Chillin' and Grillin' Shack

Beach life is apparently exhausting.

Even allowing for an extended beach happy hour and last night's birthday dinner party with the attendant over-indulging that unfolded (never mind the series of unfortunate events that accompanied steak grilling) over many hours, everyone should not be so listless. So blasé.

Tuesday when I walked, Beauty was at my side. Yesterday, Beauty brought Beckham and Beau made us a foursome. Today, the only person who could be bothered accompanying me for a walk on a gorgeous beach day with roiling crowds overhead was Beau. And honestly, I think he just wanted to force himself to walk away from the bag of caramel corn he was hoovering.

When we got back, it was to an unmotivated household lousy with the stench of eau de ennui.

"I'm going to take a nap," Beckham announces after he and the Beauty wear themselves out eating a breakfast of steak and eggs followed by lounging in and next to the hot tub.

"I might be willing to walk after I take a nap," Beauty decides, heading downstairs after detouring for a cookie break.

Queen B hasn't even put in an appearance today and Beau and I have already finished lunch. It's exactly five minutes past noon.

"I really don't have any desires," Pru says in a resigned voice from her perch on a bar stool nursing her second (third?) cup of coffee. A nap, or even just quality time in her bed with her devices and more coffee, seems imminent. "What time were you hoping to go to the beach?" she muses as she passes me en route to her sanctuary.

Oh, I don't know. On a day where gray storm clouds have completely given way to blue skies with only a lacework of clouds along the horizon, I should think 2:00 would be an ideal time to convene this group on the beach and see what happens.

The only problem with this plan is that high tide arrives about 4:30 and this house is on a ridiculously narrow stretch of beach. We try to compensate by setting up chairs and umbrellas against the dunes that rise to our walkway, but rogue waves inevitably reach a cooler or someone's chair.

With any luck, everyone will still be a bit groggy after nap time and not mind too terribly that ocean and sand are going to happen at the beach. My plan is to lull them into submission with a well-packed cooler and just the right nibbly bits to get a base down for the evening ahead. Vacations are a marathon, not a sprint.

And if rest times are part of the marathon these days, so be it. To paraphrase Beauty while eating chips and laying in the hot tub, "Blogging from a porch facing the ocean while others nap isn't terrible."

Not a lot about beach life is. And please pass the caramel corn.

Rise Above or Sink Below

The beauty of the beach is that nothing much happens at the beach.

Oh, sure, the Beauty and I headed north for a walk only to be showered on repeatedly. The sun was either beating on our backs or the rain was dripping off our hats. While other people began to pack up to leave the beach, we kept walking and talking.

The sky was full of ominous-looking clouds on the sound side, but I ignored them for the sake of the abundance of seashells washed up on the beach, probably a function of last week's hurricane. This is my fourth time down here this summer and I picked up more shells on today's walk than on the other three weeks combined.

On the way back down the beach to the cottage, a man planted himself in the middle of the beach so Beauty and I had to both walk around him. "Really, you're going to make us split the difference?" I joked as we made our way on either side of him.

"Karen! It's me!" my now-bearded brother-in-law said. Seems Sister #6 had spotted Beauty and me walking down the beach and instructed her husband to flag us down. I'm not sure who was more surprised at the accidental meeting, me or the Beauty.

You just never know who you'll meet on the beach.

When the menfolk headed out to do hunting and gathering, Pru and I used the lull to set up camp on the beach. She brought a stainless slotted spoon from the kitchen, the better to dig a hole for the umbrella, while I was in charge of seeing that the bottle of Moet et Chandon made it safely to the spot between our beach chairs.

Earlier, when we'd walked, the "Dangerous Current" flags had been up all along our path to Jeannette's Pier, but by the time we returned, Beau said the swimming ban had been lifted. Given how mild the ocean temperature was, it was practically an invitation to hit the water.

After the guys returned, they (and Beauty) joined us at the beach for Domaine du Loriot Menetou-Salon and a cheese and charcuterie break while we watched a group of surfers take advantage of the better-than-usual wave action. The encroaching high tide overtook my chair while I was in the water, resulting in a soggy book (what's a beach week without baptizing your reading material?) and forcing us to relocate at one point to a more protected perch.

Our biggest accomplishment of the afternoon was killing a third bottle, this time of Whispering Angel Rose and making a group commitment to leave for the restaurant at the Outer Banks Pier by 7:30. An evening out necessitated elevated hygiene, so Beau kindly removed the chairs that had been stored in the outdoor shower during Florence so I could have my first outdoor shower of the week.

I won't even deign to comment on the fact that I was the first. I'm not here to judge, only to relax.

Our caravan set out for the pier barely half a mile away, secure in the knowledge that we could walk home if we needed to, assuming, that is, that we could find the beach house from the ocean side under cover of night.

It's a glorious thing to enjoy a breezy 76-degree night at a table on a pier over crashing surf. A trio was playing songs like Duncan Shiek's "Barely Breathing" and strings of lights overhead made things feel festive. We'd discovered this place last year and so enjoyed our dinner al fresco that we decided to do it again.

Choosing what to eat was easy as far as I was concerned because what's better pier food than a basket of fried shrimp with slaw and fries? Queen B's burger maybe? Or Beau's fish tacos? All good, all made better by a day of salty air.

Nope, thinking back over the day, I can't say much of anything was accomplished. As someone said on the deck this morning while they were all sucking back caffeine, "It's never too early for drinking or napping on vacation."

And never too late to be doing nothing at all. Ain't beach life grand?

She Who Is Ungovernable

Unlikely as it sounds, there was a time when I'd have happily been a mail-order bride.

Had you asked me about my willingness yesterday, my answer would've been different. But when Mac and I made plans to walk this morning, my acceptance came with a stipulation: that we walk to the Virginia Historical Society to hear author Marcia Zug's talk on "Lonely Colonist Seeks Wife: Rediscovering the History of America's First Mail-Order Brides."

As I've said on many occasions, I like my history with breasts and a topic like marital immigration sounded far too compelling to pass up. We weren't the only ones who thought so, either, because the auditorium was nearly full with those curious about moving to the new world in hopes of meeting Mr. Right.

Zug was a good speaker, too, and her enthusiasm for the subject was evident as she laid out the major problem of colonization, namely that men don't want to move anywhere there aren't women. Most men anyway.

What was interesting was that it wasn't a problem in the northern colonies because those people were escaping religious persecution, so they came as family groups of particular religions. With the Virginia Company of London's foray into Jamestown, it was mostly men and many of the women who did decide to come died or returned because of hardship.

Naturally, the crown didn't want the men left behind taking Indian brides - although they did, apparently in droves - so they hatched a plan to incentivize women crossing the pond. They offered to give them a dowry (which for working girls cut out a decade of working to earn hers), a parcel of property in their own names (hello, Maid's Town) and a chance to marry a rich man, thus moving up in social status.

I get it, all of that would have been hugely appealing to an English working class girl of the 18th century. We're talking about a time where marriage was an economic partnership and the standard question about a lass, fetching or otherwise, was, "How many sheep does she have?"

But the most important part of the equation was that the women were given their choice of husbands and if a woman entered into a marriage contract and changed her mind, it wasn't a problem. But there was more, so much more to entice her, namely acquiring way more legal rights: owning property, divorce rights, inheritance rights, political rights.

Damn straight I'll switch continents for that deal, too, honey. Plain and simple, women were better respected in the colonies than on the Continent.

