Lovely ...

Much to the consternation of some, Mom has an impressive streak to her name: If she's at an event – banquet, wedding, what have you – and there's a centerpiece to be won, she wins it.

Which happened again yesterday. So she shared it with me. It was a grey, damp, drizzly day. My doorbell rang. And when I opened the door, I saw these:

I had just thrown out my listless alstroemeria. Perfect timing! Thanks, Mom!

Always The Way ...

So, I popped over to Goodwill this afternoon, looking for props.

I have another cookie in mind, and June is almost here, and I try to not be repetitive with the props in my photographs. Goodwill is an awesome source. I never know what I'm going to find.

Today, I ended up buying three very disparate items, and none of them for the upcoming shoot, but I'm a sucker for a fluted bowl, I liked the shimmery metallic dude, and the tile? Could he be more charming?

And if you're wondering, no, there is no mark on the back of it. This will not be one of those stories. You will not see me on "Antiques Roadshow" someday – if it's still even on – saying, "I found this tile at Goodwill. It was seventy-five cents," only to have some dapper British gentleman inform me that it's Rookwood or some such and worth two thousand dollars. No, I just bought him because I like him.

Here he is hanging out with some other pottery friends. He feels more at home in this vignette.

Yes, he's a he.

Comedy And Tragedy ...

Oh, Melania, how do you stomach it?

That's what was going through my head tonight, watching Rachel Maddow pull no punches about the complete idiocy that is Romney's alliance with Trump.

As a woman, just a few months younger than me, Melania, how do you put up with such a sorry excuse for a man?

Yes, he's rich. I've read about the gold-plated seat belts on his latest airplane.

But is it worth it? To be married to the man who sat at the White House Correspondents' Dinner last year and was ridiculed, deservedly so, by the president of the United States? Was it possible to have any respect for your husband after that night?

Was it ever possible to have any respect for him at all?

Here's the thing about the Trump absurdity as it spewed forth from every media outlet today: It's funny. It's laugh-lest-you-cry funny.

Here's the other thing about the Trump absurdity as it spewed forth from every media outlet today: It's heartbreaking. Not for Donald, of course. He's soaking up the attention like a free spray-on tan.

But for the GOP. And for this country.

The Grand Old Party is a lot of things these days, but it sure as hell ain't grand.

And truly, what does it say about the United States of America, magnificent country that we are, that the Republican nominee for the presidency is in Las Vegas tonight glad-handing alongside Donald Trump for a measly couple of million bucks?

This is what the Republican party has come to, and as much as I despise a lot of what the party stands for – if you can call some of the low blows it's landing of late "standing" – wow, I can't help but feel some pity along with my scorn.

Can anyone, honestly, see Mitt Romney as president in any scenario? I can't. Maybe you can.

But can anyone, honestly, see Mitt Romney as president in a true leadership and diplomatic capacity? Can anyone, honestly, picture Mitt addressing the United Nations and being taken at all seriously?

Of course not. Because Mitt, as of tonight, the night he clinched the Republican nomination for the presidency of the United States of America, is now fixed firmly in the world's mind as the guy standing next to Donald Trump, the "bloviating ignoramus" of our time.

There's a bit of glee in it for me, that the GOP is so far gone, so pathetic, so nuts, that its nominee for the presidency has prostrated himself at Donald Trump's feet, and has proven himself so craven in his bid for 50.1 percent of the vote.

But there is much more sadness. Whither statesmanship? Whither honor?

This is the campaign for the presidency of the United States.

And the GOP has reduced its role in it to a freak show.

'Then Again' ...

I knew I wanted to read it but I didn't know what to expect.

It had been on my list of books to read, the list I keep on index cards in my wallet, and Angelo recommended it and his opinion is surely sound, but then I saw her on Colbert recently and I wondered if she was drunk. There's "flighty" and then there's "downright strange."

But "Annie Hall" is one of my all-time favorite films, and so odds were good that I was going to like Diane Keaton's book. I checked it out of the library. It is in extraordinary shape. I wondered if I was the first.

I started it and then set it aside. Rare is the book that I read without interruption anymore. I blame this machine.

But I picked it up again the other day and then set it down, but only long enough to retrieve the pad of sticky notes from my office. For there, on page 43, was something worth flagging:

"I always thought I'd be crushed by people who didn't buy into me. But I wasn't."

And then, 13 pages later, this:

"I'm still the dumbest person alive. One apparently does not grow out of stupidity."

She wrote that while she was in the company of "Hair."

Clearly, early success had not gone to her head.

Nor did success that came later. Of winning the Academy Award for "Annie Hall," Keaton writes: "I knew I didn't deserve it." Of the fame it brought to her, she wrote: "I wasn't prepared for the discomfort—or, rather, the guilt—that came with it."

Guilt?

Fascinating.

Turns out, her memoir amazingly well written. There are passages that are truly beautiful. Speaking of her relationship with Al Pacino, she writes:

"One night—my favorite—I listened to him tell me about being a kid on the street. He loved the fall and how the shadows amplified the broken-down brownstones. he told me the world would always be that street in the Bronx. Every beautiful thing was compared to those days, with the light shining its gold on his friends and the street. Always the street. I listened."

And there are phrases like this: "... Dexter has stolen his waffle .... ."

How can you not be charmed?

And I loved her description of family: "One day you end up having spent your life with a handful of people. I did. I have a family—two, really. Well, three if you think about it. There are my siblings, and there are my children, but I also have an extended family. The people who stayed. The people who became more than friends; the people who open the door when I knock. That's what it all boils down to. The people who have to open the door, not because they always want to but because they do."

