As disasters go, this one wasn't

As disasters go, this one was short-lived and so it hardly qualifies as a real disaster. But for a few minutes there, I was devastated. Sick. Disappointed in myself. Definitely not wanting to confess to the Captain.

I was driving downtown. Heading, in fact, straight to the Captain. We were going to leave my car at a Midas shop to get my oil changed and a tail light fixed. The tail light thing seems trivial but it’s really hard to access and well worth the cost of having folks with fancy tools access it.

I was turning a corner when I noticed it. Right there on my finger where my engagement/wedding diamond used to live. It was a like a tooth yanked out of your mouth. The hole was enormous. Far bigger than the diamond’s actual proportions.

Gone. Missing. Disparu as the French say.

I almost wrecked my car. I’m certain I slowed down. I should apologize to anyone who drives around me on a normal day, but for this one, I’m extra sincere.  It’s only about 20 minutes to downtown but it seemed like one of those stop-action productions where I was driving through mud or something.

For the life of me, I can’t imagine when or where the diamond escaped my hand.

I got to Midas before Jeff as he’d dropped Ali off at school.  The very sweet guy at the counter gave me a flashlight so I could try to track down the gem.

He wasn’t concerned at all. He reminded me that Valentine’s Day was coming and it would be good reason for Jeff to go shopping. Right. Easy for him to be cavalier about the thing. He wasn’t there nearly 20 years ago now when Jeff and I met Mr. Goodman and talked and talked and talked about diamonds and rings and romance.

We learned a lot about Mr. Goodman, whose shop is now part of The Conrad Hotel. For me that corner will always belong to the Goodmans. He was a sweet, sweet man who talked about his wife of 50+ years like they were still newlyweds. When Jeff got down to business re: The Ring, I fled to the mall.  I learned later that they conspired to give me a bigger rock than I’d expected.

And now that rock was not among the detritus on my Mustang’s floor. It’s not anywhere in my house from what I can gather, either. We’ve found a lot of stuff. But not that.

Back at Midas, I was cutting a hole in my bottom lip, fretting about my irresponsibility and going through the various scenarios when the ring could have been damaged to the point that the stone was released.

The Captain was great. Reminded me that we had insurance and that this is exactly what it’s for.

That helped wipe a bit of the pain, but here’s where the disaster gets pretty much erased.

Sitting in Jeff’s Subaru, I took a picture of my mangled ring. Then, we called Sam. Sam Goldstein is our Farmer’s Insurance agent. Has been for years. He’s a Libertarian, which is a lot of fun when we meet to discuss serious things like insurance.  You should be so lucky to have Sam in your contact list.

We sent Sam the photo. Sam called Kylie Renberger, an appraiser. She called Replacement Services and before noon, Tawnya Saunders was calling me, asking when did I want my stand-in stone.

Cost to me:  My morning angst and lingering unhappiness about losing Mr. Goodman’s stone.

Tawnya got the specs for my original diamond and FedXed me one to consider. We did some research and found it better than the one we started with on some key quality measures. We return FedXed that stone and my mangled ring. It’ll be fixed, the stone replaced and secured and sent back to me.

How amazing is that? Lesson here for you: If you are dragging your feet on getting your jewelry appraised and put on a rider on your homeowner’s insurance policy, stop it right now. Lynda Ruble, I’m talking to you. And your mom and Amy, too. 

 

You just never know when something might happen to it. If you need a good agent, I’ll introduce you to Sam. 

 

You gonna eat that pickle?

 My great friend Lynda Ruble and I were at The Rathskeller for dinner Friday night. It was the last night of the Young Actors Theatre production of “Judgment: Beauty & the Beast.”

 

The plays are performed, mostly, at The Athenaeum, built in the late 1800s as the German Club in Indy. The Rathskeller is part of the historic offerings within the building and it’s routinely voted the best German restaurant in town. There are dozens of German beers on tap – stuff I can’t pronounce and you have to kind of chew rather than drink.

 

Lynda is German, so it made sense that we spend some time there after I dropped Ali off early so she could catch a prior show before her own call time.