When the French started colonizing Canada, they had the same women shortage problems, only augmented by constantly looking over their shoulders worried about encroachment by English settlers. Their solution was to import 800 women and make a law for men dictating that if a woman wanted to marry him and he said no, he lost all hunting privileges.

Talk about girl power. What else were men going to do in Canada in the 18th century, besides say yes?

Since history books were for so long written by men, all of this women's history was not only fascinating, but news to us. The legend of mail-order brides being taken against their will to populate and domesticate new frontiers was actually far more nuanced than that.

In Virginia, the playing field had been leveled for working girls with the dawn of a new era where it no longer mattered how many sheep she had.

And the kicker? There was no requirement that she had to get married once she was here. That's some serious respect for womanhood right there. And maybe an alternate book title.

Strong-willed bride seeks solitude and friends in Maid's Town: Rediscovering the birth of the independent American woman.

I'd read it.

Condition of the Heart

Peace is the word, or at least it was on my convoluted walk today.

Stop one was the open house for VCU's new learning garden, situated on a lot next to parking garage on Harrison Street across from the expressway.

Raised beds of lettuce, blueberries and kale, strawberries growing in burlap sacks, a mini-greenhouse with seedlings sprouting (much like the ones in my dining room) and fig trees being planted in half barrels.

A vertical flower garden hung on pallets, providing pollination opportunities for the bees in the little wooden house nearby. We were told that pharmacy students help maintain the gardens as part of their service hours, but also so they can learn the importance of diet in health care. Even some of the frat houses nearby volunteer and that's about the last thing I'd have expected from frat boys.

After enjoying a Mason jar of minted water, I moseyed up to the end of Carytown, past people eating on the Fancy Biscuit's new patio, and back through the Museum district.

A motorcycle sported a green "peace" license plate bigger than its actual Virginia plate, there was a peace sign created out of bricks painted blue and laid out in an empty tree well and some child had drawn a multi-color peace sign in chalk on the sidewalk.

A couple of landscapers on Hanover near Floyd had the radio in their truck blasting as they worked, causing me to cross the street when I heard Patrice Rushen's "Forget Me Nots" from, what, 1982?

I told the guys that I'd crossed because the song was part of my club-going youth and one of the guys - standing in the tiny, elevated front yard above me - invited me to dance with him so we did, albeit me on the sidewalk and him on the dirt four feet up.

When you're out walking, you take your dancing where it's offered.

Then you come home and find out the there's a new world order, at least musically speaking, because Prince has died. It doesn't seem possible.

Twice I saw his Royal Purpleness, both times at the Mosque in the '90s and both times with the most diverse crowd of any concerts I have been to in my long and storied show-going past. His charisma, energy and musicality made the evenings still memorable twenty years later.

His music remains part of what gets us through this thing called life.

I'd be his devotee if the only thing he'd ever written had been the masterfully metaphoric "Little Red Corvette" and the sublimely passionate "I Would Die 4 U" but in a bigger sense, Prince was the ongoing soundtrack to my youth.

Remembering how far away "1999" sounded when he was singing it in 1983, it's hard to believe that just as much time has passed since we passed that landmark year

I guess it's a sign of the times that we're losing the great ones from my generation now.

Peace out, Prince. You were too young to go.

And the Award Goes to...

We have a winner in the Best Pickup Line ever sweepstakes.

Walking down Broad Street today, a man says hello and tells me how good I look. I thank him with a smile and keep walking.

From behind he calls, "Just got out of jail. I'm fresh meat! Don't you want some fresh meat?"

I don't think I do. The question is, would this line work on any woman in the world? Fresh is a subjective term, don't you think?

Ode to a Walking Companion

Take me to the river, dip me in the water.

My new walking buddy, the one I met through my blog, had suggested another trek, this one along the North Bank Trail, which I hadn't walked in ages. We met at the O-Hill overlook like old friends and set out, talking all the way.

She told me about her business trip to New Jersey while I shared my recent ocean adventure. She's off to the Outer Banks soon and we bonded over old beach cottages with cross breezes and open windows.

Without even discussing it, we both climbed aboard Bubba's bench when we reached it, drinking in the view of the rapids and Belle Isle. Not everyone "gets" Bubba's, but she does.

Since our last walk had been the pipeline walkway and then on to Chapel Island, we hadn't done any real trail walking together yet, but we turned out to be more than compatible. Every short-cut slope I suggested, up or down, she agreed.

When we got close to Texas Beach, I was bowled over to see a new wooden trail walk where there used to be some boards and logs you had to balance yourself on to get across that muddy swath. I'd seen some family groups turn back rather than attempt the makeshift balance beam. Now it's wide, flat and safe, albeit totally without personality.

At Texas Beach, we found a couple on the rocks, a young mother and children spread out on a blanket and a girl in a bikini reading on a rock out in the water. We took off our shoes and socks and began making our way out into the James, our cooling reward after the heated slog through the riverbank's overgrowth.

The rocks underwater were slick and my friend headed down before catching herself, although wisely, she was wearing linen pants which dry quickly. We waded out into the river, immediately feeling our core temperatures dropping, and admired the peaceful serenity of the un-peopled view.

Gazing out at the river, I was disappointed to see that all the Japanese-looking piled rock sculptures that adorned the furthermost rocks last summer were gone. What a shame.

We talked as much as we walked on the way back - what a small town Richmond is (especially when it comes to online dating), the pleasures of house and dog-sitting (central A/C and two warm bodies in bed with her), Broad Appetit (we'd both gone alone) - pausing only when a passing screechy train made it impossible to hear each other.

As always, the walk back seemed far shorter than the walk there and I was soon saying goodbye to my friend as she set off to grocery shop and I headed home on Pine Street to scope out the progress of the ICA building on the corner of Broad.

Passing a guy in a hard hat by the site, I smiled and he returned it, saying, "Walk a mile for me, will you?" Explaining that I was closing in on six miles already and almost home, I said I could only do a half mile for him. He accepted my offer, I waved farewell and kept going.

As I approached the corner, from behind me I heard him calling, "I'd walk with you if I had time. I really would." And I'd take you up on that if you did, given how sincere you sound.

All I ask is that you keep up. I might even slow down just a tad just because it's such a treat to have company on my walk.

But it's most satisfying, like today, when I don't have to.

Fine Art of Having Fun

It was a splendid day for a birthday walk.

Given that it's a long holiday weekend, I was expecting the city to be deserted - it sure is in my neighborhood - only to find it crawling with activity. Downtown, gaggles of families and couples were milling about on practically every block. Brown's Island was teeming with joggers, dog walkers and picnickers, probably lured out by the 70-degree weather.

Even the Pipeline Walkway was crowded and several times I had to stop and let people nervously make their way behind me. I overheard a woman ask her friend, "Would you come down here at 2 a.m.?" and the other responded, "Heck, no!" as if they were traversing a war zone or ghetto siege.

I don't know, on a full moon night, it might be a beautiful place to be.

Midway down the pipeline, I said hello to a guy fishing and he proudly pointed to the rockfish he'd already caught for dinner. When I told him I'd grown up having rockfish or bluefish my Dad had caught for dinner every Friday night of my youth, he grinned.

"Chesapeake Bay?" he asked, already knowing the answer. When he wished me a good day, I shared that it was my birthday and got my first spoken "happy birthday" of the day.

