Post-Party Post

2186 filled fast on Saturday night, friends filing in and out. We invited a lot of people for fear that no one would show up. However, at one glorious point, this house was filled to its little capacity. Mixing. Mingling. Munching. Bodies upstairs and down. And, of course, Rock Band. There were so many moments when I literally jumped for joy at the sight of some friends - people who I invited but, for one reason or another, I didn't think would stop by. Some I hadn't seen in way way too long.
I forgot that I don't like being hostess; wanting everyone to get along, hoping that backgrounds and behaviors would combine as well as the ingredients in M's banana bread (which many people thought was flan because she baked two round banana bread "cakes" (?), something quite entertaining, actually. The bread was absolutely delicious. I've had my fair share of it and then some). All-in-all, I felt like it was successful. I don't know how the party-goers feel, but I was happy with the outcome. I thought of Aunt B as I put mixing bowls in the sink and separated plastic forks and cups to put in the trash. She was the hostess of dreams, telling her guests to "Leave the dishes, please," explaining she liked to smile over her suds and think of the various moments of the night; the conversations, the delicious food, the friends meeting friends; all elements of a successful party, which hers always were.
We all feel officially "warmed" here in 2186 after our first party. Some guests came bearing housewarming gifts, which was above and beyond. Many thanks to Mike G and his artistic eye for hanging our natural curiosities coral pictures. Not only can he rock out on rock band, he truly is quite the "creative person," right Mike? A thank you is in order to Joel who brought us a housewarming gift (very thoughtful), and also opened all the cans for the homemade bean dip with a bottle opener, poke by poke. (Thanks to Lauren, too, who lended us her Letherman with said bottle opener, without which there would have been no bean dip) and thanks to all our guests who made Saturday night a success!

on a steel horse i ride

As if sanity isn't reason enough, tonight we discovered yet another reason (according to M, it's the reason) to move to your own place: rock band. We're gaining fans by the tens of thousands.

Mikey makes one fine John Bon Jovi. Nuff said.

A Christmas Without

The table seemed empty, yet we had to cozy up to fit around the two tables, over-flowing into the living room. We were snug, on new dining chairs amidst Swedish food galore, a tradition which, after 100 years in the Haglund family, is still going strong. The J.H. Haglund boys are still going strong, too. Steven is nearly as tall as Michael (something J.J. is a bit upset about. And, I won't even start on Phillip, who boasts that, despite his lesser stature (he's still above 6'0"), his biceps are thicker than all of his brother's necks. He's right). J.J., Phil, Rich and I rounded out the end of the dining room table, leaving the adults to themselves in the living room. We talked of frat bros, studying abroad, girls, boys, and moving out (real grown-up stuff) as we munched on dup (traditional Swedish roast with sausage and gravy - delectable, if you ask me), goat cheese, flat bread, veggies galore and mashed potatoes to die for, each grabbing second and third plates.
Grandpa's spot sat empty, his patriarchal presence was all but unnoticed, yet we continued on with the rice pudding. R. called the boys in from the football game so we could dish up the rice and dish out the free verse. He was the right man for the job - four boys magically reappeared back at the dinner tables, ready for the rice. Dad and R. stole the show, as they always do, reciting the best on-the-spot poetry. Second place most definitely going to O, K and J, who gave the most darling of performances. Mine was short and sweet. Not even worth recording, but I think RCF got it on video nonetheless.
I love knowing that all over the country - from Chicago to Tennessee, from Irvine to Texas, Boston to Virginia, we all eat the same meal and we all participate in the same traditions: dup and potatoes, and no rice before impromptu poetry. So the years continue, as we think of Grandpa with fondness - He the one who fostered it all, carrying on from previous generations, Grandma at his side, mixing and mashing, spreading the table full of delicious Swedish food and wonderful decorations. God Jul!

it won't be long before we'll all be there with...

S*N*O*W

I can't get enough of this wintry white stuff!
picture from here, via here.

spread some.

in the still of the night

Rush, rush, rush, right? Or so I told Matty tonight on the phone. It was good to hear his voice amidst the holiday hullabaloo. We had to make it quick - the store was closing and I had yet to decide, indeed placing me in the Last-Minute-Shopper category. We promised we'd talk soon - and catch each other up on all the news. With that, I picked out a few things, headed to the register and out into the white and drifted snow, (oh!)

