Snow on bark. Photo Jennifer Weber 2009

If you lived east of the Mississippi in the United States of America, you were battening down the hatches in preparation for the storm of the century.

Or, as it has come to be known, The Superstorm.

On Friday, March 12, 1993, we lived in Knoxville, Tennessee. I worked at a law firm downtown, and it was mid-afternoon before I heard someone in the office mention that we were due for "some snow."

I'm sure I laughed it off. Having lived in Northwest Indiana for 17 years, I knew from snow. If you get my drift.

*beatific smile*

(When we moved to East Tennessee in 1991, folks there were quick to tell us that they saw a lot of snow each winter. Suuuuuuuure, we said. Keep tellin' yourself that, darlin'.)

For five days at least, nobody went anywhere.

I recall glancing outside late in the afternoon. Ominous clouds were indeed approaching. If I'd had a little dog named Toto, I would've tucked him into his basket right about then.

By the time I was on the interstate headed for home shortly after five o'clock, snow had begun flying furiously in a horizontal pattern. The winds were whipping up; hillsides and tree branches were already silvered. 

A few hours later, safe home and the family gathered in, we tuned in to The Storm Team on WATE Channel 6. Chief Meteorologist Matt Hinkin told us Knoxville might get six inches of snow if all the "ingredients came together."

Knoxville and the surrounding areas saw 15 to 30 inches of snow. In southern measurements, that's approximately 12 feet.

The entrance to our neighborhood was long and steeply slanted, as was our own driveway. I don't remember how long the kids were out of school, but I know that for five days at least, nobody went anywhere.

TG and the older girls, dressed in every warm layer they could find, finally walked to the grocery store early the next week.

It was fun. Great memories.

Did you experience the Blizzard of '93? What do you remember?

Queen of Everything. Photo Jennifer Weber 2010It was my birthday last Sunday and you won't believe all the stuff I got.

First let me say, I partied down for five days straight. No lawyers in sight, and nothing to do but have fun spending time with friends and family.

That in itself was a gift.

Jenny's Official Birthday Weekend (JOBW) kicked off on Friday while I was visiting my mom and my sister in Greenville.

They took me to Mimi's Cafe for lunch, where I enjoyed quiche lorraine with a buttermilk-spice muffin and fresh fruit plus a green salad with citrus vinaigrette.

I was given a luxurious bath towel, some seriously cute bedroom slippers, a scholarly book, and a silver picture frame.

Earlier that day, in the spirit of my impending birthday, I had picked out a glamorous necklace and some bangle bracelets. these were "from" TG, who also tirelessly ghost-shopped until I was outfitted with two new spring cardigans, a sequin-and-bead-encrusted top, and a cute flippy skirt.

He likes it when I do his shopping for him because that way he knows I'll like what he got me.

It's what you might call a foolproof system.

Some of my loot. Photo Jennifer Weber 2010

On Saturday I was treated to tea with all the trimmings at The Cracked Teapot and Creamery in Taylorsville, North Carolina, by some special friends. All three of my daughters were there too.

I received a beautiful teapot and a china cup and saucer, plus all the leftover teacakes and cookies I could carry.

That night, back at daughter Stephanie's, I was given three more books and a generous Designer Shoe Warehouse (DSW) gift card.

On Sunday, my actual birthday, two of my daughters attended church with TG and me, and they brought me a beautiful red rose.

Then I was taken to lunch at O'Charley's, where I chowed down on Pecan Chicken Tender Salad with honey mustard dressing.

While there, I received a music CD I had been wanting. 

After lunch, our adorable waitress (who resembled Cameron Diaz) presented me with a (very large) complimentary slice of caramel pie -- smothered with whipped cream and chocolate chips -- in honor of the day I graced the world with my presence.

More roosters than Sunny von Bulow had.

(Yes, I shared. If I hadn't, the amount of sugar in that pie would've sent me into an unfortunate coma … like Sunny von Bulow minus the money.)

I attended a funeral on my birthday too, but that wasn't part of the festivities so I'll omit the details.

On Sunday night TG took Audrey and me to the grocery store for snacks like Triscuit (I wanted cheese and crackers), hot tamales (the candy), good 'n plentys, and giant muffins (for breakfast Monday morning).

