Vintage '80s television...

shows, when viewed with the critical eye of one who has witnessed the evolution of special effects over the past two decades, are really pretty cheesy.  Even when they are written and produced by the late, great Stephen Cannell.  Did you ever watch Stingray?  It's the show with the guy who helps people and the only payment he asks for is a favor - which can be anything at all - to be redeemed at a later date when he is helping someone else in trouble.  Sort of like Robert McCall in The Equalizer, only as I recall, people did pay Mr. McCall for his services - or how would he have paid Mickey?  Both series came out in 1985 and I've always found it odd that both shows had virtually the same premise: a mysterious guy with no discernible means of support who goes around helping people who have somehow gotten themselves into some serious trouble - usually through no fault of their own.  Maybe that sort of stuff happens in New York - where Mr. McCall and his classified ads could be found - and in Los Angeles, where Ray seemed to hang out in any number of bars just waiting for potential clients to buy him a drink and pour out their tale of woe.  I happened upon the DVDs of the entire two seasons of Stingray at WalMart a while back for a mere ten bucks.  How could any lover of eighties television pass up that kind of bargain?  I am sorry to say that I didn't even make it through the first half of the pilot episode before I was bored and wondering why I ever sat in front of the television wasting an hour the first time I saw it.  Maybe because that was the eighties and my twenty-something self still thought I had all the time in the world.  I don't know - but unless the second half of the pilot improves drastically the next time I feel like planting myself in front of the TV, the disc is going back into the case and into the drawer.

Or in the Goodwill box...

Comfort food in a can...

When we lived on the farm when I was a kid, my mom and grandmother were always canning something - whatever was in season.  One of the big canning sessions involved zucchini (whose garden doesn't have lots of that?), tomatoes, onions and celery.  This staple was an appetizer, a side dish and spaghetti sauce.  I loved it!  Later, after we moved to Florida, my mom would buy DelMonte canned zucchini - which by the way - was just as good as the homemade stuff.  It seems like the grocery doesn't always have it, but the last time it was on sale I stocked up on a dozen cans and stashed them away.  Every now and then I open one and eat it for lunch - straight from the can, just like I did today.  Childhood comfort food at its best!

Not for the easily offended...

Isn't it funny how our brains work?  Last night I was thinking about my friend Kathy in Utah (and no, this donkey does not in any way remind me of Kathy) - we worked together many years ago.  I sent her an e-mail, read for a while and then I went to sleep.  Well, while I was sleeping I guess my brain continued to shuffle through the memories from that time in my life and I woke up this morning having remembered the most hilarious thing that happened back then.  If you're easily offended, stop reading now.  But if you like a good laugh, go to the bathroom if you have to and for heaven's sake, don't drink anything while you're reading.

My first job after college was at a doctor's office - a large ear, nose and throat group.  They also had a hearing and speech center where they conducted audiological testing.  That was my job - assisting the audiologist.  He wasn't a bad guy, I guess, but he'd worked with this gang of MDs for so long that he wanted to be a doctor, too.  So he got an EdD degree from some correspondence school and insisted upon being called Doctor BlahBlah in the most pompous and annoying way.  He also had a very pompous and annoying wife who fancied herself our office manager.  She was one of those people that just made you wish God would come along and thunk her on the head to put her back in her place.  Just a little wake-up call.  I know I've thought that about a lot of people and I'm sure a lot of people have thought that about me from time to time.  We all need the thunk from the Hand of Heaven now and again.  Well, this woman was on everyone's last nerve right about that time and seriously in need of a little thunk.

Suffice it to say, we had some interesting patients.  You know the kind: a lady who complained that she'd lost her hearing overnight (turned out to be a roach in her ear), kids with beans or macaroni in their noses or ears - you get the picture.  One interesting patient in particular was an older woman named Jeannette Wright.  She was a gnarled, wiry and perpetually frazzled sort of a woman with tightly-curled grey hair that went in every direction.  Some people are just odd, I guess and Jeannette was certainly that.  We never knew much of her story until the day she brought her son Steven along with her to an appointment.  Steven was about 40 and developmentally disabled.  Suddenly, Jeannette's frazzled, stressed-out behavior made a little more sense - here she was nearing retirement age and was unfortunately one of those people who had spent all of her life caring for someone with no end in sight.  Steven was a quiet sort, but when he did speak, he had an alarming tendency to make inappropriate comments.  To our receptionist, Trudy: "Does your husband like that you're so skinny?"  He once announced to me: "You have big boobs."  Inappropriate, yes - but a statement of fact.  We just let these comments go, understood Jeannette's strangeness a little better and tried our best to be nice to Steven and make him feel welcome.