It is a beautiful portrait of her and her mother, of trying to understand who she is, who her mother was, and who they were to each other. The fact that her life has been punctuated with relationships with Woody Allen and Warren Beatty and Al Pacino is fascinating but incidental. This is not a book about Keaton and her leading men and luckless loves. But they do contribute to the portrait of a woman who exemplifies that even a life as seemingly enviable as hers offers no guarantees. Fame and fortune may be tickets to grand homes and expensive cars but self-awareness has no price tag.

Diane Keaton hasn't figured out a lot about herself, but she proceeds, figuring it out as she goes.

"What is perfection, anyway? It's the death of creativity, that's what I think, while change, on the other hand, is the cornerstone of new ideas."

Don't Mess With A Classic ...

I am a potato-salad purist. No fancy ingredients. No mustard, please. Potato, green pepper, celery, onion, egg, Miracle Whip, and mayo.

Color Rant ...

I just have to get this off my chest:

I. Hate. Kelly. Green.

I hate it. I really hate it. It pisses me off, kelly green. It offends me. It ... ooh, grr.

And I don't know why.

I love the color green. I love it. I have many shades of it in my home. I have many shades of it outside my home. (Trees are predictable like that. Grass, too.) I buy green clothes. I just recently bade farewell – yes, bade, dammit – to my favorite green sweatshirt.

The only instances in which I can abide kelly green are related to food. Well, if you count green LifeSavers as food. Which you shouldn't. And neither should I. There was a time when I liked Green River, but now I think that's disgusting, too.

So, basically, there exists almost no moment in my life nor place in my psyche in which I can abide kelly green.

Which is why I was on the verge last night of shouting at my television like I was channeling Lewis Black when I saw a makeover of a bedroom and they painted it kelly green.

I wanted to pick up the phone and call the person I know who knows the person who selected the color and tell him to tell him to go back in time and choose something else. Anything. Any other shade of green.

Because no one wants to live in a kelly-green room. And if they say they do, I will think they are lying. Because no one should want to live in a room like this.

This is not the room I saw on TV. I didn't even bother looking for the room I saw on TV. I never want to see that room again. That room pisses me off.

I can't explain it. I have no idea why I hate one specific hue in a color I otherwise love. It's not too yellow. It's not too blue. It is smack-dab, hardcore, right-in-the-middle, as-pure-as-green-gets green.

And I freakin' hate it.

And I hate that I saw a blog espousing the virtues of kelly green and the woman included a picture of Granny Smith apples!

Granny Smith apples aren't kelly green, you dolt. You can't spout off about how much you love kelly green if you don't understand the color that is the color kelly green.

Seriously, kids, keep me the hell away from kelly green. It's a trigger to a bad scene.

Though I will still happily accept the green Chuckle.

I guess the green Chuckle is the one exception to the rule.

But don't even talk to me about Fruit Stripe gum.

To Be Clear ...

I read this post and my breath caught in my chest.

What a remarkable young girl. What remarkable parents she must have, to have raised her to be able to be so clear and so mature about what she needs. And yet even her mother was struck by the simplicity and straightforwardness of her child, in emotional pain, saying, "Mom, I need a lot of love to get me through this."

Those words make me cry.

Because who of us haven't been in that exact place, where life feels overwhelming yet we're unable to ask for what we need?

I've surely been there. In recent years, I've been there quite a lot. Sudden deaths of those I love exacted a large toll. Anticipated deaths, as well. Parents in the hospital at the same time sapped my strength, more emotionally than physically, but physically, too.

And I've been very fortunate. I am very fortunate. In the wake of loss, in a sea of stress, friends and family rallied. Mom delivered countless meals. So many formed a continuum of caring, gestures large to small, all appreciated equally. From dinners out, to get me out of the house, to flowers to sympathy cards to emails to IMs to texts, all of them carrying the same message: I'm thinking of you.

Oh, how they buoyed me then.

One person was conspicuously absent and while I know I should not have let his absence affect me so deeply, it did. Our friendship ultimately ended. I did the ending. And in my heart, I know it was the right decision, for many reasons.

But this morning, after reading this post, I wondered what might have been if I had been able to say to him, plainly, "I need a lot of love to get me through this."

Perhaps he would have been able to provide it. Perhaps not. I'll never know.

But what a good lesson for the next time life presents me with an emotional challenge. What a good lesson for us all.

Women are "allowed" to be emotional but some days are more than we can take. On the flip side, men are "expected" to man up and muscle through tough times but, likewise, some days, they must need more than they can muster on their own.

There is much we grown-ups can learn from that young girl.

When In Doubt, Ball Of Twine ...

I've been looking at the intersection of these picture frames forever, thinking I needed something to set them off. Something natural. Something round. Something to soften the lines.

I thought about a croquet ball. At a home store, I paused at a bin of decorative spheres. But I'm not a big fan of anything mass produced.

Then this morning, I glanced up and my brain said, "Twine!"

Yup, twine. Of course.

I have extra twine from a past project. Why not a ball of twine?

I gave myself a head start with a ball of foil, then started wrapping it in twine. When I couldn't see any more foil, I figured I was done.

Yup. Ball of twine.

Fare Thee Well, House ...

"House" is over.

I miss it already.

Last week, after the penultimate episode, after the promo for what was to come this week, I let out an unexpected little sob.

"Really, Beth?", I thought to myself.

But then I understood: I wasn't sad for the loss of my favorite TV show.

I was sad for the loss of my favorite TV show because it reminded me of the loss of my friend Dave.

L.A. Dave is the one who turned me on to "House," many years ago. I didn't watch it from the very start. I don't know why.

But Dave knew that I would love it. He was always recommending movies I should see. My Netflix queue grew to unwieldy proportions because of him. Some titles landed in my mailbox. Come on by sometime and I'll hook up the VCR and we can watch "Next of Kin."

Dave would see Hugh Laurie at press events and report back the next day: "Hugh Laurie says 'Hi'!"

Hugh Laurie says "Hi."

