It’s surprising the places saying “yes” to a friend takes you. Yesterday afternoon, I ventured out in the midst of a thunderous tropical storm because of one such “yes.” Some moist minutes later, I found myself sitting in a circle of women with a music folder on my lap singing Christmas carols in preparation for the British Women Association’s (BWA) Christmas Luncheon.

The BWA Christmas Luncheon is a festive gala and fundraiser-a high point of the holiday season. Each table is assigned a name and attendees decorate their tables and themselves in keeping with their names. Table names range from Santas and Elves to Fruitcakes and Crackers (crackers being party poppers not saltines-think British). A prize is awarded to the Best Decorated table.

For a  few years I have been a member of the bawdy “American Table,” as we are called, although our group has a more International flavor than the title indicates, including representatives from Australia, South Africa, Holland, Transylvania, Texas (a country unto itself), New Zealand and the US. The unofficial “bawdy” in our title is the one constant (and no doubt why we are called the “American Table” in contrast to the demure and understated “British Tables.”)

One year ours was assigned the title “Angel” table. We dressed as angels, decorated our table with clouds of fluff, sparkles, heaven-sent silver-wrapped chocolates, buckets overflowing with bubbles and billowing smoke, and flew away with the grand prize. Last year ours was the “Bell” table-quickly changed to “Silver Belles.” The eleven of us arrived as Hand Bell Choir dressed in black tops, matching silver hoop skirts, red sashes and bell earrings. Bells jingled from our skirts and jangled on our wrists and ankles. We decorated our table with a red runners and gaudy silver papier-mâché bell-shaped bottle covers concealing spirits and juice. We took the grand prize, again (our closest competition being the Gifts who had tied packages onto their heads like hats). We celebrated our victory as any true Hand Bell Choir would, with an rendition of “Silver Bells” to the accompaniment of our swaying/playing belle skirts. While our performance elicited mixed reviews: applause and hoots, high-nosed “those Americans,” glowers and head-shaking, I have a suspicion it also planted a seed…

For this year’s luncheon, the BWA has decided to add Christmas Carols to the Christmas Luncheon festivities. They are putting together a choir for the occasion. My sweet friend Barbara had been recruited to play piano and asked me to join her. After the unsolicited spectacle I had made of myself last year, everyone knew I could sing (loudly and off-key, but with enthusiasm), and that I knew the words (or made them up).  How could I say no?

My sweet friend Barbara, the piano-deer!

About ten ladies were already assembled when I arrived at the BWA house for the first official choir practice, yesterday. I knew most of the ladies. But even those I didn’t seemed to know me. (A reputation had preceded me, but which one? I wondered.) One woman stood when I entered and came forward, offering a wide smile and ebullient “You must be Kelly!” She turned out to be Diane, the choir director.

After giving everyone a chance to “settle in and get acquainted” Diane corralled us into a half-circle around the piano. “We’ll begin with a few easy songs to limber up our voices and bring us at ease,” Diane said, passing out song books.A few bars into Hark the Herald Angels Sing, Diane stopped us. “I want to tell you right now.” She paused, looking around. “You all are capable of doing much, much more than you think you are. I am hearing some interesting things.” (What did interesting mean? )

After warm-ups, Diane passed around the official songbooks and pencils and began directing us to make musical notations on our music. “The little seven with a dot is a rest,” she instructed, “circle those.” Pf meant something fortissimo, mm something else, mp or pp or p each mean softer or softer still or even softer-or something else. I glared at Barbara’s back. She misled me. This wasn’t a going to be the casual fa-la-la sing-along around the tree, this was a real choir-as in Vienna Boys‘-with altos and sopranos, two-part and three-part harmony and notations called fortissimo and something-crotchets. “Is something-crotchet a real music term?” I asked Elsa, the girl next to me. She smiled, thinking I was making a joke. As if…

Being the only non-Brit in a British choir (Aside from Barbara, a Javanese married to a scot and to a Brit by marriage, who I wasn’t counting since she was at the piano) is not easy. Even if I could read music and did know how to sing properly, it wouldn’t have been easy. The lyrics change from one side of the pond to the other. Who knew “bring us some figgie pudding,” is part of the real lyrics in We Wish You A Merry Christmas? And while lyrics can be read, pronunciation has to learned and remembered. Flat or not, when most of the group is singing “bean” and one lone voice belts out “Ben” it’s bad. (How do Brits pronounce womb, anyway?)

The antler-less deer far back right is Diana the choir director

As rehearsal progressed, Diane stopped us from time to time with suggestions and encouragement: “I’m hearing some interesting things!” “try to keep to just one line, top or bottom whichever you think, but only the one-you may have to follow it with your finger” “want to have a go at adding a top?” (Top what?)

I finally got up the courage to ask Diane the question I had been wondering since the moment she started dividing us into tops and bottoms. “How do I know which I am supposed to be?”

Diane looked at me, sizing me up, no doubt wondering if asking me to turn in my song book would be committing some sort of political faux pas. “Do you have more difficulty holding high notes or holding low notes?”

I shrugged. “Sometimes both.” I admitted. “Will you do me a favor and sneak up behind me sometime while I am singing and tell me.”

I think Diane thought I was joking, then realized I was serious. She nodded. “A very good idea,” she agreed, adding, “For the time being, why don’t you try to stay right in the middle and just sing the tune. We need those who just sing the tune, as well.”

