Give me a gold star

Like the Velveteen Rabbit, at last I am real

I paid a visit to the DEE EM VEE last week.

It was time for my driver's license to be renewed.

The last time I showed up in person for that was more than fifteen years ago.

In the interim, I had renewed it by mail.

Ergo, my picture was fifteen years old.

Anyway, I had anxiety about going there and I kept putting it off.

In the end I decided that I wanted my license to have been issued on 02/22/2022.

Because that's cool.

And I'll have to renew it yet again on 02/22/2030, if God gives me that many more years.

I will say that at that time, I will not be able to read the third line of numbers.

I could barely read it this time! Although I have zero problems with seeing to drive during the day.

And unless it is unavoidable (unlikely and ever so rarely), I no longer drive at night.

I'm not sure if you've heard, but a regular driver's license is soon to be deemed not good enough if you wish to avail yourself of certain commonly engaged-in activities. 

Says our government -- who we KNOW are only here to help. Pardon me while I smirk.

As in, according to the Department of Homeland Security's web site: On May 3, 2023, U.S. travelers must be REAL EYE DEE compliant to board domestic flights and access certain federal facilities.

(So does that mean that the form of identification you have been using since you were first licensed to drive, which was perfectly acceptable wherever such cards were required to be produced, was not in fact real?)

(And does anyone besides me think that this new requirement constitutes egregious quasi-totalitarian overreach? Anyone? Bueller?)

I am endorsed by Governor Henry McMaster

At any rate, if you aspire to be Tiffany Takeoff or Aaron Plane after the designated date, using DHS's interactive tool, you can find out if you'll be REAL EYE DEE Ready.

Oh, I was REAL EYE DEE Ready all right, thanks to having downloaded the South Carolina Department of Motor Vehicles form that told me everything I would need to take with me. Plus, TG helped me figure out what it said.

It was a happy thing that, in addition to my existing driver's license, I was able to put my hands on my birth certificate, my marriage license, my Voter Registration card, my Social Security card, recent mail from the SSA corroborating my current address, a baby picture, my newborn footprint, my first grade report card, my baptism certificate, my church membership letter, my library card, my high school yearbook, my college diploma, my Johnny Depp Fan Club card, my AAA Plus card, my Kroger Plus card, my CVS ExtraCare card, my TJ Maxx credit card, my hip replacement X-ray card, my lucky rabbit's foot, my Professional Pirate Particulars card, et cetera.

Because I was carded needed all of those things, plus twenty-five dollars.

(Don't forget to remember at this point that I am given to hyperbole solely for the purpose of stringing you along keeping things interesting.)

(However, I do admit to more than a modicum of curiosity as I collected all of these various forms of proving who I am, as to how certain folks circulating in our society -- you know, the ones against whom we are committing an unspeakable crime of disinclusivity by expecting them to identify themselves and confirm their residence when they show up at the voting booth -- WILL come up with what they need to get a REAL EYE DEE by May 3, 2023.)

(I mean, for example, isn't that R A C I S T? And what if your birth certificate is in a language that no one at the DEE EM VEE can read? What then? Will it be Green Card or Temporary- or Work-Visa time, which forms of ID will suffice in lieu of all the forms of ID and proof of name and place of birth and residence that we mere American citizens must produce? And what if you have neither/none of those, because you're here illegally? Maybe a piece of mail containing your Section Eight address, together with your EE BEE TEE and SNAP cards, will do the trick?)

I guess the answers of those burning questions are written in some book somewhere, but swine will do swan dives before you and I are allowed to peruse its pages.

But if I correctly interpret the information available to me, such people wlll not be able to board an airplane or enter a federal building or gain access to a United States military installation without the REAL EYE DEE.

So they'd better get cracking, if they want to avoid long lines.

At any rate, TG and I are covered. He got his gold star REAL EYE DEE two years ago.

When I showed up at the DEE EM VEE, the level of parking lot population showed that it was only medium crowded.

I first had to go to a window where I was given a number and some papers, and asked to reveal why I was there. Behind the glass was an unsmiling person of the male persuasion, perhaps thirty years of age.