I never questioned whether Dave actually told Hugh about me. I don't think Dave possessed the ability to lie.

Hugh, even, is mentioned in the blog post that I wrote the day I found out that Dave died.

So the three of us, we're inextricably linked, in my mind, you see.

And so a farewell to "House" was a bit of a farewell to Dave all over again.

I won't rehash the episode, lest I spoil it for those who haven't seen it. Suffice it to say that the writers did not disappoint.

I will miss my Monday-evening date with my DVR. It was a show like no other.

And one day, perhaps, I'll run into Hugh Laurie on the Santa Monica Pier.

He'll remember Dave, I'm sure.

Life Lesson, Edited For Time ...

I can multitask.

For example, last night, I was lying on my couch and judging the people on the television.

I was watching "House Hunters" – I almost didn't have to mention that part, huh? – and the couple in question was downsizing because the husband lost his job at a bank.

I wasn't judging the job loss. I've been there. It's an awful feeling.

And I wasn't judging the decision to downsize. That is a practical, grown-up response.

I was judging that they were downsizing from a 7,500-square-foot home into about 3,500 square feet.

Oh, poor babies.

I spoke sternly to my television: "Do you know how many people in this world never live in 3,500 square feet? Do you know how many people live six or 10 to a room and are grateful just to have a roof over their heads?"

Clearly, the existence of absurd shows and specials like "Million Dollar Rooms" and "Million Dollar Closets" are getting on my nerves.

They saw three homes, as all couples on "House Hunters" do, and I was sure – sure, sure, sure – that they would pick the third house, because it was the most "done," because it was the most like the space they were leaving behind. "Because they're shallow," I said to my TV.

But no. They picked the first house. Well, knock me over with a feather.

As the doorbell dinged at the end of the show and viewers checked in with them two months later, a little bit of my faith in humanity was restored. They were happy in the new home, they said (and it seemed real, not something a producer instructed them to say), they were closer, they spent more time together. Yup, that'll happen in a smaller space. When each kid doesn't have a cavernous bedroom to call their own, they might actually hang out in the common areas of the house. Yes, even with the renovations they were planning, they were able to find happiness for about $400,000. And they genuinely seemed better for it. Yes, they discovered, home is about being together, not square footage.

Now maybe they can have a chat with the people who think they can't live without a million-dollar closet.

My Cell Phone Is Dumb, And Dumb It Shall Remain ...

Last fall, I wrote a post about my Fisher-Price phone.

I still have it. The hamster that powers it hasn't yet died, so it remains my phone, such as it is.

Oh, sure, I flirt with the idea of a smartphone. Well, not just any smartphone. An iPhone. I am a Mac girl. Period. If I were to go down the smartphone path, the spirit of Steve Jobs would be beside me.

But more and more, I realize that I don't want one.

I never was a cool kid, and smartphones have been around for so long already that owning one will bring me no cool-kid cred. And everywhere I look, most everyone's gaze is fixed to a phone. It's unsettling.

A few days ago, Mark Sisson posted this: "Why We're Missing Out on Real Life." And reading it called to mind too many instances of bad smartphone behavior.

Like the friend I hadn't seen in a year who, over the course of our conversation that lasted maybe two minutes, turned his attention to his phone twice to text or tweet or something. Really, pal? You can't go two minutes without ignoring the person in front of you? Twice?

And like the guy I dated who brought his phone to bed every night. Um, really? You're not a doctor, dude. There will be no middle-of-the-night calls for you to race to the ER and save someone's life. Do you really need to know if someone updates their Facebook status at 2 a.m.?

Also, smartphones remove any chance at plausible deniability. It's pretty hard to find an excuse for not being in touch with someone when you carry a phone-cum-computer in your pocket. Then again, such access does lay bare the truth about a relationship: If someone has 24/7 access to communicating with you and chooses not to, that says a lot, doesn't it?

I spend too much time on my laptop as it is. It's wireless, but I don't tote it with me everywhere I go. Sometimes, even when I'm home, I make myself not check email for an hour or two.

Of course, someday, work may demand that I have such connectivity. And then, I'd relent. But as a civilian, I'm happy with my dumb phone. It's lovable in its decrepitude. And the hamster needs the gig.

Color Quest ...

It all started here.

Which was pinned from here.

Which was taken from here.

I was so smitten with the chairs – I have this obsession with peacock blue, and don't ask me where it came from, because I have no idea – I didn't really notice the wall color until Angelo mentioned that it, too, is pretty swell.

Oh, is it!

I started poking around Benjamin Moore's site (it's the only paint I use) and found this swatch and it looked pretty similar to the inspiration, but who can tell, what with monitor calibrations and all?

So, today, I stopped by the paint store to nab a couple of chips. And I cut out the color I needed and taped them together (to judge the color from a small square not a smaller rectangle) and looked at that chip in relation to the chip of the color in the adjacent room, and you know what?

I really like how they relate to each other.

This photograph doesn't capture the colors exactly, but the Providence Olive swatch on Benjamin Moore's site looks very, very beige. Then again, Providence Olive on the wall in my TV room looks much more green than this, which pleases me.

So, Jack Pine may have to become the color of my office. Just as soon as I get moldings installed to give me a point up to which to paint. My office has a high, angled ceiling. There's no logical place at which to stop painting. Unless I paint the ceiling as well. Which might not be such a bad idea.

Squirrel In Repose ...

Yesterday, I glanced out my dining-room window and saw a squirrel, sitting in the grass. Now, squirrels sit in the grass. This is nothing new. But usually, squirrels sit in the grass briefly, in between bouts of bounding about and scampering up and down trees.

But this squirrel just sat. And he appeared to have his paws folded in front of him. A squirrel in repose. I nabbed my camera and snapped a few frames, uploaded them into my computer, and then snapped some more. Over and over. I even called out to the squirrel, paparazzi style. He continued to sit. Eventually, he made a couple of leaps over to the base of a tree, but then he resumed his pose.

