Scout Moves

Is he not lovely? I have been listening to Michael McDonald's Motown CDs in my car while on the 50-GAZILLION TRIPS I make each day between the marching band practice field and the tennis park. It was on one of these 50-GAZILLION TRIPS that daughter #2 discovered "I'm Gonna Make You Love Me." And she believes it would make an ideal marching band number. I wasn't sure, but if you work it around a good sax solo and let the trumpet line carry it after the first verse, it might work. On a slightly different thought line, I was heading to my favorite place for joe this morning, listening to "Tracks of My Tears" when I saw a car make a u-turn on the main street so they could park heading in the other direction. Then I saw the woman in front of me wag her boney finger at this u-turn driver. I often wag my not-so-boney finger at people who drive like morons, especially if they're kids because I fancy myself to be the Universal Mother (more on that another t

There are only two grocery stores in town, one on the north side with a gas station and a very nice pick up lane with a conveyor belt so you don't have to wheel your own stuff out to your car. The other is on the south side of town, a fine side, but the strip-mall parking lot sometimes looks abandoned, and occasionally in the spring, there have been reports of overzealous men exposing themselves to shoppers. I frequent the store to the north. It has very helpful employees and nicely stocked shelves, but I have a problem with some of the stuff they stock up on. I turn my nose up at most manufactured cookies (Oreos being an exception). The precooked slop at the deli is some of the most unappetizing "food" I've ever had to wheel my cart past. And I think everything in the bakery all taste the same--it all taste like white bread but in different forms. White bread donuts. White bread bagels. White bread wheat bread. My main complaint: this store is slow to keep up with tr

Daughter #1 coerced me into going to the store with her last night. Small-town lingo: store=grocery store. While walking from the car to the front door, I spotted a brown and black caterpillar on the cobblestone sidewalk, and I bent over to get a closer look. I took a moment to admire its determination and marvel at how oblivious it was to its surroundings, having no idea that I was possibly seconds away from squashing it with my size-nine shoe. The thing happened to be inching right beside a stick, a tool I figured was there so I could poke at it. So I did. I wasn't hurting the thing--I just wanted it to curl up on the end of the stick so I could play with it for a minute. The bug (or is it bug-to-be?) wouldn't help me out and did everything it could with its billion legs to avoid me and my stick. #1 had had enough of my lackadaisical approach to the task at hand-- going to the store --, and said sharply, "Put that stick down." Recognizing the size difference and im

"Please put down that stupid horn and throw my nasty black mass of yarn. You know that I'm a neurotic obsessive-compulsive creature, not unlike yourself, who needs to chase and retrieve my yarn. Pleeeeeeeaaaaase.!"

I have been reminiscing about my father the last couple of days--reminiscing about the past and not thinking about the present because he died six years ago after floating around inside the Alzheimer's bubble. I never felt very close to my father--he wasn't the kind of man you "get close" to. At times he was more like a brother, plotting with me behind my mother's back to do things like slipping some wine in the pasta before she got home from work or buying her a bracelet with poker money to make her less angry for the gambling. One phrase I remember his saying often was "Don't tell your Mama." My neighbor's father was a math teacher, and they liked to watch NOVA together. My other neighbor's father was a history teacher who encouraged her to aim high on the SAT. I admit to being jealous when I was a kid because my father's response to shows like NOVA, or any show that didn't involve a Ewing or an old-yeller kind of character was, &qu

I don't believe I can in good conscience add Martin Sheen to the Star God block because I'm not sure he's earned it, not in the way Fred Astaire (god of gods) has earned it, but I can't help admire his general gumption. Here's an excerpt from an article on cnn.com: Sheen, 66, has enrolled for a degree in English literature, philosophy and oceanography at the National University Ireland (NUI), Galway. The actor, whose mother hailed from the Irish county of Tipperary, has been quoted as saying he wanted to finish his education when he retired from acting as he never got his high school diploma, according to media reports. A dedicated supporter of liberal causes, Sheen has been arrested more than 60 times for public protests. When I'm 66, I want to enroll somewhere and get a degree of somekind. It probably wouldn't change my life in a notable measure, but it would be nice to have that kind of goal and desire for continuous learning.

