Le Monde de Fromage de Kate

I have “mourned” over the last couple of years the fact that I have been living away from what had for so many years become “my city” – Salt Lake City. But in light of what happened last night at Trolley Square it would be utterly ridiculous – the worst possible narcissism for me to use the term “mourn” merely because I miss the life I once had in “my city.”

Last night, in a matter of minutes, six people died at Trolley Square* and others were critically wounded. Grief and mourning belongs to those who lost their loved ones who were innocently shopping for Valentine’s Day, having birthday dinners, or just spending a night at the mall.

True mourning also belongs to a Bosnian family, having come to this country to escape the horrors of being Muslims in the wrong place and time, and having lived a ravaged, horrific existence. They now are forced to struggle not only with the death of their child and brother, eighteen-year-old Sulejman Talovic, but must grapple with the inexplicable, incomprehensible concept that this “good boy” had become a mass murderer. And no one will ever know why.

I suppose one could be relieved that this didn’t take place less than a month ago, during the Sundance Film Festival. I’ve been to Festival premieres at the theatre directly across the street from Trolley Square. I don’t know if the Festival uses those theatres any more, but if they do and that had been the timing, the Trolley Square area would have been filled with thousands of people rather than hundreds. Also, had this massacre been today and not yesterday, I’m sure that there would have been hundreds of additional last-minute Valentine’s Day shoppers on the scene.

And I cannot help but think of all the myriad times I went to Trolley Square. I have fond recollections of almost every restaurant and store in the place. Those memories will never seem quite the same. Nevertheless, like the perspective I now have that makes my use of the word “mourning” in terms of my own “loss” seem flippant, I acknowledge that I cannot begin to comprehend what the employees and children and families and individuals who were THERE experienced. Those memories burned an indelible mark in each participant’s psyche, I’m certain.

But it’s important to acknowledge that there were champions – heroes – there last night amidst the horror and turmoil. I am proud of the quick and appropriate response of the Salt Lake City Police. I am proud of the off-duty Ogden Police Officer who was having an early Valentine’s date with his pregnant wife, who, having assessed the situation, sent her to call 911 and tell others to “lock down” and then engaged and distracted the gunman and doubtless saved many lives. I am proud of store owners and employees who warned people – some risking their own lives in the process – to stay away from the shooter and those who sheltered frightened patrons in their storage rooms, bathrooms and even a freezer. I am proud of the first shooting victim, seriously wounded from being hit multiple times as he was leaving the mall, who ran back TOWARDS the shopping center in order to warn others not to come outside. If I am not mistaken, his selfless actions also prompted the first 911 call. These individuals claim that they did “what anyone else would have done in the same situation.” Even if that is the case, they are still heroes.

Now I mourn for “my city” – not for myself, but for this senseless tragedy. I grieve, too, that it is a reality in LIFE that senseless tragedy can happen at any time and any place, bringing out the very worst in humanity but also the very best, as though Janus incarnate.

My thoughts and no doubt the good wishes of people around the World go out the seriously wounded:

Alan “AJ” Walker, who lost his Father
Carolyn Tuft, who lost her Daughter
Stacy Hanson
Shawn Munns, who ran towards danger, not away from it

And in honoured memory of:

Jeffery Walker, Father of sixteen-year-old Alan “AJ” Walker
Kirsten Hinckley, fifteen-year-old Daughter of Carolyn Tuft
Vanessa Quinn
Brad Frantz
Teresa Ellis

I cannot presume to imagine how much they will be missed.

*Read more about the shootings in any major paper. The largest Utah newspapers are The Salt Lake Tribune and the Deseret News.

And THIEF!!!

Yes, here I am following that time-old adage: Post something nice and then post something NOT NICE. I think Mark Twain said it. I’m related to him, you know.

It’s just that here I am, already dealing with the traumatic idea that our seemingly nice USPS delivery man, who rings the doorbell to hand us packages or catalogs when there’s a surfeit of mail for our box, took an Very Important International Package (‘kay – overstating A LITTLE, perhaps, but it’s important to ME) right out of my hands and evidently threw it, smiling all the while, into the great and dark unending ABYSS. And now…

AND NOW (visually we just needed a break there) I find according to that new-fangled, scientific “tracking information” that my much-anticipated package containing a USB hub/card reader combo device was signed for on January 25, 2007 at 8:57 a.m. BY A STRANGER. No, not someone at this house. No, not someone WITH MY NAME (as indicated on the package). Okay, FedEx, with your electronic signature thingies and sharp uniforms and all that jazz, WHERE IS MY PACKAGE??? WHO IS “KGLENN”???