It seemed like a good idea at the time; to get a little shopping in before the storm hit, but as I approached 215, I felt unsettled. I heard that voice in my head (undeniably my mother's) saying, "Is this such a good idea, Martha?" I almost gave an audible, "No. But..." as I got on the on ramp. I was feeling a bit nervous, too, but...

When I pulled my scarf tight as I stepped out into the wind-gusted parking lot, post-gift purchase, I heard the voice again. As I glanced up into the stormy night sky, my eyelashes filtering snowflakes, I swear I could see my mother looking back at me with her famous 'told-ya-so glare. I grabbed the scraper out of the car and quickly dusted off Jack's Frost's latest evidence, the last of which landed on my lap after I got in the car and shook my head. I turned on the heater full-blast and put the car in forward to face The Storm. It looked bad. Maybe Mom was right.

The freeway looked dangerous, but The-Sooner-The-Better Side won the argument in my head (freeway instead of side streets) and out I ventured, at a whopping 30 mph, onto the very freeway which had seemed o.k. forty minutes earlier. With the push of a button, the carols were silenced and I was literally all eyes and all hands on deck, wipers full-speed ahead, still not fast enough to keep up with Feisty Jack Frost. The ride home was going to be slow and silent. Let's add slippery and make that "s" sentence deuce a trio. We could round it off to an even four and say scary, but shh...don't tell The Mom in the Moon. (She already told me so).

I passed one exit-full of an assemblage of slippers and sliders, grateful not to find myself in the mix. It was adios to the freeway and hello scenic route, although I knew it would add time to my travels. At this point, if I had dared, I would have shed my scarf and coat, seeing as I had worked up quite the sweat trying not to slip slide away. My eyes peeled and my knuckles white, I forged slowly on. I was on silent prayer number seven when I slid right through the stop light by The Cotton Bottom. Luckily, there was no one to be found. (Apparently everyone else obeys their mother). Holladay Blvd. was clear as day (no cars) and as white and wintry as I've ever seen it. My knuckles let go of the steering wheel and my shoulders loosened. I dialed the Roomies to tell them I'd be a while, shouting on speaker-phone. M said she had just been out at her brother's and that I should take my time. I hung up and held tight. All I could see was snow. All I could hear was wind. It was as eerie as it was beautiful.

At this point in the drive, I took note of my geographical surroundings as best I could. Visibility was at an all-time low. If my car were to take a sudden spin into the cottonwood trees, I could call on the G. family. They'd take me in. Sure, W has been married for over a year, but I know her mom would feed me M&M's and hot cocoa and W's dad would could pull me out with one of his state-of-the-art winter tow toys in no time. I passed Hillsden Drive without incident. Next up, Aunt B. If my engine went out, I could hike my way up to Wander Lane. If I landed (stranded) North of 45th, I'd spend the night with Aunt B. For sure. If I happened to slid south of there into Cottonwood creek, I could call on Lar-Dawg B. Lori's all for helping the homeless. Plus, she's so much fun, we'd probably stay up all night chatting the storm away and make a snowman at sun up! I was beginning to think that my Near-Death-Donner-Party Experience (kidding) wasn't half bad! I passed both the B's and the N's safe and sound. The list went on from there: the M's, the J's, Bishop H, K and I...Oh! I felt so loved. Even if I was found frozen in my gift-filled car, at least I'd know I had lots of friends and my family would (no doubt) be able to divvy up the packages.

As I approached 2100 east, my heart began to settle. The home stretch. If, by chance, my car couldn't muster enough spirit to make it all the way up Bryan, Wheetie would save, for Wheetie always saves. Cinnamon Santas, chocolate kisses, crumbly, gooey, goodies for all. I decided that if my car stopped mid-way between my house and hers, I'd pick Wheetie's, hands down. And not just for the treats. She's like my second Mom. Her house smells as much like home as my own.

Needless to say, here I sit, safe and sound in the YBH, my space-heater warming my feet, typing away. All in all, I was scared. I won't lie. It wasn't exactly smooth sailing. I'll remember this the next time I want to feel part of the Holiday Hubbub. I'll grab my fleece blanket, a book and my tea and sit and sip (grateful to not be slipping). I'll watch the snowflakes silently falling and think of all my hospitable friends between here and Interstate 215.

Christmas Downunder

Hey, R's, keep your eyes out for this guy! He looks a little too skinny to me. Maybe you can fatten him up between now and the 24th.

by the chimney with chairs

The most cherished gifts are the little ones. And who can resist a miniature? I know exactly who would adore these. And how adorable are they? Love. (I found these on a cup of joe. Here's the link).

