Winter Garden: BEFORE and AFTER

Planting a summer garden is an exercise in patience. You plunk the little guys in the ground in the spring when all other plants dwarf the new vegetable plants. Then you have to wait until the Fourth of July or the fourth of August for one little tomato. 

However, planting a winter garden is a pleasant surprise because you put the itty bitty broccoli and rinky dinky kale in the ground in November when everything else is dormant, dead or a cactus. 

BEFORE:

Then POOFF! One day in January you notice how the broccoli plants are huge and are topped with gorgeous broccoli florets worthy of a dish made by locavore Alice Waters! Vegetables grown in my own backyard? "Eating local" doesn't get any more local that that!

AFTER:

I just wonder if I can wait a few more days to harvest the broccoli for a special heart-healthy dinner for Valentine's Day...

A Slippery Slope

"Look at that tree," I said as our car drove along California Route 46.
"Nice," Mr. Wonderful said at the steering wheel.
"Its foliage is beautiful."
"Yes."
"Wouldn't it look good in our garden?"
Silence.

One of the best things about traveling is souvenirs and how they give you new ideas for your own life. Sometimes what you see sparks an idea for: 1) A gift for friend; 2) A gift for yourself; or 3) A regift for your boss who made you work overtime without overtime pay.

While vacationing in the California Sierras, Mr. Wonderful was hesitant about my affinity for the tree because: 1) It was large; 2) It had a mass of leaves; and 3) It dropped every last one of them on the ground in the seven seconds that we were looking at it. If my spouse had to choose between raking leaves and going to the home improvement store 106 times in one day, he would take the latter, hands--and drills--down.

But the tree was just one of the good ideas I'd gotten while we were vacationing in California's mountain country. I also liked the indoor stone fireplaces, the outdoor fire pits and the random boulders decorating the grounds. My spouse informed me that we already had an indoor brick fireplace, an outdoor fire pit and although we didn't have any boulders, we had some nice pebbles near the front door, which were sort of like boulders.

Sort of, like. Not. But wouldn't another another fireplace, another fire pit be better? More was always better.

Determined to find some idea I could import to our house I saw one at the hotel.
"Aren't the little bears on that statue cute?" I said laughing at the carved wooden bears clustered around the hotel's welcome sign.
"It's a slippery slope," Mr. Wonderful said pointing to a second larger statue of three bears foraging. Together the statues would have created a fine grotto that Smokey the Bear fans would have loved.

"Look there, and there, and there," Mr. Wonderful said pointing out three more bear statues, which were composed of increasingly more bears. It was a regular Bear Jamboree!

I grabbed my camera to document the situation since I hadn't seen so many bears out of hibernation since my last family reunion.

Bears, bears everywhere! I even took a picture of a bear statue which had its own cameras! I thought it was hilarious!  

Mr. Wonderful was not amused. He likes simple things and usually I do, too, but there was something comical and appealing about the bears. When I stopped looking through my camera viewfinder, I noticed there were even more bear statues. Whoever did the landscaping for this hotel and its grounds was "barely" thinking because when I scanned the property I noticed two dozen works of "bear art" aka "Be'art".

Then it ht me. This was indeed a slippery slope for more was not always better. One well placed bear statue would have said it all about the nature of the hotel. Yes, the landscaper would have been wiser to have used just the original statue I'd seen of the two little bears. Or if they wanted to express their humor, the bear with the cameras. Or if they wanted to express their "more is better" motto, a bear falling over a slippery slope. A slippery slope indeed.

"Do you want any souvenirs before we leave the Sierras?" Mr. Wonderful asked as he loaded our luggage into the souvenir-free car.

"I've got everything I need," I said linking my arm through his.

The Ambulance

"Going for a walk, Harold?" I said trimming my garden hedge.

"Trying to," my 86 year-old neighbor said tying his shoelaces.

"It's a good day for a walk."

"If you say so."

"I'll hold down the fort!"

"Nothing's going to happen. Nothing ever happens."

Ah, Harold. He is a sun beam of light and positivity: hardly ever. Unbeknownst to us, back when Mr. Wonderful and I bought The House, into the deal was tossed a lifetime of fixing it up, unending taxes and taxing neighbors. What's that old expression? "You can't pick your neighbors but you can tolerate them to the best of your ability until they push you too far and you say 'No way, Jose. There and no farther!'" Yes, that's how it goes.   

Buying The House we got lucky by getting neighbors who cared about their properties, who cared about the other neighbors and who cared about seeing the glass of the world as half full. 

Then there was Harold. 

He had all the ingredients for a happy life: 1) A loving wife; 2) Kids and grandkids; and 3) A house that was already fixed up. Compared to me he was batting a 1000. When I'm overworked I often wish I had a wife. And not just any wife but a keeper like Norma. But Harold didn't see it that way. He focused on the negative complaining that his grass was dead, his crop of weeds was hearty and nothing ever happened. Personally, I found it hard to believe that nothing ever happened to a man who'd been alive throughout the 20th century. What about the Korean War? WWII? The Beatles playing on the Ed Sullivan show?!

So on this warm evening while I was pruning the dead branches from my front garden, Harold went out for a walk around the neighborhood. Maybe, I thought snipping a dead stalk off the Bird of Paradise, getting some fresh air would change his perspective.

The bad thing about pruning the front garden is that it takes time. The good thing is that it gives me the opportunity to see the world pass by. First Cyrus, a Persian man who lived around the corner, strolled by and we chatted. Next came a couple pushing their infant in a stroller. Then came the ambulance.

Ambulance?!