I decided that his name is Felix.

I hope he returns.

Happy Mothers' Day ...

Mom's always been really beautiful. Me? Well, I had hair only a mother could love.

Created Equal ...

I know this may come as news to some but the United States is not a theocracy.

That is, the Bible (or any other holy text, for that matter) cannot be used as a justification for enacting laws.

Period.

And to those same people who would attempt to use the Bible as a bludgeon or an exclusionary tool, may I direct your attention to the phrase in the Declaration of Independence, "all men are created equal."

Equal.

As in "not unequal."

It should not anyone's place to vote on whether other citizens should be granted their inalienable rights.

Because they are inalienable rights.

Inalienable.

As in "unable to be taken away."

Except that some people have never had them in the first place.

This week, North Carolina voted not only to ban gay marriage – which was already banned in North Carolina – but also voted to deny a whole lot of rights to a whole lot of people who straight, too, while the very next day, President Obama pronounced his belief that gay people should be able to get married.

And I've watched the volleys on Twitter and Facebook and many sites I read.

And I see a lot of fear.

And I don't understand it.

Love, people. All we're talking about here is love. The right to marry the person you love.* And please, don't make a mockery of this very important discussion by asserting that if we allow gay people to marry that suddenly people will be allowed to marry their dogs, or, as one legislator suggested, marry ice cream.

I've written about this before. I've asked someone – anyone – to explain to me how allowing gay people to marry "weakens the institution of marriage" as seems to be the prevailing "reason" to deny people their rights.

Marriage is plenty weak already, folks. Have you seen the divorce rate?

Yet straight people are allowed to get married and divorced just as many times as they please. Or as many times as their bank accounts will allow.

But gay people aren't allowed to obtain a piece of paper that will make their combined lives easier and better even though many of them have been together for decades.

Any why is that?

No, really, I'm asking.

Why is that?

Because some people think it's "weird"? Or "unnatural"?

What if you were gay? Wouldn't you want to be able to marry the person you love?

What if your child was gay? Wouldn't you want your child to be able to marry the person they love?

Some years ago, an older friend of mine was preparing to go to his daughter's wedding. She was marrying her partner, a woman. And my friend said, "Beth, I don't understand it." And I said, "You don't have to understand it. You just have to love her."

It's that simple.

Everything in the world comes down to love or fear.

Let love prevail.

* Some people may bring up the idea of plural marriage here. But for the purposes of this discussion, I'm focusing on couples.

P.S. For all those who cite the Bible in discriminating against gay people, you have to follow through on all of these points, too.

When A Fear Comes To Pass ...

My basement flooded.

Not feet of water, thankfully, but any water is too much water inside a home.

Especially if that part of the home is carpeted. And drywalled. And finished with lovely oak baseboards. And open to the main floor of the house. I can't just close a door.

We had extreme weather move through, dropping many inches of rain in the span of a few hours. Too much water, too fast. Storm drains couldn't keep up.

I have confronted this possibility before. Hoses and pumps and generators have been involved. And each time, I managed to stay ahead of the crisis.

But not this time.

The water started coming and despite the valiant assistance of my lovely neighbors, there was nothing we could do.

What fascinated me, though, was that once I had resigned myself to what was happening, I felt surprisingly OK. I had feared this happening, and now it was happening, and I was still here. I was fortunate, even. Natural disasters continue to mount. So many have lost their homes, have lost all their belongings, have lost loved ones.

In comparison, what was water?

Just a nuisance, really.

And so I wondered what it was I should do, as the rain continued. I couldn't sleep. I was too amped up on adrenaline and I was dirty, besides. I couldn't take a shower. I didn't want to add to the water issue. I couldn't do anything requiring power, as we had lost power partway through the storm.

So I changed into some dry clothes, put on my robe, covered the couch in the living room with some towels (my hair was wet from the rain), and tried to rest for a while.

I dozed on and off. For about two hours.

I had to be out of the house for most of yesterday, so one of the lovely neighbors came by to be here while the plumber did what he needed to do, and now the clean-up team is here, sucking water out of my carpet and installing industrial-strength dehumidifiers and doing their best to make things right again.

So while I hope to never have another such occurrence, I'm strangely glad to have finally dealt with something I'd hoped I'd never have to face. Because it is yet another reminder that I am capable of dealing with whatever comes my way. It is also yet another reminder that I have amazing family and friends who leap into action at a moment's notice and help me with whatever needs to be done.

Soggy basement and all, I am grateful.

On The Importance Of Introductory And Parting Thoughts...

Yesterday, my friend Patti Digh returned to her alma mater on the 30th anniversary of her graduation to deliver the commencement address.

She was honored, as you can imagine anyone would be, to be invited to impart one of the last lessons the graduates would learn.

Reading her address yesterday reminded me that I had no recollection of who spoke at my college graduation. A visit to my university's web site this morning to ascertain that information made me laugh: There was no one listed for the year I graduated. Maybe I had no recollection because no one spoke. But if someone did, they were entirely forgettable, as evidenced by the fact that I have forgotten them entirely. I can only surmise that nothing profound was said that day. Nothing that felt profound to me, anyway.

And so as I read my way through Patti's address last night, I was very mindful of the good fortune of yesterday's Guilford graduates. What if someone like Patti had spoken at my graduation? Would I have been mature enough that day to truly absorb the importance of what I was hearing? I'd like to think so. But then again, I was only 21, and for as much as I thought I knew that day, I know now that I knew next to nothing.