When the words REAL EYE DEE came out of my mouth, the jaded young man sat back wearily and said: Do you have your birth certificate?

Aww bless his heart, I thought. He hears no a lot.

Issued on 02/22/2022

Yes, I responded. I did not say, I'm one of the sharper ones. I did however reiterate: I have everything you could possibly want or need, and then some. Do you want to see it?

No, he said. Next!

Then I was directed to grab a clipboard and sit down and fill out the papers.

It wasn't long before my number was called: Now serving number C327. Please report to Window Number Thirteen.

The lady at Window Number Thirteen was neither frosty nor warm; she was just as polite (loose interpretation of that word) as she was required to be, and not one iota of a degree more inviting.

(However, I'll love her forever because she let me read that third line of numbers several times, until I got them right.)

And then I paid my money and collected my boxful of irreplaceable personal memorabilia, then lugged it over to another area where they call you up so that they can take your picture.

I wasn't seated four minutes before I heard Jenny the PIRAAAATE!

Just kidding. What I heard was WEBER!!!

I jumped up and went to the counter. This lady's middle name was congenial. Hi sweetheart! she chirped. Consulting her screen, she opined that my birthdate had to be a mistake, but I assured her that I really was born on March the seventh.

We chatted about this and that, and she took three pictures of me before she liked one and pronounced it cute. You can't even tell I'm blind.

I do not recall why this subject came up, but I told her that I had not had been stopped for a traffic violation since --

Well. I was loath to say when it had last been, lest I jinx it, so I just said, Let's put it this way: it was not in this century.

Way to go, the super-nice DEE EM VEE picture-taker affirmed. And you're smart not to say any more than that.

We had an accord. And then, Bob's your uncle, I had my REAL EYE DEE.

Good to go, as it were.

So I did, and as I drove away I was thanking God profusely for how easy it had all been, and for the fact that I had my REAL EYE DEE in time to brandish it at the gate of Vance Air Force Base the following week, and that the onerous chore was behind me.

I won't be needing this to board a domestic flight ... I don't fly

Then, as I was taking a slight right branch-off type turn, an SUV coming towards me was frantically flashing its brights.

Whaaaaaa? I thought, and then I saw it: a police car sitting fifty yards (and closing) ahead on the shoulder, facing me.

I was not speeding in the least but you'd better believe I checked to make sure, because I had just ten minutes before bragged about not having been stopped since the latter part of the twentieth century.

And as much as I would have liked to wave my brand spanking new REAL EYE DEE under the officer's nose, I was glad to defer that experience to another day.

It was a moot point: the police car didn't budge and I steered the Cadillac to our new Hobby Lobby and then on back to the house, hitting nothing and thanking my lucky gold stars every inch of the way.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Monday :: Happy March

Two Twenty-Two Twenty-Two

Little Andrew is not so little any more ... pictured here with his mother

Our little Andrew turns ten today.

Five twos equals ten.

He was born on Two Twenty-Two Two Thousand Twelve at Two THIRTEEN in the afternoon. I was there.

(It was a Wednesday, though, and not an alliterative Tuesday like today.)

I asked Dr. F: Couldn't you fudge that time of birth one minute, so that he's born on Two Twenty-Two Twelve at Two Twelve?

She just looked at me with a blank expression.

I mean, I continued, surely somewhere on this property, in this city, in this state, some clock -- many clocks -- said two twelve at the moment my grandson emerged from his mother's womb?

Dr. F was a dour, humorless sort. Not given to much smiling. I'd never taken to her, and with the evidence available to us, we can safely assume that the feeling was mutual.

(She delivered Allissa too, four years earlier, and rebuked me like I was an unruly four-year-old for hustling down the hallway towards Stephanie's room because I'd traveled from Columbia that morning and was in the parking lot when Joel called me to say that Allissa had arrived and that everything was fine.)

(If she'd been there on the day four years before that, in a Pennsylvania hospital in the afternoon of the shortest day, when our Melanie was born not breathing, she may have changed her tune. But I doubt it.)