A woman sitting on the walkway while her man fished below pointed at my t-shirt ("Virginia is for wine lovers"), telling me how much she liked it.

Near the end of the walkway were groups of people tubing the river, paused against rocks, maybe for lunch. I usually see them near Belle Isle, but maybe this is where they get out of the water.

Over on the Capital Bike Trail were more bikers than I'd ever seen riding it, maybe because May is bike month, along with the usual walkers and joggers. Two canal boat tours passed by, the occupants on one cheering when they saw fish jumping and then another's waving to some of the bikers who got their attention.

In the Slip, I saw several groups of young girls in volleyball team shirts, their young voices shrill and  laughter obnoxiously loud as they lagged behind their coach or chaperone patiently trying to herd them.

When I got back to Grace Street, I passed a mother and daughter trying to get into Pasture, which isn't open until tonight. Naturally, I inquired if they wanted me to suggest another restaurant.

"That would be wonderful, but she's got to go to the bathroom badly plus we have to be at the convention center by 1:30 for a tournament," the woman said plaintively.

No problem, I got this. Leading them down the street to a Port-a-Potty, the young girl looked eternally grateful. Waiting for her, Mom introduced herself as Gwen from Annapolis, here for, what else, a volleyball tournament.

I led them over to Lucy's, conveniently located a block from their destination and they seemed thrilled. "People here are so nice!" Gwen enthused. Especially people having a birthday today.

Horoscope for May 23 birthday
This year you are so upbeat that some of your friends might not be able to relate to you in the same way. Try to be more responsive to those in your immediate circle. In any case, you put the finishing touches on the fine art of having fun.

Okay, so that might not be news, but it's always good to hear, even for us upbeat types.

Darkness on the Edge of J-Ward

Windows open for a reason.

Granted, it's only been a few weeks since mine were opened for the season, but I'm already reaping the benefits. When I hear "Stel-la!" or "Karen Kay!" I know one of my friends is down on the sidewalk (or, like today, in his car, sunroof open) awaiting my arrival and I return the call from one of my windows.

When I invite a friend who's never seen my home to come upstairs this evening, I take pleasure in hearing compliments about my apartment and its abundant local art, tragically forgetting to show off my latest acquisition, an absinthe spoon shaped like the Eiffel Tower.

But it's the "I love your open windows!" comment that gives me the most satisfaction.

It's those open windows that bring the neighborhood into my apartment, too. I've heard it all: lovers' quarrels, drunken conversations, birds squawking to protect their nests, overly loud motorbikes, sirens. I often smell rain coming before I hear it.

Just now, hearing the sound of a truck idling outside, I go to my window and see a man climbing out of a utility truck. Spotting me, he waves. "We're just here to fix that street light," he says, pointing to the one between the two of us. In the dark? "Wouldn't want you to come home to darkness," he explains as if he knows my hours.

But of course, between my working and playing, no one knows my hours, sometimes not even me. There's a fair bit of crossover in both given what I do and how I do it.

Working at home, perk or drawback?

When I saw a friend had posted that question, I presumed it was a rhetorical question. Who wouldn't rather work at home? Turns out lots of people for all kinds of reasons.

They like having a work social set. They need the discipline of enforced attendance. They want to get out of the house. A "real" job validates them.

Not me. After six years of working at home, I still think it's the greatest thing since sliced bread. I love researching and writing in my underwear on a hot day. Sometimes I invite people I'm interviewing to my apartment so I don't even have to go out for that (although I do dress for them).

But not too often, because I like going out. Hello, have you met me?

Today's interview was in a glassed-in room on the fourth floor of the VMFA (a floor you have to be escorted to because it's off limit to visitors) where we had a bird's eye view of workers on top of the Virginia Historical Society, stately Benedictine and the old Johnston Willis Hospital apartments in the distance.

And sky, lots of bright blue sky.

My subject was a photographer who runs almost as much as I walk so when we weren't discussing photography, we were comparing routes and views. He takes his camera when he runs to capture anything that catches his eye, much the way I take mental notes on my walk to report back on my blog later.

He's a busy man so our interview was only set for 45 minutes due to his crowded schedule. The only problem was we found ourselves on the same page about the pleasures of two-footed travel and the unexpected things to be seen from that vantage point.

It's so easy to geek out about the wondrous tableaux life lays out for you on a walk or run when you meet a kindred soul who notices the same. Although it turns out that no one ever says, "Workin' it, girl!" to him like a guy did to me in Shockoe Slip today.

No, silly rabbit, workin' it is what I do in my apartment with my windows open. Among other things.

Whenever I Call You Friend

Friendship happens when you're not looking for it.

My first best friend took the position using the direct route. My family - and I only had three sisters, not five, at that point - was moving from an apartment in D.C. into a new house in Maryland. A little girl knocked on our side door and inquired of my mother, "Do you have any little girls I can play with?"

Little did she know that she'd hit the mother lode. Cindy Smith was five years old and serendipitously, so was I. We became friends that May day and remained so for years.

Of course, these days if an unattended five-year old knocked on someone's door, they'd probably call Child Protective Services on the parents, but back then, even a five-year old was allowed to walk two houses to inquire after friends.

In college, I worked part-time at a department store and on a night when store employees were taking inventory, a process that lasted until midnight and involved as much laughter as work, I was sent to the hosiery department to help out.

The college girl working the department looked none too pleased to see me when I showed up. Once we became friends, she admitted that she'd hated me on sight. My sin? Apparently I looked like the type of girl she disdained.

Before long, we were sharing life stories, learning to drink together and spending every warm day laid out in the sun hoping to achieve the perfect tan. Even when she moved many states away, our bond stayed strong and we were always able to pick up conversation as if it had been days and not months or even years since we'd last confided in each other.

Work delivered me another girlfriend back in the '90s when I was managing editor and she was art director of a couple of monthly papers. Even when the publisher decided her services were no longer needed (although they definitely were), we'd discovered so much in common over shared deadlines working at her studio on southside that we carried on outside of the publishing world.

Our friendship of almost two decades continues unabated, having weathered break-ups, the trials and tribulations of having sisters and acceptance of the aging process, meanwhile road-tripping to Washington, D.C., Baltimore and the Outer Banks in between our monthly wine-down conversation marathons.

Over the last six tumultuous years, I've stumbled onto new friends while out and about, hardly surprising given my vigorous social schedule. Out is where you found me.

One time I went to meet a casual friend only to find that she'd invited Pru, a woman I'd met a few years back, to join us. Pru and I clicked immediately and that friendship took off while the other withered and died. You know when it's right.

Another time at a party, the hostess came up to me to tell me how much she loved my blog for its positivity and particularly its odd slant given my detachment from mainstream media. When I found out she was a Gemini, too, you could almost hear the heavenly chorus of angels singing above us.

Some friendships are just meant to be.

Months ago, a blog reader messaged me saying she'd like to join me for my daily walk if I was amenable. Somehow, I lost that message until last week when I responded, albeit four months late, with a heartfelt yes.

Since she'd left comments on my blog before, I knew a little about her (such as she didn't like going out alone and took inspiration from my many solo outings), including that she was an avid walker. Today we met at the Oregon Hill overlook to walk together, both happy to have a companion, agreeing that most people we know can't/won't walk as far as we like to.

Five plus miles later, we'd had a satisfying walk on the Pipeline Trail, down to Great Shiplock Park and Chapel Island before meandering up through downtown during worker bee lunch hour. Despite how recently we'd first laid eyes on each other, we had almost non-stop conversation getting acquainted.

