Photo: Fine Mayer from Pixabay 

     

I'VE GOT THE MUSIC IN ME*

Whenever I hear certain songs that play repeatedly or strike a chord with me, I believe spiritual synchronicities are at work delivering a message, providing guidance, or giving reassurance that I'm on the right path.   

The best way for me to explain is through some examples.

Before the pandemic, I used to listen to music as I worked out in the gym.  I never made a playlist.  I'd listen to whatever played on Spotify.  Whenever I rode the bike or lifted weights, I'm Turning Japanese by The Vapors would play ninety percent of the time.  It was crazy.  Mysterious.  And predictable.  Back in 1980, it was the favorite song of a former boyfriend.  

So why did I hear this song—forty years after we dated—fifteen years after his death?  Perhaps his spirit had always been trying to send me a message.  Now this song easily reached me through Spotify.  Hearing the song played repeatedly made me feel like it was his way of emphasizing how sorry he was about our messy breakup and for my heartache.   

Another song caught my attention recently.  My husband and I enjoy the show The Charismatic Voice.  Producer and vocal coach Elizabeth Zharoff discussed the song Kashmir sung by Robert Plant.  While watching, we learned about the compositional structure of the song, the boldness and carelessness of Plant's style, the timing of the vibrato, the decision to slide or stick a note, and the giving of generosity (of his voice) when he approached the microphone. 

A day after watching The Charismatic Voice, I went to physical therapy.  As I warmed up, Kashmir played.  This coincidence registered with me.  But why did I hear this song again?  Was there a message?  I took a closer look at the lyrics and found that the song is not merely about a place, but about a journey.  After having received a rejection on one of my beloved manuscripts, I found that the lyrics served to remind me that writing is a journey, so be patient and enjoy the steps along the way.

While on the subject of the writing...my husband and I attended an Elton John concert last month.  When Elton sang I'm Still Standing, it resonated with me more than ever that night.  Hearing him sing the song gave me chills.  But why this song and why now?  The power of the song reassured me that I am still standing, still persevering despite rejection.    

I haven't been back in the gym since the pandemic or go to concerts often, so listening to music regularly doesn't happen often.  However, while grocery shopping, going to PT, or watching a television show, I may have the opportunity to hear a song that can be meaningful.  And if I hear that song frequently or if it touches me to the core, I attempt to find the spiritual connection to the music, to be more in touch with my life journey, to 'get' the message.  

Amanda Meder of the Spiritual Living Blog says, "Songs can elicit in all of us intense positive emotions and stir up wonderful memories, so they can be a great way to get a message across.  Songs can also cause you to rethink things, too.  They can shift your outlook, mood, and entire day—which is why they are a very typical ‘sign’ that is sent.  They activate the soul.  If you hear the song synchronistically, this is a sign that you are becoming more in touch with your life path, keep going."

That's what I aim to do, to be aware of the synchronicities and the spiritual power that they hold. Synchronistic experiences give comfort, guidance, and faith.  And if I pay attention, I may understand the perfect timing and the deeper meaning of songs. 

À la prochaine! 

* The Kiki Dee Band  

GETTING IN THE MOOD TO WRITE 

I love coffee.  There's nothing like a hot cup of French Roast to put me in the mood to write. 

This caffeine craze began when I was six years old.  Every time my family visited my grandparents, I'd beg Bubbie for a cup.  My grandmother always gave in.  She spooned three teaspoons of Folgers coffee into my mug of milk.  It wasn't like I needed to feel like a grown-up.  It was the aroma and taste that I craved.  That coffee-milk concoction was the best thing ever. 

I began regularly drinking coffee with cream and sugar after I graduated college.  Now days, I drink black coffee and my favorite flavors are French Roast, as well as Guatemalan or Columbian coffee.  Holding a steamy cup warms my hands and fingers and the taste gives me a little caffeine buzz.  After a few sips, I'm ready to edit my manuscripts, do some marketing, and respond to clients and critique partners.  I'll sip coffee throughout the day, less than 2 cups, which is a fairly harmless custom compared to the habits of some famed American authors. 

I did a little research.  According to Tom Dardis, author of The Thirsty Muse, Ernest Hemingway, William Faulkner, F. Scott Fitzgerald and Eugene O’Neill got in the mood to write with alcohol.  Dardis reveals that these writers inherited their alcoholism from their parents.  Dardis states that the first three burned themselves out before they reached their creative potential.  I'm not sure I agree with him in regards to Hemingway.  

Judy Reeves, author of A Writer’s Book of Days, observes that several famous authors had healthier “getting into the writing mood” methods.  She notes that Alexandre Dumas (the elder) ate an apple early each morning.  Charles Dickens took long walks every day.  Modern day novelist Stephen King has a glass of water or tea, takes a vitamin pill and listens to music. 

So, it seems common that many authors rely on some stimulus to prepare themselves to write.  A cup of java usually does the trick for me.  But on the rare occasion coffee doesn't get my creative juices flowing, I put my writing for a little bit and:  

• study French     
• answer emails
• work on client's manuscripts and query letters   
• take a walk and mull over ideas
• read inspirational quotes on writing
• go to Pinterest to get visual writing ideas
• read Facebook posts until I figure I've got better things to do with my time 

Putty Cat

Taking a break works wonders.  I am refreshed and ready to write.   