 

We were seated in a section of the place I’d never been. It’s a corner left of the bar and reception area. If it’s changed since 1890, I’d be surprised. It’s really a throwback kind of place but they’re nice enough people that they’ll let Lynda and our friend Amy drink there even though they only drink Miller Lite. I’m pretty sure the staff makes fun of them for that, but they don’t care.

 

Lynda does, however, appreciate German food. Her mom is a crazy good cook, and there aren’t many places that Lynda would say are good or (gasp!) better than Gretchen’s cooking.

 

We decided to share a dinner portion (they’re enormous) of something called “rouladen.”  It features a pickle with onions and bacon nestled inside layers of tender beef.  Would I have come up with this recipe? No. But Lynda assured me that Gretchen’s was wonderful.

 

Transferring one of the little meat bundles to Lynda’s plate was easy.  But when I went to cut a portion of my portion, it flew right off my plate and splashed down at my feet.

 

Did I forget to mention it’s got gravy ladled over it?  And it’s slippery?  Oh, and it’s hot.

 

While Lynda was gasping for air laughing at me, I bent down, stealthy like a fox, to retrieve the meat. I wasn’t prepared for the heat.  I think I hit my head on the table when I flinched.

 

My fork couldn’t penetrate the thing, which was spreading into a puddle under the table. I dove back under there and grabbed it with my bare hand while Lynda sat there half horrified and half hysterical.

 

And yes. I invoked the five-second rule. They’re German. They keep clean floors, ya?

 

Even off the floor, the thing was really good. I recommend it. But make sure you have a secure grip before you try to carve off a bite.

 

We met Amy and Jenna upstairs, enjoyed the play and made it home without further incident. The way I look at it, if they can excuse Miller beer drinkers in the German Club, they’ll overlook a little culinary clumsiness.

 

In other news, our team brought home the Christ the King Trivia Night trophy and is bragging already about the three-peat they see coming next year.

 

I say “we” even though I wasn’t actually on the team this year. The evening is a fundraiser for the 8^th grade trip to Washington DC, and it seemed only right that I offer my services to work. 

 

And, my vacant seat made room for our ringer, my friend Chris Austin. The last time he sat in for me was the other time the team had won the night.  The five or so other times we competed, we failed to win. Yeah. Even I can do that math.

 

I’m pretty sure Jeff is going to poison me the night before next year’s trivia night. If he doesn’t get me, one of the others will. I can’t say as I’d blame them.

 

For now, it’s time to start rummaging through the fridge to see what we have for football fare. It’s a Colts-Patriots beat down. Jeff will cheer for the Colts even though he grew up in New England.

 

If you need anyone in Indianapolis today, you’d better call early. The town’s about shut down for the game. Go Horse! (Sorry TeamReed Maine.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

They're on stage, but the real action is in getting there

 

The year 2015 so far has been pretty awesome. Busy as a homeless beaver alone in a Redwood forest, but good.

 

Alison is two-thirds of the way through her latest production with Young Actors Theatre.  I know a lot of you aren’t in Indianapolis but for those of  you who are, if you have kids, you should really check it out. It’s amazing.

 

They’re not really building actors, though there are some really outstanding talents on display. They’re building really interesting, empowered, confident, kind, smart, funny human beings. This go ‘round, the kids (with professional direction of course) wrote the adaptations of the fairy tales as well choreographing, dancing and acting. One teen designed the costumes for each of the 180 kids in the five different productions.

 

To quote from the playbill, “YAT is about breakthroughs, self-empowerment, becoming a life-long learner, true education and true growth. We joke around (or is really a joke?) that YAT is disguised as a theatre, when in actuality, it is a jedi training facility, Hogwarts, or Charles Xavier’s School for Mutants.”

As we headed into the actual performances, rehearsals stepped up and we’ve been working out carpooling with our friends the Feltses. Jane is in the Red Riding Hood production while Ali is in Beauty and the Beast but their hours are similar enough that it’s worked out.  We run into Hannah Ogden sometimes, too. She and Ali are in the same show.