No, she said.

Spoilsport.

To come all that way and miss it by one teensy digit! But I always -- always -- tell myself that our little Andrew, beautiful precious boy, was born in Hickory, North Carolina, on Two Twenty-Two Twelve at Two Twelve in the afternoon.

Take that, Doctor Sourpuss von Killjoy.

At any rate, last Friday night we all converged on the Cracker Barrel in Fort Mill, South Carolina, and had a wonderful time together celebrating TG's and my eldest grandson's tenth birthday.

The manager was cooperative enough to join several tables for us so that we could sit together.

I have no pictures like this of me with either of my grandmothers, on any birthday

(We were twelve in number.)

(Missing Andrew and Brittany and Ember, of course.)

We were served by the most charming server any of us can ever remember having, anywhere.

Her name was Essie, and by the time we left, she knew all the children's names (being especially attentive to Melanie, who had a mini-meltdown at one point) and had dubbed TG and me the King and Queen, and could not say enough about how beautiful my daughters are, and how much they resemble both one another and me.

After supper, we had cake and presents.

(This was not Andrew's official birthday cake; he will have that today, with his family.)

But Stephanie had again bought the light-up crystal-look numbers, and the one and the zero sparkled atop the round one-layer Oreo cake that he'd requested.

Andrew was given birthday gifts appropriate for a ten-year-old boy: a magnetic dart board, a super-duper bicycle tire pump, a remote control car, et cetera.

His smile is always genuine, and he made eye contact and said thank you politely to each relative upon opening each present and reading each card.

In addition to his gift, TG and I stuffed his card with a ten spot.

What a treasure that boy is! Like his father and grandfather before him, he's becoming good at basketball too, I am told.

When the party was over, I was in the general store part of the restaurant, looking for a gift to take to Ember (who is currently obsessed with horses) when I see her next week.

Someone in our party alerted me that Essie wanted to personally bid me goodbye.

I went back to the dining room and found her, and we embraced and I told her how much we appreciated the way she took care of our group. I told her it was rare, because her sort of caring, in that setting, actually is.

I love the Lord and I love people, she told me. But she didn't have to tell me; it was obvious. What she had told me was that she has two sons who are USAF airmen. We had lots in common.

She was so kind and warm. A true servant. It touched my heart. May we all be that way, all day every day.

(FYI -- R A C I S M is a made-up trope, from which bad people benefit. For NOW.)

Baby Rhett will turn ten in nine years and five months

As for today, I bet our little Andrew took cupcakes to school for his class.

I can almost see his big brown eyes shining. And later he will celebrate again with his parents and his sisters.

I'll send him a text this afternoon -- the kind with the confetti.

It will say: Happy Birthday, little Andrew!

And that is all for now.

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Happy Tuesday Two Twenty-Two Twenty-Two

Playing Favorites :: The Flight Channel

Can't scare me, Daddy! Photo courtesy Brittany Weber.

Low, I am with you always ...

Hahaha ... the pirate is being neither sacreligious nor blasphemous.

I am aware that the second half of Matthew 28:20 goes thusly: ... and, lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world. Amen.

(The word lo in this case being an interjection, meant to call attention to what the Lord was saying.)

But since I don't fly, I like low, I am with you always.

It's a pirate play on parlance, as it were.

What on earth is she on about today, you may be thinking for the zillionth time.

Simmer down a mite and I'll tell you. Mercy.

You probably already know that Andrew's graduation from pilot training is imminent.

We've made our travel plans and are all but packed.

He'll be getting his wings before going on to the next phase of training, and I will be there to faithfully record all events relative to that auspicious occasion.

We'll be driving to Vance Air Force Base in Northwestern Oklahoma.

That's a long way; why don't you just fly? you would be justified in asking yourself at this juncture, if you are still here.

Because plane crashes.

Don't you know you're tens of thousands of times safer on a plane than in a car, you goose? you may now be sort of yelling at me.

Yeah yeah. Nope. We'll be driving.

At this point I should tell you that I have a consuming passion for aviation.