While the water boils for a fresh cup of coffee, I take care of the cats; otherwise, two of them will be hopping on the keyboard.  First, I feed our kitten Lizzie (to distract her from Ozzie's bowl because she's a bit of a food hog), and then Ozzie, and lastly, Putt-Putt (our lovable stray) because he's staring at me through the screen door,

and then feed Ozzie and Lizzie again because they see Putty is eating, so naturally, they want more food.

Whew!  After making sure all three of them are well-fed, I pour myself a cup of steaming hot coffee. 

I turn on the computer and I'm relaxed, open to the flow of ideas, and in the mood to write.

À la prochaine! 

MIGRAINE MISERY   

I've suffered from migraines for decades. 

One of the worst things about these debilitating headaches is losing time to write.  With a migraine, the precious day fades away without the opportunity to pen a single word.  It's impossible to be creative with a pounding headache.    

A migraine feels like the tip of a knife stabbing the temple of my head.  With this amount of pain, it's difficult to think clearly or to make good judgments.  Once while driving with a migraine, I bypassed a familiar street I needed to travel on to get home.  The ability to think straight had been lost and I drove past my turn.

At times, a migraine can produce flashing lights or zigzag patterns.  It can also bring on the chills and nausea, and it may affect the bladder and bowels.

Like most migraine sufferers, I have triggers that set off the pounding headache.  Of the fifteen common triggers listed below, the first eleven can give me a migraine.

Loud noise
Bright lights
Air travel
Stress
Alcohol
Foods with additives like soy*   
Changes in barometric pressure 
Female hormones
Certain medicines
Certain fragrances
Certain baking odors
Hunger
Dehydration
Caffeine
Change in sleep patterns

Though I know what can set off a migraine, sometimes it's difficult to control or to avoid these triggers.  So, for years I explored methods to give me some relief.  I tried a bioidentical hormone cream, acupuncture, essential oils, and cannabis, but none of these treatments worked. 

Finally, I saw a neurologist.  He too, suffered from migraines.  So, here was someone who understood these debilitating headaches.  He prescribed the vasoconstrictor Imitrex.  And voilà.  Imitrex stops a migraine in its tracks.  I reach for this wonder med at the first sign of a migraine attack, which in my case can be any of the following:  a tightening across my forehead, sinus pressure, feeling foggy brained, seeing light flashes, or having blurry vision. 

 

It's a godsend to have a reliable medicine.  Without Imitrex, I'd be curled up in bed for up to six hours trying not to throw up and missing out on composing blogs, editing my stories, fine-tuning queries, advising clients, and doing social media marketing.  A migraine can make me feel miserable and can ruin a major portion of my day.  

Migraines will probably affect me for the rest of my life.  That's a fact, not a complaint.  I accept this.  Luckily, when I feel one coming on, there's a medicine that brings relief in about fifteen minutes.  As long as I can get ahead of a migraine before it manifests, I'm good to go.  Pain-free, I can tackle my writing tasks.  And without a migraine, I can make the most of a precious day. 

Carpe diem! 

*Soy lecithin is added to many foods such as ice cream, soups, breads, and chocolate.  If you get headaches after having a meal, read the packaging labels.  Find out if soy lecithin is one of the ingredients.

ODE TO OZZIE

I had given up hope that my cat would return.  

Ozzie escaped on a frosty November night.  A week later, I wrote this poem to come to terms with his death.     

ODE TO OZZIE

That's the way it's meant to be

you and me

and the silver moon

and open doors with scents galore

unexplored

'til now.

That's the way it's meant to be.

You left me for wooded fields

and starry nights of winter chill

to roam the verdant virgin hills.

Bed you down safe and sound

gather round angels

to bring you home 

and keep you bound in peace.  

No longer by my side, 

you padded off with Nature's guide 

to wooded fields 

and verdant hills,  

for that's the way it's meant to be. 

 

Epilogue:

Near the end of January, a couple found a stray hiding in the bushes by their home.  He was crying.  He was starving.  They took him in, fed him, and then posted his picture on Next Door.  

A neighbor called me to say she had seen a post of a cat that might be Ozzie.    

  

With a little detective work, my husband and I were able to find the people who rescued the stray.  Down in their basement was skinny cat that could barely meow, that could barely lift his head.  He had two different colored eyes.  They had saved Ozzie.   

Ozzie had travelled to the outskirts of our neighborhood.  He braved snow and predators and single digit temperatures.  He had been missing for two months. 

With the guidance of angels and the kindness of strangers, we have been reunited.

Je suis reconnaissant (I am grateful)

Exhausted, but happy to be home.

LOSING A PET 

I grieve for my pet.    

On a frosty November night, our beloved cat Ozzie ran away.  The basement door was ajar and he slipped outside.  It's been months since he's disappeared.   

Ozzie was always intrigued with the outside world.  He'd attempt to sneak out whenever we opened the deck or patio doors.  He'd push against the screen door trying to tear through it.   

A few months before his departure, he'd hop up to a table and stare longingly through a window at the backyard.  I thought he might be watching for opossums, raccoons, or stray cats.  Perhaps, he was pining to be outside and planning his escape.     

