maggiex4

July 19, 2015
by maggiex4 Leave a comment

Hummingbird Hatchlings

Hatchlings

The hummingbirds hatched on Friday and Saturday. Apparently, the mother quickly removes the broken shells from the nest. You can see in the first photo, with the unhatched egg, that a piece of shell remains. In today’s photo, there is no shell, and while they have more feathers, their heads remain unidentifiable from their tails. Hatchlings always have faces that only a mother could love. This mother still sits on the nest, although the temperatures have been in the 90s for the past two days, soaring to 97 today. Can’t wait to see their little faces!

One out, one to go.

July 14, 2015
by maggiex4 Leave a comment

The First Time I Saw Paris

Quatorze juillet

When I was a girl, I learned that the world was a much bigger place than the block of houses on which I lived. My grandparents, and those of my friends, spoke different languages, Italian, Polish, Armenian, Hungarian, Gaelic, German, Lithuanian, Norwegian, and French, among others. They told stories of hardship that drove them onto ships and trains looking for better lives, regaled us with stories of magical places, and stuffed us with exotic food. I wanted to see and hear and taste and understand them all.

On the cover of my first French language textbook was a photo of the Abbaye du Mont-Saint-Michel, that medieval engineering marvel off the coast of Normandy. It was something from a fairy tale, perched on a rock, isolated by water during especially high tides. I placed my 14-year old hand over the picture, scanning it into my brain through my palm.

During my sophomore year in college, we read Henry Adams’ Mont-Saint-Michel and Chartres in a western European art and history class. I scanned Adams’ description into my brain with the image and carried them until 1989, when I planned a long-awaited, first trip to France with The Veterinarian for a medical conference.

“Here’s our itinerary,” I showed him my plans. “On Saturday, we fly into Charles de Gaulle airport and take the Air France bus right to the conference hotel. Then, on Monday, we meet up with a French Rail tour which will take us to Normandy.”

“What?” he asked. “Normandy isn’t near Paris, is it?”

“Well, no, it isn’t,” I explained. “That’s why we have to take the train.”

“How long is this going to take?” I could tell he was skeptical.

“It’s a 10-hour tour.”

“10 hours on a tour?!”

“Sometimes, we’ll be on the train and sometimes, on a bus, and we get lunch in a medieval restaurant.”

“Are we going to see the D-Day beaches?” He brightened a bit.

“No, we’re going to see the Mont-Saint-Michel,” I explained. His face was blank. “You know? The abbey on the island in the English Channel?” He was unimpressed.

“Why are we going all the way west to Normandy when the conference is in Burgundy in the east?”

Mont-Saint-Michel 1989

“Because,” I sighed and fixed him with my steeliest glare, “I’ve wanted to see the Mont-Saint-Michel all my life, and I am not going to France and not seeing it. I may never get there again.” He knew when to quit and let the subject drop.

The previous year, we had taken a similar BritRail tour in England and Scotland, a perfectly delightful way to cover a lot of a country in the fewest number of days, so I didn’t understand his peevishness.

Our Air France flight introduced us to our first experience française. The flight attendants were chic, the food and wine sublime, even in economique. After the cheese plate and dessert were served, they brought coffee, cognac, and squares of the most divine dark chocolate that I had ever tasted. I let mine melt on my tongue until it coated every part of my mouth.

“You aren’t going to eat that chocolate, are you?” I asked The Veterinarian.

“Yes, I’m going to eat it all. You shouldn’t have eaten yours so fast.”

“But, it’s sooo good.”

“Madame, would you care for another chocolat?” The flight attendant magically appeared and presented a box under my nose. Not wanting to be the piggish Americaine, I limited myself to two more of the little wrapped squares, which I tucked securely in my purse.

“Ah, oui, s’il vous plaît. Et merci!” I practiced my best French.

“Aren’t you the lucky one?” The Veterinarian smirked.

“Yes, and I’m going to find this chocolat and buy some to take home.”

Upon arrival in Paris, we went straight to our hotel, a modern high-rise in the business district, not especially romantic, but we were exhausted, and our room had a spectacular view of Paris. No matter which way I lay on the bed, I could see the Eiffel Tower, either through the window or perfectly reflected in the mirrored closet doors. After a brief nap, we set out to explore the city of my dreams. I dressed in chic and practical black, and he wore a tweed sport coat.

“Let’s go to the Tour Eiffel first, so we can see all of Paris,” we decided. The Métro station’s map of multi-colored train lines and stops wasn’t nearly as daunting as we had expected.

“Now,” I said to The Veterinarian, “go to the window over there and ask for ‘deux billets, s’il vous plaît,’ and hand them the money.”

He nodded, walked about three feet, stopped abruptly, and turned to me.

“Wait a minute,” he shook his head. “I don’t speak French. You’re the one who speaks French. You buy the tickets.”

Merde! He’d found me out. I was secretly terrified that I didn’t really speak French intelligibly. Everyone told horror stories about the French mocking American tourists, and I wasn’t sure that my ego or my childhood fantasies could take it. But he was right, and, if I was ever going to speak French properly to a French person, I might as well try it out in an anonymous subway station, where the clerks were probably rude to everyone.

I timidly approached the window. When the bored clerk looked up, I made my request and slid my francs into the till. Without a word, he counted out the two tickets and my change. Amazed, I whispered, “Merci, Monsieur.” He went back to his newspaper.

“See?” The Veterinarian laughed. “That was easy. He understood you.”

“Oh, God,” I was on the verge of hyperventilating, “I’m not sure I can do that again. Too much stress.”

At the Tour Eiffel, we got in line and easily purchased our tickets. I used the same French phrase, and the clerk answered me in English. Ok. It was obvious that I was a non-native speaker of French, but I was communicating in a foreign language. We rode up Gustave Eiffel’s elevators to the top, a real steampunk experience of late 19^th-century ironwork and gears and cables with glimpses of the ground and Paris and faces.

“I’m starving,” The Veterinarian complained. “I’ve got to eat. Let’s go to that brasserie on the second floor.” Actually, I recall a little more arguing about exactly where we were going to eat, but, after looking longingly at the menu of the Tour’s Michelin-starred Jules Verne restaurant, we headed for its much cheaper stepsister.

“You do the ordering,” he said, when our waiter appeared. I took a deep breath and looked her in the eye. She wore the traditional black pants, crisp white shirt, and long white apron of French waiters, her blonde hair in an elegant chignon. I felt like the street sweeper.

“Je voudrais le steak frites, et mon mari…” I began.

“Le steak frites. Beefsteak with fried potatoes,” she interrupted.