You should absolutely take the time to read her remarks in their entirety, but allow me to comment on a couple of moments that struck a chord:

The verbs we live – that is, the actions we take – create the landscape of our lives. The verbs we live, the actions we take, the story we frame over those actions – all those things together create the structure of our land – those valleys and mountains of our atlas of experience. And like any hike up any mountain or through any landscape, the process is messy while you’re in it, and there is just no way you can see a clear path, not until you’re finished. So it is okay to be lost. That is what I’m telling you. It’s okay to be lost and not know – because that’s what learning is, that’s what life is.

Truly, these words would have altered the course of my life. I've no doubt.

It's okay to be lost and not know – because that's what learning is ... .

It's okay to be lost and not know.

I have spent all of my adult life in search of that knowing. I am just now, in the past year or two, figuring it out. As much as I can figure out any of it. A good number of my days, from that day 'til this, have been spent wondering what was wrong with me, watching nearly everyone I knew and know go about their lives with what appeared to be a sense of assuredness and wondering why it eluded me.

Patti is one of the people in my life who models for me that there is another way to live beyond what is "expected" of us. In some ways, her life is "typical" – she is married, she has kids – but in many ways, her life is remarkable to me.

And I wonder if she knows that that is how she is perceived. (I know that I am not alone in my appreciation of her.) And I wonder if she sees her own life as we perceive it to be.

I expect not, not entirely, because I don't know if anyone is capable of feeling inside what is witnessed from outside, but on the other hand, I hope so, too. Because that would be a good feeling to feel.

And so, I hope that everybody reads her words, be they college grads just starting out or those much further down their paths, because I can't imagine that any of us couldn't use a little reassurance.

Another passage that truly struck me was this:

Don’t feel panicked if you don’t know what that dream is yet. It is like those old roadside signs that used to spell out an advertisement one sign at a time as you went down the highway. While you’re navigating the landscape, the atlas of your life, the signs will come to you one by one. The way they connect isn’t known until you get to the last sign. The map is only complete when you stand at the final page of the atlas.

I have spent an absurd amount of time trying to chart a course that, turns out, has always been unknowable to me. Because it is unknowable to us all.

Which is as it should be, unsettling as that may sometimes seem.

But as E.L. Doctorow once said: "Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way."

Makes Beth Happy, May 5 ...

The Makes-Beth-Happy Word of the Day is:

Bucket!
Specifically, a bucket of pulled pork. As with everything in life, context is key. Bucket of sand? Not funny. Bucket of pulled pork? Funny!

The Makes-Beth-Happy Recipe of the Day is:

Pulled Pork Sandwich

Because you'll need pulled pork for your bucket. Frankly, this recipe seems like too much effort – I'd just use a good off-the-shelf barbecue sauce – but I really liked the image, so sharing the link was the right thing to do.

And the Makes-Beth-Happy Objet of the Day is:

Vintage London Clock

I love him.

Farewell, Son Of Woobie ...

Sigh.

Once upon a time, I had a sweatshirt. From Eddie Bauer. But not a sweatshirt like we think of sweatshirts. It didn't have a banded bottom. It did have vents on the side. I'm sure some catalog writer had a more clever name for it, but it was like a sweatshirt. But better. Softer. Heavy.

It was like my woobie.

(Remember that scene, from "Mr. Mom"? When Michael Keaton talks his son into giving up his woobie? By the way, don't let the YouTube link confuse you. "Woobie" is the proper spelling, not "wooby." I checked.)

I loved that sweatshirt. It was sage green. It grew softer over time. It was the closest I ever came to wearing pajamas in the real world.

I washed it and dried it too many times to count. The cuffs began to fray. Holes began to form. I didn't care.

My mom cared, but I didn't care. I loved it.

But one day, I realized that I could no longer wear it out into the world. It was beyond ratty. I'm surprised Stacy and Clinton didn't cart me away.

I saved it for a time, thinking that someday I would cut a swatch from the body of it, which was still intact, and make a pillow. But eventually, I let it go.

I returned to Eddie Bauer to buy a replacement, but of course, they was no longer there. Lines change. People – people who are not me – move on.

But I found one that was similar. Similar in color, similar in cut. I bought him and brought him home.

He was stiffer, not as comfy. But I knew I'd grow to appreciate him over time.

One day, I noticed an odd splotch on him. And then another. I realized that where I had been pouring detergent on him, he'd been losing a bit of color. That was strange. I don't remember buying any detergent with bleach. But it kept happening. Eventually, he looked a bit like camouflage.

He was never the same as my first sweatshirt, but I loved him, too.

We were together for a long time.

Until today.

I did a load of laundry, and as I sat folding it, I looked at him and his forlornness, and I knew it was time to say goodbye. No longer could I justify turning the cuffs back multiple times to hide his wounds. Even though he had long ago been relegated to sleepwear.

Change is good. I need to move on. There will be other sweatshirts. They won't be the same, of course, but I'll learn to love them.

Farewell, son of woobie. May you find your father, somewhere in the great beyond.

Walking ...

Yes, this really is a post about walking.

Perhaps tomorrow, I'll tackle its fascinating sibling: breathing.

No, not really.

But this morning, I read this Mark's Daily Apple post about walking (I love Mark's Daily Apple; I recommend it often, like now) and one of his points is that our society isn't set up for walking, and indeed, it is not.

Yes, there are the often treacherous slabs of sidewalks that jut up dangerously thanks to tree roots underneath, but in many places, there are no sidewalks at all. What is up with that? Shouldn't they be part of every urban and suburban development?

I like to walk my errands when I can. I like to walk to the post office. I like to walk to my insurance agent's office. I like to walk to the grocery store. I haven't walked to Starbucks in a while (OK, maybe like a year), but I used to walk there every morning. And back. The back part was always more pleasant, being caffeinated. But folks would marvel that I'd make that trek. It's about 3.5 miles, round trip. Not ridiculous. And certainly not ridiculous if you're sucking down a latte for half of the trip. I may not have been burning off as many calories as I was consuming. I may have been gaining weight while I was walking.