That night we watched the Oscars. Don't ask me why; inertia, I suppose. It wasn't part of the festivities either, and was only marginally more interesting than the funeral.

On Monday, after enjoying muffins with our coffee -- wait; did she have one? -- Audrey and I set out mid-morning for Concord, North Carolina, where we visited Concord Mills. I found DSW and spent my gift card, which was burning a hole in my pocket. 

For the record I could've frittered away the entire day in that place, inducing a shoe coma only slightly less dangerous than a sugar coma.

My shoe news. Photo Jennifer Weber 2010

Audrey and I lunched at Cracker Barrel because I had a gift card for there too. I love their Old Timer's Breakfast and it's always what I get. Eggs over medium, hashbrown casserole, grits, sausage patties, biscuits, sawmill gravy, apple butter, and plenty of fresh, hot coffee.

After more shopping and hanging out at Concord Mills, it was time for Audrey and me to hit the road in separate directions. I arrived safely in Columbia at around 6:30 p.m. and saw Andrew, who was home for a few days, for the first time since the New Year holiday.

On Tuesday, before he went back to college, Andrew gave me two roosters made to "shelf-sit" … they have stuffed cloth legs that dangle down between their resin bodies and resin feet. 

Since Andrew had brought home a college friend, name of Sam, I am tentatively calling the roosters Andrew and Sam. They adorn my baker's rack in a kitchen chockablock with roosters, including another shelf-sitter (this one with jointed resin legs that swing to and fro) named Johnny.

Probably more roosters than Sunny von Bulow had. And that makes me richer than her.

I also got ten paper cards.

Later on Tuesday, my gift from Audrey arrived on the doorstep: A tube of Chanel Rouge Allure lipstick in my favorite color, hard-to-find number 16, Chic. For a long time it wasn't available, so we had a joyous reunion. 

I love that lipstick. 

Plus, tucked into the box were samples of Chanel Inimitable mascara and Allure Sensuelle perfume. Not bad.

So, let's sum up the five days of birthday partying.

I was taken out to lunch four days in a row. I got shoes, slippers, four books, a towel, a picture frame, a rose, a teapot, a cup and saucer, two cardigans, a top, a skirt, a necklace, several bracelets, a CD, a lipstick, some Chanel samples, and two roosters.

And that is not all.

My slippers. Photo Jennifer Weber 2010

I do believe that Erica has ordered for me a large rhinestone-encrusted fleur de lis pendant on a 30-inch chain, which shall arrive in a few days.

(She let me pick it out online.)

Two more loved persons have told me that my gifts are late but on their way.

I also got ten paper cards and several birthday emails.

I love my birthday and all those who celebrated it with me, making five days in a row so very enjoyable.

I am at this moment as young as I will ever be, so I will not complain about my age.

And neither should you! 

After all, why should you care how young I am? 

My Clear eyes. Photo Jennifer Weber 2010

Of all the maladies from which I do not suffer, Chronic Dry Eye is one.

I make quite enough of my own tears, thank you.

But I want to all-out sob ... and/or run out of the room ... when this commercial for Restasis comes on the TV.

At first I was merely agog (that's, like, all big-eyed) at the smarminess of this ad. Upon closer scrutiny, I became genuinely creeped out.

Now I watch the ad closely ... but only out of morbid fascination, while remaining fiercely loyal to Clear eyes Maximum Redness Relief.

Not, I imagine, what the drug company was going for when putting together an ad for their fancy eye drops.

First there's Dr. Alison Tendler ... a South Dakota cataract surgeon who was compensated for her contribution to the ad.

Duh.

Dr. Tendler is eerily cute and young looking, with eyes so huge one wonders if they were not widened by the miracle of computer generation.

I don't see any toothpicks, so that must be it.

This person comes across like a backward zombie.

Then the way they arranged her hair, all girl-Doogie-Howserish, all look-Mom-no-tanglesish, is so obvious. Her look screams: "You have nothing to fear from my needles and scalpels and lasers because I'm actually twelve and I can't even spell ophthalmologist."