 

One rehearsal night I ended up with all three girls, and Alex Ogden as a bonus, in my Mustang. Ali and the Ogdens are practically siblings of course, but Jane has only recently been exposed to the silliness that can envelop us. We were taking the Ogdens just down the street and there was general hilarity as they piled into the car calling shotgun and arguing over who had to sit on the hump.

 

By way of introducing his sister to Jane, Alex told her that Hannah’s kind of a big deal. “She’s like a lawyer, almost,” he said, referring to her days as a playground kid/counselor.

 

Taking advantage of a rare moment of silence, Alex used his best TV announcer voice. “Oh yeah. If you’re doing something wrong, she’ll tell you to stop.”  He paused. The silence persisted.  “And if you don’t stop…” He paused again. He’d won shotgun, and the back seat – even Hannah -- was hanging on his every word.

 

“She’ll say ‘stop’ again,” he finished.

 

After a quarter-second pause, they set home alarms off with their giggles. Despite Hannah’s years of YAT and Alison’s newer involvement, Alex has zero interest in joining the troupe. But he doesn’t miss a show if he can help it. His delivery may or may not have been inspired by his years as an aficionado.

 

After practice Thursday, I had just the girls. They were all hyped up from the pep rally that preceded the debuts Friday. Dozens of their fellow actors were milling about and there was this energy that could have lit up the city. “I love YAT!” “That was the best pep rally we’ve ever had!” “If I had to give up sports or YAT, I’d totally pick YAT.”

 

Getting a word in edgewise was impossible. I just unlocked the car and listened in. The performances are awesome – thank you Jasheways for making time for the Saturday show – but the bigger, longer value is in the journey to the stage. 

One more example and I'll stop yammering about YAT: As most of you know, Jeff used to coach soccer and basketball. We met some wondeful people those few years, and I'll always cherish our memories of the Miller boys and their friends who so wanted to come to our wedding and ended up as one of our best photos of the night.

Anyway, Jeff was talking to YAT Executive Artistic Director Justin Wade and something Justin said sparked Jeff's memories of his coaching days. It helped that just last week, he was in the hardware store and looked up when heard someone call out, "Coach!"  It was the father of one of the kids who'd played for Jeff and Fred Miller at Immaculate Heart. 

"I don't know if you remember me," he started. Of course Jeff did and he got an update on Matt, who may have gotten more of the "My dead grandmother works harder than you!" lines during those years than some of the other boys.

This dad, from 16 years ago, talked about the impression Jeff had made on his kid who now is a professional and doing great things. Jeff will always be "Coach" to those kids and their parents. Coach in a good way.

"You're going to hear the same things hundreds and hundreds of times over," Jeff told Justin. "You're doing great work, man."

 

Anyway, we had a terrific holiday and it's been a great weekend. One more show to go on Friday. You have time to get your tickets or donate to a great organization....

Still haven’t gotten the chimney fixed but we’ll see what Angie’s List can do for us about that and a long list of other things we need to get to.

 

 

 

And a greener Christmas still

No trip home to Maine is complete without a stop in Freeport, an outlet mecca and home to LL Bean. Jeff's parents used to frequent the place long before it became a global enterprise.

Back then, it was mostly a hunting and fishing supply store and no one had thought to build a trout pond or bring in big-ass, stuffed game into the store.

Alison has made the trip with us every year. This was the first time she christened the streets of Freeport with vomit. She'd warned us starting out that her stomach was grumbly. We thought she'd be fine. Sure there wasn't snow, but it was a clear day with brisk, healing air.

Not so much.

But this is Maine. So as I held her hair and looked madly about for a place to take her to puke in private, a passing motorist stopped and rolled down her window. "I have tissues and wipes," she said. "Good luck!"

Generally, once you've hoarked you feel better, right? We were sure our last meal of the trip with family was going to be the reinvigoration Ali needed. She started with soup and nibbled on bread.  Upon  departure, she leaned over the edge of the porch and lost her lunch.

The wait staff, just like the lady in the car, reacted with no drama and much sympathy.

Last night was no better. I snuggled with her. Jeff got to clean the bedspread. I couldn't figure out why I couldn't get that smell out of my nose until I realized my pajamas hadn't fully escaped the onslaught. Blech.