On the day that Doctor BlahBlah's wife was so very desperately in need of her much-deserved comeuppance (as my Grandma would say), Jeannette arrived with Steven in tow.  I was asked to escort them into the testing room and the doctor said to his wife, "Come on in on this one, Blah, this should be interesting." I followed them back into the room and leaned against the closed door.  I didn't want to miss whatever interesting comment that Steven surely had in store for Blah.  The audiologist took Jeannette into the booth, adjusted the headphones and then proceeded to give her yet another hearing test.  It was a routine patient visit until Steven leaned toward Blah and said, "Psst."  She ignored him.  He leaned closer and said, "Psst!"  That got her attention.  "Yes?" Blah asked, innocently enough.  At that, Steven said, "You suck."  Blah's mouth fell open and she responded with an aghast, "What did you say?"  Steven repeated, very calmly, "You suck."  Blah began sputtering, obviously unsure of how to respond.  Even more calmly, Steven said, "You suck donkey dickies."  I was having a hard time controlling myself at that point, having actually witnessed the Cosmic Breeze finally blow some crap in Blah's direction, but Dr. Blah was completely oblivious to his wife's shock and dismay at Steven's pronouncement.  And finally, in a finish I will never forget, Steven leaned in again and said, "It's okay.  All my friends do."  I don't know what happened after that because I was out the door and dashing down the hall to my office where my shrieks of glee couldn't be heard by Dr. BlahBlah or his wife.  All I knew was, the Hand had delivered its Thunk.  Big time.

I owe Steven for that; we all had a good laugh (well, except for Doctor and Mrs. BlahBlah) and I learned that we are all instruments of God's work, whether we are aware of it or not.  Thank you, Steven, wherever you are!

Three things...

First, we are happy to announce the Peter the Mediocre has been promoted to Peter the Very, Very Good.  He is still working on the title of Peter the Great and we will notify you when he achieves that goal.

Second, I gave in to the chocolate calling my name at the grocery store this morning.  I made brownies yesterday afternoon and somehow, for a cook that normally underbakes everything, I burned the damn things!  They were palatable when they were warm, but they are terrible cold.  The rest of the batch may become a brownie trifle - they are in the freezer waiting for culinary inspiration to strike.

And finally, have I mentioned how much I love Etsy?  I've discovered all sorts of vintage stuff that I never knew I'd ever be able to find anywhere.  This cookbook is just like the one my mom had - published in 1933 by General Electric.  It's called All About Home Baking - and full of great old-time recipes for things like Lady Baltimore Cake and Clever Judy Frosting.  Fun!  I also found this vintage cookie press (same Etsy seller - saved on shipping!) with a dozen different discs.  Tim had gotten me one at a yard sale several years ago and the press was lost in the move - all I could find were the discs in their wooden holder, which were of absolutely no use to me - so I donated them to Goodwill.  And lo and behold, the day I found this cookbook - I found the cookie press too!  I was extremely pleased with my under $20 find - and a good dose of nostalgia, too.  Have I mentioned how much I love Etsy?

Happy Father's Day...

Daddy & Woodie - 1984

to the man who passed the cat fanatic gene along to me.  Not a day goes by that I don't think of you and smile.  Or laugh out loud.

Thanks for being the best dad I could have ever hoped for.

