’s an argument to have with myself on another day. Today, after a healthy breakfast designed to make up for too many chocolate truffles last night, I opened the bulging bin of books and extracted one to give to a friend. Then I opened the bin of tear sheets and magazines and newsletters and emptied it on the carpet.  

Out came exciting stories on Dublin, London, Paris, Buenos Aires, Sydney, Cairo, Venice, New York, Juneau, Quebec City and Varanasi. I admired my photos from Niagara Falls, the Serengeti, Ngorongoro Crater, Kilauea and the Galapagos Islands. I marveled at my work on Mount Rainer, the Grand Tetons, Glacier Bay, Yosemite and the Rockies. I smiled at stories on the series of ocean cruises I’ve enjoyed. And I was thrilled to find a dozen or more travel stories about whale-watch trips, dating back to 1983.

No wonder I told a stranger at a Christmas caroling party last month that it’s okay if I never go anywhere again. I made many trips on assignment for the Post-Dispatch, and since that party ended, I have continued to find ways to see the world and savor the experience of breathing air in places that other people call home. Am I finished traveling? I hope not. I’m good at it, and there are still places I want to go. But, oh the places I’ve been – and there they were, spread all around me.

In case you are wondering, I still write travel stories, some of them about northern California. An article on how to choose a cruise will run in the Post-Dispatch a week from tomorrow. (Thanks, Amy!) Next, I plucked my articles from issues of the St. Louis Jewish Light and jWeekly, the Jewish paper I write for in San Francisco. (Thanks to Ellen, Mike, Liz, Andy and Rachel!)

After pulling out pertinent pages from the newspaper sections, I tackled the magazines. I decided one copy of each was plenty. Except, of course, for the splendid July issue of Southwest Airlines’ Spirit Magazine, which published a 4,600-word love letter from me to St. Louis. I noted that I have written for four issues of Health Progress, a publication of the Catholic Health Association. (Thanks, Pam!) I admired the glossy grocery magazines from all over the country that have published my work. (Thanks, Kelli!) And I hugged the (really) old issue of Ms. Magazine that contains an article I penned. 

When I was finished culling, I had newsprint smeared all over my hands. (That's okay -- I like that!)  I also had enough newspaper pages and magazines to fill a grocery bag, ready for recycling. The "keepers" are back in the black plastic bin, along with all the randomly stored work samples, and now there is room for whatever work comes my way this year.

Okay, 2011 – I am ready!

I Miss My Moose!

Green glitter, lightly sprinkled on my desk, winks at me as I take a break from  preparations for my first-ever Winter Solstice party in San Francisco. This won’t be a huge rowdy party like those that drew dear friends from far and wide to the Salmon Sanctuary, and before that, to Taraette, the old family estate in Shrewsbury.

Still, this modest soup-and-salad supper will be festive because of the guests: My Family!

My trio of ceramic trees (we Druids love trees) is on display, and I even put up a tiny artificial tree, decorated with cherished ornaments. (See the Dec. 9 blog post.) The stockings are hung – the leopard boot with gold silk trim hangs on the entry door to my apartment while the white felt one with the dove and the peace symbol adorns the bookcase. I even put a tiny furry reindeer on the shelf in the bathroom.

You could say it’s more ‘Tee Hee” than “Ho Ho” around here, but I like it.

Two treasures are missing. When I opened the Christmas Box two weeks ago, I discovered that my Frosty the Snowman snow globe had exploded. Fortunately, Frosty – who was a least 30 years old -- was wrapped in several layers of bubble wrap and foam, so the wee bit of water and flecks of phony snow didn’t get out. However, and this is really unfortunate, someone else in the box also decided not to move to San Francisco intact.

My tiny moose, the one wearing four red high heels and lots of lipstick and with ornaments entwined in her antlers -- was in pieces. Lots of them. Maybe Frosty is to blame – it looked like an inside job – or maybe the moose was just another casualty, but this means No Moose and No Frosty this year.

I tried to replace them. When I took the car in today for an oil change, I learned they needed to do a 45,000-mile check up and that my wait would be three hours. Undaunted, I marched off through the Tenderloin (massage parlors, psychics, “theaters,” bars and, oddly, lots of rotten fruit on the sidewalk) to the glorious Union Square, where people ice skate in the shadow of palm trees. 

I don't skate. I do shop for moose toys, so I headed into Macy's -- what a crazy idea just four days before Christmas! In Macy’s in the “Wonderland Lane” or whatever they call it, I examined a dozen huge decorated trees, looking for a moose ornament. Everything was on sale already, so if I could find a moose, it likely would be reasonably priced. I did not find a moose. 

When I asked a sales clerk, he replied, “ No – no moose ornaments this year. So you remember that moose, eh?” I’m unsure if I remember “that” moose or some other moose – I don’t know where Gerry bought my moose ornament, and it’s been several years. Still, it’s the holidays, so I chirped, “I do! I remember that moose!” We shared a hearty laugh and I went off to look at snow globes. They were all too gilded, too formal. I retreated to the Frontera Grill on  Macy’s lower level and ate a chipotle chicken taco with fresh avocado.

When it came time to leave Macy’s, I couldn’t find the O’Farrell Street door. I meandered around for a while, and finally sent Gail a text: “Lost in Macy’s. Help!” As it happens, Gail was at Macy’s in St. Louis about the same time, and she swears she ran through the store yelling, “Marco!” and “Hooty hoot!” (????) but she never found me. Thankfully, I found the right door and got back to the car dealer.

Next I popped into Trader Joe’s for a bit of this and a few of those. Driving through Cole Valley, I panicked and realized I don’t have enough placemats for everyone coming to dinner tonight. Even though I had two packages of TJ”s frozen spinach lasagna in the car, I found a parking spot and darted into a couple of stores in search of modestly priced placemats. I didn’t find any. That’s okay. Walking back to the car, I remembered that even if I had extra placemats, I have only four chairs. Some people will just have to eat sitting on the couch.

When I got back home, I stopped to visit Earl, my doggy friend at the insurance agency on the corner.  His owner said he had some sad news – in about 10 minutes, Earl had gutted and filleted the Christmas dog toy I had bought and delivered to him yesterday. I explained I knew that would happen, but I was sure Earl had enjoyed ripping it up. Earl wagged his tail in agreement.

Once inside, I opened the mail. That's when some lovely green glitter tumbled off one of the Christmas cards and onto the desk. Good! Moose or no moose, can you ever have enough glitter in your life?