Le monde de fromage de Kate

Glen battled with cancer many years ago and was required, because of life’s always ironic and sometimes cruel humor, to face it again (starting three years or so ago – one month after he was remarried). Exactly twenty days before he died Glen signed off an email to me with, “Love and peace to you, too, Glen.” I can’t envisage a better elegy for him, so:

I’ll miss you, you towering Basso Profundo (furthermore, such a “profound” bass in myriad ways). I am so gratified that you left this life with the love, peace and support you most richly deserved.

Here are Glen’s Obituary and his last words.

I give up. Beautiful Kenji, my 2003 Opal Silver Blue Metallic Honda Civic Hybrid, shall henceforth be known as “The Deli Sedan.”

One might think that I’d not fallen down or had any other sort of unfortunate mishap since May 3, 2005. Rest assured, this is NOT the case. I am covered with my accustomed number of bruises (mysterious and otherwise). I broke a glass last week. On another occasion I broke a plate (A CORELLE® plate – “break resistant” my ass – I believe that “break-resistant” by their definition means, “Will not break into normal pieces like other dishes but will shatter so that every single broken shard has a deadly knife-like point”). I have dropped the contents of full ice-trays at least three times recently. I’ve spilled plenty of…everything. I also got overly aggressive with some “no-pain, no burn” eyebrow “waxing” stickers. For a few days it looked like I had eyelid leprosy (now they are just suspiciously flaky). BUT I’ve decided that if I regaled my readership (and they say I’m not an optimist) with every tiny little accident that I suffered it would not be at ALL interesting (this is, naturally, operating under the premise that ANY of my calamities ARE interesting in any way).

Never fear, I do have something for you today. Amusingly enough, I was not the faller or spiller or bruiser or whatnot – it was my PARENTS! I was merely the unlucky victim. My Mother and Father had taken a deli tray to some sort of potluck festivity (using my car). When putting the tray on the backseat floor, my Father did not securely fasten the lid onto the sandwich spread (some variety of seedy, vinegary, mustard imbued concoction). My Mother attempted to clean this substance from the floor, where it had mostly soaked into the floor mat. This begs the question: Why was my Mother cleaning up the spill that was my Father’s fault, especially considering that she cannot move without the assistance of a walker right now? I suppose that’s a topic for another day (and it brings up some stories that just embarrass the HELL out of my Father) – tee hee.

The next day I got into my car, intending to keep a couple of appointments in Salt Lake City. I was assailed immediately by the strongest vinegar/mustard/mystery-substance odour that I’ve ever experienced. I called my Mother just to confirm that I was not being poisoned by anything and she explained what had happened. The stench, though, was so overwhelming that I had to cancel my appointments, turn around, and immediately drive to the nearest super-duper car wash. I had the mats and carpets shampooed after I had the exterior washed. I even condescended to use one of those tree-shaped “air fresheners” that I tend to dislike. Of the myriad choices I opted for the “vanilla” scent. Now my car is redolent of baking. That makes no sense, I know, but it’s as logical as, for instance, “piña colada” scent (“No, officer, we are not having a drunken fiesta – it’s just piña colada air freshener in the shape of a tree, naturally.”) Anyhoo, I left the windows open on the car as directed; I put the mats in the sun to dry as I was instructed. The car itself did smell better. The mat from the back seat, however, still absolutely reeked! I left the mats out of the car and let them air out for a few days but to no avail. Yesterday I went back to the super-duper car wash and had them re-wash the carpets and the mats. What do you know – when the mats were dry the back seat one STILL stunk to high heaven.

This is where I got creative (in this scenario creative=desperate). I tried special extra-strength pet odour/stain cleaner – the type that comes with two separate canisters. Don’t you just LOVE that? Are they asserting that the cleaner is made of two such potent substances that they CANNOT possibly touch until they are directed at the appropriate filth or some radical explosion will occur (like all those bright pink explosives in the movies – you’re done for when the fuchsia pink chemicals mix with the others you are DONE FOR! Rabies vaccine is the same colour, incidentally, so maybe they are giant rabies bombs). Super-explosive pet cleaner didn’t work. Next I tried extra-strength Febreze®. Numerous applications didn’t make any difference. I resorted, next, to the kind of cleaning product that I usually assiduously shun – super-toxic death chemical inventions that take up more space on the container with alarming warnings of death and destruction than with instructions. Yes, I purchased an automobile interior “cleaner/deodorizer” that alleged it would not only get rid of any stain and/or questionable aromas, but it would also prevent future stench. And if you think I’m being a chemical pansy (or an overbearing, tree-hugging ecologist) I should tell you that just the propellant for this stuff contains butane AND propane (does it function as a barbecue or a rocket or a lighter as well?). So yesterday, with this caustic death substance, I shampooed the HELL out of the car mat (using mountains of scary foam and scrubbing endlessly with the brush from the cap). I was theoretically supposed to remove excess cleaner with a damp cloth, but I’d finally loaded the thing with so many death-bubbles that I took a hose and sprayed the thing until it didn’t foam anymore. Fear not – I figured since they say you should wash your car on the lawn (if you insist on doing it at home) so that all the cleaners and gunk don’t end up in the ground water that rinsing that mat on the lawn would probably serve the same purpose. Perhaps we should not tell my Father? Then again, he was the spiller culprit in the first place.

