Hot-Flashed Funk Is Moving!

Update:    I am back on Blogger!  If you'd like to see my posts from 2009 and the first part of 2010, you can go to http://deeporterfield.wordpress.com/.  I decided that moving back here will give me more leeway to try all the cute template layouts that seem to be available to Blogger blogs but not to Wordpress blogs.

Winter Wonderland for One Brief Night

Oh my, it was so lovely here a few nights ago. The snow was coming down in big, wet flakes and transforming our Central PA "blah" landscape into a real winter wonderland. For some reason (and don't say "global warming"), we haven't had much in the way of winter weather the past few years. I suspect it is because of how we are geographically located.

We are far enough south in Pennsylvania that the temperatures are often too warm to bring snow and instead, we get rain. Bummer! We also have a ridge of mountains to our west and north. Usually, if a weather system is moving from west to east across the Midwest, when it reaches our little mountain range, the snow gets dumped on the western side of the hills and by the time it makes it to our side, it has fizzled out. The only time we really get blasted with snow is when two things happen.......1. The temperatures are cold enough and 2. The weather system is coming from the south. Yes, when we get a Nor'easter, it's a doozy.
But like I was saying, these last few years have been gray and cold and often rainy but that's usually about it. So I was thrilled to see the snow shimmering in the Christmas lights and had to run outside to take some pictures. Sadly, the next day it warmed up and soon our little snowfall had melted away.
You realize, of course, that I've probably jinxed our neck of the woods by saying we don't get much snow, especially since I have to do jury duty right after New Year's. The last time I had jury duty, we had one of the worst winters on record. We had snow and ice storms every Wednesday and Saturday that winter, it seemed. At the time, we were living on top of a steep hill overlooking a valley and I had to drive over 20 miles to get to the courthouse each day. I was petrified, never knowing if I'd make it down or up the hill or to the trial on time. But God was good and I survived. Let's hope the white stuff holds off until mid-January, at least.
Stay warm, everyone. The wind is howling outside my window like a banshee. You'd think we were in the middle of a blizzard but there isn't a bit of snow on the ground. However, our reindeer have lost their antlers repeatedly tonight and we just had a Christmas tree topple outside. So the reindeer have come into the barn, er, garage temporarily for the night.

In Defense of the Christmas Newsletter

Well, I'm done with the annual Christmas newsletter. The cards have all been addressed and stuffed and are in the mail. That's always a chore that I'm happy to see to completion because the whole shebang has a tendency to take over our dining room table and my free time until it's done.

I used to try to write a handwritten note in each card in addition to including our newsletter but have finally decided, in the interest of expediency and my sanity, that the newsletter is enough. My mother would groan at this since she always insisted that you had to write "the note" but I'm breaking free from that expectation. "I'm not writing the note, Ma!"

Speaking of my mom, it was always a BIG production at our house when I was growing up as my mother would try to get the Christmas cards out on time. Inevitably, they'd make it into the mail by Easter. It's because she had to write in every card, you see. First Mom would agonize over writing her newsletter. She wanted to make sure that no one was left out in the mentions no matter how insignificant a part they had played in our year. Then she'd want to make sure that her grammar was "spot-on." Once I could type, she'd keep me busy for weeks typing up the rewrites. When the time finally came to address the cards, we'd all gather at the dining room table and form an assembly line. Whoever had the neatest handwriting would address the envelopes. Mom would reread her notes and then pass the card to the newsletter folder and stuffer . That person would neatly fold the newsletter and place it inside the card. It was then passed on to the envelope addresser who put the card into the envelope, licked the back flap and sealed it. Finally it was handed to the stamp licker who licked the stamp and placed it neatly in the upper right-hand corner and then gave it a good pop with their fist. No one wanted to be the lickers but since there were only four of us, two always got stuck with those tasks and usually ended up green around the gills because Mom typically sent out 200 - 300 cards every year. God bless the Post Office for inventing peel-off stamps.
Despite my early memories of the family newsletter, I've been sending out my own Christmas newsletters ever since I left home. I like doing them and it has become fun for me to see how I can come up with different and creative ways to get out the news to family and friends. This year, in addition to our newsletter, I made up two photo collages using my Storybook Creator photo editing software and sent them off with the cards. I think it's always fun to see how other folks have changed over the year.....to see how their kids have grown up. I don't care whether the photos are xeroxed onto a newsletter or actual photos. I just enjoy them either way.

I know that there are people who deplore getting Christmas newsletters. Let me just say that I am not one of them. I love opening up a Christmas card and seeing a newsletter tucked inside full of all sorts of events that have taken place in folks' lives over the past year. For many, that's the only contact I have with you each year, simply because you've moved out of the area or live too far away to visit and your lives are too busy to write or call on a regular basis. This is my chance to stay connected with you. It is so disappointing to open a card from a friend or relative who lives far away and only see a signature. I'd almost rather not get a card at all.

So I'm begging you all.....do that Christmas letter this year. It doesn't have to be handwritten. Typed up on the computer and printed off and copied is fine. The important thing is that it contains news of what you've been up to. And if you want to email it to people instead of mailing it, that's fine, too. Either way, you're moving beyond the cursory and sharing a part of yourself this Christmas season. And if your letters are late and don't make it out until Easter? Hey, you'll just be increasing my joy this Easter season.

And Then I Was Five

I was bustling around the living room, putting up Christmas decorations when I unearthed the old fiberboard creche in the bottom of a box. It was folded up and stored in a ziploc bag but I could see that most of the pieces were still there. For several years now I'd passed it over in favor of a spiffy 3-dimensional folk art creche designed by Jim Shore. But this year, for some reason, the new and spectacular didn't appeal to me. I wanted to see the old creche again.

I remembered my mother telling me that it had come from Germany which had linked it forever in my mind with the story of the origins of the carol "Silent Night." Franz Gruber and Father Mohr had composed the piece in Austria but it had been sung in German and I had learned it in German as a child. Hence my connecting the piece with Germany.

