Beverley Hills: Home of more crabby drivers

D wanted to drive through Beverley Hills on Saturday night for kicks. I made him go down Rodeo drive to see the glizy shops (we even drove by the Entertainment Weekly pre-Emmy party!). He hesitated for a few seconds at a green light to consult the wretched GPS, and someone in a giant SUV HONNNNKed at us to get moving.

At the next intersection, the aforesaid SUV pulled up next to us. Its window ominously buzzed down. D politely rolled his down to see a sour looking blonde glaring at us. "What, are you all alone in the world or something?" she snarked before squealing her SUV around the corner.

I guess she was late for her botox appointment.

SF - City of Random Singing and Grumpy Sea Lions

SF is a busy, hectic city. The crush of people here can be overwhelming. But one nice thing is that a lot of them sing while they plummet down steep sidewalks and dash in front of trolley cars. Some have i-Pods jammed into their ears, but others just sing random tunes without any ear-budded accompaniment.

Take the business-suited Hawaiian guy walking behind me on Market street yesterday. He scatted an impressive ladder of notes, jogged to catch up to me and said, "Hey beautiful, like my singing?" I had to admit that I did. Once he'd quickly determined my marital status and given me his website ("I write all my own music, s'true!"), he cheerfully skedaddled. But my favourite singer was the little Asian guy in the wheelchair going up an impossibly steep hill outside of Chinatown at 10pm last night. His voice was as high pitched as one of those Chinese erhu thingies, which is funny, because they say the erhu can sound like a human voice. Anyway, his lament pierced both my eardrums and my heart.

Speaking of Chinatown, I had a chance to explore it for a few hours on foot yesterday. What a boisterous, shiny, colourful, crowded, gaudy bit of over stimulation it is. I found the perfect Kuan Yin statue, something I've been searching for, and the shop keeper directed me to the Washington Restaurant to try their "very delicious" won tons. You know you're probably in a decent Chinese place when you're the only white person there. (Although the "noodles with hot dog and tomato sauce" wasn't my idea of authentic Chinese food) The crispy won tons were so delicious that I forgave the grim-faced waitress for giving me a fork instead of chopsticks.

On the less than melodic side, we stumbled on the famous sea lions of Pier 39 on our waterfront crawl. Talk about a cantankerous group of creatures: barking and biting and whacking each other with flippers. And the stink! It was almost like being back in Bruce County at manure-spreading time...or watching the tourists vie for room at Station Beach on the long weekend.

Finally, let me say that the sushi here is absolutely the best I've ever had. Heaven = San Francisco rolls, a rich combo of toro (fatty tuna belly) and California avocado. Washing them down with chilled Cherry Blossom sake, I found my happy place. God bless whoever invented sushi.

They say SF is the city of "foodies," and tonight I intend to drag a reluctant D to a fine eatery to test this theory further. So far, I haven't been disappointed.

Up next: eatin', drinkin', dancin'...and Alcatraz.

San Fran - City of irritable drivers part II

I'm sitting in my hotel room, testing UAT plans like the diligent insurance jockey that I am, when I hear a steady HONK HONK HONK eight floors below. If I were back at Someday Farm, I'd chalk it up to migrating geese, but since I'm in the city of brotherly love (HA) I realize it's yet another irate driver. The bouncy honking suddenly turns to one prolonged HOOOONNNNNNNKKKKK....which lasts 17 seconds (I counted).

That may not seem like a long time, but try saying "HOONNNKKK" for 17 seconds and see what kind of mood it puts you in. I can only hope that someone clubbed the driver and the prolonged honk was his/her head thunking forward onto the horn and staying there until s/he regained consciousness and drove meekly home.

Brotherly love, my ass.

San Fran - city of irritable drivers and chilly fogs

D had an opportunity to come to San Francisco this week for a work-related conference. His boss kindly advised him to "take his wife," so I've tagged along like so much pretty luggage. You should see our hotel: fancy schmancy.

I'll post snippets of our experience in SF instead of inflicting big rambly posts on you, dear reader.

First, let me say that it is cold here. Cold and windy. So much for my whole California dreamin' notion of sunny skies and temperate climes. My mother whisked my sister and I to L.A. back in '88 and it was deliciously warm the whole time. With that happy memory in mind, I packed flimsy summer dresses, sandals and tank tops. And one pair of jeans. Thank heavens I packed my all-purpose Reading Festival hippy scarf! When I knot it around my goose-pimply self, it helps stave off the damp air shooting up from the wharf; it also warms me to know that wearing a scarf jauntily around one's throat seems to be in keeping with the local style.