I love airplanes. I love to see them and watch them and talk about them.

I just don't want to go anywhere near one as a passenger. The last time I flew was in 2007, when we traveled to San Antonio to see Andrew graduate from Basic Military Training.

Nothing bad happened; I am still in one piece. But after that trip I said: Never again. And I meant it.

But more specifically even than with aircraft in general, I am obsessed with plane crashes.

Here's where we get to the heart of the matter.

Some of you know that my father, a retired USAF fighter pilot, perished in a plane crash near Burbank, California, on Friday, September 13, 1968.

He was thirty-seven years old.

I don't say that that seminal event in my life is the reason I am obsessed with plane crashes, but I'm pretty sure it has something to do with it.

Then there is my son, who is a pilot, which terrifies me but which I have to give to God daily.

He is following his dream, and I am all for that. He is more than aware of the dangers.

Mom, the history of aviation is written in blood, he often reminds me.

Last Christmas when Andrew and Brittany and Ember came to stay a few days with us, we talked a lot about aviation in general and about air disasters in particular.

I wanted to show Andrew something on YouTube relative to that subject, and that's when I found The Flight Channel.

So intrigued and riveted was I by the content of this channel that, on New Years Day, after all of our company had left, I watched probably a dozen or more of these videos.

In fact I watched so many that I became literally depressed and had to stop watching them. I was thinking about the victims of plane crashes in my sleep.

Since then I still watch the channel, but I limit myself to a few of these videos at a time.

They are so well done that they are addictive.

Many feature actual cockpit audio and real footage and photography from crashes.

If you are afraid of flying but are obliged to fly anyway, I would not watch these. Just saying.

But if like me you are enamored of aviation and riveted by true accounts of air disasters -- I realize that sounds ghoulish but I'm really not; I'm simply curious -- you will probably love this channel.

What continually amazes TG and me -- Audrey likes these videos too; we are constantly sending one another links -- is how many people have had to die because flight and maintenance crews are careless and/or arrogant and/or ignorant and/or lazy and/or just don't know what they are doing.

Sorry, but it's the truth.

And then there are the crashes that are the result of simple human error, and of things out of anyone's control.

Any way you slice it, it's heartbreaking.

(There are videos with happy endings, too. I am always elated when that happens.)

Below I give you a taste. But beware! You may become hooked. Proceed to the runway, but do so with caution.

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Happy Weekend :: Happy Flying

Valentimes

TG and I exchanged valentines

Kids almost always say Valentime's Day, just like they almost always say liberry instead of library.

Our Andrew, when he was little, said glugs instead of gloves, and to this day we call them glugs.

You don't often need your glugs in Febyouary in South Carolina; it has been pleasant and, later this week, will be downright springlike, with daytime highs near eighty.

At any rate, we had our share of good times relative to the classic month-two holiday.

Special treats for special little women

Last Saturday, Erica threw a Valentine party for Dagny and three of her friends.

I call them the redheads, but their names are Aliyah, Abigail, and Skyler.

They are neighbors of Audrey's and Dagny's, and Audrey frequently brings one or all of them to church.

I was not present at Erica's party but she sent me pictures and wasn't it cute?

She is all kinds of a clever clogs, and an attentive hostess.

There was a Valentine tree in the corner

I imagine Baby Rhett got lots of attention at the festive gathering too, as the little girls all dote on him.

We didn't see much of Chad and Erica and Baby Rhett except for Sunday morning at church, because there was a death in Chad's family and on Sunday afternoon they traveled to Alabama for the funeral.

They got home last night.

On Sunday afternoon I made (for the second time in one week) a new recipe.

They are irresistibly tender, with a subtle crunch

It's ideal for those eating low-carb, but so delicious that those eating high-carb will not know the difference.

You take a number of chicken tenderloins -- let's say eight to twelve, depending on how many you're feeding -- and put them in a bowl. Douse them liberally with olive oil.

Set your oven to four hundred.

In another bowl, mix six to eight tablespoons of coconut flour with as much parmesan cheese (the Kraft green-top shaker variety is fine) as you wish (I use more rather than less), and your seasonings. 