Then there's the spooky way she talks. Has she been drinking Restasis? Or perhaps a vodka gimlet? Did she perchance ingest a hyperdose of Cata Tonic? She sounds as though she's about to slide out of the screen into a relaxed heap on the floor.

But when she does, her eyes will still be open. Wide, wide open like Teddy Roosevelt's nostrils on that other famously expressionless South Dakotan landmark.

Then there's her "patient" ... who I suspect was also handsomely compensated.

Duh.

Vaguely and unsettlingly androgynous, this person comes across like a backward zombie when she slowly utters the classic line "Prescription ... what do I have?"

(Uhm ... you have DRY EYES, Toots.)

And when Dr. Tendler reveals -- quite suddenly and without warning -- that she too uses Restasis, this woman's hypnotic incredulity is so fake, one wonders if she's, like, really the producer's ambitious girlfriend.

"You use Restasis?" she inquires pseudo-amazedly, as though she's just discovered that Dr. Tendler keeps spare eyeballs in her lab coat pocket.

For snacking.

What ... did she expect Dr. Tendler would cop to a fondness for Visine cocktails with a Murine chaser, while the cameras were rolling?

You should hear what I have to say about many other prescription drug ads on TV. I'll bet I could entertain you for at least as long as it took Dr. Tendler and her "patient" to learn their scintillating lines between mugfuls of mulled Restasis.

Glenn Miller.

My blogging buddy, JT (a/k/a OldController) a stand-up conservative American woman and smart, witty scribe who opines on subjects of local, national, and indeed global importance from her lofty perch down the road from me in Sumter, South Carolina, yesterday posted a YouTube of the remarkable Glenn Miller number I've Got A Gal In Kalamazoo.  

Featuring an over-the-top dance routine by The Nicholas Brothers, this part of the movie Orchestra Wives (1942) is seven-plus minutes of sheer cinematic bliss.

Oh how I wish they still made films like this. Until they do, I'll just keep Turner Classic Movies as my power-on channel.

Unless you count my stunning personality.

So this post is my "answer" to JT's post ... the number her post made me think of: Chattanooga Choo Choo performed by Glenn Miller (class, class, pure class ... and a bona fide American Hero to boot) and his orchestra and Tex Beneke with The Modernaires (who are still performing, by the way ... with newer, younger voices, I imagine) in the 1941 film Sun Valley Serenade. 

How about Milton Berle over there clowning around for a bored Sonja Henie Lynn Bari*? Hilarious.

This clip includes the adorable Dorothy Dandridge and -- yet again! -- the energetic duo of Fayard and Harold Nicholas, tapping to beat the band. Good heavens. I hope they had twin chiropractor brothers on retainer.

Reminds me of when, as a kid, I affixed bottle caps to my shoes (the bottoms) solely (heh heh) for the clickety effect.

And yes ... I performed (on the sidewalk, for no audience except a few bored mosquitoes) with a parasol as my only prop. Unless you count my stunning personality.

As a prop, that is.

Which I'm sure you don't.

Just watch the clip! I'm nowhere to be seen, having been born too late.

Kalamazoo via JT today ... Zuzu via yours truly tomorrow. Or the next day. Either way, you don't want to miss it.

Gobble Gobble. Photo courtesy ButterballWind advisories have been in effect all day today in the Midlands of South Carolina … and with temps in the low 40s, wind chills plummeted to the 30s. 

Although our forecast has included none of the snow plaguing the Mid-Atlantic of late, still, for us this has been a cold couple of days. 

And so tonight as I was driving home from mid-week service at church, imagine my surprise and delight when a white flaky material began swirling around my car.

"SNOW?!?" I exclaimed to myself, peering up at the sky. I consulted my car's digital console, which said it was 38 degrees outside … hardly cold enough for snow, in my experience.

Hmmmmm.

And then I saw it … looming ahead, moving at a much slower speed than I, just trundling along. 

On the plate beside the mashed potatoes.

A great big semi-tractor-trailer load of turkeys.

Hurtling through the cold, windy night, not a Snuggie or a hot toddy to share amongst their considerable number, the turkeys were stuffed at least three abreast (pun intended) in a couple of hundred open wire cages stacked high on the flatbed.

PeTA wouldn't have liked it at all.

