tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20495142213802209292024-03-21T22:59:00.666-04:00the whining diner and wellfedfredwellfedfredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07118802089389931227noreply@blogger.comBlogger720125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2049514221380220929.post-38910735985441662102021-02-10T13:33:00.001-05:002021-02-12T13:01:34.885-05:00memories: a visit to Baton Rouge. then there was the year we decided we should really see more of Louisiana than a few food-and-music-filled days in New Orleans. This was before the Hurricane, before the Flood...<br />
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Anyway the plan was to drive from New Orleans to Baton Rouge, taking in sights and scenery along the way, hit at least one crawfish boil and get us some Cajun music in or near Baton Rouge, and return to New Orleans for a flight North.<br />
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First stop: a former sugar cane plantation, now re-decorated as a stately home, with parking and costumed docents. Um, not really my thing.<br />
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Next stop: a small dock from which one could board a small boat and have a Swamp Tour and observe the presence of alligators, muskrats, nutria. It is sometimes said of the Cantonese that they can season up and cook anything and make it really delicious, and that attitude toward Nature's Bounty seems to be part of the Cajun tradition as well. I sympathize with the history of persecution, with the loss of language and homeland, with the need to make the best of whatever you can pick, shoot or trap, but I seriously don't recommend Nutria Etouffé. Nutria is a webfooted rat.<br />
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Next stop: by the side of the road arguing about why the map that came with the rental car didn't show which of the roads to Baton Rouge were paved. Our conclusion: the money for paving had run out or otherwise disappeared. The map didn't need to distinguish.<br />
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Next stop: a chain motel with a paved parking lot. We heard a lot of French (French French) spoken in the lobby, apparently the place was very popular with tourists from France, many of whom seemed surprised to learn that Louisiana no longer belongs to France and hasn't for a long time.<br />
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(Here I digress, to note that long after French colonial rulers departed Haiti, the beginning history textbook that was still used in the few remaining Haitian schools kicked off with these immortal words: <span style="background-color: white; color: #003366;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="font-style: italic;">Nos ancêtres les Gaulois étaient grands et robustes, avec une peau blanche comme du lait, des yeux bleus et de longs cheveux blonds ou roux qu'ils laissaient flotter sur les épaules. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I translate: our ancestors, the Gauls, were tall and strong, with milk-white skin, blue eyes and blond or red hair that fell to their shoulders in soft waves. One wonders what the little Haitian children concluded from that.) </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #003366;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #003366;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Meanwhile back in Louisiana - we checked in, we followed a few small trucks to a large barn-like structure, parked and sat down to tubs of boiled crayfish and pitchers of beer. Heaven. Lots of Tabasco, lots of other hot seasonings, bib, hands, paper towels... Finally, stuffed, we decided to wash up and get back in the car and explore a little. Himself headed for the Men's, and I dealt with the bill. A few minutes later, I saw him tottering across the dining room, he looked like he'd seen a really nasty ghost and he could barely walk. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #003366;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #003366;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It seems that on his way to the sink, he decided to, um, spend a penny, forgetting that he was in the men's room in the first place because both his hands were covered with hot red pepper sauce. We headed right back to the motel where he stood under the shower for a really long time.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #003366;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #003366;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The next day we decided to do something blander. We visited a recreation of a small Cajun settlement, where costumed volunteers demonstrated the trades and crafts of times gone by. Loom, spinning wheel, sheep, wash tubs. Axes, shovels, scythes. Woodwork. Kitchen gardens, tomatoes, green peppers, green onions, celery. Berries. Further out from the cabins, cash crops. </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #003366; font-family: inherit;">Subsistence farming, hunting, trapping. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #003366; font-family: inherit;">Blacksmith. Gunsmith. Knife sharpening. Herbal remedies, herbal dyes. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #003366;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #003366;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Our fellow visitors trudged beside as we searched hopefully for barrels or a cooper or other indicia of how the hunters and craftsmen dealt with thirst. Our guide caught up with us and asked if anyone had questions. One lady beat us to the punch. Her question: with all these hobbies and activities, when did the settlers find time to go to work?</span></span><div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #003366;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>wellfedfredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07118802089389931227noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2049514221380220929.post-90527873868384848082020-11-29T14:39:00.000-05:002020-11-29T14:39:28.192-05:00Goodnight Irene, the stores are closed<p><br /></p><p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Sometimes I shopped in the country</p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Sometimes I shopped in the town</p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Sometimes I fed the kids at the mall</p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">When the sitter let me down.</p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14.6px;"><br /></p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Santa’s on a beer break, </p>
<p style="color: #251a9c; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">The parking lot’s<span style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana;"> empty and cold</span></p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">The mall is draped in tacky, </p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I’m feeling tired and old.</p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14.6px;"><br /></p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">So home we go in traffic</p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">No TV or X-box tonight</p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">We’ll make Christmas lists together</p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">And bring to our dark moods some light.</p>
<p style="color: #ff3700; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14.6px;"><br /></p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I’ve mixed a lovely eggnog (mine is stronger than the kids’)</p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I’ve set fire to a Yule Log and stopped the “I didn’t, he dids!”</p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Pencils out, paper ready, we sit down by the fire</p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">For the kids and I and the catalogs with Santa to conspire.</p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"> (<span style="font-style: italic;">dainty sip of eggnog)</span></p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14.6px;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /></p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Their lists are long</p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">But mine is longer</p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Their eggnog’s sweet</p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">But mine is stronger.</p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"> (<span style="font-style: italic;">sips again)</span></p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14.6px;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /></p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Dear Santa, you and I have had</p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">A long and close relation,</p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">So if you go out shoppin’ for me,</p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Follow instructions without variation.</p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #251a9c; font-family: Helvetica;"> </span> (<span style="font-style: italic;">another sip of eggnog)</span></p>
<p style="color: #251a9c; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13.8px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica-Oblique; font-style: italic;"></span><br /></p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">One: no blended yarns from livestock that feel suspiciously like cat </p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Two: no flimsy silk-ish tops that need camis, ‘cause they make me itch.</p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Three: no mini skirts, no leather shorts (the public will thank you for that).</p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Four: no falling hems, no slipping cuffs, even just by a stitch</p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"> (<span style="font-style: italic;">mmm eggnog</span>)</p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">No splitting seams, no fraying edges, no plastic threads -- </p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">And please oh please not one thing that sheds!</p>
<p style="color: #251a9c; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 13.8px;"><br /></p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Oh, festive spirits, joyful smiles,</p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">No, the kids are laughing at the website styles</p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"> <span style="font-style: italic;">(shlllurrps eggnog</span>)</p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Santa, dear, when I’m dressed up in finest holiday fettle</p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Don’t spoil my ensemble with mystery metal</p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #251a9c; font-family: Helvetica;"> </span> (pours more eggnog)</p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14.6px;"><br /></p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Gosh, this was going to be such a sweet little list</p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">And look at me now, I am totally p----d.</p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"> (<span style="font-style: italic;">chugs eggnog)</span></p>
<p style="color: #4d469c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"> And NO you may NOT taste my eggnog.</p>
<p style="color: #674ea7; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14.6px;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /></p>
<p style="color: #674ea7; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Give me back that iPad, you little wretch, or I will tie a knot in the top of your stocking</span></p>
<p><span style="color: #674ea7; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-style: italic;">And what I will tell Santa about you and your brothers will be totally shocking. (urrpppp)</span></p>wellfedfredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07118802089389931227noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2049514221380220929.post-6746693464030657482020-11-20T10:33:00.000-05:002020-11-20T10:33:09.305-05:00you can never step twice into the same river<br /><div><p style="color: #251a9c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">a girl I used to be</p>
<p style="color: #990000; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14.6px; text-align: center;"><br /></p>
<p style="color: #251a9c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">slipped into tiny spaces</p>
<p style="color: #251a9c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">dodged between cars</p>
<p style="color: #251a9c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">got places early</p>
<p style="color: #251a9c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">was never tired</p><p style="color: #251a9c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p>
<p style="color: #251a9c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14.6px;">a girl I used to be</p>
<p style="color: #251a9c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">wore jodhpurs in the street</p>
<p style="color: #251a9c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">and tight jeans when she wasn't working</p>
<p style="color: #251a9c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14.6px;"><br /></p>
<p style="color: #251a9c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">at a traffic light a nun said to her</p>
<p style="color: #251a9c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">what a beautiful face you have</p>
<p style="color: #251a9c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I will pray for you</p>
<p style="color: #251a9c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">and she replied</p>
<p style="color: #251a9c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">and I for you, Sister</p>
<p style="color: #251a9c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14.6px;"><br /></p>
<p style="color: #251a9c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">she never paid for a drink</p>
<p style="color: #251a9c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">she never waited on line</p>
<p style="color: #251a9c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">she never packed</p>
<p style="color: #251a9c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">there were clean panties and a lipstick in her purse</p>
<p style="color: #251a9c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">she was ready for anything</p>
<p style="color: #251a9c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14.6px;"><br /></p>
<p style="color: #251a9c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">gods and spirits watched over her</p>
<p style="color: #251a9c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">trees sheltered her</p>
<p style="color: #251a9c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">the Norse god of mischief</p>
<p style="color: #251a9c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">the Greek god of music</p>
<p style="color: #251a9c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">the Celtic god of wild things</p>
<p style="color: #251a9c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">the One True God smiled at their silliness and held her in His hand</p>
<p style="color: #251a9c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14.6px;"><br /></p>
<p style="color: #251a9c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">sometimes I think I've seen her</p>
<p style="color: #251a9c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">reflected in a mirror, a store window</p>
<p style="color: #251a9c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">and I look around</p>
<p style="color: #251a9c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">but of course</p>
<p style="color: #251a9c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">that girl never stopped to look</p>
<p style="color: #251a9c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14.6px;"><br /></p>