TG and I took a selfie while waiting for Audrey and Dagny

(I recommend creole seasoning plus kosher salt and coarse-ground black pepper, but you do you.)

Fix up a large foil-lined baking sheet with a cooling rack on top.

Dredge the olive-oil-coated chicken pieces in the breading and place the pieces on the cooling rack.

Bake for about one hour, turning the chicken over at the half-hour mark.

You will not regret doing any of this because the result is pretty spectacular given how little effort goes into it.

Audrey was wondering where in Dagny's room the baboon would fit

Serve the tenderloins with dipping sauces. Since those tend to be packed with sugar and therefore high in carbs, I make a zero-carb dipping sauce.

It's got three ingredients: Duke's mayonnaise, red wine vinegar, and Splenda. Just eyeball the amounts.

The result is smooth, creamy, tangy, and sweet. It's a good match for the chicken tenderloins.

Let me know if you try it.

Meanwhile Ember received a stuffed horse. Photo courtesy Brittany Weber.

On Monday, TG and I decided to treat Audrey and Dagny to an early Valentine's Day dinner.

Early in the day, that is.

We met at the restaurant at about four thirty and had a pleasant time together.

Before I go, I want to tell you about what happened on Sunday evening, after services at our church.

There was a table set up in the front, over to the side, laden with small heart-shaped boxes of chocolates.

Erica's table was festive and welcoming

Other treats were on display too.

At the end of the service, our pastor announced that each child was to receive one of the heart-shaped boxes, and teenagers and young adults were to take the other treats.

There was also a raffle of sorts, but not the kind that involves money. That would be gambling.

Tickets were on the candy table, and kids of all ages were advised to take one. On each ticket was a number.

Bethany and Dagny

Sitting in a chair on the platform was a giant stuffed monkey. The pastor called him a baboon.

He (the stuffed monkey/baboon, not our pastor) wore a hoodie emblazoned with the sentiment WILD ABOUT YOU.

The giant toy came with an equally giant Valentine card.

Pastor said that shortly after the service, when all who were eligible had had an opportunity to claim both their Valentine candy and their numbered ticket, he would choose a number from a can and read it aloud.

Alexis and Dagny

If the number he read aloud matched the number on your ticket, you won the baboon.

Since Pastor had invited senior citizens to also get a ticket and try for the toy, I went up and got one for TG.

(I am not yet a senior citizen, but he is.)

Dagny picked up her candy and her ticket, and we went back to stand around near where we sit, to wait.

Paying attention to the little things shows that you care

It wasn't long before Pastor read out the number, and one of the teenaged girls in our youth group won the baboon.

We all applauded because Bethany is a true sweetheart, loved by all.

But what did she do? She took the baboon and the giant Valentine from the pastor, turned around, and came back to where we were standing.

Then she gave the baboon and the card to Dagny.

The small things won't always be small

There were a few wet eyes round about, as it was a beautiful gesture, and Dagny was so touched and thrilled.

I took a picture of her with Bethany, who insisted that she would rather Dagny have the prize, than keep it for herself.

There is another young lady in our church to whom Dagny has become attached. Her name is Alexis.

Every Sunday evening service, during the time just before the sermon when we sing the first verse of Amazing Grace and greet one another and shake hands or hug, Dagny leaves her mother's pew and goes to sit on the other side of the auditorium, with Alexis.

Make someone happy and you will be happy too

Since Alexis is a prime example of a Christian young lady, we are grateful that Dagny looks up to her.

Influence is nothing to be taken lightly.

So when Alexis came to hug Dagny and congratulate her, I took their picture too.

I read an interesting quote some years ago. It went something like, be the sort of woman that you needed as a girl.

That's solid.

Dagny said she was sure the baboon's hoodie would fit her

I'm happy to say that, like Bethany and Alexis, my daughters and my daughter-in-law are quick to reach out to girls, and are ready and eager to help in any way they can.

In the case of all of the young women I've mentioned, their actions, more often than not, go unsung and maybe even unnoticed by most.