In my attempt to become just like S & E, I've taken up collecting little chairs - S added one to my birthday package this year, rounding out E's unbelievably thoughtful gift. The chair is wonderfully geometric and shiny white. It now sits proudly in front of my chair bookends bought on my trip to Chicago in '99. Karli and I took The Windy City by storm. Well, it took us, actually. K, in her sandals and a hooded sweatshirt, (in January, no less) was begging for a blizzard. On our Michigan Avenue shopping spree, she spent her money on mittens and socks (and Frango mints at Marshall Fields, which I proudly partook of. It is, after all, tradition). I bought some adorable chair bookends at a store on Michigan Avenue, the inaugural chair set for my miniature chair collection. Then, to escape the absolute blizzard we found ourselves in, we rode the escalator up to the fifth floor of Borders, with stacks of books and magazines and watched the snow squall roll in off Lake Michigan. K and I make the best of travel companions. I can't wait until she comes home. Less than ten days. We'll sit by the fireplace, in the chairs here on Bryan - last night I stayed up too late making wreathes to attach to the back of each of them - and laugh into the night, digesting the Frango's that are bound to be at Grandma's by Christmas Eve. Can't wait, K. Bring your mittens. It's cold outside.

O Christmas Tree

This is indeed stealing. My apologies to Janie and Ben, but somewhere between The Yellow Brick House and Yale Avenue, I lost my camera adapter, and can't post this picture myself.

We kicked off Christmas with a great dinner party a few weeks ago. Thanks to Ash and Mikey for hosting. Ash, your house looks incredible - between your new kitchen, your beautifully decorated tree and your amazing food, I think we're coming to your house every year. Plus, with Mikey as endless entertainment, why would we want to go anywhere else?! With many friends far away for school and work, it's nice to have some who are still so close. Can't wait to see most of you very soon!

Oui, Six Kings.

It's so beyond late. Beyond beyond beyond. And yet, the page beckons. An evening enticement. Or, so it was supposed to be when I started forming sentences in my head hours ago, miles away from my computer. There is sleep before 2 a.m., is there not? As yesterday was somewhat more than monumental, I feel the need to expound.

The King's Singers. They basically equal my childhood when it comes to certain things. Some of you may stop reading right there. Others of you, those of you who know the Royal Rhythms and Catchy Crooning of which I speak, may wish to continue. If it weren't for my Uncles (K, P, B, R, and D, respectively, correct me if I'm wrong) I would have thought that those Gents from King's College were the brains behind such tunes as "You Are The New Day," "The Boxer," and "American Pie." Now I may have lost the rest of you entirely. But, as mentioned above, my mom has seven brothers (who later found seven brides). They versed her well in all things Lennon and McCartney; Simon and Garfunkel. She then passed that knowledge on to us, as well as her love for the classic contemporary (Rutter, etc.) And hey, jamming to six guys who can sound like a symphony all their own, no instruments needed, was pretty cool.

Trips to the cabin, Sunday drives to Bountiful ("The Other Lot," if you will) and the Every Day were soundtracked and accompanied by those six guys from across that Great Big Pond. Dad would sing the First Tenor part, hitting all the high notes in perfect harmony. I would close my eyes and imagine him as one of them, Uncle Robert, heading up the baritone part. One night I had a dream that Dad and Uncle Robert were the first American King's Singers. It was quite vivid and very exciting. If I close my eyes, I can still picture what Robert and Dad looked like, in fuzzy dream form.

When it was announced that The King's Singers were coming to sing with the Tabernacle Choir for their Christmas concert, the Fetzer household was high-fiving it up, singing Riu, riu, chiu! as we danced about the kitchen.

As I watched that Sextet walk onto the platform in The Conference Center last night, childhood memories flooded back, creating a pond all my own. They harmonized, blended, intoned and entertained, leaving us all charmed. It was, for lack of a better word, exciting. However, the thing that I'll remember about the evening won't be their clever Brit-wit, their lightning-fast rendition of "Jingle Bells," nor their synchronicity. The best part about last night, the thing I'll remember long past this holiday season, is how I felt when I saw Dad up there, larger than life in front of a crowd of over 21,000, blending with those British Boys, looking more handsome than ever. Way to go, Dad. He's not only living his own dream, he's living mine.

In the name of Love

I'm not going to be naming names, 'cause you know who you are, but Bottom Line: Way to be!