Two years ago, he got outside through the basement door that led into the garage.  When we discovered he was missing, we searched the garage, our yard, and the neighborhood.  Ozzie reappeared in the garage about four hours later. 

Since that day, I bought a tag for his collar which was engraved:  Ozzie.  I'm an indoor cat.  I don't belong outside.  Please call my mom.   

But the tag didn't help.  Ozzie is still missing.  

Here's what I think could have happened:  

• Ozzie may have appeared at someone's doorstep without his collar (it was a breakaway collar that may have been snapped open) and taken in, appearing as a friendly stray.  If he was adopted, the good-hearted neighbor may not have given any thought to having his microchip read, which would reunited him with us.      

• Ozzie may have been sick and traveled to the woods beyond our backyard to find a place to die.  He had been sleeping a bit more than normal and he wasn't as social as he had been.  Cats hide their illnesses and Ozzie may have been concealing the fact that his health was failing. 

• Ozzie may have been lured by curiosity and gotten lost.

• A predator may have found Ozzie.

I believe if Ozzie wanted to, he could have come back the night he escaped.  The door had been open for several hours.  It was cold outside and the terrain beyond our property was unfamiliar.  Occasionally, I had taken him out with a vest and leash to enjoy the backyard.  I think he would have recognized the difference in the smells of our yard and the area beyond.  

A week after Ozzie's escape, my husband and I went to the Humane Society hoping to find him, but no one had brought Ozzie to the shelter.  While we were there, we played with some kittens that were up for adoption.  One of the little bitty cats let me hold her in my lap without squirming.  What were the chances on that day we'd find a kitten with the same name as our daughter?

We adopted Abby, but renamed her Lizzie (a double z in honor of Ozzie.)  Several days later when I took Lizzie to our veterinarian, I told him about Ozzie's disappearance.  Dr. Vice had taken care of Ozzie for seven years.  As he gave Lizzie a rabies shot, he said that no other cat will replace Ozzie.  He said, "Now you have Lizzie and she will have her own story."

I miss Ozzie.  I may never get over losing him.  He was my bud.  I hear stories about pets finding their way back home months after they've disappeared.  So, Ozzie may return and have a baby sister.  But for now, my life is different and I have to deal with the devastating loss and the crushing heartbreak.    

I stroke Lizzie's little face and rub her furry belly and ask, "Lizzie, do you know where Ozzie can be?"  She looks at me tenderly, as if pondering his whereabouts, as if she knows.  Then I ask her one more question:  "Lizzie, with what will your story be?"

Ozzie me manque  

                                                                                                                                                    Ozzie has table privileges

SPOILED 

Written before Ozzie escaped on Thanksgiving night. 

He has not returned.

I spoil our cat Ozzie.  Ollie (our first cat) died from kidney disease when he was only eight-years-old and the loss was so devastating that I go out of my way to indulge Ozzie.      

My sweet boy gets to eat a dish of dry kibbles and a dish of meaty wet food—yes, he has two food bowls.  And he gets to eat whenever he wants, which is throughout the day.  If I'm in the kitchen he waits by his tray.  He's got me pegged.  I fill both of them for him before I have a bite to eat.

When he's finished, he gets to watch the birds.  In the summer, I open the kitchen door for him and Ozzie lies against the screen, soaking in the sun.  He enjoys the variety of the birds that come to the feeders:  cardinals, wrens, woodpeckers, goldfinches, doves, chickadees, titmice, sometimes a rose-breasted grosbeak and hummingbirds.  If he's lucky, he gets to say hello to Putty, a stray cat we care for who frequents the deck for food.

In the mornings, Ozzie usually lies behind the computer screen.  I slide the keyboard to the front edge of the desk so he has plenty of room to stretch out and listen to bird-singing Youtube videos as I work.  

After lunch, Ozzie gets to nap on the guest room bed.  I give him a chin and belly rub before his eyelids get heavy. 

Then late afternoon when he awakens, he gets a dish of wet food—served in bed.

At supper time and before we have dinner, Ozzie gets two more dishes of food.  Then he jumps to the kitchen table and he gets to lounge on a place mat at the end of the table.  He's not reprimanded.  My husband and I know it's useless.  Most of the time, he naps unless he is intrigued by the food on our plates.

During the evening when I'm watching television or reading, he gets to make muffins on my lap. I don't move until he's tuckered out. 

After that, we may rough house.  He gets to swat at my arm.  He gets to gently bite my hand and clench it in his mouth.  When it's bedtime, he gets to curl up by my feet or on my pillow.

The only things he doesn't get to do is walk across the stove and sneak outside, both for reasons of safety.  And he doesn't get to body slam against a closed door—it's uncalled for and annoying.  But overall, Ozzie Mrvos has it made.  He gets lots of love and attention.  From I can tell, he shows his gratitude by butting his head against my hand.     

Without a doubt, I pamper Ozzie.  He gets table privileges.  He gets to watch birds, live or on video and so much more.  Is he spoiled?  Perhaps.  Do I mind?  Not one bit.  

Anything for my sweet boy. 