It rolled up silently but with lights flashing and stopped right before Harold and Norma's house. I dropped my pruning clippers. Two fit EMS guys jumped out and rolled a stretcher up the front walk and entered... Jerry's house. The ambulance lights were still flashing. The tension was thick. Just then Harold came hoofing down the street.

"Is it Norma?!" he hollered huffing and puffing as he passed my house going toward his own. Thinking that his wife of 58 years was in an ambulance, I'm surprised Harold didn't keel over with a heart attack then and there.

"No, they're in Jerry's house."

"He's too young to go." 

"Technically Jerry's middle aged."

"He's 30 years younger than me."

Harold did have a point. But in truth, there wasn't any rhyme or reason to it. Some "young" people went before their time and some "old" people refused to go to the exit despite the fact that nothing ever happened.

Harold bee-lined into his house to check on Norma. Meanwhile I watched the EMS guys roll the stretcher out of Jerry's house. Luckily, Jerry wasn't on it. He had an uncle visiting who'd had chest pains and it was that older man who was loaded into the ambulance and whisked off to the hospital. I sighed with relief: Jerry was okay. I sighed again: Norma was okay. I sighed a third time: Harold was okay.

The next day I saw Harold and Norma outside wearing sweatshirts. 

"Going for a walk, you two?" I said trimming the garden hedge.

"Trying to," Harold said kneeling in front of Norma to tie her shoelaces.

"I'll hold down the fort," I said. "Because you never know what might happen."

Harold nodded, his perspective had changed. Then clasping Norma's hand, something happened to my two 80-something neighbors: they took a walk together.

Salad Days

It's sunny.
It's warm.
And the lettuce is coming out of my ears!

My flukey experiment of planting lettuce in the fall to keep the soil from blowing away has led to lots of lettuce. Loads of it. Legions and legionnaires of it! Mais oui!

Every day I have to harvest another head of lettuce because the stuff is growing like hotcakes. If I sold the lettuce, they'd sell like weeds! And I'd become a millionaire--what piece of cupcake!

For dinner last night I made a French onion soup from scratch but because of the invasion of lettuce, I scrapped the hot soup for a green lettuce salad with cherry tomatoes. And it was delicious.

It's only January and already I'm enjoying these salad days! Bon appetit!

Let Us Discuss the Fluke

"I did it on a whim", I said waving my serrated knife in the air.
"What?" Mr. Wonderful said standing in the kitchen.
"And it worked."
"What worked?"
"It's a fluke!"
"What's a fluke?!"

I called it a "fluke" but that didn't help Mr. Wonderful understand what I was talking about because most things in my life have fallen into the "fluke" category. Major flukes alone have included: 1) My pet; 2) My career; and 3) The car I drive because no one can believe the thing still runs.

But this current fluke I was referring to was one of the flukiest. Back in the fall after I'd ripped out my barren tomatoes, I read that in order to keep the soil from blowing away in the coming Santa Ana winds, that I should plant "winter crops". Winter crops include things like broccoli, kale and silver Christmas trees, pre-decorated.

So off to the the nursery I went with Mr. Wonderful in tow. I bought broccoli, kale, romaine lettuce, Jerusalem artichokes and Popeye spinach. It's strange planting baby vegetables in October. But hey, it was just on a fluke. Who knew if they would take.

Well, they took! Here it is January and the artichokes are growing. The broccoli looks like broccoli! The curly kale is ready to be ground into a healthy smoothie! The lettuce is just amazing! It went from small:

To BIG: 

To my kitchen counter! And into a salad.

These flukes were fabulous!

The only disappointment was the spinach which hasn't grown at all. If spinach doesn't grow how can it help Popeye be so strong? Maybe I should talk to Popeye about it. Or maybe I should just plant more flukey romaine lettuce!

Cat or Dog?

“You look like a dog person,” the barista said taking my order.

“I love dogs,” I said handing her cash.

“I can always tell a dog person.”

“Dog people are good people.”

“What’s your dog’s name?”

“Uh, I have a cat.”

Before buying The House, whenever I longed for a pet, I pictured a dog because as everyone knows—including the barista at the local coffee shop—I’m a dog person. But that didn’t happen. Instead I agreed to adopt a large adult cat—I’d never met—who suffered from Narcolepsy, a Decadent Life Disorder and Shedding Hair Everywhere Syndrome. Needless to say, adopting him sight unseen was a recipe for disaster or at least the textbook definition of how not to get a pet. But felines aren’t stupid. There’s a reason they were considered gods in ancient Egypt and it wasn’t just because they liked pyramids. 

Sooner or later cats understand what type of person you are. After living with us for 466 days, Jackson had discovered what the barsita knew in 1.6 seconds: I was a dog person. So a funny thing has happened to our feline. He’s become more… canine. 

When Jackson first came to us he slept on a chair, a sofa, the trés soft chaise longue. If the surface weren’t fluffy and stuffed with down feathers fit for the Princess and the Pea, it wasn’t soft enough for him. In short: he was a decadent softie with an oversleeping problem. Now I love furniture but even I like to eschew the softer surfaces and sit on the floor. There’s something about sitting on the floor and watching a movie that makes take-out Indian food taste better. Jackson must have felt the same way because soon he started sitting on the floor, too, which is just what a dog would do.

As soon as he arrived in The House, Jackson claimed a chair in the spare bedroom as his nighttime sleeping perch. This differed from his sleeping spots in the morning (living room chair), afternoon (sofa) and evening (chaise longue). But that too has changed. Now he sleeps on the floor beside the bed, just like a loving dog who's a girl's best friend. Lying there he’s ready to awaken when I do and ready to sleep whenever he wants to, which is still 76 hours a day. 