Okay, the device is for my Parent’s computer. But I’M the one who will hook it up. I am the B. Consulting Services, Inc., Independent Contractor (as indicated ON THE BOX) who will deal with this business matter.

NOW I’m an angry consumer. Watch out, PACKAGE BOYS!!! My wrath is… angry…

I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: My Mother receives almost every catalog available in the known Universe. As some of you know, last holiday season I had grand aspirations of using her vast library as fodder for clever and thoughtful gift ideas. I look back on what I compiled, and I find it rather VERBOSE and consisting mostly of English foods with names that I find amusing. This notion was corroborated by the fact that last year Grettir AND The Blobby Farm both trumped me with cleverness and brevity. And what’s more, each accomplished this in a single entry (well, two for Grettir if you want to count this golden oldie).

Nonetheless, if you want to browse through last years “prime” gift picks (there’s a link in the sidebar as well), please do so. NO – I will not guarantee that any of the links are current. If they are broken, please just look at the pretty pictures.

Despite what I’ve just said, I can guarantee two things:

1. Blobbies STILL and forevermore make people happy. I promise. Cross my heart and all that jazz.
2. I think perhaps the “Twelve Dickies of Christmas” was mildly amusing. Well – at least the fact that I FOUND twelve separate assorted dickies is a little funny in and of itself.

That said, notwithstanding the fact that I bagged the idea of “Kate’s Holiday Gift Ideas du Jour 2006” several months ago, I still browsed through stacks and piles and heaps of catalogs. This is, more often than not, an amusing pastime. Occasionally, though, one finds reason to be quite terrified.

This holiday season I was genuinely alarmed by the profusion of Nativities (Crèches – call them what you prefer) featuring – hmmm, let’s say “non-human” characters. Yes, indeed – I found teddy bears (fuzzy), snowmen, teddy bears (poly-resin), frogs and a few others that must have scared me so much that I’ve blocked them out completely. I would always show them to my Mother and tell her that I’d found the PERFECT Christmas gift just for her.

I should probably put this in context: In case you do not know, I am very hard to offend. And kitschy, tacky catalog items ordinarily amuse me. Moreover, to put this an even clearer perspective: I LOVE Life of Brian. I think it’s uproariously funny and don’t consider it the least bit blasphemous. In short, I am about as far from a right-wing religious conservative as you can get.

Yet I find the representations of the “Holy Family” as reptile or canine or ursine creatures to be CREEPY. This, apparently, brought out my Mother’s devious side.

One day there was a notice about a package that they wouldn’t deliver without someone home to accept it. Says she, “Oh no – they wouldn’t leave your ‘Get ready for Christmas’ present!” My Mother is the Queen of All Holidays, so it’s not strange that there were “Get ready for Christmas” gifts this year.

I did not have to wait very long to find out what festive surprise lay in store for me. The next evening I came home to found the following collection artfully arrayed on the dining room table:

It’s scary, yes, but I must admit that it’s hysterically amusing, too. I was going to try and take a picture of my ACTUAL Cat Nativity (my “Cativity”), but Fiona wanted to lounge voluptuously on the box behind it, which I’d wanted to artistically drape with black fabric (okay, with a jacket – it’s not like I’m Annie Freakin’ Leibovitz). So I stole the image from the merchant.

I cannot say I’m sorry, though, because when I searched for the picture I also found this description of the Cativity:

Sweetly sculpted of polyresin, each of these 9 figures is beautifully hand painted and delightfully detailed. Set includes Mary, Joseph, the 3 wise cats, shepherd cat, little drummer cat, angel cat and, of course, the baby kitten curled up in his makeshift crib. Largest figurine measures 4 3/4″H x 2 1/2″W x 2 1/2″D. Stable not included.

That’s right, no stable (and if you don’t know already, cats LOVE containers). I’m considering a surreptitious removal of my Mother’s LLadro Crèche figures from its satin underpinning and dazzling backdrop and replacing them with my Feline “Holy Family” and ensemble.