<p style="color: #251a9c; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">that girl never looked back</p></div>wellfedfredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07118802089389931227noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2049514221380220929.post-19509799855896214692020-03-24T21:48:00.001-04:002020-03-31T13:01:58.916-04:00I thought I wouldn’t wait for the D-Day anniversary to re-post <h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: #4d4dce; font-family: "Josefin Sans"; font-size: 30px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; position: relative;">
adieu, not au revoir - random reminiscences on the 70th anniversary of a day that changed the world</h3>
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This is a repost of a post from, yes, June 2014. It is meant to be an antidote to the garbled ranting of a jerk from Texas who suggested that letting people die of the Mysterious Virus would advance the regrowth of capitalism, while simultaneously removing an expensive $$ burden on taxpayers. - </div>
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If this looks like too long a read, tune in to the daily reports of the Governor of the State of New York, Andrew Cuomo. He makes me feel better about - well, everything. and sorry, Texans, we have jerks up here as well - but this creep got my attention at the wrong time.</div>
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Now begins the (only slightly edited) repost:</div>
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Several old friends of the family belong to the greatest generation, they're still with us, frail, weary, proud. Early in my working days, my boss had actually been one of those who went ashore on D-Day. Immature and curious, I tried to reconcile this quiet man, his stooped shoulders, his little twitch, the tiniest hint of a limp, with the gallant boys of the documentaries. "We were all very ordinary," he said. Well, that's the point, no? Ordinary people becoming extraordinary...<br />
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It's been said that the Parisian craze for thinness derives from the influence of Coco Chanel. Being thin, like being tan from the sun, so the story goes, was for years a mark of poverty. The idle rich, the nobles, the aristos, stayed inside, didn't work, ate well and grew fat. This is nonsense, since rich people kept dogs and horses and had gardens and tennis courts, but Chanel never denied having been the one who was sleek in her scandalously comfortable clothes, which hung perfectly on her slender frame and set off her golden tan as she strolled the boardwalks in Normandy and on the Riviera - the girl everyone wanted to copy.<br />
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One of my old (really really old) French teachers had a different explanation, which had nothing to do with Chanel. France, she said, has a history of being invaded and occupied, then recovering and moving on. War and occupation meant, among other things, scarcity of food, rationing... and thus respectable law-abiding women - <i>patriots!</i> - were thin. Only if there was an enemy "friend" or a black-marketeer on the scene, would a young woman appear plump and blooming. After many wars, the idea that a young woman of good character should be thin just stuck. Chanel never lost an ounce during the Occupation. Femme honnête, femme maigre.</div>
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As I wrestle to reconcile my waist with buttons and zippers, I wonder if this is so. And the wondering made me think back to Mademoiselle herself, her large hands that never made the chalk squeak, her skirts that never hung evenly, her knurly sweaters, and her passion for France and all things French.<br />
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Mademoiselle taught French for years. People's parents had been in her classes. Her tenure seemed like centuries to us, probably seemed like an eternity to her and like aeons to her sworn enemy, the principal, whom she considered a Yahoo (that we even knew this!). Her dreams for us were modest, influenced by the years she had spent studying and writing in a France that was very different from the one I came to know years after our paths crossed in her classroom. She didn't want us to save the world, because she'd been there, tried that, and she didn't want to believe that the world might need saving again.</div>
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Rather, she wanted all of her students to find joy in thinking and reading and speaking in a language other than English. Doing so, she said, would stretch our minds as well as our embouchures. She led us on unauthorized "field trips" - someone's mother was dragooned into driving us to meet an old friend of Mademoiselle's who had married a diplomat now stationed in New York. We were to listen to the latest French popular music, thumb through French magazines, have a lovely dessert, and under Mademoiselle's supervision, while she and our hostess chatted away in French for our benefit, we were to help unpack, wash, dry and put away an enormous quantity of china and pottery. This would increase our vocabularies. "Limoges," we said. "Quimper, Moustiers, Gien. Haviland." It seemed that everywhere these people had been assigned in France, they bought plates, bowls and cups. And serving pieces and cream pitchers.<br />
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I knew my parents would be furious if they learned I'd gone out and washed dishes in the home of a stranger - I could barely be made to do it in my own home. So when asked what we had done all day, I truthfully said "They've worked in a lot of different towns in France, and they showed us a lot of their souvenirs. Souvenir means to remember with thought."<br />
<br />
The Cloisters, the Met, movies with subtitles in little theaters that served coffee in tiny cups, and a few restaurants where elderly waiters or waitresses knew her and elderly owners knew that it was good business to give us a warm welcome that we'd remember down the years... the French bookstore at Rockefeller Center where old colleagues of Mademoiselle’s had left messages for other old colleagues of Mademoiselle’s.</div>
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Rumors circulated about her adventures, the whispered possibility that she had done secret work for the government, well, for <i>a </i>government, that she'd had a fiancé who didn't come back from the war, which war, look how old she is, it could be any war, anywhere - nothing stopped her. She mentioned that the only time she’d ever cried was when her father gave her older brother the sword and pistols an ancestor had carried in the Civil War, she cried so much the poor man went out and bought her her first gun (her first? there were others?).<br />
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School may not have been in session on July 14, but she saw to it that her classes paraded, chanting, through the halls on other French holidays. May, which has three, was particularly trying for self-conscious adolescents.<br />
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She was no Miss Brodie, let me be clear: she wasn't vain, she wasn't self-involved, she wasn't manipulative. She was tough, generous of spirit, intolerant of laziness and its ugly twin, conformity. "I hope that at least some of you will have put aside some money from your holiday bounty. I will accompany a small group to the Museum of Modern Art and then to a restaurant for a civilized lunch on Saturday. I will be at the station at 9 Saturday morning." Inevitably, by Saturday, those who might have signed up but couldn't find the money would have won a prize for memorizing the most verbs ending in <i>ir</i>, or for listing the most words relating to weather... and would be at the station, holding prepaid tickets.<br />
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And ultimately, finally, she retired. The principal claimed to be shocked when it turned out she was at least fifteen years older than she'd allowed as how... A small group of us gathered, not for a reunion, but to help her clear out her classroom. We unpinned posters, unhooked framed maps, rolled up pictures and phonetic charts. She stopped to read a poem aloud, we finished it with her.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: red; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">Adieu la peine et le plaisir. Adieu les roses</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: red; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">Adieu la vie. Adieu la lumière et le vent</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: red; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">Marie-toi, sois heureuse et pense à moi souvent</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: red; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">Toi qui vas demeurer dans la beauté des choses</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: red; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">Quand tout sera fini plus tard en Erevan.</span></div>
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A replica of the white silk banner of Joan of Arc still hung in the place of honor, to the right of the Tricolore of France. We thought it would be difficult to get the banner down, but all those years it had been fixed so that only one strategic pull would loosen it and it fell into her waiting arms. We stood, waiting for her to underline the lesson, but this time she only smiled. We were on our own.<br />
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I learned later that she had returned to her home state, a place of bluegrass and country music, small farms and sorrowful family burying grounds, and of all things, took a teaching job at a local military academy. I told this to my mother, who was delighted and said to Grandma, "See? that woman is even older than you are and she doesn't sit around complaining, she went out and got herself a paying job."<br />
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Older than Grandma? was that even possible? Who could be older than Grandma?<br />
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I sent her Christmas cards, and ultimately, birth announcements, at the military academy. She sent Christmas cards in return, "hand drawn" by an artist I'd never heard of but locally considered a Fine Example For Young People. She called me after the first birth announcement, and told me that young people had less trouble learning the phonetics of foreign languages if they had become familiar with the sounds of foreign languages before they could speak or walk. "Bonjour, bébé," I murmured over the crib. "Tout va bien? C'est du gaz, ça?" I pictured my infant crawling through brush, radio wire clenched in her little gums, by her tiny example bringing hope to villagers...<br />
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I asked Mademoiselle what subject she was teaching, and she said: "French, of course, and military strategy."<br />
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My first computer search was for her, and yes, she was way, way older than Grandma.<br />
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When she left the academy, I couldn't get a forwarding address, the academy was wrestling with the idea of co-education, the cadets were wrestling with the co-ed’s, and noone was giving out any information about anything. </div>
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Years later, on the way south to a wedding, I insisted we get off the highway and find the little town and its military academy. I wanted to be sure that there <i>was</i> a military academy, Mademoiselle having by then become a legendary creature.<br />
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There was. There was also a cemetery, where her remaining family had buried her. I was aghast - even the 9th graders knew that she wanted to be cremated and have her ashes scattered from a cliff in Normandy. <i>Adieu la lumière et le vent...</i><br />
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Of course I wasn't a teacher's pet nor even a perfect student. The reason I can recite so much French poetry is because if you talked or ate or daydreamed in her class, you Got A Poem to memorize. If you caused <i>real</i> trouble, you got pages of proverbs and lists of historical dates and facts. That stuff sticks, trust me. She would never send anyone to the principal's office, to her that was the equivalent of informing. But I excelled in learning to love France and my embouchure has been widely praised.<br />
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History is written by the winners, they say. A spinster schoolteacher of ordinary appearance, who drilled self-centered kids in phonetics as if their lives depended on it, may have been one of those ordinary winners. Or not.<br />
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An old attorney, a cherished friend, long retired, today (<i>edit: 6 June 2004) </i>lies in a hospital bed, waiting for the oldest enemy of all. He's not expected to come home. He's familiar with that, he's defied it before. He learned how to defy death in France, seventy years ago today. </div>
wellfedfredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07118802089389931227noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2049514221380220929.post-45227590588282895822019-12-23T19:30:00.000-05:002019-12-24T17:31:10.310-05:00'Twas the night, 'twas the night<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7oYVmKEpKZg/TvTl4R_b8HI/AAAAAAAAB1k/8ZwXXjW002Q/s1600/santa-sleigh_2092536i.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="125" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7oYVmKEpKZg/TvTl4R_b8HI/AAAAAAAAB1k/8ZwXXjW002Q/s200/santa-sleigh_2092536i.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the flat</div>
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Not a creature was stirring, not a bug, not a rat.</div>
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Himself in some sweatpants that had seen better days</div>
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and I still bone-weary from shopping malaise</div>
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Were snacking while sitting in front of the tree,</div>
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watching the Yule Log flicker on the TV</div>
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When outside the window there arose such a clatter</div>
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We grabbed for our Go-Bags <i>then</i> checked what was the matter.</div>
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In New York we've have had Go-Bags for many a year;</div>
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The office provides them in profit-centered fear</div>
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that in a crisis we'd rush home without that tiny ration</div>
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of band-aid, tinfoil blanket, power bar and Dasani hydration.</div>
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At home I'm better ready, I grew up as a Scout.</div>
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I'm <i>Prepared</i> for emergencies and won't be without</div>
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a bottle of cognac, a warm cashmere throw </div>
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and some Drake's Yankee Doodles, they're what I know</div>
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will get us through trouble by night or day -</div>
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those chemical cakes are indestructible</div>
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cognac's medicinal, that's ineluctable -</div>