But God sees, and those who matter know, and that is enough.

Besides. Much of what is touted as goodness today is not worth noticing, much less celebrating.

Kind words and gestures take an instant but last a lifetime

But a good and giving spirit is cherished and remembered throughout life by those on the receiving end of the kind word or gesture.

I know that my readers are women like these, and most likely their daughters (and sons) are too, and that they know others who actively practice unselfish giving of themselves and their time. 

If you want to brag on them, do so in the comments.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Tuesday

All washed up

The mini chandeliers are called Tadpoles

I don't know what it's like at your house but at ours, a considerable amount of time is likely to elapse between first mention (by me, of course) of a bigger project that needs to be addressed, and the actual addressing of said project.

We're talking years.

So it was with our upstairs "guest" bath.

I put "guest" in quotation marks because this is -- for real, y'all -- the pirate's bath.

Here's why:

Your view from out in the hall at the top of the stairs

There is an en suite bath in the master bedroom, and for many moons I shared that bath with TG because our two youngest children were still at home.

Said bath is roughly the size of sixteen postage stamps.

Seriously! You can barely turn around. You can, however, take a shower and brush your teeth, and even see to your hair. There is a mirror almost as large as the bath itself.

On another level of the house there is also a powder room, approximately the size of eight postage stamps.

We remodeled it a little over a year ago. You can see a few pictures of that by scrolling down to near the bottom of this post from May 2021.

This is for when you step out of the shower

When, a dozen years ago, the last child left home for good, I commandeered the upstairs guest bath as my own.

When compared with the other two, this bath is massive. But it really isn't all that big.

Our house is fifty years old. In 1972, when it was built, most twenty-five-hundred-square-foot, four-bedroom, two-and-a-half-bath houses were not tricked out with bathrooms the size of skating rinks.

All comparisons may indeed be odious but when held up to the other two, the upstairs guest bath is roomy.

Let's say forty-eight postage stamps.

I love the chandelier shadows

By my reckoning, the bath had been updated once since the house was built. I'm estimating, but my instincts tell me that the redo took place at least twenty-five years ago.

They did an okay job, but it was definitely past its sell-by date when I first broached the subject of needing to plan and execute a renovation.

Well. Bygones. It's done now, and it was done correctly.

What we did was, we ("we" in this case meaning our mostly retired contractor friend, Michael) ripped everything out except the tub/shower combination. It's in good shape and we elected to keep it.

With new and improved accoutrements, of course.

I hope you like the number four

But the old commode and old vanity went, and of course the old floor, and the mirror and lighting and door fixtures and other various appointments.

You may find it odd (I do) but there is no towel bar in this bath. Never has been.

There really is not room for one.

I know; it's weird. We have learned to adapt. Since I alone use this bath unless there is company (in which case I move back in with TG, temporarily), I arrange my damp towel over the shower curtain bar (curtain drawn to one side).

When it's dry, I move the towel to a handy hook on the back of one of the doors.

I think my giant four is rather edgy

I'm not sure what company do; when they've left, the soggy towels are usually on the floor.

Anyway, it's not a problem for me so it shouldn't be for you. Go ahead and schedule your visit.

Oh by the way, you may have noticed also that there is no storage for towels in the bath.

Can't get anything past you.

That's because there isn't, except for two closets full of shelves outside the door next to the vanity. But they are occupied by other stuff I need on hand, and there is no room for towels.

My vanity's soft-close drawers are roomy and versatile

So the towels are nestled in an attractive stacking-basket arrangement at the foot of the guest bed. Just grab your towel and enjoy your bath because breakfast is almost ready.

At any rate, once the bath had been semi-gutted, our contractor friend found that whoever installed our flooring long ago, did not have the vaguest idea what he was doing.

Imagine that.

The floor was squeaky and wheezy in certain areas.

But Michael fixed it, and now it is as solid as the Rock of Gibraltar and will probably last longer. You could do a square dance on that thing and no one downstairs would suspect a thing. Nary a wheeze nor a whine.

This be the pirate's under-sink power bar

He then installed the porcelain tile I'd picked out at Floor & Decor, a new store in Columbia.

