The Candle War

The Filter Queen man started it.  He visits our house once or twice a year and always causes some kind of uproar.  Last time he was here, he talked Pat into setting our air cleaner on top of the dresser in our bedroom so that it can "circulate better."  Well, could be, but it sure adds nothing to the already questionable decor in that room.  I went along with it until some space opened up in that room and I relegated it to a corner where it can do its thing and not look so odd. That's just a small example of the domestic disturbances caused by this man who services are overly expensive vacuum cleaner.

This visit is what caused the all out war.  He was here just a few days ago when, fortunately, I had an appointment and couldn't be here.  I'm always glad to be gone when he's here because he is a talkative sort who easily engages Pat and they march around the house talking excitedly and waving their arms as if to produce dust and air currents that they can "test" with the vacuum in strange ways that only the two of them understand.

The issue this time concerns candles. Pat smugly reported to me when I got home that we will no longer burn candles in our home.  They create too much pollution.  After all, do you realize what they are made of?  They are made from really gross smudge found only in China and then somehow vanilla-ized and sent to Target where we buy them by the basket loads.
 "Just look above the microwave, Terry.  See all that soot that makes the ceiling look like the Sistine Chapel before they stopped burning incense in there?"
"So what?" I replied.  "It's easy to clean."  He then silently and ever so accusingly ran his forefinger over the Filter Queen filter recently removed from our vacuum cleaner.  "See that? THAT'S FROM CANDLES," he said as he waved his sooty finger in front of my face.

A heated discussion followed with me bringing up such subjects as wood burning fireplaces and frequent drives up and down I-5 and ended with me dramatically throwing my favorite wicker wicked candle into the trash.  (Don't worry; I retrieved it as soon as he left the room.) Each of us turned on our heels and stomped off in opposite directions and so began a nasty little deep freeze between us.

The war began to show promise of ending when I met with my knitting group (the Knitwits) for our annual Christmas potluck and gift exchange.  I shared my domestic disturbance with them after two people opened candles as part of their gifts.  They were as offended as I was and quickly offered to come over for a candlelight vigil.

That didn't happen but I did do some research and found out that it really is far wiser to burn only soy-based candles or the kind that run on batteries but somehow still smell nice.  The war is over and the candles of Christmas are saved in our household.

It's Never Too Early

I love Christmas.  I love all the commercialism from the 20th time I hear "Jingle Bells" to the appearance of even the smallest string of crooked lights that seems just as full of holiday spirit as the biggest display of lights in the neighborhood. I really like Christmas cards and I buy an extra box or two each year just because I can't resist the scene or the sentiment. I get funny about magazines at the grocery store.  I like to pretend the pictures of the elegant holiday tables would be easy to replicate in my own home and that the plates of cleverly frosted and decorated cookies would be artfully sitting on end tables in my house. Our tree (which always goes up the day after Thanksgiving) would look like the fancy ones at Al's Nursery with their themed ornaments and matching colors. Or maybe it could be like the ones done up by the Nordstrom ladies with all the handmade-looking decorations.  The gift packages under it would be wrapped in just the right shade of red or green paper and feature a candy cane tucked into each fluffy bow.  Tasteful Christmas music will float around the room while a warm fire crackles invitingly.

It's a pleasure to listen to people in the mall talk about what they might get for Eugene or Alice. Going past Bath and Body Works with its great sale causes me to stop in and buy a bagful of good smelling foam for the bathroom sinks.  And I never forget to stop by See's for a sample of whatever candy they're handing out that day.  Even if it's chocolate covered cherries which I can't stand, they taste different, better at this time of the year.  Maybe they cut way down on the amount of sugar they use in the syrup for Christmas. The seasonal books at Barnes and Noble are a pleasure to handle and smile over even though I won't buy a one of them since they are nearly unreadable and not suited for reading except for the few holiday weeks in December.  Who wants to read a tale about "Secret Santa Surprises" in January?