Those Geico commercials...

are a crack-up!  I just saw the "Do dogs chase cats?" commercial the other day for the first time.  That cat looks just like Peter.  He may be moonlighting as a stunt cat and I just don't know it.  I'll know for sure if the royalty checks start arriving in the mail.  Then I discovered that you can watch all the Geico commercials on YouTube - a boon for those of us who like to waste time on the internet.  I'll admit it - I've watched them all.  At least once.  I really love the "Is the pen mightier than the sword?" commercial.  Especially when the delivery guy asks for his pen back.  My dad used to say that when I was a kid, I could be running around the house making a general nuisance of myself when everyone else was trying to watch television (Ben Casey, Dr. Kildare or Sing Along With Mitch, probably) but when the commercials would come on, I'd be right in front of the screen watching with rapt attention.  In kid time, a commercial is just the right length.  I still get a kick out of them.

A funny Easter decoration...

Quite a few years ago, my little old friend Larry came toddling into my office on Good Friday and put this cute Fannie May tin on my desk.  He sat down and proceeded to burst out laughing.  I was puzzled.  "What's so funny?" I asked.  He snickered and pointed at the time.  I read the lid: Chocolate Filled Bunnies.  "Oh, chocolate bunnies!" I exclaimed as I opened the tin only to find my favorite Fannie May white chocolate covered truffles - Trinidads - inside.  "No - look at the tin," he said, still laughing.  Then I got the joke: the bunnies on the lid are filled with chocolate.  It still makes me laugh and think fondly of Larry every time I look at it.  And I wish I had a Trinidad right about now...

When you were a kid...

did you ever think you were getting away with something if you ate

the Butter Rum Lifesavers?

Just sayin'...

Remember this...

lovely card that my talented blogger friend Linda sent me a while back?  Well, I finally got a frame for it - didn't it turn out great?  I'd been looking for a suitable frame for a while and I ventured into WalMart today and they actually had a pretty decent selection of reasonably priced do-it-yourself frames.  Normally, I'd just call my friend Susan who has framed most of my artwork for the past, oh, twenty years or so - but in keeping with my resolution to be even more frugal this year, I decided to see if I could find something that looked like Susan had done the work.  Ariela thinks it's odd that I gravitate toward plain (mostly black) frames, but I like to see the thing in the frame - not have my eye drawn to the frame itself.  That's definitely what I accomplished here - and on the perfect day, too.  I had decided to take the day - or at least the morning off - and do errands, have lunch, go for a ride - something outside the house.  I was feeling a little down this morning; it's my official bad day every year.  Everyone has one, for one reason or another.  My dad passed away twenty-six years ago today - and not a day goes by that I don't think of him - and usually it's something funny that he said or did.  He was smart and funny and kind and generous - and the biggest coffee-holic I have every known.  He would have appreciated Linda's coffee artwork, believe me.  This man could drink an entire pot of coffee by himself in the morning before anyone else was even awake.  Then he'd put another pot on to brew while he showered and dressed.  He and the dog would have peanut butter on toast for breakfast with another cup of coffee.  Then he'd fill his thermos with the remainder of the pot and down the road he'd go.  He was a computer geek before the Geek Squad even existed.  Before Bill Gates invented Windows.  When computer programs got loaded into systems on magnetic strips.  Am I aging him or me?  Anyhow, I have no idea how many times Daddy refilled his thermos throughout the day, but the first thing he did when he came home was make a fresh pot of coffee.  He could drink the stuff all evening and still sleep like a baby.  Maybe the man was impervious to the effects of caffeine - who knows?  If he were a superhero, he'd have been CoffeeMan.  See, he still makes me laugh - even from the Great Beyond.

Happy birthday, Daddy...

Happy birthday, Daddy!  My dad would be 83 today.  I can’t imagine it, but I sure wish he were still around.  He would love the technology.  Daddy was a computer geek back in the old days – PCs were just becoming affordable when he passed away in 1985.  And the internet – he would have been a serious driver on the information superhighway.  This is the man who loved to read these six things – and in this order of importance:  1) Reader’s Digest; 2) the encyclopaedia; 3) the Bible; 4) the dictionary; 5) Chariots of the Gods; and 6) Project Blue Book.  He was once persuaded to read a biography of Johnny Cash but later said that he could have gotten the same information from the Funk & Wagnalls.  He would have been out of his mind with glee at the sheer amount of information available at his fingertips.  I can see it now: he’d be scouring the news for UFO sightings, emailing jokes to all of his cronies, having Our Daily Bread delivered to his inbox and contributing regularly to keep Wikipedia in business.  He’d probably even have a blog wherein he would debate whether or not Ezekiel’s wheel of fire in the sky was actually a UFO of biblical proportions.  And I’d be his number one follower.