I love/Love you a million Great Britains.

stockings were hung by the chimney with care

Sankt Nikolaus

We spent family night at Grandma's last night. Mom had us play our instruments. Every time I get out my violin these days, I fall ever so quickly back in love with it. The chance to play anything with my sister (she plays cello) is highly entertaining (leave that to me and, what my formal teacher used to call my "creative counting.") My sister and I grew up playing duets together and spent many Christmases in a quartet, ("Vivace," as we called ourselves) playing for various Christmas parties and holiday wedding receptions. Libby always laughs at me, and says something to the exasperated effect of, "Martha! (rubbing her eyes with her bow-in-hand like she really can't believe her eyes, or her ears) Why can't you count?!" Then she erupts into a mini fit of laughter. I stand up for myself and find some brilliant excuse for my unique counting ways and we start again at the pick-up note to measure whatever.
I am happy to report that after a quick run-through session pre-performance at Grandma's, we came through a shining success, leaving Grandma clapping her hands, crossing them over her chest and saying in her ever-happy manner, "Wonderful! How thrilling!" Take that, sister! Just kidding. I couldn't do it without her, nor would I want to.
Being up at Grandma's during Christmas always makes me think of Dad's time with Grandma, Grandpa and Uncle Robert as a boy in Germany. Dad and I were remarking tonight that we missed St. Nicholas Eve this past week. It came and went, with no hay-filled shoes by the door, no nipped-at carrots in the morning or a new Christmas book. We're all so busy this year, we mentioned. But, I think he and I both regret not taking the time to participate in that long-standing tradition. I was reading Marta today and found this. And this. I love Marta, and not just because her name is so much like mine, and what I would choose mine to be, if it weren't for my great-grandmother, Martha, hailing from Germany, herself. Either way, with or without the "h," I'm grateful for my German heritage, for the tradition of a little on-the-spot recital at Grandma's and wonderful Christmas observances which delight and thrill as the years march on.

Ready Setty Getty.

Taking cue from Anteaters and Titans, here's a post to butter up any Getty-lovers. I love The Getty, LA and was recently talking to a friend about The Getty Villa in Malibu, which I've never been to. Jen, Moof, Kellie, are you ready for a reunion trip? I think we need to hit up Malibu! What do you say? I've done a little browsing on the website (thanks to Meka's post) and I'm in. Any takers? Say, in February, perhaps? Here's a picture (above) from our Los Angeles trip four years ago. Check out the link for The Getty Villa. A little taste of Pompeii, right in Kellie's back yard!

Have A Yule That's Cool

Okay, so I Love (capital "L") our little house. Love. However, the last few nights, I've slept with a beanie, ski socks and two (count them two) down comforters, and I'm still freezing. Last night, I awoke in a frozen frenzy, opened the door and walked out into the hall to check the thermostat. A warm rush of air flooded the hallway. Sure enough, the temperature read 69 degrees, as I had set it. So, I'm sleeping in an ice box, but it's the Isle of Naboomboo just outside my door?! Somebody call the Super.

The Walking Man Walks

The other day I was out color-hunting with a client. To color hunt all one needs is a good partner, a good paint deck and a good neighborhood. We had all three. Plus K (less like a client, more like a dear friend. We get off-topic all the time. It's so much fun) has great taste and she's brazen. She's got the gumption I lack. She'll step out of the car to ask a stranger just how they made their arbor or what, exactly, is that color on their house trim. The results have been pleasing. We've met the kindest of people. I love hearing House Histories. Every house has one and when you find an owner who belongs to their house, rather than the other way around, you'll find that they will tell you the most interesting of stories.

This post, however, has nothing to do with houses. Except that it was while color hunting that I met Peter.* K put on the breaks, tires rolling to a stop; the rolling window stopping simultaneously. She leaned over my seat and said...something to this 40-something man (obviously her acquaintance) as he approached the car. The first word that popped into my head: blue. And we're not talking trim colors here. This man had reflecting pools for eyes. So blue they command attention. And you better believe I stood at attention. Sat, actually. Straight up. I took one look into those eyes then couldn't look at them for fear I'd be drawn right in. I fanned out my paint deck, mindlessly flipping to the blues. A possible subconscious attempt to match the hue of Peter's eyes; to make a color memory. They weren't any one color, but every color, breaking all Laws of Chromatics. Scattering. Reflecting. Absorbing. They were inches from me. I couldn't take it!