Best sign seen on our walk: Our beer is as cold as your ex-boyfriend's heart.

Doubtful.

By the end of our adventure, I was asking if we could walk again and even meet up for an evening since she doesn't like flying solo and I'm always looking for company.

I may be a Luddite, but look at me, a blog reader may become a friend.

Arriving home, I found a message from another reader suggesting we do lunch. I agreed post-haste to his invitation because life has proven I have absolutely no idea where new friends may come from.

Chances are they aren't going to knock on my door and ask if there's anybody to play with. Too bad because I'd love that.

Step Right Up, Number Four

If I was going to get married, the subject of my desire was at the Roosevelt tonight. Shh, no one needs to know.

Tonight's dinner was labeled "Pass the Chablis on the left hand side" and attracted an A list of dedicated wine geeks for a one night event meant to celebrate the cooking of the Roosevelt for those who wanted to bring their own wine.

Arriving with a date and more than enough wine for two, I was greeted by all kinds of favorite wine lovers: my upcoming travel companion ("Am I cursed?"), the painter and his pregnant wife (37 weeks and counting), the pizza maker and her carpaccio-loving husband (seeking a brick and mortar location for her business) , Saison's wine goddess ("Everything just fell into place"), the outdoor shower master and his wife (always a good time), the wine rep couple (already planning their annual Rose party) and other assorted wine reps and main squeezes.

The first order of business was hugging the bartender and labeling my glass with my name ("captain" was used despite that my nautically correct dress should have merited an "admiral") before mingling while sipping sparkling Riesling.

Rumor had it the evening's motivation had been eating chef Mike Braune's food without the expected accompaniment of Virginia wine. That said, one guest not only brought a bottle of Gabrielle Rausse Pinot Noir, but it was autographed by the winemaker himself.

The mingling period was protracted and well lubricated, with every wine nerd showing off his opening selection. Since my job had been merely to show up and smile, I felt no pressure to impress.

Beyond, of course, mentioning my $3 thrift store dress whenever I got a compliment on it.

Eventually, we were instructed to find a seat for dinner.

Chef Braune's first course was spicy steak tartare with black garlic, bright green ramp oil. sunny yellow cured egg and crispy sunchokes standing in for potato chips, for me enjoyed with Domaine de la Chapelle "Fleurie," a lovely fruit-driven Beaujolais that wound up being shared with most of the people at our table.

Score one for my date, a master at pairing.

The second course was not the expected grouper cheeks but seared scallops with citrus butter, fiddlehead ferns, malt vinegar gnocchi and spring peas paired with a half bottle of crisp Domaine Vincente Dampt Chablis, the essence not only of what tonight's dinner was about but of Spring.

Since we had only a half bottle, though, we passed neither to the right nor to the left. Priorities, my dear.

A bearded friend presented me with a "Virginia is for wine lovers" t-shirt, the same one being worn by staff members tonight to register their feelings on all the uncharacteristically non-Virginia wine at the Roosevelt. I shall wear it, not only with pride but conviction.

The noise level of the room rose with each successive course, as did the familiarity of the people at any given table. I met newbies to Scott's Addition, a guy who somewhat happily lives in Charlottesville and a couple tuned in to but not part of the local wine scene.

For the hunk o' lamb shoulder with cauliflower couscous, anchovy gremolata, black olives and smoked tomato, I drank my seat mate's autographed Gabrielle Rausse Pinot Noir, bringing to mind the thickly accented winemaker and his sparkling sense of humor.

An accidentally overturned wine glass resulted in my plate being traded for one with less wine spilled on it, not that I have any complaints about extra wine soaking my food. I think I would eat lamb shoulder regardless of the state in which it arrived on my plate.

By the time our final course of macaroons from WPA Bakery arrived, conversation was abundant and non-linear. We heard about the interestingly-named Bruce Lee cat, Jackson Ward architecture and why it's important to gather wine geek types on a regular basis. An out-of-towner asked me about  the danger of wandering certain streets after dark (all safe, my friend).

And while I could have shared that I'd seen the 1937 tearjerker "Stella Dallas" this morning, I stuck to more relevant topics instead. Part of being a good conversationalist is recognizing your audience and knowing what they'd enjoy hearing.

A low rent mother who sacrifices her beloved daughter to a better woman? An extended walk through what was surely a transitional neighborhood at best? My deep thoughts on middle age marriage?

None of them worthy of tonight's conversational partners. Better I save them for the right company.

That would be some night when it doesn't matter what direction I pass the Chablis because I will be being wooed by Virginia wine and just the right words.

You'll see, everything will fall into place.

This River is Closed

Magnificent and terrifying, either way you look at it.

Today's walk took me to Belle Isle where I was greeted by a read sign reading, "River level above 9 feet. River closed to use."

Looking out at the roiling water as I walked around the island, it was crystal clear why the river was closed.

Massive trees floated down the middle of the river. All of the rocks that become sunbathing and party central during warm months were completely submerged. In several places, rocks further out had become loggerheads as hundreds of floating trees jammed up against them.

It was kind of eerie to walk along the northern side where normally a buffer of rocks separates you from the river. Today trees, many with their bare roots exposed, clung to the edges of the island as the only thing between me and the rushing water.

There were only two places where you could still access rocks and both were mere shadows of their usual size.

The usually spacious outcropping at Rocks at First Break was reduced to a fraction of its typical width and breadth but since it was one of two I could even still see, I wasted no time scrambling down the hill and out onto it.

So. Noisy.

With water levels this high, there was a surround-sound effect from all that rushing water.

But there was also a beautiful cool, salty air smell that followed me as I walked along the riverside and that was the most wonderful part of all, that bracing smell.

No surprise, the island was full of joggers, walkers and people sitting down for a view of the tumultuous James on a sunny day. One couple sat by the serene quarry pond smooching as I walked by.

New to Belle Isle since the last time I'd been there was a memorial bike rack that resembled a giant metal teepee.

The sign informed me that it was a tribute to the Sibley tents used to shelter prisoners on the island during the Civil War. At 12' high and 18' wide, I shudder to think how many prisoners they crammed into one. Or how miserable it must have been once the tents began deteriorating, which the sign said they did over the course of the war.

Crafted by VCU students, the bike rack is meant to be functional and also a reminder of our past. It'll be interesting to see it covered in bikes locked all over it.

Maybe not as interesting as seeing a closed river, but something to look forward to when the James is at a less terrifying stage.

You can be sure I'll be back when the river is open again.

Warming with Wolfie

Listen to the meteorologists and you miss too much.

Braving the ice and cold despite online warnings to stay in, I got exactly one block from home on my walk before taking  a tumble on an ice-glazed brick sidewalk, landing on my hip and knee. Thankfully, there were no churchgoers nearby to overhear the string of expletives that came out of my mouth.

Refusing to be beaten by frozen water, I continued on, avoiding brick walkways as much as possible and covering nearly five miles as freezing rain continued to fall. While the terrain was dangerous, the city was silvery and nearly empty so I had it to myself for the most part.

Back at my house I discovered that my umbrella was completely iced over, hard and solid enough that I couldn't fold it up. Can't say that's ever happened before.

Upstairs, warm and making tea for a guest, Africa trumped Austria as I spent a couple of hours with a musician who's about to present the Richmond premiere of a documentary about the time he spent playing in Kenya.