Our new vanity turned out to be our favorite thing of anything we bought for the bath renovation.

Do you see the price, when you click on the above link to Kitchen & Bath Authority? That's not what we paid; we paid several hundred dollars less.

The vanity was significantly cheaper to begin with when we bought it in November, and then there were a few flaws, and I negotiated a two-hundred-plus dollar refund.

Everybody ended up happy, and I truly love my new vanity. It has a power bar inside the doors, and those doors plus the drawers are the soft-close kind.

There's a second nubbly rug as you're going out to the guest room

We chose a chrome faucet fixture, because word on the street is that oil-rubbed bronze is out and chrome is in.

My accessories are either wrought iron or black metal: toilet roll holder, towel ring, trash can (it's gone up in price by thirty percent), and tissue box cover.

Wanting a simple but elegant and maybe even slightly whimsical shower curtain, I searched online for many hours before being inspired by one with plain color block on the top and a froth of white tulle on the bottom.

I found the shower curtain on Wayfair, bought it, and subsequently found it on Amazon for less than half the price. Feeling dumb, I returned the severely overpriced one and bought the Amazon one for several dollars less than it's listed for now.

(They're identical and in the pirate's opinion, pay less so you can have more than one shower curtain, and switch them out for a fresh look.)

Pick a towel ... any towel

(My shower curtain -- there are more colors -- is also available at Kohl's, Target, and Bed, Bath and Beyond. The best price is on Amazon.)

I replaced my old oil-rubbed bronze shower curtain rod with this one and chose these hooks.

The nubbly bath mats feel like a mini-massage under your feet.

Our forty-eight-inch round mirror with simple black rim was purchased on Amazon. It also cost significantly less in November, when I bought it, than it is now.

For our new pendant lights (the old bath had pendants too), I wanted little chandeliers.

There are two closets outside the bath, both full of stuff I use every day

I found them at Amazon too, but when you click, please know that the price listed now is truly a mystery to me.

We paid fifty-two dollars each for our chandeliers. I would not have paid nearly three times that. These chandeliers are really cute but not one-hundred-forty-dollars cute.

It's crazy.

All I will say about our new commode is that I think it's adorable.

My wall art came from Retro Planet, where I've shopped before and had my eye on the big numbers for quite some time.

When it comes to mirrors, go big or go home

I was looking for a large metal portrait-oriented sign that would both be a scene I liked and incorporate the aqua color on the walls, but found nothing.

Four is my favorite number and, being much enamored of the weathered look of this sign, I pulled the trigger.

I love it. To me it sets just the right tone. And in case you want a big number metal sign like mine, please be advised that the price has not gone up.

We haven't done anything with the window yet; I want a white plantation shutter and haven't got around to looking into how to make that happen.

(We have them in the kitchen but a lot has changed since we ordered those and had them installed in April of 2020. Such things can be much harder to get now.)

Chrome faucets sit at the cool kids' table

So that leaves the paint color.

I didn't get it right.

What I wanted was a color so pale that it only suggested aqua.

And based on the swatches I saw, I thought I had found it in Sherwin Williams Crystal Clear.

But no.

This curtain was inexpensive so I can change it when the notion strikes me

When TG put some of it on two of the walls so that I could observe it both in the daytime and at night, it looked pretty close.

I was really torn because I knew it was darker than the breath-of-aqua I wanted.

(In clicking on the link you may be saying, well that looks to me just like what's on her walls, but trust me: I thought it would be significantly lighter than it is).

We even considered having the paint cut by fifty percent with white (and I wish that's what we'd done), but in the end we decided against it.

Even though it's not strictly what I was after, I do like the liveliness of the color and have decided to be happy with it.

It has been fun having a pretty bath all to me onesie

TG also painted all of the doors black and we added these Schlage Alexandria crystal door knobs from Lowe's.

The knobs ended up being the final touches, as it were.

Now that I've finally come clean about the bath, tell me what you think.

Don't soft-soap anything; it won't wash.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Friday Night :: Happy Weekend