Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Making Christmas Memories

This year's Christmas party on the Memory Care Unit was an extravaganza of Santa, presents, food and music. My parents, Jude and Gord, came along and even agreed to wear Santa hats and reindeer antlers to help make the second floor south feel more like the North Pole.

It started out with volunteers passing out lefse and julekage, sweet treats from Scandinavia that probably meant more to Gudrun (above) from Sweden than to Rosalie from New Orleans. The residents that can't tolerate solid foods enjoyed chocolate Snack Pack pudding instead. Nobody seemed disappointed by this, no matter what I might have thought. After snacks, the lyrics to several well-known Christmas songs were passed out to everyone and I'm pretty sure not one of them was used. Folks either sang from memory or they didn't. Lorraine, one of my favorites, knew the words to every song and happily sung along, her tiny little mouth ringed with chocolate pudding and shaped into a huge smile. I've never seen Lorraine so happy and just that alone made the whole party worth the effort. Singing Christmas carols while using the lyric sheet always reminds me how few of the words I actually know to the classic tunes. Lorraine had it all over me there.

When the three carols had been sung, suddenly a very feminine Santa showed up, much to the delight of the residents who didn't seem to know Santa wasn't a dude. I knew there had been trouble finding a Santa, I think in the end they had to use a female employee. But it was neat because she knew sign language so she was able to communicate with Inez. I never see anyone communicate with Inez, who is deaf and mute, so that made for a nice Christmas itself. Santa brought two gifts for everyone and we assisted residents in opening them and then labeling their new stuff so that they would be sent to the proper room. Presents ranged from new shirts and track suits to socks and boxes of fancy shortbread cookies. Don, below, was thrilled with his fancy new pen and notebook and immediately wrote his name in an old man scrawl on the first blank page. Don already sports quite a fine pen collection in his shirt pocket that I comment on every time I see him. You can't say too many things about a four-color pen!

Today someone asked me if it's sad for me to visit the nursing home every week. I really had to think about it because, in a way, it certainly is. It would be nice if the folks could still be in the homes they loved, near the people that adore them, and it is sad that this is no longer a possibility. But since that's not reality and as sad as it is that the Memory Care Unit is home now, I think it would be even sadder to think of nobody visiting them at all.

Sunday, December 27, 2009

Instant Christmas Classics

On a whim, I whipped up this Almond Puff Pastry on Christmas Eve day, for no more reason than I had all the ingredients on hand and I love to bake. Who knew it would turn out to be the most delicious almond pastry of all time? Decadently infused with crispy and doughy and buttery layers of goodness and topped off with a sweet, almond icing, this dessert was off the charts.

On Christmas day, when my family traditionally gets together with a group of friends at someone's house, this year we opted to meet at a local Northeast Minneapolis bar. The 1029 was the scene of Christmas, at least a barfly sort of Christmas, and it was spectacular. While the weather outside was frightful, inside all of us shared some Christmas cheer and hoisted more than a few lagers, then headed over to the 331 Club for some more. These are the sort of Christmas traditions to warm your heart, indeed.

Saturday, December 26, 2009

How Does Your Garden Grow?

The chives are growing like crazy, if "crazy" means "two inches tall and not even remotely useful yet." Still, I'm excited every day to see the progress of my lush herb garden. I thought the grow light, which is quite bright and stays on for seventeen hours per day, would drive me nuts since in such a small home it's pretty much visible from everywhere, but I've come to enjoy the light and how it brightens up the dining corner of my living space. Now if I could just come to enjoy waiting for my herbs to grow to fruition!

Thursday, December 24, 2009

Sweet Lorraine

Last night at the home an exciting, glamorous lady joined the folks on the Memory Care Unit. While I complimented Alma on her new red Target bag that I watched her open at the Christmas party and she replied, "Thank you, I received it for my birthday," the folks ate and complained as usual that they don't get enough sugar. I thought it was going to be a regular old night, void of much Christmas cheer, even with the strains of Nat 'King' Cole serenading us about chestnuts on an open fire, but then the new Lorraine showed up late to dinner.

I was sitting between Gudrun and Mary, making sure each ingested enough calories to keep them healthy and alive, when a woman I'd never seen before entered the dining room. She wore only a hospital gown but she had fire-red hair, reminiscent of Lucille Ball's iconic mop, except that it was jutting out in crazy puffs all over her head, the victim of a rough afternoon of sleep. She sat down at the table with the most able residents and began talking right away. She bellowed out to anyone that would listen, "Who is singing this song?" When nobody answered, she asked again until I called across the room, "It's Nat 'King' Cole!" "That's right," she replied, "I love Nat 'King' Cole! He sings my song, Sweet Lorraine!" That's when I learned her name really is Lorraine, which makes her the third Lorraine on the unit, and she even shares the same last name as another Lorraine there! It's a small Lorraine world.

But this Lorraine was different than the others. My original Lorraine is quiet and nice as pie, rarely complaining and always smiling anytime her head isn't lying on the table top while she naps before dinner. The second Lorraine suffers from male pattern baldness and whines a lot about not wanting to eat her dinner. She's tougher to love, but looks so much like a sick child that you can't help it. But this new Lorraine was like a hurricane whirling through the unit! Her fiery hair and tongue hide the symptoms of dementia, at least so far. She just seemed like a kooky, fun old lady. Throughout the meal the firehead Lorraine talked and talked and talked and I strained to hear everything she was saying because so much of it was amusing. But Gudrun had a lot of Swedish to speak to me, or to anyone really, and she had some singing to do, so I couldn't hear it all.

When folks were finishing their meals and the nurses were making the rounds, recording how much food each resident had eaten, like they do after every single meal, Kollie stopped at the new Lorraine's table. My ears perked up when I heard Lorraine ask demure, shy Barbara over and over, "How old are you? How old are you? You can't be sixty, you look too old to be sixty. Maybe seventy? How old are you?" Barbara wouldn't answer, she rarely does more than smile in response to anything said to her, but Lorraine wouldn't have it. She turned to Kollie who was standing there with his clipboard and she asked him, "How old is this lady? She won't say anything!" I looked at Kollie with an uncomfortable grin and he lifted his eyebrows as if to say, "How did I get into this?" But he calmly replied to Lorraine, "I don't know how old Barbara is, you have to ask her." Lorraine, clearly exasperated, barked, "But she won't tell me! I've asked!" Kollie, quick as a wink, then said, "Maybe she doesn't want to tell you. How old are you, Lorraine?" To which Lorraine snapped back loudly, "That's none of your damned business!"

I think I'm going to like Sweet Lorraine.