Aunt Thelma...

My Aunt Thelma would be 113 years old today.  She was a hoot.  Barely four feet ten inches tall, she was a dynamo in stylish stilettos and a mink.  She lived in New York City and when she came up to the farm, it was like a holiday.  She’d arrive on the train in her city finery leaving a trail of Chanel No. 5 in her wake.  Aunt Thelma had been married to a very wealthy older man who had left her a widow with three children at a relatively young age.  She was a whiz at cutting fabric and her friends on Seventh Avenue kept her supplied with all of the latest styles.  She could make absolutely anything without a pattern.  She was so tiny she wore size four shoes – just the size all the latest shoe samples came in back then.  She was a sight to behold and a wonderful lady.  We looked forward to her visits because not only was she an absolute delight, she always came bearing gifts.  One of my favorites was a stuffed Pomeranian toy dog she gave me when I was six or seven; I carried that thing everywhere.  She always took us shopping in town, such as it was, and gave us all a little “mad money” as she called that we could spend any way we liked.  She always wore a dress or a skirt and while she was visiting she always whipped up a new dress for my grandmother out of some fabulous fabric she’d brought along.  After we’d moved to Florida, and my grandmother had passed away, Aunt Thelma came to visit and we had a day trip to Venice where we collected sharks teeth at the beach and treated her to her first-ever milkshake.  Can you imagine?  She was at least seventy at the time – I guess she’d gotten used to egg creams in the city.  By then she had married a much younger Merchant Marine who had no clue as to as to her real age or financial status and she aimed to keep it that way.  During her visit, I shared my room with her since there were two twin beds.  My sister was about six at the time and she ran into my room while Aunt Thelma was getting dressed.  The next thing we knew she was barreling into the kitchen to announce to everyone at the breakfast table that Aunt Thelma was wearing a “bra with legs.”  My sister had never seen an all-in-one bra and girdle get up.  Do they even still make those things?  We all had a good laugh, including Aunt Thelma, who wasn’t the least bit embarrassed that my father now knew the status of her undergarments as described by a six-year-old.  She and her much younger husband finally retired some years later to a condo in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania to be closer to her children – but “not too close,” as she said.  She was ninety-eight when she died and she had a nice, long life.  She never said an unkind word about anyone but her eldest daughter’s first husband – but he had it coming.   And I never heard anyone say an unkind word about her.  I think of her often, especially when I think some outrageous thing I would never say out loud.  Her best advice to me was this: “It’s okay to think whatever you want; a lady just never says it out loud.”  Happy birthday, Aunt Thelma!

Graham crackers...

I’ve rediscovered graham crackers.  When I was a kid, we always had them in the house and they were my dad’s favorite snack.  A serious treat was putting left over cake frosting on them.   After he died, we didn’t buy them anymore.  Just another reminder, I guess.  Last time I went to the grocery, they were on sale – buy one, get one free.  You know I can’t resist that kind of bargain, so I got a box of the HoneyMaid and a box of the cinnamon sugar variety.  I’d forgotten how much I like them.  They’re a relatively wholesome snack and they remind me of my dad.  It’s a double good thing!

A thing of the past?

I read a funny article today.  Apparently the makers of Guitar Hero are discontinuing their product.  It seems that the young generation is not as enthralled with air guitar as we were thirty or so years ago.  In fact, the only way some of these kids have even heard of rock and roll greats is by playing this video game.  How is that even possible?  Can today’s youth not know who Eric Clapton is?  AC/DC?  Foreigner?  The Beatles?  Not that I have occasion to play Guitar Hero, but it sure looks like fun.  And yes, I’ll admit, I played my fair share of air guitar (complete with wild headbanging) back in the day.  Hard to imagine, but I was well acquainted with Boston, Yes, Aerosmith, Heart and Led Zep.  I wanted to be Ann Wilson.  Right now I am probably the only person within a five mile radius who even knows who Yngvwe Malmsteen is.  Sad, but true.  The history of rock and roll should be a required course in high school.  Or college.  Especially college.  Of course, I am so old and demented that I have never heard the music of the Black Eyed Peas, Lil Wayne or, dare I say it, Lady Gaga.  And I have no desire to – not as long as I have my ZZTop CD and all those rock and roll classics on my iPod.  I mean, I may like old music, but there’s no reason not to utilize new technology.