Finally the other night after dinner, Mr. Wonderful and I settled in to do important things like read comics and watch dancing cat videos when I noticed Jackson staring out the sliding glass door, transfixed. Suddenly a raccoon appeared just on the other side of the glass. And not just any old raccoon but the meanest, toughest-looking creature the size of a border collie, a bear, Bigfoot! As the raccoon peered in at us rubbing its little hands together in anticipation, Jackson leapt to his feet and just inches away charged the varmint. Jackson’s head slammed into the closed sliding glass door but that didn’t stop him. Our cat charged the raccoon again and again smashed his head against the glass.

“Jackson’s protecting us.” I said to my spouse. “Just like a dog!” 

“If he wants get at the raccoon we should let him,” Mr. Wonderful said unlocking the sliding glass door. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Mr. Wonderful opened the slider anyway, which made Jackson turn on his heels and scamper under the sofa. Meanwhile the raccoon, bored with two talkative humans, waddled off to wherever raccoons go. 

I closed the sliding glass door.

“I guess our cat isn’t much of a dog after all,” my spouse said.

“Or maybe he’s smart enough to know when to hold ‘em and when to fold ‘em?” 

Hmmm.

Back in the coffee shop when “Green Tea Latte!” was called, I retrieved it from the bar and noticed the barista had given my drink an extra flourish—a picture of a dog in warm milk foam! The man next to me noticed it, too, and said,

“Cool. What’s the name of your dog?”

“Jackson,” I said with a smile. “And I love it when he purrs.” The man gave me an odd look. But I didn’t have time to explain—I had to go see this girl’s best friend.

Lemon Suggestions

“What about here?” Mr. Wonderful said tapping his foot on the soil.

“Too close to the road,” I said scanning the front yard.

“Here?”

“Too close to the house.” 

“Here?”

“Too close to everything else.”

To say that I was being picky was an understatement. But then it isn’t every day you have to decide where to plant a lemon tree that will live for oh, 90 years—give or take. Plus this wasn’t just any old lemon tree: it was a gift that Mr. Wonderful and I gave each other for Christmas. Forget the wool socks, silk ties and spa gift cards, this past Christmas my spouse and I gifted each other wine, a lemon tree and uh, more wine. So this tree had to be planted in a special place, a place where it would thrive, a place that Mr. Wonderful and I could agree upon. Ay, there’s the rub: we had to agree since it belonged to both of us. 

Looking for a compromise I made a suggestion.

“Let’s look at the neighbors’ lemon trees.” Charles and Stephen had several lemon trees in their garden. In fact, their property was a regular orchard that rivaled anything you’d see near Fresno, along the 5 and in all those movies about orchards, uh, like Lemon Tree.

Mr. Wonderful liked my suggestion so we hoofed it to the neighbors’ orchards to see the lemons, oranges, and grapefruit. Posing our placement question to the neighbors, they gave us sage advice.

“Don’t plant it near a fence,” Charles said.

“Or everyone walking by will grab your fruit,” Stephen added. As if on cue, two teenagers stopped to grab a branch resting on the fence, but still on our neighbors’ property, and plucked six lemons from the tree.

“Hello!” Charles called out to them with a friendly wave at which point the kids dropped the fruit and ran away. A passing truck flattened all six fruits lying in the street.

“No one wins when you plant a fruit tree near a fence,” Stephen sighed. Good suggestion.

Walking back to The House, we saw Mary. Being a good Christian woman when she heard our dilemma she also gave us advice.

“Don’t plant it in the front yard. No one can steal fruit from your tree if they can’t see it.”

I never would have thought a good Christian woman needed to thwart thieves but maybe she was just trying to help those fruit-stealing kids to keep the eighth commandment. Any way we looked at it, she was right. Another good suggestion.

“What’s all the hubbub about?” our 86 year-old neighbor said checking his mailbox.

“Harold, if you had to plant a tree—” 

“A lemon tree,” I said. 

“Where would you plant it?” Mr. Wonderful and I said in unison.

“In the ground,” Harold said looking at us as if were crazy. 

When planting it, we heeded all their suggestions and now agree—the tree is in the perfect spot, for the next, oh, 90 years—give or take.

Speaking with the Neighbor

“I like your new truck,” my 86 year-old neighbor said pointing at the dilapidated pick-up parked in the street.

“It's not mine, Harold,” I said collecting the mail.

“It's parked in front of your house.”

“It's still not mine.”

“Norma," he hollered toward his front door. “It's their truck alright!”

I already knew Harold was old, grumpy and opinionated but now I had to add “hallucinatory” to that list of descriptors. I explained that just because a vehicle was parked in front of my house didn't make it mine. Also I explained that even when a truck was parked for six days in front of my house, that that didn't make it mine. But Harold wasn't hearing any of it. In his mind the truck was ours and we should move it. 

“It's been there for six days already,” he said returning to his house.

For two weeks he referred to the truck as belonging to us. Little did I know that this truck business was the tip of the iceberg when it came to Harold's unique language. Not long afterwards I saw our neighbor watering his weeds.

“I saw your pet last night,” Harold said as I parked our real car in our real driveway. 

“Jackson didn't go out yesterday.”

“He was sitting on your pétanque court.”

“Jackson's afraid of it.” No truer sentence did I ever utter than to say that our feline was deathly afraid of... dirt. It wasn't because Jackson was particularly fastidious in his personal hygiene but because he was a real chicken about animate and inanimate things, the latter of which really scared the fur balls right out of him.

After some serious questioning that saw Harold sitting in a hard backed wooden chair and me standing over him with crossed arms demanding answers the likes of which have been seen in every episode of Law & Order, CSI and Judge Judy, he finally confessed.

“It was a raccoon,” he said with a shrug.