“Uh, oui,” I replied. “Et mon mari voudrait le poulet rotî, s’il vous plaît.”

“Le poulet rotî. Roast chicken.” she said.

“Uh, oui, merci.”

“Eh, bien, Madame, Monsieur,” The waiter gave a slight nod, smiled pleasantly, and left the table.

“Oh, no,” I moaned, “she was correcting my pronunciation.”

“No,” The Veterinarian replied, “it sounded the same to me. Didn’t you notice that she wasn’t writing down the order? She was repeating it, so she would remember it.” He even became bold enough to order wine in English, and we settled into our first meal in Paris, right through to the Tarte aux Pommes.

When our alarm went off at 6 the next morning, our jet-lag was so bad we could hardly focus to dress ourselves, find the Métro, and get to the train station for the tour’s 7 o’clock departure. The Veterinarian was mollified by a boulangerie in the station with heavenly coffee.

“This had better be worth it,” he mumbled through his croissant.

Our group boarded the sleek Train Grand Vitesse (TGV), one of those high-speed modes of transportation enjoyed by the rest of the civilized world that makes the U.S. look like it’s still in the horse-and-buggy age. Soon, we were zipping along the seamless rail. The faster the train went, the smoother the ride became. In my mind, I was hurtling from the future into the past.

Mont-Saint-Michel 2009

At LeMans, the famous racing town, we disembarked and boarded a bus, which began to wind its way through the bucolic Norman countryside to the coast. Just before noon, the bus turned onto a narrow road, and we could see the spire of the church atop the rock rise into view. The one-time abbey and some-time prison looked exactly like the photo on my old textbook, but even more mysterious, as it grew out of the rock. In places, it was impossible to tell where the rock ended and the abbey’s foundation, built from the same stone, began. The bus let us out at the end of the causeway, and we followed our guide up the steep street, stopping for a lunch of one of the town’s famous, and famously overpriced, puffy omelettes.

Just before one o’clock, we made our way past a long line of tourists to the ancient wooden door. To the side, a smaller door opened, and a hand reached out with an enormous iron key, which our guide accepted and opened the enormous wooden door for our group, closing it behind us. She returned the key.

“See? This is why we took this tour,” I hissed to The Veterinarian.

For about 15 minutes, our group was alone on the grounds, the wind off the English Channel whipping around us, as we walked through the cloister and into the reconstructed church and refectory. Although I had no idea what an abbey would look like, this one whispered ancient stories from the stone walls. You know how you read the “Harry Potter” books and imagined how Hogwarts would look, and when you saw the movie, it looked exactly like you pictured it? That was my experience, only I felt the prayers of the monks and the prisoners who had lived there.

At the end of the day, as we hurtled through the French countryside back to Paris, I thought I should just get on a plane and fly home. I had seen the Tour Eiffel. I had seen the Mont-Saint-Michel. I thought I had seen it all. Luckily, there were 10 more days, from the Château Clos de Vougeot to the tiled roofs of Beaune, a Swiss breakfast in Geneva, through the Mont Blanc Tunnel for lunch in Italy, and back to Chamonix for dinner. It was a whirlwind of eating and sightseeing and the inevitable day of crashing in our room, when we just couldn’t take one more day of dreams coming true.

The First Time I saw Paris 1989

On our last day, we took another train tour to Chartres to see the great cathedral with its famous labyrinth, another lunch in a quaint inn, and on to Versailles. That night, we crowned the trip with dinner on a Bateau Mouche, those barges that ply the Seine through the heart of Paris, to the delight of tourists and the bane of residents. It was a day of piety and indulgences of the not-so-religious kind.

The next morning, as we made our way through Charles de Gaulle airport, I realized that I had forgotten to the chocolates. I turned into a “gourmet” gift shop, and there it was, Valrhona, in small bars and in a large box. My love affair began in earnest, I must confess.

“We should get the large box of the little squares so we can share them, don’t you think?” I asked the Veterinarian, who shook his head at my indiscretion.

I handed over my credit card and stuffed the surprisingly heavy box into my carry-on, where it remained untouched, since we were served little squares with lunch on our flight home. It was the first thing I unpacked. I pulled it out and cut the seal. Inside the box was a foil wrapped package.

“Oh, I guess this is to make sure that the little squares stay fresh,” I thought. But, when I cut into the foil, there was a solid block of the finest chocolate that I had ever tasted. The aroma filled my head. I looked at the box. “70% guanaja chocolat. 3kg.” Yep, I had purchased a 6.5 pound solid block of chocolate.

“Whoa! What are we going to do with all of this?” I was shocked by what I had purchased.

“Here’s what I’m going to do,” the Veterinarian replied. He pulled a metal mallet out of the drawer and smacked off one corner of the block and popped it into his mouth. “Oh, my gosh.” He handed me a chunk. In a solid marble-sized piece, it melted even slower. We looked at each other and groaned with delight.

I learned to do a lot with chocolate. Created my own truffles. Used it in mousse au chocolat. Made a killer coconut cream pie whose custard is spooned over a layer of hardened chocolate in the baked pie shell. And the ultimate dessert that never ceases to amaze guests, a chocolate soufflé made in individual rings.

And, of course, it’s a great anti-depressant, when eaten all by itself. I’ve eaten a lot of it in the past three years, especially with Pinot Noir.

It takes me about two years to go through an entire block, which I keep tightly wrapped in its foil pouch. Yes, it does bloom, but nothing else has the same deep chocolate flavor, with just enough sweetness and even a hint of vanilla. Only two other things can transport me to France, Champagne (see Yes, I’m a Champagne Slut) and bread from Poîlane, other trips and other storiey.

The Last Time I saw Paris 2009

In 2009, 20 years after our first visit, we returned to the Mont-Saint-Michel on the Autumnal Equinox, September 21, one of the few times of the year that the parking area at the foot of the causeway was closed because the tide came in so high that the water almost completely surrounded the island. Silting at the mouth of the river, as well as construction of the causeway, prevented it from occuring on a regular basis. However, in 2015, a bridge opened to link the mainland to the island so that the causeway could be removed. We parked on the mainland and started walking, as the water receded, and cars returned to the carpark. It was even more spectacular than we remembered.

Last week, I found out through a distant cousin, that our Italian great-grandmother’s mother was French! I like to think that explains it all. Now, if someone could explain to me why I buy stuff in the airport without properly calculating the exchange rate, please get in touch. I’m always horrified by my foolishness when my credit card statement arrives. Of course, I’m always delighted with my souvenirs, such as the pair of buttery soft, lilac suede gloves that I bought at DaVinci airport in Rome, so who am I to complain? Life is good (mostly). Soli Deo Gloria!