Happily, I've mostly sworn off Starbucks. But I miss the walk.

I used to walk to the Hallmark store, as there were sidewalks almost all of the way there, and then I'd just traipse through the grassweeds in front of the store for the final few feet. But then the Hallmark store moved to a ridiculous development that is not only, realistically, too far away for the purposes of walking, but there is a dearth of sidewalks along the way.

Even my Walgreens moved slightly beyond comfortable walking distance.

Humph.

I have a treadmill, but walking on a treadmill is often boring. Even with tunes.

Walking outside is nice, but I'm easily influenced by the weather. Too hot? No walk. Too humid? No walk. Too cold? No walk. Too windy? No walk. Raining? Forget it. Snowing? Surely you jest.

Yes, that's right: I'm a wuss.

But truthfully, I do walk when walking's called for. One very snowy day, I trudged up and back to the store because my car was out of commission. And after the big storm last year, I walked a lot, but that was largely due to the fact that there were trees lying in the street and my car was trapped in my garage.

But yes, walking. I have such romantic notions about it, of communities where people go for evening strolls, perhaps on their way to a place that sells great ice cream. Or where they walk to farmers' markets and chat about vegetables. Where kids run ahead – safely – and stoop over to pick up caterpillars or pluck a bouquet of dandelions. Where stoop sitters greet passersby and extend an invitation for a glass of lemonade.

I see a fair number of folks out walking in the morning, for exercise, and that's good. (Oh, look, there go two of them now.) But it would be nice to see more people out and about just because.

Oh, I also like to walk to the library. It's nice to have a book on hand in case I want to stop somewhere pleasant and read.

Good Times, May Edition ...

The May cookie installment for the angelo:HOME blog (a few days early) features Portlandia Cookies. Because, well, why not?

Whither Value? ...

I was chagrined – seriously – to read Michael Miner's piece about Tribune inking a deal with Journatic.

"What is Journatic," you ask? Aside from a company with a stupid "tech" name?

Journatic is a "Chicago-based media content provider" that "aggregates data," according to the Tribune and Miner's piece.

It is also part of the end of journalism as we know it.

TribLocal, "founded in 2007 to provide suburban communities with hyperlocal online news and a weekly print edition," according to Miner, provides valuable information. Consider this gem (thanks to the commenter on Miner's piece who called this out):

10 50 Police Department vehicles reported in Merrionette Park

"The Cook County Sheriff reported an instance of 10 50 Police Department vehicles (7756) on Jan. 28. The incident occurred in the 11700 block of S. Kedzie Ave. in Merrionette Park."

Well, now, don't you feel, um ... something?

But Journatic will (somehow) vastly improve upon such crack reporting.

Miner writes: "Data is collected and processed in the Philippines, but the writing, of necessity, goes on back home."

That's right, the data that will make up the stories about what's going on in your hometown will be collected and proceed in the Philippines, but the writing will be local.

Good, right? Reporters will retain their jobs!

No.

Journatic is currently hiring freelancers and will pay per piece.

Good, right? With a decent per-word rate, writers can earn a decent wage!

No.

Journatic pays a flat rate per piece, in tiers, including $4 stories and $2 stories.

Do not adjust your screen.

Yes, $4 stories and $2 stories.

TWO-DOLLAR STORIES.

TWO. DOLLARS.

TWO.

Now, there may be some who think that two bucks to convert data into a nonsensical item about police-department vehicles is a pretty good deal, but a) a nonsensical item about police-department vehicles is nonsensical and therefore meaningless, and 2) there very well may be something happening in your town that you may actually need to know about which you will likely not know about because who is going to let you know about it? A data-aggregating computer in the Philippines?

Here's the thing about content:

Content worth publishing costs money to produce.

And I'm not talking two dollars.

Journalists and writers of other stripes possess a skill, a skill you do not possess, even though you think you do.

Yes, most folks can string together words to form a sentence. Or something resembling a sentence.

But most people can do basic addition and subtraction.

That does not make them accountants.

I expect to see absurd postings on craigslist.

Here's a recent gem:

You can click on it to see a larger image, but these are the key bits:

- "Need a writer for blog posts"
- "Looking for someone who can write, my writing is horrible. Someone who is versed in concerts and is able to describe your concert experiences."
- "Compensation: no pay"

Yes, the gist of this posting is "I want/have a blog but I'm a horrible writer so write my blog for me for free."

Um, bub? Here's a thought, for free, even:

IF YOU'RE A HORRIBLE WRITER, DON'T BLOG.

And here's another:

Again, you can click on it for a larger image, but here are the key bits:

- "Make your Mother proud, write for us!"
- "Looking for Good Writers and Photographers"
- "Email for more application directions."
- "Compensation: no pay"

Ah, yes, what mother wouldn't be proud to know that she raised a child who is a good writer or a good photographer (or both) who is willing to work for free, and – even better – who is expected to apply for the privilege!

And since I doled out a free bit of advice for the previous poster, allow me to be as generous here:

"Gimme" is shorthand for "give me," therefore, in this instance, "gimmie" is shorthand for "give mie," and "mie" is not a word. You're welcome.

But I hoped – naively, it seems – that a paper such as the Tribune would still value those who report the news.

I understand that the Internet has led many people to believe that information should be free. But it's not.

There's a reason that you can't walk into a bookstore, grab any books or magazines that interest you, and walk out the door. There's a reason you're expected to pay for them.

Yes, we live in a world of information overload. But all information is not created equal.

Some of it is important. Some of it is engaging. Much of it is not.

And those who have the skill and talent to bring the important and engaging information to light have bills to pay just like you.

Do not expect them to work for free. Or two dollars.

Because you get what you pay for.

Puppies And Rainbows ...