And their feathers were being ripped from their poor shivering bodies at such a clip that, behind the truck where I was driving, it appeared for all the world to be snowing.

I exited the Interstate and the turkeys moved on, westbound through the bitter night, being borne no doubt to some processing facility or other.

They'll get even colder before it's over, but the succulent turkey bodies will be warm soon enough. And mighty tasty … as Sarah Palin says, right where they belong: on the plate beside the mashed potatoes.

If you think about it, they don't really need those snowy feathers anymore.

I do believe we'll have turkey for lunch this Sunday … instead of hot dogs.

Mmmmmm!

Picketchard ... Original Recipe. Photo Jennifer Weber 2010

It's not a fence.

It's not a protest.

It's not a lottery game.

No ... no, and it's not a new football player ... or a new play.

Before we go any further, let me state unequivocally, and not for the first (or last) time: I don't do football.

The thought of attending a tailgate party excites me about as much as the prospect of watching "Turbo" Tim Geithner, clad only in Jockey shorts and a wifebeater, cheat on figure out his income tax refund using cut-rate software with Windows 95 on a laptop roughly the size of Janet Napolitano's hin lap.

The idea of listening to the pre-game show, wherein zillionaire former NFL stars wearing $4,000 suits and $800 ties sit around a desk harping on the minutest details of every team, every coach, every player, every play, every contract, every statistic, fills me with the same sense of wonder that envelops me when I pluck mini lint-blankets from the mysterious hole-y landscape that is my clothes dryer's screeny trap.

Her eyes widen. She staggers a little.

The thought of sitting through the actual Super Bowl game interests me about as much as watching a horde of geriatric snails demonstrate their snappy ambulatory technique.

The idea of being forced to witness the halftime show inspires the same kind of dread I experience when contemplating a trip to Wal-Mart at peak traffic time the Saturday before Christmas or Easter.

Like, not at all, y'all.

And again I say: I don't do football.

But I have nothing against fun food, the type of which folks often enjoy on happy, sit-around-with-friends kinds of days like Super Bowl Sunday.

A little buddy of mine at church often teases me about my love of hot dogs. "What are you having for lunch today?" she asks me nearly every Sunday morning as we head for our cars, and home, and lunch.

"Why, hot dogs, of course, Gail," I say with a straight face, even if we're actually having brunch at Harper's or bacon and eggs at Cracker Barrel or barbecued chicken with mashed potatoes, green beans, and cornbread muffins at our own table.

In other words, I lie (sometimes) ... in church ... just to see the expression on Gail's face when I say "hot dogs."

Her mouth falls open. Her eyes widen. She staggers a little. She clutches my arm. "HOT dogs again, on a Sunday, you just had hot dogs last week, I can't believe you like hot dogs so much, why do you like hot dogs so much, what kind of hot dogs do you buy, how do you cook your hot dogs, we don't eat hot dogs all that often ... "

My Little Buddy Gail. Photo Jennifer Weber 2010

She's priceless.

Today, after answering (truthfully) that our lunch menu consisted of hot dogs, baked macaroni 'n cheese casserole, and two kinds of snack chips, and watching my little buddy run through the full gamut of emotions prompted by that astounding revelation, I assured Gail that someday I'd tell her the secret behind why we like hot dogs so much at our house.

What I didn't tell her was, once I tell her, she'll have to enter the witness protection program. She'll have to look over her shoulder for the rest of her life.

"Do you really want that, Gail?" I will ask when I finally decide to reveal the secret. Then I will howl inwardly at the half-amused-half-scared-serious expression which is sure to suffuse her cute little face.

But you? To you I shall reveal all, and let the chips (make mine wavy) fall where they may.

If they fall on the floor, Javier'll snap 'em up. No harm, no foul. Six points.

Serve with hot dogs and wavy chips.

The secret is picketchard.

You take a bowl ... it doesn't even have to be a super bowl. It can be a plain bowl.

You take some mustard and squeeze a bunch of it into the bottom of the bowl, until you're tired of squeezing.

You take some ketchup and you squeeze a bunch of that on top of the mustard ... about twice as much ketchup as mustard is best.