Each creche piece has a slot in the bottom that fits into a corresponding pop-up tab on the base. The tabs have become limp over the years and some of the figures tend to list a little but they are still standing. Originally, we had a Christmas tree light that was carefully fitted into the hole of the stable roof and my father would plug that light in at night. Its glow would flood the stable with a radiant light. The stable is so rickety now that I don't dare try putting a light on the roof but I still remember it.

I decided to set it up on top of the old china cabinet. That way it would be right at eye-level and out of the dog's reach. First I put down the base and then set up the two background pieces. The walls of the stable came next. The walls had originally been all one piece but one wall had torn off. However, if I balanced it just right and then put the roof on, it would stay upright.

Once the stable was intact, I carefully positioned the back fence with the donkey and the cow looking over the rail. That had always been my favorite part growing up because of our dairy farm background. It was a particularly handsome cow.

The shepherds and the sheep were the next to be positioned. I noticed that the set was missing a shepherd and a sheep, according to the labeled tabs, but I still had enough so that they looked well-represented. Funny, I had never noticed before that the older shepherd was carrying a type of bagpipe....one of my favorite instruments.

I vaguely recalled that bagpipes had not been the sole invention of the Scots. Perhaps the Germans had also used some type of bagpipe in their musical celebrations?

Then it was time to place the Wise Men. As I slipped them into their tabs, I thought of the gifts they had brought to the Christ child, each gift foretelling the baby's future role and even, death. Gold symbolized Christ's kingship, frankincense stood for the anointing oil of the priesthood and myrrh was an embalming oil used at death. Thank God the death was only temporary or we wouldn't have much reason to put up a creche scene, would we? The artist responsible for designing this creche had included a black Wise Man. According to Medieval legend, Balthasar came from Ethiopia and was often depicted as an African or Moor.

Once everyone was in place, including the Holy Family, a curious thing happened. Suddenly I was five years old again.....looking at the creche and filled with all the wonder I had first felt as a child. I walked over to the china cabinet and grasped its curved top. I was just tall enough that my eyes were able to peak over the top of the cabinet and I could look straight into the stable.

I didn't see the tabs holding the figures upright. I didn't see the gaps where there had been other figures. What I did see were figures off in the distance on winding roads in the background hurrying towards the stable. I saw a little shepherd boy who probably didn't have much, bringing his lamb to offer to the child. I saw a mother gazing with pride and wonder at her newborn and Joseph, standing protectively beside them. Even the animals seemed to sense that something extraordinary was in their presence. I, too felt the extraordinary. Daddy was in his chair in the corner, reading the Sunday paper. Mom was in the kitchen working on the pork roast and John was napping in his crib. And I,.....I was standing on my tiptoes so that I could see over the top of the table where the creche scene was displayed.

"Baby Jesus is coming," I whispered, wiggling with excitement. "Baby Jesus is coming."

That Girl Scout Motto

I grew up with the Girl Scout motto. You know the one....."Be Prepared!" So I was all packed up and ready for a long wait at the Army War College clinic knowing that I was probably going to be facing several hours before my new prescriptions were ready. After all, it was right after a holiday weekend and that usually meant a rush of folks scrambling to get things filled.

I wasn't even worried about facing the screaming babies. I usually sit in the "old f__ts" section where we all look like the retired military folks that we are. The bearing isn't quite as erect as it used to be, hair is thinning and often covered by ball caps that proudly bear the insignia of the units we served with, middles are thicker, and sometimes we doze off and have to be roused by kindly neighbors when our numbers are called. No, I wasn't worried about any wait because I was PREPARED. I had my bag packed with my current knitting project and two hours of wait time was going to be two hours of the sheer bliss of uninterrupted knitting.

I turned in my prescriptions, got my number, found a seat, and settled back to start some heavy knitting that just might finish up my project. I pulled out my partially-finished scarf and reached back into the bag for the other needle and.........I couldn't find it. IT WAS NOT THERE! Do you have any idea what panic swept over me? I rooted through that bag like a woman possessed but NO NEEDLE. With a sinking feeling, I realized that I had left it on the table beside the couch.

Suddenly those two hours loomed before me like an eternity. I had a moment of insanity where I was tempted to go up and down the rows of chairs asking folks if they had a pencil I could put alongside my needle to see if it was a close enough match that it could be used in a pinch as a substitute needle. Reason prevailed.

Just as I was reaching for a tattered ancient copy of Good Housekeeping, my number was called. Not even 20 minutes had elapsed. It was a miracle, plain and simple. Believe me, from now on, I'm checking that bag twice before I leave the house to make sure that all needles are present and accounted for. My former troop leader, Mrs. Marshall would be proud.

Tea for Two Equals Three?

I am SO woefully mathematically challenged. That's why I work with words and fiber, not numbers. And that's why my recent jaunt to a tea parlor left me with egg on my face, so to speak.

A group of ladies from my Sunday School class decided to hold our planning meeting for an upcoming progressive dinner social at the wonderful Victorian Parlor in Spring Grove. Not only do they have fantastic food, but they also have a great collection of old hats that guests are encouraged to wear while enjoying the repast.

We all enjoyed a six-course tea and did manage to do a little planning in between courses and lots of pots of tea before the inevitable time came to pay the bill and leave. You KNOW what's coming next, don't you?

Have you ever seen a group of people try to divide a restaurant bill? It's not a pretty sight. But hey, we weren't anticipating any trouble because we all owed the same amount so all we had to do was figure out the tip. Amidst the general murmuring, I was doing some quick calculations in my head. Let's see.....if the bill was $20 apiece, then you'd just have to figure out what 10% was and then double that and you'd have a 20% tip. We'd had excellent service so I really felt the tip should be 20%.

My friend sitting next to me leaned over and asked, "What do you think I should leave for a tip?"

"I'd leave $2.00 if I were you," I suggested. "That's what I'm going to do. I know that some would say leave a 15% tip but I really think we should leave a 20% tip. So just put $22 into the pot and you'll be fine."

"Great," she said, as she fished out her money and handed it over to the cashier in our group. I added my $22 to the pot.

Our "cashier" friend, who works for the Department of Banking, I might add, looked at the money and looked at me and said, "Do you need change?"