July 8, 2015
by maggiex4 Leave a comment

Dating Go-Round

Stress Relief

[Note: Names except Ridewithlarry have been changed to protect the innocent. smh]

For about a month, I’ve undergone some soul-searching. I thought that I had been unfair to the men trying to find dates online who had the misfortune of communicating with me. I say “communicating” because some of it isn’t, technically, verbal. Although I clearly said in my profile that I wouldn’t respond to anything other than an email, I still received “winks”, “favorites”, and “interesteds.” In theory, I sort of understand what they mean, but in practice, they mean nothing. I conducted an experiment.

If someone “winked” at me, I wrote to them. If someone “favorited” me, I wrote to them. If they clicked on “interested”, I wrote to them. NONE of them wrote back. So, I asked myself, what is the meaning of this? Or, more specifically, what is the point of this?

Here’s the point: there is no point to any of it. I’ve played nice, to no avail, so now, the gloves are off. Here’s what’s been happening for the past month.

Big Bob claimed to be from Sarasota. He listed his favorite “Hot Spots” as all being in West Palm Beach (on the opposite side of the state, if you don’t know Florida) but claimed in an email that he was back in Maryland caring for his “aging parents.” All of his photos were either of him in sunglasses or pictures of his alleged grandchildren. He stopped writing after a couple days, but, about a month later, he sent a one sentence email, “Shouldn’t we meet for dinner?” I replied, “How about you send me a photo of yourself without sunglasses, first?” He still hasn’t answered. It’s been three weeks.

Ridewithlarry claimed to be from Roland Park, a well-to-do neighborhood in Baltimore City. His first email was well-written, and he claimed to be a “wine aficianado.” I wrote back with my test line, “What wine would you have with Thanksgiving dinner?” It took him a couple of days, but he responded, in broken English this time, with “pinot noir,” an acceptable wine choice, but a poor grammar choice. I googled his profile photo, and it came up “Beware: Photo used for scamming since 2009.” I wrote back, “Nice try, scammer. Take it somewhere else.” He did. He changed his city of residence to Burlington, Ontario, Canada. When I reported him to the fraud section of match.com, they did absolutely nothing. Ridewithlarry is still an active account.

A 53-year old guy who called himself “Jerry” wrote me a bunch of wacky emails. Now, I enjoy wacky humor, but your wackiness has to make a certain amount of sense to be appreciated by someone who isn’t actually living in the same body with you. He emailed me three silly questions, one of which was “Is your voice any good?” I checked out his profile, which showed him with disheveled hair, a loosened tie, and shaking hands with Henry Kissinger, the same Dr. Kissinger who was the Secretary of State of the entire nation back in the 1970s. Curious, I replied, “Yes, my voice is taking me to Carnegie Hall in January with my chorus, so, I guess it’s passable. What secrets were you passing to Dr. Kissinger?”

He answered with a lot of weird emails, until I finally said, “If you want to hear from me again, please answer my question about you and Dr. K.”

He replied, “He’s a friend of my mother’s, whose name is Suzanne. They share the same birthday.” I told him that his mother having my name was pretty creepy. I gave him the link to this blog and haven’t heard from him since. I keep saying that this blog is a date killer.

Mr. Terp, who said he was a widower, wrote to me that he enjoyed reading my profile and that he hoped we could “correspond.” His profile was entertaining, so I wrote back. Several days passed without a response, so I wrote to him again, “Sorry, I guess I misunderstood.” He wrote back that he’d been having “internet problems” at home and wasn’t comfortable using the University of Maryland-College Park’s system. Eventually, we exchanged phone numbers, and he asked me to call him. I did. I felt as if I was pulling his teeth. If I didn’t ask a question, he didn’t say anything. He, a man with a master’s degree, couldn’t carry on a conversation. (Of course, I couldn’t count the number of times The Veterinarian did that to me, too.)

Mr. Terp said he had lived in the Baltimore area and still returned regularly to see friends. In fact, he said, he would be in town in a few days and would call me. Thank God that I didn’t drop any plans and sit by the phone, because, of course, he hasn’t called. He’s a Steelers fan, so I’m not entirely surprised.

Blarney, aged 40 and looking for women 25-40, IM’d me (aged 63) one night with “Hey, gorgeous!” [Excuse me while I barf a little, again.] I was on the phone with The Daughter, so I clicked on “I’m busy.” Blarney, the fool, emailed me, “I did not think my picture was that bad.” I replied and apologized and explained that I was on the phone with my daughter the nurse who needed to vent about a difficult patient. I also wished him “happier connections!” He took the hint.

Seamus, divorced, wrote “I felt it was time to write to you instead of letting you remain in favs and possibly risk the chance of not meeting you.[sic]” I hadn’t replied to his “favorite” because he obviously hadn’t read my profile which said that I only respond to emails. So, we had a very brief email conversation, the gist of which was:

Me: I was married for 39 years. I know better than to expect fireworks. Right now, I’ll settle for getting to know someone, to share our stories, to join me at the movies or the theater or lunch or dinner…Suzanne

Him: Dear Susanne [sic] I have never viewed love relationships or marriage ( and yes I was also married for 28 years) as anything but a dedicated commitment to each other…perhaps a time together in a kitchen with an excellent bottle of wine would be a nice way to loosen up and communicate.

Me: …a glass of wine with you sounds like a good introduction. I could meet you somewhere halfway…Suzanne

Him: I welcome whatever conversation you’d like to broach with me that depicts the person you are and albeit some reservations are needed I never want you to feel as if you can’t talk about or discuss anything in a manner that’s not you. Okay… I look forward to meeting you as well Susanne [sic]

Me (suspecting that he is either a complete moron or a scammer): My mama told me to never lie, and I learned early in life that exaggerating and fabricating only lead to trouble. I have no secrets and answer any and all questions. 🙂 That being said, I am a discrete friend and know how to keep other people’s secrets. I also believe that truth and love go together, but sometimes telling someone the truth can be hurtful, as in “Yes, those pants make your hips look big.”

I’ve had no reply since, July 3. God is good!

Crab Lover approached me with gushing emails about my looks and the BFF and how he knows someone with whom I sing. Then, he invited me to lunch and inexplicably insulted my chorus. “Oh, I could never sing with them because they’re just an amateur group, and I have a degree in music.” (A bachelor’s degree, by the way.)