You take some large-dice sweet pickle relish and on top of the mustard and ketchup you plop several heaping tablespoonfuls of the pickles.

Stir well and heat in the microwave for a couple of minutes, until piping hot.

Serve with hot dogs and wavy chips. It's good on both.

Real good.

Picketchard.

And now you know.

On Yer Toes Fer Snow. Photo Jennifer Weber 2009Town officials in Cary, North Carolina, were forced to make the agonizing decision of canceling the community's long-planned Winter Wonderland event last weekend.

The town had arranged to truck in 30 tons of manmade snow so that the kiddies could have fun on their sleddies.

Brian Turner of Raleigh-based Snow My Yard assures that he can "produce" when Mother Nature can't.

"Make any day a snow day!" his Web site urges.

Mr. Turner had contracted with the Town of Cary to "produce" six to ten inches of "snow" to cover a quarter acre of Bond Park.

Six hundred people had already bought tickets. Boots, mittens, hats, scarves, and heavy coats had emerged from the backs of closets, ready to warm the backs -- and fronts and sides -- of people.

A monkey wrench was added to the mix, however, when late in the week there materialized the threat of REAL snow.

Lots of it. 

In Cary, North Carolina, five to seven inches is lots.

Anxiously eyeing the National Weather Service's doppler radar, Bond Park Supervisor Bill Eucker -- now there's a name one must spell very carefully -- was forced to cry "Uncle!" when he realized that if it REALLY snowed -- free-for-nothin', courtesy of God -- he'd have a hard time selling store-bought "snow" carted in on trucks from Raleigh.

"If we get that much [snow], kids can sled anywhere. We can't charge a price if you can get it for free."

Ha ha ha! No kidding.

Final funny? The same event was canceled the previous weekend … because of rain.

Kia Soul. Photo Jennifer Weber 2010Sometimes you just have to say what's on your mind. Or at least part of it. The part you can spare.

For me, this is one of those times.

If you don't like that kind of thing, here's your cue to click out the same way you clicked in. I never promised you a rose garden. Au contraire.

o_O

This is going to sound whiny, but why-oh-why can't folks get the words "breathe" and "breath" straight? People! You can't "lose your breathe" … well, I guess you can, and if you do may God be with you, but you cannot write it that way and appear intelligent. "Breathe" is a verb. "Breath" is a noun. Please be advised. 

Same with "loose" and "lose" … good grief. Consult a dictionary. If you are truly unable to distinguish between those two one-syllable words, you should not have been promoted out of fourth grade. If you are a third grader, I forgive you. Just this once. 

o_O 

I will never understand certain automobiles. Kia, for example. Today I saw a Kia Soul. It looks like a miniature hearse. Why would anyone drive that? Especially in black? Please, if you know the answer, leave a comment or send me an email. I will try to keep an open mind.

o_O

The elderly-ish receptionist at the law firm where I spent the day today told me so many times that her favorite color was blue, I was beginning to think she had neglected to take her medication. "Almost all my clothes are blue, except the ones that are black. My dishes are blue," she said. "Kind of like Wedgwood blue."

We do not give every time we are asked, but we give every time we can.

To make conversation, I asked if she likes Delft. Her brow knit and she appeared confused. Moving on quickly, I told her about my granddaughter's sapphire-blue eyes. She told me that her husband has asked her repeatedly why everything in their house has to be blue. She said she finally threw in some yellow to make him stand down on the subject.

I'll bet he doesn't forget to take his medication.

Another elderly lady on staff at the same law firm -- which was chockablock with really nice, chatty, older people -- ergo, I fit right in -- was wearing a sweater that brought to mind those chocolate cupcakes with the white icing loops on top. 

Now I can't stop thinking about those.

"Two to a pack!" she exclaimed when I commented on it. Her eyes were very blue.

I do believe most people are lonely. Lonelier than we imagine.

o_O

This is going to sound mean and honestly I don't intend it that way, because I am truly sorry about what happened in Haiti, but I am getting tired of being hit up at every single cash register in Christendom for a dollar for the Red Cross. No matter what they say, I do not believe every one of those dollars being collected goes directly to the needy in Haiti. Somebody somewhere is skimming.

