Dressing to the Nines

Snow, snow, snow, snow, snow. Have I mentioned we've got lots and lots of snow? Daily snow? Snow every single frigging day since New Year's Eve?

So when you're dressing to go out in the snow for a first date, where you want to impress the man with how chic and cute and desireable you are, what on earth do you wear?

It's a given that it was going to be black. Ninety-five percent of the items in my closet are black, so I pulled out the pretty cabled black cashmere turtleneck, black twill pants, a black silk tank to go under the turtle, and a fabulous multi-colored furnace glass necklace and silver hoop earrings.

But the shoes. You know I'm not lacking for black shoes. But there was snow and ice everywhere. And I'm a klutz.

A peek into my Fashion Police Manual said I should wear the good Cole-Haan black leather boots. But they have a smooth sole. My Don't Be Stupid and Fall On Your Ass Manual said to wear the Ugg snow boots with lugged soles.

You toss these alternatives around, then you think about men and their tendency to analyze a woman's outfit. Nope, probably not going to happen. When the date—whether it turns out good or bad—is over, the man probably will not remember what was on your feet, if he even noticed.

So I opted for safety and wore the snow boots.

And if somebody wants to go into the room in Heaven that houses the snow-making machine and turn the damned thing off, I would be thrilled beyond belief.

Differences in Decorating Opinions

On one of my recent trips to the NC mountain cottage, my sister-in-law suggested I bring this quilt home with me. It was in my home when I was a child, and its acquisition definitely predates my parents' acquisition of me. (I.e., I don't know how old it is, but it's older than 60.)

It's not a particularly precious quilt. It does not have all the embroidery outlining each piece, as normal (and highly prized) Crazy Quilts have. It's just something that's older than me that's been in my family for many, many years.

I was very happy to get it, and decided it needed to hang over the railing at the top of the stairs in my 1927 Colonial.

Angel, however, has different ideas of where it belongs. He thinks it belongs under his butt!

Each time I hang it over the railing, he waits an appropriate amount of time, then goes out and pulls it down, quickly planting himself in the middle of the puddled quilt where he can simultaneously survey upstairs and downstairs activities.

Who knew cats had ideas (and such definite ideas!) about interior design?

Cute? Cute!

Dating in the Tens

Remember the old days when you might meet a handsome, humorous man and he'd ask for your number?

First, in those days all you'd have to exchange would be a single telephone number—your home number. If you had the type of job that enabled you to talk on the phone at the office, you might also give him your office number. And to exchange these numbers, you'd dig around in your purse for a card on which were printed these bits of data.

Nowadays? There are multiple points of information. There's your home phone, your office phone, your mobile phone, your personal e-mail, your office e-mail, your Twitter ID, your Facebook ID, and much more. Oh, and your name. There's a chance that you've gotten through the getting-to-know-you e-mails and the opening 95% of the first date without knowing each other's last names.

Netting it out, what's important? There are two key points: mobile phone and personal e-mail. That's all you need. But how to exchange it. Hand him my business card, which I've flipped over and on which I've scribbled the two key points. That scribbling assumes I was able to find a pen in my purse. If you're very organized, like my friend Melinda, you have printed cards with all your personal information. When you meet a new friend, you hand him or her that personal card. I'm obviously not that organized.

<Sidebar On>
Here's how organized I'm not: I spent all afternoon sewing a bag for Boston and Ridley's upcoming school gala. It wasn't until I was sitting at the table, waiting for my Panera buzzer to start vibrating, that I looked down and realized my black cashmere turtleneck was covered with little white threads. Argh! I'm 1) too old for this nonsense; 2) too out of practice; or 3) brain-dead. Pick one!
<Sidebar Off>

So in the "Tens", what's the technology-forward way to handle the challenge? Once he divulges his last name, you whip out your iPhone, press the Contacts icon, start a new contact, enter his name, tap Phone and hand your iPhone to him to enter his number. After saving the Contact entry with his phone and e-mail, you quickly send him an e-mail so he has your e-mail in his inbox.

Please tell me in which decade things became so complex.

The Interminable Quest for the Perfect Black Shoe

Any singer will tell you that standing for an hour or half an hour in performance creates a requirement for a comfortable shoe. A comfortable black shoe. When I started formulating this blog post in my mind, my thought was to pull every black shoe out of my shoe closet, pile them up, and snap a photograph of that mountain of blackness.

<Sidebar On>
Yes, I have a lot of black shoes. Yes, I have a closet devoted to my shoes. And no, all my shoes do not fit into my shoe closet. A few spill over into other closets. Several other closets.
<Sidebar Off>

Ah, but then Naot came into the picture. I had seen the Naot Matai in a catalog. Then I tried it on at a local shoe store and fell in love. The shoe was expensive, but I've been known to buy expensive shoes. Not Jimmy Choo or Prada or Manolo Blahnik expensive, but definitely Stuart Weitzman, Ferragamo, and Taryn Rose. Three pair of Taryn Rose, once.