“Very funny, Harold,” I said which made him chuckle. He was laughing at his own joke! 

Okay, maybe Harold was not hallucinatory about the truck, he was just a bad joke teller.

Not long after that, Mr. Wonderful and I saw Charles and Stephen taking a walk right by our house. They stopped and we got to swap vacation stories and get caught up over the next 60 minutes. After waves, hugs and goodbyes, they turned toward home while Mr. Wonderful and I noticed Harold sweeping his garage.

“How are the boys?” he asked pushing the broom.

“Whose boys?” I said with furrowed brows.

“The boys,” Harold said jutting his chin toward Charles and Stephen's house. Wait. What?! How could he call two adult men in a committed relationship who owned their own house the boys? Clearly Harold was out of touch. Charles and Stephen demanded the respect of being called the "neighbors", the "men" or that "cute couple who loves musical theater". 

Before I could protest or say anything, Norma opened the house door into the garage. 

“Dinner's ready, Harold. What's taking you so long?”

“I'm talking to the kids,” he said putting his broom away. The kids? The kids?! Excuse me, my brain squawked! Mr. Wonderful and I were in a committed relationship, owned our own house and we weren't born yesterday! 

I paused. Harold could have called us the “crazy ones”, “them” or the “super annoying people with all the questions who lived next door”. Hmmm. I guess if we had to be called something, “the kids” wasn’t too bad.

“He called us the kids,” my spouse said turning to me with big eyes.

“That's exactly what our 86 year-old neighbor should call us. And that's fine by me." 

Since then I don't protest to Harold's unique vocabulary. And when he calls us “the kids”, I come running.

Super News

No.
Really?
Wow!

Yesterday the New England Book Festival took place in Boston, Massachusetts. The grand prize-winning book of the festival was Salt, Sugar, Fat: How the Food Giants Hooked Us written by Pulitzer Prize-winning author Michael Moss and published by Random House.

Also, at the New England Book Festival, my book Evolution of a Wine Drinker, received an Honorable Mention in the Wildcard Category. (They didn't have a Wine Category, Comedy Category or Funny Vino Book Category.)

Wow! My book was honored at the same festival as Moss' Salt, Sugar, Fat book! It feels so good to be in such distinguished company!

Wow, wow, WOW!

Thank you New England Book Festival!

Kitchen Cabinets BEFORE and AFTER

"The kitchen cabinets' interiors?" Mr. Wonderful had said looking up from his Lucky Luke comic book.

"Yes," I'd said holding a brochure of paint samples.

"Who cares what they look like?" 

"I do."

That's right. I cared then and I still cared now but that's because I did it! Here are some BEFORE and AFTER pictures of sanding and painting the interiors of the kitchen cabinets.

BEFORE: 

The interiors of the kitchen cabinets had been covered in shelf paper, which once removed left a residue of hardened glue on the shelves and showed how ugly the shelves were, thus explaining why the previous owners had used shelf paper in the first place. Shelf paper covers a multitude of cabinet sins.

I also wanted a shelf just for my cutting boards, so during my grueling sanding toil, Mr. Wonderful built a new shelf that hangs down from the upper shelf. This simple concept rivals the Hanging Gardens of Babylon as one of the Seven Wonders of the World! Now it's one of the seven wonders of my kitchen!

DURING: 

I applied three coast of paint to the interior shelves, ceiling and walls. Since the cutting board shelf was virgin wood, I gave it extra coats, like 76.

AFTER: 

Plates, bowls and cutting boards now have a bright place in the cabinet. And they look great! In fact the cabinet interiors look so good I keep opening the cabinet doors just to gaze at the ordered cleanliness. 

Once the paint was dry and I'd put everything back in its place, Mr. Wonderful opened the cabinet doors himself. 

"Not bad," he said with a nod.

"Now do you see why I cared?" He nodded. "You care now, too, right?" He shrugged. I just know deep, deep, deep down he cared about those interiors.

"Hey, I've got another job for you," he said. "It's sanding down--"

"No!" I plugged my ears. "I never want to sand again!" Even with my ear's plugged I could hear him laughing. 

He's so funny. [Said with an ironic tone.] So very funny.

Riding Alone

In the Wild West, the Lone Ranger had Tonto.

Butch Cassidy had the Sundance Kid.

And Woody had Buzz Lightyear.

But I… I ride solo.

Being the ultimate traveling cowboy, I saw a need for a ranch improvement, planned the job and carried it out on my own. Yep, partner. That's how I ride: solo, solitaire, solitary.

The job on hand was one of the typical things you find out in the far west--AKA sanding and painting kitchen cabinet interiors. Actually, I hear they do that type of back-breaking, soul-killing work in the north, south and back east, too. So maybe folks in those parts will know how my arms, fingers and back felt: like they'd been trampled by a herd of buffalo. Twice.

I said I did the work on my own, just like the Marlborough Man did. I know they have those electronic de-vices--those sanders--that will mechanically sand surfaces so you don't have to, which you can rent at Lowe's, the Home Depot or the General Store. But I didn't use any of those new fangled gadgets the traveling salesmen who arrive on the noon stagecoach are pushing these days. I used sandpaper. A lot of it.

To reiterate, I did all the sanding work on my own, like Alan Ladd's Shane did. I distinctly remember a scene in the movie where he's in Miss Marian's kitchen sanding down the cabinet interiors while her son Little Joey says, "That's mighty fine sanding, Shane, Shane, oh Shaaaaane!"

Shane didn't need any help nor did I. Oh sure, some punk kid in a fur jacket approached me because he was as a curious as a cat. Actually this punk kid was a cat. I told the punk kid two words.

