Free Parking? in Berkeley?

That's right! To encourage holiday shopping, you don't have to feed the meters on Saturdays in Berkeley in December.

Okay, you're right. There is a small catch. There is a two-hour time limit.

So, if you don't move your car every two hours, you will get a ticket. The meter maids are out in full force and are angry they can't go shopping. You've been warned. And, happy shopping.

The Annual Greet and Eat, or Can I Get that to Go?

Surprisingly, parties are not my favorite things. You could say I am a bit of a wallflower. Have always been. I am much better in small groups, or when I can play hostess. So I am not exactly sure what possessed me to go to tonight's homeowner's association party (open to all residents).

Curiosity? Perhaps. Free food? Things aren't that bad yet. No, I think deep inside me was the hope that I would meet someone that I could befriend. Whatever was I thinking?

Don't get me wrong. I didn't have high hopes. My experience has been that this building is a community of strange ducks (and that's being polite). That's in part, why I think that they are forced to run the place like a junior high school when it comes to personal interactions. But I thought there just had to be one person there who wasn't too weird.

We arrived about 6:45pm. The party was already pretty well attended, especially for having started only fifteen minutes prior. So much for not wanting to be the first one at the party. These folks wanted to be the first in line at the buffet.

A woman whose mouth was full of food greeted us. She tried to swallow as she explained that we should write our names on the tags provided, along with our floor number. She said this might help with initiating conversations. The wheels in my head started spinning on how these conversations might start:

"Oh, you are on 27. Couldn't afford the penthouse, eh? Wanna be."

"I'm on 3. In my opinion, everyone above 15 is a snob."

"I'm on 26. Your floor is pretty loud. What do you do up there?"

"(Guy with a '30' on his name tag) Oh, sorry, one floor too short. We penthousers have to stick together. You understand."

The spread wasn't bad: cheese & crackers, frittatas, something B termed "a Mediterranean California roll", chicken, shrimp cocktail, fruit, salad, and desserts. Plus, a full bar (probably not the smartest of ideas considering the crowd). They were pretty disappointed when B asked for a glass of water.

We got in line, got some food and found a seat. We said hello to a Middle Eastern couple sitting across from us. They ignored us. I decided to try a shrimp with some cocktail sauce. Big mistake!

Not sure if it was the horseradish or something else, but I literally couldn't breathe because it was so hot. This seemed so odd as 1) I have been eating cocktail sauce since I was knee high to a grasshopper and 2) I just spent the last four years in Texas where my tolerance for spicy foods definitely improved. At any rate, I tried not to make a scene, put my plate on my chair, and went over to the bar to get a drink. A disappointing soda.

When I returned there was a guy sitting next to me who was definitely just there for the food. [And unfortunately, no, it wasn't Alton Brown.] He pretty much chowed down, handed his plate to one of the hostesses, said thanks, and headed for the door. Oh well.

By this point, there was a serious line at the buffet and nowhere to sit. So I considered myself lucky as I enjoyed the most delightful raspberry tartlet complete with fresh raspberries. The high point of the evening.

Keep in mind that the idea for this party was to get to know your neighbors. But pretty much people who knew each other kept to themselves. A group of Chinese women were discussing getting a dog in Chinese. [Thankfully I had my translator with me.] A group of people on the couch behind us seemed to be part of one family. Even the wheelchair constituent had a clique. The Middle Eastern couple continued to ignore us. One of the three realtors (not the one we deal with) was working the room.

I looked around at this group and thought, what a motley bunch. If this were what potential homeowners saw, I think they would run for the hills (actually the Berkeley hills are rather nice). I wanted to move. And technically could, as many of our boxes remain UNPACKED.

B tried to console me saying that the cool people who live here were busy getting ready to go to better parties. Word was out I guess that this was a very unhip party. So what were we doing there? And on that note we left.

On the way out I bumped into a former co-worker in the food line. She was surprised to see me. Thought I had moved. I explained that we had been in Texas, so she was correct in my not being around the building recently. We exchanged pleasantries, and B and I made our way to the elevator.

I think the worst of it was watching people come down the hall with plates covered in napkins, but obviously full of food. It wasn't a wedding! What nerve. And how absurd. Talk about your drive-thru mentality.

Back on the 27th floor we were greeted by the very adorable Westie that lives next door (they had left there door ajar, and he had gotten out). He understood the concept of meet your neighbors. He wagged his tail and barked hello. Even let us pet him for a bit. I felt badly that we had nothing to offer him to eat. He deserved it.