Today I went to smell the mat under the delusion that it couldn’t POSSIBLY contain a single molecule of the mustard/vinegar/spackle (?) dressing. I was mistaken. I’ve decided that this is FOR CERTAIN the material one should use if they need to permanently tag an item with some kind of scent (and they don’t care if it makes you ill to smell it for too long in a confined space). I hit the thing again with oodles and oodles of extra-strength Febreze®. Nope. It was time for more hazardous chemicals. After I’d scrubbed the thing until I was utterly wracked with pain and still found an alarming number of the little mustardy seeds on the scrubbing implement, I gave up. I hosed the mat (on the lawn again) thoroughly, to say the least. It’s been in the sun again for hours. To tell the truth, I’m afraid to go and smell it, so I shall just leave you in suspense in regards to the success or failure of my pollutive efforts. You are welcome to contact me for the results later, as I’m sure all y’all are on pins and needles with unbearable curiosity about this matter. Oh, the life I lead.

I have been doubly remiss in several important blog categories (am I not cute – I think my blog categories are IMPORTANT), specifically “Cheese Thoughts” (which is really bad considering the name and ostensible focus of my site) and “I Fell Down.”

Let me address the issue of my négligence de fromage post-haste:

The Ideal Cheese Shop (they send me cheese-email – I like them) is having an “Around the World Sale!” from July 23 through July 31, 2005 (sorry – slightly late notice). You can “Save more than 20% on the selection of delicious cheeses from around the world.” I think I would lean towards the Il Giardino Reggiano Parmesan, the French Bucheron and the Prima Donna from Holland. But I must admit that I find the “Maytag Blue” from Iowa intriguing (though I’m slightly put off by the whole appliance connection).

URGENT EMGERGENCY CHEESE ANNOUNCEMENT

My very most favourite cheese shoppe, the Juhl Haus Deli and Market, has unexpectedly CLOSED!!! I couldn’t get to their website, and I called the management at Foothill Village and they confirmed the horrible tidings. I am seriously bereaved. There is no equivalent; there isn’t a single place that even could presume take its place. The closest substitute would have to be Liberty Heights Fresh in Salt Lake City; they actually have an impressive cheese selection for such a small market – for any market, really (they also carry organic produce, imported foodstuffs and lovely artisan bread, etc.) and it’s a charming shoppe.

Sigh. I’m still sad.

Yes, I will eagerly debase myself in return for free loose gemstones (genuine jewels – NOT synthetic or “created” ones – I do have some pride, afterall). If you take that as your cue to snort and cynically exclaim, “HA!” please keep it to yourself.

As a matter of fact, I will willingly volunteer to humiliate myself for gratis precious stones. It is, afterall, an unusual opportunity these days.

First of all, I MUCH prefer Crazy For You when it doesn’t involve being in a much smaller, quieter production of A Little Night Music with a BIG ol’ equity cast of Crazy For You thunderously hoofing in the much larger, fancier theater overhead. Also, we got royally screwed when it came to dressing rooms because of them. DAMN YOU, YOU PAID GERSHWIN HOOFERS!!! Actually, I knew some lovely people in that cast, and I realize it was nothing personal when they added festive tap-dancing percussion to, oh, perhaps Every Day a Little Death or Send in the Clowns (if Sondheim were dead he’d have wept in his grave; as he’s alive I’m sure he was blissfully unaware of the whole fiasco). Moreover, it was not their fault that the management paraded through the halls with elderly potential donors while we were trying to do wigs and makeup in the halls (wretched dressing room situation – remember) wearing pretty much nothing but tights and corsets. I cannot decide if this might have provided a sort of impetus to donate money to the theatre or if it was a big detraction to dishing out the loot. I certainly don’t claim to be easy on the eyes corseted and sparsely dressed.

Anyhoo, at the Scera Shell production of Crazy For You tonight, replete with dashing Link Hogthrob – Sorry – it’s Lank Good-fer-Nuttin (or something fairly close to that), I rather enjoyed myself (especially after the elderly “sing-along” couple left – JUST BECAUSE YOU KNOW THE SONGS DOESN’T MEAN YOU SHOULD SING THEM FROM THE AUDIENCE, n’est pas?). And Holy Belt-buckle, Batman! I also got the inside scoop on some of the backstage action from go-betweens, Zoe and Emma. And Emma regaled me with some of the amusing snafus that have occured during other performances. That was very enlightening.

But surprise, SURPRISE – who was standing there after the show – in their very famous flesh (except wearing clothes) clear from New York – my lovely friends Michael and Frank! (True – hadn’t actually met Frank until tonight, but I already considered him my lovely friend because of Michael – you just get to be lovely by association.) It was too, too surreal and serendipitous. Thanks for the memories, Michael! And thanks for patiently bearing with all the memories, Frank! And last, but certainly not least, many thanks to you, Lank, for the belt buckle and all for which it stood. You were tremendous!