Beets sucks...

and I know that sounds grammatically incorrect to you, but if you went to Calvin College and happen to be reading this, you will understand completely.  For the rest of you, Beets is the name of a residence hall (named for Clarence Beets, I believe) and well, its residents were always dweebs of the highest order and consequently, Beets sucks.  I know this because I have been personally fined for shouting this very thing out my Eldersveld Hall window in the general direction of the open windows of Beets Hall.  And five dollars was a lot of money in the seventies.  But I digress...  I am not enamored of the vegetable either.  I've tried to eat them because of their iron value, but let's face it, beets suck.  Seriously.  Badly.  Almost as much as a rutabaga, which my grandmother always tried to pass off as potatoes.  Gag me.  Ariela has been telling me forever that the way they prepare beets in Nicaragua will cure me of my beet hatred forever.  As you can see, she tried to tempt me with grilled beet salad.  It's pretty, and I did try a bite while she was here.  Not too bad, but then it was only one bite.  One very small bite.  I put the salad in the refrigerator and decided that I would eat it for lunch today.  Figuring it would be at its optimum taste potential at room temperature, I put the container on my desk at about eleven where it sat menacingly for about an hour.  Lunchtime came and the moment of truth had arrived - my fork poised above the colorful mixture - the scent of grilled beets assaulted my senses.  I can do this, I thought to myself, as I speared a small sliver of beet.  Resisting the temptation to hold my nose in a juvenile attempt to avoid the noxious flavor of beet, I dutifully chewed the nearly microscopic portion of vegetable flesh in my mouth.  Yuck!  Yuck, yuck, yuck!  I swallowed and dropped my fork.  Beets in any form really do suck.  Completely,  Incontrovertibly.  I'm fifty-two years old and I've gone this long without eating beets - why start now?  Damn their nutritional iron content, I hereby denounce beets forever.  I'll just take an iron pill.  Sorry Ariela - beets are just as bad in Nicaragua as they are in the USA.

I dream about organizing...

is that weird?  I've been an organizer since I was a little girl.  I used to alphabetize my books by author.  My Barbie dolls had a color-coordinated closet.  I had underwear with the days of the week embroidered on them.  You get the picture.  It's a wonder I didn't grow up to be a community organizer.  Not.  I rearranged my bedroom and my closet constantly.  And when I bought my own home - 1800 square feet of space that was mine, all mine! - I was an organizing fiend.  I mean that in a good fiend way.  One of my dreams was to have an gift wrapping center like the one in the picture.  I never did get one, but I came close when Tim installed cabinets and a workspace in my craft room - formerly the guest room.  It was lovely; he even built my sewing machine into a counter-top that he had installed into the closet after we removed the sliding closet doors.  Unfortunately, I never took any photographs of my craft room - dang it!  You think you're going to live in one place forever and then life happens and you don't - and well, it's just a nice memory.  The one thing that never seems to change is my penchant for organizing - and I'm working on the laundry closet in my spare time (do I even have any during tax season?) to make a place for my sewing fabric.  Don't worry - I'm sure I'll post some photos and yak about that project when I'm finished.  Until then, I can dream...

Battle Hymn of the Tax Tiger...

This logo is from a business in California - I wonder if they're Chinese?
WARNING: Another politically incorrect post.