His voice: melty. His jawline: divine. Then, then there was his hair. Those dark locks, lightly frosted with a few graying strands. The perfect length. The perfect thickness. The perfect texture. (Not that I touched it. But, oh! How touchable it seemed!) At this point, I'm hoping anyone in the audience knows me well enough to know that a) this man really was attractive but/and b) that I love dramatizing every little small detail (Linds, that's a lyrical quiz slash Test of Friendship, if you will). Back to the Walking Man. So he and K are talking and all I'm hearing is "blah, blah, blah" and thinking that this man has got to have some sort of Italian in him. That Roman nose. I couldn't stop fantasizing about those azure pools with depths unknown. I was just about ready to dawn an oxygen tank and dive in when, all conversation stopped. I felt those placid blue eyes shift their gaze and land on me. It was...uncomfortable in the most wonderful sense. His eyes drew my face up and before I knew it, blue locked with brown as Gavin looked at me. He said, "I'm sorry (touching my arm and pausing) I was talking, then all of a sudden I looked at you and I thought, 'Wow, she is beautiful!' You are beautiful!" Come again? (I didn't say that to him, but I was thinking it). I said a very bashful "thank you," and out fanned the paint deck again. This time, I was mindlessly manning the red zone, trying to match the pink shade of my cheeks. Pink indeed! I felt them flush in mere milliseconds. As I was dopely doing so, I shrugged my shoulders and thought, "Well, I'm good. Good for life. Drive on, K. Drive on!" Honestly I am. Good for life, I mean. A compliment like that from a man like that? That, my friends, is something I can go off of forever. When I rejoined the scene, Peter and K were back to their gabbing. Something about children on the playground not getting along. Grown-up stuff...trailing...trailing...

A few moments later, K was summing-up salutations, and we were off. I managed a "Nice to meet you." His reply, "Really. You're gorgeous." I think I melted right into the seat as we drove away. "Okay, so he's like McDreamy with an under-bite!" came the comment from K's seat. I was still off in Lah-Lah Land, but agreed emphatically. I was so undone by his eyes and hair, I didn't even get to his teeth.

And, just like that, K's my favorite client and I'll go color hunting with her any day!


*This is not his real name. His name has been changed to protect his attractiveness. Or something. I asked M what a good-looking man in his early 40's would be named and she said "Peter," so Peter it is.

To You and Yours

In anticipation of the annual R-F Nativity, Vince Guaraldi's Christmas tracks are playing as I type. I love his trickling tunes. The arrival of a table here at The Y B House yesterday brought glad tidings of great joy. No more lap-topping on my lap. Merry indeed. We're a week in, and feeling a bit more settled, another snowstorm under our belt as of this record. I made a friend of the school boy/ski bum across-the-street-neighbor of ours. The Boy From Maine and I have said a few hearty hello's as we've both scooted off in the morning. He's from Maine, therefore he's mine. Plain and simple. He and his roommates play midnight football, never missing a day, or a play, even with the sheet of ice that covers 2200 east. We'll be minus an M this week. She'll be missed. We promise not to sleep in her bed (It's the comfiest. By far.) In the words of Annie, "I think I'm gonna like it here." As M studied a few nights ago, I put together a wreath with the few odds and ends that I had. We needed a little Christmas. Tonight I set out a centerpiece on our newly-delivered table. With our frosted windowpanes, red teapot in constant use and Christmas DVDs on repeat, we're happy here in our little house.

window to the skies

Our kitchen window faces South. It's the only window in the kitchen and the only window in the whole house without panes. All the rest are six-over-six. True divided light (each piece of glass was installed individually within the pane -- they don't make windows like this anymore.) When I eat breakfast I stare out the single-paned window at the world.

The Yellow Brick House

I'm here on the floor in 2186, M to my right, sipping hot cocoa. We're nearly furniture-less, and loving it. The purchase of an IKEA futon was put to profit last night after W & R used their muscles to help us do all the hammering.

We love it here - this house with it's drafty windows, old heating vents and creaky hardwood floors. It's surprising how filling a place full of a few things (we all still have a little ways to go) makes four walls Home. Such a small word for a place with so much significance.

Our Little House has as much to offer us as we have to offer it: a great backyard, a long driveway (only notable after the snowstorm on Friday) a patio, a front porch; a bay window anticipating a table (we're hoping sooner rather than later) future dinner parties and late-night lingerers, a cellar (not quite sure what we're going to put in there, but Mern has a few ideas) and a great basement room for all things futons, games and spontaneous dance parties.
It's lights out here at 2186, at least for me.

Goodnight room.
Goodnight moon.
Goodnight air.
Goodnight noises everywhere.