I was picking up some prescriptions (of MEDICATION, not DRUGS – my Doctor insists I make this distinction – I told her that someone who takes as many MEDICATIONS as I take at my age should get to call them DRUGS) when I noticed a brochure for a special kind of lotion. Here is the page that particularly caught my attention:

It certainly has a very detailed illustration of the epidermal layers. However, this doesn’t seem to jive with the “scientific” explanation of how the product works. Maybe it’s just me, but if one is going to render all the various anatomical entities of the skin, shouldn’t one try to explain the lotion’s mechanism with something a little more detailed than, “It keeps BAD STUFF out and GOOD STUFF in?”

Never fear, if they were trying to appeal to the lowest common denominator in the public, I have a better option for them. Here it is:

More clear? I think so. Of course you could also go the other direction and take the complex epidermal drawing and use correspondingly intricate explanative text (“this product keeps lipids, etc. in the skin so that it can maintain its natural moisture balance and at the same time creates a barrier that prevents environmental pollutants – free radicals, harmful UV rays, etc.- from assaulting the skin – blah blah blah”). The truth of the matter is that I cannot draw that well.

Tonight I went to the ATM with my sister. I rode shotgun – literally. Okay, not QUITE literally, but I was in the passenger’s seat (riding “shotgun”) in a protective capacity (true enough – not with an ACTUAL shotgun – BUT with an oh-so-stern demeanor – poised to shout out, “You leave my *#&^@* sister alone!” to any would-be carjacker, thief or chance reprobate). After all, it WAS late to be getting cash all by one’s lonesome. She said something about having been stuck in the “Hmoob” language the last time she came and not being able to get out of the “Hmoob” screens. I did not really understand what she was talking about; I thought she had been stuck at a malfunctioning ATM that was spitting out computerese gobbledy-gook instead of English and “Hmoob” was her cute term for it. Then I realized that she was saying she was stuck on some sort of actual secondary language screens. I didn’t see why this should be an issue, as at MY bank, the ATM only offers the choice of English and Spanish, and she is fluent in both. Eventually, she actually navigated back through the screens and had me look at them. They offered SIX language choices: English, Spanish, Korean (in characters), Japanese? (in characters), Vietnamese, and – lo and behold – Hmoob. My uninformed contention was that it was not a language at all; I thought it was a computer programming place-holder for another language. But she explained that the bank formerly had only offered English, Spanish and “Hmoob” and argued that they wouldn’t have left “Hmoob” there when they added the Asian languages unless it was a genuine choice. Admittedly, some of the combinations of letters did look like words and sentences. But I was still skeptical. What ethnicity has a large enough local population here that they required a language option BEFORE Korean, Japanese and Vietnamese (one that I’d never heard of, anyway)? There were a lot of vowels – I mused that perhaps it was a language from the Pacific Islands (Tongan or Samoan, perhaps).

Well, I am stupid. Perchance not holistically stupid, per se, but I am ignorant (locally that would be pronounced “ignernt”) for sure.

I googled “Hmoob” when I got home, and I got big time “SCHOOLED” (as the young folks say these days – also “taken to school”*).

“Hmoob” is the English term (spelled out phonetically) chosen by the “Hmong” people (who, logically enough, speak the “Hmong” language) to identify themselves in writing. From Wikipedia:

The Hmong, also known as Miao (Chinese: 苗: Miáo; Vietnamese: MÚo or HmÎng; Thai: แม้ว (Maew) or ม้ง (Mong)), are an Asian ethnic group speaking the Hmong language, whose homeland is in the mountainous regions of southern China (especially Guizhou) that cross into northern Southeast Asia (northern Vietnam and Laos). The term “Miao” is offensive to some Hmong people.[This is possibly because the term "Miao," orginally meaning "seedling" in Chinese, has been taken over by the Vietnamese, Laotions, etc., and it is only used to define people whom they consider to be "barbarians."] Today, they form the fifth largest of the 56 nationalities officially recognized by the People’s Republic of China.

So – PLEASE, my friends, learn from my gaffe and do not arbitrarily insult languages on an ATM by referring to them as “computer babble” or the like because – oh yes – THERE IS A HMOOB. Let’s just leave it at that. Otherwise, I would have to explain that the “Hmong” language consists of thirty or forty “mutually unintelligible dialects” and “belongs, together with the Bunu language, to the Miao branch of the Hmong-Mien (Miao-Yao) language family.” Fear not – in America, there are only two main Hmong groups, and for most purposes, the “White Hmong” or Mong der dialect is used.

Oh yes – you’ve been SCHOOLED!

*I KNOW – it sounds like I’m seventy-seven years old. Even though I have been known, upon occasion, to swear like a proverbial sailor, I also say “Oh dear” pretty habitually (I inherited this from maternal grandmother – she used to visit us when we lived in California and my Mom says that I would wander around at age two saying, “Oh dear,” for weeks afterwards). But I really must blame my Father. He is only sixty-two and he has been using phrases like, “Back in my day,” and “In my day,” for years and years – I’d swear he has even used the term “good ol’?? days.”