I visited my favorite little coffee shop in town this morning. It's a place I like to go to just sit and people watch, talk about the news with whoever is sitting at the counter reading the paper, and to meet a friend now and then. Plus, they know my name, although one of the women forgot not too long ago and referred to me as "that woman with the spiky hair." Fine--at least they still hire me to design their menus, which makes me proud every time I see them stacked on the tables between the salt and pepper. This morning, there were two men with the paper. Really, man #1 was reading, and man #2 was looking over his shoulder. I would have crowded in, but man #1 didn't look all that friendly. Man #1 is someone I've never seen there before. He was just north of middle age and hadn't shaved. We'll call him Curmudgeon Man. Man #2 is a regular, even more so than I. He moved here from Manhattan recently--I think it was because of a woman--and he is a very accompl

...to the now-driving neighbor girl. Here's a little advice--learn to exercise courtesy and grace, especially when interacting with your neighbors. I know that my big bank of white pines intrudes on the roadway and that I have a big-ass stone mailbox that is difficult to see around when I back out of my driveway, but neither of these obstacles means that you should come over the hill with no regard for me and my big-ass Pacifica. Until I can get the trees trimmed and until I can ditch this car for something less cumbersome, it falls to you to offer courtesy. You have the right of way, but you won't be late for school if you stop to let me out in front of you on mornings when I don't see you coming--on mornings when I don't see you barreling over the hilltop heading straight for the curve with no intention to stop for anyone or anything that might have the misfortune of crossing your careless path. On these mornings, it also falls to you to offer me grace. I'm sure i

A small tribute to Robert Duvall, who I neglected to include in the Star God block from the other day. He really is a Star God--from To Kill a Mockingbird to The Apostle and everything inbetween.

I just spent the last two hours at an orchestra rehearsal, getting ready for the Labor Day Concert next Sunday. This concert will be at the same adorable, quaint park the summer band performed in, but the feel will be entirely different. People will still bring their lawn chairs, and babies will still cry (I have about this much patience for crying babies!), but it's less of a carnival. It's more of a performance--with the conductor wearing a white tux, or sometimes an elaborate vest, if it's a little hot. Our stands are all the same with lights attached for when the sun goes down. When the band plays, it's a grab bag of stands--whatever people choose to drag in--metal, black, twisted, rusty, whatever. No lights, and defintely no tux on the director. We prefer sweaty t-shirts for band. Anyway, back to the orchestra. It's a pops concert, which is never my favorite, but it's never so difficult that I chew off a nail with each rehearsal. The only piece on the progr

Seems to go with the James Taylor lyrics below.

Nobody knows how we got to The top of the hill But since we're on our way down We might as well enjoy the ride When you look at life this way, how could you possibly tolerate "policies" in your home. Policies belong in the UN. Policies belong at the stock exchange. Policies belong where chaos will result without them. But in my own home? •Will chaos result if I leave the windows down when I park the car in the driveway? A fly might get in, or a lady bug, but I don't think I'll trigger Armegeddon. •I won't be firing the first shot of WW3 if I don't put the car keys in what we call "the special papers cabinet" so that the next person won't have to hunt for them. If they aren't in the SPC, they're surely somewhere on the kitchen counter, right out in the open, or maybe under the stack of mail. •If kittie cat Tiger sits on the desk in the kitchen hoping I'll notice his empty bowl, we won't default on the mortgage. •If same kittie

I made scake for breakfast this morning--chocolate chip scake. What's that? you wonder? It's what comes out of the oven when you make scones from a mix. While the taste is fine, the density is way off, so it's more like cake. #1 deemed it to be scake--it's actually pretty good with clotted cream. I know that mixes are almost always a disappointment, but I got sucked in by good packaging. It happens every time. I'd buy Cheese Wiz if it was packaged right--although I'd never actually eat it. I am wearing shpants today. What are those? you wonder? It's what you call pant things that aren't quite pants, aren't quite shorts, aren't quite capris. Shpants--another term from #1. I'm not sure if my shpants are flattering, but if they are, their appeal is trumped by the shirt I've paired with them. It's an oversized white button-down with little beads down the front--definitely not flattering, but definitely comfortable. There are times when I

Same rules apply--you can add, but you can't take away: MyrnaLoyKatharineHepburnOliviadeHavillandBarbaraStanwyck KatherineGraysonMadelineKahnMerylStreepJudyGarland BetteDavisIngridBergmanClaudetteColbertMaureenO'Hara GingerRodgersAudreyHepburn