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even though cashmere's somewhat of a clich<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">é</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">But out on the terrace – a real jaw-dropper:</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">a visit from Santa and his new lead reindeer Shopper!</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">“Where's Rudolf?” I cried, “and his nose of Bright Flame?”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">“It's called Maraschino, so he stayed home in shame,”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Santa sighed, as he called to the team</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Of reindeer that worked on a measly per diem.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">“On Clearance, on Killer, on Twofer and Blitzen,</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">on Markdown, on Promo, on Goner and Sitzen!”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">“But aren't you meant to be up in the sky?”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">“Not so much,” replied Santa, with a tear in his eye.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">“The prices were falling so early this year,</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">everyone bought her own gifts, which is why I am here.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The reindeer walked out in a regular snit,</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">S</span>o I took on these new guys who just can't commit.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I'm just riding around out of habit, I guess.”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">We gave him some Doodles and some cognac no less.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #20124d; font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">And we heard him exclaim as he rose out of sight</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #20124d; font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Merry Christmas to All and To All a Good Night!</span></div>
wellfedfredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07118802089389931227noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2049514221380220929.post-62772662722198299802019-12-02T03:52:00.003-05:002021-02-10T13:01:54.362-05:00my annual PSA: ‘tis the season - welcome to New York. Watch your back.Welcome to New York City. Stay awake.<br />
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This discussion touches on a few dull and depressing topics - crime, taxes, and public transportation - but skim through if your holiday travel plans include New York City.<br />
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First, know that stores, street and sidewalks get very crowded during holiday season. In addition to the expected public attractions, some people’s homes or offices attract crowds, and for purposes of your visit it doesn’t matter if the crowd is of curious people, annoyed and tired people, protesting people... crowds to you or me are hunting grounds to pickpockets.<br />
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As the wife of a guy who has had his wallet removed from his trousers almost every time we visit a major city abroad, and who <i>still</i> thinks he shouldn’t have to take sensible precautions because he has <i>always</i> kept his wallet in his back pocket and people should recognize and respect this - let me offer some of the good advice to which Himself is impervious.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LxzZeFseQCI/XeRjRwG1-aI/AAAAAAAAK1Q/9Al05eiM_YgP0VDQdkhJNKhYXNq61ahNQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/DED6D4B0-4672-419B-9A8A-8C68996F98F2.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="190" data-original-width="285" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LxzZeFseQCI/XeRjRwG1-aI/AAAAAAAAK1Q/9Al05eiM_YgP0VDQdkhJNKhYXNq61ahNQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/DED6D4B0-4672-419B-9A8A-8C68996F98F2.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the Artful Dodger - a tradition continues</td></tr>
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Men. Your back pocket is easy pickings. If you must carry a loaded wallet, carry it in a front or side pocket. If someone’s sticky fingers grope the front of you, you will <i>notice</i>, and you can step on the perpetrator’s foot or grab his wrist, say something like NOW CUT THAT OUT, step back, and you will still have your wallet and not have to miss dinner or theater because your tickets or credit cards were in your wallet. Just because you CAN freeze or unfreeze your phone or credit card, doesn’t mean you’ll enjoy being in a situation where you’ll have to.<br />
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Busses. By and large, I’m in favor of busses, mainly because you can see where you are and figure out very quickly whether or not you are going in the right direction. Also because the drivers have to take a special test that checks their knowledge of the city, at least of their very own route.<br />
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At present bus and/or subway fare is paid with a Metrocard. You can buy Metrocards in varying denominations at Metrocard machines, which live in subway and railroad stations. Also, the MTA’s website will find neighborhood stores that carry Metrocards - here’s a <a href="http://tripplanner.mta.info/metrocardmerchants/" target="_blank"><span style="color: magenta;">link</span></a> .<br />
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At present you can also pay regular bus (but not subway) fare with coins (but not pennies) (and not bills) as you board the bus. The bus driver can not make change.<br />
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All of this is going to be “improved” - Heaven help us - municipal planning is underfoot - so <a href="https://new.mta.info/" target="_blank">here</a> is a link to the MTA’s very own website.<br />
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Sales tax. I wanted to pick up a little souvenir Statue of Liberty for a stocking stuffer and popped in to one of those souvenir/antique/going out of business shops on Fifth Avenue. A crime was in process. The sales clerk (owner?) was explaining to a puzzled young couple that there was a rather hefty sales tax on tee shirts, but that they could collect it back at the airport. <br />
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OK, this is where you should pay attention. The United States does <b>not</b> have a national sales tax or Value Added Tax. Really. New York State has its very own sales tax, as does the City of New York. If a merchant tells you that you can collect back the New York taxes, or the non-existent national tax, at the airport as you are leaving, he is lying.There is no such facility. I wouldn’t buy anything from someone who tried to tell me that, because if he’s that kind of liar, the goods could turn out to be fake or counterfeit or damaged or worse. Walk away.<br />
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As to the state and city sales taxes - you also need to know this: items of “clothing” that cost $109.99 or less are <b>not</b> subject to NY state or NY city sales tax. Items of clothing that cost $110.00 or more <i>are</i> taxable. For NY sales tax purposes, “clothing” is defined <a href="https://www.tax.ny.gov/pubs_and_bulls/tg_bulletins/st/clothing_chart.htm" target="_blank">here.</a> By the way, I have filed with the State <a href="https://www.tax.ny.gov/pdf/current_forms/st/au11_fill_in.pdf?_ga=2.99291101.216940248.1575247633-1283734874.1575247633" target="_blank">a Complaint and Request for </a>Refund against Ann Taylor because they insisted on collecting sales tax on 2 scarves and a belt (all considered clothing). The amount of money was not enormous, but the staff were rude and condescending when I pointed out the error. I could have just walked out, but c’mon, I was not the one committing tax fraud.<br />
<br /></div>wellfedfredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07118802089389931227noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2049514221380220929.post-72444349639893499412019-11-29T09:04:00.000-05:002019-11-29T09:04:12.679-05:00Looking Back - Anniversary - dinner and a show. Or two. Today is close to but not exactly our anniversary. We were married on a cold miserable rainy sleety foggy windy night in November. The rain and wind started as I left the hairdresser’s. My hair melted. My makeup melted. I had organized a car and driver - no show. I got home to learn that my dress had been delivered. But not the sleeves. When I start reciting the litany of Things That Went Wrong At The Wedding, people first cluck in sympathy, then start to laugh, and then as the list goes ON-AND-ON-AND-ON they try to look at phones or watches without me noticing.<br />
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I understand that recently pictures of soaking wet brides in full wedding regalia have become a Thing, and there are photographers who specialize in immortalizing the magic moment. This had not become a trend, or even a whispered nightmare when we got married. So I'll just say that once I learned that Himself had in fact shown up, I tried to go with the flow and get it over with. <br />
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There were pictures taken, but I'm not in most of them. The so-called society photographer who had insisted that he be allowed to do my father a favor ultimately didn't show up in person. He sent a terrified non-English-speaking assistant, and it's possible that the exact details of the event (<i>Wedding. Bride. White dress. Cake.</i>) had not been made clear to the kid with the camera and the shaky hands (<i>Remove lens cap. Focus.</i>) Mom put the proofs into a folder and for our fifth anniversary transferred them to a loose leaf binder which she gave to us. We never did purchase the album. Most of the pictures include all or parts of a cousin that my sister and I couldn't stand. The "photographer" was entranced by her upper body. There is also a picture of me adjusting a bra strap, which I think was meant to be the clichéd picture of Bride Adjusting Veil. Also it seems that the substitute photographer had grown up under communism in a country where domestic comforts were scarce and so the Done Thing was for the wedding pictures to include boastful shots of the family’s larger material possessions. Like the furnace. And the toilets. I showed the binder to my sister, and put it away.<br />
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We've been married a VERY VERY long time, and given the sheer awfulness of the wedding (example: his mother started crying when she arrived and was still in tears when we left), we usually acknowledge the day by getting out of town with no set agenda. This is appropriate because other than his relatives’ odd behaviors, the main topic of conversation was Traffic.<br />
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What's been happening lately to commemorate the event is something along the lines of "Oh.You're still here. Good."<br />
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However a few years ago we decided to try doing dinner and theater. We'd both read <i>Wolf Hall </i>and <i>Bring Up the Bodies, </i>and had both noticed that the National Theatre (London) production of both works had gotten great reviews, and both plays were about to close their West End runs.<br />
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Good seats were available, we had mileage, a few phone calls took care of the dinner part, and we were good to go.<br />
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Um, perhaps not quite. With the same expansive outlook that has inflated plans for a weekend out of town into a 3-weeks road trip, or dinner at his cousin’s in South Jersey to two weeks in Key West (since we'd be heading south anyway), we found another show, a few more meals...<br />
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So: London. We arrived the day before our theater date, and had dinner at Gordon Ramsay's little gem of a flagship. We always make room for at least one meal here when in London - because notwithstanding their financial issues and personnel matters, dammit the food is good! and after all this time they almost always find a table for us. I don't have food pics, but for some reason, possibly related to the champagne, I only took a picture of my belt bag reclining in splendor on its very own petite chaise. In keeping with the wedding theme, the zipper had burst, putting on display some used tissues and a bottle of nose drops. <i>Toujours exquise</i>.<br />
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The shows were terrific, one in the afternoon, the second in the evening, with a non-memorable supper at Balthasar in-between. We plan to remain married forever, or at least until the final parent of the trilogy is published, Kindle’d, turned into a play by the RSC, and re-adapted for public television if such a thing still exists at that point in the world’s dubious future.<br />
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We also found time for tea at Brown's again, where I tried to overdose on scones with clotted cream. If you haven't had clotted cream, you can make a very close approximation if you can get your hands on NON-ultra-pasteurized, NON-homogenized heavy cream, give the little bottle a good shake, and refrigerate it for a few days. Clotted cream is a delicious detour on the way to butter. When it thickens, get out the thick-cut toast (I'm assuming noone wants to cook scones), spread, add some tart red jelly or preserves, and enjoy. Crème fraîche is sold in many supermarkets, it’s close...<br />
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We also saw a play called <i>Great Britain</i>, a rapid-fire depiction of the staff of a gamy tabloid caught in a tacky and dangerous phone-hacking scandal. Hysterically funny, politically incorrect, sharp-edged and sad: people <i>do </i>want to hear about this stuff. Just turn on your television.<br />
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Fittingly, the weather was chilly, damp and misty.<br />
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By the way, there is a Facebook page called Trash the Dress. I just checked.wellfedfredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07118802089389931227noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2049514221380220929.post-81051990024565937332019-11-04T15:59:00.001-05:002019-11-05T13:02:17.536-05:00I’ve got a sequin...and if Blogger's benevolence continues, and this post ever gets published, here are a few things I picked up recently to see me through the winter, or the winters, if that's in store.<br />
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olive green chinos, dark and not-so-dark jeans, a few tees replaced - oh, seriously does anyone still need to see pictures?</div>
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the brown/maroon/burgundy sequin pencil skirt - real possibilities. In the not-too-distant past, this skirt would have been shown with a chambray or gingham shirt or a striped tee or (gasp!) an Aran sweater. Well, no.<br />
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I believe it's now safe to say that I always thought that kind of combination looked like “my big sister said I could borrow the skirt but I’d have to find my own top because her chest is way bigger than mine”.<br />
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Depending on the light, the sequins read as very dark brown, as “burgundy,” as maroon, as mahogany, as almost purple. By the way, since <i>Winter Is Coming,</i> or<i> Is Here</i>, J.Crew Factory has some nice wine-colored tights that have worked well with the skirt. So far. <br />
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Sooo... here are some silk blouses that can accompany the skirt to dinner out or to a concert of holiday madrigals. Top, Vince, next two, Sézane.<br />
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I’ve ordered a velvet top with a draped neckline, but it hasn’t arrived yet, so I can’t vouch for the color. However I’m enchanted with the play of textures. Fingers crossed. </div>
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Also en route, a few cashmere pullovers, but no conclusion until I see the colors and reach an independent judgment on the fuzziness quotient. I’ve ordered a deep cool brown and a lavender. No bows or other features, I think the blend of textures will be enough visual activity.</div>