And when is the last time you heard anyone ask for a single cent to save even one unborn baby slated for destruction in an abortion mill right here in America? Who needs third-world earthquakes to kill children?

After fielding that lady-can-you-spare-a-buck question half a dozen times the other day, I visited a store that was working a new angle: collecting for diabetes research. 

When I declined -- yet again -- to contribute, muttering grumpily that I was really quite OVER being asked to donate a dollar to something or other every time I made a purchase, the cashier stopped what she was doing, looked right at me and said, solemnly: "We do not give every time we are asked, but we give every time we can."

Dare to be different.

Who's "we"? Had she a ferret behind her back? And since when is a lecture -- however brief -- on charitable philanthropy part of the retail check-out process? May I please opt out of the paint-you-with-the-guilt-brush-as-you-selfishly-buy-something-for-yourself phase of my shopping experience? Thanks ever so.

At Walgreens they take it a step further … in the wrong direction. After asking if you want to give to the Red Cross, they start pointing to various items cluttering the counter -- chewing gum, batteries, et cetera -- so much stuff there's barely room to stack up the merchandise you've already decided to buy -- and asking if you're "sure" you don't need any of it. When you say yes, you're sure, they ask if you're "sure" you shopped long enough and hard enough in their store and didn't "miss out" on the many great deals.

Do I look as though I need to be counseled in the shopping arts? At Walgreens? Do I look as though I am blind or no longer in my right mind? Do I look as though this is my first rodeo, folks? Do I?

o_O

Ladies, ladies, ladies. When you are large, you do not look good in pants. Even if you are not large, most of you do not look as good as you think. In pants, that is. Must blue jeans and khakis and sweat garments be the national uniform for females? Can we think beyond the tattered rim of that well-worn brown paper bag, just for a mo?

May I make a wee suggestion? Conceal the exact coordinates -- not to mention the topography -- of your girly goodies and allow your pretty ankles to see the light of day.

No matter what everyone else is wearing. Dare to be different.

Innocent people all around you are hoping to arrive alive.

And lots of you should wash your hair daily, whether you are convinced it needs it or not, and while you are scrubbing maybe even consider getting it cut into a real, actual style. 

Discover hair color while you're at it. 

Also, learn to apply a smidge of makeup. Would a flick of mascara, a jot of powder, a scintilla of lipstick kill you?

If any or all of the above comes across as snarky, well, that's what I was going for. Forgive me, but honestly, the view could improve. Women are supposed to be feminine and pretty. And modest in appearance.

I didn't make the rules so don't get mad at me. 

If you don't know how to fix yourself up, ask someone to teach you. Make an effort.

o_O

Men at church, stop touching ladies to whom you are not related. That sly little side-hug and shoulder-squeeze with optional pull-away back-rub to which you help yourself in the name of fellowship? It's not okay. For the sake of Christian propriety -- or, failing that, simply to behave like a gentleman (imagine!), -- do not touch any woman unless she extends her hand to be taken (gently, there are rings), or generously offers to hug you for reasons known only to her and God.

While we're on the subject of men at church, I would like to add that if you are separated from your wife and/or in the process of getting a divorce, sir, you should not take that as a sign to begin looking over the field of single women in the congregation and forming designs on one of them, and sharing the fact of your budding interest with others until, incredibly, it's more or less common knowledge that you're attracted to someone other than your out-of-sight-out-of-mind wife. 

o_O

If you'd like for me to calm down, the last thing in the world you want to do is tell me to calm down.

o_O

I get to criticize my kids, but you don't. Get to criticize them, that is. At least not to my face. Or my ear. This means YOU, unless you are TG. He gets to say whatever he wants. Whisper it to me, darling.

o_O

I have seen two horrendous car accidents on I-26 in the last five days. I wish people would slow down, or pay attention, or something. Whatever it takes. Be more careful. Put the phone away. Concentrate on your driving. Innocent people all around you are hoping to arrive alive.

o_O

If you are a person with hiring authority within an organization, and somebody goes through proper channels to submit a resume for your consideration of their qualifications for a job within said organization, it's rude and dismissive to answer that inquiry via a relative of theirs you just happen to see while out and about the countryside.