I've been reading all about the newest scourge of the liberal media: the Tiger Mother who dares to discipline her children and demand excellence.  How dare she!  I mean, what is she thinking - raising independent, responsible children in a society where it's not considered politically correct to take responsibility for one's own behavior and accept the consequences.  Of course, what do I know?  I'm reminded every so often why God, in His infinite wisdom, did not give me children.  I don't have any patience and I prefer children who are seen and not heard.  Gasp - I would have been a Tiger Mother of the WASP variety!  Just yesterday, a client came to see me and brought along her eighteen-month-old child.  Not a problem - until she let him take books off the hallway shelf, relieve them of their covers and proceed to tear at the pages.  The word NO never came out of her mouth and probably never even occurred to her - she tried instead, unsuccessfully, to reason with the child and finally got him to relinquish the books.  Another reminder of why I am childless - I have no qualms whatsoever about bruising a child's pysche, ego, self-esteem or butt.  Whenever my sister and I went anywhere at all with my parents, we sat still and did not speak until we were spoken to.  The more I thought about the whole issue of child-rearing, I realized that we were raised by Tiger Parents.  Anything less than straight As was met with varying degrees of disappointment and an admonition to do better.  If I had a nickel for every time I heard, "This isn't your best work."  We didn't do sleepovers, we participated in very few - if any- extracurricular activities, limited television time and yes, we had chores at home.  I learned to play a musical instrument and entertain myself.  I learned to read at any early age and I have to admit that all of these things made me a better student and, I hope, a more responsible person.  Not that I haven't made my fair share of bad choices and mistakes on my own - but I started out with a solid foundation.  Personally, I think Tiger Mother could make a killing giving parenting seminars.  I know more than a few parents I'd like to sign up!

Don't shoot me...

I'm only the piano player...  I am thoroughly enjoying my ME page-a-day calendar and this illustration took me back to my childhood and my $22.50 piano.  Right down to the howling little dog, although mine was a black poodle.  When I was about ten and attending the First Baptist Church in Zephyrhills with my family, I was enthralled with the old upright pianos in all of the Sunday School rooms.  They were fair game on Wednesday nights after prayer meeting while the adults visited and I made the most of my unsupervised time with what I considered to be the grandest of all musical instruments.  I could barely read music, but I managed to pick out a fair number of tunes from the old hymnal.  One fateful evening, the choir director asked my father if I was taking piano lessons.  No, my father replied, we don't have a piano.  The choir director informed him that the church was planning to sell the old pianos to raise money for the new sanctuary and that my dad ought to consider taking advantage of getting a good deal on a piano for me.  How much, my father asked, dreading some astronomical figure.  "Oh, twenty five dollars," the choir director said.  "Think about it - I think your daughter has an ear for music."  My eaves-dropping ten-year-old self didn't hear that part - all I heard was twenty-five dollars!  It might as well have been twenty five hundred - I knew my mother was never going to go for that.  I had, however, underestimated my father and his ability to deal with my mother.  The next day over dinner, my father casually mentioned that the church was going to be selling some old pianos.  Her response was exactly what I expected: what do we need with a piano, we can't afford a piano, besides, we have no place to put it, blah blah blah.  My heart sunk.  My father was undeterred.  He told my mother that he thought the piano would be a good investment.  We can't afford piano lessons, she countered.  They went back and forth like that for a while until he finally announced that surely she couldn't say no to a piano for a mere $22.50.  Wait, I thought, wasn't it twenty-five dollars?  She wavered.  She said she'd think about it.  That was all Daddy needed to hear.  The following Saturday my father and his friend with a truck picked up my new (old) piano at the church and found a home for it in the utility room just off the kitchen.  And he had indeed only paid $22.50 for the piano; apparently they were willing to make him an even better deal and threw in a couple of old hymnals for good measure.  I can't tell you how excited I was that day or how much enjoyment I got out of that piano over the years.  I taught myself to read music and played anything and everything for the sheer joy of making my own music.  I would play and sing for hours on end all by myself in that little utility room.  Over the years, that piano occupied many out-of-the-way places and gave me many hours of pleasure.  Yes, my father threatened to throw away my Scott Joplin songbook if he heard Maple Leaf Rag one more time, but I would have to say that he enjoyed that piano as much as I did.  I miss that old piano, almost as much as I miss my father.

Thanks, Daddy, for $22.50 well spent.