We got so caught up in conversation about music and travel that by the time I looked up, I realized I'd missed the Mozart lecture.

The 2015 Mozart Festival was today in Carytown and I'd hoped to start with a Mozart primer courtesy of VCU Music's Daniel Myssyk, but we'd chatted right through that. But with more Mozart to come, I bade him farewell, layered up and headed to Babe's of Carytown, a place I'd never been.

Arriving 15 minutes before the program "Requiem and Symphonies" was due to start, I found the place crowded with other music lovers. Sitting at the bar in the front room was a guy in a white wig and red waistcoat that read "Mozart" on the back, letter jacket-style.

Inching forward into the back room where an orchestra was set up, I spotted a cello player also in a white curly wig. Periodically, I'd hear, "Musician coming through!" behind me and it would be a guy leading with his trombone or a woman with her instrument case in front of her trying to part the sea of humanity and reach the orchestra area.

Since I'd never been in Babe's before, I'd had no clue that they had that big back room, which was already mostly full. Passing by the bar behind rows of folding chairs, one guy told me he'd arrived an hour ago to score the stool on which he sat.

I finally made my way to the end of the bar directly in front of the violin section. I might not have been seated, but I had a damn fine view considering my arrival time.

Ellen of Classical Revolution, the non-profit devoted to bringing classical music to bars all over Richmond, began by announcing that this orchestra had never played together before. "This is how many rehearsals we've had," she said, holding up her hand and shaping a zero.

But because they're classical musicians, they were excited to be sight-reading Mozart for our listening pleasure. She mentioned that given the weather (humid, rainy), there would necessarily be a lot of tuning throughout the performance.

She also mentioned that the Richmond Symphony, sponsors of this show, were starting a new series of $15 one-hour symphony performances at Hardywood next season. It sounds exactly like the former Kicked Back Classics series that the symphony did for years at places like Tredegar.

Everything old is new again, at least to the young.

I was a huge fan of that series, in part because of the succinct playing time but also because they served free pizza at the end of each show. I vote to bring back that part of the series, too.

The same Daniel Myssyk whose lecture I'd missed came out to conduct the first piece, telling us that Mozart had composed it in four days while traveling from Salzburg to Vienna. He'd stopped in Linz for a break and, according to Myssyk, "Said to himself, what do I do here and wrote a quick symphony."

Next they did a movement from Symphony #41, known as the Jupiter symphony, but Myssyk said, "That's a 19th century name and Mozart wouldn't recognize it." Then we should never utter it again if you ask me.

This was working out better than I'd hope for. Myssyk was spilling all kinds of fun facts to make up for my missing his talk. If only the idiots in the back would stop blathering so I could hear his every word.

We got a real treat when the bassoon player arrived with her impressive instrument and took a chair right next to the conductor for the "Bassoon Concerto," a rare opportunity to hear so much solo bassoon, not to mention that I had a terrific vantage point for watching her play.

After each selection, the audience clapped mightily and the dapper man behind me yelled, "Bravo! Bravo! Yo, yo, yo!" You know, just like Mozart's 18th century audiences would have done.

Richmond Symphony assistant conductor Erin Freeman came out and with no introduction started up the next piece, which also included a chorus singing on the platform behind the orchestra.

Barely into it, she stopped them and turned to us, saying, "So, that," which resulted in the entire audience cracking up. "I always wanted to do that. That was Mozart's last eight bars or as one of the musicians said earlier, that's where he stopped composing and started decomposing."

Long hair humor. And speaking of long hairs, there was a young flute player in a knit cap, his long blond hair sticking out from under it and with a bushy, hipster-approved beard who gave me hope for the future of symphonic music.

Marketing tip: hire him and make him the new face of the symphony.

"Although I do hope you enjoy everything today, this is the most important piece," Erin said introducing "Requiem," the reason die-hard fans were there. When the chorus sang the final "amen," the room rose in an ovation, cheering.

But we couldn't end on something so somber, so next she introduced "the most perfect piece Mozart ever wrote, "Ave Verum Corpus," because it best embodied his spirit." It was truly beautiful.

Almost exactly an hour after the music had begun, it ended, breaking the spell of a roomful of people gathered together because they were willing to go out on a day when weathermen told us to stay in simply to hear Mozart played live.

As I began the slow procession past the bar to get out of the room, a handsome guy next to me made a comment about the people in the back who'd chatted throughout the performance. "I know it's a bar, but why come here and talk the whole time?"

Since this is one of my favorite soapboxes, we commiserated about the cretins as we made our way to the front. He looked like he wanted to punch them while all I wanted to do was escape them.

Where we also found common ground was in how lucky we'd been to have these musicians play for us on this miserable afternoon.

I made one final stop at Joe's Inn, meeting fellow music-lovers and comparing our upcoming road trip shows: Hooray for the Riffraff, Babymetal and T Swift, as assorted a range of acts as three people could come up with and still want to associate.

Where we could all agree was on chocolate mousse pie after dinner while "Papa, Don't Preach" played to a packed restaurant, all the more enjoyable for what came before it.

Bravo, yo, yo, yo.

Morning Wood

I fear for the cultural literacy of the future.

All week long, I'd been looking forward to seeing "Annie Hall" at the Bowtie. Incredibly, I hadn't seen it since it came out in 1977. Given all the Oscars it had won, I expected a full house. Instead, I found one middle-aged guy with a bag of popcorn and a willingness to chat.

Like me, he often comes to the Movies and Mimosas feature to see classic films on the big screen. We got a good laugh when he told me that the ticket taker had looked at his stub and said, "Oh, I didn't know "Annie Hall" was coming out this week."

When he explained to the 20-something that it was a 38-year old movie, the kid was surprised.

Joining us shortly was a woman who, without being asked, announced to us that she was excited to see the movie but appalled to learn that her 44-year old daughter had never seen it. Wait, it gets worse: her daughter's degree is in theater.

She asked if I was a Woody Allen fan and I admitted to it. My first boyfriend had introduced me to his peculiar brand of humor when I was in high school and I'd read an Allen biography as long ago as college. So, yes, I was a fan.

Yet I remembered very little of the film beyond Allen breaking the fourth wall. Lost to the decades were Diane Keaton's singing, that the Alvy Singer character had had two ex-wives or all the references to Jewish persecution in WWII ("My Grammy didn't give gifts. She was too busy being raped by Cossacks").

Not remembered but not surprising were the 1977-isms. The doctor smokes in the examining room with a patient. Most women went bra-less. Waiting in line for a movie, people smoke, read newspapers and talk to each other instead of staring at their devices.

Annie Hall can't have sex without smoking a joint first and friends are aghast to learn the couple hasn't tried cocaine. "Come on, do your body a favor!" they insist, proffering the white stuff. Wow, 1977.

I also learned things. "You want to move to Los Angeles where the only cultural advantage is being able to turn right on red?" Alvy asks incredulously of Annie. So California was ahead of the curve on this? No memory of that.

Of course Woody Allen's dialog was spot on and laugh out loud-worthy. "I'm a bigot but for the left," he says. Speaking at an Adlai Stevenson rally, he says, "So I'm in the Catskills and I've been trying to do to this girl what the Eisenhower administration has been doing to us."

Very telling was a comment Allen makes about the state of photography in 1977. "A set of aesthetic guidelines hasn't been developed yet." Since few museums and galleries were even beginning to collect photography in the '70s, this rings especially true to an art geek.