You don't have to do it all at once.

Dig deep! Summon from somewhere within your amazing self the decency and class and professionalism to contact the job applicant yourself -- even if you are chummy with their cousin -- and speak to them directly about the matter. Do it as a sign of respect for the fact that someone thought enough of you to consider working for you.

Just so you know, it's not cute or funny or acceptable to do it any other way. It makes you look very weak, if you really want the truth. No matter who you are, or how important, or how sought after, or how necessary to the process, or how much a mover and shaker, you perceive yourself to be. Tres, tres gauche, n'est-ce pas?

o_O

I'm getting very tired of being jerked around by folks who make their living in "full time Christian service." Just saying! Nobody likes to be manipulated or patronized, but I admit to a less-than-impressive tolerance for being talked down to, or smarmed into near-oblivion, in the name of God. Just because you collect your pay from a church, doesn't make you Him. Not even close.

And before you go away thinking I'm one of those rebels, think again. I'm more in tune with the concept of pastoral authority and God-ordained chain of command than most people. But I've been around the block a time or two when it comes to ecclesiastical sleight of hand, and with certain all-too-common practices I'm approaching my limit. Dangerously near, one might say. As in, stand back.

For a refreshing change, church leaders, how's about letting all that rampant piety work itself into a modicum of propriety? Just a random idea. You don't have to do it all at once. Rome wasn't built in a day.

Baby steps.

o_O

Cruel rumors of Johnny Depp's untimely demise are premature. He's alive and pretty as ever.

o_O

That is all.

For now.

Iconic Chic. Photo Jennifer Weber 2010Barbara Walters was ridiculed many years ago for asking Katharine Hepburn what kind of tree she’d be if she could in fact be a tree.

I like Barbara Walters less than I like fricasseed grasshopper larvae with a side of moldy brussels sprouts and a sour milk chaser, but I love questions that start with “If you were a ...” 

As for favorite things, Oprah Winfrey has sort of trademarked this term but as far as I know -- God complex notwithstanding -- she has no patent on the concept.

(I never watch Oprah. I am in fact a conscientious objector to all things Oprah. Truth be known, I like Oprah less than I like people five times more supercilious and smarmy.)

But I have lots of favorite things too.

I also have the worst case of writer’s block since the invention of the spray nozzle.

If I were a fragrance, I'd be Chanel No. 5

What to do? Why, build on my last post, of course! It involved reminiscing about a certain garment and included the declaration that if I were a fabric, I would be black velvet.

I won’t rest on my (diminutive) laurels but I’m not above making a skinny rope from them.

I think that solves it.

Let us begin.

Chanel Number Five.  The ultimate fragrance, this perfume defines me. My darling keeps me in EDP spray because it is his favorite too. This year for Christmas he spared not the horses and got the iconic art-deco bottle (pictured above) that practically makes me break out into nervous hives whenever I look at it. 

It is that devastatingly, impossibly chic. The understatement!

Staggering.

This brand, this bottle, this fragrance is the very soul of romantic elegance. It is the bottled memory of ten thousand crushed flowers warmed by the sun somewhere in the South of France.

When I wear Chanel No. 5 I feel strong and special. I am literally inspired. Isn’t that what a perfume is supposed to do for you?

If I were a fragrance, I would be Chanel Number Five. It’s my favorite perfume.

Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto Number Two.  (No, all my favorite things do not necessarily have numbers. But when creative greats get going, their stellar accomplishments tend to occur in multiples. It’s handy that the more organized achievers number things.)

This music is dark. It is also emotional and tender and brave and romantic and loud and soft and hurried and slow and deep and turbulent and scary and shadowed and blinding and passionate and heartbreaking and wild and tame and literal and enigmatic and veiled and fiery and cool and glorious and unashamed.

If I were a piece of music, this is the one I’d be.

If forced to bring it in under four minutes, I'd be the Eighteenth Variation from Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini.

In this performance I don't know where the piano tops went and I think at least 2 of the 5 Browns are going to need a chiropractor, but they've captured the essence of this mysterious work of art much like Coco Chanel harnessed the inner being of flowers.

That’s all I can think of right now. Part II forthcoming when inspiration strikes.