"Nope, it's all there. We're fine," I assured her.

"You're sure?" she replied, dubiously.

"Oh, yes...just add it to the pot. We've put the tip in and everything."

"How much should we put in?" asked several other ladies at the table.

"Well, we each put in $22 to include the tip."

"Oh, great," they said as they fished in their purses.

Before we left, the owner was nice enough to take our group picture AND give us a guided tour of several rooms in the beautifully restored Victorian home. What a gracious hostess!
Two days later, my husband and I were eating out and when the bill arrived, the total was right around $20. I quickly did a little calculation in my head to figure out the tip. Suddenly I had a VERY sinking feeling.
"George," I said. "Twenty percent of twenty dollars is four dollars, isn't it?"
He looked at me as though I was daft and nodded. "I was afraid of that," I said.
As soon as I got home, I called my friend Linda, who had been collecting the money at our tea party. Mortified, I explained how I was afraid that I might have shortchanged our waitress by giving her a $2 tip instead of $4.00.
"Well, yes, you did. I wondered about that but you were pretty adamant that it was supposed to be $2.00," Linda replied.
"But Linda.....you KNOW I'm terrible at math. Why didn't you say something to me?" I wailed.
"I considered saying something but you seemed so sure that I figured you must have your reasons," was her answer.
"Oh, I can't believe I did that! That's not even 15%. It's 10%. And they gave us such great service. I feel terrible! At least the others gave her a decent tip," I said.
"No, they didn't. Everyone put in $2 after you suggested that amount," Linda continued.
Such is the blessing (and curse) of the gift of persuasion. Sometimes we don't even know our own power. And when it comes to math, sometimes we shouldn't even open our mouths.

Awash in Paper No More

Last weekend I met my daughter, Laura at a local motel for a Fall Scrapbooking Retreat. We joined a group of diehard scrapbookers on Friday afternoon and scrapped our little hearts out until Sunday afternoon. I love these retreats because I get to see so many of my friends AND I can get so much done. We have a room reserved just for our scrapbooking where we can leave our supplies and projects out 24 hours a day and come and go as we please to work on them as we will. Some folks stay up scrapping into the wee hours of the morning. (I made it to 2 a.m. the first night.) Others are much more sensible and rise and retire according to a more normal schedule.

I tried a new experiment at this retreat. Instead of lugging all my supplies over to the motel, I decided to spend the weekend doing digital scrapbooking on my laptop computer. Consequently, I really only needed to bring my laptop, some extension cords, my small external hard drive, and my wireless mouse. My daughter scrapbooked the more traditional way, bringing her albums, paper, adhesive, trimmers, etc. Oh, that's my almost 60-year-old bear, Elizabeth supervising things (or trying to).

So compare the work area shown in the photo at the right with the photo on the left, which is my work space. It was just me, my computer, an idea book or two, and occasionally, Elizabeth.

I'm telling you, it was great. I'd work on my digital albums and pictures and, when I'd get tired, I'd read my email or surf the Net. If I needed to refresh my memory on some place I'd toured for a bit of journaling, I'd go up on the Net and Google the attraction to doublecheck things like "what year was Edgewood Plantation built?"

Occasionally I'd get up to stretch my legs and wander around to see what others were working on or I'd go grab another cookie from the snack table to keep my energy levels up. Elizabeth contented herself with checking out the new products on the display tables. I'm amazed at the options that we now have with Creative Memories for either the traditional scrapbooking or downloading the same paper designs or embellishments for digital scrapbooking. The digital versions sure solve the storage problems in my craft room, making more space for all my yarn.

By the end of the weekend, I was amazed that I had spent so many hours on the computer and accomplished so much without feeling at all wiped out. Even better, it only took me about 5 minutes to pack up everything. Whee! Now the test will be to compare costs over the next few months to see if digital costs are comparable to traditional and also to see if I'm staying more up-to-date on my scrapbooking by going digital.

A Midwesterner's View of Fondue

My hubby and I drove down several weeks ago to help our daughter celebrate her birthday belatedly. Laura and her husband live and work near Washington, DC so they have had a chance to try out lots of neat little restaurants. We told her to pick a place she'd like and we'd all go there for dinner. She chose a restaurant that serves everything in a fondue pot.

The last time I had fondue was almost 40 years ago in Switzerland. I remember that it involved a lot of bread and cheese. This was nothing like I remember it. You had to pick out what sauce and seasoning you wanted to have your food cooked in and then the meal was brought out in stages......appetizers, then the meats, and finally, dessert.

Now I'm from the Midwest. Like most folks from the Great Plains of Minnesota, we like our food recognizable, reasonable, and in abundance. Oh, and a BIG helping of dessert at the end of a meal will really sweeten the deal. But the meal we had this time was one of those East Coast "artsy-smartsy" meals.

The buxom waitress was all dressed up for Halloween in a Little Red Riding Hood outfit that was so low cut that every time she came by to check on us, I kept thinking I should order a glass of milk. Once I got past that distraction, I turned my attention to the plate of appetizers that she set before us. It consisted of some mushroom caps, slivers of carrots, several broccoli and cauliflower tops, and some cubed potatoes. There wasn't a fried mozzarella stick in sight.

Following my daughter and son-in-law's lead, my husband and I stuck a veggie on little skewers and put them in the fondue pot. Then we sat and watched them .....and watched them. After several minutes of this, we wrested the skewers out which was like playing pick-up-sticks because they were all tangled together. Once we got out our veggie, we had our choice of sauce to dip it in and then "chomp".....one bite and the morsel was gone. Okey Dokey! Back to skewering and waiting. Occasionally we'd have to fish a vegetable out of the pot with a slotted spoon when our skewers got so tangled that food would pop off the ends.
Next course was the meat. Each couple received about 6 shrimp, a tiny mound of cubed raw beef and a similar amount of cubed chicken. The procedure was the same but the wait was longer. I found if I really nibbled, I could get about 3 little bites out of each piece of meat. That killed about 10 seconds of the 5 minute wait time between dunking the meat in the pot and pulling it back out.