Just as dated but a little skeevy was a scene where Alvy's best friend Rob is clearly peeved to get a phone call from jail from Alvy. Not because his friend has been jailed, but because it interrupted him having sex with twins.

"Sixteen year old twins, imagine the possibilities!" Considering he was, like Allen, close to 40 at the time, that's pretty distasteful, although apparently not so much in '77.

One of the most hysterical scene involved no dialog from Alvy, just a look. He and Annie are ordering sandwiches in a deli and she says, "I'll have pastrami on white bread with mayonnaise, lettuce and tomato." Jewish suffering is written all over his face.

I certainly didn't recall Paul Simon (with a bad comb-over), Christopher Walken (his weirdness already set in stone) or Jeff Goldblum on the phone ("I forgot my mantra") being in the movie.

Most surprising of all was that I remembered the last bit in the movie. Alvy tells an old joke about how he can't turn in his brother just because he thinks he's a chicken. When the doctor asks him why not, he says he needs the eggs.

"Well, I guess that's pretty much how I feel about relationships. You know, they're totally irrational and crazy and absurd, but I guess we keep going through it because most of us need the eggs."

Apparently that's the kind of sentiment that spoke to my young self when I first saw "Annie Hall" because I never forgot it.

There's a lesson there. Never see what's billed as a "nervous romance" when you're at an impressionable age. It may not do your heart any favors.

Glass Half Full Always

Well, this is turning out to be way more of a day than I anticipated.

I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised when I woke up to find that I had no water. After all, it was ridiculously cold last night and I hadn't left a faucet dripping. In my defense, my landlord had long ago told me that in all his years of owning this south-facing building, pipes had never frozen.

So I got on the horn and told him my dilemma and he was as surprised as I was. The good news was that I still had water coming out in my washing machine in the basement. That seemed like a good sign to him.

He was over in a flash, setting up a powerful heater in the hallway that leads upstairs to my apartment (where you could see your breath) because all the pipes are just behind the hallway wall. Still, he was scratching his head over why this had happened.

It was only when he checked with the guys downstairs, a trio of VCU students, that he found his answer. Thinking they could save money, they'd set their thermostat to 52. The idiocy of such a maneuver in below zero weather boggles the mind, or at least mine and my landlord's. Of course the pipes had frozen.

Don't get me wrong, I try as hard as anyone to save money on heating and keep mine set on 64, which means I wear four layers in the house in this weather. But 52, guys? Don't ever tell anyone that your Mamas didn't raise no fools because they did.

So with their and my heat cranked to tropical temperatures and the heater in the hall doing a slow thaw of the plumbing wall, I set out on my walk. I could almost stand the 17-degree temps (although with the wind, it feels like 8 degrees) if it weren't for still having to walk on ice patches and piles of snow on the sidewalks.

Because of that, I was amazed when I got near The National and saw people sitting on the sidewalk bundled up in blankets. They were young, pierced and had the look of the devoted. I had to know what band was worth sidewalk-sitting in this kind of cold.

The answer: Pierce the Veil, a post-hardcore band that's playing tonight. One green-haired guy shrugged and told me, "I don't even know the band. I'm just here 'cause of my friends," and gestured at two girls next to him, one with a nose ring eating a sandwich and the other with purple hair. "Besides, I'm from Ohio."

And in Ohio you sit on ice-encrusted sidewalks on 8-degree days? Wow, you are hardcore.

The other big cultural doin's on Broad Street was at the federal courthouse where TV trucks took up every available space. No surprise because the former First Lady was being sentenced today for her part in selling the prestige of the governor's office.

Approaching the corner, I saw a man being interviewed about it and I learned she'd gotten a year. As I waited for the light, I eavesdropped on his answers, which amounted to his belief that the jury (not him) had heard all the evidence and must have made the right choice.

As he was spelling his name for the camera, the light changed and I started across. All of a sudden, I felt a hand on my elbow and the newsman was calling me back, insisting I give my opinion for the camera.

Never one to be shy about what I think, I said I thought she deserved jail time. She'd broken the law repeatedly and for that, we punish people.

He told me that at the sentencing, her daughter had asked for leniency because she had been humiliated enough already. "Do you think she's been shamed enough?" he asked me.

"Would you be asking me that if she were black or not the governor's wife?" I asked him, a black man. He paused and tilted his head. Part of what's wrong with our society these days is not holding people accountable for what they do. Yes, I said that on camera.

I mentioned a conversation I'd had with a stranger earlier on my walk when I'd first spotted the TV trucks. The older man had said that he thought she was "grabby" and that was her downfall. I told the camera that I agreed with him on that. From the trial accounts I followed avidly in the newspapers, it seemed clear that she was a woman who wanted things and accepted gifts with no concern for the legality of it.

Of course they wanted my name at the end of the interview ("Like fig?") and I wanted to know who they were with (NBC). Once the camera was off, the newsman thanked me for agreeing to talk. "You're well-spoken and you raised some important points," he said.

Whether that was true or not, I surely was unrecognizable, buried in a hat, multiple scarves and my warmest coat, blathering about my opinion on jail time for a former Redskins' cheerleader.

Some days, that might have been the highlight of my day. Today, that peak moment will arrive once the pipes thaw and I have water again.

In the meantime, it's toasty warm in my apartment for a change and I'm not headed to jail. Good times.

The King's Ears

It is indeed a proud moment for beaglekind (anybody got a tissue?).

This morning, I awoke to an e-mail from a fellow dog-lover alerting me to the fact that a beagle, Miss P,  had won the Westmintser Dog Show. A beagle!

Although my beloved beagle Sparky has been gone nearly five years, the fifteen years I had him were enough to convince me that I could never love another breed like I do a beagle. There's a reason Charles Schulz made Snoopy a beagle.

It's not just their ceaseless quest for food (a trait I can relate to) or their reliably sunny personalities (I aspire to the same), it's that face, those ears, that upright tail. In one of the photos of Miss P, her ears are flared back in that adorable way that says, "I'm a beagle and I'm on the move!"

And yet, the article had said that the crowd at Westminster had let out a collective audible gasp when Miss P won. No one expects a lowly beagle to take top prize apparently. Except beagle lovers.

In related news, as I was coming back from my walk today through Carver, I spotted a guy atop a snowy hill lowering himself down on to an orange saucer. Cradled in his arm was his little one while a woman stood at the base of the hill, camera at the ready.

As they started to sled down the hill, I heard a squeal of delight from the little one. When they got to the bottom, he unfolded his arms and a little beagle puppy scampered out.

I was across the slushy, snow-covered street in seconds to meet the 3-month old cutie pie who'd just had his first sled ride. I'd gotten Sparky when he was 9 months old, so I'd never known him this petite.

Figuring they'd be of the same opinion as me about Westminster, I commented about it, saying how pleasantly surprised I was that a beagle won.

"Come on, that was a good looking dog!" he said in a tone that said he was clearly stating the obvious, although nothing I didn't already know.

Even Shakespeare knew. She's a beagle, true-bred, and one that adores me.

Interestingly enough, the only person in my entire Facebook feed who posted anything about the dog show is a favorite server and all around handsome man who, yes, has a charming beagle I've met several times. He gets it.

Beagle lovers are probably the only ones not surprised at Miss P's victory. Personally, I feel certain Sparky would have approved.