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

Bradstreet Crafthouse

When a restaurant goes above and beyond the call of duty both in service and in quality of food and beverage, it deserves to be celebrated. Today I celebrate Bradstreet Crafthouse at the Graves 601 Hotel in downtown Minneapolis, across from the Target Center. Seriously, this place blew me away.

My coworkers, Becky and Liz, and I decided that rather than exchange unnecessary Christmas gifts this year, we'd go out together for dinner and drinks. After lots of discussion, we settled on Bradstreet Crafthouse because of its intriguing cocktail menu and because none of us had been there before. The place is sophisticated and sleek, modern but not cold, with lighting that could make Ed Gein look vaguely attractive. There are three main dining areas, with large comfortable tables in the bar area, kitchen seating where you can watch the chefs prepare the food, and a lounge area that is dark and cozy with music you can listen to without shouting for conversation. We chose the lounge and settled into our low table with comfortable banquette seating and table tops especially designed to complement the cocktails. Yes, the cocktails.

Bradstreet Crafthouse is all about the mixology. That's fancy talk for slinging drinks. But the drinks slung here are at a whole other level than most people are accustomed to. Bradstreet makes eight of their own bitters, fresh squeezes their juices, and includes crazy things like elderflower liqueur and Zwack in their drinks. I don't even know what Zwack is, but it makes me feel pretty cool to be around it. When we asked a few simple questions about our cocktail choices, decisions that were tough to make due to the number of delicious-sounding concoctions, our server Jesse presented us with three brown apothecary bottles filled with bitters. He invited us to stretch out our hands and he proceeded to add a couple of drops to our palms, then instructed us to rub our hands together and smell them. The difference in scent between the three bitters was amazing, I never knew that bitters had such depth. One smelled earthy and gingery while another presented a Christmas-y spiciness. Who knew? I just thought there was one kind of bitters. Jesse taught me that my least favorite alcohol of all time, Campari, is a form of bitters. He also told us about the "ice program" at Bradstreet, the fact that they offer five different forms of ice in their drinks, including a perfect ice sphere about the size of a tennis ball that takes four minutes to create each one. I'm telling you, the entire evening was one fascinating lesson after another, presented in a fun and informative way.

The whole experience started with a liquid amuse bouche, a small cocktail that the mixologists create each day that are presented to each diner. Ours was called Merry Christmas Kermit (for the green color) and though I don't know what was in it, I could easily have downed several. After that I enjoyed two different full cocktails, the Lima Sour and the Moscow Mule. The first is a potent mixture of Pisco (Peruvian brandy), fresh lemon juice, egg white, pineapple and bitters. I drank many of these in Peru a few years back and this one really brought me back. The Moscow Mule, on the other hand, made me yearn for the tropics with its organic vodka, fresh lime juice and ginger syrup. Yum. Beyond the drinks we shared the hot, tasty, toasty house bread and a delightfully simple cheese plate. For entrees, all under $10, we shared duck confit quesadillas, beef sliders with house made ketchup, and a BLT made with crispy, melty fried pork belly, chard, tomato jam and a fried egg. Every dish was better than the last and the portions were perfectly sized to allow you to enjoy your drinks and your dinner without feeling overly full. Not large portions, but just right on, especially for the price. For larger appetites, there are plenty of options to fill you up.

All three of us have pledged to return to Bradstreet Crafthouse and to bring friends with us. I'm very excited to spread the word. Don't miss it.

Monday, December 21, 2009

The Power of Doing Nothing

Well, I guess Martha Stewart will be calling me anytime now. Turns out I'm quite the gardener and, after just one week, my Aerogarden is sprouting some pretty impressive thyme plants. There's so much thyme coming off this thing that I'm practically sick of it! Ok, not quite, the plants are miniscule, but good things come to those who wait! It helps that with the Aerogarden, I don't do anything for weeks at a time and stuff just happens. It's how I live my life, but with vastly different results. Sigh.

Thursday, December 17, 2009

Santa Socks

Christmas came a little early to the Memory Care Unit today when Santa (played by a girl who knew sign language) showed up to shower the residents with fun gifts plus treats and music. Here is one of my very favorite gals, Bernice, showing off her new Gold Toe socks. She thought they were pretty cool. I think she's pretty cool.

Monday, December 14, 2009

The Aerogarden Saga Begins

Come along for the ride as we follow the progress of my new Aerogarden 3, a particularly awesome gift from my brother and family! In just weeks, if everything goes as planned, I will be enjoying fresh hydroponic basil, thyme and chives infused with my morning eggs. I don't really have a green thumb, currently there is not a living plant in my house and there is good reason for that. But with a grow light that stays on for 17 hours per day, perhaps this Aerogarden stands a ghost of a chance.

Tonight I set up the little operation, added water and the "seed pods," plus a nutrient pill into the water. That was it, really. Oh, I guess I put those little plastic domes on each seed pod as well. But that was really it. Every two weeks I add water when it prompts me, as well as a new nutrient pill. Should be pretty cut and dried (herb pun intended), no?

Stay tuned for periodic updates!

Sunday, December 13, 2009

Garage Gougeres

Football parties are an opportunity for me to see friends, taste a myriad potluck items, and most importantly, to try to cook or bake something new. Notice I didn't mention anything to do with actually watching the football game.

Short on time, I needed something quick and easy to make for today's garage party, so named because once per year I have friends who enjoy watching the Vikings on a TV inside the garage, without benefit of heaters and other such frilly modern inventions. I don't know why this is fun, standing there shivering in snowmobile suits and Sorels, but they like it. I like to see everyone, but I tend to make it a short visit. So this morning I thought about a recipe I had read about recently that took the usually complicated pate a choux dough and simplified it for the every day cook, like me. It seemed like a good, basic recipe to have in one's repertoire, a versatile recipe that could go from sweet to savory in no time flat and could be made increasingly indulgent with any number of add-ins. I chose to go simple today with just gruyere cheese so that the little cheesy puffs, called gougeres, could be served alongside chili or other soups.

Easy doesn't begin to cover this recipe. I simply simmered some water with butter, added flour and cooked and stirred the mixture for a couple of minutes. Then I placed the dough into my KitchenAid and mixed in the cheese, eggs and salt. Final step was piping the dough onto cookie sheets and baking. Easy peasy, and the result was divine. Friends seemed to love them and now I am determined to turn them into some sort of dessert. And I'm not waiting for a dumb ol' football game to do it.

Thursday, December 10, 2009

Portrait of the Artist

This week, this month really, is getting away from me. Something going on every night, super busy at work every day. December is always a crazy time. It's even tougher for great artists, like myself, who create in order to express their innermost thoughts and feelings. When great artists, like me, produce great art, it takes time and can be exhausting. Case in point, my Christmas ornament made from sour gummi worms and circus peanuts. Great art like this doesn't make itself, it needs to be nurtured and encouraged so that it may become a life force unto itself. And that's exactly what happened when I got a hot glue gun and an idea to incorporate my company's logo into an ornament. You can practically smell the life force, can't you?