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wellfedfredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07118802089389931227noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2049514221380220929.post-25256956165559388682019-07-18T18:56:00.000-04:002019-07-18T19:04:51.524-04:00accessorize merrily with a splash of tomato sauce<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I thought you might be curious about what one wears for an extravagant summer event in the "Hamptons," which is what the collection of once charming small villages on the eastern end of Long Island's South Fork is called by people who didn't grow up here or didn't grow up summering here.<br />
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We are in fact preparing for an extravagant event here at Flintstone Manor: I drive up to my favorite farm stand, the one that's sent 3 or 4 generations of its children to college and is still staffed by nice young nieces and cousins, and I purchase a box of 25 pounds of Plum Tomatoes and two very large bunches of basil.<br />
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The extravagant part is that I buy the Number One tomatoes, the good ones that don't have to be trimmed before cooking. No wormholes or bird pecks in my kitchen. Also, it speeds things up if I don’t have to barber the tomatoes.<br />
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Then I pop into a supermarket for little freezer containers. I've learned the hard way that if I want just a cup or half a cup of sauce for, say, a sausage sandwich or two, having a few quart containers in the freezer is not helpful. And ultimately you will have a tomato-colored iceberg or two in the freezer, which will have to be thrown out. This is one of those times when "spending to save" works.<br />
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=2049514221380220929" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a> <span style="text-align: center;">There is no recipe. Crucial first step: I remind Himself that the great big lobster pot is already booked for the weekend, so he shouldn't show up with lobsters. </span><br />
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Then I rinse the tomatoes very thoroughly and get going cutting them up. I quarter them and cut them in half again, trim off the remains of any stem parts, and just keep going. About 1/3 of the way through the tomatoes, I put 3 or 4 very <i>very very</i> thinly sliced onions and some sliced garlic and olive oil into the lobster pot, put it over very low heat and cover it and let everything cook without browning until the onions are melted. Meanwhile I finish cutting the tomatoes. Although if the onions look like they're ready, I'll add whatever tomatoes are cut and let them start becoming sauce.<br />
The basil gets a thorough rinsing, and the bunch is held over the pot and hacked up with a kitchen scissors. The rest of the tomatoes and more cut up basil go in. When the whole thing comes to a boil, stir madly for a minute or two, turn the heat down and stir some more. I want the tomatoes to break down and the sauce to reduce by about 1/3.<br />
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Sooo - when the pot's ready for a long, traditional simmering, I put it into a slow oven, say about 250' F. That way, the heat is all around the pot and it only needs an occasional stir. If the pot and cover are too tall for the oven, even on the lowest shelf, try turning the cover upside down.<br />
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I don't peel the tomatoes, because the peel adds color and flavor. So does the gloop around the seeds. When it looks to me like all the tomatoes are cooked through - a few hours of cooking, say 4 or 5 - I lift the pot out of the oven to the top of the stove and have at it with a stick blender. Goodbye, peel and seeds. If it looks pale, I plop in a 6-ounce can of tomato paste, imported if available.<br />
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Then, back into the oven to reduce - to cook it down so that it gets thicker by itself and isn't watery. If I happen to come across more basil I add it here. I leave it partly covered, overnight, in a very low oven, say 175 or 200.<br />
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In the morning, there is sauce. Let it cool while you stoke yourself with coffee, decide if it needs another buzz with the stick blender, and then begin the transfer into the freezer containers.<br />
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And then find space for all the containers into the freezer.<br />
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Fashion note: This is not a dressy event, but you should see how cute I look with dabs of tomato sauce all over my arms and nose and oldest jeans and tee. Not.<br />
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- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad<br />
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<br />wellfedfredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07118802089389931227noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2049514221380220929.post-70391336035877386612019-03-06T16:29:00.002-05:002019-03-07T00:27:15.760-05:00Fine fabrics and craftsmanship are disappearing faster than glacier ice.I’ve tried but I can no longer even think about spending a whole day “tidying,” let along a whole week, or more likely a month, which is what it would take. At a minimum. And to what end? I <i>like </i>having more than one top per jacket. I <i>like</i> not having to worry about things coming back from the cleaner in time. I <i>like</i> not worrying about what’s taking the hand laundry so long to dry. I <i>like</i> being able to change socks in the middle of a hot day. I <i>like</i> knowing that I have a closet full of things made of fabrics and minerals to which I am not allergic. And - oh, the shame - I <i>like</i> knowing that if the black pants I bought last year have mysteriously become too tight, there will be a pair of black pants purchased 4 years ago when my weight ballooned after a trip to France, still there, still well tailored, still coordinated with other items I own...<br />
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Until recently, I was concerned that my closet reflected the personality of an over-aged, lazy spoiled brat.<br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6As6_Sk-wSg/XIA44q2cLMI/AAAAAAAAKS0/45kyiFW00RI5SHrFykTSNaq7TKtZW-gJQCLcBGAs/s1600/21489CDF-313F-4D72-88AF-BC9EC279A519.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="640" height="200" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6As6_Sk-wSg/XIA44q2cLMI/AAAAAAAAKS0/45kyiFW00RI5SHrFykTSNaq7TKtZW-gJQCLcBGAs/s320/21489CDF-313F-4D72-88AF-BC9EC279A519.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I now know better.<br />
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I have been, simply, an early adapter of Self Care. In owning black silk pants in a range of sizes, in a fabric to which I’m not allergic (that would be the silk), I have been proactively preventing skin irritations, that is, practicing full-body skin care. Same for fine wool. Same for navy pants, same for beige, camel, wine, hunter green, military green, tweed and tweed-like patterns. (note to self: find and <i>insert picture of defiant stare) (ok, dear readers, please imagine such a vision - passport picture of someone who would benefit from an expensive blow-out but is going to get on that plane anyway, dammit)</i><br />
<br />
Back to self-care: One can’t achieve a state of calm and mindfulness (formerly referred to as <i>Inner</i> <i>Poise</i>) if the Big Issue at the Forefront of One’s Mind is not <i>Living in Peace and Harmony with One’s Neighbors and Looking Forward to a Bright Tomorrow </i>but<i> Whether The Waist Button Will Hold Till I Get Home, </i>or<i> Is Anyone Looking Because I Itch All Over. </i><br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ecL2khWJAUo/XIA69vcjmNI/AAAAAAAAKTA/CGRIJ5bBicEmXpiHdCBY6vxz2QrBwApGQCLcBGAs/s1600/EBCF0433-B73B-4927-8D5A-40E03A73B7E1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1231" data-original-width="1056" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ecL2khWJAUo/XIA69vcjmNI/AAAAAAAAKTA/CGRIJ5bBicEmXpiHdCBY6vxz2QrBwApGQCLcBGAs/s320/EBCF0433-B73B-4927-8D5A-40E03A73B7E1.jpeg" width="274" /></a></div>
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Same for shirts.<br />
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Same for sweaters.<br />
<br />
Same for jackets.<br />
<br />
and so on.<br />
<br />
I even buy dupes. Knowing that I won’t be leaving the house in an uncoordinated outfit gives me the ability to worry about real issues.<br />
<br />
Moreover, as a practical matter, should I and my dear ones be trapped in a political or economic crisis, I won’t need clothes to job-hunt, to volunteer, to campaign, to flee, to lend to those who have fled. I’ll be ready, I won’t break out in allergic rashes, and I’ll have plenty left over to share. No matter what time of year, what kind of weather.<br />
<br />
um, just noticed, there may be a shortage of lightweight pull on rain boots. Back in a while.<br />
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wellfedfredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07118802089389931227noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2049514221380220929.post-72274599236662231732019-01-31T17:32:00.001-05:002019-02-01T15:32:45.055-05:00dawn patrol, armed with discount codes, hot coffee, and a dwindling attention spanWithin the last 24 hours:<br />
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my lavender <strike>houndstooth</strike> herringbone blazer arrived </div>
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it was a deranged magic hour grab </div>
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during a recent 60% off sale.</div>
<br />
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It was not lavender. It was a faded mauve. </div>
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The difference between the website photo (below) and the reality </div>
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was too great to be blamed on screens or pixels.</div>
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<img border="0" data-original-height="287" data-original-width="200" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rwzbEe66tIA/XFNrEWdlHuI/AAAAAAAAKPM/q2Rga4YrMJkylybP8G9dkCYjYY61FJAYwCLcBGAs/s400/ECAAFC57-F3B3-4D3C-B1F7-9A802C44F334.jpeg" width="277" /></div>
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It was also not <strike>houndstooth </strike>herringbone</div>
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Here are some pictures of <strike>houndstooth</strike> herringbone jackets, all J.Crew.</div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pye0lZIjaSs/XFNjbjHrFRI/AAAAAAAAKO0/v_GW6yRhaR8Cb4eJH6A7y4qXNGQ49J-YwCLcBGAs/s1600/6026B53D-9CF6-41A0-BC5D-D4B9BC483395.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pye0lZIjaSs/XFNjbjHrFRI/AAAAAAAAKO0/v_GW6yRhaR8Cb4eJH6A7y4qXNGQ49J-YwCLcBGAs/s320/6026B53D-9CF6-41A0-BC5D-D4B9BC483395.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
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observe the little woven-in chevrons. </div>
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they are what make herringbone, herringbone. </div>
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There were no little “teeth” on the jacket that arrived.</div>
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My best guess is that someone mis-set the computer-governed specs in the fabric mills,</div>
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and the mill shipped out the resulting bolts to the cut-and-sew operations anyway. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Nobody's perfect.</div>
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so: not lavender, not houndstooth, not herringbone either.</div>
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But fortunately, not final sale. </div>
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Among other items, I ordered a 2019 diary very early this morning. </div>
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Used the “flash sale” promo plus the “apology” discount. </div>
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I’d probably get a better price if I waited until this coming November </div>
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but what the #*&$.</div>
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I might have to go out to dinner or catch a plane between now and then.</div>
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I admired but didn’t order a pair of multi-colored make-believe snakeskin sandals. </div>
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I never know what size J.Crew thinks my feet are, and I still have Christmas stuff to return</div>
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so I didn't bite.</div>
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Later today, I passed one of the remaining J.Crew stores, </div>
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and there were the sandals, with 25% off. They were sooo cute. </div>
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A favorite look: multi-colored shoes with an otherwise monochrome outfit.</div>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3ypxsfHvayU/XFN0vGdhUmI/AAAAAAAAKPY/7gVR8S07zZMYaYoN4-lPTZuzBe7AEkF1QCLcBGAs/s1600/B13E5FA2-FD55-4212-AFB6-62A1BD38BF17.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3ypxsfHvayU/XFN0vGdhUmI/AAAAAAAAKPY/7gVR8S07zZMYaYoN4-lPTZuzBe7AEkF1QCLcBGAs/s320/B13E5FA2-FD55-4212-AFB6-62A1BD38BF17.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Before I tried them on, I had to remove packing stuff. </div>
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The shoes fit a lot better without all that. </div>
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There are holes on the straps to make adjustments. </div>
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They get lost in the snakeskin - persevere. </div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CTEfO-eeJ0s/XFN1tSjTfpI/AAAAAAAAKPg/sQbbso1Iy8gh1baV636dKymyE5zyx0wMgCLcBGAs/s1600/6FFD916D-1B63-4011-94C0-6599D5625984.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CTEfO-eeJ0s/XFN1tSjTfpI/AAAAAAAAKPg/sQbbso1Iy8gh1baV636dKymyE5zyx0wMgCLcBGAs/s320/6FFD916D-1B63-4011-94C0-6599D5625984.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Worst event of the day - </div>
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LinkedIn has found the perfect job for me. </div>
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At Goop.</div>
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I’m trying to close my account at LinkedIn - before they send me puppies.</div>
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Seems to be the same algorithm that tells me men's hiking boots are in my shopping bag.</div>
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Yeah, right.</div>
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wellfedfredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07118802089389931227noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2049514221380220929.post-69465852275160447222019-01-06T16:32:00.003-05:002019-01-06T17:11:16.261-05:00what did Warren Zevon know and when did he know it?<blockquote class="tr_bq">
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
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<img src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/a85850f7-eae9-4af1-94b1-cdf73093180d" /></div>
</blockquote>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bA9ZiUyHhEI/XDJ87Qep2AI/AAAAAAAAKMc/qnXCkhmKuKUzanS7zjeSFicZbxMpfxw8gCLcBGAs/s1600/DB429E7C-C37A-4F6E-99C5-AA416355A487.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="801" data-original-width="753" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bA9ZiUyHhEI/XDJ87Qep2AI/AAAAAAAAKMc/qnXCkhmKuKUzanS7zjeSFicZbxMpfxw8gCLcBGAs/s320/DB429E7C-C37A-4F6E-99C5-AA416355A487.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(17 , 17 , 17 , 0.6); font-family: "roboto" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(17 , 17 , 17 , 0.6); font-family: "roboto" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(17 , 17 , 17 , 0.6); font-family: "roboto" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I went home with the waitress
the way I always do
How was I to know
she was with the
Russians too?