Walking in a Winter Wonderland

Of course I was going to take my daily walk despite the piles of snow on sidewalks and streets.

The logical thing seemed to be to clear off my car before walking and I had just begun sweeping the powdery snow off it when I heard a man's voice behind me. "Can I dig out your car for you, sweetheart?" A neighbor, snow shovel in hand, had shown up to do the hard part.

Snow had drifted halfway up my tires so he got busy removing that as well as the piles of snow the plows had pushed up against my car, effectively imprisoning it in a snowbank.

He'd already ventured out in the world, informing me while he worked that Broad Street was completely clear and Marshall Street semi-clear but that the side streets were a disaster. He wanted me to start the car and sit inside while he toiled, but I couldn't live with myself if I was warm and seated while he worked on my car.

Once he'd moved a whole lot of snow, I drove my car in and out of the parking space a dozen times to pack down a path to make it easier to leave later. "Too bad you can't reserve this space when you leave," he said. Too bad is right after all the work he'd done for me.

I thanked him profusely for his assistance ("Happy to do it for you, sweetheart") and my knight in shining armor headed inside to warm up, shovel over his shoulder.

Not me. I intended to explore the neighborhood and see what had been wrought in the snow. Jackson Ward's creative residents have been known to craft some spectacular snow sculptures (including far too frequently snow penises) when we get this weather and I was curious to see what might be out there.

Although Broad Street itself was cleared, plenty of the sidewalks weren't yet or were still in the process. One guy was using a snow blower (who knew anyone around here even had one?) to clear a parking lot between two buildings in the Arts District. I found that out by accident as I walked by and felt a flurry of snow being forced in my direction.

It was quieter than a Sunday along Broad Street with only occasional small groups of people at bus stops. I saw one guy trying to navigate the snow-crusted sidewalk in a wheelchair and helped him over a particularly difficult ridge of snow.

Someone had crafted a small snowman complete with twig arms and smile in the unlikeliest of places: in front of the Marriott Hotel near the curb facing the hotel. In front of a bank of snow at the Library of Virginia, someone (presumably Monica) had written in the snow, "Petersburg, A Stop by Monica." I have no clue what she meant by that.

As I approached the National, I saw a guy get out of his truck and go up to the box office window, tapping on it. Surely he didn't think anyone was in there and I said as much to him. Shrugging, he said he'd been hopeful. I had to know what show had motivated him to come out in this weather for tickets.

Get this: the Buckeye Country Superfest in Columbus, Ohio, a two-weekend country music extravaganza. And you're trying to get tickets for that here, I asked incredulously. "Well, this is a Ticketmaster, so yea," he said as if I were an idiot.

Needless to say, he got no tickets since the National was closed up tight.

Coming back toward home, a guy passed me and smiled, saying, "Lookin' good, Boots." For the record, I didn't have on boots, but I appreciated the thought.

Few places were open beyond Steady Sounds/Blue Bones Vintage and a convenience market; very few had even bothered with a sign, probably presuming that no one would even try to stop by. The bead shop's read "Closed for inclement weather" but I had a feeling that it had gone up yesterday before an early closing.

But of course Nick's Market was open. I can tell you that the people coming out of there, bags of subs and chips in hand, looked mighty happy or maybe that was just unadulterated gratitude. If I hadn't just made a batch of chili yesterday, I'd have gone in myself.

Instead, I went home to get out the snow shovel and clear my front steps and sidewalk somewhat before the temperature drops to 14 degrees come darkness. Now that this lapsed Catholic and my car can escape tonight to celebrate Mardi Gras, I wanted to ensure a path back into the house whenever all that ends.

My beads and I aren't going to want to navigate snowy steps in the wee small hours of Ash Wednesday, I can assure you.

Ultimate Fun Equation

Everybody's got their own idea of how to spend a 70-degree day in February.

Naturally, mine involved walking, in this case a sunny walk down Broad Street for brunch with hordes of other wanna-be brunchers at Supper. We tried Lunch first but the tiny space was full up, so we went next door to Supper which was also looking full, but the hostess tucked us into a high-top bar table near the kitchen and we were all set.

My stool was next to a window and although the view was less than stellar (a shed a foot from the glass), the music was terrific: bossa nova on a Sunday morning. Perfect brunching music and a nice distraction from the noisy group of people waiting for a table right next to us .

I chose chicken and waffles for breakfast, pouring syrup over it all, and somewhere midway through eating it realized that the music had taken a turn for the '80s. The Smiths and New Order had replaced Latin rhythms. Not better or worse, just very different.

The walk back along Leigh Street took us past the Bowtie theaters and a full parking lot, past the empty Redskins training facility and the bustle of Sugar Shack Donuts, a place I haven't visited since opening day.

Once home, I took care of business - three quick errands accomplished in less than 20 minutes - and set out for more walking, this time toward the river to see what was happening.

As I'd approached the Lee Bridge yesterday, I'd seen a bunch of guys doing what looked like hill surfing down the incredibly steep grassy knoll to Second Street. They'd get a running start, throw down what looked like a cardboard disc and jump on it to sail down a hill that had to be close to a 60-degree angle.

I have no doubt it was a major adrenaline rush but the grassy hill was so steep that sometimes their momentum took them off the disc and running or falling down the slope, which ended at Second Street's occasional traffic.

But when they nailed it, it looked to be a kick to glide down to the bottom. Kind of like snow sledding but standing and on grass.

Being nosy, I'd had to ask what it was. "Radical fun boarding," the bearded guy nearest me said. "It's based on radical fun discs that you throw." What I'd wanted to know was how radical fun discs differed from Frisbees, but I was reluctant to sound so uninformed.

Didn't matter. It was his turn and he grabbed a "board" which I now assumed meant cardboard, threw it down and ran to jump aboard, making it all the way to the bottom upright without falling off. Rad, I guess.

But they weren't there today, so I walked home, got my Washington Post and took it outside to read in the afternoon sun for the first time in months.

I read about the guy who came up with Pandora (and why it took him so long to figure out his business model) because I've always been thrilled to understand my music genome which I had no words to describe until Pandora provided them to me.

Almost as irresistible to this writer was a piece about how Lincoln cut and pasted (literally using scissors and animal bone-based glue) his second inaugural address ("with malice toward none...") until he got it right. And now that version is going on display for four days at the Library of Congress.

An enormous front-page piece on Al Sharpton upped my knowledge of his roots, path and goals of furthering the movement, along with pictures showing him almost unrecognizable after his 176 pound weight loss. Al, we hardly knew ye.

Today's book reviews skewed romantic given the upcoming holiday. "How To Be  Husband" sounded funny mainly because the author apparently holds himself up as an awful husband despite 23 years of marriage.

And while the reviewer gushed about "Unrequited: Women and Romantic Obsession," that seems to be related to her just getting over a man who didn't love her back.

Easily the best title went to "The Mathematics of Love: Patterns, Proofs and the Search for the Ultimate Equation," which tries to explain attraction and relationships using something as dull as algorithms and ratios. If I didn't like them in math class, why would I want to use them to help me with my love life?

But when the air is balmy and the sun is shining directly on my face despite the calendar reading winter, I am happy to read absolutely any and everything in front of me just to extend my afternoon outside. No board required.

Let's just say radical fun is in the eye of the beholder.

Walking the Eve

It's Christmas eve in the city.

Stepping outside in my neighborhood, I find it a ghost town because so many of my neighbors are students who have fled to the bosom of family for the duration. Sure that there will be activity on Broad Street, I decide to walk it down to the Boulevard.

