Are any of these yours? What have I forgotten?

I got some really good ideas on the post where I asked for design help but they weren’t quite right. For instance, wine glasses and decorative bottles would be lovely, but sometimes our nest isn’t empty and I’d worry that they’d break. But mostly I’d worry that I’d have to dust.

Placing my cookbooks there is an excellent idea, except that my cookbooks are either freakishly ugly or freakishly embarrassing. (Deep-Fry Cookery? The Peanut Butter Diet? The Dumpling Cookbook? I’m truly ashamed. And hungry.)

I’m a whimsical gal, so I was intrigued by using Barbies to stage the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet. It had great potential, but my Barbie is missing a leg and the closest I could get to Shakesperian garb was her stewardess outfit. Besides, my hubbie won’t let me play with his GI Joe. (Note above comment about Barbie’s missing leg.)

So I settled on this …

The two wooden dealibobs up top are gifts from my sons … the vase from Guam, the mug from Okinawa. The fruit basket is new and I dropped one of my red bowls in it for the big stuff, but the small or squishy stuff — tangerines, heads of garlic, kiwis, avocados — fits in the basket on the rack. The digital frame runs day and night, and the placemat is one that my mother-in-law had when they lived in Africa.

The stained-glass heart was also a gift, and the bottle opener is, um, self-explanatory. The empty hooks remain because, well, I’m lazy that way.

So, functional and decorative and that’s how it will remain until I either get some prettier cookbooks or until Barbie grows her leg back.

What do you think? You likey?

Because I live and work in the suburbs, I tend to see people who are very similar to me. Even when I go into Denver I drive, so I’m still not surrounded by the extremes of humanity.

But I love going to Portland so I can ride public transportation. All the stereotypes I have of people are tossed aside.

Three examples from my recent trip …

• Four rowdy teens rode a long way at the front of our car on the Max train. They weren’t being aggressive or anything, but were loud, clearly out for a good time that night. One of the more punk-looking ones was talking on his phone at one point, a conversation full of laughter and expletives. At the end of it he said, “I love you, buddy.” As they passed my seat when their stop approached, all four of them, single-file, shot me dazzling, happy smiles and the last one said, with great enthusiasm, “Have a great night!” It makes me smile just to think about it.

• A scary über-tattooed-and-pierced guy sat on the train in seats facing us. Earbuds stuck in tight, he had tuned out to his iPod, which was just fine with me. The less eye contact the better, I thought. As the train filled a bit more, the least hip couple in the universe sat next to him. (I know what you’re thinking, but no, this couple made us look like Lady Gaga and Sean Connery.) Next thing I know, they’re chatting like old friends! Scary UTAP guy has pulled out his earbuds and is willingly giving directions and sharing dining and tourist advice with them.

• On the bus one day we had to wait for an elderly man to get his walker up the ramp. I was annoyed (and a bit ashamed to say it didn’t even occur to me to help him) until a hipster in skinny black jeans and a fedora hopped down to lend him a hand and a smile.

As I watch people on the Max and listen to their conversations, I’m constantly surprised and delighted by my fellow man. It’s also true that sometimes I’m surprised by their drastic and conspicuous body odor, but luckily that doesn’t happen much.

Whenever my kneejerk reactions to people are wrong, I’m reminded about the advice I’ve heard a gazillion times when creating characters in my writing. Nobody is all bad or all good and stereotypes are boring.

Maybe those unhipsters were really double agents on a mission. Or circus lion tamers! Or the inventors of root beer bottle cap candy!

Or what else?

• Kleenex

• people who know how to cut my hair

• air travel

• my car starts every time I ask it to

• paper books, digital books, and the people who write them

• Game Night, especially when we play Scattergories

• Guinness

• readily available food in my particular pyramid – fruits/veggies (with a special shout-out to sugar snap peas, red bell peppers, blueberries and Pink Lady apples), salmon, eggs, avocado, bacon, booze and chocolate

• people who buy my books

• people I don’t even know who say nice things about my books

• clean, tasty tap water

• basement storage for a lifetime of Christmas ornaments and other memorabilia (all with a story to tell), hundreds of boxes of photographic slides and a working projector on which to view them, an extra freezer, and wine by the case(s)

• xeriscape that doubles as zeroscape (I’ll concede this may not be what my neighbors are thankful for)

• plumbing, air conditioning, heat and electricity

• Netflix

• Jon Stewart, Eddie Izzard and Ellen deGeneres

• people I actually know who make me laugh

• libraries

• Nyquil

• newspapers

• newspaper advertisers so said newspapers can stay in business

• YouTube

• touring productions of Broadway musicals

• Facebook

• WordPress so I can proclaim to the world my love of goofy stuff …. like YOU!