“Well, you’d be wrong about that,” I laughed at his sheer ignorance. “I think that a group that is repeatedly asked to perform at Carnegie Hall must be pretty good.” He wasn’t convinced. I think he was just pissed off that I don’t think Ocean City, Maryland, where he has a second home, is the be-all and end-all of travel. He has only been out of the country once, with his son’s college chorus on a trip to England. Then, he maligned the French (and you know how I feel about that). We did spend almost three hours together and laughed a lot. I could say some really uncomplimentary things about him, but I’m not that kind of person.

This brings me to my most recent dating fiasco. You may recall from a few weeks back that I listed the kind of men that I won’t respond to. Among them are guys who take photos of themselves in a mirror. So lazy. So lame.

I received an email from one such man. Although he appeared attractive, in a Ted Baxter sort of way (google “Mary Tyler Moore Show”), I had passed him by because he didn’t seem to know how to take a decent selfie (warning bell #1). Now, here he was in my in-box. He lives nearby, enjoyed my “levity,” blah, blah, blah.

We corresponded briefly, and, when he told me he was from Pittsburgh, I ignored warning bell #2, because he also said, “I relate better to fellow transients [sic] as we have actually travelled outside of Baltimore County and Ocean City, MD.” (If you aren’t from Maryland, see my comment about Crab Lover, above.) We exchanged phone numbers, and when he called me, we had a lovely chat and discovered some other things that we had in common besides being “Outlanders” in Baltimore. We agreed to meet at 6:30 pm for a drink at a restaurant that I only eat at if I have a gift certificate or someone else is paying (warning bell #3).

“We’ll see how it goes and maybe order an appetizer or two,” he said.

I thought 6:30 was a good time because I could eat a light dinner and not feel obligated to order a meal. (I hate these “one and done” meetings where the man pays.)

On the appointed day, I allowed myself plenty of time to get ready, choosing and ironing my outfit ahead of time, putting on make-up, and driving to the restaurant, which is about one mile from my house. I arrived at the restaurant at exactly 6:35. I don’t want to sit alone and wait for a man. It makes me feel like a tramp, especially because I’m usually over-dressed. I may look ordinary to most people, but when I use make-up, wear heels, and put on an outfit that is “tight enough to show that I’m a woman but loose enough to show I’m a lady,” I expect men to start throwing money at me.

I walked into the lounge area of the restaurant and sat at a table facing the main entrance. There was only one couple at the bar, so I knew my date wasn’t there. The waitress took my order for a glass of wine, and I waited. At 6:48, I heard my phone ringing in my purse. By the time I fished it out, the caller was leaving a message. When I played it back, it was my date, highly indignant that I had stood him up.

“I waited from 5:20 until 6:30,” he complained, “I don’t know what happened, but you can ask the cute little brunette waitress who will tell you that I was there.”

I searched my brain for the details of our one and only phone conversation. I was positive he had said 6:30, because 5:30 would have meant dinner and not just drinks, but, feeling guilty for the miscommunication, however it may have occurred, I called him back immediately and got his voice mail.

“I am so sorry for the miscommunication,” I apologized. “I thought we agreed on 6:30. I must have just missed you. Perhaps we can try some other time…or not.” By this time, I was thinking “or not” would be just fine. I ordered a small pepperoni pizza to go, because, who doesn’t need pizza when they’re upset? Even if they’d just eaten a light supper at 4?

I texted The Daughter.

“He should have called earlier,” she insisted.

“I guess so,” I agreed.

The waitress brought me my pizza, so I asked her.

“Was there a man here from about 5:20 to 6:30 tonight, waiting for someone?”

“Yes, there was. He said he was waiting for a lady,” she smiled. I explained what had happened.

“My daughter says he should have called earlier.”

“Of course he should have,” she replied. “He asked me if I thought it was socially acceptable to stand someone up, but he sat here for well over an hour. He should have called you.”

“I hate this online dating stuff.”

“Well, I’ll tell you this,” she leaned in. “You should be happy that you’re going home with pizza. I wouldn’t worry about it too much.” I was feeling somewhat relieved. After all, I had three warnings.

“I tell you what,” the waitress continued, “you should meet all your dates here, and you can call me, and I’ll tell you whether or not they’re worth meeting.”

Sounds like I dodged a bullet, so, who am I to complain? Life is good (mostly). Soli Deo Gloria!

July 5, 2015
by maggiex4 2 Comments

Simple Gifts for a Not-so-Simple Woman

A surprise in the leaves

So…I’m sitting on my deck on the first sunny day in a good long while, when I hear an occasional buzzing near my head. I sit up and look for horseflies or wasps or bumblebees. Nothing. I sit back and return to my book.

Thirty seconds later, the buzzing returns. Still, no flying insects.

“Hmmm,” I say to My BFF, “Sounds like a hummingbird.” I’m perplexed, because I don’t have a hummingbird feeder, and there are no blooming plants. Must be a large hornet of some kind. I look up into the dogwood branch hanging over my head, and there it is, a small hive-shaped nest.

“Uh-oh.” I put the BFF in the house and carefully examine the nest, when, suddenly, something rushes past my head. A dull-colored hummingbird.

I am beside myself with happiness and rush into the house for a stepladder. How incredible is it, that there could be a hummingbird nest on my deck? The BFF watches as I drag the ladder outside. I can tell by the look on her face that she thinks I’m losing it. I set up the ladder and climb it with my cellphone, because I won’t be tall enough to see inside the nest — if it is a nest — but, with my arm extended, the cellphone will have a clear shot at it. I take the first blurry shot, and there they are, two little hummingbird eggs. My eyes tear up. So serene. So perfect.

And then The Shrew in my head pipes up, “Are you crazy? Do you know how you’re going to look to the EMTs when they find your lifeless body on the deck when you fall off this ladder? Your lifeless, 63-year old body wearing a black bikini? Have you no shame?”

Simple gifts

“I need a shot that isn’t blurry,” is what I’m thinking.

I move the ladder to the other side and shoot again. This time, the picture is in focus, as is my headless torso, the deck, the ladder, and my chair. I get down and sit back on my chair. The little hummingbird flits back and forth but doesn’t come back to the branch. When it rests, it sits on a wire of my television antenna and looks down at me. We are both a little dumbfounded. The hummingbird by the scary woman. The woman by life. If I were an ordinary, sane, rational woman, I might be amused and check the little nest daily until the chicks hatch and fly away.

I, on the other hand, am plagued by “The Meaning of Life.” What does it mean that a hummingbird nest has appeared to me? Is that routine? Does everyone have a hummingbird nest hanging over their decks? Or, in the lunacy that is my life, does it just remind me that, as the medieval mystic, Julian of Norwich, said, “All shall be well, and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well”?

