Tales from the Shark Tank

Sunday afternoon, as the culmination of much planning by my lovely and talented friend L., a planner of parties unsurpassed in talent, we had a bridal shower. We thought we were going to have far more people than we ended up having, and the weather was lovely and summer-warm, so the party was outside on the front lawn. Our only real problem was with the wind, which kept trying to run off the the net domes over the food, the flowers and occasionally the food itself. I suppose it must have been offended by our neglect to mail it an invitation, but we just couldn’t find its address. It must have a super-secret P.O. Box or something of the sort.

The party was out of town for me, as pretty much everything is, and one of the guests from even further away. So K. drove here on Friday afternoon, whereupon we transferred her stuff into my mommy-van, got in, and drove off. It was easier than putting my things into her car, as I had not only my suitcase and computer case, but a basket ornamented with silk flowers for the guest of honor to carry gifts home in, another basket containing the prizes for the games, a bag with my angel cake pan and cake flour (things our hostess does not keep in her kitchen), tulle in which to wrap the party favors (chocolates done up in tulle tied with ribbon to look rather flower-like)…well, you get the picture. There was a lot of stuff. My friend had less than half as much, so it was far easier to transfer her things than mine.

We’d started later than we hoped, but got there before L. and her housemate were in bed. The four of us chatted for awhile, aided in relaxation by a round of chocolate martinis and homemade chocolate chip cookies. Did I mention that L. prefers to save time and trouble by mixing her drinks strong enough that you don’t need a second one? And that it was the far end of a long day? (Never mind that my alcohol tolerance is so low it’s been a subject of jokes since I was old enough to indulge….) I finished mine, sat there quietly for a few minutes, and then just laid down to one side, closed my eyes, and listened to the conversation, contributing my two cents worth just often enough to provide evidence that I wasn’t asleep. I’m not sure how long after that it was that K. and I simply wandered off and went to sleep.

The weekend in question was chosen because we were in fact helping with the shower, but it had as its not-so-secondary purpose some serious unwinding, and it was accomplished spectacularly. L. and her housemate are the masters of making a guest feel amazingly pampered. We were treated to lovely omelets outside on the patio, a fabulous dinner at a new restaurant on Saturday evening with most of the people we would have chosen to see, and wonderful company. I even got to indulge in some baking therapy, making a chocolate angel food cake for the next day. I must have done something right, as even people who said “oh, just a tiny bite” ended up coming back and getting a whole piece. That cake didn’t just disappear gradually – it all but evaporated.

We did have a grand laugh Sunday morning. K. and I had slept fairly late. She finally opined that we really should be getting up, as there was work to be done. I responded that L. was quite capable of knocking if she wanted us up…and on the word, before K. even had a chance to respond, came the knock at the guestroom door. The timing was impeccable.

We divided tasks – L. and my younger foster daughter handled outside decoration, I was in charge of kitchen-y things, and K. in charge of spotting any lack of good sense about to be exhibited. L.’s housemate was going to help another friend with some house repair tasks, so he borrowed my minivan, having first removed seats to facilitate the transport of such things as plywood. (I was amused – we solved the problem of where to put the seats by adding them to the circle of seating out in the yard. They really were quite comfortable.) Another friend arranged the flowers, which were both absolutely lovely and just right for the occasion. All too often I’ve seen flower arrangements which were so extravagant that they stole the show rather than enhanced it. Not these. They were perfect; beautiful and perfectly proportioned to ornament without overwhelming.

The shower was the culmination of it all, and was so well organized that the hostesses themselves were able to enjoy it. There was raspberry-amaretto sauce and whipped cream for the cake, cucumber sandwiches, cut fruit, a veggie tray with dip, and some lovely Polish pastries K. brought with her from Chicago. All in all, it was a proper afternoon tea (complete with pitcher of tea and one of lemonade), and anyone who went home hungry had only herself to blame. The games were amusing without being cutsey (though I do wish L. had been able to find her board for “Pin the Bow on the Bridesmaid’s Butt.”), and the gifts both lovely and clearly chosen by people who knew the bride’s tastes. It was a wonderful party, and a wonderful weekend. And I am really looking forward to the wedding in June.

