A little song, a litte dance
A little caffeine down your pants.
The phone rings.
It's the Man.
An entire cup of coffee has spilled in his lap; could I bring him a clean pair of pants?
Hot coffee, I ask, concerned.
Warm, he says. Embarrassing, not painful.
I go to his closet, ready to riff on which of the 39 pairs of gray slacks he wants.
Perversely, he wants tan, but will take khaki or taupe.
Since taupe contains gray (let me hear an amen) and I want more fodder for jokes about his wardrobe, I choose the taupe pants. Pressed at the China Star laundry on Clement Street, they look new, camera-ready.
After alerting my office that I'll be gone for about 15-20 minutes (Richard works close to home), I realize this is the perfect opportunity to leave Bryn (our new dog) alone in the house and observe the results. Will she curl up quietly in her dog bed and snooze? Will she chew Richard's shoes out of separation anxiety? Will the mail be shredded and the trash upturned? A lot can happen in 20 minutes, and she's a smart, fast dog.
In the doorway, I lock eyes with her, sending mental images of her asleep in her bed, while I say with a clarity Demosthenes would envy: "Sit, stay, good girl."
Feeling brave, risky and hungry, I motor off to the Lucas Digital Arts Center, home of Richard's company. I pass him the fresh pants and he looks in the back seat, "No dog?" I tell him of the experiment, his eyes widen, and I head home.
Bryn greets me at the door, body wiggling, wanting to lick me and rub against me at the same time. Nothing is different. Each room looks as it did when I left. Everything is perfect, and she's so happy to see me.
I wonder how she spent her time.
The Human Pez Dispenser
Currently, I'm a walking, talking Dog Treats Dispenser for our new dog, Bryn.
An "Outward Hound" (oh yes) training pouch lives at my waist, filled with little bits of kibble to reward her every good action.
Sit - Pez!
Down - Pez!
Stay - Pez!
Come - Pez!
Go into your crate - Double Pez!
Don't eat the neighbor's cat - Pez Jackpot!
It's raining kibble, hallelujah, it's raining bits, on Bryn.
One day, perhaps, she'll recognize me as the Hiking Czarina and Alpha Female I really am, but right now, I'm Robibil of the Kibble, fuh shizzle.
Expecting Bryn
Last night was our last night alone for a while. We're about to adopt a 4-year-old Catahoula Leopard Dog mix from the San Francisco SPCA.
So what did we do on our last night alone?
We stayed up late, in total privacy, completely absorbed together with one goal:
Finding a name for our new dog.
The pound calls her "Summer," and it just doesn't seem to fit her.
The Catahoula Leopard is the only known domesticated dog native to North America.
The best history of its origin is that Native American Indians cross-bred their semi-domesticated red wolves with "war dogs" left behind by Viking, Spanish and French explorers throughout the 13th, 14th, 15th and 16th centuries.
Prior to the Louisiana Purchase, when that area of the USA did not yet belong to the USA, the dogs living there were similar to the Australian Dingos in their relationship with humans. They are named after Catahoula Parrish and are the Louisiana State Dog.
So, late into the night, we searched internet sites for everything from the Cherokee names for leopard (tlv-da-tsi) and dog (gi-li) to ancient European, Asian, African and Middle Eastern female names.
Finally, we thought about Bryn-hild, a variation of Brunhilde, one of the famous Valkeries.
Bryn seemed perfect -- the name sounded beautiful to us, it has some historical significance to her ancestry, and her coated is brindled with black and gold.
More info than you'll ever want to know, plus a warning!
Dog blogs to follow.
Nice Cuts, Part Deux
Setting up the story, Part the First: The intersection of Union and Fillmore streets in San Francisco is a prime pedestrian junction. Not only is it trafficked by most denizens of the city, visitors hang out here, too.
Harrison Ford and Calista Flockheart were seen here recently, as were Robert Redford and an unnamed companion.
It's a jam-packed parking nightmare, with drivers searching desperately for street parking then running back an hour later to put more quarters in the meters. The "meter maids" are merciless. Better to interrupt whatever you're doing and dash back to add more quarters, than risk the $50 parking ticket.
This congested center of a small universe also is the basic location of the hair salon I'm trying out: Nice Cuts, $15.
