First things first - we want to wish all our readers a Terrier-ific Christmas:
And, if that wasn’t durned cute enough, there’s this one (thanks Peg, for tracking it down):
Ron said to me today that he really can’t imagine having any other kind of dog but a Jack Russell Terrier anymore. They sort of do that to you.
Speaking of Ron, I took him to the ER at about 0400 on Sunday. Turns out he’s got a bit of a problem with atrial fibrillation. The pacer is actually fine but it turns out we got him there in time. Atrial fib can be nasty if you don’t deal with it promptly and correctly - and throwing a clot is common, which can result in a stroke. So Monday the docs will hopefully figure out what to do about it. Meds are the most common treatment.
If there is a bright and shining lining to all of this, it’s the enduring power of friends. That’s what’s keeping me from feeling overwhelmed right now, between this and my elderly Mom’s medical issues that will also keep me hopping during what little there is to this week. But what I want to say here is that old bit about finding out who your real friends are during times of crisis. Ron and I have some remarkable ones - particularly Suggie and Shelley. They spent most of Sunday evening in his hospital room making us laugh, and on the way out to the parking garage on a dark, cold and stormy night, still wanted to stop by the house and help with whatever.
As a non-believer, I’m not always sure about what ‘meaning’ I should attach to the holiday season, but somehow I think this is a big part of it.
Asta could sniff out a prettily wrapped tin of YipYap treats so fast it would make your head spin, and rip it to shreds in about two minutes. It was always hysterically funny.
I want to wish all my readers, and my fellow bloggers, a wonderful holiday. I hope that it is filled with friends both old and new and family, plus good memories of those specials people - and pets - who have come into our lives and then gone out again.
We’re richer for them having touched and informed us. And although we miss them, we have the memories … and a little wooden box on the desk.
When Natacha saw the following photo today, her remark was:”In French we say “les trois mousquetaires. Bisous.”
Musketeers? Or Mouseketeers? I’m not sure Natacha knew about the Mickey Mouse Club.
Yes, it was just that good up at Mt. Rose ski area, just a mere 30 minutes from the house. It was actually warmer up there, by about 10 degrees, than in town - which would have been dandy had the wind not decided to come up.
But a first day of skiing - the day after Thanksgiving - is a great day of skiing, regardless.
If you don’t already know, that’s Russ Johnson, myself and Shelley Brumberger. Mr. Ryan is still at home suffering from the Shingles.
We were happy to get out there and wear off some calories from last night. Suggie and Shelley hosted the festivities this year in their new digs here in Reno. The food just kept coming and it was fabulous. I also learned new things.
Did you know that Jews can’t make gravy? I didn’t know that until last night. Suggie grabbed me by the arm before I could shed my coat and set my veggies down on the counter.
“Look. They say Jews can’t make gravy! But I want you to see this!” she whispered breathlessly.
Yes, indeed, it was a pan of rich, creamy and flawless turkey gravy. OMG.
That is, of course, Ron congratulating Madame Chef de Cuisine on her accomplishment. Take that, you Gentiles!
Here’s the other thing I learned: Jewish men can bake. Whoa! Newly installed in their kitchen was the only icon I would gladly pray to. A KitchenAid HD Professional stand mixer. And the pies were the handy work of Mr. Brumberger.
Another OMG religious moment, since I adore pumpkin pie above all others. But then there was the pear tart.
Pear Tart? Yup. Yum.
The real Kodak moment came when I got my turn at the awesome machine, to whip the cream. I thought “how hard can it be ( never having touched one of these machines before ) to get the whisk beater off”. Hmmmm? Never ask when you can just fuck it up on your own. Yup. I pulled. It bounced once and then hit me square in the solar plexus.
Send that sweater to the cleaners, after having licked the perfectly whipped cream off. I think Suggie got pictures.
But we had turkey - moist and succulent - three different variations on stuffing, soup in mini pumpkins, cranberries, two variation on sweet potatoes, the gravy of course, my braised brussels sprouts with shallots, orange zest and cider, and my roasted gold and red beets, turnips and cippolini onions with a maple syrup glaze.
Do we need to mention what’s for dinner tonight?
I may not need dinner at all, actually. I went up to have lunch with my 93-year-old Mother at the ‘home’ yesterday. It was actually quite good, and hard to just pick at. She was on her best behavior since some of her ‘neighbors’ sat with us.
It only took three tries to get her to ‘smile’ for the camera. Oh, well. As Natacha said, “grandma is probably happy in her own way.”
It was while standing here, above Kit Carson Bowl, that I reflected on the early Christmas gift we all received the other day.
But, always the cynic, I ask you why he won’t get the life sentence he deserves? At most it’ll probably be a few years, if any. Yet, remember Martha Stewart? Not even close, yet she went to jail.
Driving back down the Mt. Rose highway this afternoon, we remarked on the packed parking lot at the Summit Sierra Mall. I guess the upside to this might be a halting economic recovery. Yet, I think they’re all sheep. Yup. What’s wrong with the idea of people camping out all night, outside of the Kohl’s or Best Buy, in bitter cold? It’s hard to know where to begin.
I’m not against buying stuff. I like to buy stuff I need or want - when I need it or want it. Not when I’m told to go out and buy it. Whether I can afford it or not. I just find it so bizarre that America is the most religious country in the industrialized world - awith bible thumpers for jesus as a growing segment of that delusional population - and they manage to mess up a perfectly nice mid-winter festival, turning it into a crassly cynical marketing machine that knows no bounds.
There. I’ve said it. I’m Scrooge. I own it.
Brightly lit trees. I dig it. Music. Family activities. Smiling children. All good. Winter fun. Hot cocoa. Very cool. But all those ads to buy stuff simply reminds me of George W. Bush telling us to show the evil-doers something or other by going shopping. Only this time, it’s Wall Street that has donned the evil-doer costume.
Are big screen tee-vees the only way to put our economy back on track? Mortgaging our financial future to watch yet another CSI show? What about big projects, another Hoover Dam … or a modern electric grid? What about a truly modern communications system - where you can get full coverage and bars anywhere and anytime? What about coast to coast high speed rail transportation?
These would be Christmas gifts not just to each other right now, but to generations yet to come. Isn’t it time to get past the all too disposable faux gifts and shopping till we drop, and start asking for the real deal from the adults that are supposedly in charge?
A dynamic infrastructure, built on the technology of tomorrow, designed by graduates of our well-funded universities, and built by a secure and healthy middle-class workforce isn’t likely to wear out and fade by the next Christmas, to be easily replaced by something marketed as shinier and newer.
Have you ever had that guilty feeling, when you’ve talked a friend into getting involved in a new sport … and they get hurt? Badly.
I’ve put the ‘real’ photo of the damage at the end of this post, to spare the weak of stomach. This is what my friends wife - a retired RN - had to say about it all:
The guy in the bed will spend tonight and tomorrow night in St. Mary’s. Yes, she is trying to strangle him.
Sunday, December 19, 2010 at 14:11 