She managed to get down some toast this morning but air travel wasn't the best treatment for whatever virus has taken up residence in her belly. She was so pitiful that even after the sit down and stay there warning sounded, the flight attendants made sure she could get into the lavatory, clutching her barf bag the whole time.

Her demeanor and grip on the bag didn't endear us much to our fellow passengers. But  hey, she wasn't a screamer like the kid farther up the aisle.

We may have left the little bug on the plane; she's been queasy but hasn't barfed on Hoosier soil. Sorry to any United flyers who followed us, but at least you'll be in kind hands...

Green Christmas

Jeff Reed may never have been prouder of himself.  A Reed family tradition has been to re-use wrapping paper and boxes.

Tomorrow morning - or afternoon depending on when Uncle David gets to stirring -- this is what you'll hear at 14 Hamlin Road once the colored paper starts flying:

"Oooooh. That's from Ledgewood Drive.

"Oh! I love that paper." 

"Ugh. Someone taped to the box."

"It's the box wrapped like on TV!"

"Did I really get a box of cigars?"

There's a stash of Christmas paper in the basement that reaches back to the last millenium, and I'm certain some of the ribbon may be pre-World War one. There are boxes from department stores only the oldest of us remember being open, along with boxes that once held baby clothes and toys.

And now the entry that may win the award for best use of old paper:

That's five different remnants, at least one from days before I joined Team Reed. The ribbons are what was left over on the gift-wrapping table.  Don't know what the box originally held. It could be anything from Amazonian treasure to duck calls. Only the tape is new.

I almost don't want to open it.

As Gary says, "The former Mrs. Reed would be proud."

In other Postcards from Maine, which is uncharacteristically raining and less-than-frigid, Alison added a twist to our annual cookie factory at Auntie Jen's. Can't spill the beans, but Jen is in on it. I won't tell anyone that she demanded a full share even after sampling the goods...

We've visited the breakfast place where I have banana walnut pancakes every year and Gary has his small omelette and Ali plays Jenga with the jelly. We're a few hours away from visiting with the Chinese buffet folks. Traditions are being checked off right and left.

Here's another:  Merry Christmas everyone. Happy New Year, too!

Stockings are hung

It's four days before Christmas,

I'm not a stage crasher...I mean, I didn't mean to stage crash

I like to think I'm a pretty well organized person. I make lists. I have plans. I'm a "place-for-everything-everything-in-it's-place" kind of person. 

Not because I'm that way by nature -- I just hate to be that person who can't get to work time because I've lost my keys or had to go back to get my phone or work ID or lunch. Or, say, forgets it's early dismissal at school and leaves her kid on the bench outside Miss Becky's office. ("Oh, there's always one of you," said Becky that terrible day during Ali's first-grade year. "This year it's you." 

For the record, Ali's in 8th grade and I didn't make that same mistake again.) Miss Becky, apparently, thinks everyone is allowed a Lucy-and-Ethel moment or two. She's a keeper that Becky. I trust you all can view the following through her nonjudgmental, forgiving eyes... 

Yesterday started out great. I'd been fretting a bit about a meeting with the president of the Young Actors Theatre Board. Alison is developing her own life and doesn't need me as much as she used to. (Or so she seems to think.) I've been looking for ways to get back to contributing to the world a bit. 

YAT is an amazing organization. I've yet to meet anyone who doesn't rave about how much it's helped their kid develop confidence, inner strength and just an ability to find their own, individual awesome. Oh, and their performance skills too, of course. 

One day at a Canterbury Park spruce up day, I was talking to a neighbor about needing to leave to get Ali to YAT and a random jogger going by called out that her daughter had been a YAT kid and how they loved it. That's how great it is. 

Our Saturday YAT afternoons have become a highlight of the week for me. Alison jets off to the west end of the Athenaeum for YAT while I head into the downtown Indy YMCA gym at the east end. It's a great time to talk about this or that. Almost like the days when I delivered her to daycare where she'd cavort with Alex and Jenna all day and which would lead me to meet Karin Ogden, who'd lead me to YAT (and the downtown Y, for that matter.) 