During O Christmas Tree-a less that adequate translation according to Diane (different even than the American version)-the score became “quite daring” and the bottom (the alto line) crosses over the top (the soprano line) meaning that the low voices are supposed to sing higher notes than the high voices are singing-which doesn’t sound so tough, but…

On about “let’s try that once again” number 15, it struck me that the scene was like something out of a movie: a hap-hazard bunch of British women, a Javanese pianist, and one bawdy American coming together in steamy central java to organize a choir in time for the Christmas Fete. Yes! I can see the flashing marquee now: The Alto Who Climbed Up the Scales and Came Down a Soprano.

BWA choir at practice--Diana the director is the far back right

My sis-in-law Liz sent me this article written by a friend of hers, Mark Fleming, and originally published in the Pasedent Citizen on September 29, 2009:

No charges filed in goldfish dispute

By MARK FLEMING

Updated: 09.29.09

Jewelry and goldfish were at the heart of a Pasadena domestic dispute Saturday, when a man reported his common-law wife had kidnapped his seven pet goldfish, and was holding them hostage in an argument over some jewelry she said he had taken from her.

When a police officer went to the couple’s residence in the 1100 block of Queens Road to try to negotiate the release of the unfortunate fish, the woman said she was unable to return them, as she had already fried the fish and eaten three of them.

No charges were filed in the case, according to Vance Mitchell, public information officer for Pasadena Police Department.

Speaking for fish-lovers everywhere, this is just wrong. Since this story was published, Fleming has been asked my many if he is going to write a follow-up to this story.  He said he didn’t plan to as he had “bigger fish to fry.”

Why is it always the fish who suffer?

In our pursuit of everlasting youth, there may be such a thing as going too far. And I may have gone there…

Monday last, for our weekly Artist’s Date, the GGs (my creativity recovery group) took at trip to the Nu-Skin office. We had appointments to check our skin in their patented, revolutionary, computerized skin analyzer.

For the test, I put my face inside a cave, with my chin on the chin-rest, and my forehead smashed against the top. The technician asked if I was wearing make-up, pressed a few buttons, the machine whirred, lights flashed and the test was done. Moments later an image of my face appeared on the monitor.

Whether the results would have been more accurate had I not been wearing make-up, I frankly, do not care. As it was the image showed more blotches and wrinkles that I care to ever gaze upon again. I gasped in horror. Was this really what I looked like? What everyone else saw when they looked at me? More make-up-I definitely need more make up. “Turn it off! Hurry!” I begged.

Stone faced, the porcelain-skinned technician outlined half my T-zone-the area from mid-nose, beneath the eye across the cheekbone, around the “apple” of my check and back up the base of my nose, pressed a few more buttons and a page with the results of my analysis spit out:  I had 392 uneven patches, 9 sun spots, 3 deep wrinkles, 79 extra-large pores, and 108 blotches-on that tiny portion of my face; roughly 1/10th of the whole.

It’s no wonder I said yes to so many products when it came purchase time. I went home with my costly Fountain of Youth magic, fully committed to using every elixir as directed! Daily, weekly, thrice daily, whatever it took, I was going to make myself forever young.

Yesterday I took the 1st step with a visit to my hair stylist. “Make my hair young, hip, fresh!” I told Roberto. (Fresh is what we in Jakarta call all of those together, what advertisements call new and improved.) He tried…

This morning, I began my new beauty regime. (So what if it has taken me almost 2 weeks to open my goodie bag. I never said when the commitment would begin. I had to wait for exactly the right time.) I went straight for the big guns-to what the salesman called the “signature” product in the Nu-Skin arsenal-The Face Lift. When explaining how to use The Face Lift the salesman had effused: apply it, lay back with your feet up and eyes closed, listen to soothing music, relax. You’ll feel it working. Whaa-lah! 20 minutes later your skin will be tighter, firmer, younger, fresh!

I mixed a teaspoon of powder A with a teaspoon of potion B, stirred, applied it to my face with upward strokes, as directed, set the timer for 30 minutes (not 20 as I had been told), plugged in my I-pod, and stretched out on my yoga matt with my feet propped on the elliptical machine. (Ok, so it wasn’t the luxurious silk-pillowed Bali bed with the feathered fan wafting the salesman’s description had conjured-I wasn’t about to get this gunk on my good stuff.)

Seconds after application, The Face Lift started working. And boy did it! As it dried my face began tingling, tugging, pulsing, itching. It was more irritating than any of the nylon labels I had ripped out of my clothing. Worse than a million ant bites. Worse than a sandy, wet swimsuit on a long, hot car ride home from the beach-and I was supposed to stay still, not touching, not scratching, not twitching my nose and relax????

But the end of song one, I realized the enormous mistake I have made with my IPod selection; I should have loaded it with a book on tape or NPR program instead of Ella. At the end of each song I counted out the time remaining-at 3 minutes per song I was going to have to endure this tickle-tingle-itch torture for 9…8….7 more slow, bluesy, whiny songs? I hate you Ella!

Mid-song 6 my IPod died. Take note: Check Your Charge; enduring torture in silence is triple torture. “Curtis” I yelled-as much as it’s possible to yell without opening your mouth or moving your lips-”Urtis! Urtis! URTIS!!!!!”  He saved me by swapping his iPod for mine. (As payment he took blackmail photos while I stiff-lipped “OP, OP-IT-IGHT-OWWWW!!!)

Seconds before I gave up all my top secret secrets the timer dinged. I raced into the shower and spent the next five minutes “soaking” off The Face Lift.

My mother always says, “You have to suffer to be beautiful.” For all the suffering I did this morning, I should look like Mrs. Flippin’ Universe. But do I? Did The Face Lift work? My face definitely feels different. As for “tighter, firmer, younger, fresh“… You decide:

Before: In serious need of freshing--don't you agree!

During: It's great! Really....check out my "fresh" hair ala Roberto

After: Now that's what I call "re-freshed"--as a one-year old