By the time the waitress came around with a clean pot and the chocolate for our dessert fondue, I was contemplating running next door to the drugstore for a candy bar to tide me over. Our plate this time consisted of two quarter size squares of brownies, a one-inch sliver of cheesecake, 4 or 5 strawberries and a pair of one-inch squares of pound cake. I took one look at the plate and SERIOUSLY considered asking the waitress for a big spoon and a hot pad holder so I could just eat the chocolate out of the pot. It hardly seemed worth skewering and dipping.

My daughter and son-in-law loved the meal. What there was of it was tasty enough. However, I think you have to be young to fully enjoy such a thing. Was it worth the almost $100 per couple? Let's just say that at my age and for that price, we'd better be talking a buffet with a pretty spectacular dessert table. There's a reason why buffets are popular with "seasoned citizens." We know that life is too short not to "go for the gusto."

Every Vote Counts!

I was in high school and college in the Sixties. Like every other young female on the planet at that time, I adored the Beatles (Sorry, Ginnie! Trust me, no one will recognize you!). I wore love beads in college and participated in sit-ins on campus using the time to flirt with my boyfriend while others talked politics into the night. I offered to find a map to Canada for my brother when he became eligible for the draft during the Vietnam War. Then, keeping in step to my own unique drumbeat, I joined the Army. It's been an exciting life.

Amidst the twists and turns of that life, one thing I've consistently done is vote. It's been a privilege to do so. My generation is known as the "Baby Boomers." I only know that we're vast in number, we're getting older, and we still want to be heard. I like to think that we're still ready to rebel against the status quo if we think things need to change. I also want to think that we're older and wise enough now to realize that sometimes change has to start with us and that almost always, change will involve hard work and sacrifice, not handouts with "no strings attached."

So today I was up bright and early and out the door to vote soon after the polls opened. In fact, I braved the polls without makeup, coffee, or breakfast. From the looks of others in line, I wasn't the only one to do so. It felt good to greet my neighbor who always volunteers to log in voters on election days. It felt even better to hear her call out "New voter" to the fellow who watches you sign in. I heard that refrain at least 4 times just while I was waiting for an open booth. My husband reported that there were around 70 people in line waiting for the polls to open when he arrived to vote. There were about 30 in line when I joined the crowd.

And no matter who wins, I cast my vote and my voice will be heard. Groovy! What about you? Has America heard your voice today?

Concrete Jungle Foray

I am a small-town girl. No, wait! I'm not even a small-town girl. I'm a Midwestern prairie girl. Cities make me nervous. Heck, even trees make me nervous. They make me feel closed in. I like to have rolling grasslands around me with a view that lets you watch approaching storms long before they arrive at your place. Where you can chart the progress of your neighbor's plowing by the location of the dust he's kicking up two fields over from your farm and you can see a visitor coming long before they pull into your driveway, giving you plenty of time to put the coffeepot on and heat up that pie.

I guess that's why it's been 31 years since I've been to New York City as a tourist, despite the fact that we've been living just one state over from the Big Apple. Sure, I've gone through the area to get to the airport back in the late '80's and I've touched down and changed planes several times at JFK Airport but seriously, it's been 31 years since I've gotten out and walked around parts of the city. So I was a tad nervous about venturing there this past weekend but a group of us had signed up to go on a bus tour from Lancaster, PA to the Brooklyn Tabernacle to hear Jim Cymbala preach.

I almost didn't get to go because at 10 p.m. the night before we were to leave, my husband looked at me and said, "Did you make any arrangements for the dog?" Yikes! I guess we've developed such an Empty Nester mentality that I had plum forgot that we had any living creature still dependent on us. We made some frantic phone calls and finally reached our Music Minister and friend, Phil who is easy-going and unflappable enough that we figured he would be least likely to run for the hills when faced with 17 pounds of fluffy white fury. Our usual dogsitting friends were off camping for the weekend so thankfully, he agreed to stop by the house and let Fresca out on his way to church in the morning and in the evening. Thanks, Phil!

We had to leave the house at 5:15 a.m. in order to meet the bus on time. I was NOT awake which is why there are no pictures. I forgot to take my camera. I did, however, remember to take my knitting so I managed to make considerable progress on the second sock that is destined for a Christmas gift.

As we approached the city, we could see the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building in the distance. My, they looked tiny. It's all a matter of perspective, isn't it? The Brooklyn Tabernacle was awesome. It reminded me of the old movie theatre I used to go to back home with its Neo-classic, gilt decoration along the walls, the balcony, and the stage. And the people! My, the place was filled. It was just great to look out over the congregation and see such a diverse group, all worshiping together. The style of worship was more charismatic than that of my home church and I enjoyed it. It's nice to feel free to raise your hands in worship or praise the Lord aloud.

After the service, our bus took us to Pier 17 where we were free to chose a restaurant for a late lunch and then wander around until it was time to head for home. We ate at a quasi-Irish pub. I wish I had a picture to show you of the french fries that came with my fish. They were perfect! I asked for them extra-crispy and they came with just the right amount of crunch. Had to ask twice for the side of mayo to dip them in but once that came, I was in carb heaven.

It was after lunch that NYC really started to get to me. There were people everywhere. You couldn't just walk down the sidewalk without having to step around booths with vendors trying to sell you this or that. Buses galore, both tour and city buses, kept barreling past spewing noise and exhaust in their wake. Honking seemed to be the preferred method of communication between cars. I grasped my husband's hand and said, "Get me to the nearest open field, NOW!"

There are people who are cut out to live in big cities and there are people who are cut out to live in more rural areas. There might even be some advantages to big city life. Give me another 31 years and I might think of some.

Making Scents of It All

In my typical OCD way of doing things, I have discovered the joys of collecting and trying out new scents. It's almost as much fun as collecting beautiful yarns from new Indie dyers. Almost, but not quite. Believe it or not, there are Indie perfumers out there as well.....folks who have forged their own path of sniffiedom. Not merely content to join the ranks of Bath and Body devotees or willing to lay down the big bucks for watered down smells from big name fragrance companies, these folks have put their noses on the line (so to speak) and come out with their own fragrances, usually in the form of body oils and sometimes, soaps.