Sunday, December 6, 2009

Bundt or Backhand?

Today I made this banana bundt cake and I took my first tennis lesson. Let's just say I should probably stick to baking. My bundt is better than my backhand!

Friday, December 4, 2009

Christmas Came Early

At my place of business, anything can happen if one lives dangerously and walks away from their office. I went to lunch one day this week and returned to almost everything on my desk covered in red Christmas bows. Even my stickie notes.

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

My Cat Is An Animal

My boy Hakeem received a clean bill of physical health from the vet the other night (woo hoo!!), but I'm not so sure how the doc feels about his mental health. Nobody who knows my big guy, who has spent any time with him around my house, who has seen this cat visit patients at a nursing home, would ever believe he's anything but a big, fat, sweet kitty. But the folks at the veterinary hospital probably feel differently. Hakeem's nothing but an animal there.

Monday, November 30, 2009

It Must Be Love

When I set up an appointment for Hakeem Wallace, my best furry buddy, to visit the vet, they asked if I could possibly collect a urine sample to bring in. Good question, I thought to myself, can a person collect a urine sample from a cat? How on earth?

Hakeem Wallace has never been much of a water drinker, at least not from his bowl. In his younger years he spent the better part of his days in the tub, drinking water straight from the faucet. Because of that I never really knew how much water he consumed on a daily basis. But he was healthy and young and I wasn't really worried about it. Then as he got older and fatter I switched him over to wet food at the veterinarian's suggestion, for the higher protein content that would help him drop pounds. It worked, but it also provided him with the moisture that his body needed so he really didn't drink that much noticeable water still. After the recent surgical assault on his mouth that left him with three fewer teeth than he began with, I thought I'd reintroduce dry food to ensure that he was using his teeth to crush the crunchy pellets. So now, at the age of thirteen, he is drinking water all of the time. Maybe it's nothing to worry about, just a response to the dry food, but with an older, larger animal you don't fool around and wait to find out. You have him checked out to make sure his kidneys are functioning properly and he hasn't developed diabetes. This is where the whole heretofore preposterous notion of collecting a cat urine sample came to life.

The vet tech told me over the phone that sometimes if you clean the litter box out completely, wash it up and everything, the cat will still relieve himself in it. I did not believe this for one second and haven't talked to a cat owner yet who believes it either. Cats, unless they're sick or angry, don't like to pee without benefit of some sort of matter they can cover their output with. This is a lovely topic, isn't it? Anyway, I did the real suffering, you can survive the retelling. The vet told me if I wasn't able to collect a sample, they could do it, but it would be unpleasant for the feline. This is all I needed to know. I consulted my friend Google who let me know that sometimes plastic straws will do the trick. If you cut up a bunch of plastic straws (two boxes of Food Club brand, in my case) and line the clean litter box with them as if it were sand, that might just be enough for the cat to accept and do his duty. And so I cleaned up his old maroon litter box, which still has its old original label that proclaims it to be Super-Giant in four languages. If there were a bigger size, like Super Duper Extra Ginormous, I would buy it, but Hakeem's is the largest I've ever seen, and he just fits. Then I lined the bottom with a layer of cut up flexible straws and put it back in its regular spot. I really didn't have high hopes, but sure enough, Hakeem got up off the couch for the first time in hours and had a bite to eat and some water, then walked over to the box and did exactly what he needed to do. He didn't seem to mind walking on the straws until he had to jump out of the box. I think they were slippery and he didn't care for that. But he did what he had to, I poured the urine out of his box, unfettered by absorbent litter, and collected it in a small Gladware container. I'm not sure this is what the fine folks at Glad had in mind for their fine products, but too bad. I wasn't going to use a reusable container!

So now it's all over but the shrieking. Specifically, Hakeem's feline shrieking when he gets to the vet's office tonight and smells all those awful dogs and cats and hears them barking and meowing. It's really his worst nightmare. So I guess, today at least, he and I are even.

Sunday, November 29, 2009

Twice as Nice

Having a birthday on Thanksgiving like I did this week brings something quite delightful – twice the usual desserts! In addition to the pecan pie, pumpkin pie, pumpkin cream cheese swirl pie, and coconut bundt cake (what can I say, I have a giant family and my Cousin Megan and I love to bake!), there were two birthday cakes. One was the beloved DQ ice cream cake that the kids all happily devoured in about two seconds, and then there was the Wuollet's cake (pictured below) that shows me doing what I love, riding my bike with Hakeem. You can tell it's me because of my thin, athletic frame and flat chest. You can tell it's Hakeem because he's orange and very active. Could it be any cuter or more delicious? No, it could not. As for the pumpkin cream cheese swirl pie, this is the first time I've made it but it will now be the standard bearer for pumpkin pies in my household. It's really quite easy and it breaks up the solid mass of pumpkin custard that I actually love but some people find to be too much for them.

If you think my birthday celebration is over, think again. This morning will be the family get-together (Thanksgiving didn't count because we have to get together for that!) at Maria's Cafe for Cachapas Venezolanas with Cotija Cheese – giant Venezuelan sweet corn pancakes with a salty, powdery cheese on top plus maple syrup, and this week Brasa for dinner with my Hags. I'll never understand why people want to deny their birthdays, it doesn't get any better than this!

Sunday, November 22, 2009

Jive Turkey

Last Wednesday night at the nursing home, Alma was perusing a catalog of old time music. I asked her what kind of music she enjoyed listening to and she seemed confused, so I pointed to the Elvis CD for sale in the catalog and asked her if she liked to listen to Elvis Presley. "Oh yes, I like Elvis," she told me. Rosalie overheard our conversation and commented that she, too, liked Elvis. I asked Rosalie if she knew any Elvis songs and she suddenly broke into the King's hit Are You Lonesome Tonight? I sang along with her, helping her along at parts she had forgotten. The nurses on the floor laughed, saying they'd never heard Rosalie break into song like that. As Rosalie continued singing, alternating between Are You Lonesome Tonight? and O Holy Night, and sometimes singing both interwoven as the same song, I told Mary that she wasn't eating enough and I wanted her to eat more. Rosalie, hearing this, announced that we at our table were all "jive turkeys." Laughing on the inside, I asked her why she was calling us all jive turkeys. She answered that it was because nobody at the table was eating. She said whoever is eating is not a jive turkey. I looked at her plate, still full of ham and potatoes because she was too busy singing to eat, and said, "Then you must be a jive turkey, Rosalie, because you're not eating!" Rosalie couldn't believe she was having her super cool term, jive turkey, thrown right back at her and didn't know what to say. Mattie, who was clearly sick of listening to Rosalie belt out Elvis tunes, laughed and said to Rosalie, "She got you!"