Angels & Dreams

Ever since I have been back (and I guess even once we decided to make the move) my dreams have been strange. Or at least stranger than normal. Many involved explosions (including the end of the world), which apparently have to do with change, and are not necessarily bad.

This last one I had was enough to wake me out of sleep. In it I am back at my high school (although really it seemed like a combination of several of the many schools I attended). There was some sort of reunion. Not just my class, but the whole school. As I walk around the campus I recognize people, but no one that I was really friends with. I couldn't even tell you their names.

When I get inside to where the party is, I am greeted and stopped by a group of women whom I again recognize, but couldn't name. They hand me a cup, and tell me that I have been "randomly selected" to take a drug test before I can enter the festivities. They have a list. My name is on it.

Of course, I am outraged. It is no secret that I don't drink and lost many in my family to alcoholism. When I realize they are serious, I storm off. I can hear them giggling to the point it sounds like one of them might bust a gut. For whatever reason I decide to walk through the school to get to my destination (not really sure where I am going).

Along the way, there is a corridor that has three steps that you up or down, depending on your direction. As I reach this part of the hallway I am nearly toppled by a large man who trips and falls. Other people see him, and just jeer and walk by. I reach out and help him up, think nothing of it, and am on my way.

When I get outside there is a procession headed by a cardinal or bishop, getting ready to enter the church (yes, I went to Catholic school). Before they enter, an angel appears overhead. He is dressed is in the most beautiful bright red garments. But before I can see much more, all I feel is the warmth of a bright light being caste upon me. It feels comforting.

I can't hear the angel, nor do I know that I am the only one whom he has singled out to caste his light upon. I fall to my knees and briefly hear the gasps of the crowd, but quickly concentrate back on this light. It is not quite the sound of silence, nor of music, but somewhere inbetween.

After the angel leaves I learn that he chastened the crowd for not recognizing what they had in their midst. But despite this, my popularity has far from increased. Most people start to back away. At about this point, I wake up, shaken.

No ideas on this one.

Christmas Cards

It seems like I just finished sending out my change of address cards, and now it's time to send out the Christmas cards. The current issue of Real Simple suggests not sending out holiday cards, or only sending them every other year! Now, how un-Christmas is that?

While I agree with the article that doing the she didn't send me a card last year, so I'm not sending her one this year trick is a bunch of nonsense. You shouldn't send cards out of obligation either. But to not send cards at all. That's one tradition I am not ready to give up.

Of course, I am not a big fan of those "what the family did this year" letters that get enclosed in said cards. I had a friend in college whose mother apparently had received several of these letters that year from various friends and family members: "Jenny made the honor roll every semester, Roger can't decide between Princeton and Yale, the twins made the state swimming finals, and Mutzy, our dog, is being considered for a Purina commercial -- aren't we great?!" She ragged my friend the whole holiday break about why she couldn't be more like "them".

I recall telling my friend that these letters were silly, and just the mother's attempt to make herself feel better about her miserable little life. If she read them more carefully she would realize that there was a lot that wasn't being said. For example, Jenny was probably attending some public school where if you were a six grader and not pregnant they gave you an award. Roger was trying to pick which fantasy school he was going to apply to because his parents were only going to give him $50 for his college applications (they know he is really JC material). As for the twins, they are afraid of the water, but the neighbors took them to watch the state championships that one weekend she and her husband had to themselves. And the dog, well, someone did say he looks a little like the lab in the Alpo commercial.

Also, I said to her, if they had to tell the truth, you might not want to read it (of course, if written correctly, it could be good for a laugh). The fact that Jenny got her period this year and turns into a real monster for a week each month, or that the twins could outwit Roger any day of the week because all he wants to do is join a band, or that her biggest fear is that her husband is having an affair, would probably get her crossed off your Christmas card list. No family is perfect. And shame on all those people who send those over-the-top bragging letters. And even more shame on those who believe them and berate their own children about it.

On that note, I should get started before they turn into Valentine's Day cards.

Yes, Virginia, There Is

I love Christmas. Maybe it's my name. Because of my first name, Christmas was one of the first "long words" I learned to write. And my last name is the modern version of that famous Virginia who wrote to the Times asking whether or not there was a Santa.