This morning, when my son’s bus was over 10 minutes late to pick him up on a windy, rainy generally unpleasant morning, I called the bus barn. They told me there had been a traffic delay, and indeed as I spoke to the dispatcher the bus appeared down at the corner. So the morning wended its way on, and at noon I went to have lunch with my son at school. In the course of conversation, a little girl who rides his bus with him told me the nature of the delay.

Cows. More precisely, two cows, each with a calf in tow. They were standing in the middle of the road, placidly ignoring all blandishments to remove themselves to the verge or their pasture. So the driver had to call the dispatcher, who in turn called around to find one of the local farmers to remove the creatures and allow the bus to proceed. I’m told the woman who came out and led the bovine adventurers away was just a neighbor who had a fenced field she could put them in until the owner came home.

The bus managed to run on time through the snows of winter, sometimes coming directly behind the county snowplow. It wasn’t so much as a minute late. But the county has no provision for the hazards of spring – or at least none for wandering cows in the road.

A couple of years back, there was a case in Indiana where Wiccan parents were forbidden by a judge from exposing their son to their religion. I was attorney on the appeal of that case, with the ACLU taking it up at the second stage of appeal. We won. I found out not long ago that there people are still talking about it, both pleased that the Court of Appeals “got it right” and horrified that such a ruling would have been made in the 21st century in the first place.

For those who don’t follow the freedom of religion cases, there’s been another going on for awhile. The U.S. Military Chaplain’s handbook recognized Wicca as a valid religion some time ago, but the V.A. has been “studying” the appropriateness of the Wiccan pentacle as a symbol on the gravestones of veterans for eleven years now. Hollywood satanists aside (and they don’t use the same symbol; like the cross, they turn it upside down), the points stand for earth, air, water, fire and spirit. Not terribly offensive, or if it is, then the offensiveness is in the eye of ignorance.

Finally a couple of groups filed suit, and the Wiccans have won. Wiccan veterans’ graves can now have a pentacle carved on the gravestone. I am ashamed that it took our government this many years and several law suits to come to this point. That is the pattern in this country; the same thing has been necessary for progress in civil rights in this country for years. Brown v. Board of Education barred school segregation in 1954, saying schools should desegregate with “all deliberate speed”, but it took another ruling from them in 1971 to make it stick. Put another way, Brown was decided when my mother was still in high school. I was in high school when the Supreme Court said “Do. It. Now. We don’t care if you have to move kids around on buses to make it work.” In this case as in those, litigation should not have been necessary, but at least the V.A. settled instead of forcing it all the way up. It’s a tiny step in the right direction, but one I’m very glad to see. Especially now, when I’ve been watching our civil rights eroded steadily, and wondered how and when it would stop.

Anyone who knows anything about me knows that a) I love fabric and b) I have waaaaay too much of it. Boxes of it. Shelves full. Storage tubs full. The last thing I need is more fabric. Well, ok the last thing I need is more books, but fabric’s running a tie for the status of “things of which no more is needed”.

But once in awhile, I still end up going and acquiring fabric for a very specific occasion. My eldest foster-daughter is getting married in early June, so of course I’m making a special dress for the occasion. (For the curious, it’s a short sleeved teal embroidered linen dress with a bronze dupioni silk duster-length vest over it. No, I can’t link to a pattern – I’m doing a “neckline from this pattern, sleeves from that” sort of design.) So the fabric store having put linen on sale, I went to buy my linen. (I already had the silk.) I mentioned this to my girlfriend, and she and I decided to make a day of it – brunch, shopping, tea after it all. We left pretty much as soon as our kids were on the bus, and headed home when they were due back in half an hour. So anyway, we’re looking at this wall of linen, and right next to the teal was an embroidered white border print. I mean, embroidered. The border is a good 18 inches deep, and it’s a field of flowers in all sorts of brilliant colors, accented with the occasional sequin and sprays of tiny glass beads. She fell in love.

I offered to make her a skirt from it, but quintessential country girl that she is, she does not wear skirts much at all, let alone skirts as long as that would have to be to show off the border design. So she set about talking me into it, and she succeeded. She even took care of the “but I don’t have time” objection by offering to take our boychick for an evening to give me time.