Going up on their websites and reading the descriptions of their different perfumes is infinitely entertaining. YOU try to figure out what the smell of a "newly-opened grave" smells like. I'm not sure if I want to know, quite frankly. "Freshly-baked apple pie" is more my style or "sun-warmed peaches on a summer's day." Those are pretty tame. But some of these talented and imaginative folks have come up with scents that mimic types of wood, leather, tobacco, smoke, breezes, laundry (both fresh and dirty), every flower imaginable, spices galore, and the list goes on.

It's a hoot to read the descriptions of these scents. It's even more fun to read the names that the scent designers label their scents. Here are some of the names of the scents I have purchased lately: Brain Bleach, Gingerbread Crackhouse, Eye of the Moon, Over the Rhine, Stingy Jack, etc. Those are some of the tamer ones. Some are funny, some are purely descriptive, like "Pumpkin Pie", and some are downright wierd. But they are all names for scents that you have to smell to believe. And here's the challenging part ---- a scent will smell different on individual people because we all have different body chemistry. And there is one smell when you first apply it wet, another as it dries on you, and then a lingering smell after the initial dry-down. There is also a "throw", which means (I think) how far folks can smell you coming when you have it on. If you're wearing something that smells like a smoking, newly-opened grave, you might not want to "throw" too far.

Since you aren't sure how a particular smell will smell on you, it's wise to buy different scents in a sample size, which most of the vendors are happy to sell you. These little vials have a surprising amount of perfume oil. It doesn't take much of it for you to figure out if the scent is going to work for you or not. Since there are so many to choose from, you need to come up with a storage system. Thanks to other bloggers and scents forums, I discovered that a handy holder is a plain old cartridge case that you can pick up at any outdoor sports shop. They are perfect for the sample sizes you order.

Once you start acquiring a fair amount of samples and actual bottles of perfume oil, then you need a way to keep track of what you have, what scents you like, and why. I made up a simple little chart where I can plug in perfumes sorted by vendor/designer. I list the scents that each perfume consists of, how much I have of it, and whether or not I liked it. Over time, I hope to see a pattern emerge that will help me identify the types of scents that I know won't do well on me. I already know that I don't do well with certain scents like roses, gardenias, and some exotic spices. They tend to give me a headache or a stuffy nose. But put me near certain foodie smells like apple pie, caramel, butterscotch, coffee and I'm in heaven!

Once you get hooked on discovering new scents, you will find that there are all sorts of products and collections to hold your interest. There are chapsticks, solid stick perfumes, whipped body butters, sugar scrubs, body washes, and soaps. There are limited edition collections that come out throughout the year. There are seasonal collections that appear like the wonderful autumn scents that are out right now. I can decide if I want to smell like a cappuccino, a buttercream frosted caramel cake, or a spiced apple cider. I could have smelled like a floozy but I didn't like how that one smelled so I traded it off to someone else. If you want to discuss scents with others who are equally obsessed, there are forums at most of the "sniffie" vendors I've listed on this blog.

So, my friends, if you're brave enough to try something a little out of the ordinary, click on any of the Sniffie links I've put on the blog over on the right and order some samples. Dare to march to the drumbeat of a different perfumer! Gotta go now and eat supper. Mystery book club meeting tonight. I'm off to wash my hands with some Krakatoa soap and then it's time to chow down.

Mom Reaches A Big Milestone!

Yesterday my mom turned 95 years old. Now that's something to be proud of. She had a little dress rehearsal on the previous Saturday when our daughter and son-in-law were able to come up from the Washington, D.C. area for the weekend. We took BBQ ribs over to the care facility, presents, and a cake and had a little party for Mom.

The day got off to an interesting start when I sent daughter, Laura off to Mom's room to fetch her down to the private lounge while I decorated for her party. When Laura wheeled Mom in, I asked if Laura had the chance to meet Mom's new roommate. She looked at me askance and said, "Well, she was yelling, "Help, I'm dying" over and over. I asked her several times if I could help her or get a nurse for her but each time she'd just look me over and then go back to yelling. I did alert a nurse before we came down here but I couldn't see that she was having any real problems."

"Oh, my," I thought.

We had a great meal. Mom had been craving BBQ ribs since Mother's Day so she dug right in. Her friend, Beverly and husband Denis were able to join us and we all had fun eating and chatting before it was time to open the presents, Mom's favorite part.
She was appreciative of the new clothes but her eyes REALLY lit up when she opened the candy. Beverly always knows how to put a sparkle in Mom's eyes...truffles or peanut butter bears. This time, she brought both for Mom. Faster than we could say, "Would you like one, Mom?" she had a peanut butter bear out of the box and into her mouth.
Luckily she still had room for the cake as did we, after the chocolate was passed around the room. Let's hope the facility dietician doesn't see all this stash in her room. On the other hand, at 95 years old, I figure she has earned the right to eat all the chocolate she wants, especially since they tell me she usually has no interest in eating.

That brings us up to Mom's actual birthday yesterday. I went on over to have lunch with Mom. She was all decorated up with balloons on her wheelchair and a special glow about her. Mom loves a good party as long as it's a dry one. No alcohol for this former deaconness, thank you very much! Cooks, wait staff, and nurses came up to Mom and gave her big hugs and best wishes in the dining room. The Chaplain stopped by to congratulate her.

"How old are you now?" he teased. "Are you 69?"

"No," replied Mom, firmly. "I'm 95."

One of the other residents at the next table kept waving at Mom and she would wave back. Then it escalated to "Whee!" from the other table. "Whoopee!" shouted Mom in return. After about two minutes of that, I had to give Mom a little nudge and "shush" because the lights were being dimmed for the prayer before lunch.

It was a great lunch accompanied by a volunteer who was playing many old songs on the piano as we dined. Mom would occasionally break out into song, singing along with the piano.....even harmonizing. I told her that not many people can say that they have had a concert for their birthday party. Near the end of lunch, Beverly stopped by to say "hi" and also our church's Director of Music, Phil Cockrell.