On really great days, Karin meets up with me at the A. It was one of those days, actually, when she and I were talking about my need for to get back into volunteering when the idea of YAT board openings came up. She was thinking about it, too. Next step is us trying to pass muster with the whole board.  

Karin's a shoo-in. She's fabulous. As for me, well, up until last night, I might have had more confidence in my chances. 

Anyway, after my meeting with Mandy, I worked out, as per my usual. Just about the time I was sniffing the air and wondering if I should have showered after the workout, I see Justin, YAT's executive artistic director. Hoping I don't stink, I talk a bit more about how excited I am at the prospect of joining the board. It occurs to me to wonder if he's ever seen me when I don't look like a hobo. 

Ali emerges and asks if we could attend the YAT production of "Little Women, the Classic Retold." Hannah Ogden was in it and it was at 7:30. "Sure!" I said. We always like to see Hannah perform. 

And this is where I started channeling Lucy Ricardo. We rushed home because that morning when Ali was at volleyball evaluations, I'd gone to the grocery. Running close on time, I'd dumped most of the bounty on the kitchen floor and stuffed (I hoped all of) the food that needed chilling in the fridge or freezer. I check in with Jeff to tell him our plans. He'd trekked to Bloomington that morning on a bourbon quest. 

I texted Karin to see if she was going to the play. Hurrah! Yes she was. She'd get the tickets and we'd just meet her there. I remember congratulating myself for having just renewed by stash of tokens for the Athenaeum parking lot. That would make parking downtown a breeze and I didn't have to worry about getting online to order my tickets. I had loads of time.

So, I dragged out the crock pot, tracked down a recipe and did all the things that should create a pot roast sometime in the next 7 days. Oh, here's a side-note. I thought crock pot cooking was supposed to be this easy, peasy thing. Don't be fooled by all the hype. 

It takes hours and hours to actually cook the stuff and there's tons of work involved! I had to flour-coat, season and sear this slab of beef before it went in. Wash and cut vegetables. Track down spices and balsamic vinegar and wine and olive oil. It was a two-pot endeavor, my friends. That, by definition is "real" cooking. 

Anyway, it took a while. I was still stinky from the gym. (I had washed my hands.) It was nearing time to get to the play. But we were still in fine shape. In fact, I offered to Ali that we might have time for a Starbucks hot chocolate if she wanted one. She opted for getting to our seats well in advance of the curtain. 

 Turns out, the Athenaeum parking lot was full. I try not to do too much illegal stuff with Ali around so we circled a while looking for a proper spot and losing two to other lot patrollers. 

Ali started to really fret both about my parking and our timely arrival. I let her out to go in ahead and drove the streets looking for a spot. I was was nearly parallel parked when I noticed the bus stop sign glaring at me from the sidewalk. For a few seconds, I wondered if the buses really ran this late.

I ended up shelling out $10 to park near the building. I fast-walk to the door only to see Ali outside looking at the directional signage. "It's at Fringe, not here," she said. I do quick math in my head, calculating the difference between driving or trotting the several blocks. I opt to trot. My knee, already angry at me from the afternoon work out, decides midway that it had had enough. 

"Mom, come on! I can run in heels, and you can too." We get there. The ticket-taker say, "Oh you have plenty of time. We're getting a slow start." 

This cheers me up until we ask where the stairs are -- Karin had given us good directions about where to go past the stairs. There are no stairs at Fringe. 

Calmly, I inquire as to where the "Little Women" are. 

"We're not doing Little Women. We're doing a lip synching competition. It should be really fun. You should stay!" 

Alison is starting to panic. I'm still panting. My knee is still creaking and the sweat that started to pool despite the December temps and my warm scarf, starts to swim down my back. 

Enter Pauline Moffat, executive director of Indy Fringe. She introduces herself. I mumble something about my friend Lori Kaplan, who's on her board. She may still think I'm crazy but at least we have a friend in common. 

As I'm texting Karin to determine her whereabouts, half a dozen of the Fringe lip synchers whip out their smart phones. 