I still spend a day or two or even three making Christmas cookies - sugar cookies, gingerbread men and maybe biscotti. Sometimes I even throw a cookie decorating party for my family members who attend somewhat reluctantly except for my grandchildren who are THRILLED to be here licking big wads of frosting off their fingers and yelling about who's going to "win."

Christmas starts around Thanksgiving time for me.  I have my lists ready and the calendar starts to fill up before we eat turkey.  I don't mind one bit how early Christmas shows up in the stores.  It only extends the joy of the season for me.  I confess, however, that it was a little weird to be looking at light displays in Costco wearing shorts and flipflops in August.  I decided to skip those aisles until after Halloween. I won't get tired of them until the 50% off signs disappear in January.

 

Halloween Costume

I've been getting ready for Halloween all year.  I decided in January to "go as" a young person for the October holiday.  First thing I did was join Weight Watchers.  I've lost 26 pounds.  Then I decided to keep exercising so I go to my trainer once a week, do cardio at my little gym once a week, get myself down to Curves two or three times a week and try to get in a bike ride or two.  I'm down a size in jeans and my socks aren't so tight anymore.

Next, I went hardcore and scheduled a facial complete with microderm abrasion.  An hour and a half and a cool hundred dollars later, my face felt clean and tingly and had a youthful shine going.  I liked that look but didn't like spending that much money so I made an appointment with a dermatologist.  He looked over every square inch of my old puckered skin for signs of scary things that might indicate the C word.  All is well in that area, but what about the various tag warts and scratchy patches and dark spots here and there and mostly everywhere?  He got out the magic spray can and applied stingy cold spray to many places on my back and several spots on my face.  He said that these spots would blacken up and then drop off altogether in a week or two. The results would approximate the microderm abrasion treatment but would be paid for by insurance.  He even sprayed some bonus spots on my hand just to see if I'd like the results.  He was a friendly, understanding young man and I plan to see him again.

All through the months I have studied what my pre-teen grand girl wears and looked around in the mall at other younger aged people to see what they wear.  There's a pretty even split between looking like you're about to go berry picking, work out, or sell your body on the street.  I opted for a combination of all three and bought myself some pants that look like leggings but were a lot less expensive because I bought them at K-Mart.  Then I got myself some trick Nike running shoes that look like they were dipped in rainbow paint.  They produced enthusiastic comments at my gym but gave me blisters immediately.  Next, I went to Fred Meyer and got some colorful long sleeved, fairly well made t-shirts and hope to keep them free of those tiny stomach holes at least through fall.  So my attire indicates that I may be on my way to the gym but I don't have time or interest in earning any money on the street corner.

Halloween is tomorrow.  I'm ready to appear as a young person in my fake leggings (my stomach does pooch out a little); my horizontally striped t-shirt (my upper arms, I admit, are still flappy), and my owl socks.  I'll skip the Nikes because I'm too afraid that I might get those painful blisters again.  I'll just shuffle to the door to greet the trick-or-treaters in my slippers that are now too big.

I don't look a day over 65.

And Speaking of Words . . .

there are a few of them that I'm getting mighty tired of.  One is awesome.  It's lost its punch and is used to describe everything from the dog's poop in the park to the new OPI fingernail polish color.  In other words, this descriptor is really totally useless other than to let the listener know that the speaker finds something likeable.

Another lame word is amazing, the other attempt to convey, well, awesomeness.  It's amazing how many people use this word to convey how awesome they think skateboarding is. (See what's happening here?)

And then there's the ubiquitous use of like.  Even people older than 17 are using this word to sort of suggest that they're saying something is kind of real as in: "We were, like, sick of going to the zoo."
So are they just approaching a state of being sick of going to the zoo or are they in fact and in reality sick of going to the zoo?  It's as if people are afraid to describe their own reality.

And how about facebook?  This has become a lifestyle of dubious value.  Why in the world do people post the ugly reality of their lives for all the world to see?  What's more curious is that they don't even use the word like to do so.  facebook lives suddenly become amazingly real and available for anyone to view and judge.  What happened to the reality of pride and privacy?

You get extra credit if you find the most uses of irony in this blog post.