So it’s about 3/4 made. I’m putting a placket type slit from about the knee down, because there was a bit under two yards left on the bolt and that just isn’t enough for a skirt full enough for my ridiculously long stride. (I once had a secretary watch me try to fall on my nose, brought up short by an overly narrow skirt, and tell me “Alisa, at least try to pretend you’re a lady.” But that’s another story.) When it’s done I’ll make a tunic to go with it, and probably a slip to go under because, well, anything white requires a slip. I’ll wear the whole next weekend for the shower several of us are giving the aforementioned daughter. It’s going to be quite pretty, really, and I’m glad it’s getting made. But I’m also amused, because if my friend hadn’t put so much of energy into convincing me to make it, well, I wouldn’t have.

Happy Passover/ Ostara/ Easter/ Spring/ Resurrection Rabbit Day to all.

My rodent control officers fell down on the job today. I have had my first up-close-and-personal encounter with a live field mouse. It was quite an experience for all concerned.

It began with a routine attempt to make dinner. I’d read a recipe for a Pakistani soup that sounded fabulous and decided to try it. So I opened a drawer in search of a measuring cup. My first thought when I saw something move was that it had simply rolled away with the motion of the drawer. But when I reached toward the now motionless drawer and it continued to move away, I realized that it was a) self-propelled, b) about the size of a 1/4 cup measure, c) brown and d) possessed of a tail. Hmm. a+b+c+d = mouse. Mouse? Mouse!!!!

I screamed.

I also, simultaneously, pulled the drawer out of the cabinet, ran at top speed for the nearest door, juggled the drawer full of cooking tools and mouse so that it didn’t jump out in the house, opened door, and tried to shake Mickey out of drawer, while my husband and son came running. So there I am, in the doorway, trying now to shake the representative of House Rodentia out of the drawer instead of trying to keep it in so I could convey it outside. It leapt for what it thought was safety, landing on my sleeve and running up my arm.

I screamed.

I also jumped out the door, still holding the drawer. I had visions, as I lost sight of Mickey, of it using me as the ramp back into the house, and moved to prevent it. Mind you, it’s 30 degrees out and I was sock-foot. By that point that cats had joined the audience, whereupon we told them in no uncertain terms that they were failing of their professional obligations. Meanwhile, Mickey had fallen off my arm and back into the drawer, which I started shaking again, this time tilting it over sideways.

A whisk and a spatula fell out, but so, at long last, did Mickey. My husband told me the beastie was on the ground, and indeed when I spun around to look there it was on the step, looking like its nerves had taken a horrid shock. I didn’t blame it – mine certainly had! Then it ran into the grass, and I gathered up the fallen equipment, put it back in the drawer, and took everything into the kitchen, where grand cleaning involving steaming hot soapy water and water with bleach in it ensued.

The chicken soup did eventually happen, about an hour later than intended. It was very good. I believe I’ve had enough screaming practice for quite awhile. I’m sure that wherever he now is, Mickey agrees.

And I still want to know where the cats were when that mouse needed to be caught and eaten.

Our son just brought home his third quarter report card. He has straight A’s.

Squeee!

Sorry for the long silence. It had something to do with being too busy to sit still and talk about it. I complained of being a little on the tired side, and the friend to whom I said it responded by asking if I’d remained in one place for two days in the preceding ten. Upon reflection, I had not.

This past weekend the family went to a tiny science fiction convention in Ann Arbor, Michigan. It was absolutely wonderful. It is a “relaxacon”, which basically means a con with little or no programming. In other words, it’s an excuse to gather in a hotel and visit with friends you otherwise would not get to see, much less see all in the same place at the same time. I did a lot of visiting, and talking, and hot-tub stewing, and listening to music, and even some singing harmony, and generally came home both physically tired (something about going to bed at times closer to dawn than sunset two nights running) and much relaxed.

Monday I ran down to Indy to attend to some professional business, and then on my way home stopped and attended a truly lovely seder. But it was Tuesday’s community seder that brought the stunner.

Back when we were planning our wedding, my husband offered his friend T. a choice as to whether he wanted to be our wedding photographer or best man. He chose best man. We hadn’t seen much of him since. So you may imagine our reaction when we got to the seder, and looked at the photographer sent by the local paper drifting around. My first reaction was “My, he looks like T!” I’m told he thought something similar looking at me – that he thought “that looks like Alisa. Well, same tribe.” Then my husband got into the picture, and everyone figured out that the people we looked like were actually us. It turns out that T. is now a photographer for the Valparaiso newspaper, so we all live in the same general area. And he was the one assigned to photograph the community seder.

Once again, the world has proved to be the approximate size of a peach pit. Or is that a pea?