As I prepared to leave after lunch, I reflected on the words of wisdom she had shared with all of us on Saturday when asked what she had learned in her 95 years. "Look up, laugh, love, and lift," she had said. It's been a motto that has served her well. And I thought about another piece of advice that she has given me over the years. "If you think about others, you won't have time to sit around and feel blue," she'd say.

Well, Mom. Here's to you! May we continue to enjoy the favor of your presence for years to come. You've taught us the value of friendship, the benefit of hard work, the thrill of scholarship, the treasure of family, and the joy of our Faith by the life you have lived. Happy Birthday!

And So They Live On

I had the chance to visit Mom today at the nursing home. It's been over a week since I was able to go there because I've been fighting a cold and didn't want to take the chance of giving it to her. Between my last visit and now, the staff had informed me that her roommate had passed away and that she had a new roommate. So I was anxious to meet her new roommate and also to see how Mom was handling the loss of her friend.

I found Mom in the lounge having her nails manicured. We spent a pleasant few minutes catching up on family news while I waited for the manicure to be done. When it was over, I took her on down to her room to get a sweater for her since she said she was cold.

Her new roommate was sitting in a wheelchair and had some sort of headphone/radio on. It must have had the speaker turned on because I could hear it from Mom's side of the room. I wanted to introduce myself but she seemed to be dozing. As I rummaged through Mom's closet, her roommate started carrying on a conversation but when I turned to see if she was speaking to me, it still looked like she was asleep.

"Why don't I take you to the library, Mom?" I suggested. "We can read some more of your book together."

"Sounds good," said Mom. "As long as I can spend time with you, I'm happy."

So off we went and soon we were settled in the cozy little library. I read her some emails that her friend, Ruthie had sent and we had a good laugh over them. Then I grabbed the book we were reading and turned to the spot where we had last left off. But first I thought I'd better say something about Mom's roommate.

"I was sorry to hear about Rhoda, Mom," I said, tentatively.

"Who?" asked Mom.

"Rhoda, your roommate," I continued.

"Why, what's wrong with her," she asked.

I was a little confused. Her nurse had told me that Mom had been told and that they were monitoring her to see how she was taking the news.


 "Um, well, Rhoda passed away, Mom," I told her. "I was sorry to hear that."

"She DID?", replied Mom, increduously.

"Didn't you notice that you have a new roommate," I asked.

"Good grief, no!" Mom looked me over. "I thought it was Rhoda."

"Well, no-o-o! It's a new roommate. So I guess you'll have to introduce yourself," I said brightly all the while kicking myself that I had said anything. If I had just kept my mouth shut, she might have gone on for another year still thinking that Rhoda was in the next bed.

Then again, by the time Mom got back to her room after lunch, she probably had forgotten all about the new roommate. And so it's true that a person's memory lives on in the minds of others. And that's a good thing, I think.

Who's Calling Who Geriatric?

My poor baby pup had to make a trip to the emergency veterinary clinic this past weekend. Thursday, if you will recall, she terrorized her regular vet's office but they couldn't find what was wrong with her. On Friday, she still wasn't keeping anything down but the vet suggested just keeping an eye on her over the weekend to see if things calmed down. By Saturday, she hadn't been able to keep food in her stomach since Thursday, was lethargic, and would frequently bite at her side.

One of my friends suggested various possible diagnoses but they just didn't seem to fit. I'd checked her ears....no mites. Checked her body for evidence of fleas....none, zip, nada! Had never seen any evidence of worms in her stools....thank you very much. She just seemed to be in pain and was upchucking in the most inconvenient places. It was time for some drastic action.

We made an appointment with the local emergency vet clinic and headed over there that evening. I covered the back seat in case she got sick again but thank goodness, she didn't. I did keep smelling something and was wondering if she'd had an accident (horrors!). Turns out the poor baby had a bad case of canine gas as part of this malaise. It shouldn't have surprised me. I mean, she IS a member of our family.

The vet quickly got her into an examining room and after some poking and prodding decided to keep her overnight and hook her up to an IV. She was dehydrated for starters. They also wanted to run some tests to check for possible Addison's disease, pancreatitis, blockage, and liver and kidney problems. Thankfully, around 1 a.m., the vet called us to report that her tests had come back ruling out Addison's and the xrays showed no sign of blockage or masses. Liver and kidneys were fine as was the bloodwork. It looked like she had gastro-intestinal flu.

They released her Sunday around suppertime. She came out much more energetically then she had entered. They had to shave her legs to get the IV hooked up. She would NOT let them keep it in one leg so they had to shave the other and she did let them keep it in the other leg. So now she has a semi-poodle clip. It's really amazing to me that a dog that is so fluffy with all that hair has such tiny little legs under all that fur.

What was more amazing (perhaps "shocking" is the better word) was the bill. Man, perhaps we should have looked into pet medical insurance. I wonder if Obama is going to include pets in his universal health care plan? What was even MORE distressing, though, was when I looked at her discharge papers and noticed that they had labeled her at the top of every sheet as a "geriatric canine." WHAT? She's only 8 years old. She has more pep and spunk than many 8 month old dogs I see. My husband pointed to the papers and I hissed, "Don't you DARE read that out loud." Bad enough that she felt like horse hockey. No need to make her feel any worse.

The good news is that today she is much better. She's getting a diet of boiled chicken and rice and she is keeping it all down. Her energy level is rising and she is grinning again. I had to take her back to her regular vet this afternoon for a follow-up and she seems to be on the road to recovery. She was back to terrorizing the waiting room occupants again. Thank goodness she has no clue that the animal professionals consider her to be "geriatric." As for me, I'm a firm believer in the old adage that "you're as young as you feel." Come on, pup! Let's go watch Cloris Leachman kick up her heels on "Dancing with the Stars."

Fresca, the Wonder Dog, Strikes Again

It's been one of those days. I knew it was headed south when I came downstairs this morning for breakfast and noticed the roll of paper towels sitting on the dining room table along with the floor cleaner spray. That usually means I'm going to be "treated" to an explanation of something that my dear hubby had to clean up when HE came down for breakfast before me.