"Jackson, skedaddle." Sure enough, he ran away like he had white paint on his paws. Upon recollection, he did have paint on his paws because he left tracks behind and all throughout my homestead. A lot of them.

Finally, I did all the painting, just like Clint Eastwood's "Man With No Name". There's a crazy scene in in The Good The Bad and The Ugly when No Name Man/The Good is trying to paint the cabinet interiors but The Bad is throwing wrenches into this plan. AKA The Bad is literally throwing wrenches at The Good guy while wearing his black leather gloves, all the while Ennio Morricone's soundtrack is playing Wah, Wah… Doodle oodle oo. Wah, wah, wah, wah.

The work was hard enough without the extra wrenches but Mr. Wonderful was tired of seeing cowboy me and my hang-dog look working on this shelf-painting project. So he thought he'd be all friendly like and help out… by building another shelf! To be fair, this brand new shelf was something I'd been hollering for for months. What I'd said to him was, "every cowboy needs a special shelf just for the cutting boards". He tipped his hat and after I'd sanded and painted ad nauseam, he added another shelf, which I had to paint 56 times to have it match the other shelves. 

Did I mention the wrenches? Mr. Wonderful was channelling The Bad's badness in the field of wrenches. 

Just as the sun was setting, I realized: this project is done. The ranch is improved and just like the Marlborough Man, Shane and The Good guy With No Name, I could now leave this homestead behind and ride off into the sunset--

What?! After all the detailed, itty-gritty, insane work I'd done on the kitchen cabinet interiors, there was no way I was leaving this ranch! No sir-ee! Instead I leaned against the fence admiring my handiwork and watched the sunset fall where I stood. This cowboy was settling down. Ahhh, the Wild West is a little less wild now and the kitchen cabinet interiors are... gorgeous.

My Cat, His Cat

"You want to do it?" I said shaking it up. 

"No, thanks," Mr. Wonderful said grabbing his jacket.

"It'll be good times." 

"I don't think so," he said walking out the door.

"You're going to miss the all fun!"

Actually, what I was "shaking up" was a can of paint, and the "fun" was painting the interior of my kitchen cabinets. Oh yeah! Mr. Wonderful didn't think this endeavor sounded like a good--or even mediocre--way to spend a Saturday night but that's only because he hadn't spent two days sanding down all the surfaces in said cabinets. For me, everything I'd done all weekend was building toward this moment of painting. Bring it!

Instead, the man who promised to love, honor and dip my brushes arranged a game night with his buddies and left me to the paint and rollers. Thank goodness I have my cat! 

While my spouse was cracking open beers with his pals, Jackson kept me company as I coated the interior cabinet shelves, walls and ceilings with Behr paint--color Elegant White, if you please.

While my spouse was losing his shirt in a "friendly" game of poker, my cat and I took a drink break: milk for me and a glass of Pinot Noir for him. Or was it the other way around? Paint fumes do funny things to your brain when the only one you can talk to is a feline who responds with intelligent looks, frequent naps and lots of licking.

While my spouse was buying drinks for the winning poker player, my cat and I cleaned up--he did the kitchen, I licked his fur. Or was it the other way around? Then we both fell asleep in our respective beds. Who needed a spouse? I had all the Saturday night companionship I needed from my cat: 1) My dear Jackson made my life more fun; 2) He gave me more good times; 3) He ate all the leftovers. I loved my cat!

The next morning, I examined the painting work. Peering inside the kitchen cabinets I saw… cat paw prints; a line of dirty cat paw prints that ambled about the space like Billy from the "Family Circus" cartoon. Ugh. While my husband and I had slept, Jackson had gone exploring inside the cabinets. With the paint still wet.  

Unfortunately now my cabinets were neither elegant nor white. Ugh-ugh-uuugh. I'd have to paint the cabinets again in another coat to cover the paw prints. Whose pet does that? Not mine.

As soon as Mr. Wonderful wakes up I'll make him a cup of delicious espresso, tell him how fun painting was last night and let him know what his cat did! 

An Unexpected Surprise

"Craigslist," I said putting a sticky note on the brand new box of never-worn men's roller blades.

"What's going on," Mr. Wonderful said finding me in the laundry room knee deep in stuff.

"Goodwill," I pointed to three bags of clothing.

"You're cleaning out the house?"  

"Garbage," I slapped a sticky on an old painting.

"Thank you!"

Yes, Mr. Wonderful was thanking me now but I'm not sure if he'd be thanking me in the evening. But then, why not? Mr. Wonderful was full of surprises. And thus far, January, too, had been full of surprises: 1) The weather had been 75-80 degrees F every day; 2) The sun had been shining every day; and 3) I'd gotten a suntan on New Year's day. I loved January surprises! One of the best things about January is getting rid of all the rubbish and detritus that accumulated during the previous year… just in time to make room for the junk I got for Christmas, Hanukkah and Kwanzaa! 

On this glorious day in which Mr. Wonderful had to work at the studio, I decided that I'd work, too. I dropped off a car full of bags at Goodwill, snapped some photos of "For Sale" stuff for Craigslist and emptied everything from my kitchen cabinets. In other words, I cleaned out the laundry room then made a mess of the kitchen. 

Oh, yes! Mr. Wonderful was going to be surprised alright!

But this was done with the goal of painting the kitchen cabinets' interior. Therefore every pot, pan, plate, bowl, spoon, mixer and cookie cutter was removed from its place in a kitchen cabinet and put atop the kitchen table, the butcher's block and the cat's water bowl. I had stashed more kitchen detritus  in those cabinets that now any available counter space in my kitchen was at a premium. Besides Jackson never drank from his water bowl preferring the pool's water. I like my water with lemon, he likes his with chlorine.