"Why aren't they at the Athenaeum?" Pauline asks. 

She's morethan familiar with YAT because Indianapolis, while big compared to my hometown, is really a small town. And the arts people, I'm finding, are both wonderful and wonderfully connected. And super helpful to idiots off the street. 

"I know!" I exclaim, feeling vindicated. "I'd just assumed that's where they'd be." 

We start rattling off possible venues. Half her cast is giving Google a work out. "I'll call Justin," she says. 

"Oh you can't!" I say. "He's directing." 

"Oh I think he'll pick up when he sees my number," she says. 

Karin pings first. "They're at Herron," I whisper. 

Pauline looks at me, unconcerned. "It's not that far. What time does it start?" 

Her Australian accent somehow de-accelerates my heartbeat. But I know where Herron is. More importantly, I know where we are and where my car is. I start thinking we can get to the play by intermission. 

To her credit, Alison has been a trooper. Sure she reminded me that she'd asked me to check for tickets, but for a 13-year-old, she'd been remarkably good about the whole running-madly-down-city-streets thing. 

Pauline learns of my parking spot, assesses Alison's face and says to her: "Why don't I drive you over?" To me, she says: "You go get your car and you can meet back up at Herron." 

Seriously. This woman who I don't know at all, who's running a production herself, is offering to drive my daughter to a show. "I'm superfluous here," she said, insisting. 

Had I not already fallen in love with her for her helpfulness, she got me with her vocabulary. 

So off they went and back out I trotted the half-mile or so to my car. It's possible that I drove the wrong way on a street or parking lot in my zeal to get to the paly. But Ali wasn't with me, so it was OK. I text Karin. Should I wait for intermission or should I sneak in? 

She advises me to sneak in, and I quote, "next time they scatter." Now, I remember bits of Little Women from my childhood. I don't know what "scatter" means in this context, nor do I know the layout of the venue. 

I get to the door, manned by Herron High Schoolers. I tell them my plan. They look at each other and gulp. "Good luck with that," they say, urging me to go on in. 

I should have waited for intermission. 

You see, the only doors to this particular production of "Little Women" open onto the actual stage. 

Yeah. That's why you go early. I realize my position only after I'm actually ON THE STAGE and the production is on full bore. Thankfully, the action is a bit away and I'm wearing a black coat. So I tip-toe like the Grinch behind a screen. I trip over it, of course, but it doesn't fall. 

Just as I get past the thing, I realize the actors are coming my way. Like, they're COMING MY WAY. I hunch down even more and scurry to another corner, practically crawling to escape detection. I dive behind a piano only to find it's part of the set, too! I squeeze into a corner, laying as low as I can when the lights turn my way and a conversation is had at the keyboard. 

What I don't know yet is that Justin has seen me. The cast and crew has seen me. He's contemplating whether to toss in a line to explain my presence. 

Hannah tells me later the cast is asking who I am and thinking the same thing. "She's here for ME!" she tells them. Thank you Hannah. Thank you God for Hannah. 

Finally intermission actually does come and I peel myself off the floor. I find Karin, who's with Dale, Alex and her sister Lynn. I tell them part of the story. 

"This is why you fit so well with us," says Lynn. I love Lynn. 

The play I heard as I scuttled about and the play I saw from my seat, was awesome. My friend Amy Magan's daughter was in it, and hilarious. Hannah, of course, was awesome. The girl who played dying Beth made me cry. 

And we got to bring Alex home with us. So all in all, it was a good night. I have another Aussie friend, my car didn't get towed and we were treated to yet another great YAT production. I'm totally going back to see the Fringe lip synchers, too. 

If my stage crawling doesn't get me banned from the YAT board before I even get a chance to begin, it'll be a small miracle. I'll be lighting candles about that for the next 13 days. Join me if you want -- or help me find a way to explain that despite my inattention to detail on this one occasion, I can actually contribute well to the group. 

And hey, we're having pot roast for dinner tonight. It was finally done around 11 last night. There's half-a-bottle of red wine left over from the recipe, and Ali is itching to bake. Come over and plot my recovery with me.