Week 51

It pays to be nice, at least to your barista. Antonia and I visit the coffee shop in our library fairly regularly, so this is important.

I bought a large mug with the Starbucks' logo so I can get discounted coffee. I can't really drink that much coffee in one sitting, so the two of us split it. Actually, Antonia brings her own cup and they pour some in both. I always feel a naughty guilt when they do this, since I'm certain it is against Corporate Policy. Usually the baristas fill each mug more than half full, so it is even a better deal for us. Sometimes, if the manager isn't paying close attention, they will give us even more.

On International Days we speak different languages with the baristas, and they give us free coffee. We were trying our hand at Swahili recently, but very poorly. ("Ama ga hle." "Sal a ga hle.")

If someone doesn't pick up their froufrou drink, Antonia rushes up to claim it. More delicious guilt.

There is a photograph running in the rotation on the University's home page. The picture includes Antonia. One of the barista's jokingly asked her for her autograph. She declined and we laughed.

I write down the baristas' names in my restaurant database. It doesn't help me when they swap name tags. Maybe they know about my database.

To show our appreciation, we sometimes bring in treats for the baristas. Antonia usually takes care of this, but she was baking cookies for the Listening Room last week so I thought I might as well help out. Something Christmas-y should do. You can't go wrong with snickerdoodles ("fun to say ... to sniff ... to eat!") I thought. I just wish recipes in general were more explicit. "Shortening" for example. As soon as I saw that, I knew I was in trouble. I called Antonia. I could use butter instead. Unsalted. And take it out of the refrigerator now so it will soften.

I always wondered what cream of tartar really is. Darien didn't know either, so I looked it up. It turns out it is a byproduct of wine-making -- potassium bitartrate. It doesn't really add to the taste of the food; it is used more for its chemical properties, such as stabilizing egg whites and preventing other foods from crystallizing. Just remember, it is "not to be confused with Tartar sauce."

I didn't start making the cookies until 10 PM, so I put the dough in the freezer to chill. I rolled the dough into balls, the size of small walnuts, just like Betty instructed me. Darien said they looked more like large walnuts. They still came out ok. In fact, they tasted pretty awesome. Part of it was the cinnamon. This is the first time we had bought the Spice Hunter brand, and it seems to make a difference. I recommend it. I'll have to make some french toast soon.

I saved half of the dough in the freezer so I can bake some when Peter is home. The baristas seemed to appreciate our effort, ensuring many more months of good service. My only qualm about the whole experience is that Betty lied about the recipe making five dozen cookies. After taking into account all the raw dough I consumed, there is no way you can get that many cookies out of it.

I hate to be a whiner, but things really are deteriorating around here.

Week 50

St. James had their annual Advent Lessons and Carols. Antonia is often featured in their services, but Mark was not available this week, so she was asked to help assist with conducting. This, along with her accordion skillz and solo vocals, put the evening over the top. Score one for the Begonia.

I've never been sure which way the ocean goes when it is ebbing and which way it goes when it is flowing. Whichever way it is, we seem to be witnessing it here.

Week 49

Sometimes I seek out new wine, and sometimes it seeks out me.

We have had some neighborhood break-ins lately. Mostly the thieves grab small things that are plainly seen and quickly taken. It is probably just kids, but it has the neighbors talking, and has even generated an article or two in the paper. It got to the point where Darien was getting nervous, so she decided we should start using our deadbolts.

We are not stupid people, but we are sometimes forgetful, so we always keep an extra key secreted away outside. Just in case. Since the deadbolts are on different keys than the doorknobs, I asked her to be careful and not on start locking the deadbolts until we had a second key outside. OK, she says. She went and had duplicate keys made and put little nails next to all the doors where we could hang them when the deadbolt was in place so no one could simply break the window and turn the inside key. We are not stupid people.

This was on Tuesday. On Thursday morning, Darien left for work before I did. I was preoccupied with thinking about the meeting I had scheduled with my staff for 9 AM that morning. I was still dwelling on what I would say when I walked out the front door and pulled it shut tightly behind me, as I do every morning. That is when I had that sinking feeling. My routine was a little different that morning and I didn't have any recollection of putting my house or car keys into my pocket. I frantically dug my hand in my pocket. Nothing. I went to the side door to get the hidden key. It was right where it was supposed to be. We are not stupid people. But no deadbolt key. Was the deadbolt thrown on that door? Of course. Was it thrown on the back door as well? Of course. Were all the lower windows locked with the screw bolt so that no one could simply break the window, reach in and flip the latch? Of course. We are not stupid people.