I seized 16,000 sheets of newspaper and laid them all over the floor, then grabbed the paint and brushes. The cat looked at me with interest.

"It's time to paint the interior of the kitchen cabinets!" I sang to the feline. He blinked, yawned then exited the kitchen for his 10th nap of the day. They're called "cat naps" for a reason. Cat's take them. A lot. 

As for my painting, my plan was to have the cabinet interiors painted and every pot, pan, plate, bowl, spoon, mixer and cookie cutter returned to its rightful place by the time Mr. Wonderful came home from the studio. Unfortunately it was only at this time that I closely examined the interior of the kitchen cabinets to find them, in short: a lousy mess. Their surfaces were as rough as Jackson's tongue, without the sanitary element. Evidently, previous owners had glued shelf paper to the cabinet interiors, which had left them covered in layers of residual glue making the cabinets as smooth as a pot-holed, rocky road in Cleveland. 

My, my, what a surprise. I couldn't just paint. Oh no, first I had to wash every shelf, door and wall; sand all the surfaces down; wash everything again; then paint. I hated January surprises. 

I went to the spotless laundry room to retrieve the sandpaper then returned to the disaster zone of my kitchen to sand down everything--scrape, scrape.

When you're sanding wood for, oh I don't know, 65 hours, the best thing to pass the time is to listen to NPR's Fresh Air radio show--every single episode of its 25 plus years. And when Terry Gross has stopped asking insightful questions of the newsmakers and culture shapers of the day, well keep sanding, Sugar, because it's ain't over. Scrape, scrape.

I sanded in the morning, I sanded in the afternoon, I sanded into the evening and I still it wasn't done. What a surprise. Speaking of, my spouse was going to be surprised when he saw the "Area 51" I had created in the space formerly known as "our kitchen". But hey, if he wanted to eat in a clean place, he could chow down in the laundry room.

"What's going on," Mr. Wonderful said finding me standing on the counter, balancing on one foot to reach a far corner in the uppermost cabinet. 

"I'm sanding," I said my clothes, hair and face covered in the super fine dust of wood and glue circa 1960. 

"What a surprise."

"I was supposed to be done by the time you got home."

"You're full of surprises."

"So if you want to eat in a clean place, go to the laundry room."

"Only if you join me," he revealed a carryout bag of Indian curry. I smiled tasting the wood dust on my lips.

"I like your surprise better than mine."

"Only because mine's finished.

Touché.

Good surprises and gifts shouldn't be reserved just for the holidays. January needs them, too. Scrape, scrape.

Happy New Year!

Happy New Year! I'm welcoming 2014 in with Jazz Hands. Whoop!

Hoping you get everything you work for this year! Time to get started… After lunch and a hike!

Happy New Year's Eve!

Some people dislike New Year's Eve but I am not one of them. Any day that encourages drinking Champagne is okay by me! I love bubbles: Brut, Extra Dry and Sec!

But before celebrating the new year with Champagne, its bubbles and toasts, I need to take stock of my hopes for this year.

12 months ago I made resolutions to exercise more, recycle more and work on The House less. In actuality I exercised less, recycled some and worked on The House all the time. Hmmm, how very rogue of me.

Rather than beat myself up about my failed resolutions, I'll make some new ones including recycling the list from last year.

Whoa! I did it! I recycled something and fulfilled one of my 2013 resolutions! Hooray! My resolution list did not fail! Now I've earned the right to drink Champagne!

And here's a toast: Wishing you a prosperous, Happy New Year!

Men's Silences

“The holidays are cozy,” I said curled up in an armchair palming my mug of eggnog.

“It’s a good time of year,” Mr. Wonderful said throwing another log on the fire.

“No labor, no sweat.”

“Just fun times and good drinks.”

“But don’t you miss the… work?”

Silence.

Mr. Wonderful said a lot—in his silences. In fact the first six months we dated, he didn’t say a word. Of course that could have been because of me and my big, non-stop motor mouth that has to share every idea with those I care about to get their take on things and to see if we really are compatible because life and relationships are constantly in flux and by talking with each other we can air concerns and check in on with how each other’s doing and where we are heading in the grand scheme of things—

On second thought: maybe Mr. Wonderful was silent so much because I never gave him a chance to speak? ...Nah.

After a couple years of marriage I’d gotten very good at reading Mr. Wonderful’s silences. There was the silence of 1) Agreement; of 2) Disagreement; and of 3) I’m-not-going-to-touch-that-with-a-ten-foot-pole-greement.

Now this particular silence on this particular day between Christmas and New Year’s was clearly a Cat. #1 Silence—aka Agreement. Deep down I knew that he missed working at the studio, working on the house, working on the big hole in the backyard—aka the pool. Well lucky for him I had a DIY project to do!

“The kitchen cabinet interiors need to be painted.”

“Why? No one sees them.”

“I do. Every day.”

Silence.

Another silence. Wow. Mr. Wonderful was super talkative today!

When we’d moved in to The House we were so busy with our jobs and getting settled we were forced to make choices. We'd decided to paint the kitchen cabinets on the outside but not the inside. When I had lamented this choice, Mr. Wonderful countered by saying how it didn’t matter since “no one sees the inside.”

“I do. Every day,” I’d said then. He responded with a silence. Comparing our move-in exchange to our current one I realized they were exactly the same, which meant painting cabinet interiors was vitally important to me while he embraced a Cat. #2 silence—aka he totally disagreed.

How could I have not heard what he’d said then? How could I have not heard his wishes? How could I hear what his silences said if he was so dang quiet?! Ever since the Fourth of July, we’d both been busy with work, working and workers. That’s it! We were disagreeing about this DIY project because for months we just hadn’t spent enough time together. Luckily I had a plan for that!

