Sneak Peeks by Louise Yeiser McAlpin

Uno Schmuno

I skipped my New York trip this year in an effort to get a rather hefty credit card debt under control, I am sick in bed and I'm feeling quite sorry for myself.  No muse in sight.  So I wondered what I had written about Westminster in previous years and figured out a way to show you, right here.

The 2008 Westminster mastiffs competed yesterday afternoon.  To get an idea of the power, beauty and regal bearing of this breed, I can't recommend this video highly enough.  Breeders Nancy Walker and Mary Alexander, who must be in seventh heaven right about now, swept Best of Breed and Best Opposite Sex with two littermates.  Congratulations to them and all the winners!

Now.  Back to bed to get rid of this flu . . . .

For now

Unfortunately, the Westminster show had to go on without me, as I had a veterinary emergency with Winston and returned home early.  Sneak Peeks is going on a short break until after this winter storm has passed.  In the meantime, I encourage you to visit Six Sentences which has accepted three of my pieces for publication (like this), as well as many other fun and interesting shorts from a very diversified cast of writers. 

Guess

where I'm off to this morning?  Hee hee!!

From Louise

I Absolutely Cannot Resist...

bragging about my friends!

Congrats to breeder Kim Schramm, co-owner Carrie Klaiber, handler extraordinaire Colette Livingston, who never seems to age, and of course, T'kila, for taking Best Opposite Sex, next to Sherman's Best of Breed, under Judge Mrs. Annie Clark at Westminster last week.

I missed you guys taking this honor with T'kila's mother, Lulu, last year, and was absolutely and completely, 100% thrilled, to watch T'kila grab it this year, surely in Lulu's honor and memory.  You must be very proud.

Congratulations!!!

A Three-sie

1.    On my trip to the Big Apple, I confess.  I fell in love.  Who would ever imagine that I could carry on so, over a bakery?  Anyone who has ever gone to Magnolia.  That’s who.  Remember the Sex and the City scene where Miranda and Carrie were walking down the street, eating cupcakes topped with thick, pink, swirly icing, and one of them said, “What do they do to make these things so good (or something like that)?”  Well, Monday, in between dog show events (see items no. 5a and b here), I found the time to take a Sex and the City bus tour, one of our first stops being Magnolia Bakery, located in the West Village, where we were able to partake of the exact same delights.  I don’t usually go for cupcakes, so I would have passed on the sampling, if only I hadn’t been so hungry.

I have never tasted cupcakes like these before.  And I have no clue what makes them so different.  All I know is that they’re exquisitely delicious, and I will be counting the days when I can return and put another one, or maybe several, in my mouth.  I also purchased a piece of cherry jamboree―a delectable dessert with a pecan sandy crust, and a custardy, icingy, fresh creamy-type filling, smothered in cherries.  Better than cherry pie or cobbler.  Better than cherries jubilee.  To put it bluntly: another heavenly concoction to die for.  So, my grand diet for the day consisted of: 1 New York-style bagel for breakfast in my room, 2 cupcakes for lunch at Magnolia, a 3rd cupcake for dinner at Madison Square Garden at the dog show, and a piece of cherry jamboree for a midnight snack, which I ate while enjoying a piano sing-along in my hotel’s rather famous lobby.  It was the most blissful 24 hour diet I’ve ever had.  To read about New York's great cupcake wars, click here.

2.  Item no. 2 is being considered for publication.

3.  Item no. 3 is being considered for publication.

Oh, well.  Have a great weekend!

Year After Year

I want you to know that I take this blizzard that just dumped 26” of snow on New York very personally.  Last year I got the flu, and this year a blizzard.  Boy, I bet next year’s gonna be a blast.

Mastiffs are in the ring tomorrow at 10 am.  Off to bed.  More later.

What is with New Yorkers and Burberry scarves?

Everywhere I turn, there’s another one, a Burberry scarf.  Usually on someone dressed head to toe in black, making the scarf all the more startling.  New York streets are packed with an extraordinary display of humanity, with its residents and tourists of all races, nationalities, religions, ages, and socioeconomic conditions―an endless sea of diversity, all gone to ruin with this one simple statement of sameness, the Burberry scarf.