This list will grow as names come to mind. Feel free to add, but don't take away! FredAstaireGeneKellyDannyKayeTheMarxBrothers(especially HarpoMarx)HenryFondaClarkGableSpencerTraceyBobHope BingCrosbyRobertMitchum(creepy)RichardDryfusAnthonyHopkins GeneHackmanSidneyPortierRichardBurtonPaulNewman (especiallyinCoolHandLuke)AndyGarciaSeanConneryErrolFlyn BasilRathboneWilliamPowellLionelBarrymoreCaryGrant GaryCooper(especiallyinMeetJohnDoe)GregoryPeck HumphreyBogartDonaldO'ConnorDonKnottsJackLemmon

Here's a great speech from Jimmy Stewart in "Harvey": Harvey and I sit in the bars...and have a drink or two, play the jukebox. And soon the faces of all the other people, they turn toward mine and they smile. They're saying, "We don't know your name, mister, but you're a very nice fellow." Harvey and I...warm ourselves in all these golden moments. We've entered as strangers. Soon we have friends. And they come over and they sit with us, they drink with us they talk to us. And they tell about the big, terrible things they've done... and the big, wonderful things they'll do. Their hopes and their regrets,and their loves and their hates, all very large...because nobody ever brings anything small into a bar. And then...I introduce them to Harvey. And he's bigger and grander than anything they offer me. And...and when they leave, they leave impressed. The same people seldom come back, but that's...that's envy, my dear. There'

Today is Jimmy Stewart day on Turner Classic Movies--an entire day of his smooth voice, everyman face, and inspiring talent. Remember the scene in "It's A Wonderful Life" when George has had more than he can take--just too many disappointments in life? He goes to Mr. Martini's, sits at the bar, and prays. He's not a praying man, he says, but he declares that he is at the end of his rope. "Show me the way, God." In the background is the din of a bar on Christmas eve--music, talking--going on around him despite his desperation. Stewart was so in character in that scene that he became George Bailey--he was at a crisis point, he actually prayed to a God he doubted, and he cried unexpectedly. Frank Capra had intended for the scene to be shot at large, but when he went back to view the footage and saw Stewart's real and raw emotion, he cropped in as close as he could get to capture the man's expression and tears. That's why that one scene is not q

I'm over the downgrading of Pluto, now that I've had a night's sleep and the privilege of a lifeview-minus-melodrama that comes with morning. But there are a few things I will continue to hold up as concretely true: 1. God loves me, as I've said before. 2. We DO NOT have to become our mothers. 3. The public school system is not from the devil. 4. Spiders ARE from the devil. 5. Fred Astaire was a god. 6. James Stewart was a god. 7. Gene Kelly was a god. 8. Vocations are as valid as occupations. 9. Cookies, coffee, real butter, a little red meat, and good wine (not that zinfandel crap) are part of a healthful and satisfying diet. 10. Gray hair is beautiful. While this list may not be rich enough for NPR's This I Believe spot, I can see deeper elements of truth in each line--truth about our creator, truth about fears, truth about human achievement, truth about aging, and truth about simply relaxing and enjoying a few basic things in life. With full confidence in my sh

When I was in elementary school, Yost Elementary--a darkish older building beside a raised highway so that I feared that every passing semi was in danger of storming through the guard rail and landing right on the jungle gym--I learned the planets. There were nine. It was concrete. It was certain. It was written in the text book that Mr. Boll swore by as he waved it around with his boney arms in front of the black board. Now, it's no longer true. It's no longer concrete and certain, and it is about to be removed from the text book (Mr. Boll is most likely long retired). I am unsettled by this new knowledge. The ground I stand on is trembling from below, and I am inclined to stand braced in the door frame for support. What other "truths" have I been taught that are not so true? Here are a few I have already uncovered: 1. Black people don't show their age. 2. Children who drink coffee will stunt their growth 3. Pavement turns white when it gets cold in winter 4. Chr

Writing about the trash mishap put me in mind of a far more embarrassing situation with trash in the yard, and while I'm waiting for the exterminator to finish wiping out the crawling things, I'll take a moment to describe it. This happened quite a few years ago, when I was quite a bit larger. Keep that in mind. I had decided to clean out a few drawers in my dresser, the drawer, actually, containing the old drawers. I had amassed a collection of white cotton underwear that were no longer useful. You could have sailed a boat with these things. You could have covered a convertible in winter with these things. You could have protected a baseball diamond in the rain with these things. I shoved them all, along with some old tights and panty hose, into a grocery bag and tossed the whole mess into the garbage can outside. Then, on a somewhat blustery and cold Thursday, I hauled the cans out to the street. I got the kids on the school bus and took myself to work (I worked in the office