Holy crap...

was my carpet dirty!  I had it steam-cleaned today for several reasons.  One: Aggie has accidents.  But she's twelve and I love her, so big deal - it's just a rug.  Two: the carpet by the front door was especially dirty and I wanted it to be presentable for tax season since that area is, in a manner of speaking, my lobby.  And three - the main reason for the big rush - was the notice I got stating that all units would be inspected between January 3 and 5!  I about had a heart attack - I've never lived in a rented space before (except my college dorm) and I didn't know that inspections were something the management company did in the real world.  I flew into panic mode - I had a lot of stuff to dust and scrub to my normal standard of clean before this inspection looming large on my horizon.  I rang the carpet cleaners who did a magnificent job on the old apartment when I moved to this one and they couldn't come until today.  Yikes!  I called the condo office and told Mark that I couldn't be ready for any inspection until Wednesday.  No problem, he assured me, since lots of people had scheduling conflicts as well.  That little wrinkle having been take care of, the procrastinator part of my perfectionist personality took over and I put everything off until this morning.  So I'm up early, frantically scrubbing the bathroom and vacuuming the floor in anticipation of the carpet cleaners' arrival at eleven.  I waited.  And I waited.  I waited some more.  They finally appeared at one-thirty and in the space of twenty minutes, my carpet went from grunge to glorious - and I really had no idea it was quite that grimy.  Anyhow, I paid the miracle workers and they went on their merry way to bring joy throughout the land.  I waited.  And I waited.  I waited some more.  At about five-thirty I rang the condo office and asked if they forgot me.  No, Mark assured me, they inspected all the apartments they wanted to see and the new owners of the complex were apparently satisfied with what they saw.  Aha!  So that's what this was all about - and regular unit inspections are only the hobgoblins of my overactive imagination.  Thank you, Jesus!  In my week long state of panic, I thought I'd somehow been transported back to college, where (and my old roommate Anne Estelle Davis can verify this) I vacuumed compulsively, straightened the wayward clothing in both her closet and mine while continually keeping watch on the bathroom because I lived in fear of the resident director's white glove tests.  Her "watch for lint on the floor" comment on our first room inspection just about undid me.  Anne didn't care.  People called us Felix and Oscar for good reason.  While I love Anne to death and she continues to be an inspiration to me after almost thirty-five years, this girl did not concern herself with housekeeping, laundry or making her bed.  We made a good team, though.  She kept me on a straight and narrow spiritual path and I made sure she had clean sheets on a regular basis.  Anne used to say, "I love when you make my bed; it's like sleeping in a rubber band."  High praise indeed.

I don't think I'll tell her how dirty my carpet was.

It's our twelfth Aggiversary...

Aggie came home to live with us on December 5, 1998 when she was about nine weeks old.  She was the feistiest puppy I ever met!

She went from little puppy to chunky monkey in no time!

She is still pretty feisty and full of herself at the ripe old age of twelve - only now I don't know whether to call her a chunky monkey or a cheeky monkey.  Or a chunky cheeky monkey.  She's still the very best Christmas present anyone ever gave me!

I usually have a plan...

but it seems that this time I do not.  Yet.  Isn't this a lovely table?  It's an antique Mission library table from the 1920s - and I paid all of $50 for it.  Al & Tom were gracious enough to go and pick it up for me from the people who advertised it on craigslist.  The husband told me that his wife just had too much furniture in their house and they wanted to get rid of it.  What's amazing is that it is exactly like a desk I bought for my mother many years ago.  There used to be a wonderful antique store downtown run by a lovely artistic lady who made annual buying trips abroad until she got too frail to travel.  I suspect that a lot of the items that she sold were family heirlooms; she was "old money" who had lived here most of her life.  My dad called it genteel - or what's left when all the old money is gone.  At any rate, she was lovely and so interesting to talk to - and she had wonderful things in her shop, including some of her own original artwork.  On a Saturday after Thanksgiving, much like today, we stopped in her store after the annual craft fair on the waterfront (a whole other story!) and had a look around.  I saw the desk and decided right then and there that I had to have it - and unfortunately, so did my mother.  Well, you can imagine who won - and I still paid for it!  I did score an antique English wicker market basket with folding handles that day, which I enjoyed for awhile, until my mother latched onto that too.  Story of my life - which is exactly why I never introduced her to my husband until after we eloped.  Wait - where was I?  Oh right - so I saw this bargain on craigslist and now it's sitting in the middle of my living room.  And I'm not quite sure where I am going to put it.  Yet.  But I'm working on it.  Really.