Speaking of which, Santa is one of my favorite things about the season. Don't misunderstand me here. I'm NOT talking about the guy with the phony beard and beer belly who hangs out at the mall, but rather that spirit of kindness and goodness that looks out for those less fortunate, especially those who are under 12.

I still believe in Santa. Again, not the guy who lives in the North Pole with the red-nosed reindeer. I am really against the commercialization of Christmas. I don't believe in maxing out your credit cards to buy people stuff that they didn't want to begin with, but which you felt obligated to buy. It was understood in my house that Christmas was every day that you had a roof over your head and food on the table. But still, I also believe that there is something out there, that does cause magic to happen this time of year. It's just getting harder and harder to find.

I love playing Santa and not getting caught. Knowing that you made someone's holiday just a little brighter is what I think it is really all about. My goal is to help someone else believe in this spirit, with the hope that they too will pass it on.

On that note, I signed up to be a Secret Santa. This is a pretty cool idea. You basically sign up with your Amazon wish list, and a little bit about yourself. On December 10th, every one gets matched up. So, if you are interested, sign up soon at Secret Santa.

An Izzard's Tale*

What an adventure! We took BART to San Francisco to attend the dvd signing by the rocking, hilarous, "executive transvestite", Eddie Izzard. The event was held at the Borders in Union Square. It was scheduled for 4pm, but M. Izzard requested that the gig be moved up an hour. And, oh the problems begin.

Like I said, we took the train to avoid the parking nightmare that is San Francisco. We mapped it out and determined our best bet was to get off on Montgomery and go up Post, stopping at the Kate Spade store along the way to pick up my 2003 agenda refills (the woman from Nordstrom never called back).

After quickly getting what I needed at KS (no need to look at what one cannot have), we stopped and had a quick hotdog at a street vendor (we skipped breakfast, as it well, went bad). It still wasn't yet 3pm, so we figured we would continue on another half block and go to Borders and get a good spot. WRONG!

We walk in and the sign announcing the event has as "X" over 4pm, and 3pm has been written in. We race up the escalator to the third floor only to discover that we are not alone. In fact, the end of the line is now on the other side of the store from where Eddie Izzard is, in the children's section! And because of the holidays, the shelves with the calendars are blocking the view completely. There is no microphone, so we can't hear what he is saying. We can barely hear the laughter of those lucky enough to be that close.

I kid you not, we stood there for over an hour without budging two feet. We took turns going to see what was going on, but couldn't figure the hold up. By the time the event was scheduled to begin, they had people zig zagging in and out of the stacks. They were warning people who showed up after 3:45pm that there was no guarantee that they would make it to the front.

We were entertained by four women friends in front of us. One of them picked up the book, Click Clack Cluck, and read the entire thing aloud. They reminded me of something out of Bridget Jone's Diary.

After almost two hours we had barely moved one row of books. And I almost think that was due to people giving up and leaving.

When we finally got to the front of the line it was nearly a quarter to six. My feet hurt and my shoulder hurt from hold my bag with the camera. One of the people running the show made a comment about how the line seemed to move faster now that they were letting groups of people go up. You got it -- they had been sending people up one at a time to meet M. Izzard!

Even after all that, I must say it was worth it. He was very nice and did take time to answer questions and sign things. I told him about all the women in Texas who were big fans. He said that he spends most of his time while in the US doing shows in LA or NY. He doesn't come to San Francisco as often as he would like. One of the people running the show (and I must use that term very loosely) was good enough to take our picture. We'll see how it turns out.

And, in case you were wondering, he was wearing a bright red velvet jacket. Under it he seemed to have a white ruffled shirt. Not too much makeup.

We pretty much headed back home after leaving Borders. The city looked pretty cool all lit up. Macy's has a neon wreath in each of what must be at least 50 windows. Saks (I think) has a Nutcracker theme, with animated puppets telling the story of the sugar plum fairy. Neiman Markus has its tree lit up and decorated (it starts at the cosmetics counter on the first floor and ends at the top floor where their cafe is located -- and you can view the whole tree from outside). Of course, Union Square has a giant tree in its center, complete with protesters. There was also a giant billboard on the side of a building which read "Welcome to California, the non-smoking section of the country."

* If you don't know who Eddie Izzard is, you really must run (don't walk) to your nearest dvd seller and pick up a copy of "Dressed to Kill". Or, set your Tivo to record the next showing on HBO.