I was supposed to pick Antonia up and give her a ride to work. I thought, fine, I'll swallow my pride and call her and ask her to come over and let me in the house. Do I own cell phone? Of course not. I hate talking on phones, and I'm too cheap to pay for something I already have at home. I went across to ask Mr. Lewis if I could borrow his phone. His house was very quiet. I rapped lightly and no one answered. I didn't want to disturb him. I went next door and knocked.

"Hi. I locked myself out of my house. Can I borrow your phone?"
"And who are you and where do you live?"
(Quickly taking my cap off.) "I'm John. I live next door." Like for the past year, and we just had a conversation about raking leaves last weekend.

Mr. Neighbor was kind enough to bring me his phone after that. Fine. What number do I call? My mind went blank. All the numbers flitted away. If I could call Darien, she could call Antonia. Could I remember her cell phone number? Of course not. But wait! I remembered the number to her school. Not the number to the library, which would have done me good, but to the front desk, where they have an answering machine. I started punching in numbers that had some similitude to Darien's or Antonia's, and had some pleasant exchanges with strangers. My neighbor watched me with growing wonder. He showed me how his phone had this feature called redial. Amazing. His wife and child came outside, waiting for me to finish so he could take them to work and school. They too watched me fumble with the phone. I was thankful for the antiperspirant I had applied that morning, although frankly I was starting to believe that I could make a case for violation of the truth in advertising laws.

Finally it hit me. I had a list of phone numbers in my wallet! Just in case. I've had it there for years. We are not stupid people.

Not an unreasonable pile, but it is growing, and more than imperceptibly. She has three more weeks to hold on. It is enough to drive one to drink.

Week 48

I have to go to Boston in January, so I booked a hotel. As I was booking at the Omni, I noticed that those age 55 or older received a discounted fare. Gulp. I went ahead and signed up. I might as well get something out of this.

A few days later, I was in an irrigation supply store, looking for a piece of piping I need for the back yard. It was the day before Thanksgiving and the crotchety old fellow behind the counter was complaining because someone owed him a thousand dollars, and he was not showing up as expected. I commiserated, secretly wondering what it would be like to be waiting on a thousand dollars. He found the piece I needed, but I would have to buy it with the complete elbow assembly. I only needed the top piece. He eyed me up and down and said if I were over 49 I could get the senior discount. I don't think there really was a senior discount, but he could tell by looking at me that I wasn't there to throw money away. At $25, I reckoned it was still too expensive. The guy nodded.

He said he took advantage of senior discounts all the time. "You can get a McDonald's coffee for 58 cents." I didn't know that. "Best deal on the street. It ain't Starbucks, but it is still decent coffee."

Getting old isn't that bad if you can get paid for it.

Clean as a whistle. Go Darien.

Week 47

Sometimes you just can't be totally honest with a person. This was brought home to me by a one-day art project in the courtyard outside the library. The idea was to write on a Post-It note a lie that you have told in the past, or that has been told to you. All Post-Its were signed the same -- "Liar" -- and then put up on a temporary kiosk in the courtyard. Antonia and I were there early and lied together and had our pictures taken. I think this project is posted somewhere on the Web. Maybe someone will point me to it.

Which brings me to the subject of today's post. It wasn't an actual lie -- more like an incomplete disclosure of the truth. Darien and I were going to the inauguration of the Listening Room RVA. I had read a decent review of Fleming's Steakhouse, and how they were offering a $25 discount certificate on all meals before December 20. I'm a sucker for saving money. My problem is that Darien has extreme, unreasoned prejudice against two things: steakhouses and chains. I can sort of understand the first, but chains? This from a woman who thinks every Starbucks barista is a close family member?

So, I needed to get her to the restaurant, without telling her where we were going. After all, Flemings severs fish, too, and the $25 was a sore temptation for me. So I just e-mailed and told her to be ready to go. She is a sucker for dates, so I knew I was on safe grounds making a reservation. Like all modern young couples, we arranged everything by e-mail:

Mine: We have to leave at 6:10 P.M. Don't be late.
Hers: Is this a me-date or a you-date? and, are we leaving from home or do I pick up a Hot Guy at The Pit? 
Mine: This is an us-date; you just won't know it until afterward. We will leave from home.
Hers: appropriate dress? I was planning on wearing my Speckled  B. tee ... 
Mine: You might feel more comfortable if you were a little more fancy. But I like you just the way you are.
Hers: You don't LOVE me just the way I am?
Mine:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ounJsqomcv8 
Hers: you didn't tell me if we are leaving from home or from The Pit ...
Mine: Wrong. "This is an us-date; you just won't know it until afterward. We will leave from home."
Hers: oops.
Right.
Off to the gym; I'll be at home in time.
Hers: Shall I have a cappucino ready to prepare when you walk in the door?
Mine: Yes! Leaving now. [Another lie. I didn't get away for another twenty-five minutes.]