Wildwords

My friend Sarah and I are working on a writing project she calls "Words of Wisdom."  It's a fun writing game in which we send each other a word a week for the other person to respond to in any way she wants.  Our goal is to keep this up for a year's time then Sarah wants to put them together in a book.  She's not sure about the look or format of the book yet. That's okay.  Books have a really long gestation period.

She's figured out that all the words I'm sending to her are somehow related to nature.  And I might have my own book idea growing.  I have a working title:  wildwords. I have a vision to share with my graphic artist. And I'm working on the purpose of the book.  This is a very hazy part of the process for now but I know that given time, I will figure this out if the book is to come to fruition.

Here a couple of wildwords for your enjoyment:

waterfall - natural spilling of water from one level of terrain to another causing hiker bliss.

tree - wooden earth angel with green feathers and wings.

I think I'll continue to share the words once in a while in this space.  They are so much fun to work with and I would be so happy if someone else finds them fun. Can't you just see the artwork that could go with these words?????

Shades of White

We need new siding and a paint job on our house.  Once we recovered from learning the cost, we had to decide on what kind of siding which was no big deal since this came under Pat's jurisdiction.  But the paint choice involved a tedious struggle requiring many miles of cruising around looking at people's house colors, the hiring and meeting with a professional colorist, several trips to the paint store, and, finally, painting one side of the house four different colors for voting purposes. Other struggles:  Trim, garage and front door colors. I know this doesn't really sound too bad, but each step of the choosing process has its own land mine of possible explosions.

First, the driving around neighborhoods makes people suspicious.  You have to drive really slowly and stare fixedly at houses with potential choices of paint schemes.  People don't take well to this kind of activity.  They probably think we're casing the area for good sites to burglarize. I kept telling Pat to, "Hurry up!  They're gonna call the cops on us!"

Second, the hiring of a "professional colorist" involves eyeballing colors of paint samples that most of us wouldn't consider suitable for dog houses unless those animal homes were  located deep inside a nearby heavily forested area. It finally dawned on us that these professionals are far more interested in presenting trendy new shades that are a.) the color of their personal houses or b.) colors of houses that you'd see on HGTV. The one she said would be just perfect for our house looks vaguely like the color of new and understated camouflage hunting fabric. It wasn't a good match for our cottage/ranch style home. 

Next, come the uncounted number of trips to the paint store. I challenge you to find a more boring retail establishment.  There is nothing, NOTHING for women to look at of any interest whatsoever.  You even get tired of looking at paint chips even if they do have catchy names like "watermelon winter" or  "Steen Mountain white sheep."  That brings up the color family that will actually make your brain circuits short out:  WHITE. Unless you've looked for paint yourself, you will be astounded at the number of whites there are. Once you settle on three or four color possibilities, the fun of a paint store is totally gone and remember, it wasn't such a thrill to begin with. While Pat got himself absorbed in looking for rollers, paint trays and other needed equipment, I tried to strike up a conversation with a couple of the young employees who were probably students of mine at one time.  They were polite, friendly and quite interesting but kept needing to leave our conversation to go mix paint or answer painting questions. I was finally able to maintain a grip on my sanity after I found an old copy of a Pottery Barn catalog.  I went through it twice.

We went straight home and Pat painted three large sample areas on the side of the house.  We stared at them silently for several minutes.  Neither one of us was struck with any kind of certainty except that we could definitely and absolutely eliminate the military style color suggested by the colorist. Pat finally admitted that he liked the color on the far left but wished it were "slightly more brown." I could barely tell the difference between that color and the one next to it. So the next morning found us paying another visit to our new friends at Sherwin-Williams where Adam assured us that he could custom mix the color Pat described.  And so he did.  And so Pat painted another sample. I still can't tell the difference but with the new paint, named "slightly more brown" by the way, I could be happy with either of the samples on the far left.

You'll probably recognize yourself in this experience if you've ever done any house painting, and if you don't, you won't be surprised at the twists in your thought process when you do face a house color updating project.  It's even harder than you think it's going be.   

