Red Herring

There are days when I think every song on the radio sounds just like Let's Hear It For Me. I hum along and think of stage or stadium lights glinting on brass and how dearly I miss public performing.

The final count is six beautiful Lab puppies. All chocolate, all fat and sleek, two females and four males. The one black pup didn't make it. She was considerably smaller than the rest and was probably dead early on; Daisy had a heck of a time getting her out after the sack broke. My sister was awake for thirty-six hours straight, and had to meet the Vet out on Wasatch road at 2:00AM this morning. He made her laugh despite the stress by saying "I was just thinking how much like a drug deal this is. Middle of the night, dark, rural spot, you pull up and I hand you a couple of filled syringes." They induced labor with those shots and got the last one out at 3:00AM. Aside from being a behemoth in a Lilliputian world (we're paranoid she's going to squash a baby), Daisy's a great mom.

Due to puppies, my sister and her husband didn't make it to the City Christmas party. I sat by Jo and Don, just the two of them and my date and I at the table (nobody likes to sit too near the emcee; there were empty seats at the mayor's table, too. I think people are afraid to be singled out). We had to commandeer that table because we didn't want people to see the telltale ashes of one of the luminaries; while we were lighting the tealights in the bottom of the bags, two to a table, thirty tables, one of the small blue paper sacks burst into flame. My date said, very calmly, "oh, this one's on fire," and blew the two-foot flare out in the next breath. I would have screamed my head off if he wasn't there. I'm not a big fan of open flame.

The rest of the evening went fine. People were beaming with alcohol-induced goodwill, and after a few rum-and-cokes even I forgot to resent them. I was getting glares from mother hens that don't approve of me drinking, so I was glad to be sitting with Jo, who likes to piss them off by loudly commanding an obliging Don to buy drinks for me. (I'm not worried about alcohol. I'm pretty sure at this point that the only thing poised to endanger my immortal soul is eBay.) I wore jeans and a black camisole under a sheer fringed poncho (it's the only poncho I own, I swear! A ghastly trend!) just so the same judgemental biddies could get an eyeful of the tasteful tattoo on my shoulder. Our door-prize trick on the City Clerk, my boss Jim, was a great hit. He's a small-business owner and heavy into the Main Street theory and urban renewal. His pet product at the frou-frou decor shop he and his gifted wife run downtown is several lines of pricey Department 56 Village pieces. We bought him one from WalMart for ten dollars, a little figurine of the original small-town WalMart five-and-dime, with lights and bright poinsettias in the windowsills. He almost died laughing. He's an admitted snob, but we love him. I played Vanna White to Barry's Pat Sajak all night as he handed out door prizes, and I'll tell you a secret. I know why they dressed her skinny, toothy self in floor-length ballgowns. It was to hide her ugly Easy-Spirit pumps or Sanitas nurse clogs, because that job is Hell on Feet. I had on a pair of black patent leather AE sandals with three quarter-inch straps, rhinestones, and kitten heels, and I paid for it dearly today. Good thing there's somebody in this world who literally begs to give me foot massages, and I just happened to have him with me. There's a line in Little Women when Meg attends a dance in second-hand heels she knows are too small and will cause her much suffering: "but, dear me, let us be elegant or die!" My cares seem so light just now. Allow me to be sentimental.

Jo's husband Don makes incredible cedar-smoked salmon. I enjoy it even thought I generally don't care for the stuff. Jo wore one of her beautiful Norwegian wool sweaters to the party, the kind that cost more than my car. It's the same model Hilary Clinton wore when they filmed Christmas at the Whitehouse one year. She's fond of mentioning that. Jo, not Hilary. Don had on a nice black sweater and olive-green cargo corderoys and the biggest Black Hills Gold ring I've ever seen. I teased him about the pockets on his thighs and how mod he is. Jo scoffed, said "he likes pockets. That's where he hides his cigarettes." He shouldn't be smoking; he's got health issues. If he dies before they retire, she's going to do worse than kill him.

I shopped all day with my sister and a six-year-old who drives me bonkers, but I learn so much from her. Waiting while my sister took a much-deserved shower, Bit and I played Castle. I got to be the princess and had my lines neatly scripted by that busy mind. Things were going great (between the earthquake and my second fall off a cliff) when my imaginary father suddenly divulged to me that he was God and Jesus was my brother. Later, while God was randomly zapping evildoers with the king's magical scepter and Jesus was healing them just as swiftly, I began to question the introduction of the scriptures to those at such an impressionable and imaginative age. I stopped worrying when the child's mint milkshake suddenly became a character in our fun tableau. She'll sort it all out eventually.