Last but not least, a disclaimer: If you like or worse, hold dear, any of these things I’ve just ridiculed, bear in mind I adore many things that others would find worthy of ridicule. I do not scoff at YOU – I’m mocking your STUFF. Everyone to their own tastes. Right?

*Hah! You thought I meant “cavity.” Coincidentally, I did have a cavity filled last week, but this was a very deliberate “CATIVITY.”

As one might imagine, when I search for something through my numerous and varied piles and boxes and bags and crates and baskets and room-fulls of my belongings, I often run across some quite remarkable things. Now and then, they are truly amusing. More often than not, they are disconcerting beyond belief. Still, they frequently serve to distract me from the fact that I, more often than not, CANNOT locate the article for which I was originally hunting.

Here is one such “found” item:

Regina and Clarence (pencil, date unknown)

I located this fascinating illustration in an otherwise empty sketchbook. Here’s the best part: I DREW THEM. I’ve no idea when, I’ve no idea WHY, and, most importantly, how in the hell did I decide to name then “Regina and Clarence?”

I will say this: They show far more artistic skill than this (though, I admit, that’s not saying much).

I think I may start a competition in which I reward the champion with a tin of Hungarian bacon (again – something I found amongst the debris of My Former Life™)*. If someone can tell me WHY I have a particular found object and from WHENCE it came and WHAT it means, they win this marvelous prize.

*Okay – a tin of Hungarian bacon. I, in point of fact, recall being given this item many years ago (perhaps at a White Elephant party?), so I presume it’s not edible. Why then, one may ask, did I keep it? Oh – COME ONE – it’s a CAN OF HUNGARIAN BACON! The sheer absurdity of it necessitated saving it. Besides, one never knows when one might have a sudden and critical need for a can of Hungarian bacon, whether or not it’s unfit for human consumption.

And please, everyone, rest easy. It doesn’t appear as though the tin is in any imminent danger of bursting (it’s not even bulging – impressive!) – which, as Kate the Safety Dog, is something I dutifully considered. I shudder to think what critical wounds might be caused by an exploding can of Hungarian bacon.

While we were not paying attention, they added from one to nine percent spandex, Lycra or Lycra/spandex to almost all of our purportedly “natural” fibers.

Why do the workings – the very mechanism – of my brain STILL baffle me?

Just the other day, my Mother was telling me about Oprah and something very nice she’d done using “whatever the currency is in South Africa.”

“Rand,” I immediately said.

We both had a “what the…???” response to that one (especially because I was correct). Only a day before I’d had to ask her what a “cooked” cheese sandwich was called. I honestly couldn’t remember.

I’ll record THAT phrase here (well – it’s also in the comment I was writing at the time, but – CHEESE – Grommit!) for all posterity, as it is my duty as a noted Turophile:
GRILLED Cheese Sandwich

*NOT

The other day I was perusing the Country Curtains catalog, which has “fresh window fashion for every style of home.” I’m not overly fond of “fresh window fashion,” but BeBe ate the temporary paper blind in my bedroom, and when they take the vines away to replace the window (I’m already making this a long story, but I’m attempting to cut it SOMEWHAT short) I won’t have any privacy. Granted, it’s the neighbor kids (who love to doorbell ditch, leave tricycles in the driveways and put themselves in varying degrees of danger by playing in or near the street) who would see me starkers, but I figure they have enough trauma in their lives.

ANYHOO, I was flipping through the catalog (because, as I’ve mentioned, my Mother receives ALMOST EVERY CATALOG IN THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD), mostly skipping through pages saying, “TOO frufru,” or “TOO Baroque,” or “TOO DAMN CUTSEY!!!”

To be fair, the same people have run this company for fifty years. And here they are:

I guess they have been involved in this endeavor long enough to take perfectly lovely pictures of windows and curtains. The things OUTSIDE the windows are another issue. The background scenes are very poorly photo-shopped in, and while most of the settings attempt to be lovely and pastoral, a few of them give the impression that a big ol’ tornado and the Wicked Witch of the West plunked the house right down in desert wasteland. And I swear one view is practically swallowed up by a field of poppies (POPPIES WILL PUT YOU TO SLEEP….).