When I complained about the weather here to my friend from Vancouver, she said, "September is sweater weather on the West coast, Kim." (I could almost hear her mentally adding, "You dingbat" but she's too sweet to actually say it.) So I scurried out after work yesterday and bought D and myself sweaters. We went on a boat cruise last night with his conference buddies, and I was glad for my wool/acrylic blend - salty sea winds are nice in theory but killer in practice.

The only other thing that's made an instant impression on me is how nasty San Fran drivers are. I mean, NASTY - honking if you hesitate for a second at a light (HONK! "Is this New Montgomery street?" HONK HONK! "How should I know? You're the one with the GPS!" HONNNNK!), cutting you off mercilessly on the freeway, refusing to let you in, trying their best to run you over as you wander across the street. Maybe I've been putt-putting along in Bruce county for too long, but I don't remember Toronto - or even Montreal - drivers being so gosh-darn rude. D and I felt like country mice in a big ol' city full of feline drivers. We have decided to walk as much as possible.

Coming up next: the best tuna belly God ever made, my search for Kuan Yin in Chinatown and the Hawaiian guy who wanted to marry me.

A Unitarian wedding and a very Montreal reception

If I were a cynical person, I might huff that a wedding is a wedding is a wedding. You go to a stuffy place of worship, hear the same tired vows, then sit through bland speeches and an even blander supper. I might say that I used to love both 1Corinthians 13 and chicken breast, but as a repeated wedding mixture over the years, that they're starting to lose their appeal.

But when D and I attended my good friend Jarrett's wedding in Montreal last week, my jaded, easily-bored self remembered why I just can't be cynical where weddings are concerned.

The ceremony took place on the East end of the city, at a Unitarian church. I've never been to a Unitarian church, much less a Unitarian wedding, and I was impressed with its non-dogmatic approach. I liked the way Unitarians are able to find compatibility between spirituality and science, even if I still believe in a triune God.

The pianist played a full 30 minutes of classical music exquisitely on the church's grand piano before the ceremony. The rich sound echoed through the small, high-ceilinged building. The music sounded fresh - not snobby, the way classical music can sometimes come across at a formal event - and was an interesting complement to the young cousins who came bashfully down the aisle to place white calla lillies in an old maple syrup pail at the front of the church.

The entire wedding party sat in chairs on a small platform facing the congregation - an arrangement I'd never seen before. It felt very personal, as you could make eye contact with the bride and groom from time to time. Two friends of the couple read a gorgeous poem - one read it in French and the other translated in English - and a cousin of the bride sang a Pete Seeger song. The vows had a lot to do with respecting one another's individuality and support for one another's dreams - no nonesense about loving and obeying. It was a beautiful moment.

The bride's dress was quite simple, but when you looked closer at it, you could see little golden rosebuds embroidered all over the skirt. When I told Cynthia how much I liked the details, she said that her female friends and relatives had come over one night and each woman had sewn on a bud.

She and Jarrett looked so happy. I've never seen a calmer, more relaxed groom than Jarrett that night. It does my heart good to know he's found the perfect partner.

But the best part was the reception. Held at what was once a 1920's cabaret called Le Lion D'Or, the party was classy, sophisticated and a whale of a good time. I loved the live jazz quintet that played all the oldies - Jarrett is a sucker for old-fashioned music - the delicious supper, the crisp, cold glasses of Blanche, trading wit with my two old friends (now PhDs) I've known since Kindergarten but haven't seen in ages. D and I danced nearly every song together. Nothing like a wedding to remind you how good it is to be in love.

"Oh, I'm as happy as a big sunflower...

...that bends and nods in the breeze, Oh! That bends and nods in the breeze, oh!"

I first came across this cheery little song in one of the Little House on the Prairie books. Laura calls it Pa's "trouble song" because Pa sings it when he's worried about dying crops, cyclones, ravenous locusts, or any of the other nasty hardships those poor folks faced in the wilderness. Why someone would sing a happy ditty about sunflowers when they're facing dire circumstances is beyond me. But then again, I've never had to fend off hungry locusts.

I've never had much luck growing sunflowers in the city. They'd wither up or tip over or not bother to sprout at all. The chosen few plants that did make it to maturity were mercilessly decapitated by squirrels or crows, usually the day after I'd rapturously marvelled at the sunflower's bright, friendly face. But a happy accident occurred this spring on Someday Farm: a messy bird spilled a bunch of black oil sunflower seeds from the birdfeeder, and voila! 10 sturdy sunflowers took root, right beside our back door. No decapitations, no squirrels - just golden, joyful looking flowers that really do bend and nod in the breeze, oh!