Over the last few days, I've read several posts practically mourning the first day of school, but daughter #2 is a junior this year, so I'm beyond lamenting the end of summer. Here is the notable event of our family's first day: It's Thursday, which means it's garbage day in Small Town. I got up early this morning and dragged a couple of cans chock full of trash to the curb and set them down right by the mail box (for some reason, my garbage men become irritated if I put the trash on the other side of the driveway, and they are known to throw the cans halfway into the yard in protest). So, I put the cans in the correct spot to appease the grisly looking trash collectors. Part of my Thursday thrill is returning home in the afternoon and being able to ram my car into the now-empty cans and watching them tumble and roll into the bushes. I suppose the thrill is rooted in some deep need to express aggression and hostility. Whatever the reason, that is part of the afterno

Here's a pic from the band concert. I realize it may look like a trumpet feature, but I have highlighted myself--because in this context I am the feature. I'm not sure what's up with the suspender guy and stage-hand helper. They appear to be intruding.

Visitor Mama has just left for her home near Atlanta. She has been visiting for a week. I had to work quite a bit, which is unfortunate, but we were able to do a few interesting things that she doesn't normally get to do at home. We spent a night at the lake house--we had dinner at the marina, watched the hummingbirds, sat by the fire in the midst of the pines, and played cards. She went to one of my concerts and got to hear the Salute to Spike Jones (I'm sure that was a real highlight-- smirk ). We went back to the lake house on Sunday and spent part of the afternoon meandering on the pontoon boat. It was a cloudy day, so there weren't too many boaters out there--nothing worse than a bunch of people taking up our water space. That night for dinner, we had scrambled eggs and bacon while sitting on the deck, which seems too mundane to even mention except that it made for a delightful evening that touched the senses. Side note: during the boat ride, the sun shone through the

Zucchini with Parmesan (serves 6-8) 8 medium zucchini Good olive oil 2 large yellow onions cut in half and sliced 1/2 inch thick Kosher salt Freshly ground black pepper 1/2 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese Remove the ends of the zucchini and cut in half lengthwise. Slice the zucchini diagonally in 1/2-inch slices. Heat 2 tablespoons of olive oil in a large (12-inch) sauté pan and add the onions. Cook for 10 minutes on medium-low heat, until they start to brown. Add half the zucchini, 1 teaspoon salt, and 1/4 teaspoon pepper to the pan and cook, tossing occasionally, for 10 to 15 minutes, until just cooked through. Sprinkle with Parmesan and cook for 30 seconds more. Remove to a serving platter and repeat with the rest of the zucchini. Serve immediately. finally got the stupid pic. Darn that Mac.

That's the phrase from Pride and Prejudice that led my neighbor-friend to name her new little Bishon Mr. Bennett. I used to think of those dogs as ladies' dogs, lap dogs, prissy dogs. But Mr. Bennett I love, and he loves me--always ready with doggy kisses. I have been talking him up to visitor Mama, and today we stopped by neighbor-friend's yarn shop to see him, and of course to see neighbor-friend who I love more than dog-friend. I reached out to Mr. Bennett, took him in both arms, and threw my head back so he could give his doggy-butt-licking kisses as he is accustomed to doing. He was all shaky and excited and grunty. What a treat. But in his excitement, he peed all over my shirt. Not just a little tinkle. I mean ALL OVER my shirt--a big stinking yellow spot the size of a giant baked Idaho potato. Possibly the size of Idaho itself. Oh, Mr. Bennett, behave.

I just ordered these lovely shoes to wear with my ultra-colorful skirt. Earlier this morning, daughter #1 was talking about becoming your stereotypical college student who dresses hippyish--she has the loveliest pair of red Converse All-Stars with just enough tweaking to make them fun. If she can give in to her age-appropriate stereotype, then so can her Bohemian-wanna-be mother. I have taken to wearing skirts lately because I enjoy them. I enjoy the way they twirl when I spin in the middle of the kitchen (which I sometimes do), and I enjoy the comfort and flare. Daughter #1 and I decided that Converse All-Stars would look just right with my longer skirts. So, I will look forward to receiving these new plaid friends in a week or so. Yea. appended post: I am now wondering if my size-nine feet will make these things look like sternwheelers at the bottom of my skirt. Hmm.

