Squidfest Countdown Day 3 No 2

Sheesh am I bad at math. Today was supposed to be countdown day three but really it has to be day two since there is only one more day left and then Squidfest is here. You would think that someone with a college education could figure that out, but my math skills are a bit fuzzy. If I balance my checkbook I go out to celebrate. I’m usually within a hundred dollars one way or the other and I keep a cushion of money in there so I don’t overdraw funds. I envy you people who can add and subtract. It seems like a simple thing, but let me tell you it’s a real talent. When I get in amongst too many numbers I glaze over and start hallucinating that I am deep in a swamp with a head full of glue.Anyway, where was I? Squidfest. Maybe the reason for all this rain is the impending entrance of the squid. Time for me to make the ultimate confession. I don’t eat squid. I’m vegetarian. I hope you will let that be our own private clean little secret. I’m in the Squidfest for the bingo and the initiation rites. We're almost there. I can hardly believe that tomorrow is really the end of the countdown, whatever day that is.

Squidfest Countdown Day 4

By my calculations the tender little squid are now in Southern Oregon, wending their way on their final journey, wending their way through Wend, Oregon (or is that Bend?) on the last waltz, the swan song, the end dance, finito, done, game over, termination destination, you get my drift? As the late great Nan would remind us, we must bless the Squid Ones for their sacrifice. Only Mighty Fisherman Ed knows the humble sweet comfortable bonecrunchingly ice cold home from which the Squid Ones emerged to grace the Squidfest table. Mighty Fisherman Ed sang them out of the hollows with promise of glory with this, the squid supreme gesture, kamakazi mission, martyred but remembered always down the halls of Bushwacker Ranch. Oh Squid, we worship thee. Oh Squid, we… But I’m getting into the Squid Oath, which is reserved for the holy of holies, the initiation rites. The essential role of our new initiates. When High Priest Ron administers the Squid Oath. The exquisite moments of squidlicious splendor still await.

Squidfest Countdown Day Five

We are on countdown for the 2008 Squidfest. Our trusty squidfisher Ed has left home base in Tacoma in the trusty squidmobile and is driving through rain and sleet and dark of night with the tender squidlets. Linda is in the Berkeley outpost, managing all those things that need managing; preparing the menu and lining up accommodations and transportation for Squidlings. Ruth and Arthur have their tickets so there’s no turning back. (I repeat, Artie, no turning back, the gauntlet is in motion.) Kevin has taken to bed, ostensibly with the flu, although I am more inclined to think he is suffering from hysterical excitement in anticipation of the weekend festivities. It’s always hard on Kevin because he is squid-impaired and can’t partake of cephalopod. Dave to the rescue with squid substitute. I am sharpening my machete to go out and harvest the wild cactus for my contribution: Cactus Mango Salad. Ron will be staying up nights plucking cactus thorns with his trusty pliers to make this delicacy possible. Scott is busy growing pears and gorgonzolas for his salad. He will be wrapping the gorgonzola trees in felt this week to keep the snow off them. Sara and Jim have their hands full preparing the venue. We are all nervous about the new venue this year. But Sara has professional venue preparedness training, so stand back. And of course we can rely on Jim for the sound effects. I’m sure if they work at it, he and Ron can get the front door chime to make squid squish noises. Together they can program sound into anything. They could make a pineapple broadcast the Lincoln Center Jazz Festival performing the Far East Suite. It makes me salivate just thinking about it all. Five days and counting. Meet me on the blog tomorrow for Day Four.

Squidfest

Next weekend is the Squidfest. You may well ask what that is. Our dear friend Linda has held the Squidfest for over 10 years. Her father, Ed, is a mighty fisherman who fishes squid on the Puget Sound up in Washington. He brings the squid down to Berkeley in a cooler every winter and Linda fries it up and cooks a gourmet dinner, featuring squid, for her friends. She and Ed preside over the squidly activities, which include a game of squid bingo and the initiation of new “Squidlings” who have never before attended the Squidfest.

This year, we will have the pleasure of initiating our friend Arthur, who moved from California back to his native Barre, Massachusetts long before the invention of the Squidfest. He moved to Barre to raise his daughters in extreme weather; I guess so they would be hardy and resilient. Why anyone lives in a place where it snows mystifies me. Although this morning I am looking at snow in my yard here in California, a rarity. My cats are practically hysterical with joy and are running back and forth across my roof. They don’t know any better. They think snow is fun. I confess it looks deliciously beautiful, but who wants to go outside in the stuff? Honey looks delicious too, but I wouldn’t want to have to scrape two inches of it off my car.

But I digress. When I heard that Arthur was coming to Squidfest, I thought I had better prepare him for the initiation rights. I sent him the following email:

Art: I'm delighted to hear that you will be at Squidfest. I do want to give you a heads up so you are prepared. To recite the Squid Oath, please be sure to bring your snorkeling mask, flippers, Speedo, bait bucket, loofa sponge, shovel, party hat, baby photo, canoe, turkey-baster, indelible pen, safety pins, toga, and a case of pickled herring. Don't be nervous, if you freeze up on stage, Ron can help you with your lines. Ed can provide you with a Hawaiian shirt and fishing pole, so you don't need to bring those. I hope Linda has enough batter, how much do you weigh? Looking forward to the festivities.
Amy
P.S. Linda: we have the feathers.

Needless to say, other Squidlings have now broken the silence and are sending Arthur advice. After all, we aren’t sworn to secrecy about the initiation. And it’s a little different every time. Although I think we could really do without our friend Jim obsessing about the role of worms in the initiation rites. I personally have an aversion to worms and would prefer not to have them on the table while I’m eating, or invited to the event at all. I say this at the risk of being accused of discrimination against worms. But Squidfest is a private affair and I think we have the right to ban worms. It’s difficult enough making it through all those tentacles. There, I’ve said it. Now the Squid Rights Foundation will be collaborating with the Worm Rights Foundation to shut this blog down. I want to say that I personally don’t eat squid or worms. I also don’t eat okra. But of course this is just my opinion and does not reflect the opinion of Blogspot.

Four Alarm Week

OK, I have to finally admit that I am completely overwhelmed, and I don’t overwhelm easily. How do I know I’m overwhelmed? I just wrote a birthday card to my sister-in-law and I think it might be the same card I sent her last year. I bought a lot of them because I thought they were funny. I hope it’s funny the second time. Or is it the third time?

I’m trying to make it through my most busy time of year at work. I’m a grant writer and I have three big federal grants due out next week. I’m gearing up for six next month. And in the middle of all this an audio company is going into production to make The Call to Shakabaz into an audio book, I’m going into negotiations to sell my house of 16 years, I’m looking for a house to buy, and I’m still managing a household, advising two grown children in college and helping them with their business activities, and running an independent publishing company. And, oh yes, we are doing our taxes now so we can apply for financial aid for my son for college before the deadline. EEK! Wheel me away.

I hope I can keep it all straight. I’m terrified that one of my grant writing clients will call and I will mistake him for my real estate lawyer and start babbling about contingencies and title reports. Or that one of my children will call and I’ll mistake them for a grant writing client and demand those statistics on suspensions and expulsions from the middle school in East St. Louis. Or my husband will call and I’ll start kicking and screaming “no, no, I won’t leave, I love this property, they can carry me out feet first” and he’ll say “we just may have to do that.”