Today I picked up an Elvis CD to bring to the nursing home next week. It should be interesting!

Saturday, November 21, 2009

A River Runs Through It

It isn't often in this state that you can go for a leisurely walk along the river without freezing your ass off. So today I made especially sure to enjoy these waning days of Autumn on the Mississippi and it didn't disappoint. In the distance the river water sprayed up off of the falls and the sun cast long shadows off of the bare elms. I'm going to miss this during the next six months of winter. Ah, Minnesota.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Gordo Rides Hakeem's Tail to Stardom

Boy howdy, this fat cat of mine regularly makes the news, and he takes my dad along with him for the ride! First it was MSNBC.com, then the venerable BBC, and now The Kitty City Gazette! The Kitty City Gazette is an online compendium of fabricated news stories that star cats from around the blogosphere. I was introduced to it by my friend Debbie on her blog, Glogirly, who recommended that I send in a photo of my Hakeem. So check it out, you'll find Hakeem and Gordo in the story New California Law Cracks Down on Sale of Energy-Gobbling Cats. No autographs, please.

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Waiting for Guittard

Sorry I've been absent for so long, but I've been consumed for the last week by thoughts of the new mochas being served up at Caribou Coffee. The new mochas are made with your choice of white, milk, or dark Guittard chocolate, steamed and left all melty at the bottom of your cup of sweet nectar. Most coffee shops use powdered chocolate or syrup, so this is a fairly major departure in the coffee world.

I am not a coffee drinker, unless it's fattened up nicely with chocolate and sugar and I didn't sleep particularly well the night before. I don't indulge in them often, but I really enjoy them when I do. And the place I usually enjoy them is Starbucks, so this development from Caribou is really out of left field for me.

The biggest problem, of course, is that I am in the waning days of my Month Without Sugar experiment. I'm just taking a month, along with some coworkers, to avoid candy, desserts, and other sweets such as fetching, chocolate-y mochas. So all I can do until next Wednesday is daydream about a Guittard mocha, and daydream I will. Again, I apologize that it's been so long since I've posted. But now I think you can totally understand why. It's the mocha.

Thursday, November 12, 2009

Stalking Tarzan


Unwittingly, I've been following in the wet footsteps of Olympic swimmer and, more famously, Tarzan actor Johnny Weissmuller. I don't have many memories of the handsome European as I didn't grow up watching a lot of Tarzan, but I've grown to appreciate his contributions to pop culture. I mean, he was Tarzan!

I first started accidentally following Mr. Weissmuller several years ago when I read about a hotel in Acapulco that was sort of forgotten up on the highest cliffs in this coastal Pacific city. My aim was to spend one night in Acapulco on the way from Mexico City to my fishing village paradise south of Acapulco. I wanted to be close to the famous cliff divers of La Quebrada, so when I stumbled across the Hotel Los Flamingos, just blocks away, I was excited. I'm pretty sure many of my readers have been there with me, right? Holla for Tarzan! Turns out Los Flamingos was once owned by Weissmuller and his band of funsters which included John Wayne, Fred McMurray, and Errol Flynn. That would have been enough excitement for me, but then another Weissmuller coincidence found its way into my life when a chance trip to Chicago led me to the twelfth floor pool at the InterContinental Hotel.

The junior Olympic swimming pool area at the InterContinental, considered an engineering marvel in its day many decades ago, is a gorgeous melange of intricate Mediterranean tiles, stained glass windows, and wicker tables and chairs in the gallery that make you feel like you're going back in time. No wonder Johnny Weissmuller was known to have taken a dip in the pool there, and no wonder I'm stalking him. Now if I could only find out that he spent some amount of time in a certain pool in Tahiti, I'd be ready for my next trip.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Lucidity

Mary doesn't respond very often to direct questions, at least not with direct answers. But tonight in the dementia unit at the nursing home she seemed to be lost in the gentle strains of the old time music wafting from the cheap boom box, so I thought I'd ask her if she knew what she was listening to. A Muzak version of Blue Moon interrupted the clink of fork tines scraping along plates and folks yelling about some imagined wrongdoing. I looked at Mary and asked her, "Mary, do you know this song?" She continued to look faraway and didn't answer. When Somewhere Over the Rainbow came on, I asked her if she knew that song. Nothing. However, Alma volunteered that she indeed knew the song. She and I then discussed watching The Wizard of Oz sometime and we agreed that would be fun. Then The Platters' tune, Smoke Gets in Your Eyes, performed with a forlorn-sounding saxophone, caught my ear. I've always loved the song so I sang along and then asked Mary the obvious question, "How about this one, Mary? Smoke Gets in Your Eyes?" Mary looked right at me and said, plain as day, "Yes, sometimes it does." I couldn't help but laugh, she had answered my question, in a way.

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

What To Do in Chicago

Your next trip to the Second City won't be complete if you don't visit the Billy Goat Tavern, a greasy dive made famous in the old '70s Saturday Night Live sketches where Greek cooks smoked cigarettes over a hot griddle covered in juicy cheeseburgers while yelling out "cheezborger cheezborger cheezborger!" and "no fries, cheeps!" There are a few Billy Goat Tavern locations, but the real deal resides below Michigan Avenue right across from the storied Chicago Tribune building. Famous newspapermen were known to hang out at the Billy Goat, as well as SNL alumnus Dan Aykroyd and pals. It's a kitschy little workingman's saloon and has a very Northeast vibe as well, so we were quite comfortable throwing back Billy Goat Lagers and brandy sevens.

After a particularly well-made gin martini, my dad asked me to take his photo in front of the Horny Goat talk bubble meant for a stuffed goat's head affixed to the wall there. Now you know what to do the next time you make it to the Windy City. You're welcome.

Monday, November 9, 2009

Ape Reflections

I would like to submit that it is not Disney World that is the Happiest Place on Earth, but rather it is the Cloud Gate sculpture in Millennium Park in Chicago that is. Better known as "The Bean" because of its unmistakable shape, it reflects the cloudy sky as well as the city's gorgeous skyline. Michigan Avenue's stainless steel behemoth brings joy to all who encounter it, even gorillas.

Thursday, November 5, 2009

Gepetto Comes to Life

Last Friday I celebrated Halloween at the office by magically transforming into an exact replica of my coworker, Gerry Leone. Ok, not an exact replica, unless, as a friend pointed out, Gerry is sporting a pretty bodacious set of moobs. But I was a reasonable facsimile.