Bonus Room Growth

You may remember Boobs Clea and her sister, Boobs.  They are two of the 64 or so Barbies who live in the bonus room at my granddaughters' house. They are called "Boobs" not for any suggestive reason but only because their mother liked the name.  She liked the name so much that she gave her second daughter the same name. They seem to be in their middle teens and are active in sports as well as being among the more fashionably dressed people in their world. Well, sadly, they lost their mother.  Actually, their mother literally lost her head due to the frenzied behavior of a house guest and the girls (all of them - Boobs, Boobs and the granddaughters) have been fairly distraught about her demise since her head wasn't the kind that snaps back on.

Happily, we restored a mother to the family last week during Granny Camp.  Alicia's favorite event at Camp was the field trip we took to Toys 'R Us. She'd been given a ten dollar bill and told she could buy anything she wanted. She started negotiating on the ride over. What if the desired item cost a little more than $10.00? Would it be possible to come up with a few more dollars?  We knew we were in for quite a bit of pressure, but we acquiesced. Well, after we found the right puzzle as the already agreed upon bonus prize, we headed for the Barbie aisle.  After lengthy study and discussion, we decided to purchase the on sale "Princess Barbie" who would make the most perfect new mother for the Clea sisters.  Her hair was just the perfect color of blonde and we could most easily swap out the ball gown for an outfit more appropriate for a mother and gift the princess dress to any of a number of deserving family members. And since she was such a good price, why didn't I just buy her as my contribution to the happy bonus room clan and let Alicia buy the even better priced "Surfer Barbie"? She  would fit in so wonderfully with the other surfers in the family.  Somehow $10.00 had managed to materialize into one puzzle and two Barbies plus an ice cream treat on the way home.

The Clea sisters have had their mother restored to them, the grand daughters were pleased with the new family members and Granny really didn't have to spend too much to make it all happen.

Hey, Paula!

Paula Deen's cooking show was my first experience in watching a specific program on a cable channel.  I used to tune in to her program when my baby grand daughter was taking her nap.  I liked the way Paula's smiling face always appeared above those pots and pans that were way too full of butter and oil.  I admired her homey kitchen and was especially intrigued when she was joined by her family members. Those themed meals of hers where everybody went outside to the patio to barbecue pork and heat up baked beans to serve along with fruit salad bowls made up as if to decorate magazine covers were scenes right out of the movie in my head about cooking and eating. I even bought one of her cookbooks so I could have some Paula Deen cheer whenever I wanted to pretend in my own kitchen.

Uh-oh, Paula. Whether you said anything or not and whether it was recently or long ago, it's not a good idea to say bad things about the help.  We don't all understand Life in the South.  But we do understand that we live in a day and age when we all need to show respect for one another.  It's probably too much that all your endorsements, future book sales, appearances and cooking shows are being compromised. But take heart, girl; you can re-figure your empire and get back to earning millions.  It will take some time but that's a commodity that you can afford right now.

I'd like to think that I can have more TV fun with Paula.  I want to hear her talk about living with diabetes and see how she continues to incorporate its management into her cooking style.  I'd like to see those fancy hairdos again and listen to the drawly way she talks about how to put that Southern touch on everything she prepares in the kitchen.  And I sure want to see Michael visit the kitchen itself which has its own fascination.  Refrigerator drawers?  Built in deep fat fryers? Burners, burners and more burners on the stove? I miss the cute dog that runs around and I miss watching those bejeweled fingers dipping various kinds of fish and meat into gooey batter.  Make your atonement and come back, Paula, but take as much care with what comes out of your mouth as you do with what comes out of your kitchen.

DC/NYC

This is a good photo to share as I let go of a few thoughts about our latest big trip.  We spent five days in Washington, DC and then took the train up to Manhattan to spend five more days looking at another East Coast iconic city.