I had pretty much given up on the Country Curtains catalog; I’m looking for a simple roman shade in a very neutral colour, not “Crinkle Voile,” “Anniversary Fringe,” or “Barrington: A Decorator’s Dream.”

Unexpectedly, something caught my eye. It had been on the “Cabin Check” page, so I’d turned past it rather quickly and was on the “Point d’Esprit” page, but I had to turn back because I realized that something VERY STRANGE was lurking outside the window festooned with “Cranberry tailored curtains on alabaster crane rods.”

No, your eyes do not deceive you, there is a FREAKIN’ BEAR outside the window! A LARGE, DANGEROUS URSINE CREATURE!!! It does seem to be sauntering away the window – perhaps it realized that the luscious-looking decorative fruits and pastries were made of wood.

Still, you must pardon my asking, what in the hell??? All I can say is that bear best beware (how’s that for alliterative festiveness), for Stephen Colbert (and RHYMING) always has grizzly bears ON NOTICE (and even if it’s not a grizzly bear he considers bears, in general, a menacing danger in our great Country, and he is, after all, “A JOURNALIST WITH GRAVITAS – WITH DIGNITY – WITH BALLS”).

Knowing that Stephen always has bears ON NOTICE, I can safely ponder other matters. Like, for instance, did they NOTICE the bear? There’s not an animal in any other picture (and you can be assured I checked) in the entirety of the publication. And, if they DID notice, did they think it was AMUSING? Or, rather, did they think that the lumbering bear beautifully captured the “Cabin Check” flair? Perhaps this shall just be one of life’s great mysteries.

*I’ll explain this another time. It still won’t make sense.

In the last two or three issues of the Bas Bleu catalog, the book Zaftig: The Case for Curves has been heralded as “50% OFF!” (On the webpage they don’t have the little “attention-getter” or “call-out” thingee (a professional publisher’s term, I assure you) in bright red declaring the sale price.)

I have NO contention whatsoever with the book and the idea of the celebration of women with “some meat on their bones” (that would be rather silly, as I’M A HUGE FREAKIN’ AMAZON except not so tall as I used to be – DAMN!). I was pleased to see that the description of this tome is upbeat and positive:

It’s about time! Zaftig celebrates women who are ‘confidently voluptuous’ via full-color reproductions of paintings by Rembrandt, Correggio, Renoir, Klimt and others, as well as quotations from those who appreciate beauty with flesh and curves. (The title comes from the Yiddish word meaning ripe or luscious.) This lavishly-illustrated art book offers an argument for feminine substance–and an attack on the cult of thinness. How nice!

How nice, indeed! Here’s the conundrum. Can a book celebrating the voluptuous – the “ripe and luscious” – be HALF OFF? I think it’s ironic. I think it’s a contradiction. I think too much.

And I don’t care.

It makes me do this (but I cannot pull off the ENORMOUS cuteness quotient):

On the night of the banquet, I arrived in Park City for the 50,000th time in five days – this time WITH luggage AND having showered, damn it. I arrived just in time to meet the caterer and give her her thank you gift and her metal drink tubs (the card was BLANK and I explained that it would have said lots and lots of nice things and she very sweetly told me that she could always use a thank you card) and to walk into the banquet JUST as it was supposed to start. (It was NOT the BANQUET FROM HELL yet; those were the innocent days – the days when I thought I’d SEE the bill before I was charged and the days when I believed the the bill would not be based ENTIRELY IN THE REALM OF IMAGINATION.)

I’d been there approximately two minutes when my Father turned to me and said, “So and So and So and So solved the very difficult equation of [INSERT ENGINEERING PHRASE THAT – ESPECIALLY IN A SLEEP-DEPRIVED STATE TO A NON-ENGINEER – MIGHT AS WELL HAVE BEEN “BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH”] and I promised a little prize and an award. Do you have anything?” I looked at him blankly for a minute. He continued, “We’ll call the prize the Anderson-Schulz Flory Award. Do you have a something – uhm, a certificate?”