Ozzie me manque  

                                                                                                                                                                  Courtesy: imdb.com

A MOVIE, A GRADUATION, AND A MESSAGE

One of my favorite movies is The Hangover.  You know the film about four friends who drive to Las Vegas for a wild and memorable stag party.  

My sister (who thinks I have dignified taste) was aghast.  She told her husband, "My sister L-I-K-E-S  The Hangover."  And she said this like the line from Home Alone: "I made my family disappear!"

Come on.  What's not to like about The Hangover?  Bradley Cooper is easy on the eyes. Zack Galifianakis is hilarious.    

And then there's Ken Jeong.  And he may be the main reason why I love this movie.  He is over-the-top outrageous.    

Ken Jeong plays a Chinese mobster Leslie Chow who pops out of the trunk of a car and goes ape-shit, wielding a crowbar and demanding the return of his money.  Originally, this scene did not call for him to be naked.  Ken asked permission to show some skin.  Lots of skin.  In baring all, Jeong makes this violent scene well, less violent and more hilarious.  

You can imagine how excited I felt when Ken Jeong was announced as the key-note speaker at Duke's commencement, an event my husband and I would be attending.  Our daughter graduated from Duke in 2020, but commencement was put on hold due to Covid.  Sixteen months later on September 26, the Class of 2020 would have a special celebration to honor their accomplishments. 

Courtesy: Duke.edu

On the day of commencement, my husband and I arrived an hour before the ceremony to get a good seat.  At 9:00 sharp, "Pomp and Circumstance" stirred everyone to their feet as the procession of graduates, faculty, and administration filed into the quad.  We were happily surprised that so many graduates returned to campus.  We were thrilled to see so many relatives present to honor the graduates. 

After a lyrical benediction by Rev. Dr. Luke A. Powery, a touching speech by student Maghana Sai Iragavarapu and the awarding of degrees, Duke President Vincent Price introduced Ken Jeong, class of 1990.  

Jeong began with a raucous cheer.  "DR. KEN HAS COME BACK HOME!"  Then his mood became emotional.  Wiping away a few tears, he told the graduates, "Whatever you need.  I'm here for you."

He touched on growing up in Greensboro, North Carolina and dreaming to go to Duke.  He revealed an amazing fact.  He said, "I didn't want to be an actor.  I was here to be pre-med at Duke."  

During his 2nd year in college, he took an introduction to acting class that changed his life.  He had never taken any theatre classes.  He said, "I was overcome with passion, and the emotion to perform has never been extinguished." 

After sharing memories of his college days, Ken Jeong wrapped up with a powerful message:

"Live your passions.  Love one another.  Find your identity.  Find your flow in life.  That's all we need. To find our ourselves."  He went on to say, "Don't deny your potential.  Never sell yourself short.  You never know what you will achieve.  Capitalize on your own uniqueness." 

He may have been speaking to the graduates, but it felt as if his words were aimed at everyone seated in the quad.  I was focused, soaking in his presence and intent on the speech.  

While he spoke, The Hangover never entered my mind.  Now it's a given I'll be watching the movie again, though with a better appreciation of Ken Jeong.  Sure, I'll be laughing at his portrayal of Leslie Chow, but I will look beyond this crazy naked criminal to a man who didn't plan on being an actor.  I will see a Blue Devil who opened his heart, a father who followed his passions and a man who encouraged others to follow their dreams.      

 À la prochaine! 

Click on the link to enjoy Ken Jeong's speech.

                                                                                                                                          Photo by Brett Jordan

ANGRY WORDS

It's not often a neighbor hurts my feelings.  

But this summer when I went door to door distributing flyers on behalf of the neighborhood association, I was caught off guard by an angry resident; and to this day, I wonder if the situation could have been handled better.  

I volunteer as secretary on the neighborhood association board.  We have an outstanding team composed of five people who donate their time to represent our neighborhood. 

This summer, we began the annual membership drive.  Dues are not outrageous and yet out of the 400 households, only 100 of them join.  The board decided that if we passed out flyers, more people might be interested.  We felt that if we went door to door, we could inform neighbors about the benefits of joining the association plus remind them about our Facebook page.  On Facebook, members can post news that concerns our neighborhood, sell items, alert others about missing pets, or even offer veggies grown in their gardens. 

I got up early one Saturday morning in June to walk up and down my street and the adjoining streets to pass out about the flyers.  The day was hot, overcast, and misty.  My tee shirt clung to my skin and my hair got damp and frizzy (those who know me would tell you that I'm not fond of muggy weather.) 

I gathered a red marker, masking tape, and the fliers.  I wasn't feeling great.  My hip was sore (later I found out it was due to sciatica).  I felt every step.  Still, this was my assignment and I tried not to think too much about the pain.

For about an hour and a half, I taped flyers to the brickwork or to the windows that flanked the front doors, mindful to avoid delicate surfaces.  I personalized some flyers and gave those to the neighbors I knew well.  All was going smoothly and I was heading back down our street when a man yelled, "HEY, DON'T YOU EVER TAPE ANYTHING TO MY HOUSE AGAIN." 

I was taken aback.  I responded, "These flyers are about the neighborhood association and I was careful not to use tape that would harm your house."

And then, Mr. Grumpy Neighbor lashed out again.  I could see this was a losing argument.  He was pissed off.  There was nothing that could have been said to calm him down.  I walked away quickly and finished my task all the time feeling bruised by his words. 