The best part about putting together the Gerry Leone look is that I purchased a wig and mustache set that was meant to be for someone dressing up as Gepetto, the creator of Pinocchio. But, I found out with glee, you can fake a pretty good Gerry Leone by way of Gepetto. I had to alter the mustache and add a little hairy soul patch under my lower lip, but it all came together pretty easily. Add a work t-shirt, a Hawaiian shirt on top of that, some jeans and a pair of running shoes, and I was almost Gerry Leone. I took it to the limit by adding some cheater eyeglasses and a train whistle sound effect on my cell phone that went off periodically. That's when I became him, if he was sort of feminine. Which he is. Just kidding.

Some of our coworkers who sit near Gerry so know his routine directed me on how to look just like him for this photo. They told me to sit in his office, next to a box of his favorite SnackWell cookies, put my feet up and kick back. Because that's how Gerry Leone rolls.

Sunday, November 1, 2009

She's Gone

My favorite nursing home resident, Angie, died last week. Most every Wednesday evening for more than a year I've spent in an old pink vinyl and wood chair squeezed between Angie and Mary, alternately feeding both a spoonful of pureed food. Angie had the physical ability to lift the fork to her mouth and feed herself, but something in her brain wouldn't trigger her hands to actually do it. She'd sit in front of her dinner all night and never touch it, but if you fed her, she'd thank you for every single spoonful before it passed her lips. Occasionally she'd take a drink of something without being told, but not often. When I'd try to encourage her to drink some milk herself, she'd point at each beverage on the tray – the juice, the tea, the milk – unsure which was milk. When I'd show her, she'd thank me and take a small sip. Angie had conversations with everyone at the table, though nobody seemed to know it. She'd laugh and nod at whatever Mary was saying, which was always gibberish, as if they were sharing a good story. Angie was always in a good mood, always smiling and pointing at the few remaining teeth she had on the bottom front of her mouth. She was expressive and delightful to be around. At the Christmas party last year, the room was pretty warm with all of the additional people helping celebrate, so Angie did what she thought she needed to do to alleviate the problem, she started stripping her turtleneck sweater right off over her head. I quickly caught her and encouraged her to put it back on and suggested we open a window instead. Of course, she happily agreed.

I received an email a few days ago from the volunteer coordinator at the nursing home that Angie had died. It included information on a celebration of her life at the home and her memorial service. I attended the memorial service yesterday at a funeral home in south Minneapolis because I really wanted to know what sort of life Angie enjoyed. It didn't seem possible that a woman so happy in dementia had been anything less in better times. There was an enormous yellowed photo of Angie as a very young woman framed at the front of the room, next to a Japanese-style urn with her ashes inside. Not surprisingly, because she was a lovely old person, she was gorgeous when she was young. There were poster boards covered in photos of Angie through the years. In her younger years pictures of her with her sister, wearing kimonos. Later, in America, there was Angie wearing dated polyester jump suits and sporting bad perms, but always looking radiant. Angie's son spoke for quite a long time, sharing stories about Angie that were wonderful to hear. He told us how Angie had been born and raised in Tokyo and how she had seven brothers and sisters, three whom had died of disease as children. She had a brother who had been trained at fifteen years old to be a kamikaze pilot but had never been called to action. She survived several bombings in Tokyo during WWII but watched several friends die. She came to America, with very little knowledge of any form of English, with an American serviceman, and endured much post-WWII Japanese hatred from Americans with anti-Japanese sentiments burned on their brains. But she never let it bother her, she understood it and dealt with it. She hated war and never wanted her sons to join the military. She loved nothing more than her family and her cats. She traveled to Mexico, Dominican Republic, Japan, and other places and loved it. Angie's son told funny stories of Angie finally learning to drive when her husband took ill with cancer, how it took seven driving tests for her to finally pass and how he thinks the driving instructor just passed her to be done with her. She took classes to learn to read and write English, but still swore and talked in her sleep in Japanese.

Then Angie's son told of her being diagnosed with dementia in 1999, which began what he called "the ten year goodbye." Angie's daughter, who worked at home, and her husband were able to take Angie in for seven years, watching her and keeping her from hurting herself. But her tendencies to wander got to be too much and they couldn't put enough locks on the doors to keep Angie from leaving and being missing for hours at a time. It was too much so they put her in the Memory Care Unit at the nursing home. It was great to hear that they thought the nursing home did a great job with her, I have no way of knowing. Angie's son said she did well in the nursing home, even attracting a suitor (Don) who spent hours with her and made her happy. But then her health started failing and soon last week Angie was in a coma and passed away the next day.

The last time I saw Angie a couple of weeks ago she complained of being in pain. She rubbed her legs and pulled her pajamas up high, revealing her skinny legs and knobby knees. I didn't know it was probably part of the beginning of the end. I don't know how the doctors and nurses who care for dementia patients figure anything out, it seems almost impossible to know what's really bothering them. I am very sad for Angie's family, and I'm definitely going to miss her every Wednesday evening, but it's weird. I sort of feel like the folks I'm with are transitional people, as if they're people at a weigh station, awaiting their next assignment. They have no history and no future. Don't get me wrong, they're fully developed people with brains and hearts and minds, but they're not the folks their families once knew and they don't have dreams of their futures ahead of them. So their passing, while sad, is inevitable and not altogether the unhappiest thing that could happen to them. They're not in a place they ever could have wanted to be. I wish they were still vital parents and sons and daughters and friends, but they're not. Their families have those memories now, and these vulnerable people, void of past and future, just need to be cared for and loved on their way to their next journey, wherever that may take them.

Monday, October 26, 2009

Koko and the Gladiator





This over-served gladiator, too sauced to completely fathom his surroundings, conceded defeat to the demon rum and took a much-deserved rest next to the popcorn machine at the Rex Bar in Duluth this weekend. Sensing his loneliness, Koko gamely joined the down-on-his-luck gladiator in protecting the vat of salty bar snacks against hordes of superheroes and sexy maids hellbent on eating the fiber-rich puffs of corn. Koko's presence clearly uplifted the gladiator's dampened spirits, if only for the second the photo was snapped.

Sunday, October 25, 2009

When Superheroes Wear Fanny Packs

Like Toto the dog pulling the curtain aside and revealing that the great and powerful leader of Oz was nothing more than an ordinary man, this dude dressed as a superhero at the bar in Duluth last night revealed too much when he turned around and showed the embarrassing fanny pack he was sporting.

Superheroes don't wear fanny packs, man.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

The Lucky Ones

I think about the sulfur miners of Indonesia, a lot. They cross my mind almost every day. I think about them when I'm feeling good about life and even more so when I'm feeling bad.