“Let’s paint the inside of the cabinets together!”

Silence.

Incredible! He'd heard me! Now Mr. Wonderful was screaming this silence! And it was the mother of them all: a Cat. #3—aka I’m not getting involved PERIOD.

“Thanks for telling me what you want,” I said hugging Mr. Wonderful. “I’ll paint it myself.”

Silence. More Cat. #3 from my spouse! Amazing! We were having a fabulous conversation!

The New Year and its resolutions were still a few days away but here at the tail end of 2013, I realized two I’d put on my 2014 list:

1) Get some brushes, sandpaper and white paint.

2) Have more silent conversations with Mr. Wonderful!

Merry Christmas!

Finally! Christmas is here! And my gifts were a success!

Mr. Wonderful loved the wine. In fact he opened a bottle right away to "test" it.

My 86 year-old neighbor liked the Eiswein I gave him. Or at least Harold didn't throw it away in front of me.

Jackson the cat pawed his wine cork "toy" once before attacking the wrapping paper and chasing his tale for an hour. How we laughed! Why did I even bother getting the cat a gift?

As for me, being with my loved ones was the best gift I got this year.

Merry Christmas!
 

Magical Christmas Eve...

It's Christmas Eve! I love this day with it's last minute shopping, baking, wrapping.

I relish how Christmas Eve is the last day of Great Expectations before tomorrow's presents, eating and unwrapping…

Enjoy today's excitement! Merry Christmas Eve!

Jingle Bells

“The Christmas tree looks good,” Mr. Wonderful said admiring the evergreen I’d decorated in the living room.

“What about these?” I said swooping my arm toward the fireplace.

“The stockings are a nice touch.”

“And this?”

“Mistletoe? You’re thorough—”

“What about the plants I decorated outside?!”

“Have you lost your mind?”

Deck the halls with boughs of holly! Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la! Christmas! It’s the only time of the year you can go overboard decorating every room, window and cubby hole with festive lights, tinsel and bells and everyone loves it… except Mr. Wonderful. Unlike the rest of the universe, Mr. Wonderful is not a fan of decorations although he does tolerate a turkey in November, some pumpkins in October and piles of tax receipts before April 15. So with Christmas, he liked the simple approach. In other words: zilch.

This lack of decorating was a problem because well, I loved it! How could I convince him that decorating every plant, bough and twig was the thing to do at this time of the year? A string of lights flashed in my brain! Of course!

“We have to decorate the exterior of our house because the neighbors do,” I said marching out the front door. 

“Who does that in our neighborhood?”

“Jerry!” I said swooping my arm toward our San Franciscan neighbor with the endless strings of red, green and white lights, which traced the outline of his house, including mailbox, gutters and outdoor electrical outlets. 

“You have a point,” he said shaking his head in defeat. Ah-ha! I clapped my hands and rubbed them together in anticipation of wrapping white lights around our palm trees—each one 60 feet tall!

“On second thought, maybe we shouldn’t decorate the outside,” Mr. Wonderful continued. “Since Harold doesn’t.” He swooped his arm toward our 86 year-old neighbor’s house and sure enough, the only festive thing Harold had up was the U.S. flag, which was more in keeping with the Fourth of July than X-mas, Jolly Saint Nick or fa-la-la-la-las. 

Drat. Now Mr. Wonderful had a point. Jerry’s decorations cancelled out Harold’s lack thereof and I was back to square one, otherwise known at this time of the year as the First Day of Christmas.

I needed to find another rationale for Christmas decorations. Christmas! That’s it! Of course!  I turned to Mr. Wonderful.

“We have to put Christmas decorations on the exterior of our house because it’s just for these few, special weeks a year.”

“Hmmm.” Mr. Wonderful said crossing his arms. “I’ll agree to that if you’ll let me not decorate for 52 weeks a year.”

“But that doesn’t make sense.”

“Neither do Christmas decorations.”

Now I’m not a lawyer but his logic was illogical, unconstitutional and not mathematical. If I let him not decorate for 52 weeks, then it would prevent me from decorating for my two weeks. 

No, I needed some how, some way, some thing, to convince Mr. Wonderful that I should display my tasteful, festive Christmas decorations to the world. Something! Of course!

“Jackson!” I entered the house calling our fierce some feline. A bell tinkled and Jackson trotted up to me.

“What happened to the cat?!” Mr. Wonderful said in shock.

“I decorated him for Christmas,” I said petting Jackson’s fur as he rubbed up against my leg the whole time the little bell on the red ribbon around his neck jingling and jangling. “What do you think?”

Mr. Wonderful rubbed Jackson’s ears, the bell tinkling with each turn of the cat’s head. “If he doesn’t mind being decorated,” Mr. Wonderful said. “Knock yourself out decorating the house.”

Then I kissed both my guys, under the mistletoe. Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la!

Christmas Decorations--New

"Which one do you like?" I asked holding up a silver snowman and a gold snowflake.

"Do I have to?" Mr. Wonderful said rolling his eyes in the busy Christmas aisle of the local holiday store.

"It's a tradition worth continuing."  

"But I don't want one."

"I want you to want one."

"I was afraid of that." 

Ahhh, Christmas. It's the only time of the year that I buy frivolous things like blenders, mixers and a wedding anniversary gift for my spouse and me. Growing up, I received a new ornament every year and I decided--yesterday--to restart the tradition this year in our new house. Which meant that I needed a new ornament, Mr. Wonderful needed a new ornament and my car needed a new hood ornament. 