I won't finish the phrase because it's a cliche, and I'm not fond of phrases that can fit on coffee cups (except for the cup I had years ago that said "Listen honey, I say go ahead and wave at those construction workers"). Anyway, there are so many books, but not books I want to read. I want to write them. Here's the short list: Morons with Microphones: In which people with access to microphones and platforms say moronic things. Sports announcers would have a chapter, as would anchor people on CNN, as would local-station weather men/women, as would unnamed people in small-town-cute who call or write into the local paper with their moronic opinions. Pat Robertson would have a chapter all to himself. If Spiders Could Fly: In which the main character would face down a paralyzing phobia, sparked by my own absolute paralyzing fear of spiders. Good God, imagine if they could fly?!?!? Everything Is A Mirror: Not sure what the plot would be here, but daughter #1 said

I believe I did, and with the exception of a powerful but brief outburst in the afternoon, the day was delightful. And the humidity cleared just in time for my delightful concert in the park. Delightful, I said, now three times because it really was. At the concert in the park, we played about an hour and 20 minutes--the finale to Tchaikovsky's 4th symphony, a couple big band numbers, Figaro, a Sinatra number, and then of course God Bless the USA. Whatever, even with that stupid thing, it was so much fun. No wait, it was DELIGHTFUL. My mother and daughters were in the audience, too, and my mother loved the salute to Spike Jones. Then everyone packed up the truck, cleared the stage, and rushed down town for the second round. The Long Night of Music stage was huge--large enough, at least, to hold the Cleveland Orchestra--so I knew it wouldn't collapse under the weight of an 80-piece band and all of its crap. It seemed a little odd to schedule our group in the midst of different r

Director Fred Well, this is it. This is the day of the Dominic Greco band's finale concert to be played in the lovely small-town-cute park with stone walls, giant old trees, a real carousel with the original 1900s-something horses, and the band shell. After this sign-that-summer-is-over concert, we will all pack up and race down town for a second concert (a musical double header) that will be part of the town's Long Night of Music. The town couldn't be farther from Vienna--in every imaginable aspect!--but they're trying. They're trying to be something better than the beige of Middle Ohio by hosting an evening patterned after something that someone sometime heard they host in Vienna. It's a "long night of music" with hour after hour of bands, etc. Our slot is from 9 to 9:45, and we'll be playing on the same portable stage that the Cleveland Orchestra uses for their portable performances. So, what's the problem, since this is a day that should ma

...for the moment. Of course, I believe it's always good, even if it feels bad at times. You know, you can't always trust your feelings. My mother is visiting for a week from Atlanta, and we have just arrived at the lake house. We don't have a name for it yet, the lake house. A sister-in-law has named her lake house The Wonderlodge. I'm not sure why, but when we snatched up this place, daughter #2 suggested that we call it The Impulse Lodge. Does she know her parents or what? Anyway, life is good at the moment because we are here, which means I am not in my home office designing covers. And it means that I am not at home feeling guilty for not vacuuming the pool, or pulling weeds (damn the thistles), or finishing the laundry that is in a pile in the laundry room floor. Instead, I am sitting here in the tree house, the impulse buy, and I am sipping iced tea and nibbling on Hershey's Kissables that are lined up by color. I am smelling the great cookie smell of key lim

Well, last night I sat through my last band rehearsal of the season, and I relished every single moment of it--sweat, screeching trumpets, missed pitches, and all. Can't wait until next summer to start the bloody thing all over again. But the odd thing--there is a student in the horn section, a nice 16-year-old girl who has just recently joined the band. She's polite and talkative, even to a gray-haired-forty-something woman she can't possibly have anything in common with except the horn. I always appreciate friendly youngsters. But the odd thing--I think she's a little too friendly. She always offers a big wave, she tries to interject in conversations I have with adult friends, and the other day before the Italian shindig, she kind of hugged me and put her head on my shoulder as she said hello. I offered a "hello" back, but what I wanted to say: Little girl, you're nice and friendly, but we are not and never will be friends. I'm old enough to be your