I was gambling in Havana
I took a little risk
Send lawyers, guns and money
Dad, get me out of this, hah!
I'm the innocent bystander
Somehow I got stuck
between the rock
and a hard place
and I'm down on my luck
Yes I'm down on my luck
Well I'm down on my luck
I'm hiding in Honduras
I'm a desperate man
Send lawyers, guns and money
the shit has hit the fan
All right
Send lawyers, guns and money
Huh!
Uhh!
Send lawyers, guns and money ....</span>wellfedfredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07118802089389931227noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2049514221380220929.post-33931174579784496362018-12-26T15:18:00.001-05:002018-12-26T20:41:24.425-05:00the meaning of Boxing Day in a post-1776 world<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img border="0" data-original-height="377" data-original-width="256" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_hQ_bpsreLU/XCPg1jSMq9I/AAAAAAAAKLM/aqb65ZskB7AAKtAVWGj3AdnPB9A3t59dgCLcBGAs/s320/1DE7B7D3-E90B-4223-818F-3183C69770E9.jpeg" width="217" /></div>
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dear readers, I wish all of you </div>
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a Merry Christmas </div>
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and a very happy New Year</div>
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<img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IyjytNrleEk/XCPecCXamUI/AAAAAAAAKKs/6DCfDgMy2xcRSXGOhzkOHmhBsW76mG7IACEwYBhgL/s400/7B0C7E2F-4C9E-40F2-95CD-FC1EAB2839AE.jpeg" width="300" /> </div>
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and of course a swiftly and efficiently accomplished Boxing Day!</div>
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Boxing Day is the day after Christmas<br />
when we put all the mis-presents</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
back into their boxes<br />
and bring or send them back to the stores<br />
thereby keeping the economy in motion.</div>
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<img border="0" data-original-height="1035" data-original-width="487" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/--lv1CXjjbQU/XCPgu3a1f3I/AAAAAAAAKLE/L0yTVDhaNq83FMoXjrHvpSs2PGMCyxuxgCLcBGAs/s320/E0AEB055-E5C8-41B3-B315-A417A54746C5.jpeg" width="150" /></div>
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....wellfedfredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07118802089389931227noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2049514221380220929.post-2563270614401981652018-12-21T11:25:00.004-05:002018-12-21T11:25:53.291-05:00a Madison Avenue window or two<div style="text-align: center;">
woodland creatures and raindrops at Hermès</div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pEN4ZLUoaVk/XB0TRBugAaI/AAAAAAAAKJM/t4gyFmPBJ2QiR0K6Dzar40y_N4T_iWbFgCLcBGAs/s1600/0F8186E2-5CED-4047-9747-2394ECC98F98.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1552" data-original-width="1600" height="310" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pEN4ZLUoaVk/XB0TRBugAaI/AAAAAAAAKJM/t4gyFmPBJ2QiR0K6Dzar40y_N4T_iWbFgCLcBGAs/s320/0F8186E2-5CED-4047-9747-2394ECC98F98.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yKt7xKnlUR8/XB0TRBcR82I/AAAAAAAAKJI/KGlVFQiyt98v70J-I3jiUEG2OaSeB6c2ACLcBGAs/s1600/6192F959-78B1-4D98-AFC8-8EF16D50AB52.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1102" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yKt7xKnlUR8/XB0TRBcR82I/AAAAAAAAKJI/KGlVFQiyt98v70J-I3jiUEG2OaSeB6c2ACLcBGAs/s320/6192F959-78B1-4D98-AFC8-8EF16D50AB52.jpeg" width="220" /></a></div>
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wellfedfredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07118802089389931227noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2049514221380220929.post-54847688542840008792018-12-20T15:35:00.000-05:002020-03-24T06:56:36.155-04:00another post about scarvesAlthough our travel has been curtailed recently (stupid health issues), I'm still planning the trips we will take when all this nonsense is settled. Reporting the opinion of Specialist B to Specialist A should not be the task of the patient, because the patient, while intelligent and well-educated, is not a doctor. Most recently I complained about side effects from a particular medication, and Brilliant Specialist suggested "we" try another medication which doesn't have those side effects. Although it has its own. I asked how this med is different from the first one, other than the side effects, which sounded exactly the same to me. I was told, it's not, it's exactly the same. So then, what is the point of trying it, I cheerfully inquired. Because, she said, it’s different. Further discussion was frustrating and pointless - the two meds are made of the same ingredients, but they're different. Like Coke and Pepsi, she said. "Um,"said I, "do you mean one contains more sodium than the other and is more heavily marketed in predominantly minority communities?"<br />
<br />
<div>
I left shaking my head and on the way home it occurred to me that she might have been trying, in an inarticulate kind of way, to tell me that the two substances were isomers.</div>
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<br />
<div>
I’m all for not waiting for rewards for my infrequent episodes of saintly patience - I feel I am entitled to a trip and I am entitled to another scarf.</div>
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</div>
<div style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">
<img src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/54a60612-d4b6-4eb6-bce1-b4708c92a4d4" /></div>
<br />
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</div>
<div>
At the time Himself and I started traveling together, I knew a lot of people who had collections of memorabilia from their travels, which I considered dust-catchers. I would have liked to load up the car trunk with a complete service for 8 (or even 12, that’s how nice girls once bought dishes) from our spur-of-the-moment visit to the Quimper factory but coming home with with a bunch of chipped and shattered dishes didn't appeal. Nor did the cost of the professional shipping recommended by the nice lady at the factory, nor did buying piece by piece of Quimper at New York prices!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So my entire collection of travel souvenirs from that first starry-eyed trip: one Liberty scarf (London), one Hermès scarf (Paris), one box of lovely chocolates which we ate on the plane (Brussels). I bought no dust-catchers, nothing the shipping costs of which were exponentially greater than the cost of a the purchase, nothing that outweighed the luggage ... and nothing that was going to be charged punitive duty. I've stuck with these principles over time, although in the days before iPhones I was not embarrassed to ask a maître d’ for a menu.<br />
<br />
Here are my rules for picking a scarf:</div>
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</div>
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<img src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/20a9f661-2734-4052-a053-eb46337fecad" /></div>
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1. You must be able to wear it. Are the colors becoming to you? Will it go with at least a few things you already own?<br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IthHmfPRUNQ/XBv3625bTbI/AAAAAAAAKIs/uU7GskcxN0s5oPJQPCnSfWalUlZVha4pgCEwYBhgL/s1600/BF470EB3-0C6F-4F21-9918-B9CBFFF29C8D.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="850" data-original-width="1193" height="227" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IthHmfPRUNQ/XBv3625bTbI/AAAAAAAAKIs/uU7GskcxN0s5oPJQPCnSfWalUlZVha4pgCEwYBhgL/s320/BF470EB3-0C6F-4F21-9918-B9CBFFF29C8D.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
2. No matter how tempted I am, I never (except for the time I found <i>Les Toits de Paris</i> in palest cream with beige and taupe) buy a scarf with a design that will put white or cream silk against my skin (face, front of neck, back of neck). I don't want stains of makeup or sunblock or perspiration on an investment. If I love the design, I ask if I may see it in another colorway.<br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/--W9t8g3S1zA/XBv8WEaq9_I/AAAAAAAAKI0/3dhH2YAFhlU2HDZizXOjcjWG3ukKLeEwACLcBGAs/s1600/51B24CEE-50E8-421C-80D0-959857B22072.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="589" data-original-width="597" height="315" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/--W9t8g3S1zA/XBv8WEaq9_I/AAAAAAAAKI0/3dhH2YAFhlU2HDZizXOjcjWG3ukKLeEwACLcBGAs/s320/51B24CEE-50E8-421C-80D0-959857B22072.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
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3. A scarf is a really good place to express the Inner You without showing too much skin or wearing head to toe black leather. The Inner Me is an obnoxious little girl who had to learn lots of proverbs and phrases and awkward idiomatic expressions in foreign languages because they would be on exams. Now I'm trying to unlearn them, have been for the past several decades, because they are useless in everyday conversation. You try telling a Frenchman who is getting digressive, "let us return to our sheep." ("Revenons à nos moutons.") Apparently the 17th century comedy from which this adorable expression derives is <i>no</i> <i>longer</i> on the national academic syllabus. But a scarf with little chubby sheep wandering up a mountainside? That speaks to my obnoxious teenage self,<br />
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as does a scarf showing a "Roman" mosaic of a cat and the warning "Cave felem" ("Beware of the cat."). So if you have a thing for monkeys or parrots, have a scarf or two depiecting these creatures.<br />
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4. Beware of counterfeiting. You can find wonderful buys on designer scarves on eBay, but examine the pictures carefully, and be very careful to look at <i>all the pictures. If there’s only one picture, think twice. EBay also has some interesting essays on verification.</i><br />
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wellfedfredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07118802089389931227noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2049514221380220929.post-56045065986868368932018-12-05T14:29:00.000-05:002018-12-08T20:17:03.258-05:00 new dimensions in street style and workwear Back in the day, a neighbor bragged to me that a very very very well-known interior designer was going to re-do his living room and dining room. I was appropriately impressed, my living room still held a toy box and a doggie blanket. So a month or so later, I followed up with him, hoping to poach an idea or two. He and his wife had dismissed the vvvwk designer because he had not made any creative suggestions or proposed any original work. All the poor man had come up with was tables, chairs, couches.<br />
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A recent email directed me to a website where I was advised that the best thing to wear to work with pants is a shirt of some kind.<br />
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I'm not in the demographic that goes to work, or indeed anywhere, topless, so I dismissed this advice as old news.<br />
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This morning an email from an unrelated source suggested I wear a shirt and possibly a sweater or jacket with jeans.<br />
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Really?<br />
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In most respects other than fashion I believe I qualify as an adult. In fact, family pictures indicate that the last time I was simultaneously vertical and topless, I was 2 years old and building a sand castle. Something about getting Vitamin D from the sun, I believe, although in the bad old days many topics, including health, were simply not discussed with toddlers.<br />
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In fashion, I'm still treated like a child, sometimes even to the point of being made to feel that I'm being offered free time with Nana's dress-up box.<br />
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So now that I'm a grownup lady and take my Vitamin D in capsules like a big girl, and remember to bring an extra layer so I won't give myself a whiplash injury from shivering in air conditioned environments, I conclude that these emails and a host of others bearing similar messages, constitute an example of demographic list-building gone hopelessly wrong.<br />
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Hence the question: who is their proper target?<br />
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A five-year-old with her own clothing allowance?<br />
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Escapees from cults who have never worn clothing made in this century?<br />
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Recently released parolees?<br />
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Or visitors from another galaxy who have mistaken an old issue of <i>Playboy</i> for an up-to-date guidebook?<br />
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I'm guessing our former neighbors were expecting proposals like putting a lap pool in the living room, hanging hammocks in the kitchen, and mounting a big screen television in the downstairs powder room.<br />
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When those principles are applied to fashion, we are shown silk shorts with a shearling jacket for winter, or leather shorts, high-top sneakers, and a bra top for summer. Now I don’t think fashion choices should be limited to the practical and the synthetic. If I did, I’d shop at the nearest factory outlet of a Pentagon contractor. I appreciate variety, I even appreciate imagination. I appreciate quality and workmanship. But even my Very Little Brain doesn’t like having its intelligence insulted.<br />
