The All Saints Choir, under the direction of the truly astonishing Scott Youngs, performed a spectacular concert today, alternating between us (choir) and several really lovely soloists and accompanied by a string ensemble. It was an exciting and wondrous experience, one of those moments that makes one feel privileged to be alive. We got to sing d’Astorga’s Stabat Mater, Victoria’s Lamentations, and Hasse’s Miserere Mei. If you live in the Phoenix area, even if you’re not religious (which I’m not, especially) you should keep an eye on this church’s music program, which includes professional singers and extracts professional-quality sound out of the mostly amateur music-lovers in its choirs. In particular watch for special performances around Easter and Christmas. I started attending All Saints after I wandered in one Sunday and realized you get a high-quality chamber music performance at nearly every service—and that’s not an exaggeration. If you love music, this is a place to be.
So I was looking forward to coming home, climbing into a pair of cutoffs, pouring a glass of wine, and spending the afternoon reading about real estate transactions. Or maybe reading inchoate magazine articles from my budding journalists. Or maybe ghostwriting another chapter of our amazing new client’s memoir.
No such luck.
There’s a reason M’hijito has taken to dubbing Charley the Golden Retriever with the “bad dog” title, Charley Manson. When I opened the kitchen door from the garage, a fine gut-wrenching stench greeted me. Charley had left a deposit the size of a loaf of WonderBread in the middle of the kitchen floor!
Miserere indeed! Naturally, he had to polish it off with a little diarrhea. Lovely. As we scribble, the whole house reeks of its stomach-tossing perfume.
Mercifully, he’s no longer having to stay in his crate, so the mess was confined to one pile and not smeared, as it was the last time, all over him, his (now former) bed, his crate, the floor, and the adjacent wall. And thank goodness the weather is nice: every door and window is open, and every fan in the house is going full-blast.
It’s not his fault: expecting to be gone about two hours, I fed him shortly before leaving. Bad move. We actually convened for three hours, and that was just longer than even an almost grown pup can be asked to maintain his doggy integrity.
This calls for something stronger than old-vine Zinfandel.
As soon as I can bring myself to re-enter the kitchen, I’m gonna pop a pan of corn, pour a bourbon and water, and…yes, real estate. I believe real estate will be this afternoon’s reading matter of choice. It has a positive ring about it: there’s a distant possibility that maybe, just maybe, this could be an avenue that would allow me to earn enough to make ends meet.