It also begs the question, why would I be so stupid as to post a picture on the internet of my headless 63-year old torso wearing a bikini? That one’s easy. It’s a great shot of the nest, and the photo is taken at such an odd angle that my body is completely distorted.

What have I learned? I’ve learned that the key to a good swimsuit photo is, apparently, to stand on a ladder with your arm extended three feet over your head, thereby elongating the torso, removing folds, wrinkles, and stretching the skin as good as a plastic surgeon would.

God made me smile today, so, who am I to complain? Life is good (mostly). Soli Deo Gloria!

July 4, 2015
by maggiex4 Leave a comment

Colors

Courtesy of The Daughter

July 3, 2015
by maggiex4 1 Comment

Let Freedom Ring

If it doesn’t rain tomorrow night, I’ll gather with friends for a barbecue and fireworks display. Everyone will bring a dish to share, which means that I’ll find at least one new recipe that I can’t live without.

What will I contribute? Appetizer, snack, side, salad, or dessert? Last year, I took Red Velvet Cupcakes, reflecting the patriotic colors. Although the grilling will be continuous, the food, wisely, is served indoors, but, since the event lasts from the dinner hour until the last rocket explodes after dark, I want to take something that holds up. Mayonnaise spoils easily. Salad wilts after it’s dressed. What could be more American (U.S., I mean, with apologies to my friends in Canada and the rest of the Western Hemisphere) than corn? The other hemisphere may think of it as fodder for animals, but we know how scrumptious it is in so many different ways.

With friends, we once rented the cooking school LaVarenne at Château du Feÿ in Burgundy for a grand week of eating, cooking, and drinking wine with four other couples. One evening, the doyenne herself, Anne Willan, invited us for a glass of wine and tour of the grounds. She showed us the gardens and told us that when she instructed her French gardener to plant sweet corn, he was appalled to learn that they intended to eat it. Happily, as food missionaries, they converted the Frenchman to eating corn!

Simple, grilled veal chop marinated in lemon, olive oil, and rosemary, a perfect foil for the spicy corn pudding.

So, I think I’ll make this savory corn pudding, which works wonderfully with grilled food. Over the years, I’ve adapted several recipes into this one. In its most elegant version, I make a sauce and garnish with okra, which won’t work for a barbecue buffet, but the spices in the pudding make it appetizing, even at room temperature. I use Silver Queen corn, which makes my pudding a creamy color with bright spots of red bell pepper, tomato, and green herbs but golden yellow corn works, too.

Summer Corn Pudding

Ingredients:

3 Tablespoons butter

¼ cup minced sweet onion

3 cups of fresh corn kernels (about 6-8 ears)

1 ½ cups half-and-half

3 eggs, beaten

1 teaspoon sugar

¼ teaspoon allspice

½ teaspoon cumin

⅛ teaspoon freshly ground pepper

¼ teaspoon cayenne

1 ½ teaspoons salt

2 teaspoons fresh lime juice

1 red bell pepper, roasted, skin removed, chopped

1 Tablespoon fresh flat leaf (aka Italian) parsley, chopped

2 Tablespoons fresh cilantro, chopped

Garnish:

¼ cup seeded, chopped tomato

1 Tablespoon snipped chives

Preheat oven to 350°. Butter a 2-quart round or square baking dish; set aside.

In a medium skillet, melt butter over medium heat. Add onion and sauté until soft. Stir in 2 cups of corn kernels, lower heat and cook for two minutes. Remove from heat and set aside.

In a blender, blend together eggs, half-and-half, sugar, nutmeg, cumin, ground pepper, cayenne, salt, lime juice, and remaining one cup of the corn kernels until smooth. Stir in bell pepper, parsley, and cilantro.

Pour hot water into pan underneath the casserole dish.

Place an oblong baking pan on oven rack. Place the buttered casserole dish in the pan. Pour the corn mixture into the casserole. Pour hot water into the oblong pan to a depth of halfway up the outside of the casserole dish.

Bake in the preheated oven for 1 hour and 15 minutes, until almost set (meaning that the center barely wiggles). Remove from oven and leave in the hot water. Let sit for 15 minutes, during which time, the center will finish cooking. Garnish with chopped tomato and chives.

July 1, 2015
by maggiex4 4 Comments

When She was Bad…

There once was a girl

Who had a little curl

Right in the middle of her forehead.

And when she was good,

She was very, very good,

And when she was bad,

She was horrid.

This morning, I was horrid. My day started off as it usually does. After a restless night interrupted by thunderstorms, I staggered into my kitchen to assist the dog with her morning ablutions (although neither water nor cleanliness was involved). If she could use her paws to open the door, I wouldn’t ever have to get out of bed before 6 am, because she could probably also open the dog food bin. She drinks out of the toilet already, so, as long as the lid is up, I’m good there.

Having opened the door for her, filled her food dish, and mashed her anti-histamine into a marshmallow, I opened the freezer to pull out my two daily frozen waffles, and…nothing. No waffles. I was suddenly wide awake and hurried to the storage freezer in my pantry…again…nothing. No waffles. I had consumed an entire 60-count package of frozen “homestyle” waffles from the Big Box Store without realizing it. Waffles and pizza are the only carbs that I eat regularly, so I had no bread, no cereal, no pre-packaged cookies or crackers in my house. No potatoes. Just bars of dark chocolate, raw veggies, half of a leftover crab cake, and several bottles of wine in my refrigerator.

You may recall that I take a beta-blocker for reasons related to genetics and the lunacy that has been life in recent years. Said blocker is to be taken in the morning with food, and toasted waffles are my vehicle of choice, just as marshmallows are the vehicle for the dog’s meds. I thought of using one of her marshmallows, but my mouth isn’t big enough to swallow a marshmallow whole, even with water. The BFF’s mouth can handle things the size of corn cobs and socks, so a marshmallow is nothing to her. (She ate 11 foam ear plugs last week, which have started to reappear in my yard, sort of like little Nerf bullets.)

As usual, I digress.

I returned to the freezer, moving aside frozen meat and frozen leftover pizza and frozen fresh pasta (an oxymoron, I know), certain that I had overlooked some stray waffles. That’s when I spied the package of frozen chocolate chip cookie dough. Bells went off in my head, while stars streaked from the package. Breakfast! Sure, they contain all that fat and sugar and chocolate, but with pecans added, they’re actually as nutritious as most granola bars!

I closed the freezer door when I heard The Shrew who lives in my head say, “Get a grip, Suzanne.”

“But — but — but I have to take my meds.”

“With cookies?”

“My heart will start racing.”

“Make oatmeal.”