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<br />wellfedfredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07118802089389931227noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2049514221380220929.post-39820164922074306322016-10-06T15:07:00.002-04:002016-10-06T22:00:32.026-04:00the outfit that wasn't meant to beI wanted to look casual but coordinated, but not like I'd fallen into the hands of a stylist who'd untucked my shirt and done up my sleeves like the Flying Nun's coif. And of course I didn't want to look studied. I wanted to look as though I had many better things to do than fuss about getting dressed, and and I wanted to look as if my air of offhand sophistication was purely accidental.<br />
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First I ordered the sweaters - sizes appeared and disappeared from a few stores I ran past, and finally there was a 30% off promo on a day when I had returned so much other stuff - mainly chair cushions for the dining room in Flintstone Manor, where seat cushions tend to be short lived - anyway with all these returns credited back, I felt flush, and decided to take a flyer and order shell and cardigan. I thought the colors, mainly a brownish green or greenish brown, would work with some pants from last winter or the winter before. The name of the pants eludes me, but I'm pretty sure the name of their color included the word "elm."<br />
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I also thought perhaps a skirt, to be worn with those sweaters and navy tights? I had in mind a particular skirt, which had also been coming and going and disappearing from the merchant's website and then reappeared dramatically in a full run of sizes for one day. I bought it. Thenext day I had the price adjusted. The fabric looked to be a plaid with lines of black (navy?) and wine on a lighter shade of "breen." Packages arrived. Somehow the Merchant Prince had shipped two shells from two different stores and no cardigan. I ordered a cardigan again.<br />
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The skirt arrived the next day. For something that has been selling out like crazy, I gotta tell youse, this is some fugly skirt. If you ignore the fussy niceties of sizing, the skirt was nicely made, it was lined, it had an invisible zipper, it had a hem and a waistband. But the fabric. Heavy. Hairy. Shaggy. The itch factor came through the lining. Trying not to scratch the back of one's thighs isn't a good look for me. Fabric colors - total misrepresentation. The line of "blue" was in fact a funny light gray. I had hoped the presence of some light blue might encourage the skirt to coordinate with a "French Blue" cashmere tee from last spring, but no. That sweater had matched up with some full-legged linen pants and its work in my closet was done. The "breen" of the skirt clashed with the breen of the shell. The navy and wine-colored lines were almost indistinguishable from one another. Standing outside on the terrace (sun! For five whole minutes!) made the colors a little more distinguishable, but to no good end.<br />
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What could be the purpose of that fabric? It was suitable for wear with heavy corduroy trousers by a distinguished British public figure impersonating a colorblind poet-in-residence. It was miscast as a skirt. Time to waste a morning returning things.<br />
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Of course the next morning the cardigan arrived. In a flash of desperate hope, I held it up to navy wool pants. Beyond depressing. Lugubrious. And so I have re-named the color of the sweaters. They are and shall be henceforth -- Mournful Elm.<br />
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<br />wellfedfredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07118802089389931227noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2049514221380220929.post-12780885586317564502016-10-03T20:42:00.003-04:002016-10-03T21:17:28.422-04:00a most estimable potato gratinI posted a picture of these babies on my IG, and got a few requests for the recipe. This is how to do it<br />
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First, as to gratin dishes. You don't want to make one large potato pie, you want a small-ish dish for each person. I started making these in small dishes when people complained that <i>others</i> were getting all the brown crusty edges and it was <i>not fair</i>. So when there was a sale at Crate &Barrel, I picked up one small ceramic baking dish per person and one for the house. The important thing is the dishes must be able to go in the oven, and they need to be about 1 inch to 1 1/16 inches deep. Mine are about 6 inches by 7 inches.<br />
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Next, as to potatoes. I've had the best luck with Idaho Russets, and I recommend them.<br />
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Lastly, the liquid. I use a mixture of 2 parts half&half to one part heavy cream, so I recommend this.<br />
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Turn the oven on to 400^. Put the empty gratin dishes onto a baking sheet, put a slice of butter in each dish, and put into the oven to let the butter melt.<br />
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Peel the potatoes, rinse and dry. For 4 gratin dishes, I used 2 medium-large Idahos.<br />
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Heat the cream and half&half in a heatproof pitcher or a little pot that pours easily. I used a cup of half&half and a generous half-cup of heavy cream. Heat it until it's very hot but not boiling.<br />
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Remove the baking sheet and dishes from the oven, and swish the melted butter around each baking dish and up the sides.<br />
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Now, one at a time, cut a potato in half the long way, and cut each half in half the short way. I slice mine in a Cuisinart food processor using the 2 mm blade. I've also used a sharp knife. Either way, you'll wind up with a few stacks of half-moon-shaped potato slices. Pick up a stack, put it into one of the baking dishes, straight cut side down.Give the stack a little push to spread it out around the edge of the dish, using additional stacks as needed to fill the dish. Fill each dish with potato slices, peeling and slicing more potatoes as necessary. You'll be working from the outside in, and if there's an empty space in the middle of a dish, fill it with small pieces of potato. This would be a good time to grate a little Parmesan or Swiss cheese over the potatoes, if you like. Not mandatory.<br />
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Now pour the cream mixture into the dishes, trying to keep things even, and using the baking sheet, put the whole assembly into the oven.<br />
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Baking time will vary because potatoes may have different moisture/starch content at depending on time of year, how they were stored, etc. Start checking after 30 minutes, mine usually take about 40 to 45 minutes. Ovens vary, too.<br />
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Enjoy!wellfedfredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07118802089389931227noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2049514221380220929.post-1839422719497961212016-09-27T15:52:00.000-04:002016-09-27T15:52:19.235-04:00staying in, drinking coffee and broodingI usually don't converse with my coffee mug. Its job is to hold my coffee and not leak. My job is to make the coffee, pour it into the mug, and drink it without dribbling. Both jobs require full attention. I usually use a plain white "skinny" mug made by a company called RepeatRepeat. The diameter is smaller than that of most mugs, so less coffee is exposed to the air and the coffee stays hot longer. <br />
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But these made me smile.<br />
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I found these mugs at <a href="http://http//:www.shop.nylon.com" target="_blank">Nylon.</a> <br />
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While they're the wrong size for me generally, this morning (post the first 2016 presidential election debate) it occurred to me that more than one of them expressed how I was feeling during/ immedicately / the morning after the debate. Woosh, did I need a giant cup of hi-test this morning!<br />
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Informal poll - none of that software that tallies things up and loses the winner's email address - this is not a contest.<br />
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But tell me - would any of these cups have been the one you grabbed this morning?<br />
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Of course you may have more than one-- no rationing. Yet.wellfedfredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07118802089389931227noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2049514221380220929.post-44318564654434203672016-09-11T13:55:00.001-04:002016-09-11T15:14:32.752-04:00Anniversary <div style="text-align: center;">
Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; </div>
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nor for the arrow that flieth by day;</div>
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Nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; </div>
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nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday.</div>
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I will not live in fear.</div>
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I will greet hate with love.</div>
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I will find cheer in despondence.</div>
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I will find joy in the sunrise, peace and courage in my heart,</div>
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and I will seek always to cherish my country with honor.</div>
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wellfedfredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07118802089389931227noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2049514221380220929.post-76659193902316914852016-09-03T22:19:00.003-04:002016-09-03T22:19:53.329-04:00welcome! hope you brought helmet or hard hat, pads, compass, gps app, tinder, magnifying glass....At some point in 2011, the State of New York allowed people who were renewing their driver's licenses to do the renewal by mail or online, with no eye test. A driver's license is good for ten years, but the possibility that one's eyes might have changes within 10 years seems to have eluded those chosen to govern us. This is why we so often see cars starting to cross an intersection come to a squealing juddering stop - someone else was coming straight at them and clearly didn't see them.<br />
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Actually the last time I had an eye test at our Department of Motor Vehicles, the tester waved her arm at the wall behind her. "You see that chart? with all the letters?" I allowed as how I saw the chart. "OK," said the tester, and she initialed my form and sent me forth to wreak terror on innocent pedestrians and fellow drivers, although only on the days when I forget my glasses.<br />
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I find two more recent developments even scarier. The "local geography" section of the exam to get a taxi driver's license has been omitted. I believe this was done on the grounds that when a passenger who wants to get to, say, 86th Street and Madison Avenue notices that the cab is getting on line for the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel and is at a point where there's no turning back, the passenger's anger and dismay will communicate an error message to the driver. Live and learn.<br />
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I recently got in a cab to go to Kennedy Airport from Manhattan, and the driver asked me if that was the same as JFK Airport. Then he asked if I knew how to get there.<br />
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After a brief discussion of roadways he'd never heard of, he told me I should turn on my phone, download Google Maps and have it play the directions to himHe said he had the app on his phone, but the words were too small.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the road to LaGuardia Airport</td></tr>
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And the latest - English is no longer required. The NewYork City taxi driver license test is to be given in your choice of 7 languages. Although since the test won't require you to know where places are, or what is uptown, does it matter what language you don't know things in? <br />
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In terms of communication with passengers, I think it's great to have multilingual drivers. People come here from all over the world. <i>N bèlantre</i>! But what about reading street signs? What about understanding the instructions from the passenger? What about asking for help when lost? What about reading Google Maps? In Paris, in Berlin, cab drivers tell me they're required to pass an English test.<br />