DC is definitely a man's town.  It radiates with male dominance and power.  All the monuments and memorials with a few exceptions are in honor of the smart, strong and foresighted men who established and then propelled our country forward.  I was fascinated with the sight of George Washington's actual camp stool and what looked to be his mess kit when we visited the Museum of American History.  To sit  in the real Ford's Theater and gaze up at the fateful balcony was an experience in sensing the power of Lincoln's presence and what his life and death meant to our country.  Seeing the memorials and monuments created a very potent feeling of respect for former presidents as well as for the many, many men who died in battle for our nation.

I had to look a little more carefully for the woman power of America.  But it wasn't hard to find.  I saw it in the several memorials to the nurses who supported and cared for those wounded in our many wars and battles.  I saw it in the gowns of the First Ladies.  I was especially impressed to see the gowns of Michelle Obama, Jackie O., Mamie Eisenhower,  Mary Todd Lincoln and others.  Their strengths and contributions were and are as valuable as those of their husbands.  I saw plenty of business women hurrying down the streets of our Capitol obviously on their way to help run the country in one way or another.  Viewing works of art and science done by women helped make their power stand out.  The many women who were escorting groups of school children touring the city captured my attention.  They are ultimately the ones most in charge of sharing this leading global city with our nation's young.  There were men with these groups, of course, but the roles of the leaders fell mostly to women.  That symbolized a lot for me.

New York City belongs not just to men or women, but to everyone.  And I mean EVERYONE.  It is definitely a world city. Everyone from everywhere is represented in some way and  all is wrapped up in an over the top kind of package that blasted my senses full bore.  If you look at the photo closely, you can make out the nearly finished tower at Ground Zero.  Pat took the picture from the top of the Rock.  In between there and the Tower are the lower East and West sides and on down to Lower Manhattan.  To Pat's back were the Upper East and West sides with the beautiful Central Park in the middle. Museums, restaurants, and fascinating neighborhoods are everywhere.  We stayed just a block or two away from the never sleeping Times Square which took some getting used to for me.  Sensory overload needs to be dealt with carefully!

What an unforgettable experience these two cities were!

Mom's Month

My mom was one of those bigger than life kind of people that you run into once in a while.  She dressed in bright colors, wore lots of sparkly rings and hangy-downy earrings, always had a smile on her face and greeted everyone she met with welcoming enthusiasm.  She doused herself in expensive perfume which was sometimes a little hard to take.  She loved purses and treated herself to new ones regularly. One time she really wanted this particular spendy bag at Nordstrom. She "convinced" my dad that she needed it by carrying her purse contents in a paper bag one time when they left to run errands.  Dad stopped at Nordstrom on the way. She had a loud and hearty laugh that used to embarrass me when I was a teenager and I remember praying that no one would say anything funny.  Of course, that prayer wasn't answered.  It didn't need to be.

Mom used to say that there are only two kinds of people in this world:  Those who like Neil Diamond and those who don't.  She actually had many more categories for people groups but that's the one that recently surfaced.  She could fix all kinds of things by using "a trick she learned in the Army."  That expression irritated my sister but I grew up thinking she really HAD been in the Army so it made all kinds of sense to me. Mom could sing and whistle beautifully.  Our house was always full of music when I was growing up and much of it emanated from her special brand of musical talent.  She could recite poems she'd learned in grade school.  It was a great day when both of us could recite "I Wandered Lonely As a Cloud" together.

She always behaved like a lady.  I wonder if anyone even remembers what that means.  I received more instruction than I ever needed in how to behave like a lady.  Some of the requirements are that you always carry a tissue, have mad money tucked away in your purse, never swear, always wear perfume, and always maintain the impression that you are in perfect health and that your world couldn't be more pleasant even if the dog just died and you broke out in an inexplicable rash.  She sometimes invited near strangers to holiday dinners simply because they had no other place to go. She was a terrific self-taught cook and made homemade bread for years. I was embarrassed to take homemade bread sandwiches to school so I'd eat them in the gym where my friend Ann would trade her potato chips for some of my bread.

My mom was the central figure in my world until my husband and children joined her in that circle.  Every  day was a special day just for her.