The sulfur miners spend long days hacking off chunks of sulfur using heavy steel bars, inhaling dangerous gases as they do so, then they hand carry baskets of their work, weighing between 100 and 200 pounds, uphill several kilometers. At their destination they sell the sulfur for a couple of dollars and then make the trek back down to do it all again, maybe even two more times in the same day. Then they do it again the next day and the next. They have to hope to save up as much money as they can because, as you can imagine, this is not a job that can continue into old age and other opportunities for income in this part of Indonesia are hard to come by. These guys are actually the lucky ones. They're lucky.

It's too much to think about.

Sunday, October 18, 2009

Bean Curd Love

After the overindulgence of fish & chips last night (an overindulgence I would gladly repeat anytime!), as well as a morning spent baking pita bread and jalapeno-cheddar scones, dinner was going to have to be a little lighter. Enter a dish I saw made on a great PBS show last weekend called Gourmet: Diary of a Foodie, prepared by Ruth Reichl herself. It's a fascinating program that showcases food from all corners of the globe and I hope it won't go away like the magazine with which it shares its good name.

After the show last week I ran right out to United Noodles and purchased a good quality soy sauce and some organic tofu, and for some other use a banana sauce from the Philippines (can't say I'm in love with it yet) and various other Asian delights. I've had a difficult time finding soft tofu that isn't silken, which the recipe requires, I'm hoping my search in the future won't be as difficult. They don't even have it at my local co-op and those folks are supposed to live for tofu! I was very excited to make this simple dinner and invited my mom over to enjoy it as she is a real lover of the bean curd. It was, in a word, wonderful. Spicy and complex, yet so easy to make that it could easily be thrown together on a work night. I couldn't find the Korean hot red pepper flakes the recipe calls for so I substituted a lesser amount of regular red pepper flakes and cannot complain. If you are interested in giving it a try, check it out and prepare to fall in love:


Saturday, October 17, 2009

Ireland By Way of Northeast

I finally tried the new Anchor Fish & Chips chipper shop in my hometown of Northeast Minneapolis and I am happy to report that it is awesome. From the outside signs, lovingly painted by my pals Faith and Eric, to the indoor decor, dark and warm and cozy, The Anchor is a welcome addition to the neighborhood. My friend Koko and I enjoyed the fish and chips under the gorgeous tin ceiling, marveling at how the tiny, open shop didn't smell the least bit of fried food, the mainstay of the restaurant. Served with your choice of vinegar (but not the malt variety, I guess that's not truly Irish) or a deliciously rich tartar sauce made in house, the fish is an enormous slab of Wild Alaskan Cod hand dipped in batter just before serving and deep fried to a lovely golden brown hue. The chips are hand cut, thick and substantial, crispy on the outside and soft on the inside. We didn't try anything else on the menu, like the pastie or the shepherds pie or the curry chips – a pint of Harp was enough this time – but there's always tomorrow. Having heard about the crowds we wisely arrived tonight for an early dinner and by the time we left about an hour later, there was a line at the door. I'm sure the the hopeful diners found it was worth the wait.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Monday, October 12, 2009

October Snow

If you've been giving serious thought to uprooting the family from your sunny southern California digs for the family-friendly, Minnesota-nice plains of the Twin Cities, you might want to consider that we're in the middle of receiving two to three inches of snow today. It's early October. It's snowing. I'm suicidal.

While I can't deny that it's beautiful outside with a clean white layer of snow everywhere, my snow crab trees didn't even get a chance to shed their leaves and dry their berries before the snow settled on their tender branches. Sigh.

Sunday, October 11, 2009

A Fetid Pile of Dung

I don't write movie reviews and I'm not about to break that rule, but I must warn all of humanity to avoid the movie Couples Retreat like the fetid pile of dung that it is. Avoid it, run from it, and don't look back. It's the rare film with such great leads (Vince Vaughn, hilarious in Swingers; Jon Favreau, a gem in Elf; Jason Bateman, my hero in Arrested Development; and Faison Love, my chubby sweetie in Blue Crush - the last a guilty pleasure of a movie that proves I'm not a movie snob) that delivers no laughs. Not one. Maybe the essence of a hint of a light giggle once or twice, but nothing more, and I'm only saying that to be kind because of my deep and yearning attraction to Vince Vaughn. Kristin Davis from Sex and the City must have practiced her "excited at the thought of sex with a stranger" face in the mirror quite a bit in preparation for this, because it was all she was allowed to do, over and over and over again, in this disaster called Couples Retreat. Vaughn and Favreau, the writers, clearly phoned this one in as a reason to film in Bora Bora and while I can't say I would never do the same, I wouldn't be proud of it. They owe me five dollars.

Thursday, October 8, 2009

Thank You!

Just dropping a quick note to thank everyone for expressing concern for my big fat guy, Hakeem. It seems the worst is over and he's on the mend, I'm thrilled to report. I was so happy tonight when I opened the front door and there he was, in the way, greeting me as I stepped inside. Just like it was before this whole sick business started. He's still not eating as much as he probably should, but considering what he's been through, that's pretty normal. People always gasp when I tell them this, but he used to eat two to three tuna can-sized containers of cat food per day. By their responses, it seems this is equivalent to that guy who has a dozen eggs and a pound of bacon and a loaf of bread for breakfast, six burgers and six fries with four liters of pop for lunch, and two pot roasts for dinner. But all I can say is that I tried to keep it to two cans per day, but in six hundred and eighty-nine square feet of space, there was nowhere for me to run when his hunger hit and he insisted I had to know about it in the middle of the night. So perhaps once he's back at a hundred percent, he'll be accustomed to taking in a smaller amount of food on a daily basis and this whole awful episode will end up having been a boon for my boy.

Either way, I really appreciate everyone's positive thoughts for my buddy. I'm lucky to have him and lucky to have you.

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

A Weighty Subject

My boy Hakeem doesn't like going to the vet for myriad reasons, not the least of which is his reluctance to get on the scale. Even in his sickness last night he cowered in his beloved basket, keeping his distance from the hated beast that spits out with brutal honesty his size defined as a stupid number. I think we can all relate.

He appears to be feeling better today, but still somewhat low energy and lacking appetite. I shall be plying him with a variety of canned meat products purchased today at PetSmart, in order to find that magic that will seduce him. If those don't entice, it's going to be real meat. Anything to keep him from going back to that horrible place with the evil scale. (As always, click on photo for a close-up shot).

Monday, October 5, 2009

Beat Down and Squinky-Eyed

Hakeem made his third visit to the vet in one week tonight, this time to address his squinky eye, lethargy and lack of appetite. I thought for sure he had contracted pink eye from one of his visits there, and he's been unable to keep the eye open for any length of time for two days straight. So, in addition to injecting him in the back fat with a syringe full of antacids, I've also been wiping his weepy eye. Turns out injecting a pudgy kitty is not that difficult, he doesn't even flinch. I flinch more than he does. But after a weekend of watching him barely move, barely eat, and barely open his right eye, it was time to go back to the doctor.