Earlier today, I put out the call for some puppies and rainbows, stat.

Friends quickly obliged.

So, in the spirit of paying it forward, I wanted to create a post that might pop up in a search when other folks find themselves in need of such therapy.

So then, puppies:

And rainbows:

See, now? Don't you feel better? I thought so.

Home Ec Redux ...

My mom used to sew.

Her mom really used to sew.

Me? I don't sew so much.

I've made a few items of clothing over the years, but mostly, I sew curtains. Hems. Straight seams. Yup, that's about my speed. Occasionally, I make a pillow cover. But only when my sewing machine decides to behave.

Last year, it was giving me grief. Something was wrong. Thread was bunching. The needle was jamming. Clearly, it needed service. So I put it away and wrote "Tune up sewing machine" on my whiteboard. And that was the end of that.

Until a couple of days ago when I was looking up where I could take my sewing machine for service and spied, in the search results, someone asking if they could tune up their own machine.

Huh. Well, that never occurred to me. Yes, I suppose I could do it myself. Try, anyway. I probably couldn't muck up anything too badly, right?

But sewing-machine oil. I'd need sewing-machine oil. Perhaps I had some in my stash of sewing accoutrement from a departed aunt.

I hauled the machine out and set it on the counter. And there, in the handy-dandy compartment in which the extra bobbins live, was a bottle of sewing-machine oil.

Well, OK then. And I remembered a paintbrush I bought a long time ago that I never did use, perfect for brushing out the bobbin area and the feed dog. I brought my vacuum along for the fun. And my toolbox. (I needed a real screwdriver.) With the help of the instruction manual, I oiled all the appropriate places, put everything back together, threaded the machine, and proceeded to attempt to sew the pillow cover I'd begun last year.

And it sewed like a dream.

Well, that was easy. And it took me about 15 minutes. Well, you know, about a year and 15 minutes.

I was pleased as could be with my finished pillow cover, which was made from a $2 discontinued fabric sample and some material I had left over from my living-room panels. I extracted a pillow form from another pillow, stuffed it inside the new cover, smooshed the fill into the corners, and voila!

Eager to keep sewing, I washed and dried fabric that I bought last year for a project that never happened because I was too clueless to realize I could tend to my own machine. And then I headed to not one but two fabric stores to find more material for more pillow covers. I have five I want to make.

Between the two locations, I probably looked at 500 bolts of fabric. And found nothing I wanted to buy. A couple of contenders, but nothing that made me fall in love. Though this guy is kind of interesting:

I'm not a fan of marigolds in real life, but I like them on this fabric. Or are they supposed to be chrysanthemums?

I roamed the aisles. Nothing was off limits. I would have considered flannel if it came in an interesting pattern, but I wasn't in the market for plaid.

Eventually, my eyes landed on this fleece:

The owl made me think of my niece. The squirrel made me think of Angelo.

I took a close-up for him:

And sent it along with a note that mentioned that I am unsure if this is a baby girl squirrel or a not-so-subtle squirrel homage to "A Clockwork Orange." I also told him that while I wanted to, I didn't buy it.

He replied to tell me that I should.

I replied to tell him that if I did, he was getting a pillow.

I am amused at the notion of it being a travel pillow. Or perhaps I could make a travel throw for him. He would be the envy of all his fellow passengers, I'm sure.

Leave It To A Woman ...

Doreen and I discussed the Hungry-Man.

She suggested that I investigate Stouffer's or give Marie Callender's a try.

I nixed the Stouffer's idea. I recently tried the macaroni and cheese, as one of my aunts gave it her blessing years ago, and she was the poster child for food snobs. If she deemed it edible, I figured, it must be worthwhile.

Nope. Perhaps she'd been desperate. Macaroni and cheese desperation. You know how it is.

But Marie Callender's. Hmm. I had a pot pie once, long ago. At Doreen's suggestion, I believe. OK, then. Sure.

On my way home from scouting – unsuccessfully – for fabric (I probably looked at 500 bolts and didn't find one worth buying), I swung by the store to replenish my Greek yogurt supply. And as long as I was in the aisle with frozen dinners, I took a gander.

I scoffed at Hungry-Man as I walked by, and made my way to Marie.

The picture held more promise than that of my previous foray. The turkey, for example, looked like turkey. Like, from a turkey, as opposed to Hungry-Man's too-uniform slices. (Honestly, I almost never eat frozen prepared food. This spate is an anomaly. Trust me.)

"340 Calories," read the front of the box, with a caret between "340" and "Calories" inserting the word "Delicious."

Hungry-Man didn't promise that his calories would be delicious. No, he was too busy boasting about his "1 LB OF FOOD." Oaf. (Marie weighs in at a more dainty 14 ounces.)

And in tiny, modest type: "Just like home."

Aw.

So, I came home and read the instructions and was struck by Step 4: "Check that product is cooked thoroughly. Internal temperature needs to reach 165°F as measured by a food thermometer in several spots."

Well, Marie, I presume this turkey isn't coming to me in a raw state, but thanks for your vigilance.

I nuked as directed and then stuck a thermometer in. If the thermometer was to be believed, my food wasn't cooked through. So I put it back in the microwave for another 90 seconds. I tested it again. Far be it from me to ignore such an instruction. I decided that a reading of 162 probably wasn't going to be my undoing, so I ate.

The turkey was indeed turkey as from a turkey. Sliced thickly, not like it came from a deli. The stuffing was about what you'd expect. Ditto the mashed potatoes.

But on balance, Marie kicks Hungry-Man's culinary ass.

I shan't be making such meals a regular part of my diet, but it's nice to know that when I find myself with a taste for Thanksgiving, there's a reasonable fix in my grocer's freezer.

Thanks, Doreen! Thanks, Marie!

Hungry-Man, take a hike.

Hungry-Who? ...