Setting up the story, Part the Second:
I'm a natural blonde. This shows itself in many forms, not simply the color of my hair.
The bright white blonde of my childhood became platinum in my twenties and then champagne-ish in my thirties. Still blonde, still au natural, but a little darker.
During the winter of my 39th year, my beloved hair stylist said, "Ah, those bright summertime highlights are fading. You know what we should do? We should give you a few highlights until summer's sun can bring them back naturally."
No, no, I demurred. No chemicals for me.
"Thirty strands," she urged. "Let me just lighten 30 strands of hair -- it's not adding color - you're not coloring your hair, we're just stripping a few strands so the summer blonde shines through. You don't like it, I don't charge you."
What's 30 strands, I thought, and I succumbed. So, for the past two years, I have gone in once a winter for a slight sprinkling of highlights throughout my hair. Let me rush to say - and don't get in my way or you'll be run over - that I'm still a natural blond. And that brightness in summer is absolutely real. It's just that in the winter-time I need a little help to combat my version of Seasonal Affective Disorder.
Setting up the story, Part the Third: If you've read the previous blog, "Nice Cuts," you'll know of my search for a San Francisco hair salon I could call my own. This is what happened after I sat down in the chair, and the nice Korean woman - Wanda - started playing with my hair.
Today's blog:As Wanda began to talk about the hair cut, she asked me if I ever had highlights. I said what you now know: yes, a light sprinkling once a year. Would you like them now, she asked? I said yes, determined to try not just her cutting skills, but her "thirty strands in the foil" skills.
My highlights work like this -- along the crown and forehead, the stylist selects a few scattered strands of hair, paints them with a gentle compound similar to bleach, and wraps them in foil for a few minutes.
My job is to sit quietly, read a newspaper, sip my coffee, etc.
So, I'm sitting in the chair, reading the paper, wearing the black synthetic cape they always put around you, and sporting the little foil wrappers in my hair. I resemble a cooking experiment gone awry, or perhaps an Iowan afraid the aliens are going to read her thoughts. But, who's going to see me? I'm safely ensconsed in the stylist's chair; I'm supposed to look like this.
Suddenly, I realize it's time to feed the parking meter. I look up, startled, at the clock on the wall. Wanda notices me and says, "No, no, ten more minutes."
I say, "No, it's the parking meter, I think I'm out of time."
Wanda reacts like a native San Franciscan. She pulls a handful of quarters out of her pants pocket and rushes to the door. "Are you parked out front!?!" she asks frantically. "Which car -- I feed your meter!!"
I jump up, throwing the paper in my seat. "I'm around the corner and two blocks away. Do you know what a Nissan Pathfinder looks like?"
"No!" she yells, pouring quarters in my cupped hands, pushing me towards the door. "Run! Hurry! Feed meter! Go! Go! Go!"
I race out of the salon and onto the crowded sidewalk. The black salon cape flaps around my running body as the cold February sunlight bounces off the aluminum foil in my hair.
A man in the northbound crosswalk at Union and Fillmore shouts, "Feeding the meter?!"
"Yes!" I reply without stopping.
"Hurry!" he urges me.
I reach the Pathfinder with two minutes to spare.
The walk back to the salon was an excercise in nonchalance.
The caped lady with the tin foil hair, sashaying past her pierced, tatooed and botoxed neighbors.
As I re-entered the salon, spontaneous applause broke out, and Wanda laughed, "Only in San Francisco, huh, lady?"
Nice Cuts
I'm told my hair is hard to cut because it is fine-textured and blond. Dark, coarse, thick hair hides or even overcomes a bad cut. Not my hair; cut it badly and the whole world knows.
Once, a crazed hair stylist mulling my forehead decided I'd look good with "Pixie Bangs," a jagged fringe a half-inch long. I tried to stop her but the damage was done.
Short, jagged fringe-bangs are fine for George Clooney.
Sean Connery elevates fringed, Pixie Bangs to an art form.
Not so much an art form with me, the pixie bangs.
While living in Houston, I found two anti-Pixie stylists who brought a sure and delicate touch to my haircuts. I trusted them so much that between the two of them they cut and styled my hair for my wedding day, and then I waited until I was in Houston again on a business trip for my next haircut.