Happy Thanksgiving!

What’s on your list?

Even as a child the irony of his birthday falling on Veterans Day wasn’t lost on me. My dad is one of those über-patriotic guys. Not a loud chest-thumper, always bellowing that America is the greatest nation, but a quiet man who stands a bit taller when a parade flag passes by and isn’t ashamed of the tear that threatens to slip out.

He doesn’t believe wearing a flag pin — and demonizing those who don’t — makes you a true American. But he does believe those who enlist in the military are stronger, braver and better Americans than the rest of us.

One of his greatest disappointments — still — is that he was never able to enlist. Being born in 1930 meant he was too young for WWII and by the time Korea came around, he was married with a couple of kids, so I never grew up in a military household. It was with considerable surprise when first one, then the other of my sons joined the Navy. Suddenly we’ve become a military family.

That makes my dad exceedingly proud. My youngest son happened to be home on leave last year at this time when we had a big blow-out for Dad’s 80th birthday. I told my son the best present he could give his grandpa was to show up in his dress whites.

Dad, of course, dons his kilt for all important occasions. You know, weddings, 80th birthdays, Robbie Burns Day, and when he gets his car serviced.

I’m glad Dad didn’t have his kilt when I graduated from college because I doubt I would have looked this happy.

He, on the other hand, would still be beaming because education is something he values. Even though he can’t quite master his computer, he continues to learn oodles of other stuff by attending classes, reading and traveling.

Among the other great joys in Dad’s life are, in no particular order: dogs, coffee, Ireland, poetry, butcher shops, reciting ‘Ode to a Haggis’ in full Scottish burr, his old Royal typewriter, Garrison Keillor stories, chili cookoffs, Western art, the perfect martini, fishing, Toastmasters, and Norman Rockwell.

He used to give Rockwell presentations to elementary school kids. His favorite illustrations to discuss with them were the ones with kids and the ones that told a story. Like these …

So, today I just wanted to take a minute to give a little shout-out to Dad and to my Navy guys on this Veterans Day 2011. None of them are veterans, but they are patriots. And one of them is a really great Dad who taught me to fish … appreciate music, literature and art … try new and exotic foods … and to cry at parades.

Thanks, Dad. And Happy Birthday.

I must make a confession. (I’d call it a public confession, but who am I kidding. Both of you reading this do not a ‘public’ make.)

For a split second — sometimes longer — when I hear of the successes of my writer peeps, I’m jealous of 99.3% of them. (The rest I simply don’t like so I don’t care about their news. Don’t judge me.)

This ugliness doesn’t last too long before I shoot them … a note — c’mon, I’m not a monster! — congratulating them on their achievement. But I can’t deny the ugliness was there, however briefly.

Recently I stared my green-eyed monster square in its slack-jawed face and tried to figure out why my emotional knee jerks in such a manner. I came up with some reasons.

1. Guilt. I’m not working as hard as I should to finish the manuscript/market/step out of my comfort zone/get better at my craft/blah, blah, blah. And they are. And hard work wins out every single time. And I’m a lazy slacker doo-doo head.

2. The unshakable belief that I’m a better writer than they are and yet — poor, pitiful me — nobody quite sees my incredible talent.

3. Or, equally appalling, the humbling idea that I’ll never be as good as they are and giving up is my only possible option.

4. I’m a terrible, terrible person.

No, I don’t really think I’m terrible. I guess I’m just human. But I do have moments of lazy slacker doo-doo head-ness. After all, I wouldn’t want anyone to be jealous of me.

What about you? Do you have pangs of jealousy? Have you figured out why?

I haven’t really thought much about it — except on the rare occasion my doorbell rings and freaks me out — until I got a subpoena to appear as a witness at a Motions Hearing.