When I look back on this unfortunate event, I wonder why he couldn't have said something nicer like, "I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't tape anything to my house."  It's all in how we choose our words that can make the difference in how are feelings are expressed and how language is interpreted by others.  

It still makes me sad every time I walk by the angry man's house.  The ugly words seem to hang in the air.  Then I wonder if I should have handled it differently, been more assertive, gotten in his face and stood my ground.   

But my gut tells me I acted properly.  Mr. Grumpy Neighbor didn't deserve my time.  I have more dignity than getting into a heated discussion, especially with someone who probably didn't care what I had to say.  Though he hurt my feelings, I repeated my mantra:  Don't engage.  Don't engage.  And this always serves me well.  Especially when someone uses nothing but angry words. 

 À la prochaine! 

 This is what our mountain-top vacation cabin is supposed to look like on a sunny day.

GO TELL IT ON THE MOUNTAIN

I am not a go-live-on-the-top-of-a-mountain kind of woman.

This was never more apparent to me than after spending four rainy days in the hills of West Virginia with our daughter, her roommate and her roommate's family, the Browns.

My husband and I didn't realize we'd need an SUV with four-wheel drive to get to the cabin.  We were driving a Honda Accord.  About one fourth of the way up the mountain, the bottom of our car scraped the stony road and we got wedged in the middle of nowhere without good cell-phone reception.  Luckily, we had texted the Browns our arrival time.  They met us (in a SUV with four-wheel drive) and helped us ease our car off the rocks.  With their guidance, we were able to turn around so we could head back down the mountain.     

Once we found a level, grassy place to park our car, the Browns informed us they had to go into town to get gasoline.  You see, taking us to the cabin would take 15 minutes up and 15 minutes back down for them.  As they drove away, my husband decided to walk up part of the mountain and ask a neighbor if it was okay to leave our car on their property.  And during this time, I am sitting alone in the car feeling uncomfortably abandoned.  All I had was a cell phone (with spotty reception).  My brain was racing with scary thoughts:  what if a local came out with a gun (not unheard of in Appalachia) or what if a bear spotted me?  What if a bear spotted my husband?  He was taking a ridiculously long time.  The sad thing was, during this time alone I could not take in the beauty of the scenery.  It's odd how worry can be overwhelming.  I sat by myself for what seemed the longest fifteen minutes of my life.

The backyard view from our cabin.

Finally, when my husband showed up and the Brown's returned, we began the arduous, bumpy journey up the mountain.  As we inched up the incline, ever-so-slowly at a snail's pace, trying to avoid deep ruts and huge rocks, it suddenly became apparent to my husband and I that we were going to be totally dependent on the Brown's to travel up and down the mountain, unless we wanted to walk one and half miles down a steep jagged road to our car.  And so, we felt somewhat trapped, held captive by the mountain so to speak.  God forbid there would be an emergency.  Or we should run out of wine.

When we arrived at the cabin, we found it to be spacious and comfortable with views of the surrounding hills enshrouded in clouds.  But half-way into our mini-vacation, I realized being in the mountains of West Virginia was not for me.  I wasn't stoked about campfires and having smoke permeate my clothing.  I wasn't crazy about hiking and having mud cling to my hiking boots.  I wasn't thrilled about mice and having them gnaw in the bedroom throughout the night.

Blackwater Falls, WV

This may sound like I'm giving the entire experience a bad rep, but I am extremely grateful for the opportunity to experience living in the Appalachian Mountains, having delightful company, and enjoying outstanding meals.  I had fun riding horses through the valleys and forests of W.V. and hiking (on a paved path) to Blackwater Falls.  I loved listening to the thrushes calling out from the forest at night.  But being isolated on top of a mountain brought new appreciation of living in the suburbs. 

Never again will I take for granted that I can drive to the grocery or gas station in less than five minutes and get to the house on a smooth street that takes me directly to the front door without having to negotiate a steep incline, driving over rocks the size of small boulders, or getting stuck in ruts.  I will never take for granted smoke-free clothing or clean hiking boots.  Most importantly, I will never take for granted that I can go to bed peacefully, without ever once having to set a mousetrap at the foot of my bed.  

I admire those hardy souls who can adapt so easily to a wilderness environment.  I'm not that flexible.  Being in a cabin on the tip-top of the world is fine for a few days.  But four days on a mountain is the limit for this city-dwelling gal.  

À la prochaine! 

 

PHOTO SHOOT

I got all duded-up to have my picture taken—not for a book cover or for a newspaper story, but for a REAL ID.  You laugh, but I aimed to have a good picture taken because all of my driver's license photos have been atrocious.  In fact, I dislike my photo so much I hide my driver's license in the back of my wallet behind the credit cards. 

The day of the photo shoot was in July, which for Kentucky usually means the weather will be hot and sunny.  Perfect!  But on the day of our appointment, the forecast was for rain.  And that meant I had to battle the frizzies.  I used a hair dryer to flatten my bangs, applied a generous amount of hair spray, and then covered my bangs with hair gel to prevent them from curling up and making me look like a four-year-old child.    