I put off finding a hair stylist here in San Francisco, hoping for regular quarterly business trips back to Texas. But finally, I succumbed to the Great Stylist Search.
San Francisco is a small city with a lot of hair salons and barbershops.
Ricky goes to the "Supercuts," $8, but he's Italian and - like the Scot above - can wear Pixie Bangs, or no bangs at all. I'm not saying Supercuts = Badcuts. I'm just saying I've never had any luck with them.
Both of my Houston stylists said, "When you see someone with the haircut you look best in, go ask them who cuts their hair." Great theory, lousy practice. Everyone who wears the cut I like is either on a train going the other way, or has Maria Shriver hair. Not the style, the hair -- so thick and full that a bad cut looks good.
So, I started wandering down Union and Chestnut, two streets notable for blonds. I visited more than a dozen hair salons, asking about pricing and styles, looking for a client with my hair. Suddenly, on Union near Fillmore, I saw a modest little sign that said, "Nice Cuts, $15."
Having just left a faux-Peruvian salon with bottled water costing $15, I was intrigued. The place, even from the outside, had a nice vibe. I walked in, and two Asian women were laughing with a customer while cutting his short, soft blond hair.
Nice.
Granted, they were giving him Pixie Bangs. But he could wear them. Think of George or Sean gone blond.
One of the women, Wanda, sat down with me. She began feeling my hair and talking to her colleague in rapid Korean.
Wanda wagged one finger very seriously at me: "Your hair, very fine, very light. Bad cut shows. I take care of you, give you nice cut for blond lady."
The Pixie Bang guy in the chair said, "My sister has your hair; she loves it here."
A peaceful, easy feeling began to steal over me. Nice people, nice place, nice vibe, nice customer. And at a $15, a Nice Price.
Camping Cookbook, Vol. 1
As with any great chef -- Escoffier, Pépin, Boyardee -- my husband has never met an ingredient he couldn't use. Tell him a pigeon pooped on the car and he replies, "Ah, the French have such a classic way of preparing squab."
This isn't revenge; this is a mind wide open to innovative, seasonal and contextually appropriate ingredients.
Recipes are constantly cooking in Richard's brain. Any other activity or conversation is merely an onion skin facade, behind which simmers some new sauce.
Left-overs are a particularly rich source of inspiration for him. He loves to rummage around and make never-again-to-be-recreated dishes out of random yet still fresh bits and pieces. Meals stay with him mentally, and often he'll call to say, "You know those roasted beets we didn't finish last night...?"
Richard is also an enthusiastic outdoorsman. Show him a mountain and he climbs it. Give him a river, and he fords it. Lead him to Bambi, and he grills it.
Sunday, all of this collided in a sleepy, late night conversation about meals he could prepare for a several-day hiking and rafting trip.
To set the scene:
Our friend L. had been over for dinner. We all enjoy tapas, so there were a variety of small dishes and courses, including make-your-own Pita Pizzas with ingredients such as tomatos, mushrooms, onions, cheese, zucchini and eggplant.
L is a local pastor in the process of resigning from his church to explore a more monastic life. He is going to live at a campground owned by a Christian group south of San Francisco, and begin to develop wilderness programs for church groups.
I used to lead hiking, kayaking, camping, etc., trips for youth and church groups; Richard is an experienced expedition cook and an all-round good camper; and so the three of us spent a few minutes brainstorming about potential trips.
Conversation then turned to other things, L went home, we cleaned up, and went upstairs.
The San Francisco area has been having wintry weather this March -- snow, ice, freezing conditions. Right before L came over, a hail storm swept over our house, and frost formed on the windows.
So, it's cold and windy outside. The sound of the waves crashing on the shore is a clear and comforting lullaby. We're warm and sleepy. I in fact am much more asleep than awake, and while Richard is talking softly and slowly about possible hiking trips, I'm slipping away into the arms of Morpheus.
Then Richard says two words that bring me into sudden wakefulness:
"Eggplant roll-ups."
"What?" I ask.
"When you bring the kids down river," he said, clearly having been ruminating on the remains of the meal, "I'll be waiting at a pre-arranged spot with dinner for them. We could start with eggplant roll-ups. Sliced thin-thin, spiced and filled with..."