I'm kind of hopeless when it comes to food.

I love it, don't misunderstand. I admire chefs, though I'm very glad I never became one. I wish Allen Sternweiler would reopen my beloved Allen's, if only for a night, so I could have his mushroom ragout one more time.

I love a great Chicago hot dog and pizza and haricot verts. From frumpy to fancy, I love it all. Well, most of it. May cilantro never touch my palate again. And guava can stay the hell away from me, too.

But when dinner time rolls around, I am often stumped. Nothing appeals to me. I run through every fast food option and most of the time I discard them all. Occasionally, I'll go get a salad. Which hardly counts as fast food. I don't eat fast-food burgers anymore and there are only so many chicken sandwiches a girl can stomach but the chicken isn't really good for me anyway. Poor chickens.

So, last night, as I sat at my computer, scrolling through Twitter, clicking through to various news stories, none of which were helping me decide what to eat, my brain finally settled on ... Thanksgiving.

That's what I wanted, I decided. Turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and gravy.

Humph.

Why the hell hasn't someone created a franchise for Thanksgiving fare?

"Boston Market!", some friends offered, helpfully.

Nope, not nearby. (There seem to be far fewer Boston Markets in the world than there used to be.)

So I continued to sit and mull.

And then my brain informed me that surely – surely – someone in the world of frozen dinners offers turkey.

So I headed off to the store.

And last night, for the first time in my existence, I bought a Hungry-Man dinner.


And last night, for the first time in my existence, I asked myself, upon returning home and opening the box, "What hungry man is this supposed to feed? An Ooompa-Loompa?"

Have you ever seen a Hungry-Man dinner?

It's pathetic.

The idea of a Hungry-Man dinner makes me think of a burly guy, just home from a hard day on a construction site, or a ranch hand who's spent the day building a split-rail fence. He comes home, all grimy, showers up, and tucks into a Hungry-Man dinner to sate his man-sized hunger.

Yeah, that's not real. But that's advertising for you.

The black plastic compartmentalized tray contained a turkey-stuffing-mashed-potato-and-gravy compartment, a mixed-vegetable compartment, and a cranberry-ish-something-or-other compartment. (That one, turned out, was "dessert.")

The slices of turkey were perfect half circles, about 5 inches wide at what would be their diameters, and maybe an eighth of an inch thick. Maybe. There were four such slices. I've seen more meat on a meager sandwich from Subway.

But I followed the instructions (to nuke the thing; no, I wasn't about to put it in the oven for 40 minutes) and 10 minutes later, I was no closer to the Thanksgiving dinner I wanted than I was before I went to the store.

Was it edible? Yes. Did my body reject it? No. Would I buy it again? Only if my options were a bowl of shiitake-cilantro-guava goo or that. Well, or bugs. Maybe if my options were a pile of bugs or that. Then, yes, I'd opt for that.

I love that the box offers "SIMPLY COOK & SERVE."

What the hell else would I do with it?

Take it on a trip?

Introduce it to my parents?

Also, note that the photo is "ENLARGED TO SHOW QUALITY."

My hearty congratulations to the food stylist for creating a plate that looks a lot like what I wanted to have for dinner last night.

I can't wait for November.

Makes Beth Happy, April 17 ...

The Makes-Beth-Happy Word of the Day is:

Puddle!
I'm also fond of its sibling, "cuddle." But not so much "muddle." Even if drinks are involved.

The Makes-Beth-Happy Recipe of the Day is:

Feta Baked with Tomato & Oregano

I saw a recipe for baked feta last night that seemed tasty enough (not a big fan of capers of the edible variety) but I did a little more baked-feta surfing and found this beauty.

And the Makes-Beth-Happy Objet of the Day is:

Kent Storage Ottoman in Black and Cream Shoreline Tile

Speaking of beautiful things that are Greek, this ottoman is one of Angelo's latest. I flipped when I first saw it. I'm not drawn to such graphic patterns typically, but I have two chairs in a similar fabric (smaller scale and reversed – more black than white) and they're awesome.

Wherefore Art Thou, Sky Money? ...

sky money [skeye mon-ee]
noun

1. A big bag of money that falls from the sky.
2. Duh.

O sky money, sky money. Wherefore art thou sky money?

The sky money, it eludes me. Alas.

But oh, the things I would do with it.

I would give giant fistfuls of it away, for starters. That's just good karma. Sharing is good. Greed is bad.

I would hire folks to put a porch on my house. Oh, how I covet a porch. I can see it in my mind. Reading for hours on a lazy summer day, sipping lemonade, greeting passersby and inviting them to sit for a while, to share some lemonade and treats. Or curling up in blanket during a heavy rain, feeling the mist on my face. Yep, a porch.

I would bake, perhaps here, perhaps in a bakery café I would open, a charming space – with a fireplace – where people could gather with old friends and meet new friends and chat and nosh. On the order of Meryl Streep's café in "It's Complicated," but cozier, slightly. There would be lamps, the warm glow of lamps.

I would buy a beautiful apartment somewhere beautiful, with beautiful herringbone floors. Oh, how I covet beautiful herringbone floors. I suppose I could have them installed in my house, but it would be nice to have a beautiful apartment somewhere beautiful where I could be when I wanted to be, and that I could offer to family and friends when they were in town and I was not. New York, perhaps? Boston? Paris? London? Who knows.

I would spend long stretches of time in Big Sur, sitting on the rocks, watching the waves, marveling at the quality of the light, walking, reading, writing, sleeping. Being. I adore Big Sur. Nature is extraordinary.

Good Times, April Edition ...

The April cookie installment for the angelo:HOME blog features Cinnamon-Sugar Croutons and Cheesecake Fondue. You may be saying, "Neither of those things are cookies." And you'd be right, but that's not important right now. There's bread and melty cheese to be had!