Today while I was at work, my dad stopped over to see how Hakeem was doing and reported that he still looked beat down and squinky-eyed. I stopped home during lunch and he was the same, and remained so when I got home from work. My mom came over to go with us to the vet and she noticed it first that he seemed to be a little perkier. Not a lot, but a little. And his eye, miraculously, so gummy and sad for two days, was suddenly just fine. Upon walking into the vet hospital, my little fighter came back, hissing and spitting like the kitty I know and love. The doctor could see nothing wrong with his eye, though I hope he believes me that it was bad. I, of course, felt like I was totally making it up about his eye! But the doc was ultimately concerned about the lethargy and lack of appetite so he prescribed Hakeem, if you can believe it, an appetite stimulant. I never would have believed in a thousand years that my boy would need an appetite stimulant, but apparently it's dangerous for a big kitty to suddenly eat so little, so we need to normalize his calorie intake. So tonight I gave him his last shot and now he starts with the appetite stimulant.


And I swear to you it's true, about one minute after Hakeem got home, his right eye went squinky again. I think he was faking it at the hospital so the doctor would leave him alone.

It's a Awesome Treat!

If you've got a crazy thirst for frozen flavored milk drinks and bad grammar, go no further than the McDonald's on West Broadway in North Minneapolis. It's one stop shopping for both.

Saturday, October 3, 2009

Had a Worse Day

Just when I thought that Hakeem was getting better, watching him jump into the tub and onto furniture with ease, this morning he wouldn't eat. I didn't worry too much, as unusual as this occurrence obviously is for such a portly feline, because it's been a rough week and he still has the pain patch on. But then when he walked out of the bedroom with dark blood covering his chest and mouth, I worried. I thought that his gums were bleeding from the extractions so I immediately called the vet who advised me to bring him in right away. When I went into the bedroom to get dressed, I saw that it wasn't his gums that were bleeding. He had thrown up a stomach full of black blood all over the carpet and my new pants, which he had been sleeping on. It looked like a mini-crime scene. Of course, the condition of my stuff wasn't my immediate concern, I just needed to get my boy to the doctor, fast.

I tucked him into his favorite purple laundry basket lined with an old flannel sheet and draped an old towel over the top to carry him in. I knew he wasn't feeling well in the car because usually he's quite vocal, letting me know for the whole ride that he would prefer not to be in a moving vehicle. Today he hardly lifted his head for the entire drive. At the vet's office, with the smells and barking and all, he did come to life a little to protest, but nothing like when he's feeling good and sassy. While I waited for an exam room to become available, a couple came in carrying an obviously old cat with a crooked jaw. The kitty didn't even need a carrier, it wasn't feeling good enough to make a run for it. The old couple asked about Hakeem and told me about their 19-year-old buddy who was no longer eating. It had developed a tumor on its face that was pushing its jaw aside unnaturally. The man, who looked to be in his late 70s, said that since the cat had taken ill he had placed two sleeping bags on the floor and put a heating pad under one of them. He slept on one of the bags and the cat slept next to him on top of the heating pad. I felt so bad for the cute couple, worried that they weren't going to go home with their cat. They were so nice, telling me how gorgeous Hakeem was and saying they could tell how much he loved me by the way he looked for me when I stepped away from his basket. As if I wasn't emotional enough over the panicky situation, they were killing me.

The vet tech told me Hakeem could go into the exam room so I hoisted the heavy laundry basket into the little parlor and onto the stainless steel table. Hakeem protested, but only a little. However, he protested a little more (okay, a lot more) vigorously when the doctor came in and took his temperature rectally. Not surprisingly, you're never too ill to hate that. I took this photo of Hakeem snoozing in his basket at the office because I'd never seen him so calm there. That's how bad he felt. Thankfully, the doctor removed Hakeem's pain patch so that I didn't have to do it tomorrow as scheduled. That was another ordeal that Hakeem didn't care for much and let he let the vet know. The doctor poured over the medical records but could find no reason for him to have all that blood in his belly except that possibly he had swallowed it post-surgically from the mouth wound. But to be safe, he gave him an injection of a medication that would decrease the acidity in his poor little stomach, and he also gave me six more syringes so I can give Hakeem more injections over the next few days. I've never done this, but he showed me how and said that Hakeem's extra fat makes giving him a shot much easier. It's nice when being fat works in your favor, but I'm still not looking forward to it. The vet also gave me his pager number and told me to call him if anything else happens over the weekend and he'll be available, or else to call him on Monday to give him an update on Hakeem's condition.

When I returned to the lobby with Hakeem in his basket to pay the bill, the receptionist looked at Hakeem's record and mentioned that it looked like he had a better day today than Tuesday. Turns out Hakeem has a recorded reputation of not being a nice kitty when he visits the vet! The old couple was still there with their sick kitty, waiting. Even though they hadn't been seen yet, they asked how Hakeem was and repeated what a nice kitty he was and how much he obviously loved me. They were so nice because they were obviously in pain over the condition of their beloved pet but they just inquired about me, assuring me that my kitty was going to be okay. I sure hope their little guy is okay.

Hakeem is home now, sleeping soundly on the well-covered couch, just in case of further incidents. He has been eating a little but he's definitely worn down. My mom and dad came over earlier and my mom scrubbed the blood stains out of my carpet while my dad went to Surdyk's to buy some cheese. Typical. Thankfully, my mom knows how to handle some pretty serious cleaning issues and isn't afraid to help out. I got the blood stains out of my cargo pants with the help of my friend Shout. I'm just keeping my eye on the kitty, hoping there won't be a repeat of the horrors of this morning and dreading giving him his injection in a couple of hours. But mostly I'm just glad we're home.

Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Had a Bad Day

Twenty-four pounds of love takes a hard hit once in a while and for my Big Guy, that hit came yesterday. On his last couple of unhappy vet visits the doc mentioned that Hakeem had a tooth that needed to come out, but that he probably wouldn't show signs of it because animals are stoic when it comes to pain. But I couldn't wait any longer, so worried was I that Hakeem was suffering but not revealing his pain, that I scheduled an appointment to have his tooth extracted. While they had him under the spell of anesthesia, I requested that they also do his semi-annual blood work for his bad thyroid and, my favorite thing, his anal gland expression! How do you express your anal glands? I have to laugh about this hideous subject or I'll cry.