My silent shaking turned to helpless, unrestrained laughter, and after a moment, he joined me.
Eggplant roll-ups on a youth group river trip.
It's "Deliverance" meets the Galloping Gourmet.
I'll never know what was to be rolled-up in those thin, thin slices of eggplant.
Richard won't talk to me about them any more.
But it was one of the best and longest laughs we've ever had.
Ready to go camping with us?
Shaken and stirred
And now we are age five, possibly six.
As a young child, I fell into the revolving arms of James Bond, and stayed there.
When 007 movie marathons play, I move inexorably towards the television, like one of the zombies in Live and Let Die. The theme music acts as a Homeric siren song to my senses, pulling me in to the Bond Zone where this competant, resourceful, amusing person always finds a way to win, a way to do the right thing for King and country.
We're not talking eros, here.
We're talking superhero love.
Some kids went for Batman or Barbi.
Aging into the mysteries and arrogance of adolescence, they went for Peter Frampton or one of Charlie's angels.
Not this kid. This kid fell hook, line and cocktail for 007, and never recovered.
Because the child in me loved James Bond, I was able to let Sean Connery go and embrace Roger Moore. Timothy Dalton? Pierce Brosnan? The tuxedo passed from man to man, and it was all good, because it was Bond I loved.
James Bond, with his indominatable tenacity and immortal wit, gave this little girl a picture of mental toughness and moral courage that overcame a world of betrayal, deceit, corruption and pain.
And now we are grown, and we see the culture of violence and sex. We get the double entendres and we wince at characters named Pussy Galore.
But despite the guns and girls, the casual death and sex, I still find moral courage in James Bond.
For me, he's always the incorruptible Commander Bond, the loyal sailor who took an oath to defend the country that once embraced the ideal of "might for right." 007 didn't fight Goldfinger for personal enrichment or to climb a career ladder, he was defending the realm against a bad guy.
James is never deflected from the mission, and he rarely injects his own agenda in a way that changes what he is supposed to be doing. Look at people around us who have power -- small scale or large scale -- and notice how often they replace and/or modify the original mission with their own personal agenda.
It takes moral courage to stay on mission, even if those missions look like James Bond's.
Bond is also a minimalist, something I admire while struggling to imitate. Minimalism surely was born in the Royal Navy where sailors don't have much room for bric-a-brac, and became honed in MI6 where you travel fast and light or not at all. Bond is such a minimalist that Sean Connery sped through several films -- Thunderball comes strongly to mind -- wearing little more than swim shorts. (I only noticed this last week, by the way, after having been entrapped by the theme music when my husband was channel-surfing. Poor Ricky, I think he was hoping for Seinfeld. Instead, he got a Bond marathon.)
Yes, there were the silly space operas, and Roger Moore should probably have bowed out before A View To A Kill, and yada yada yada I still love James Bond.
I hope this new guy, Daniel Craig, gets Bond right.
Shaken, not stirred.
Amused, not serious.
A gentleman, not a lecher.
Loyal, courageous, resourceful, and competent to the end.
A five-year-old girl is depending on you.
The spy who loves me
I have seen my husband's future...
And he is Sir Roger Moore.
Note:
- the navy blazer with gold buttons,
- the faun trousers sporting an impeccable crease,
- the clean white shirt serving as a canvas for the bright tie in 1970s width.
It's Ricky, 25 years from now, wearing the clothes hanging in our closet at this very moment.
The glasses are a stretch. Currently, Richard is favoring the retro black plastic frames that say "1950s U.S. State Department." But then his dad was a state department diplomat in the 50s, and Richard comes by intrigue very honestly.
And the freckles. I don't see that happening. Otherwise, though, this picture looks like our future. I wonder if we can snag a gig as a UNICEF ambassador (Moore's current tour)? We like children, world travel, talking... Brangelina, move over.
The passage of time has been kind to James Bond, forever in his prime, as well as to the actors who've played him. Roger Moore is 79 or 80, in awfully good shape, trotting the globe with his blond-ish wife while making urbane, witty speeches. Somewhere in Scotland, a picture of Sean Connery gathers dust in an attic, while the man himself keeps getting sexier.
I like this future. I think I'll choose it.
Ricky, renew your passport and iron your shorts.
We're catching the next flight to Mozambique.