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Anyway I would suggest that if you're planning to visit NewYork, and I hope you will, you need to take some sensible precautions. The title of this post exaggerates a little. However, in addition to the usual <i>don't accept drinks from strangers</i>, <i>don't shop at a "going out of business" store</i>, <i>keep your purse tightly closed</i>, I suggest that if you're nervous about getting into a vehicle under the control of a possibly vision-impaired non-English-speaking driver who has no idea where to take you, you might get to know our bus system. It's easy. And the bus drivers know where they're going. (ok, don't take a bus to our airports, that way lies madness. Don't fly in or out of LaGuardia, and grit your teeth and take a cab or a car service to Kennedy).<br />
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By the way, the reason for the recent loosening of requirements was to make becoming a cab driver more competitive with becoming an Uber driver. They don't have any exam at all.<br />
<br />wellfedfredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07118802089389931227noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2049514221380220929.post-56158583037018247642016-09-01T12:56:00.001-04:002016-09-02T13:02:21.952-04:00Ellie: lessons in gallantry<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Eleanor O'Connell Decret</span></div>
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Many of you will have heard that Ellie has lost her last battle with ALS.<br />
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Ellie was tough, wily, manipulative, opinionated, difficult to please, enthusiastic, hopeful, capricious, fey, and utterly charming.<br />
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Ellie didn't flinch. Ellie held on.<br />
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While I was fussing about the placement of a shoulder seam, Ellie's feeding tube detached.<br />
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I was annoyed that "my" perfume was discontinued and then brought back "updated" with synthetics and smelling like drugstore hairspray. Ellie breathed through a respirator and prayed to get through every night without a power outage.<br />
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I was sad that my last pair of real Joan and David shoes were beyond repair. Ellie got around in a wheelchair or was carried.<br />
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I bitched about airport lines. Ellie dealt with slow-moving ambulances.<br />
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Ellie was born into a quirky and apparently at one time monied family in Texas, raised on the Southern California coast, was the mother of a beautiful daughter, prayed when frightened as we all do, argued with God as many of us do, moved to New York, moved to France, divorced a man who stopped loving her, married a man she never stopped loving, cherished (and fought with) her friends, loved (and fought with) her family, and was at all times fierce and loyal and true.<br />
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you can learn more about Ellie at her blog, which is still up as I write this, havesomedecorum.blogspot.com</div>
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<br />wellfedfredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07118802089389931227noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2049514221380220929.post-10471832777361611252016-08-24T21:57:00.001-04:002016-08-25T09:21:11.427-04:00on fixer-uppers and fix-upsthis post isn't about construction and renovation. It's about what might or might not happen when some algorhythm or some person introduces you to someone they think might be perfect for you, with maybe a little help. Or not.<br />
<br />
An example. At a wedding, the best man - one of those guys who's not a relative but a version of that guy who seems to turn up at every family gathering - introduced me to the dashing older brother of one of the groomsmen. We talked, we danced, we nibbled, I watched in awe as he smoothly traded place cards so he could sit with me. He was witty and charming and didn't enumerate his early decision college acceptances - this last having been the lengthy and only topic of a match someone had made for my friend Bernadette a week earlier.<br />
<br />
Time came to stand around a decorated car and shriek and throw confetti, and my father started muttering about beating the traffic. When Pop was thinking about beating traffic, you could pick up the vibes from across a crowded room. Or stadium. Or arena. Or a mid-sized state or country. I got up to leave and my new crush walked with me to my parents, where he shook hands with them and otherwise demonstrated manners. Pop did not believe in asking personal questions at casual meetings - "it gives them false hopes." Of what? "That they might think someone finds them interesting." So as the young man helped me on with my coat (yes, <i>that</i> long ago) he asked for my phone number, then oh so romantically scribbled it on his palm, and asked where we lived. I told him. He frowned at me as if he was thinking hard, and then shrugged. "That's too far," he murmured. I froze and while I blinked he disappeared.<br />
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TzZTG2TnWiw" target="_blank">my dad would have loved this guy</a></div>
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Of course I reported this peculiar event to my parents, and Pop surveyed the field and was soon seen holding a frightened and no-longer-quite-so smooth young guy by the upper arm. As we headed for our car, Pop announced that there was only one reason that anyone couldn't travel miles to see his daughter, and therefore Pop had told him that if he showed up anywhere near me he would regret it. I steadied my voice. "What reason would that be?" "He's on parole," said Pop. "And now point out the jerk who introduced you."<br />
<br />
Fix-up stories, misbegotten introductions - everybody's got 'em. Jess got a call from a woman she had never met, who said she was a second cousin of Jess' mother's and had a cousin on the other side of the family who was perfect for Jess. Whom she had never met, people!. - the urge to fix-up has no boundaries. The guy was a doctor, a widower, a doctor, tall, a doctor, not yet bald, kids but they were over 21 and lived kind and productive lives out of town, enjoyed sports and travel... of course there's always a "<i>but--" most people wouldn't consider this a problem, BUT I thought I'd mention it -- both his first two wives were institutionalized ..." </i>Jess thanked the cousin and kept her distance.<br />
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Linda is a realtor. She made a date with a guy she met on line, and at the last minute decided that no matter how good the guy sounded, she just couldn't do this. Just not ready. Before she canceled, she asked her colleague Amanda if Amanda wanted to go. Amanda - same height, hair & eye color, works in same office - thought, well, why not? If things click, it'll be a funny story. If things don't, well, still a funny story. Well, the girls are still laughing. The guy was the janitor in the building the girls worked in. So everything he said about his job ("real estate"), his interests ("collecting antiques"), his personality ("clean-cut") .... was sorta true, only not true enough.<br />
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And Rosie. Graduated with highest honors, came to the big city, good job, good prospects. Her mother warned her that the nephew of one of their neighbors was going to call her, and she should feel free to ignore the fix-up attempt because mom's instincts told her that if this guy was as wonderful as his aunt said, at age 30 he wouldn't need his aunt's help. Rosie found that she actually liked chatting with him, enjoyed meeting him after work, liked going places with him. One evening she actually went to his apartment with him. The apartment was a small studio on the second floor front of a large building on a major crosstown street - this is NYese for you can't open the windows, noise, dust, car & bus pollution. The apartment was furnished with a futon, milk crates, motel towels, frat house beer mugs.<br />
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Rosie wondered, "Am I that shallow that I'm contemplating dropping this guy because I hate his apartment and if I spend one more minute here, I'll scream?" While she was thinking this, he explained without having been asked that he was aggressively saving for a down payment on a condo, which would only appreciate in value and then bla bla bla cornerstone of fortune in real estate. Rosie never heard the rest of the great financial plan, she was on her way out the front door. She decided that if she couldn't experiment with <i>shallow </i>at age 23, when <i>would </i>there be a good time?<br />
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So ultimately Rosie got married and had a lovely family and a darling husband who adored her as much as she adored him, and a house that they fixed up the way they liked it, and she worked part-time as a well-paid consultant for her old firm and the kids actually got college scholarships, one an academic fellowship, one for soccer.<br />
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And then her darling husband got a terrible disease and died. Oh, let's skip the details, of course they're awful. You've probably guessed that her phone started ringing - as she said - before the ink was dry on the check to the undertaker - this was an old-fashioned expression of Rosie's mom's, Rosie had of course charged the whole funeral and related expenses to get the miles. Rosie hung up on the fix-up calls, deleted the fix-up emails.<br />
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A year or so later, she ran into the guy she'd fled when she was 23. They had a nice lunch, splitting the bill. They agreed they'd both grown up and wouldn't even mention that last evening. Etc., etc., etc., and one night he asked her to dinner at his place. Of course, you guessed it - he was still in the same grim studio, with the same grim "home accessories."<br />
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"Oh, my," says Rosie, "love what you've done with the place..." and heads for the staircase because the elevator's out of order. After all, being shallow had led her to a wonderful life with a wonderful guy, for a while at least, and obviously this evening was a sign that she could now have a wonderful life on her own. For a while, at least.wellfedfredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07118802089389931227noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2049514221380220929.post-65344683837446016632016-08-22T15:36:00.000-04:002016-08-22T23:49:20.997-04:00Marie Kondo listened for a while, but couldn't stand it any moreI thought I'd see if I could assemble some of my little groans and moans into one cohesive issue, and then discuss that cogently and maturely. Or at least without whining. Like most good intentions, however....<br />
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Upon reflection, the issue, properly phrased, might be this:<br />
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<i>The Effect of Climate Change on Closet Space</i></div>
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<i> in an Already Crowded Urban Area</i></div>
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<i> with Particular Attention to Factors </i></div>
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<i>of Weight Control and Inaccurate Size Labels.</i></div>
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Naturally I left Ms Kondo's name in the post title, because clickbait.<br />
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So, first, weight. Mine fluctuates, and I deal with it the best I can. I don't have a live-in trainer, and my past has left me with a number of physical consequences, which I also deal with the best I can. And where I live there are four main seasons. Actually so far this year, we've had a couple of those seasons more than once. We also recognize lesser, or assistant, seasons like "resort," "holiday," "back to school." We celebrate pre-spring, pre-fall. Oh, and what about the <i>transitionals</i>. These are all ill-defined and fluctuational. This is why someone who does not have a financial interest in the merchandising of clothing or in closet organizational gadgets or in diet foods and programs needs to head the team that studies the effects of climate change on closet space. I'll try to hold back on expansion until the study is published.<br />
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The easiest way to start making more closet space would be to have a giant throw-out session, the kind where you mutter to yourself I wouldn't want my family to see this if they had to clean up after I was mashed by a truck... leave, shoulder pads! Begone, leather micro-mini (<i>Mom's? that was Mom's?</i>) So the idea of a closet cull in the here and now has some appeal. But it needs an identifiable stopping point, or one will find oneself shopping again (<i>how could I have tossed that blue silk shirt that went with everything?</i>)<br />
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So what does one realistically need for the day-to-day, month-to-month? Let's start with pants. For winter I need pants in black, gray, taupe/olive - definitely. Plus there are "Electives": wine, dark green, navy, tweed or plaid, in winter weight (wool, lined); then spring weight (cotton, silk), summer weight (light cotton, linen, lighter colors), fall weight (see spring, add corduroys). Add dark jeans and white jeans. Snappy white linen pants. Work requires work attire, social events require whatever may be called for, and hanging out with Himself calls for anything from LBD to silk pants and dressy top to jeans and tee, to - whatever. We toss into this algorithm this year's Usual Size, this year's Usual Size plus one, this year's Usual Size minus one, this year's Optimistic But Marked Down Size, this year's Realistic Goal Size, and this year's Dreaded Emergency Larger Size. You do the math.<br />