Mind you, at home, it is not unusual for my Father to say, “It’s So and So’s birthday and I need something in two minutes.” My Mother and I are prepared for this regular occurrence.. We have the Kate and Karen gift shop, with an assortment of little presents as well as accompanying gift bags, wraps and bows. I can put together a gift basket in two minutes flat – LESS than that on a good day. This impresses my Father. I have also stopped him as he is leaving the house with – I kid you not – a HALF-EATEN BAG OF CANDY which he intends to give to some neighbor family as a gift. Oh, the multitude of times that Man has been sent out the door with a REAL little gift/token as opposed to the some weird crap he pulled out from under his bed (he keeps candy there – don’t ask). Perhaps this has given him the wrong impression. Perhaps he thinks my Mother and I can perform GIFT MAGIC.

But at the banquet, I could only gawk in amazement . He WAS sleep-deprived, but not NEARLY to the extent that I was.

Here’s the connection to the Healthy Back Bag – oh the the perfect ergonomic design and it’s capacious interior…. I was cruelly mocked for using this bag. YES, it is an OLD PERSON BAG. So what? I have back trouble (don’t worry – I shan’t launch into a treatise on my rheumatism and my gout and the vapours and whatnot) and it seemed like a good idea. Finally, after years of faithful service, some of the teeth on the zipper to the main compartment gave way. I stood in the shoe repair shop, tears welling in my eyes, begging, “Could you REPLACE the zipper?” But NO, it’s embedded into the design in a way that makes replacement impossible. So now, in keeping with womanly folly throughout the World, I have multiple handbags. At the moment they are mostly summery clearance items from Steinmart and Tuesday Morning, but I still have MORE THAN ONE. This means when you switch things about that NOT EVERYTHING MAKES IT INTO THE OTHER HANDBAG. Granted, I had my multi-tool, but I DID NOT have my pocket knife (it’s PERSONALIZED) or my tiny level. Nor did I have my electronic three-language (four?) translator cum calculator. Most importantly, it means I DID NOT HAVE THE TINY TUPPERWARE KEYCHAIN WITH THE HELPFUL EMERGENCY MEDICATION.

Had the smart-ass in me been awake, I might have said, “Wait one moment Father – let met examine my on-hand awards selection. Okay, I have ‘Best Performance as a Jewish Religious Authority after recovering from a serious Beard Mishap,’ I have the ‘Life-time CRAZY Hair Achievement Award’ – wait that’s mine – I have the ‘Most Engineer-like Faux Pas at a Social Function,’ but that’s not really the right one, ‘Best Malapropism on Tuesday,’ but it’s Thursday, anyway – WAIT – I have the ‘Anderson-Shulz…’ – Damn! I have the ‘Anderson-Schulz Mc-Flurry Award.’ So close. Wait – I will take my multi-tool, cut out a piece of the tablecloth, quickly pen an award (in CALLIGRAPHY – suitable for framing, NATURALLY), decorate it with a little lip gloss from my extensive collection (a story for another time), embroider it with dental floss and THERE YOU HAVE IT! And let me thumb through my envelope full of gift certificates from all regions of the country – PERFECT – I have one for Washington State AND one for Houston, Texas. How lucky! Let me check on my wallet-sized Periodic Table of the Elements and see what the appropriate Noble Gas is for such an occasion….

OKAY – I do – IN TRUTH – carry a wallet-sized Periodic Table of the Elements and have done so for at least twenty years. Mind you, it’s an old enough version that’s missing some of the newer synthetic/atomic/nuclear elements like “Mister Burnsiom” and “Tela-Tubbium,” but I could STILL whip the thing out and tell you in a few short moments that the atomic number of Tungsten (the symbol is “W” by the way – HA) is 74. So there. Awards and gift certificates, no dice (literally – no dice – though sometimes a finger puppet, a rhythm egg and TINY face cards). Cash, upon occasion…

Leif, recently, has taken to using expressions that surprise me a little. They really shouldn’t. He’s five, and he and all his absorbent, sponge-like wee peers throw terminology back and forth at a truly alarming velocity. For a while now, if something confuses him, surprises him, or amuses him in either of those aforementioned capacities, he’ll exclaim, “What the….?” He NEVER says anything in place of the ellipsis, though the vehemence with which he utters the phrase leads ME (yes, filthy minds) to think that what he’s omitting is completely scandalous.

An image of another member of the family captured this phrase perfectly in pictorial form:

“WHAT THE…?” as Interpreted by Paisley.