We were so happy to get your letter. Your village sounds like a nice place to live, and it sounds like you are very busy taking care of the cattle and playing football. Here are some answers to the questions you asked in your letter: The United States is very big, so we have a lot of different kinds of weather. Where I live, we have four seasons--it gets cold and snows in the winter, it rains in the spring, it's nice and warm in the summer, and in the fall, it starts to get chilly, and the leaves on the trees turn from green to bright orange and yellow and red. It's very pretty in the fall. We have two cats named Tiger and Mike. There are farms near our house with dairy cows, but we live in town and don't have any other animals. There are a lot of wild dear near our house--I have seen as many as 12 all at once. My husband owns a publishing company and sells books. My job is to design the covers for the books. We have two daughters. One is in college studying chemistry, and

Lifted from Rob (not me, a Rob from Chicago) 1. One book you have read more than once: Besides books of the Bible: Jane Eyre, Jude the Obscure, Gone with the Wind...the list goes on. 2. One book you would want on a desert island: I suppose I should say the Bible, but I would enjoy so many others--how about The LIfe of Pi. 3. One book that made you laugh: The No. One Ladies Detective Agency--the whole series by Alexander Smith 4. One book that made you cry: Maybe Cold Mountain. If I didn't actually cry, I was at least inclined. 5. One book you wish you had written: All of them. To narrow it down, To Kill A Mockingbird 6. One book you wish had never been written: The Lovely Bones. Everybody raves about it, but good God. It was horrible--just kept getting worse with each page turn. 7. One book you are currently reading: The Crying of Lot 49. Not all the interested but obligated. 8. One book you have been meaning to read: got a stack of 'em. 9. One Book That Changed Your Life: Agai

For so many years, I lost count, I sponsored a World Vision child with my meager $25 a month--which evidently buys more than I can imagine in Indonesia. Here, it buys about a pound of filet mignon, which shows just how over-indulged I am. Actually, it was just last night when I was complaining that my husband's new pickup truck doesn't have automatic windows or an external thermometer, that a good friend called me "over indulged." Anyway, my WV girl has grown up and gotten a job, so she's off the "payroll." I have been assigned a new child--a 10-year-old boy from Senegal named Mayecor. Mayecor has written a letter to me and my family through the help of a village interpretor. He lives with his family in a little farming village and goes to school when he's not helping with the animals. He likes football (the international version), and he tends cows, goats, and chickens. He describes his father has having one wife, which seems very odd to me, but the

1. I write a column for a newspaper 2. I play French horn 3. I edit a newsletter for an orchestra 4. I like to cook 5. I like to bake cheesecake 6. I like to knit 7. I used to teach knitting classes 8. I like to read 9. I make our Christmas cards by hand 10. I am a quiet member of MENSA 11. I play tenor recorder 12. I used to play trumpet 13. I play piano 14. I have one cat and one dog 15. I have put two cats to sleep and am permanently scarred 16. I was born in Alabama 17. I was raised in Indiana 18. I have lived in Chicago 19. I have lived in New Jersey 20. I have visited Brazil to meet in-laws 21. Because my father-in-law was from Brazil 22. I am married and glad for it 23. I have two daughters and no sons 24. I make the best chocolate chip cookies I have ever eaten 25. I once drove in the UK, which is a big deal for an American 26. I broke my left arm when I was 6 27. I broke my right arm when I was 10 28. I was baptized when I was 9 29. I took horn less

Our back yard Yesterday was a beautiful day in central Ohio, and the outside, which quite often makes me feel a bit uncomfortable, was a delightful place for a party. We hosted a dinner for 13 at our lake house yesterday--some people we only see about once a year were in town, along with their son who has ironically moved here from New Jersey by way of Florida (kind of), their daughter and her boyfriend and son, and then two other couples whose company we enjoy. My 16-year-old daughter opted to join us because she knew, as did I, that it would be an evening full of more than houseguests--there would be characters--characters to predict and giggle with and sometimes at (in a respectful way, of course). We weren't disappointed. I love to cook. Not the everyday day-after-bloody-day-I'm-tired-of-being-the-foodsource kind of cooking. The small parties with people I love sitting around my table, all feeling comfortable and welcome and well-fed, actually gives me a bit of a buzz. Wine