Looking to see what's open provides a fascinating snapshot of Richmond consumerism. The treasure trove that is the Richmond Book Shop is open, highly unusual for them before 2:00. I've already shopped there twice for presents this season, so today I just wave.

As I cross Lombardy, a man calls to me, "Has your husband told you today that you have the sexiest walk around? I've been watching you since the corner! Merry Christmas!"

My first Christmas compliment.

Enigma Tattoo is open for your last minute tattooing and piercing needs. So is Ahmed's Barber Shop, although the middle eastern man (presumably Ahmed) staring out the front window looks bored to tears with not a single customer looking for a haircut.

Lee's Chicken is understandably doing a booming business, while Arby's not so much. The drive-thru line at McDonald's is around the building.

There's a steady stream of customers going in and out of Pleasant's Hardware, no doubt because they carry almost anything, as Richmonders have known for generations.

I'm surprised to see that the Science Museum is open with people coming and going, although it makes perfect sense. What a wonderful way to amuse little ones on a day that stretches interminably for them?

Along the way, I come up behind two homeless men ambling along, the one telling the other, "CVS is a long way off, friend." I happen to know it's less than a mile at that point, but I pass them rather than saying anything. When I pass them on my way back east, they still haven't made it to CVS yet.

The street vendor at CVS looks bored, his wares covered in plastic because of the rain. I feel bad for him if he's trying to make some last minute Christmas money, so I smile and say, "Happy holidays!"

"Merry Christmas, baby!" he says with a mile-wide grin.

Back at you, Richmond.

Sugar Shopping Overload

Today I was a cliche. With three days until Christmas Eve, I had no choice.

What that means is that after a bracing walk this morning down to Great Shiplock Park, through an almost entirely deserted downtown, I hunkered down to do Christmas baking.

Five hours of it.

Fortunately for me, I was joined by a favorite couple who assisted me with the mixing, baking, icing and decorating of cookies, set to vintage Christmas music spanning 1959 ("Christmas with Conniff") to 2002 ("Maybe This Christmas"). The festive meter was set to 11.

Biggest surprise? The firefighter in the group was a master cookie decorator. His Christmas tree cookies had snow-laden branches, his snowmen had scarves and belts. It was truly artistic work.

Mine, not so much.

Fourteen dozen cookies later, I couldn't wait to escape the oven and leave the house. Unfortunately for me on a Saturday night, duty called so I wasn't leaving to have fun. It was all about the consumerism.

In case you didn't know, I lack several key feminine qualities and one of them is a love of shopping...except for food and books.

Nevertheless, and putting on my cheeriest holiday face, I headed to Carytown to gather ye presents while ye may. I had no choice.

My first stop was Old World Christmas to choose an ornament amongst a crowd of focused-looking shoppers. Things began to look up when I arrived at the counter because behind it was a favorite actor playing a sales clerk.

After paying and his reference to my blog (you never know who reads you), I said goodbye and he asked incredulously, "Did you walk over from Jackson Ward?" Apparently my walking reputation precedes me.

I stopped in Ten Thousand Villages and bought myself a new wallet, not an intended purchase but one long overdue if you saw the state of my current one. You'd think they'd last longer considering how rarely they hold any actual money.

Mongrel was a zoo, but where else can you find such great cards and wrapping paper? As I browsed and tried to stay out of the madding crowd's way, suddenly the sound of glass shattering stopped everyone cold. After a moment's silence, the hustle and bustle returned as everyone went back to the business of spending.

Coming out of Mongrel, I heard my name called and turned to see two wine rep friends also exiting the madhouse. We chatted about the folly of last minute shopping, agreeing that experiences and time were the best gifts (I'd also add to that list words because I like nothing better than for someone to write to me for a present).

"It's better now because we're going to Don't Look Back," she said, practically beaming. Yes, I agreed enthusiastically, tequila and chicken skin tacos do make everything better.

After a stop at Plan 9, I had finished as much shopping as I was going to do tonight. Back on the sidewalk, I ran into another friend, this one a server and wine goddess with an ear for Italian and a beautiful baby in her arms. I hadn't seen her since before she'd had the wee one, so we exchanged holiday pleasantries before going our separate ways.

My consumer duties finally over, I considered stopping for a cup of Can Can's indulgent hot chocolate but a glance through the window at the boring-looking crowd at the bar told me that I didn't really want to deal with that. Even for a bowl of chocolate

Clearly I'm not cut out to be Suzy Homemaker or Sherry Shopper. Happily, after my hard work today, that's all behind me. Now it's time to enjoy Christmas time in the city.

Looking Like an Old Maid

I'm a sucker for '50s movies, probably none more so than romantic comedies.

I know, I know, it's not a realistic world, but everything about it is so fabulous. The wardrobe! The nightclubs! The wooing!

Movieland was showing the 1953 classic "How to Marry a Millionaire" and while I no longer think that's a relevant topic for a film, you can be sure I was walking over there to see it for the first time.

The first movie filmed in CinemaScope's wide-screen process, meaning no should experience this film on their TV screen, no matter how big they think it is, it was big all right. Apparently exactly four other people in Richmond felt the same way and joined me at 11:00 on a Saturday morning.

To show off the movie's stereophonic score, it began with an enormous orchestra playing an overture, the camera panning side to side to take in all the musicians. What immediately struck me was that there were exactly four women in the entire orchestra: two violinists and two flutists, no doubt a sign of the times.

Only in the days before the sexual revolution could  you have a movie about three 20-something girls renting a ritzy apartment as a way to ensnare rich men and get married.

To my great delight, the movie began with Percy Helton (as the real estate agent), a character actor I recognized as the train conductor from "White Christmas," another classic '50s movie.

Bossy Lauren Bacall is the ringleader because she already married a poor guy, is now divorced and determined not to make that mistake a again. As she puts it, "Of course I want to get married again. Marriage is the best thing you can do." Pretty sure that's not still true.

Despite having to sell the furniture out of the apartment to subsist, the girls manage to have fabulous wardrobes for all their outings, whether to the mink department at Bergdorf's, the grocery store for cold cuts or the Stork Club to pick up oilmen.

All the expected '50s tropes were there: traveling by train, sending telegrams, women carrying muffs (Monroe carried her glasses in hers), cars without seat belts, people coming down with measles. A vastly different world, in other words.

And definitely a different mindset.

Bacall: If you wanna catch a mouse, you set a mousetrap. All right, so we set a bear trap. Now all we gotta do is, one of us has to catch a bear.
Grable: You mean marry him?
Bacall: If you don't marry him, you haven't caught him, he's caught you.

Like in "White Christmas," there were also dated references to political affiliations, in this case about Maine being a completely Republican state. Not so much these days.

Much as I enjoyed the corny story, I had a hard time getting behind any of the characters. Bacall was too bitchy (but so beautiful), Betty Grable was too dumb (but, oh, those million dollar legs) and I just don't care for Monroe's breathy delivery and put-on sensuality. But an older William Powell, that I could enjoy.

I could totally relate when Bacall's date tells her she's really a hamburger kind of a girl despite her protestations that she wanted a swankier lifestyle. I'd be the first to admit that I'm a cheeseburger girl.

Fortunately, I'm not looking for a rich husband. Although, if the right muff or train trip came along, I might be singing a different (albeit off-key) tune.