Currently my expectations are being disappointed by the NPR Christmas song list. With the possible exception of the Louden Wainwright ditties, it is not fulfilling my festivity goals. According to popular music, Christmas is more about missing people than about actually being with them, or making out with Santa.

I’m particularly driven to force the festive spirit this year because I can’t go back to my parents’ for Christmas. It’s the first time in thirty years, and it’s a bummer. The disappointment is exacerbated by the fact that this christmas was supposed to be the first one in years where I – as a graduated and (I expected) employed lawyer – would be able to not just go home, but also buy presents for everybody. That set of expectations rested on my finding a job, or course. And here I am.

Scott, who professes to be happy to have me home for the holiday, is also keeping his distance. Because I’ve managed to get gloriously sick. I am the disgusting, snot sodden mother of stuffy, sneezy, miserable contagion right now.

Ehn.

I read somewhere that humans have winter holidays precisely because winter is such a difficult time of year. So we’re supposed to hunker down and hang on to each other and wait for the sun to come out and the colds to go away. (Possibly we’ve since effectively negated the positive impact of our primitive genius by incorporating airports into the equation) So I am hunkering.

The Christmas tree is decorated, I made a garland for the arch between the living room and the dining room, and our poor little half-attended creche set is on the mantle. (It’s a hand-me-down; apparently the shepherds got lost during it’s first life.) I have also created my own Spotify Christmas Song list, since NPR is disappointing me. Currently I’m listening to Jerry Orbach singing ‘Try To Remember’ and looking (somewhat avariciously) at the packages under the tree. If my nose will permit it, we’re going to the kids nativity service this evening. I’m contemplating trying this recipe.

So, my fellow hunkerers, Merry Christmas. I wish you Bing Crosby, pine smells, eggnog and puppies.

Here we are struggling
Fighting the slick nylon ropes
A new knot each year
Tighter and stronger with each dollar

Fighting the world
Fighting one another
Clinging to the strangling lifeline
Clinging to each other

Come with me
We’ll ride the silver water path
into the moon
On my black horse

I know a place
Where the evergreens grow
Dark and cool and endless
Where rolling mist and rolling waves kiss

I’d take you if you’d come
Speak the words and part the mist
Take the risk and leave the ropes behind

Come with me
We’ll ride the silver water path
into the moon
On my black horse

In the meantime, we’re attempting our first stint as dog foster parents. So far it’s been pretty exciting. Our little foster is a lady Australian Shepherd who is cute as a bean. Her previous family couldn’t take care of her any more, and she has to wear a cone because she has an itchy skin problem. Right now most of her back end is bald, which we’re working on fixing with some allergy medication, more activity, babying and good food. (Wow. Lots of commas there. Sorry.) She’s very well behaved and sweet, bobbing around in her cone. She does get reeeeeally excited when it’s time to come out of the crate and play or walk or whatever, and as soon as she gets to go outside, she completely forgets about being itchy.

Other observations for week one:
1. Loves people – not entirely certain what to do with other dogs. Tried to T-off with both Buster and Maggie, and gets nervous when they play with each other.
2. Excellent soccer player, though I’m not sure I agree with her that barking at the ball facilitates her footwork.
3. Smiles all the time. Full on, scary fang style smile. Ridiculous.
4. No food aggression, though she does have to be reminded which treat is hers and which is someone else’s.
5. She loves getting pets, leaning against you and wiggling with so much delight that she topples over. Then she proceeds to wiggle around on the ground on her back for a while, with just as much enthusiasm.

If you think she sounds so cute you want to adopt her, let us know. Because she is waiting for the right people. . .

That’s the Orlean report, Day 3. More to come.

We got to schmooze a little bit with Rusty Belle, and group we’ve heard before and loved.

The reaction to our stuff was decent, I think, especially considering we had to follow Rusty Belle. I heard some giggles where I was hoping to get giggles (hooray!), and one man stopped me on the way out to tell me that a song was “interesting”, and that it certainly highlighted an interesting phenomenon today. One has to agree with these observations, but since I had a huge bass case in one hand and Molly in the other, I couldn’t really stand and chat. But it was a new sort of response. I’m choosing to take “interesting” as more of a compliment when it comes to music than say, an outfit choice. Maybe not as satisfying as “incredible!” or “stunning!”, but at least he was listening. That is the nice thing about playing the open mic at Eddie’s Attic. They always listen.

*I am feeling parenthetical today. You’ve been duly warned.

Then come out and hang with us at Eddie’s on Monday.

My bid to be one of the Chicks of Dragon Con

In other news, we have some stuff coming up, so check the shows page.

I sort of miss that immense self-confidence.