I consider it a successful ruse, since she didn't actually believe we were going there until I was opening the door to Fleming's for her. There were a few glitches. She ordered a Honig Chardonnay, but the waiter brought her a New Zealand Zinfandel instead. She ended up liking it very much. Also, the waiter never did get back to us on what the definition of a wine bar is, which we have been debating for the past six months. The bread was very good, and made better by the champagne infused brie that we used to spread. We split a salad and asked for the dressing on the side, so they brought us each our own beaker of dressing -- maybe a week's worth. No wonder their prices are so high. We wanted to split their bisque, but it was too spicy for me and Darien had to eat the whole thing. She feigned sorry for my altered taste buds. For the main dish, we split rock fish with scallops and risotto, with a side of grilled asparagus. We drooled over the desserts, and denied ourselves.

I think she was mildly surprised at enjoying herself in a chain steakhouse. And I saved $25. Score one for John. I was so pleased I got drunk on coffee.

The Listening Room was a great success. Jonathan organized most of the decorations and the talent and the deer head, and they recouped enough money to keep on going. We listened to The Low Branches, Englishman, and Ferdinand Thomas. As far as I can tell Englishman is actually two people, and there really is no one named Ferdinand. My favorite of the evening was "Oh God" by Ferdinand Thomas. That set is up on YouTube now. Very lo-fi, though. Be warned. I had to poke the woman next to me a few times to get her to be quiet and listen.

Can't wait for the December 18th show. And they better get those kick-ass sisters from Georgia here soon.

[Oh my God! I forgot to post the counter pic on the original message. I hope my millions of followers haven't caught on yet.]

Question: Is this the place where we put our books? Answer: No! this is not the place where we put our books!

Week 46

Moving from the ridiculous to the sublime, I went to another high school event this week -- girls volleyball! Now that's what I'm talking about. No more of this strutting and tooting of horns around a football field. Just intense competition, digs, kills, close net action, and tight shorts. We watched Godwin romp Deep Run in three games. But you can read about that in the sports page. What the sports page won't tell you is that one of the Godwin coaches wore red high heels. Seriously red. And before play, the Deep Run girls would get together in a tight huddle with their arms around each other for some self-inspiring smack talk about the competition. We called it the huggle. It didn't do them any good. We walked in on the first game when Godwin was down five points. It was the last time they were down. Godwin's runaway victory was probably a result of the obese parent sitting next to us who kept exhorting the officials in a deep, rafter-shaking bass voice to quit cheating for Deep Run. Whenever he bellowed, his wife studied the scoreboard with deep concentration, looking as if she didn't know who this was sitting next to her. Whatever.

The kitchen counter is almost getting boring. I'm thinking I should make next year's resolution the attic.

Week 45

FRIDAY
HER to HIM (via e-mail): I have a new wine item for you! Let's have a date Saturday night. We can have dinner out somewhere north of the river.
HIM to HER (via e-mail): If we date, it has to be at a place we have not been before.

SATURDAY
HIM: What is the date?
HER: I will tell you later.
HIM: OK.

(later, lying in bed)
HIM: What is it? Where are we going?
HER: I can't tell you
HIM: Is this a Darien-date or a John-date?
HER: A Darien-date.
HIM: Will I be embarrassed?
HER: No.
HIM: Will I have to talk to anyone?
HER: No.
HIM: OK.

HER: It will only take 15 minutes. We will be there for 30.
HIM: OK.

HER:  We have to leave at 7:30. Will you be ready?
HIM: Yes.
HER: That is a half hour from now.
HIM: OK.

(38 minutes later, in the car on the Willey Bridge)
HIM: Are we going to see the Godwin marching band?
HER (squealing): YES! YES! YESSSS! I am so excited! It is a band competition, and Godwin performs last!
HIM: OK.
HIM (in his head): Welcome to my nightmare.

Dare I hope for a trend that could become institutionalized? We have less than two months to go before I have to cease this public humiliation.