As much as I've loved seeing them every morning as I come out the door, I've come to realize that while sunflowers in their prime are a thing of beauty, a sunflower slowly rotting on its stem is a true study in blechiness. Ah, but that is the essence of gardening, isn't it? Plants and flowers that were once so pretty and vibrant turn crispy and vile, seemingly overnight.

I thought that at least I'd harvest the seeds to repay the kind birds who'd helped me plant my sunflowers. You can imagine my yelp of disgust when I tried to pry them out and was met by an angry army of meal worms, ants and earwigs. Apparently I don't get to keep the sunflower seeds - the bugs have claimed unequivocal rights. Oh well. At least I haven't seen any locusts. Or cyclones. Yet.

Teat Dip Blues (or, confessions of a milkmaid)

Although I have fond childhood memories of playing in haylofts and patting calves on farms near my Dad’s cabin, getting intimate with a cow’s underside was never high on my priority list. But when you marry a man who grew up on a dairy farm, you learn to appreciate the grimy beauty of the barn pretty quickly.

Over the past few years, I’ve progressed from being the girl in ill-fitting coveralls who’s constantly in the way to confident scraper of poop and feeder of cats. Recently, I graduated to the status of bona fide milkmaid. I knew I’d reached the pinnacle of my dairy career when I was allowed to assist my in-laws with morning milkings for five straight days.

I could go on at length about all the interesting things I’ve learned while doing the milking - how to push a 300lb grain cart without dumping it in the gutter, how to avoid a nasty spatter of calf scours - but one vital truth revealed itself to me during my week of being a milkmaid. And it is this: cows are stupid.

That may sound harsh, especially to anyone who hasn’t been crammed into a barn on a humid August night with 46 of the obstinate creatures. But trust me, it’s true.

I didn’t always feel this way. I grew up reading books by Barbara Woodhouse, famous dog trainer and all-around animal guru. She maintained that all animals had an innate wisdom and that, with the right training and a little patience, could be taught to do anything. As proof of this, she’d saddle up her Jersey cow and ride it through the English countryside, much to the consternation of her neighbours.

As a result of my Woodhouse education, I thought that cows would have a beautiful bovine wisdom about them, a placid intelligence that I couldn’t help but admire. Why, after a few milkings, I’d probably become one with these gentle, useful creatures. My in-laws’ milk quota would likely skyrocket whenever I was around.

Then came the poo-covered tail in the face of reality: cows aren’t smart at all. In fact, many of them seem downright dumb. I’ve decided that cows, valuable creatures though they are, were put on earth solely to test the patience of inexperienced milkmaids and even hardened dairymen.

For example, I’ve seen a seasoned cow come lumbering out of the pen, udders squirting milk in every direction. It is clearly time for her to be milked. She has been doing this routine twice a day, every day, for approximately three months. And yet she stops dead in front of three open stalls, looking around in wide-eyed confusion like the kid at the Christmas pageant who has forgotten her lines.
“Mrs. Cow,” I tell her, “we’ve been through this. You know the drill. I have a pitchfork and I’m not afraid to use it. Get in the stall!”

Mrs. Cow continues to look at me blankly until I make good on my promise and poke her in the rump with the blunt end of my pitchfork (I haven’t quite gotten used to the pointy end yet). She looks surprised, shambles into the nearest stall, and surveys her surroundings with wonderment, as though this isn’t the 300th time she’s been there. Repeat this performance several times in a row and it’s enough to make you switch to soymilk.

Expecting a cow to behave is an exercise in futility. Take “The Kicker.” She’s been milking for two years. She isn’t sick, injured or mistreated. But every blessed time someone approaches her udders, she kicks. Once, as my brother-in-law was grimly outfitting The Kicker with her pretty red “anti kick” strap, I asked him why he didn’t use cow psychology on problem cows. He stopped what he was doing and looked at me as though I’d asked why he didn’t paint the cows’ toes pink. I won’t print his response here, but suffice it to say I don’t ask about cow psychology anymore. I figured my bro-in-law was just crusty and unwilling to entertain new ideas, so I asked another dairy farmer who graduated with the same agricultural degree that D did. Strangely enough, I got the same look of disgust. I asked this fellow whether there was anything one could do about a cow that kicked. He nodded. "Yeah, there's something you can do all right. Ship the bitch."

Still, I suspect there may be a million dollar business lurking behind my idea. There are horse whisperers and dog psychics; why not cow psychologists? If I owned a dairy farm, I’d make room in the budget for a bovine therapist. Or at least a really big pitchfork.