So now I’m trying to reconnect a bit to what’s going on in that big, shallow kiddie pool. Today, I give you a link to my new favorite artist. This guy is one of the best songwriters I’ve heard in a long time, and least for my set of preferences. I like lyrics first. Withered Hand has the ultimate combination of funny and poignant, which to me is the ultimate for songwriters. (yeah, I have opinions. wanna fight?) Plus sort of folky sound with sweet vocal harmonies and interesting instrumentation. Cellos make most things better.

We were right downtown, so we were able to stroll all over the west side. We revisited nearly all of the old haunts; Scott’s condo, the waterfront, my old apartment and the bar beneath it. The bar was a little odd; since we moved, the smoking laws in Portland have strengthened. It was strange to stick my head into the Commie and not immediately be enveloped by a cloud of smoke. It seemed wrong, somehow. They’ve also changed the cheap little greasy spoon diner on the bottom floor to an italian restaurant. Also weird.

At Couch park they have fenced in the children – obviously to keep them out of the dog park. Stumptown coffee is almost unrecognizable; the decor is the same, but the clientele has gone entirely from scruffy bikers and downtown punks to shiny businesspeople and tourists. So that was also odd. We ran along the waterfront and across the Hawthorne bridge while cyclists blew by us. I reveled in being so close to water again while we watched the sun come up over the east side. We ate at Hot Lips and Laughing Planet. Scott took beautiful photos at the rose garden and at a dog park in Sellwood where the dogs can play in the river.(!!!) We walked by the library and took a picture of Rox’s special column.

After Portland, we drove through the mountains to a resort community outside of Bend called Sunriver to meet up with my family and go to a legal conference. I went to CLEs (that’s “Continuing Legal Education classes”) and met attorneys while Scott rode all over the lava land trails with my sister’s significant other. In addition to spectacular skill there was also a spectacular wreck – thankfully on the last day – which made the return journey a little rough. Nobody was seriously hurt, though witnesses say Scott actually flew. Apparently there will be a video forthcoming that will show Scott’s cycling badassery. I’ll keep you posted.

I did manage a few extra curricular activities in Sunriver as well. There was an absolutely gorgeous hike with the rest of the Stebbins women, which would have been slightly more awesome had there been fewer mutant mosquitoes, and a float down the Deschutes river in inner tubes with my mom, some siblings, and a cooler full of Ninkasi Spring Reign. Best of all, Scott and I had our own little cabin with it’s own private hot tub, and a tame deer that stopped by in the morning to eat the scrub by the driveway and let us stare at her from a foot away.

We also played the new songs for a tiny private audience, which was appropriately appreciative. (supportive families are good for musicians)

It was a really excellent experience. Obviously. I will try and talk some photos out of the photographers on the trip to post shortly.

Maggie and I walked cautiously down to him and he promptly tipped over for a belly rub, revealing ridiculously huge paws, a few skin tags, and a mouth full of worn teeth. One of his eyes is filmed over, and up close, his wrinkled jowls and huge, dripping tongue were truly stunning. (particularly for an owner of sharp faced little herd dogs) I checked his tag and discovered that we were only about a block from his home.

At that point I discovered that the belly-rub-roll-over was actually strategic. Bubby was not interested in going back up the hill. I knotted Maggie’s leash through is collar, but he remained on his back, waiving his gigantic paws in the air and slobbering happily. I got him onto his feet, but as soon as I turned to go back up the hill, he’d collapse again. Finally, I started walking down the hill, toward our house. Bubby promptly lurched to his feet and trotted along with us.
(Maggie, by the way, was a gem the entire time. )

I borrowed a neighbor’s cell phone and tried calling the number on his tag, but it was out of service, so Bubby got to come all the way home with us. Very cooperatively. I dropped Maggie off in the backyard and opened the truck door. Bubby obligingly put his front paws up into the doorway and then looked back at me.

It occurred to me that I should probably be careful about lifting him, since his hips were obviously a little painful, he was a boy, and I didn’t know him well, but he is also a big dog.

In the end the procedure of getting him into the truck would be best described as successful, if not delicate. I also received the biggest, sloppiest kiss I have ever experienced. He sat in the passenger seat like he owned it, quickly found the chewy I keep there for dogs on car trips, and lurched over to put his head in my lap when I got in.

Bubby has apparently gotten quite comfortable with random car rides with strangers.

When I got to the address on his tag, I found his owners out front waiting, and discovered that Bubby is actually the Houdini of North Decatur dogs. Despite the best efforts of his owners, he escapes regularly to go find new people to meet and new things to pee on.

So, here it is. If you run into a big, jowly, one-eyed charmer, now you know that it’s probably Bubby the Adventurer, and your life is just a little bit better than it was before you met him. You’re welcome.

At this point, when myself and my colleagues are hours away from the most important test in our lives, the aspiring lawyer is focused and intent: heads down, nose to the grindstone, pedal to the metal, choose-your-own-metaphor, stick-it-here-and-be-inspired.

. . .

I want a puppy.