“I only eat oatmeal in the winter when it’s cold.”

“You couldn’t eat the frozen pizza?” The Shrew sighed.

“Too greasy at 6 am.”

“Get dressed. Get in the car. Go to the store.”

“But I could faint from lack of food, run off the road, and kill someone.” There was a pause in my thought process.

“Well, just this once,” The Shrew relented. “And here’s the deal: you don’t bake the entire package of cookies, just two cookies and add the pecans.”

“Ok, ok,” I started pulling the package out of the drawer. I can’t eat cookies without pecans, so that was easy.

“And you do two Zumba sessions and 5 minutes of planking.” My penance.

“Ok, ok,” I panted. Cookies for breakfast!

Breakfast!

In the end, I made four cookies because they come in a neat block of four squares, so, if I cut off just two, the other two would probably get freezer burn. Fortunately, The Shrew had rolled over and gone back to sleep.

While I waited for the cookies to bake, I switched on the morning news, which, as usual had a sameness to it. A terrorist act was perpetrated while another terrorist threat has been perceived. The economy is going to hell in a handbasket, while a superstar athlete turned down a 21 million dollar contract. There is weather that no one likes. Celebrities are doing outrageous things. This morning, it was Ben and Jen Affleck. She seems so cute and ordinary that I felt sorry for her and their children until I read their joint public statement to People magazine:

“After much thought and careful consideration, we have made the difficult decision to divorce. We go forward with love and friendship for one another and a commitment to co-parenting our children…”

Stop right there! That’s what marriage is. Marriage is “love and friendship for one another.” And that’s all it is, folks. It’s a long, boring slog through life, picking up the pieces of your “joint” life (not limited to socks, underwear, or the toilet seat), made joyful by agreeing on where to go for dinner, what color to paint the living room, and nudging each other awake through your kid’s recitals. It’s not running toward each other through an Alpine meadow, falling down, and making mad passionate love in the flowers every day, followed by adorable, curly-haired children gurgling sweet songs until they leave home as adults. (Sorry, the sugar and chocolate from the cookies is kicking in.)

Marriage was the hardest thing I ever did in my entire life, resisting the urge to up and leave when The Veterinarian looked at me cross-eyed. I will never forget wanting to bolt one month after our wedding. Full-time college students, we had been arguing in the car on the way home. I couldn’t tell you what it was about, but, when we got into the privacy of our apartment, I burst into tears.

“I can’t do this,” I cried. “I just can’t do this. I can’t stand you. I can’t stand this tiny apartment. You don’t listen to a thing I say to you. You just do whatever you want, as if my opinion doesn’t matter. You brought a dog into the house without asking me, and you know I’m afraid of dogs. I can’t stand the thought of doing this for the rest of my life.” He stood in front of me, completely befuddled. He thought everything was great.

“I’m sorry,” he began, “I didn’t know.” He put his arms around me, sat us down on the sofa, and cradled me in his arms. I sobbed uncontrollably into the collar of his shirt. I couldn’t tell you what he said or what I said to smooth things over. I remember that we both felt the enormity of the commitment that we had made. I remember that my mascara didn’t wash out of his shirt, that a perfect set of my eyelashes was imprinted on the collar. When the shirt went out of style, I hung it in the back of my closet and moved it across the country to remind me of my commitment, a more meaningful reminder than the gold band on my finger.

I’d love to tell you that our marriage got easier, but it didn’t. The arguments were always the same, for the 39 years we were married. At the 10-year mark, like Ben and Jen, we were building our own veterinary hospital. It was a strenuous nightmare, and I did think I was going to leave him. Then, it got worse, and we talked about divorce. The meadow looked like it might exist somewhere else, but we kept coming back to that promise of commitment. We knew the Alpine meadow was a fantasy. We knew that being present over the long haul far outweighed mad passionate love among the flowers. Besides, my bare skin can’t handle direct contact with vegetation.

It’s none of our business what other people do in their marriages unless we see abuse that needs intervention. When they say, “We still love each other” they may be covering up bigger issues that are none of our business. It just makes me sad that marriage gets a bad rap, that it’s taken so lightly. The Wedding is the all-important moment in most of the marriages that I see. Parents mortgaging their homes for their daughter’s “Dream Wedding.” The bachelor parties in Vegas, the Bridezillas, the Destination Weddings, the expensive favors and liquor and entertainment. I wish they’d focus on what marriage really means. I wish they’d spend more time asking God to guide them, instead of a complete stranger in a meadow or a beach or a bowling alley or a hotel ballroom who isn’t going to be there when you don’t think you can spend one more day with the person to whom you’ve committed your life. I promise them that it is all worth the love and friendship and aggravation and commitment.

As usual, I digress, again.

Well, those cookies were good, but, now, I sit here contemplating the two sessions of Zumba. Exercise is a lot like marriage. You have to do it even when you don’t want to, so you have to make it work for you. Maybe I could only do one Zumba session and walk the trail with the BFF. It’s a nice day. The sun is shining, and there’s a breeze, so who am I to complain? Life is good (mostly). Soli Deo Gloria!

June 25, 2015
by maggiex4 1 Comment

The Mayonnaise Wars

What is your family eating on the Fourth? Families have been torn asunder by variations in holiday traditions, especially by what goes on the buffet. While we’re celebrating the Great Melting Pot that is the Land of the Free, I’ll bet that you’ll encounter some cultural variation of potato salad on that table. (And, I hope, it will be properly refrigerated.) A hamburger is a hamburger is a hamburger, but how our mothers or grandmothers concocted their potato salad is often debatable. At least, it was in my family.

One of the tricks of creating and maintaining a happy relationship with another person is accepting their eating habits and preferences, and I’m not talking about meat-vs-meatless. We may grow up liking green pepper in our meatloaf and wind up with someone who just can’t abide it. You may grow up with mayo, while your beloved’s life was spent with Miracle Whip. And in my case, I don’t like either one. I was an innocent bystander in my family’s Mayonnaise Wars.

I was a really picky eater as a kid (and am still fussy). I still eat my hamburgers plain, with nothing on them, “just meat and the bun,” as The Veterinarian used to explain to the faceless speaker at the drive-thru. No mustard on my hot dog, even if it’s one of Detroit’s beloved “Coney Islands.” No mayo slathered on my Philly cheesesteak — or the cheese, either, for that matter. Just meat and grilled onions. Bottles of ketchup and mustard last for months at my house, unless The Daughter is spending a lot of time there. I’ve started writing the date opened on the top of my mayonnaise for my own safety, and I always open a new jar, if I’m preparing food for friends or strangers.

