Thinking about gifting. Or, For Doug.

The adults in the Jazzman's family draw names every Thanksgiving for Christmas gifting. Financial limits are set, and the holiday becomes manageable in this economically horrific era.

One niece's significant other drew my name. And, to prevent trauma, I thought instead of just double-checking my Amazon wish list, I'd stop to think about the things I enjoy.

Many holiday gifters wrinkle their noses at gift cards. Not I!!! Whoever invented gift cards should receive the Nobel Peace Prize. With gift cards, everybody is happy. (Except those Scrooges who think they're not a real gift.)

So here's my list, which readers other than Doug might find interesting if they are interested in any of the pastimes I'm into. I hope you'll find some new treasure trove to feed your passion.

Doug - A gift card to any of these sites would be greatly welcomed (she wrote, smiling).
Or you can just visit my Amazon wish list.

Knitting
Webs, America's Yarn Store
Jimmy Beans Wool
Yarn Paradise, my guilty getaway whenever I'm in Asheville (6/30/26 edit: no longer in business)

Sewing
Waechter's Fine Fabrics, my other Asheville guilty getaway (6/30/26 edit: very sadly, no longer in business
Marcy Tilton's Art Barn Marcy is one of my teachers/mentors, and she carries some fabulous fabric and silk screens that I love to use.
Thai Silks, in Los Altos, CA, carries the most affordable and highest quality silks I've ever found.

Fabric Dyeing
Pro Chemical and Dye carries the dyes I use on silks and wools.
And Dharma Trading carries the dyes as well as scarves and silks.

Beading & Jewelry Making
Rings & Things - I sat next to one of their employees in a class at Bead Fest Philly, and this store carries everything one could imagine for beading.

That's probably enough to confuse Doug and amuse other readers.

Ho, ho, ho.

Do You Etsy?

I completely love Etsy! I am determined that one day soon I will have an Etsy shop to sell bags and beaded items and vintage scarves.

If the Etsy site is new to you, it's a virtual gallery and shop for all kinds of art and for vintage items. Prices are fixed—it's a store, not an auction. There's even a section where you can commission an item from an artist, as I did the extra-large cat basket for my extra-large cat.

There are thousands of creative people congregated on Etsy and today, instead of spending time writing a post, I'm going to get back to work and just point you to some fun and interesting items.

I went into Etsy and searched on "piano". Lookee at all the fun I found!!

Prize-winning [Bogus] Status Updates

When I need a good laugh, I know where to turn: The Washington Post Style Invitational. When I lived in D.C., I word turn to the Style Invitational first when the Sunday Post arrived. I don't read it as regularly nowadays, but I still end up laughing out loud each time I do read it.

Yesterday's edition had me emitting guffaws, yet again. Here's the link, then scroll down to "Report from Week 874."

My fave? Probably the one about strewing BP executives heads along the shore.

Enjoy!

(Photo credit: Bob Staake for The Washington Post)

You Only Think Your Data is Safe

On Sunday evening I received an e-mail from AT&T telling me that I had exceeded my data plan for the month. The e-mail was addressed: "Dear Charles Crews." Hmmm. There have been a considerable number of men in my life, but aside from my daddy, my brothers, and a couple of random cousins, none of them were named Crews. I immediately e-mailed my younger son, who manages our cell phone account and asked two pertinent questions: 1) Why TF does AT&T think my name is Charles; and 2) Don't we have unlimited data? He quickly responded: 1) I don't know; and 2) yes. He can be succinct when required.

The more I read and re-read the e-mail, the more things became clear to me. The cell phone number in the subject of the e-mail was not mine. This didn't alarm me; I just determined that first thing Monday morning I would be on the phone to AT&T.

The first person I reached at AT&T was the kind of CSR who only knows how (or is only allowed) to read from a script. After being transferred a couple more times, I got to a young man who was a step above reading from a script, but whose pencil was just not very sharp. I had to explain several times that the e-mail on the phone number I gave him was mine, but the phone number was not. Even after about 15 minutes on the phone with him, I'm not sure they have my e-mail address listed correctly on my phone number.

When I finally got off the phone with him, after receiving his assurance that they would immediately call the other party and get the correct phone number on the account, I called the other phone number. I didn't, however, get Charles Crews. I got Cousin Charles's 12-year-old daughter. She didn't quite grasp what I was saying, but I just told her to tell her daddy to call AT&T, and got off the phone.

Last night, about 32 hours after the calls, I happened to notice there was a message on my landline answering machine. When I played the message back, lo and behold, it was Jan Crews. Really. She said her daughter hadn't understood my call, and would I please call her and explain again. I called her this afternoon and said, "Hi, Jan Crews. This is Jan Crews." It was fun. But I learned from her that AT&T still hadn't called her or her husband, 48 hours later.

But should I be alarmed? Is it a simple keying error on the part of the original CSR when my Cousin Crewses set up their account? Or is it a more egregious error. My e-mail address somehow migrated from my account (well, really, Tyler's account) over to Charles and Jan's account? I've had this e-mail address for three years. Could Charles have set up the account and not remembered his wife's address? Could he have misspoken? Or is it a matter of opening up my account without my authorization.