I didn't have long to wait. It seems our dog, Fresca...a miniature American Eskimo, had a little accident in the night plus she had thrown up. This is very unlike her. She just doesn't have accidents in the house.

As I sat there mulling this over, I noticed that Fresca was acting very strange. She was acting even more neurotic than she usually does. First she'd jump up into one chair, turn around in circles and plop down. Then, two seconds later, she'd stand up and jump down and go to the other chair and repeat the same process.....turning, turning, turning and then plopping down. Two seconds later she'd jump down and turn her circles on the floor. She just couldn't seem to get settled and this turning had me baffled. If I didn't know that she had been spayed 7 years earlier, I would have thought she was trying to nest.

I watched her throughout the morning as she twisted her blanket in my craft room into a heap going through her circling and rooting motions and then did the same thing to the bedspread and blankets in the guest room. This was getting downright wierd. So I called her vet and made an appointment to bring her over in the afternoon.

Let me just say that I HATE taking Fresca to the vet because she always makes a big scene while we are there. We merely have to walk in the door and she starts with the attitude. Today was no exception. You know, looking at her you would think that Fresca is this happy, little ball of fluff. Well, that little fluff ball turns into a tiger when she arrives at the vet's office. We careened into the waiting room and I barely had enough time to slap the urine sample (and that's a whole 'nother story which I won't go into) on the receptionist's counter before she tried to take on a Rhodesian Ridgeback. He didn't look too impressed so she peered around for other victims.


Before we were called into the examining room, she had terrorized two tiny Yorkies, one of which had to be taken outside into the fresh air by his owner because I think the little thing fainted. Fresca berated a nervous Shih Tzu so loudly that the poor thing had an accident on his owner's lap. "Don't worry," the owner graciously assured me as she pulled out a kleenex. "I needed a stool sample anyway."


The door opened and a big, black lab started in. One look at Fresca's yapping face and the poor thing tried to escape back out the door so fast that it almost knocked its owner over. During all this, I was trying all of the Dog Whisperer's tricks I could think of, to no avail. I think it would have taken an elephant tranquilizer to get "calm and submissive" at this point.


We finally got in to see the vet, who got so fed up with Fresca's attitude that she hoisted her up, carried her to the back and muzzled her to finish the exam. That was fine with me. I was just glad for a little peace and quiet. After all that drama and $80 later, they couldn't find anything wrong with her. Her vocal chords were certainly fine because she had to give the waiting room another piece of her mind while I paid the bill.


One dog owner gallantly said, "Beautiful animal. American Eskie?"


"Yup," I shouted over the din.


"They've got a lot of energy," he continued.


"You can say that again," I responded and then we beat a hasty retreat out the door. Well, in Fresca's case it was more like a "charge." As we headed for the car, we passed the Yorkie and his owner who was cradling him like a baby.


"It's safe now. You can take him inside," I assured him. "This bad girl's going home."

One Donut Shy of a Relapse

True confession time! Here I was....merrily going along without so much as ONE donut from Sept. 9 to today, the 17th. That's eight days, my friends. More days than I've probably ever gone in recent history without the familiar solace of my glazed amis. Oh man, but did I blow it. I guess I could blame it on the phone call from my son who casually mentioned that it was only 3 days before he and his wife would be flying out of the country for what will probably be at least 3 years abroad. That's usually enough to send me reaching for empty calories. But it was probably more of a combination of the fact that I feel like I'm coming down with a cold, I only got 4 hours of sleep last night, and it was already 2 hours past my lunch time and I was hungry. So I elbowed a lady away from the donut case and plopped five, yes.....FIVE donuts into my shopping bag, paid and headed out the door. And I ate every single one. To compound the sin, I ate them while reading the latest issue of "Christianity Today." Is that a double sin? I guess in my twisted way of thinking, if I had eaten a full half-dozen, this would count as a relapse of the worst kind. But, since I was actually one donut shy of a half-dozen, I'm considering this only a temporary blip on the dietary radar and getting back into the saddle (Whoa, Nelly!)


I'm apparently not alone in singing the diet blues. On Monday, I went to my weekly diet group's meeting. Weigh-in wasn't great (I'd gained, but not too badly). However, when it came time for confession, it was soon apparent that there were quite a few of us who had gained. When the final tally was given, it was something like a total weight loss of 7 pounds and a total weight gain of 22+ pounds. Ouch!


Our instructor is really trying to get us motivated, bless his heart. He read us a list of warning signs that you have a problem with food. One of them was "You've eaten in the dark." 

"Eaten in the dark?", someone said. "Why would someone ever eat in the dark?"

Someone else piped up, trying to be helpful. "Well, how about when you eat popcorn in a movie theatre? It's dark in there."

"I've eaten in restaurants that were so dark you might as well have been eating in the dark. You couldn't see the food," added another member.

"Well, I've eaten in the dark," confessed my friend. "I've eaten in bed at night. And sometimes I sit in front of the TV at night and don't turn on the lights and I eat while I watch a show."

"I've got you all beat," I announced. "Have you ever eaten in a toilet stall?"

They all swung around to look at me. "Why would anyone want to eat in a toilet stall?", said the girl sitting across from me.

I shrugged. "I used to go down the hall and stand in a toilet stall to eat Reeses Peanut Butter Cups at work when I didn't want anyone to know I was cheating on my diet. The only problem was that inevitably I'd get stopped by someone on the way back who would want to chat and I had peanut butter breath."

They all hooted. "That takes the cake," someone shouted.

"Naw, I never took one of those into the bathroom."

Our leader was shaking his head. He could tell it was going to be one of those nights.
On a positive note, I got two wonderful skeins of yarn in the mail today from one of my favorite online vendors, http://www.theloopyewe.com/
The Loopy Ewe. Both skeins are from Creatively Dyed Yarns and the colors are just gorgeous. The one on the left is the "Bubblegum" colorway. It's a sockweight yarn in her yarn line called "Luxury" which is 80% Merino, 10% Cashmere, and 10% Nylon. The other skein is a vibrant red that just glows. It is in the colorway "Salsa and the yarn line is the same as I just described. I've decided that these colors are just too beautiful to hide in my shoes. I think I'm going to have to get more of the yarn and make some shawls out of it. What do you think? The woman behind this great yarn, Dianne, comes up with the colors from memories of her birthplace Trinidad and Tobago. I can't wait to get more of her yarn.