Speaking of crying, I was close to it when I dropped him off yesterday morning on my way to work. I just couldn't stop worrying about how miserable he would be in that smelly office full of barking dogs and hissing cats. He's the sweetest creature you could ever imagine at home, but put him in a vet's office and he turns evil, and he doesn't want to but he has to protect himself, you know. After a full day of worrying about him, I called the vet at the end of the work day and they told me they'd need to keep him a few more hours. By the time I picked him up, he was waking up from the anesthesia and none too pleased that I had dumped him there. The vet tech explained to me that they ended up having to take three of his teeth (!) because they were in bad shape, and told me they had given him a Fentanyl patch for pain that he would keep on his back leg for the week. He looked like an old, matted teddy bear with sad, red-rimmed eyes. Just to make it as awful as possible, they had humiliated him by shaving an entire band around his front leg that gave it the appearance of that of a well-groomed poodle, the foot still fluffy but the leg bald. In addition to the part of his face they shaved as well as his back leg, it was almost too much.

I got him home where he made a beeline for his food even though the vet thought he probably wouldn't be hungry. I know my boy better than the vet does. Hakeem's chin fur was matted with blood from his tooth extractions and he was fighting the feeling of the anesthesia by walking around over and over when he should have been relaxing. A visit from his grandparents yesterday and today plus a lunch time visit from me today have proven that he is progressing well. He's not back to normal, that will take a few days, but he's better. In a few days I will have to remove his Fentanyl patch, an operation that doesn't feel like anyone's going to enjoy it, and I've been instructed by the doc not to touch it with bare hands. It's a controlled substance and I'm told that if I touch it with my skin I will become nauseous. Not so sure that's true, seems to me they're just trying to avoid turning me into a Fentanyl junkie like Hakeem, but I will abide by the rules. Anything for my little buddy.

Sunday, September 27, 2009

They're Baaaack...

I was awakened in the early hours of the morning today from a sound sleep by the sadly familiar scritch-scratching from inside of my home's walls. It's invasion time again. I shall not lose this battle and am willing to fight to the death.

d-CON, are you ready? Dad? Dave? Get your fatigues and combat boots ready, it's time.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

A Time Lapse Life

It's only been a week since I last saw Lorraine, but in that half fortnight it looked as though she aged fifty years. That's no easy feat when she already looked well into her eighties. For the first time she was in a wheelchair tonight instead of just a chair with an alarm pad that would go off if she tried to stand up without assistance. It's strange to almost be able to physically watch a person age, like viewing a piece of fruit rotting using the magic of time lapse photography. I asked Kollie about Lorraine and he said she definitely isn't feeling well. It makes you wonder if she's close to death or, worse yet, not close at all.

Sunday, September 20, 2009

Lucinda Getting Married

First Avenue, the former bus terminal turned iconic rock venue best known for being the backdrop of Prince's movie Purple Rain, became a whole new place Friday night when Lucinda Williams performed some of her oldest hits and then got married on stage.

My cousin and I bought tickets to her show, something we do for all her local appearances, many weeks ago and only recently got wind that Lucinda had decided to marry her man onstage, just like her idol Hank Williams had married a million years ago. Imagine our surprise when the somewhat dirty club was spiffed up with small vases of roses everywhere, staff wearing formal outfits (rather than filthy First Ave t-shirts adorned with words like "SLAVE" on the backs), and perhaps the biggest shock, a bathroom attendant passing out real cloth towels! This was not the same First Ave I was once, long ago, carried out of after one too many Jagermeister shots.

Lucinda started early for her, she's usually fashionably late, so we missed the first couple of songs. The place was packed with well-dressed people, some of whom had access to a corner of the upstairs where only wedding guests could go. We were definitely not on that list. I couldn't even hazard a guess as to how many times I've seen Lucinda perform live, but in some ways this was the best show yet. She was dressed all in black, including a tight, knee-length skirt, and left her usual straw cowboy hat at home for the night. She looked really pretty and sang all of her old stuff that made me fall in love with her in 1990 when I was living briefly in New York City and never went anywhere without my Sony Walkman and Lucinda's Passionate Kisses cassette tape playing in my ears.

After her regular set, unusually well-dressed staff members asked the audience to kindly pipe down as the vows were going to begin. Lucinda's father is famous poet Miller Williams, though I would be lying if I said I've ever heard of him outside of his relationship to her. Mr. Williams came out and did a reading and then several folks, the wedding party, came up onstage along with the couple of the hour. A religious figure of some sort in white flowing robes (sorry, not sure what denomination he was) came up last and the short ceremony commenced. We couldn't hear much of what was going on, but we were pretty certain when they were pronounced husband and wife because the whole place erupted in an unexpected flurry of confetti and streamers from the ceiling. Lucinda then performed her encore and it was all over except the late night Buffalo wings and beers down the street at Runyon's. It's exactly the celebration Lucinda would want us to have for her.

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

The Last Finger Wave

Two weeks ago at the care center I noticed that Albert wasn't around to wave at me using just his little index finger, but I didn't give it too much thought because it's not unusual for someone to miss a meal due to illness. When he wasn't there again last week I started to worry, but couldn't get any information because the two regular nurses were on vacation and their replacements not only didn't know Albert, they didn't know anyone. By default I became leader of the pack, directing portable dinners to their proper owners because the replacement nurses didn't know who was who and would have taken forever trying to read each resident's name on their ID bracelets to make sure each got the proper meal. So I pointed to Gerhard and motioned toward Eileen and cautioned that Mary couldn't have coffee with her meal. I was too busy trying to make sure everyone got fed to really take note of Albert's absence.

Tonight when I arrived for dinner duty, Kollie the nurse was back. I was relieved to see him, knowing that everything would go much more smoothly with him on the job. He was sitting and chatting (as much as anyone can) with Gudrun, waiting for the meal delivery from the kitchen. We reconnected and I told him about last week when I was in charge by virtue of nobody else being able to do it. Kollie was pretty impressed and I was happy about that. Then I meekly looked over at the spot at the table where Albert usually sits and asked quietly, "Where's Albert?" Kollie replied in a low, forlorn voice, "Oh, Albert died. Yeah, he died." I asked how old he was but Kollie could only hazard a guess that he had been in his 70s or 80s. I felt sad for Albert, knowing I would miss his messy bed head and large eyes spaced far apart on his ruddy face, giving him the appearance of a really cute alien. I could tell he had once, long ago, been very handsome, and he had retained that sparkle in his blue eyes that many of the residents relinquished long ago. He was always just a little angry that his meal hadn't arrived yet and liked to call other folks sons-of-bitches and to use other mild profanity. It only made me like him even more. Standing there looking at his empty chair today, I felt sad that Albert was gone and that I would never wave at him from my table and receive his piercing look and tiny finger wave back, but I couldn't help but believe he's in a better spot now. Earth is no place for people suffering the awful fate of dementia. Hopefully, wherever Albert is right now, somewhere beyond, he's swearing up a storm and waving at cute girls with just his little index finger.