Fifty Years of GH

I started watching "General Hospital" when it first started on ABC TV fifty years ago.  I had to discontinue watching for various reasons:  my Mom didn't think it was an "uplifting" program, we weren't really allowed to watch any daytime TV, and I soon started college when I didn't have time for anything but reading and studying and trying to figure out how to pass a math requirement. But I watched long enough to get to know plenty about Dr. Steve Hardy, Nurse Jessie Brewer and the new nurse, Audrey.  These three characters formed the lovers' triangle that ruled the hospital before they were joined by children and other new characters who magically found themselves in Port Charles.  Then the program extended to a 60 minute time frame which fit nicely into my babies' nap schedules.  At this time, no one knew about my shameful addiction to this fascinating soap except close family members (who never passed up a chance to ridicule me) and my next door neighbor Andrea, a lifelong fan of "Days of Our Lives." Andrea taught me how to become a wise and mature fan, one who knew that dead soap characters usually come back to life and that the most complicated scenario that would do the most harm to the most people would likely be the newest plot development.

As the years went by, I grew accustomed to the new characters and GH settled into spinning its tales around the core threesome then around the Luke and Laura excitement and eventually into the complicated gangster/good guy life of Sonny Corinthos.  I fell in love with these people who became my secret friends and family members.  I could forgive them almost anything and it became a great pleasure to hate the really bad guys like Helena Casadine.  As far as everyone knew, I was spending my leisure time reading Shakespeare and Chekhov and only watched the PBS station on TV.

Then came the era of VCRs and I could record GH while I was away teaching during the day and view it after dinner when the family and school chores were finished for the day.  I started letting a few key people know about my viewing addiction and was pleasantly surprised to learn that others had secret soap watching habits too. I didn't feel so bad about wishing I could look exactly like Brenda Barrett.

"General Hospital" is celebrating 50 years of broadcasting this week.  Luke (Anthony Geary) was  on GMA this morning and the program will be featured on a special broadcast of "20/20" this coming Saturday night.  Laura, Frisco, Brenda, Helena, Lucy Coe and several others have all returned to do special parts in the current plot line.  They all look pretty good in spite of the "work" that's been done to their faces.  Luke looks the best.  In fact, he looks better now than he did when he was young.  Will he and Laura get back together?  How about Carly and Jax?  Will Felicia choose Mac or Frisco?  And when will Spinelli find out that Maxi is having his baby? And what's up with Britt and her evil mother? Will Robin come back?  I can make fairly accurate guesses about the answers to each of those questions all because  I'm a veteran GH watcher.  How many more years will this soap last?  My guess is that it won't last all that long because of "real life" drama on facebook and new TV reality shows. But I'm not too sure how I can make the transition to life without GH.

Spring Eve

Monday night's sleep was disturbed by a gushing nosebleed that wouldn't stop for 45 minutes.  We finally staunched the flow and then I woke up in another hour to another outpouring of blood from both nose and mouth.  I thought I was drowning in my own blood!  We made a hasty trip to the ER with me holding the wastebasket under my chin and losing more blood with every bump in the road. I was just sure the staff in the ER would freak out when they saw this senior lady hurrying through the door while leaking red onto her pink nightgown that was barely covered by a black hoodie.  (I do have to add that the hoodie is one of my good ones and has sparkly sequins in the hood itself so I hope that drew attention away from the nightgown and oversized sweat pants.) They tried pressure.  No slow of the flow.  They tried silver nitrate.  Couldn't locate the site due to the blood flow.  They suctioned my nose.  I made them stop that weird torture.  The bleeding subsided and after a reasonable wait, we started making plans to go home.  But wait!  There's more!  Just as we were discussing the paperwork, the red river started to flow again.  This time the doc stopped it by shoving a balloon-shaped gauze tube inside my nose.  He taped the bottom end of the plastic tube to the side of my face.  You can easily entertain yourself for a few seconds by imagining what I looked like.  Don't forget: I was still wearing my sparkly hoodie.  Then we waited and waited and waited.  You can't have any idea what sort of painful torture it is to have a large object stuffed way up your nostril unless you've actually experienced it. Now to top every off, there was construction going on above the ER.  The work sounded as if overly busy surgeons were sawing off limbs and using mallets to pound skulls. Those sounds only added to the instant headache that occurred when the doc finished pushing inches of cotton tubing up my nose. Advice:  make sure you are awake enough when you get up to use the bathroom that you don't randomly stab yourself in the nose.