It was set for last week, so I re-read my blog to refresh my memory, cleared my calendar and ransacked my closet for some big-girl clothes. I was good to go.

I took every wrong turn possible, but eventually found the right parking lot at the Justice Center. I made polite small talk with the security guards even when they had to send me through the full-body scanner twice. Once because of the forgotten pedometer in my pocket; the second for the hidden buckle on my blouse.

They shooed me off to the DAs office where I checked in and waited with a guy who turned out to be another witness on the same case.

Finally, just as I powered up my Kindle, the advocate for the DAs office sequestered us in a large room with comfortable couches. But it wasn’t to wait for the hearing. Instead, she explained that the defendant (or ‘perp,’ as I like to call him because I watched Hill Street Blues) had a warrant out for his arrest because he’d apparently been criming in other ‘hoods too. He had turned himself in the night before so everything came to a screeching halt while all the different jurisdictions share their info and decide how to proceed.

We chatted for a few minutes, she answered our questions and then left us by saying, “This will be a long process.”

Frankly, I was disappointed not to have the hearing as this entire process has been fascinating and enlightening. But at least now I know how to get to the Justice Center. And which blouse to leave at home.

Have you ever been involved in the criminal justice system? Did you find it fascinating and enlightening? Have you ever served on a jury? I’m also disappointed that the only time I’ve ever been called for jury duty was when I was out of the country.

I know you think the collective noun for birds is “flock” but the operative word in that sentence was “gazillion.” A gazillion of anything is a herd, regardless of genus or species.

But back to my question. Why? Why now? Why my yard? Why so many? Why one sparrow?

On nature shows I’ve seen cooperative fishing expeditions by certain types of fish. (I can’t tell you what kind of fish, however, because I’m 50 and I refuse to remember any more facts. There was a time when I tried to remember facts, naively certain such a skill would come in handy at parties. It never did, so my new conversational skill is “making things up.”)

I’ve also seen how a pride of lions can work together chasing down one gazelle at the food court whom they then tease mercilessly about her skinny legs and unibrow until she hollers “Uncle!” (I think that’s how it happened. See note about fact refusal above.)

But these birds are selfish. They don’t share their worm bounty with their winged brethren. So I’m wondering about their great numbers and motivation.

Bird One: Hey Louie … you gonna add that worm to our stew?

Louie: Nah.

Bird One: Why not? You making a potion to kill all the cats around here?

Louie: Nah.

Bird One: Then what are you doing with your worms?

Louie: Just messin’ with that buttinski lady drinking margaritas on her deck.

Of course, the most Hitchcockian thing about it is when, for no discernible reason, they all fly away at once sounding like a  rest stop hand dryer with loose bolts.

Oh, I know. Bird flash mob. And me without my videocamera.

What are the other possibilities?

UPDATE: They’re actually Grackles. They’re quite shimmery and lovely but they make an annoying noise … much like their name.

My mom told her sewing story …

In 1941, when I was in the 5th grade in a small town in Central Illinois, my mother showed me how to use the Singer treadle machine. I learned how to sew and miss my fingers while concentrating on the treadle action. The next summer, I was enrolled in a 4-H club. We all made dresses to enter in the Champaign County Fair. My dress was a lovely blue with pink flowers. The dress buttoned down the front to the waist. There was a scalloped front where the buttonholes were. It was hard to do and my mother was sort of particular that it be done right. I remember having to rip and redo the scalloped edges, as they had to be turned correctly to make a pretty edge. When we were satisfied that I had done my best, it was entered in the competition. I remember getting a ribbon and having a really good time at the fair. I loved that dress and for the next Christmas I received a pair of knee sox in the same color as the flowers on the dress.

My dad gave Mom a new electric Singer and I learned how to use that. It was much easier than the treadle. On St. Patrick’s Day, 1942 at our Catholic School, we were told to wear something green. I had nothing green, but on the shelves that held all the jars of canned food preserved from our Victory Garden, hung a green and white gingham drape. Mom took that off the shelves and made it into a gathered skirt for the next day. I was so proud of it! Almost like Scarlet O’Hara in Gone With The Wind.