Okay, maybe "need" was pushing things a little too far. So if I didn't "need" one, at least I really, really wanted one with a cherry and whip cream on top. To make me feel better about buying superfluous things, I was insisting that Mr. Wonderful also get an ornament. It was with this latter element that I erred on several fronts: 1) I took a man shopping; 2) I did this during the holiday rush; 3) I wanted him to choose a decoration?! Had I gone mad?!

Mr. Wonderful is many things: handsome, dependable, talented, handy, funny, charm-- But I digress. My point is, Mr. Wonderful is many things except a decorator. He does not like frou-frou decorations and the only thing he dislikes more that frou-frou decorations is being forced to buy frou-frou decorations on a busy Saturday at the mall 10 days before Christmas. Suddenly I felt guilty for dragging him here.

"If you want to forget this and go home, do it," I said with a shrug.

"Great!" he said pulling the car keys out of his pocket and bee-lining for the mall exit. Oh, no! If I didn't stop him he'd be gone, I'd have to get his and my ornaments and then bum a ride home from Santa or one of his elves because having seen the carnaval-like atmosphere at the mall with frantic shoppers and different Christmas tunes blaring from every different store, my spouse would never return to the mall to pick me up. I'd be stuck there with "Grandma Got Run over by a Reindeer" into infinity. I needed to do something fast.

"Before you go, pick out your own ornament." He stopped in his tracks.

"You want me to pick out an ornament?"

"I know you hate frou-frou decorations."

"But I hate frou-frou decorations."

"Just get whatever you want." His eyes locked on mine and he paused. For six full seconds.

"I'll only get an ornament if Jackson gets one, too." 

In this world there are givers and takers and I was a definite giver, helping my family, friends, and complete and utter strangers. There wasn't a taking bone in my body. But our tuxedo cat, Jackson, he was a serious taker. He took food, toys and all of our attention at all hours of the night and day meowing incessantly until he got petted, brushed and stroked enough to his liking. It was enough to turn Mother Theresa over in her grave. Why should we get our cat an ornament? 

"Deal?" Mr. Wonderful said sticking out his hand. Try as I might, I couldn't be stingy at this time of the year, not even toward the ultimate feline taker.  

I shook my spouse's hand and he disappeared among the ornament racks looking for the ideal ornament, looking for something that spoke to him. Meanwhile I spun the rack looking for something for Jackson, when BOOM! I found it! It was an ornament with a cat on it that totally summed up Jackson's taker life and luxury lifestyle. 

Just then Mr. Wonderful returned grinning. He'd found an ornament for himself.

"That was fast," I said being infected with Mr. Wonderful's excitement. "Let's see it." He held up a papier mâche ball.

"It's not frou-frou," he said. "Plus I can fix it up anyway I want it to. Although I sort of like it just as it is."

"It's perfectly you." I said admiring the simplicity of his ornament and taste. "Here's Jackson's," I said holding up a confection with a beret-wearing cat on a settee covered in glitter. Mr. Wonderful laughed. 

"It's so luxurious, frou-frou and totally him!"

With ornaments bought and mission accomplished, we left the busy mall holding hands to go decorate our tree. And our tree wasn't frou-frou at all.

Christmas Decorations--Old

"Look at this one," I said removing an ornament from the box marked "Christmas".
"It's… uh, well… it's unique," Mr. Wonderful said sipping his espresso.
"I painted it myself."
"How old were you?"
"20."
"O-kay."

It's Christmastime, that wonderful time of the year when we celebrate the season of giving with eggnog, mulled wine and 316 local performances of "The Nutcracker". Even if Mr. Wonderful were giving me grief about my hand-painted ornament, I could take it because I enjoy Christmastime. My mom and grandmothers preferred this holiday above all others and instilled in me an appreciation for the sights, sounds and decorations of this festive season. Although they failed to give me any painting skills.

Every year when I was a kid, my parents bought me a new Christmas tree ornament. Some years the ornaments were elegant, other years they were creative, funny or so-so place holders. Each one serves as a marker of a childhood.

Now in my own home, I unpacked these ornaments and hung them on a tree.

Here are some of my ornament highlights.

Every tree should have a nutcracker. This mini version even has a mouth that opens and closes to crack any nuts tiny enough to fit in his pie hole.

One of the joys of Christmas is making things with your own hands--like sugar cookies, wreaths and ornaments. Here's a hand-painted one of a rhinoceros. Although rhinos are not the cuddliest or most Christmasy of animals, growing up I really liked them and have several rhino ornaments. I still like this one even if Mr. Wonderful was underwhelmed by the painting.

Christmas ornaments needn't be just angels, lowing sheep and virgins. I also liked this one of "Mater" the pickup truck from the Cars movie.

But at the end of the day, the simple ornaments are the best. This one remains a perennial favorite.

Hoping you deck your tree in style!

Wine Gift Ideas

This year I'm giving everyone on my Christmas list wine-related gifts.

Mr. Wonderful is getting wine. He already has a lot, but more won't hurt him. Or me!

My 86 year-old neighbor, Harold, will get a bottle of sweet eiswein. Maybe it will sweeten him up?

Jackson the cat will get a cork cat toy, which I know he will write me a kind "thank you" note for and cherish for many years to come.

If you're looking for wine gifts for Christmas, check out these wine-y ideas!

Cheers!

Giveaway Books Given Away

The Goodreads giveaway for my book, Evolution of a Wine Drinker, has ended. Which means there are five people who will now get a signed copy of my book. I hope they like wine…

Just so they know, and you know, and they know that you know: the books are in the mail!

I hope the packages arrive by Christmas! If not, we'll blame snow, international customs, and more international snow.

Thanks to everyone for participating in the Giveaway! Your enthusiasm for my book got me so jazzed that I want to Deck the Halls with… Wine!

Happy Holidays!