Booking It

I've been working on our new book since December. It is the story of our year long quest to find the 14 species of owls that are seen in Oregon.  Just let me say that our adventures finding what we found were fun, exciting, and satisfying.  You will enjoy the book if you'd like to read about two women wandering around the state seeking certain birds and finding unexpected adventures and memories.

The book is about half finished and we still don't have a title.  I think that's strange.  Bobbie suggests that we consider following the current trend of one word book titles.  But what would the one word be?  There is nothing exciting about Owls as a title.  How about two words?  Owl Outings?  Cute, but it doesn't grab me.  Quest?  No. How about a title that has a colon in it such as Owling:  A Year's Quest in Oregon.  It certainly describes the content but it lacks flash.

You can see that I'm stumped. Any suggestions are welcome!

Heart Happy

Today is one of Hallmark's favorite days of the year.  My husband pointed that out to me many years ago when he reminded me that Valentine's Day is yet another day of conspicuous consumption fueled by heavy advertising. It was the '70s and lots of us were suspicious of campaigning and advertising.  It was probably just his excuse for forgetting to buy me a large heart shaped box full of candy. In the years to follow, I faithfully gave him a card and often accompanied it with an appropriate gift. I never gave up hope that maybe he'd surprise with a heartfelt card.  As the years went by, he sometimes gave me the kind of card that you'd find in the "funny valentine" section of the card rack.  But this year he came through with a lovely card along with a gift certificate to my favorite nail spa.  

I remember the first Valentine I ever made.  I put so much school paste on it to adhere the red crepe paper to the edge of the big poster board heart that it just all mooshed together pretty much ruining the fluffy edge into a gooey mess.  I was so proud of it even though it took days for it to dry.

Another homemade card I really liked was the one I made for my husband.  It is tastefully done with not too many gushy wording and only the slightest bit decorated.  It does have a polka dot bow on it, though.  I just couldn't resist that part. I love this card.  I've given it to him for the sixth year in a row and he has yet to notice.  For some oddball reason, that makes me very happy and I look forward to giving it to him every year.  Maybe next year will be the year that he notices.  But the question is:  Would I notice if he gave me the same card every year????

By the Sea

We spent the first four days of this week at Seaside with two other couples.  The weather was a tosspot of wind, rain, stronger wind, more rain and louder wind.  Our fourth floor view gave us plenty of opportunity to study the weather and some strange green lights that we saw on the beach one night.  What the heck were those, we all wondered.  Alien beach beings? A new type of ocean critter that comes ashore at night to glow in the waves? Maybe a new kind of metal detecting activity? Finally, late that night Greg noticed the green lights leaving the beach and heading back toward the Promenade on one of the paths through the grass.  We all huddled together at the window trying to see what was happening.  All we could see were two human figures who eventually hopped the barrier from the sand onto the walkway and then disappear into the darkness. I guess we'll never know what they were up to.

We stuck to the warmth of our hotel rather than venture down to the beach but did get out to eat some dinners here and there along Broadway. We window shopped at the stores that remain open during this slow time of the year and spent lots of time looking for a place to buy chocolate to satisfy someone's craving (gee, I wonder whose) and ended up at the Arcade.  This is where one of the highlights of our trip occurred.  We rode the bumper cars!  We laughed just the way we did when we kids but what we laughed at the most was the act of getting ourselves into the cars.  I would liken the sight to trying to load elephants into bathtubs.  You can actually get them into the tubs, but how do you get them out?  That was the cause for even more laughter at the end of our ride. Seaside is just as much fun as it ever was.

2013

Here are my words for the New Year.  I borrowed them from Chekhov.

We shall find peace,

We shall hear the angels.

We shall see the sky

sparkling with diamonds.