Do I like Italian band music? No. Wait, not even Funiculi Funicula? Have you seen the horn part? But what about Themes from Great Italian Movies? What great Italian movies? But what about Figaro? OK, I'll give on Figaro, if it's sung by the ever animated Ron Barkett, local baritone. But even then, the horn part is nothing but triplets--monotonous triplets meant to make the tongue numb. Despite my grousing about the music at tonight's concert, it was still a very satisfying experience. My little town in Ohio hosts an Italian/American festival every year in August. It used to be hosted by the neighboring-somewhat-rival town, but the committee decided it could make more money by moving it next door. We close down the main street, bring in carnie rides and games, trucks that sell food on a stick, and a band stage for polka bands and who ever else is signed up to play. The Dominic Greco band is too big for the "stage," so we set up directly on the pavement. We pla

I ordered a mattress set yesterday to replace the sway-backed set that has been moldering in my guest room for at least 15 years. This same set was mine in high school, and I think it crossed the Great Divide some years even before that. The delivery men were prompt this morning, and while removing my antique collectors of human sediment, they discovered that my original metal frame wasn't suitable for the new pieces. They would have to use one they just happened to have on the truck. I had no choice but to agree, because what do I know about bed frames. As they were saying good-bye, I asked how much I owed them for the new frame--"not a thing, Ma'am. You didn't give me any crap when you bought the stuff yesterday." I didn't give him any crap. By that he meant? Evidently he meant that I walked into his store, said I needed a decent set of mattresses--not too cheap, not too expensive--he said "how about this one," and I said, "great, I'll tak

Designing by committee--a graphic designer's thorn. You get an assignment, a direction, a feel for the book that needs a cover, the creative juice seeps out through the pores. Ah, a lovely job. Or is it? After enough people have had at it, have had their say about what they think the color should be, or the font, or the image, or the title, or whether or not the background needs a texture, and should that texture be leather or wood or paint or "patina" from the bucket of acid that I have just thrown onto the mess to demonstrate my complete frustration...after enough people have given their input, it's no longer your joyfilled project that has given you satisfaction down to the roots of your need to create something useful. It has become the hangnail that can't be pulled or trimmed for fear of pain but is left to be ripped off later when you're not looking. So, where, then, is the satisfaction? Yesterday, at the end of the work day, when I had both hands full o

I have taken on a new hobby--I am learning to make wire jewelry, mostly bracelets. I am probably focusing on bracelets because they're small, and because I like them. At this early stage in the wire-bending experiment, I am using cheap stuff--an entire spool of 20# wire runs about $1.50 at a sloppy little craft store in town--this shop has dusty wooden floors made with wide rough-hewn planks that creak with each step, and more scary doll baby parts than I ever imagined were manufactured. My latest creation is a fun coiled silver thing with a small block bead hanging at the hook. I fashioned each coil just last evening and then took them out to my patio to hammer them on the stone for some additional funk. I was so pleased with the thing, that I have been wearing it all day, stopping to admire it between book covers that I have been struggling to design. This afternoon, I dropped my #2 daughter off at the park for tennis and headed off to the grocery store to forage for dinner. I st

with an exclamation point because the little guy is at least a 20-pounder. Not because I am a slothful cat owner, but because he is a neurotic cat who has no appetite control. He believes that if I am in the kitchen, where his food bowl is located, then it must be time for him to eat, regardless of when he last ate. While I'm not sure of the interest level people might have in seeing funky photos of someone else's neurotic yarn-fetching overweight cat, I have noticed that people are pretty quick to post their own cat shots. So here is mine.

OK, I do have something to say this evening. An event in my everyday--I had pulled up to a stop sign in my marginally buecolic (spell?) small town in Ohio. Sun was shining, breeze was reshreshing through the open minivan/stationwagon/suv vehicle (I drive a Chrystler Pacifica--what the heck is that?) Anyway, beside me in my reverie I am forced to share the road with a punk with all windows lowered and a sad excuse for music blaring from his bad speaker system. I mean BLARING. I had had a little disturbance earlier with some work frustration, and I was in no mood for listening to someone else's lack of taste. So, uncharacteristic of my "live and let live" policy, I hollered at the guy--HEY--I said as loud as my mommy voice could holler--and it can travel, believe me. He didn't flinch. So I waved my arms and hollered again--HEY. I believed I was speaking for everyone else at the red light. Still, no flinching. Light turned green, traffic flowed accordingly, and the punk

Here's my first entry to my very first blog. I do every-day things all day every day, and I decided, after reading page after page of everyone else's everyday entries, then maybe my everyday isn't all that everyday. So, I'll give this a shot. Let's see what happens.