That was just the start.  My makeup had to look fresh and natural.  After applying a firming dry oil to my neck, a light layer of moisturizer to my cheeks and under my eyes, I reached for the liquid liner for my upper eyelids and used a pencil liner for the bottom lids.  Then, I brushed on a neutral matte eyeshadow and a little mascara.    

When my eyes were finished, I applied a creamy foundation and brushed on a powder blush to the tops of my cheekbones and a bit on my chin.  I lined my lips and then used a wine-red base color and went over that color with a little magenta, which complements the rosy blush.   

You'd think with all of the makeup I'd be good to go, but there were flaws to cover up like the freckles on my nose and the circles under my eyes.  (I've been taking Vitamin K which is supposed to help dark rings...and I'm still waiting to see the benefits.)  So, I reached for my favorite product: concealers.  Yes, plural.  I blended the two together and applied this mixture lightly under my eyes and down the center of my nose.  

I scrutinized my makeup and lo and behold, the skin under my eyes now looked puffy.  I had to put on extra eye correction cream and more concealer.  Finally, all looked good.  I selected a black top to wear because I photograph better in dark colors.  And I was set to go...

The bangs are cooperating

except when my husband and I drove to the Lexington Regional Driver's Licensing Office, we couldn't find the place.  We bypassed it twice and needed to use Google Maps to direct us.  By now we are running late for our appointment and when we arrived there were no parking places.  Mind you, there were plenty of reserved spaces (all empty).  We drove to an adjacent lot where signs read FOR EMPLOYEES ONLY.  Screw that.   

And the moment I stepped out of the car, the wind began to pick up and the air got humid and all I could think about was getting inside quickly so my hair wouldn't frizz and my bangs wouldn't curl.  We dashed inside just in time.  The skies let loose and rain came pouring down.  

Once inside, the receptionist asked our names and appointment time.  Then she directed us to have a seat.  Man, oh man, the room was packed. No one was wearing a mask.  I assumed everyone was vaccinated, but who would know?  No one asked if we had COVID symptoms.  I squirmed in my chair.  I was unaccustomed to being close to other people.  Even though my husband and I were vaccinated, we tried to socially-distance ourselves.  I had brought a mask, but I had no plans to wear it (I know, stupid and vain)—nothing was going to ruin my make-up.

We waited and waited, even with an appointment.  In the meantime, we watched more people file in.  Most of them didn't have appointments.  To my surprise, in the time we waited (30 minutes) only one gentleman caused a bit of a ruckus.  We all heard his story:  he hadn't made an appointment, but he worked 70 hours a week and had used a vacation day to renew his license.  You could honestly say the entire room felt sorry for him.  The receptionist must have been in a good mood.  She gave him a time later in the day. 

After twenty-five minutes of waiting, I was dying to go to the bathroom.  Damn my bladder.  I tried not to think about going and patiently waited.  Five minutes later, our names were called.  As we stood in line, I slipped into the bathroom (thank goodness it was close by).  We only have to wait a little bit longer to get this show started.    

We were directed to a booth and asked to present our driver's licenses, passports, proof of address and social security numbers.  Then, we answered the required questions.  Finally, finally the pictures were taken.  My husband's photo turned out reasonably well.  I didn't have the heart to look at mine until we got back into the car.   

And the results?  THE best driver's license picture I've ever taken—and I've been driving for 50 years. Maybe it was luck, or maybe it was my make-up.  I was shocked.  This picture was flattering.  It's kind of a shame it will rarely be seen.  But the good news it won't relegated to a place behind the credit cards.  It has earned a better spot.  Breaking tradition, it will go where it rightfully belongs—facing outward at the front of the wallet. 

À la prochaine! 

                                                                                                                                                                                                           Photo: Maksim Shutov

THE ANTS GO MARCHING ONE BY ONE  

We've got ants.

And I don't understand why these itty-bitty creatures insist on seeking out our house when they can have the great outdoors for themselves—which from an ant's perspective must seem enormous.  There are plenty of houses in the neighborhood.  Why the Mrvs'?  Maybe they like the smell of cooking or a vacation away from the colony?

Judging by the army of ants, you'd think we'd hung a plaque on the front door that says "Welcome Y'all" as is customary with many Kentuckians.

Our kitchen is under siege.  These ants are perfectly camouflaged—their black bodies blend with the dark granite countertops.  So, how does one fight them?  We tried ant baits.  

In about a week the battle was over, but before their demise they must have called for reinforcements because in no time, their huge cousins (seriously, picture ants on steroids) crawled on the deck, the patio, and the front porch and then invaded our house.  Let me tell you, this troop traveled in hordes.

By now you've realized that I am not a fan of ants, but let me throw in that I equally abhor spiders.  It's possible they could help with the ant invasion, but they're not allowed in the house either.  No arachnid is going to share my living space, despite the fact they eat ants.

There is nothing funny about ants, unless we cover the funny-sounding word shpilkes pronounced:  spill-kees.  Shpilkes is Yiddish for “pins and needles” or in other words, being fidgety or feeling anxious, like having

courtesy Amazon.com

 ants in your pants.  When people can’t be still or pace back and forth, they are said to have the shpilkes. 

That's about as funny as it gets with ants.  