Of all the things to adopt as “it”, this is the one that makes the least sense to me.  The pattern is a forgettable, static plaid with non-earth-shattering colors.  No seductive pinks, vivid violets, or hot-mama reds on this baby.  No interesting texture, embroidery, or ruffles.  No odd shapes.  No fringes or pom poms.  No creativity whatsoever.  Just a plain scarf with a black, brownish red, and white plaid, colors that can suck the life out of anyone's face.  Not a good look for either tourist or native.  I think its designer was screaming for new ideas and did the best he/she/they could with an inflexible deadline.  Then they hiked the price up to sell the illusion that it was a valuable piece of clothing, a must-have for all in wardrobes.  Obviously, the plan worked.  Those damned scarves are everywhere!

Maybe there is a great Big Apple plot to impose unimaginative uniformity on everyone, as if casting a blanket over the street, entrapping all the people inside, tying up the ends, throwing in a multitude of Burberry scarves and Burberry scarf knock-offs, shaking the bag, and finally flinging the people back out.  Uniformed, and ready to go.  Hup, two, three, four....

It took me years to learn to appreciate New York black, a particularly puzzling color to wear in the sweltering heat of summer; but most people look good in it, and it's versatile.  Now I can begin the long process of accepting the Burberry scarf as a fashion statement.  God help me.

In the end, I may acquiesce to tolerating the Burberry scarf, especially when I start seeing it on all my friends. But I will never like it, you will never catch me wearing one, and it will always be boring.

And that's that.

Seven Bits of This and That

Forward:  Today is list day, so here it is.  I am very tired, so please take my writing with a grain of salt.  Thank you.

1.    I only had 4 hours of sleep Wednesday night in my enthusiasm to write a great 8-page piece writing assignment due yesterday.  I can’t wait to see what my prof thinks of it.  After class, she handed me a Floyd Skloot essay because she thinks my writing voice is similar.  Wow.  I am fully prepared to live the rest of my life in slovenly devotion to her.

2.    It’s been a great week for Pittsburgh, with the Pitt win over WVU on the heels of the Steeler Super Bowl win.  More partying and celebration?  I’m not sure the city can take it.

I had the best seat money could buy――my rocking chair in front of my HD, plasma TV screen, with a fire in the fireplace.  I gave up on actually attending the game, as the scalpers I found were asking $400 a ticket and would sell only a pair.

I am partial to underdog upsets, especially when it’s Pitt, and especially when it’s Pitt against WVU, and especially right after the Steelers’ win.  Awesome.   Today is a most excellent day to be a Pittsburgher.

3.    Re: the aforementioned backyard brawl:  why do college students, mostly male, jump up and down, yelling, “Oooooohhhhhh” when their opponents have the ball?  Don’t they know they look like little Mexican jumping beans; or worse, those puppet characters that pop out of holes at the arcade that you’re supposed to bop on the head with a mallet?  It’s a very strange thing.  But since last night’s game was the first college basketball game I’ve watched in about ten years, what do I know?  What indeed?

4.    Wednesday night, I picked Winston and Sophie up at the vet clinic, after both had undergone surgery in the afternoon.  Plagued by sebaceous cysts, in various stages of revolting, messy, infected seepage, I finally bit the bullet and took them both in, to have the accursed things removed.  The vet discovered that the cysts had cysts, i.e. they were the cysts that kept on giving.  Gross.  Glad they're gone.

5a.    Tomorrow I am flying to New York, for my annual Westminster trip.  As usual, I am going on Saturday, even though for me, the dog show begins at 10 am Monday. I am seeing Mamma Mia, I Love You, You’re Perfect, Now Change, and Rabbit Hole; I am paying visits to St. John the Divine and the Metropolitan Museum of Art.  At some point I’m kicking back on a Sex and the City bus tour.  Oh, yeah―I’m also going to the dog show.  I like to see which exhibitors actually show up, and check out what the breeders are up to―allowing me to sustain the illusion that, even though I'm no longer on the dog show circuit, I am in the know.   The owners are trapped for hours in the benching area with their dogs on display, shoved into short, narrow spaces, more suitable for nice, little Labrador retrievers than for the giant breeds.  Especially not for the big boys, the mastiffs: one of the oldest breeds in recorded history, the ever-faithful ancient dogs of war, who are today's aristocratic guardians, friends, and couch potatoes extraordinaires.