So, damn the expense. But the store didn't have the color I wanted in the size I needed, so I put the project on hold. Then several months later I saw my friend, Kim, who with her man, John, owns the Great Harvest franchise in Fairlawn, wearing the Naot Matai. Kim spends the entire day on her feet. Five days a week, all day, walking from mixer to oven to cash register to storeroom. My feet ache to think about her day. Then at one of our Star Wars in Concert performances, I noticed one of my fellow Chamber Choir singers wearing a pair of the shoes. Both women raved about the comfort of this shoe.

So back I went to Lucky Shoes, but again they were out of my size in the black. So I went online to Nordstrom, who also was out of my size in the black. Zappo's to the rescue. I should have just gone there first, but you know about my love for and addiction to Nordstrom and, even greater than that, my commitment to buy local.

Two days later the Zappo's box was on my doorstep. I wore the shoes to the office the next day, and then to Messiah rehearsal that night. Wow! Comfort! There was no breaking-in period. There was not a moment of discomfort.

The shoes do not look as chic, as fashion forward (I truly hate that phrase!) as the shoes I normally wear, but—Oh. My. Gosh.—can you spell comfort? I've even worn them to the office a couple of days, just because they feel so darned good.

I'm thinking I'm going to have to buy another pair in a different colorway to take on my trip to Ireland this summer.

And all those other black shoes? Umm, there may be a thrift shop in their future. Or a vintage shop—after all, one pair of patent flats has been in my closet since around 1981.

The Creativity of Authors

I'm reading Linda Howard's "Burn". Ms. Howard crafts good, solid writing—characters who are believable and a plot that draws you in and keeps you turning the pages or, in my case, pressing the "Play" button.

I'm not enamored of the creativity of her writing, as I sometimes am with books I pick up. But occasionally she comes up with statements by her characters that just grab my ear.

So, on this snowy morning—day after day, flake upon flake, where you just want to scream to Mother Nature, "Turn off the damned snow machine!"—I give you one clever turn of phrase by Ms. Howard:

"You're a demon. You know that?", he said with feeling.

When your feet hit the floor every morning, I'll bet the devil shudders and says, 'Oh, shit! She's awake.'"

Isn't that terrific writing? Don't you have more than a few people in your life you could say that to?

Travels with Grandma

My brief and quick trip to North Carolina during New Year's week gave me another opportunity to observe my grandchildren up close and without the filters they might apply when their parents are around.

It's always interesting to see the world through their eyes. I wanted to share an incident with you.

To set the stage, you have to understand that Boston and Ridley live in a fabulous house. Fabulous - in the truest sense of the word! Their home was built around 1927-1929. I think it contains about 3600 square feet in five bedrooms and three full and two half baths (depending on how the rooms are defined). It is adorned with Brazilian mahogony paneling and crown moldings that are individually cast. It is, simply, a work of art. A treasure.

Against that backdrop—that old grandeur, that way of life—we walked into my brother's vacation house on the mountaintop. Jerry has exquisite taste, and always uses interior designers for his spaces. His house was built, as I recall, in the late 80s or early 90s. It's rustic chic: natural twigs are used in many of the design elements; earthy colors adorn the walls; two large leather sofas call you to collapse into them. The house has three bedrooms and two bathrooms in a split configuration divided by a great room—open kitchen, dining area, and living area. I think it probably contains about 2600 square feet.

We walked in and said hello to everyone, with hugs all around. Then Boston walked around the living area, taking it all in. He looked at me and said, "Wow. Uncle Jerry must be rich to afford a house like this."

The statement struck me. I don't think he's ever looked around his house and said, "Wow, we must be rich to afford this house." His house with its understated elegance is his norm. But Uncle Jerry's house, with its highly-decorated perfection, was out of the norm. It was so magazine-perfect that the owner must be rich.

I love peeking inside my grandchildren's brains!

Photo credit: Jaci Clark Photography

A little poem for your New Year

There are lots of blog posts swirling around my brain, but this afternoon I'm committed to some editing jobs for Tyler. So I will simply share with you a poem from a Prairie Home Companion broadcast of last summer.

If you hate the incessant and unending cacophony of kids playing Marco Polo, as I do, I think you'll love this poem by Billy Collins. Scroll down to "Hangover", and enjoy a memory of warm summers, in the midst of the unending snow showers here in Northeast Ohio.

I hope you're having a wonderful and relaxing New Year's weekend.