My husband set out new ant baits, but these did not combat the enemy.  So, he resorted to spraying Raid insecticide (a great product name when you think about it because a raid is defined as a hostile and surprise attack).  But after the hostile and surprise attack, the ants were for the most part unfazed.

We were losing the battle and figured it might be time to call an exterminator. 
                                                                   
Before surrendering and calling in the big guns, I goggled homemade bug killers and found that a 50/50 solution of water mixed with white vinegar is supposed to stop ants in their tracks.  Easy enough.  Mix, aim, and squirt.  Time will tell if this simple tactic will work.  

You might think this blog is giving ants a bad rep. I mean, all they've done is crawl on the kitchen floor.  They haven't gotten into any food.  They haven't bitten us.  And they amuse our cat Ozzie.  

The Old Farmer's Almanac states ants can be helpful: "Most ants nest in the ground, digging a labyrinth of tunnels that allow air and moisture to get to the roots of plants. The leaves and insects brought into the nest decay and fertilize the surrounding plants. Many ants are predators and feed on insects that attack lawns and gardens, and in the process of gathering food, they often pollinate flowers and distribute seeds."  

After learning about the benefits of ants you might think I'd feel guilty about the way we've treated them.  But these benefits take place outside—in the lawn or in a garden.  

And definitely not in the house.  If ants could read, I would put little signs on the deck by the kitchen door informing them to Bug Off!  That might seem a bit harsh, so I would put up one more sign in the garden that would say Welcome Y'all!  That way, we'd come to a truce.  We'd all be happy.  These itty-bitty creatures might be inclined to accept the invitation and make the great outdoors all theirs.    

À la prochaine! 

 

                                                                                                                                                                                                        Black—my go-to color

                

I WON'T BE WEARING BLACK

My favorite color is black.  

Proof?  My closet is arranged in color groups from light to dark, where some of the clothes are pinks, yellows, blues and purples and more than half are black.  

I feel comfortable in black.  And black is easy—it goes with everything.  

But a dilemma came up this winter.  My husband Jim and I have been invited to a formal wedding.  Naturally, I planned on wearing black.  It will be a fancy evening affair and black would be appropriate.  But Jim said he'd like to see me in another color.

That got me thinking.  Maybe it was time to mix things up and try a different shade for a change.  So, I began searching online for styles of wedding guest dresses.  One company stood out: JJ's House.  It carried a huge assortment of gowns and the prices were reasonable.

If you look at the color palette, you can see the selection of colors.  I liked stormy or wisteria—but I'm not sure.  Not wearing black, my go-to color, has thrown me for a loop.  Feeling unsure, I asked a friend.  She selected dusk which is a beautiful color, but my husband thought it was too subtle.  My hairdresser has great fashion sense.  He chose coral.  Meh, not my favorite.  Too bright.  Then I asked my daughter.  Her choice:  cabernet.  Hmm, maybe.  Decisions, decisions.  

Since choosing a color was nearly impossible for me, I focused on selecting the style of the dress.  This decision would be easier.  My vision:  a fitted bodice with sequins, a flowy shirt, a rounded neckline and sleeves.  Believe it or not, that combination was easy to find. 

But I had forgotten one detail:  choosing the dress length. What was appropriate for a formal affair?  I googled formal weddings to find out and discovered a variety of choices:  full-length, mid-length, cocktail, and tiered skirt.  So, what would be the most acceptable?  Since I knew the mother of the bride, I asked for her opinion.  She told me she was wearing floor-length, but to wear something that would make me feel comfortable.  She was being polite, but didn't she know I needed more direction than that?

I'm only 5'3" and a floor-length would not be ideal.  A length that would hit at the calf would be better.  The hem could always be shortened. 

Finally, I was making progress.  I felt good about the style and length.  So, two decisions down and one to go—choosing the right color.  I felt pressured.  Over two hundred people will be attending.  Our daughter will be among the twelve bridesmaids.  I'm sure the wedding we will be extravagant and glamorous.  So, it's important to me to wear a color that will make me feel confident, especially since I won't be wearing black.  

After months of going back and forth and agonizing about making the right choice, I made a decision.  Drumroll, please.  And the color is:

Cabernet.   

When the dress arrived, I tried it on for my daughter.  Ever-so-carefully, I slipped it on being mindful of the delicate sleeves.  The bodice fit perfectly.  The length hit just below the calf.  My daughter assured me that with heels the hemline will fall at a good length.  After her approval, I placed the gown into the guest room closet for safekeeping.  It's going to be a surprise for my husband and he'll see it for the first time on the evening of the wedding. 

Wearing a deep-red gown will be something new for me.  Something a little out of my comfort zone.  Bolder.  More daring.  I'm a little nervous about wearing a new color and yet, I'm excited.  Change may be good.  I have a feeling cabernet may be every bit as elegant as black.      

À la prochaine! 

                                                                                                                                                                                                      Photo: Katie Treadway 

FRIENDSHIP: REAL OR FAKE  

It's hard to admit, but twenty years ago one of my friends broke my heart.  

Ellie used to invite my family to her home to celebrate Passover.  She and her husband were fun to be around and they were generous, gracious hosts.  Besides celebrating the Jewish holiday, we'd go out to dinner, to the theatre and to art shows.  At the time, I thought Ellie was my friend.  It didn't turn out that way.  