The Veterinarian accepted my taste (and texture) preferences and relished (pun-intended) taking anything off my plate that I wasn’t going to eat. He was a mayo eater, on anything, tuna salad, deviled eggs, hamburgers, cheesesteaks. My family swears by Miracle Whip, in tuna salad, deviled eggs, and egg salad. My Sister was always in charge of the deviled eggs at Easter, which meant she made two batches, one with Miracle Whip for her and My Mother, and one with mayo for The Daughter and The Veterinarian. I found them both abhorrent (the dressings, not my family) and accept that something creamy must be used to bind tuna salad, pasta salad, and, most of all, my celebrated Chicken Tarragon Salad. I just don’t want to taste or feel it.

Learning to cook means that you taste as you go. Once you’re an experienced cook, sometimes you can even smell when something’s seasoned correctly or even done. I can see and smell when broccoli or asparagus is done. I can see and smell when the dressing for my celebrated Chicken Tarragon salad is correct, because I can smell the appropriate amount of tarragon. I’ll give you the recipe for my Chicken Tarragon Salad another time, but, first, let’s play with our food.

We haven’t even talked about favorite mayos!

Some dishes just don’t need a recipe, and potato salad is one of them. I didn’t grow up eating potato salad because the only thing in it that I liked were the potatoes and the chopped celery. Not only do I not eat mayo, but I don’t eat egg salad because I also don’t eat eggs. Nor do I eat green pepper, raw or cooked, because it talks to me all night long instead of making the long, slow journey through my GI tract. I avoid raw onion, unless it is really sweet, like a Vidalia. Maui sweets are only barely acceptable.

The Veterinarian liked potato salad, and, what else are you going to serve with all-American hamburgers, hot dogs, and baked beans? I taught myself to make potato salad by recognizing the look and smell of the dressing. I would mix together mayo and a little prepared mustard and make him taste it. He would say, “More mustard” or “More mayo” or whatever. Eventually, I could tell by the smell and the color when I had achieved the correct balance. When I could do that, I could make any quantity without measuring anything. It was the balance that made the difference. “Do I smell only mayo?” Add a little mustard. “Is the smell too sharp?” Add a little mayo.

With July 4^th right down the block, you should experiment and make your own potato salad to please yourself. What kind of potatoes do you like? I prefer russet/Idaho for almost every potato dish. I like their flavor and texture. You may like redskin or new potatoes or even fingerlings, although I would stay away from the dark purple ones with a creamy dressing, because they look disgusting together. Scrub your potatoes and poke them with a fork. Starting them in cold water, bring to a boil and simmer them in their skins until a sharp knife inserted into the center meets resistance. You have to practice this one, because cooking times are dependent on the thickness and type of potatoes, 20-30 minutes. Properly cooked potatoes for salad need to be stiffer than potatoes to be mashed, riced, or baked, or they will completely collapse in the dressing. When done, remove from the hot water and immediately rinse in cold water. Drain and finish cooling on a rack.

When cool, you can peel the potatoes or just cut them into reasonably bite-sized chunks, small enough to fit into your mouth, big enough to be identifiable as potatoes. Set aside.

Here comes the fun part, the dressing. In a large bowl, combine mayonnaise and prepared mustard until you like the flavor. For six large potatoes, I would start with one cup of your favorite chilled mayo or Miracle Whip and add one teaspoon of mustard at a time until you like the flavor. Do you like the mustardy-taste? Add more. It’s like chemistry class, but you’re unlikely to cause an explosion (unless you don’t keep that mayo refrigerated).

Here’s where your potato salad becomes yours. You can add any or all of the following ingredients. Beyond the mayo/Miracle Whip thing, The Veterinarian liked crisply fried bacon bits in his potato salad. My Mother likes finely chopped green pepper. I always made my potato salad to suit me, not them, and used mayo, bacon bits, one mashed hard-boiled egg (because I hate eggs but acknowledge their contribution), chopped celery, minced sweet onion, and finely chopped red bell pepper (which isn’t bitter and doesn’t talk to me all night long). I also season mine with coarse sea salt, freshly ground mixed peppercorns (black, white, green, and red), a little celery salt, and a little onion powder. The latter two further disguise the mayo taste, for me.

Again, you need to taste it as you go along, and taste it just before you serve it, as the flavors will blend as they sit in the refrigerator. I only like just enough dressing to hold all the veggies together. If you like your potato salad creamier after you’ve tossed it all together, in a separate bowl, stir together a little more dressing and add gradually to the salad.

I’ve also seen people use fresh dill, celery seed, shredded carrots and radishes, and chopped pickle. I even make an elegant warm potato salad that uses a little truffle oil as a condiment. You toss warm dark purple and white fingerling potato chunks with a vinaigrette made with Champagne vinegar, a little Dijon-style mustard, 1 Tablespoon of minced shallots, and a very light olive oil, then drizzle on the truffle oil just to give it flavor. The warm potatoes soak up the dressing and look swanky on a plate with a steak or that grilled chicken that I wrote about last week. But it’s still potato salad, no matter how you gussy it up, and for the celebration of our nation’s declaration of independence, I think we ought to keep it humble, just potatoes and mayonnaise or Miracle Whip or whatever.

In The Mayonnaise Wars, love eventually conquered all. For The Veterinarian’s memorial service, My Sister made 12 dozen deviled eggs, all with mayonnaise, in his honor. It was the first platter emptied on the long reception tables with his favorite foods, including expensive French cheeses, which just goes to show you that we are a nation of folk who take comfort in the humble, so who am I to complain? Life is good (mostly). Soli Deo Gloria!

June 22, 2015
by maggiex4 Leave a comment

Attraction Satisfaction Survey

Everybody has an “Exit Survey” now. You get your car’s oil changed, and they email you a “How Did We Do?” survey. You spend two hours and 12 minutes on the phone with your cable company only to be told that they can’t restore your service, and they send you a “Customer Satisfaction” survey. [I made that up from the anecdotal reports of my family and friends. I can’t get no internet satisfaction in my neighborhood.] Even two centuries ago, the entertainment industry was asking. “Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how did you like the show?”

I’m thinking of creating an “Exit Survey” for my online dates. You know, how could I have been a better date, so I provide better service to others in the future?

For instance, am I a boring dresser? I’ve been told that I still have my “dancer’s legs,” so I try to wear a dress or skirt on a date, except once in the winter when it was really cold, and I wore leggings with a fitted, knit tunic, and booties. Another time, I wore a small fuzzy pink turtleneck with a faux black leather skirt, black tights, and the same black booties, which I thought was really hot, but, then, the date was so boring that I was dejected that I had wasted a hot outfit on a not-so-cool guy. Ditto a short skirt with gray suede high-heeled boots, which got a rave from the hostess at the restaurant but nary a word from my date.