I'm not usually a Chicken Little. I don't suspect the sky of falling any minute. I'm really not concerned with the amount of information that's available about me, floating all over cyberspace. Now if AT&T takes away my unlimited data plan and replaces it with Cousin Charles's limited data plan, I'm going to have to have a serious talk with someone at AT&T.

But for now, I think I'm going to assume it was a keying error, and figure my social security number is still safe with AT&T.

At least I hope so.

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Photo credit: Sven Grzebeta

A Lesson in Listening

I just had my hair cut. I am frustrated. That's the whole story.

For the past year-and-a-half, I've been visiting the most wonderful stylist named Amy who works at Nolas Salon and Day Spa in Fairlawn. She's an angel, a genius, and a really nice lady. But I no longer work in Akron, so driving to Akron to get my hair cut drives up the cost of the cut into the just-can't-do-that range. It's been two months since I've seen Amy. I was looking a little shaggy.

Now, I've lived with shaggy before. But I've got an audition on Friday evening for a position I really, really want, and I didn't want to go into the audition looking and feeling shaggy. So today I ran over to a salon in Girard. I know the owners, who are dear and longstanding friends of my daughter-in-law. I've gone there before for haircuts, but the owner who is the principal stylist always thinks I'm chic, rather than simple, and wants to give me the latest hairstyles. I don't want the latest hairstyle. I want what I've had for the past 15 years. I want what I know looks good on me.

Amy and I have been adjusting and playing and changing until about eight months ago, when we got exactly what we wanted from my thin, fine hair. And I don't want to change.

I walked into the salon this afternoon and sat down in the chair of the stylist who had been assigned to me. She was a pretty young lady, covered in colorful tattoos. But the tattoos don't affect her hearing, do they? From the book I was carrying, I pulled out three photos of me, each showing a variation of the hairstyle Amy had given me. I told the young lady, "I'm simple. I want this hairstyle, just a little shorter. Just trimmed up. I don't want anything chic or fancy. I'm just a simple person."

Whoosh. In one ear and out the other. She fiddled with my hair a minute, then said, "Well, I'd like to stack the back to give you a little more shape." I grimaced, and said, "Maybe just a little." I told her this haircut was about two months old, so needed over half-an-inch cut off, and that the top needed to be kept shorter because of how fine my hair is.

She took me to the shampoo bowl and spent what seemed like fifteen minutes shampooing my hair. Then she took me back to her chair and spent another twenty minutes on the back, followed by about two minutes each on the sides and the top. I said twice that I didn't think she was taking enough off the sides. She held her fingers up and said, "I'm taking half an inch." I'm a sewist; I deal with half-inches and five-eighths-inches on a regular basis. That was no half-inch.

The longer I sat there watching her, the more upset my stomach became. She asked if she could put mousse in my hair, and I said, "Just a little." She asked if she could tease the back and I instantly had a most-pained expression on my face. She saw the expression and said, "Just a little." By the time she had the top poufed up about two inches higher than I ever wear it, I said, strongly, "No, that's too much."

She patted it down where it looked okay, but all I could think was that I had been assaulted. The sides and the top look like only about one-eighth of an inch has been trimmed off. The back has this danged shelf of hair hanging over a neatly trimmed portion. And my bangs look like nothing has been taken off. I just got my hair cut twenty minutes ago and already I can see my bangs without a mirror. And then she sprayed my hair. Spray!

As I stood from the chair, stomach in knots, I knew I would not be coming back into that salon, as much as I personally like the owners. This young woman, who had no appointments booked for the afternoon, had just lost a potentially long-standing client.

I am angry. I am missing Amy. I am upset about having my perfect cut focked up. I am concerned that I will not be able to get this ridiculous cut to look decent for my audition. I am disgusted with myself for …, oh, I don't know for what. For wanting to get it done quickly. For trusting the personnel of a salon that screwed me up two years ago. For not being willing to make the time or money to drive to Akron for a haircut. For thinking I could get it done quickly.

I feel sick.

And to the service professionals reading this post, I say this: When a person tells you she likes simple things, simple hairstyles, give her the god-damned simple hairstyle. Don't feel like you're betraying the reputation of your salon by not giving her the latest spiky chic cutting-edge hairstyle.

Wouldn't you rather be known as a stylist who can listen and implement in a manner that's pleasing to your clients?

Just as every woman of dating age knows that you can't change a man, I would also proffer that you can't change a woman's opinion about her hair. I've been living with this awful, unmanageable hair for 60 years. I know what it will and won't do. I need a simple hairstyle that will look good for six weeks before forcing me back into the salon. Period.

I didn't get what I wanted. I'm just thankful that I only paid $35 for this travesty of customer service.

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P.S. Annnnd, the fragrance in the hair spray is so strong I'm going to have to go wash my hair before much more time passes, or risk incurring a migraine. Argh!

They're Baaaaaack!