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<span style="color: magenta; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">there was going to be a picture of the closet</span></div>
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<span style="color: magenta; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">interior here, but it was really really depressing</span></div>
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Naturally, I don't rush out to buy new every season, or even to replace. Would I get rid of something just because it doesn't fit now? Life has taught me that what I throw out or give away this week, might very well fit next week or next month or next fall. And might in fact be desperately needed. If I dispose of something, I'll only have to replace it, sooner or later. And replacement these days leads, dangerously, to cheap fabrics and shoddy construction. Another consideration: allergies and intolerances to certain chemicals and various skin conditions narrowly limit the choice of fabrics, soon to fabrics that will be found only on the wives and girlfriends of Oligarchs and similar. Is this hoarding? Hoarding is an ugly word: how about "this is why I stockpile"? Better? How about an example? At a time in my life when even <i>knowing</i> that Paul Stuart carries clothes for women was, um, above my pay grade, I found a sale. I bought a pair of ivory-colored raw silk tailored pants. I have treated the pants carefully, because that fabric simply isn't being produced any more. Its contemporary substitute is inadequate and may even self-combust. So you can be sure of this: <i>I.Am.Keeping.Those.Pants.</i> And whenever they happen to fit in an appropriate season, I might be wearing them.<br />
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OK, have the above reflections given you enough time to come up with a number for the pants collection? Are you ready to consider tops? Skirts? How about jackets, blazer and other? I'm a jacket girl, raised to believe that the third piece completes the outfit, and so - I have jackets. When Browning wrote of his Duchess, "She had a heart too soon made glad," was he thinking of a flirtatious noblewoman, or of me trying on another jacket?<br />
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And so, where has all of this left me?<br />
<br />
Determined to streamline at least something, and hence I have resolved the following:<br />
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No more plaid shirts. I really have enough. I should donate some.<br />
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No more pink or pinkish sweaters. I've actually succeeded in giving many of those away. Now, of course, lately we are seeing a lot of pink, so work on this resolution has slowed. Still, I'm too well-raised to ask for them back.<br />
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No more salmon-colored anything. Repeat: I am not a lox, so I will not dress like one.<br />
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No more pea jackets. I love 'em, I just have enough to stock a small and (mostly) chubby naval force.<br />
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No more rain jackets - I'm already way oversupplied for the few times a year when I might make good use of one, but really, if the weather is wet enough to cover your top half, shouldn't the rest of you be kept dry as well? Same goes goes for short raincoats, which differ from rain jackets only by (1) price and (2) half-hearted attempts at teeny skirts.<br />
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No more purchases of red, white and blue and no more bleu, blanc, rouge.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">they run a little small</td></tr>
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I even have patriotic sneakers, thanks to Target's collaboration with Superga. This is because a substantial section of my closet is taken up by the components of outfits appropriate from VE Day (May 8) through Memorial Day through June (D-Day, also in June I recall the famous speech of Gen. DeGaulle, an ancient recording of which my cherished lunatic French teacher would play at top volume every spring, while across the hall in desperate competition the 8th grade Latin class would chant <i>Veni vidi vici. </i>The Latin teacher hated noise of any kind and was generally bad-natured, but also was afraid of Mademoiselle, so he didn't attempt <i>omnia Gallia in tres partes divisa est.) </i><br />
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And from June we run into July 4th and its surrounding long and getting longer weekend, July 14th, the Liberation of Paris in August, Labor Day, break for Hallowe'en, finally Veterans' Day and the starry tanks, the stripey shirts of varying necklines and sleeve lengths, can rest until the following Spring. So although patriotism and love of country continues year round in the form of hopeful feminism, the color scheme takes a rest. Interestingly, these items and their accessories don't wear out, but the collection increases year to year. A critical mass has accreted and I don't want to risk adding one more neutron. Or micron. Or whatever it is.<br />
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A subset of this resolution is : No more striped tees. I really, really have enough. I should really donate some. Except of course that they get a lot of wear on patriotic holidays - striped shirt, red hoodie, jeans; striped shirt, white linen pants, navy blazer. etc etc.<br />
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The more discerning of you will have perhaps noted that the word "shoes" hasn't yet appeared. (except of course for those sneakers, which are event wear?) Perhaps it would be more practical, in terms of decision-making, to table the question of shoes.<br />
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And of course to table the question of coats and jackets. I'm thinking I might feel up to considering that topic in cooler weather. Right now it just seems like a North Pole fairytale - coats? parkas? woolly accessories?<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">North Pole fairytale<br />
(hot weather treat)</td></tr>
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<br />wellfedfredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07118802089389931227noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2049514221380220929.post-1092911741870576332016-08-16T21:46:00.001-04:002016-08-17T12:05:25.170-04:00the weeping Pleiades wester, and discounts fall galore; Fred views the Cloisters collection, shirts, pants, scarvesThis is not the first time scaled-down printed versions of the tapestries on view at the Cloisters (NY) or the Cluny (Paris) have found their way into contemporary fashion. I think this is a good thing. The scarf below is a vintage treasure, ahem.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Anne Klein. Herself.<br />
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<span style="text-align: center;">Quick report on the August meteor shower, which around here means a flurry of birthday discount codes and coupons of varying durations.</span><br />
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People seem very grumpy at Anthro. I've had a pair of grey leather booties on preorder since forever. An example of my renowned saintly disposition is that I didn't cancel the order when they refused to add on the birthday discount.<br />
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I parlayed Banana Republic rewards, promos, and birthday tribute into BR's version of the Military Jacket, which is the same color as the JC pale beige/stone/canvas Downtown Field Jacket. The cut of the JC jacket is slightly sharper, but the collar is finished with tape in a color that's not quite the same as the rest of the jacket. They managed to get dyed-to-match tape for the other colors, so this is just a miss. The one at BR seemed a little nicer, I preferred its make-believe tortoise buttons to the shiny metal on the JC jacket. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the Banana version</td></tr>
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It arrived, it fits, and guess what? I ordered the JC version as well. <br />
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The JC version seems to be in good supply on the web and in local stores (I shop on the web in the middle of the night because <i>I have other things to do in the daytim</i>e) - but for some reason the jacket is traveling to New York by oxcart from Southern California. Annoying because I want it to arrive before the return date on the BR jacket. <br />
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Of course once I'd committed my JC birthday gift to testing the jacket, my JC rewards arrived over the weekend and boy was my face red! I had about convinced myself that my spending was way down. Mmm not so much. On the other hand I may be one of the better dressed at the apocalypse.<br />
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I have to admit that my first thought upon seeing the Bird of Paradise and Midnight Unicorn prints in a Times ad was <i>Finally! Something to wear if Farley shows up! </i>Because the longer it goes between visits, the more worrisome Farley becomes. Farley is one of a small group of school friends from years back - school as in 3rd grade, and he's the one whose adventures are the most amusing, although perhaps not for him. Farley has appeared in the blog a few times.... <br />
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Anyway my second thought was the disaster I'd had last winter when I tried to buy a Drake's pocket square in a version of this season's unicorn print. The fabric was completely see-through and was so stiffened with sizing that it couldn't be worn at the neck, which was where I wanted to wear it.<br />
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So with that background, off to the store. <br />
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People are having different reactions to the fit of the pieces in what I will call the JC Cloisters Collection. The SA told me that the BofP shirt runs small, advised sizing up, and called for a larger size than the one I was holding. Twenty minutes later it was clear that there was no larger size in the store, no one felt up to calling around for a stock check, and I'd have to try on the one I was still clutching. It was a little loose and floppy at the shoulders, perfect at neck and chest, and yes, I do have a generous bust. The very bottom button didn't button. The fabric was perhaps not quite as nice and drape-y as, say, the silk French Hen shirt or the silk navy/red Hearts shirt, but I didn't find it see-through and the collar was correct, by which I mean not floppy and not overly stiff. Not worried about that bottom button. Found the shirt extremely appealing. So BANG went the rewards. <br />
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Styling suggestions:<br />
(1) pants.<br />
(2) skirt.<br />
Not at the same time. There's a lot of wine-colored stuff in my closet. I dunno, it just accumulated. I'm also thinking about the pale beige suede skirt for dressup.<br />
(3) if anyone is asked to be in a holiday pageant the shirt would go very nicely with sequin or velvet shorts. If anyone is thinking of asking <i>me</i> to be in a holiday pageant, please reconsider. Now.<br />
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I didn't try on the pants in either design. The fabrics are of the same weight and hand as the tops, and the designs are of the same scale. Not lined. However - big however - as we know every garment fits every body in a different way. I saw another customer trying the pants. <br />
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Do not buy these without trying them on in front of a mirror, and making very certain that you are OK with the way the unicorn's horn or the bird's bill is pointing. Just sayin.<br />
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That (BofP) beak recalled the above Wildfox shirt. Do not pair them. <br />
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As to the scarves, the long narrow one in BoP is an awkward size for me. A smaller lady might have some fun with it as a sash or as a floppy bow tie. The measurements weren't given when it was on pre-order, so I was curious. It's 4 feet long by 3 inches wide. To me, that's gift wrap. <br />
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There's a 20-inch square scarf in the unicorn print, I might go back for that one.<br />
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I found the Unicorn pajama top to look like, um, a pajama top with big floppy shoulders. Tried a smaller size. It looked like a pajama top with big floppy shoulders and a tight middle. So I guess I'm not meant to have it. <br />
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Finally, I tried on the JC Avery pumps, the tweed with medium blocky heel. Gorgeous. Only I learned that I have lost weight on one of my feet. Just one. Or perhaps someone with an extraordinarily wide right foot tried on that shoe before it was offered to me? Or perhaps a manufacturing blink? In any event, happy with the blouse. If things work out this fall, I'll wear it in Paris and stand in front of a tapestry and graciously accept compliments. wellfedfredhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07118802089389931227noreply@blogger.com9