The first sign that something was not quite right cropped up when we invited Ellie and her family over for dinner.  They arrived over an hour late.  Though they apologized, my carefully planned meal turned out dry and disappointing.  Shortly after that, she called to say, "I'm a bad friend, aren't I?"

As I look back, it was her way of telling me our friendship had ended and I didn't pick up on the clue.  From then on, Ellie stopped inviting us over for Passover and out for social events.  She never returned my calls, even at a time when I had a health scare.  What made it hard was, she never felt inclined to give me an explanation.

I was crushed.  The situation weighed on me heavily.  I couldn't shake the rejection. I adored Ellie and missed her.  Then as the years flew by, it finally dawned on me that this relationship was meant to be short-lived.  It had never been destined to become what I had hoped it would be—a lasting friendship.  So, it was time to let it go of the negative feelings that were weighing me down.  But how does one let go of someone?

I suppose we all have ways of freeing pain.  For me, it happened unexpectedly on a beautiful sunny spring day.  I stepped outside and for whatever reason, I thought about Ellie.  Even though we hadn't seen each other in years, I was still troubled and hurt.  But that day, I was inspired to change the way I felt about her.  The first thing I did was to forgive her.  Then, I imagined carrying our sad little relationship in the palms of my hands.  I raised my arms to the sky and let the wind carry the pain away.  Suddenly, I felt lighter.  At peace.

Of course, I'd like to understand why Ellie cut me out of her life, but that will never happen.  We are part of the past, and not to be part of the present or future.  

It's sad to conclude that Ellie and I never shared a true friendship.  For her, it was more of a convenient connection.  Be it as it may, the situation brought into focus the true relationships that I have with other friends.  

I have friends who would never break my heart.  We care about one another and share life's joys and troubles.  We speak honestly to each other.  We can rant and rave.  We are thoughtful...and just listen.  We are patient with each other.  Most importantly, we can count on each other.  These relationships are true and have lasted and will last for many years. 

And isn't that what real friendships are all about?  

À la prochaine! 

                                                                                                                                           Photo: Soroush Karimi 

J'ADORE LA LANGUE FRANÇAISE 

OMG or even better, OMD (Oh Mon Dieu)—I love the French language. 

My passion for French began decades ago when I was in high school.  Back then, students were required to take a foreign language.  We had three choices:  Spanish, French, and Latin.  Since I did poorly with Spanish in elementary school and felt Latin would not be useful for me, I decided to take French.  La langue était marveilleuse (the language was marvelous).  I would have liked to have studied more French in college, but my class load was packed.  Learning French would have to wait.  

Then many years later, my passion for the language was rekindled.  When my husband and I decided to travel to France as a graduation gift for our daughter, I enrolled in a French class to become better acquainted with the language.   

In our beginner's class, we started with adjectives which may seem easy, but they are not.  French nouns are masculine or feminine.  A house is feminine.  But not everything in the house is feminine.  The bedroom and bathroom are feminine, but the garage, the attic, and the living room are masculine.  

I discovered that words have different meanings depending upon which definite article is used.  For example:  Le vase is the vase.  La vase is wet sand.  Le livre is the book and la livre is a pound.

Learning vocabulary can be challenging.  Travailler does not mean to travel.  The correct word is voyager.  Coin means corner, not pieces of money.  And coin-coin is quack-quack, the sound a duck makes.  Even more confusing is the word librairie, where one goes to buy a book, not borrow one.  The word bibliothèque is a library where you can check out books.

On top of that, there are homophones which are words that sound the same.  Glass (verre), green (vert), earthworm (ver), toward (vers) and a gray-green color (vair) are all pronounced "vare."  You have to listen to the context of the sentence to understand which is word is being used. 

Despite the complexities, I gradually learned adjectives, moved on to verbs and figured out how to put simple sentences together.  I felt fairly confident we could get by in Paris.  I knew how to say bonjour (good day), merci (thank you), s'il vous plaît (please), je voudrais (I would like), au revoir (good bye) and the ever so important phrase où sont les toilettes (where are the toilets?)  

Croissants, not muffins.  Photo: Dana Deaner 

And yet when we arrived in France, I could not communicate that well.  I could order wine with dinner, but not a muffin for breakfast.  That's crazy, huh (C'est fou, n'est pas?) The word muffin is spelled as it is in English, but in French it is pronounced "mew-fah."  The waitress didn't understand me, so I ordered a croissant instead.  

It's been seven years since my first adult class.  I can read fairly well and understand conversation if it's spoken slowly.  But speaking effortlessly stills eludes me.  Living in France would be helpful, and though that is a dream, it will have to wait.  In the meantime, I take two French classes a week: a grammar class and a reading class.  I also listen to podcasts in French and study grammar in supplemental workbooks. 

So why I would put myself through learning a difficult language?  The answer's easy:  I have an overwhelming love for French.  It's good for my brain and it's beautiful to speak.  I will keep taking classes to learn grammar, vocabulary, and expressions.  The ultimate goal is to speak more fluently and to be understood.  Because I plan on returning to Paris.  And when I return—I'll be having a muffin for breakfast.

À la prochaine!