Of course, I thought those outfits were hot, but, I’m a woman, so I only know what other women think is hot. The joy of having a long-term spouse is that they A). don’t notice and B). think everything you do is hot. The Veterinarian didn’t care much one way or the other. He once said that I dressed better than his mother, the implications of which are pretty unsettling, even 40 years later.

How much is too much make-up? I don’t wear a lot on a typical day, usually just lipstick to keep my lips from sticking to my teeth. My eyes are deep-set, and I’ve always had a problem with mascara. My eyelashes smack around my eye sockets every time I blink, so the mascara ends up making those raccoon circles around my eyes. I trained The Veterinarian and The Daughter to alert me when I needed to tidy them up, but, alas, now I am on my own, so I quit wearing mascara. As the years roll by, I’ve noticed that my eyes are disappearing, so, when I don’t want to look like one of the pale portraits of Elizabeth I, I haul out the eyeliner and mascara and blame the smudges on the “smokey-eye” look. Hmmm…it could also make me look like I just rolled out of bed, couldn’t it?

Fashion victim

I always make sure I wear 3-4” heels, because the only thing I lie about in my dating profile is my height. 5’ ½” just sounds unbelievably short, even to me, like a perky rodent or something. My profile says I’m 5’ 2”, which I’ve always used when I go on auditions, for the same height reason. Last week, I went on a lunch date in 4” wedges, all the while envisioning myself face-planted on the floor of the restaurant, like I had been almost three years to the day earlier on my 60th birthday. The EMTs told me that I was the third fashion victim to take a ride in their ambulance that day. I fell off my 4” platform wedges and fractured my patella (knee-cap) in two places and spent the summer in a brace. Happy Birthday, Old Lady!

Do you drink alcohol on a date or not? I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t get sloppy drunk on one glass of wine, but I’m picky about the wine that I drink and don’t want to stick the date with a $12 glass of pinot noir. I’d rather drink iced tea, since I don’t drink beer. And hard liquor? I think that sends the wrong message at lunch time, don’t you? PLUS, I spent years warning The Daughter about the risks of leaving a glass unattended on a bar, a magnet for all kinds of “date drugs.” I don’t want to explain to her how I fell victim to that old ploy. Do senior citizens drug their Old Lady dates? For what? To watch them fall off their shoes?

Is my vocabulary too obscure? I was IM-ing a prospective date the other day and used the word “ephemeral.” He texted back, “I have a graduate degree and don’t know what that word means. Here’s my number. Call me tomorrow, if you want to talk. I have to go let my dog out.” Yikes! Don’t need an exit survey for that one.

I laugh at my date’s jokes, even when they’re not funny. I try to keep my own info light and funny. I don’t talk about my late husband unless I’m specifically asked, and even then, I don’t cry or appear maudlin, because, well, I’m not maudlin. I don’t comment on politics or religion or sex, which no date has ever mentioned to me. Must be the racoon eyes. Well, at least they know what I look like in the morning.

Speaking of s-e-x, how much physical contact do you have on a first date with a stranger? Every one of the men has given me a hug, which seemed innocent enough, especially when I was wearing a coat. No one groped me or anything like that. And, how do you end the date? That never gets easier. What do you say? A handshake? Another hug? A kiss? If I say, “Let’s keep in touch” because I mean it, it sounds so vacuous. Everyone says, “Let’s keep in touch,” even when we know that we don’t ever want to see one another again. I always send a “thank you” email, which seems polite. If they respond to that, it might be a favorable sign…or not. Maybe it’s just best not to be polite and cut things off quick and, relatively, painless.

And I haven’t figured out, yet, if there is an appropriate point on a first date to say, “What, exactly, am I doing wrong that you keep looking at your cellphone every five minutes?” Maybe they’re coordinating their next dates. It’s a known fact that women over the age of 50 outnumber men that age 2 to 1, which is why we can’t find anyone to date us. We’re overdating them, wearing them out, and killing them!

Well, every woman for herself! I need to fine-tune my game-plan to remain competitive, and the “Attraction Satisfaction Survey” may just give me the ammunition I need. If not, maybe I can come up with a “Frequent Dater” loyalty program. Naw, I can’t think of any benefits I’d be willing to award.

Thank you for taking the time to help me perfect my dating technique, as I aim to be the best darn drinking/dining/hiking/traveling companion for ~~all~~ your reasonable dating needs! Your honest critique will provide a valuable service to women everywhere!

On a scale of 1 to 5, your overall satisfaction with our date was _______.

You found that my written online profile was…

the funniest profile you ever read.
the snarkiest profile you ever read.
completely misleading.
enigmatic.
None of the above.

When we met, your first impression was, “She looks…

…nothing like her photo.”
…like she sleeps in her car.”
…like she just rolled out of bed.”
…shorter than a 5th grader.”
…like my ex-wife’s poodle.”

While we chatted, you kept wishing that I had…

shown more cleavage.
laughed harder at your jokes.
been dumber than a 5th grader.
stood you up.
All of the above

Geographically, I…

am too far away.
am too close for comfort.
am undesirable.
am an alien.
couldn’t be found on a map by a 5th grader.

I (at age 63) most closely resemble which of these gorgeous, mature ladies…

Goldie Hawn (69)
Susan Sarandon (68)
Jessica Lange (64)
Christie Brinkley (61)
None of the above

On a first date, I should wear…

more make-up.
less make-up.
higher heels.
a 5^th grade Girl Scout uniform.
a bag over my head.

When ordering while on a date, I should…

skip the appetizer and go for the main course.
offer to share a single entrée.
choose the cheapest thing on the menu.
drink more alcohol.
not ask the server to “card” me.

If I have my own money, I should…

pay my share.
fight for the check.
let my date pay.
skip out while you’re “sharpening your skates.”
put a twenty in your pants.

From a male perspective, I most likely…

can’t attract a man smarter than a 5th grader.
am the scariest woman you’ve ever met.
will be sued eventually for defamation.
will never hear from you again.
All of the above

Finally, would you recommend me to a friend or family member? ______

Actually, I don’t need an exit survey to tell me that my customer attraction factor is really low. But my dog adores me, so, who am I to complain? Life is good (mostly). Soli Deo Gloria!

June 21, 2015
by maggiex4 Leave a comment

Happy Father’s Day!

whether your children have two legs, four legs, or no legs…

every girl needs a greek chorus

a blog about hope

Author Archives: maggiex4