My parents moved the family to Colorado at the end of the war. They sold all their household goods, taking only the things they really wanted to keep. The new electric sewing machine was at the top of the list to make the journey, above family and clothes. I entered St. Mary’s High School as a freshman and had to re-learn how to use the treadle machines in the sewing class. I didn’t do so well.

When my five daughters were old enough, I taught them to love sewing too. I still do a bit of sewing for donations to various organizations. My mother would be so happy to know she was represented on-line.

My sister told hers …

Just this morning I found a photo from 1977. In that photo I’m wearing a new Easter outfit that I made for myself on my new Singer sewing machine. I sewed occasionally when I was growing up, but could never do as well as my mother did. I can’t count the number of outfits she made for me and my sisters. She made my wedding dress and 3 bridesmaids’ dresses.

When my daughter was born, I began making clothes for her. I learned smocking, buttonholes, and how to make pockets. It was such fun, I graduated to making clothes for me: wrap skirts, peasant tops, summer shifts, house robes. When my daughter was 4, she was a flower girl in my sister’s wedding and I made her an ivory eyelet dress and blue eyelet pinafore. (By the way, my sister made her own wedding dress for the event as well.) A few years later my daughter and I joined a living history association that needed authentic 1830-50 period clothing. At that time my son was 18 months old, so I had a lot of help making her prairie dress, apron and bonnet. I think I sewed every seam of that dress (including pockets) at least twice with his help.

My trusty Singer is still chugging along, used now mostly for making stuffed toys and quilted items. Since I only have grandsons, I don’t have any girls to sew for. I wouldn’t trade my machine in for anything. It’s sturdy, solid and does everything I want it to. If I were to win a new machine, it would go to my mother. She still loves to learn new things at age 80 and maybe I’ll get another new outfit from her!

And I told mine …

I stole my mother’s sewing machine. I didn’t mean to and I’m very sorry. But it’s her own fault. When I was a kid she was always busy with her hands — sewing, knitting, crocheting. She could do the most amazing things and made them all look easy. Like daVinci doing a paint-by-number. Blindfolded. I wanted to learn to sew too, so she taught me. With lots of practice, I learned how to do all the basics. But I can’t remember how many times I had to learn the right-sides-together lesson. My seam ripper was my constant companion. And I never quite learned how to match my stripes and plaids very well. I am proud to say, though, that I only had to learn once about running over my finger with the needle.

It’s funny that my mom told the story of her mom coming to the rescue on St Patrick’s Day, because my mom did the same thing for me. The day before the wearin’ o’ the green, I was dismayed to find nothing green in my closet. When I got home from school, there was a green dress laying on my bed. I wore it for one of my school pictures — maybe 4th grade.

I made most of my own clothes all through high school, maybe because my mom made it seem so easy. I’m still grateful I knew how to sew so I could work in fabric stores rather than come home stinking of burger-and-fry grease from a fast food job.

When my daughter was little, I’d create tops and skirts for her from my husband’s shirts. He’d get some grease on his sleeve and I’d whisk it away to my sewing room. I lost track of how many times he’d marvel at the coincidence saying, “I used to have a shirt with that same fabric!”

Alas, I never taught my daughter to sew and if I won a sewing machine, I’d rectify that for her.

I should give it to my mom, however, seeing that I swiped hers. Maybe I should explain that I’m not really a thief. I was noodling over a purse-making project a couple of years ago and asked my mom if I could borrow her machine, since mine had long ago gone to Machine Heaven. (I should add here it was not a Singer!) She kindly allowed me to take hers, since I explained it would only be “for a little while.” What I didn’t explain was my definition of “a little while.” I still have her machine. But don’t feel sorry for her for having such a bandit for a daughter. Okay, feel a little bit sorry for her. Rest assured, however, she was only without a sewing machine very briefly because her husband surprised her with a new one not too long after I stole, er, borrowed hers.

The remarkable thing about Mom teaching me to sew — and why I enjoyed it so much — is that she never yelled. She’s quite zen like that. I am not, which might explain why my daughter does not know how to sew. But I bet I could learn one more thing from my mom.

Do YOU have a sewing story? Have you ever been happy to get a pair of knee socks for Christmas? Should my sister be thwacked with soggy noodles for not sewing for her grandsons?