5b.    I don’t know if the no. 1 mastiff in the country, Sherman will be in the ring or not, but I certainly hope so.  He is owned by Nancy Cutter and Carla Sanchez of Southport Mastiffs (Calif.); a very handsome fellow with a heavy, thick bone structure and an enormous chest.  Very square, very strong, very correct.  He’s one powerful-looking mastiff, shown by Pam Reid, who is one of the most fun professionals to watch in the ring.  I think she takes a certain amount of risk by encouraging her dogs to play and jump around―a delightfully sneaky way of showing off their strength, agility and temperament, and attracting attention away from the other contenders.  Mastiff exhibitors can get a little miffed at this, especially if they get jostled in such a tight space; but her gamble usually pays off.  The crowds love it, and it's hard not to watch whoever is on the end of her leash.  Especially if it's a handsome mastiff like Sherman.  We'll see what happens.

6.    Today I have a dress fitting for a little event I’m going to next month, a fund raiser for the Caron Foundation’s Renaissance Institute in Palm Beach.  The gala will be held at Mar-A-Lago, one of Donald Trump's little digs.  I want to look stunning when the security guards pick me up, wandering around “lost” in unauthorized areas of the house/mansion/castle/club with my camera.

7.    Have a good weekend.  Stay happy.  Stay well.

The Best of Westminster 2005

I’m home, I'm pooped and recovering, I'm snuggling in bed with my mastiffs, and I don't want to write.  I'm in a mood, you see.

Well, pictures speak louder than words anyway.

So here.

See?  Even this rather unfortunate trip had its moments of brilliance.  My son's best friend was able to join me at the last minute.

How I Spent My Westminster Vacation

1. Having the stomach flu
2. Recovering from the stomach flu
3. Staving off a return of the stomach flu

But other than that, the trip's been great.

I am doing my best not to feel sorry for myself, in spite of the fact that my friend's mastiff took Best of Opposite Sex; and I missed it, in addition to the rest of today's dogshow events; but I’m trying not to think about that.

I would rather dwell on the positive.  Like, how I have been enjoying my well-appointed, expensive hotel room, overlooking Times Square.  And how I watched 7 episodes of Sex and The City, and 2 movies-on-demand.  And how I drank 4 cans of ginger ale, ate 3 bags of oyster crackers, graduated to tea and toast, and did my best to stay away from the bathroom, which I now know intimately.

After all, I had a few good moments before I got sick; such as those spent in Saks Fifth Avenue, maxing out my Visa card.  And how could I forget the high-tech, mega-pixeled digital camera I found at one of those little Times Square shops, and all the multi-colored makeup I bought at Sephora, which will make me beautiful beyond my wildest dreams.

That said, I am quite positive that this is the most expensive instance of bad luck I've ever endured in my entire life.  And if it ever happens again, please just shoot me.

Morning Meanderings from the Marriott Marquis

Despite Billy Crystal’s obvious attempt to take over my hotel window, and despite Prudential’s blinking strobe lights, which score a direct hit into my room, I have a great view of Times Square. 

It amazes me that whenever I first arrive in New York City, I am completely smitten by the lights, the bustle, the crowds, the diversity, the buildings, the art; but when I leave, I am desperate to get away.

Last summer, I came here on a 5 day guided tour, so that I could better appreciate my trips to the Big Apple every February for the Westminster dog show.  I saw Aida and Phantom, lunched at The Tavern on the Green, walked Central Park, enjoyed tea at the Plaza, visited St. John The Divine, the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, the Met, and MOMA; and I was so sick upon my departure that I wondered if I should fetch a bucket for the limo ride to La Guardia. 

“You don’t look so good,” observed my helpful tour guide.

“I don’t feel so well.  Something’s wrong with my stomach,” I said, as I thought to myself, “Good Lord, I can’t breathe!”

I watched my black Town Car approach from around the tight, skyscrapered corner, accompanied by hundreds of cabs, limos, and buses, many of them honking and weaving in and out of each another.  So many vehicles, so many people, so much movement, and so much noise.  The sight was dizzying.  I looked up for the relief of open air, and found that I had been swallowed by enormous, gray walls, cleverly disguised as buildings, which sucked away the sky.  I was suffocating.

No wonder I was sick. 

The nausea didn’t lift until we had escaped the city, zooming around it on the FDR Freeway, with a clear shot of the sun above, and the river to my side. 

I took a deep breath.  “I’m okay.  I’m going home.”

I guess Dorothy was right after all.