I was so happy today to walk into the lunchroom and find that the daffodils had bloomed over the weekend.

I grew up in Florida. We don't have daffs in Florida. When I moved to D.C. in 1983, I feel madly, deeply in love with daffodils. Wherever I lived, I planted more daffodils each fall. The entire eight years I lived in Tucson, it was the daffodils that I missed each spring.

And here I am. Back in the north. Loving those beautiful golden yellow faces.

You Talkin' 'Bout Me?

Yesterday's post talked about my morning hawk sighting. He must have sensed I was talking about him. This morning, as I turned onto the 711 entrance ramp, I glanced up at the end of the ramp, and there he was. The temperature was about 30 degrees, and he must have decided that wasn't too cold for his little feet.

He made my morning!



(Shot through my windshield, hence the blue. No, the sky was not that incredible blue hue!)

Cold Feet

One of the things I love most about my morning commute is turning from Gypsy onto 711 and seeing a hawk sitting on the lightpole just before the ramp merges with the highway. On rare occasions, two hawks will be sharing the lightpole.

I see him three or four days a week, every week, spring through fall. (I don't know that it's a him. I don't even know what variety of hawk he is. I'm just using the male gender for brevity.) Very occasionally in the winter, he'll be sitting there, waiting for me. I got to thinking about where he goes when the metal lightpole is too cold for his little feet. (Okay: Claws. Talons. Whatever.) Does he migrate? I don't think so—I still see him and his compatriots sitting in trees, searching the white fields for their breakfast.

Does he abandon the lightpole merely because of the cold? (Well, not merely. I'd abandon it, too, if I had my bare feet/claws/talons sitting on icy metal. I've been tempted to abandon NE Ohio lately after days and days of unending snow.)

These are all questions for which I have no answers. But everyone I know is counting the number of days until spring. For me, spring will bring a melting of all this snow, the popping through the ground of daffodils, and a return of my guardian hawk.

Please don't read into the first paragraph that I like my commute. I hate my commute. Hate. With a passion. But, in a neverending attempt to be positive, that forced hour-or-more in the car every morning and evening does let me listen to podcasts or audiobooks, and lets me commune with the hawks.

And lest you thought, from the title of this post, that I was going to tell you I'm getting cold feet about my new relationship, you're out o' luck. Way out o' luck. My feet are very warm.

It Just Ain't Right

OR: Brrrrr!

It's about 12 degrees in Youngstown this morning, and the wind chill is slated to be below zero today. In a phrase: it's cold!

As I was getting dressed in my cold bedroom, I glanced at the windows and realized there was a problem. Ice. Ice inside my bedroom windows. Now, that's cold!

The first three photos here are taken in my bedroom (!) of the inside of my bedroom window.

I guess we could say that these 1927 windows weren't designed to block the cold.






These last two pictures were taken about ten days ago. After two weeks of daily snow and below-freezing temps, we had had one day where the sun came out. The high temperature was still below freezing, but the sun caused some of the icicles to melt.

The icicles on the west side of my house melted and dripped onto tree branches below, and as they dripped and froze, dripped and froze, they formed a magnificent arc of an ice sculpture.

Can you imagine if I had wanted an ice sculpture like this for a wedding or other event? I would have had to pay Big Bux to have someone sculpt this. But Mother Nature sculpted it for me for free!






Stay warm today, wherever you are!

The Price of Gas

I am appalled that the price of gas in Youngstown, where there are precious few jobs, is consistently $.25 higher than in Akron, where cars and jobs abound.

I would love to hear a cogent explanation.

On the other hand, I'm thrilled that I can now fill up my car (in Akron) with midgrade gas for less than $3.00 per gallon.

Autumn in New York (Tra la)

Totally and completely off-topic, yet again

Yes, I know we all say living in Tucson is like living in Paradise. But I absolutely love Fall on the East Coast. I love the autumn leaves, I love the crisp temperatures and the wind, I love the enthusiasm and excitement that's in the air.

Cheryl and I walked back down 8th Avenue from the theatre at noon, looking at $5 pashmina shawls and beaded bags and funnel cakes and crepes with Nutella and fresh strawberries. I could move back to the East Coast in a heartbeat, if I hadn't already moved out of the real estate market here and into the lesser market in Tucson.

We had lunch at that distinctly New York establishment: Olive Garden. Okay, so we both love the salad and breadsticks. And the glass of pinot grigio put us in the right frame of mind for an afternoon nap. Now we're off to eat yet again, this time Cafe Un Deux Trois. I'm thinking maybe I'll just have a cup of tea and the profiteroles for dinner! How decadent would that be?

Do I have to leave already in the morning? The trip is too short, and I've enjoyed every moment of it.

The Blog That Ate the Post

This morning, as I was searching for something I had said, I found two posts that were marked as drafts. I could swear that I had published them after writing, but Blogger thinks not. They're part of the "short stories and nightmares" series. Anyway, if you're into the horror stories from my past, they're posted on 8/6 and 8/24. Enjoy! (or not!)