OK, that's all for today. I'm back on the "Do-NOT eat donuts" wagon. Guess I'll go find some cardboard to chew on.

Paradise Has a Price

I've been glued to the TV the last few days watching the progression of Hurricane Ivan....er, Igor.....Isaac? Oh, one of those "I" names. I can't seem to get this one straight. My husband pipes up, "It's named after an American president." "Ah, yes," I retort. "Ike." (Menopausal minds! Who knows where they go when they're out to lunch?)

As I was saying, I've been watching the news of Hurricane Ike with both fascination and dread. With fascination because something that big is simply awesome to behold, as long as you're beholding it in a nice, dry and remote location from the action. With dread because this time, it's gotten personal.

You see, my son Jason and his wife, Laura have been visiting her parents who happen to live just south of Houston, not far from a lovely little tourist attraction located on a bay inlet called Kemah. In fact, when we flew down to the Houston area for Jason's wedding, we enjoyed several great meals in Kemah, walking off the calories later on the boardwalk where we admired the boats tied up along the piers.


On Thursday, Jason called us to say they'd just finished boarding up the windows of the house and now his in-laws, Laura, and the dog were packing up and getting ready to leave because they had just received an order to evacuate by noon. Wow! Dad B. had decided to head towards Oklahoma where his youngest daughter attends college.


Our family network was up and running by Friday. My brother, John was emailing me and phoning me as we both watched "Ike" take aim on Galveston and the barrier island there. My brother-in-law, John graciously said he could put them all up at his place outside San Antonio if they needed an alternate place to stay. Hubby was flipping back and forth between the Weather Channel and CNN for up-to-the-minute news, and I was doing what I do best.....shopping since I'm not allowing myself to eat DONUTS, which is my usual escape valve when I'm stressed.


In January, after the wedding, my brother and sister-in-law and George and I had stayed for a week near the town of Surfside Beach, which is below Galveston on a narrow barrier island. The little resort we stayed at was right on the beach. We amused ourselves by driving into the little town for cheap cappaccinos and then we'd go to the little park and walk along the water and watch the surfers. Other days we drove back into Galveston and on our way back, we'd stop at a restaurant right along the highway with the seawall on the other side of the highway. This restaurant had big helpings, great desserts, and cheap prices. Perfect! Now John and I find ourselves wondering if it is still there. It didn't look that sturdy when we were there in January. And there was nothing but pavement between it and the seawall. For that matter, what's left of the resort? Or Kitty's Purple Cow, the diner we enjoyed in Surfside Beach?


One of the amazing things to us Midwesterners was the variety of houses on stilts that we encountered. We saw your typical modest beach houses on stilts, made out of wood. Basically they looked like typical cottages built on a wooden platform that was supported on skinny little wooden legs. These were usually right out on the beach, surrounded by scrub grass but with a spectacular view. Then you had your very fancy summer homes built on concrete pillars . These homes were also built on the beach but the grounds were landscaped a little better with actual grass and a few palm trees. They, too had a great view and were usually in some type of gated community. We'd drive past slowly and imagine what it must be like living in one of those homes, taking your coffee out on the deck and watching the sun rise over the ocean horizon.


In view of Hurricane Ike, there is one house we saw that we suspect would fare pretty well. This was a beach house built out of a buoy. It certainly looked bizarre but boy, you sure hope a buoy would float if a storm surge swept over it.


Since "Ike" has hit, we've seen pictures of debris scattered over highways we traveled on the way to Laura's parents' home. We've seen footage of Kemah flooded. We've heard that most folks are without power and can't expect to have it restored for weeks. We've listened to reporters tell of destruction in Surfside Beach, especially of those homes that were on wooden stilts. We've talked to Jason and they don't know yet what is the state of Dad and Mom B.'s home.


It occurs to me that most places that could be considered a "paradise" always seem to come with a cost. Oh, you might not consider Houston to be a paradise but believe me, if you'd come to Houston from a frozen PA in January and found folks walking around in shorts, it would have seemed like paradise to you. People move to Florida for the wonderful winters in a tropical setting. Cost = Hurricane vulnerability. Southern Texas and Arizona offer freedom from winter. Cost = scorpions and scorching summers. Coastal Texas throws in hurricanes. We lived in South Carolina, a lovely state with mild winters. Cost = summer humidity, bugs galore, and the occasional hurricane. California is a mecca for many. Cost = earthquakes, high ratio of , er, strange people, and "Ah-nold." 


Then there's my own personal favorite paradise, Minnesota. Hey, go ahead and laugh but in my family, we grew up knowing that another name for Minnesota was "God's Country." If that isn't paradise, I don't know what is. Yet anyone who grows up on the prairie knows that there is a cost that can occur. Goodness, children on the prairie develop their "weather eyes" at the same time they are cutting their "eye teeth." Blizzards can come up out of nowhere. You could be found frozen to death just a yard or two from your own back door back in the old days when snow would come in so thick that you couldn't see your own hand in front of your face. Tornadoes materialize out of huge thunderclouds that roll across the horizon in the summer. One of my great-aunts was killed when the barn roof blew off and crushed her as she was running for the farmhouse in such a storm. Yes, we keep a close eye on the weather in Minnesota. But on a nice day, there's no place finer.


But back to Hurricane Ike and all those who have been in harm's way. Our heart goes out to them and our prayers are with them. I don't know yet if David and Joyce's home has been damaged. I hope it has survived just fine. Regardless, I know it will be challenging for all those in that area who will be without power for the next few weeks. Houston isn't chilly this time of year. I complain when our lights go out for a few hours in a storm but weeks? Yet, we're a resilient people. And just as that famous old author, Milton wrote "Paradise Lost", we can remind ourselves that he also wrote "Paradise Regained."