Uncategorized | every girl needs a greek chorus

September 30, 2014
by maggiex4 Leave a comment

The New and Improved Me – Part I

[Squeamish men, be warned: contains graphic, but not porno-graphic girl-talk.]

“Turn to the left, “ he demanded in his quiet voice. I stood topless in front of his camera.

That well-worn adage of a Victorian mother to her virginal daughter on her wedding night whispered in my ear, “Just close your eyes and think of England,” as nervous laughter bubbled in my throat…

Sorry to disappoint you, but I haven’t started writing erotica. I’ll leave that to my friends who are good at it. This was not a Fifty Shades of Gray moment. Even as a lonely widow, there was nothing titillating or exciting about disrobing in front of a stranger, who was wearing a dignified navy suit, dress shirt, and tie, and having him poke, prod, and whip out a measuring tape to record the girth of my large, cystic, formerly-firm breasts with his soft, surgeon’s hands. [Ooooh! Maybe I could write erotica…]

behind a plaque

“Do you have any questions for me?” He asked.

I trembled slightly and timidly answered, “Will they grow back?” I don’t know which was more disheartening, standing with my sagging breasts and flabby white abs in front of his camera or hearing his answer,

“No, they aren’t likely to grow back…not at your age.”

“Not at your age,” screamed the irritating shrew who lives in my head, “It’s official! You’re old! You’re freakin’ old!”

The very professional plastic surgeon explained anesthesia risks and incisions and drain tubes and pain management and the slight chance of side effects, such as skin blistering, and all the other post-op concerns of reduction mammoplasty, aka Breast Reduction, but my brain tuned out.

The shrew in my head chanted, “Your ship has sailed, honey!”

I found the plastic surgeon through my friend—let’s call her Becca. During a visit to Grand Cayman, Becca extolled her own recent mammoplasty to me, as we sat in a hot tub, sipping Prosecco. I had been toying with the idea for 10 years. A former dancer with excellent posture, I was becoming round-shouldered and was tired of the constant pain in my neck, shoulders, and spine and the humiliation of trying to shop for clothes that would fit my five-foot tall frame with the 34G bust. I sank back in the warm water.

“You know what? I’m going to do it. Who’s the surgeon?” In an instant, I decided. Maybe it was the wine or the starry sky, but, two weeks later, after checking his credentials, I was undressed in his office.

“What size would you like to be?” He asked. I hadn’t thought of that.

“Ummm…a C?” He tilted his head and squinted at my chest.

“Well, I can’t guarantee that they’ll be exactly a C, maybe a B+.”

“Well, how about you just make sure they’re in proportion to the rest of me?”

“You said what?!” My friend—I’ll call her Georgianne—gasped when we met for dinner that night. “You’re going to let some man decide what your breasts are going to look like?” Following a nasty divorce two decades ago, Georgianne has her revenge by living well. With her trendy jewelry and trim suits, I always feel tacky standing next to her.

covered by a tea towel

“Well, I didn’t know what to say. It really doesn’t matter to me, as long as I can fit into my clothes and get rid of these backaches,” I replied. “And, besides, he has to take out enough tissue so it will be covered by my insurance.” Georgianne shuddered.

I set a date with the surgeon’s office, filled out a raft of forms, and completed my pre-op physical. I filled the prescriptions for Ambien and oxycodone, which I carefully shoved down in my purse when leaving the pharmacy. Aren’t those the kinds of drugs to which celebrities become addicted before they make big post-rehab comebacks on Oprah? I was more terrified of the drugs than of the surgery.

The Daughter, a registered nurse in the critical care unit of a major urban hospital, made sure I had a current Advanced Directive with a DNR order (i.e., do not resuscitate), in the event I should really be relieved of my pain through death-by-surgery. I knew I was good whatever came my way…I would either have fabulous new breasts, or I’d be having my first face-to-face with God. Both sounded doable.

Before dawn on the morning of surgery, fasted and starving, I showered with the prescribed antiseptic scrub, and the Daughter drove me to the hospital, where I completed another raft of forms. A nurse took me back to an exam area and handed me an ugly pair of gray, non-skid socks and a nifty surgical gown with unsnap-able shoulders, so easy to remove it must have escaped from a triple X-rated Adult Fashion store (wink, wink). As she snapped me up, she said,

“Oh, you’re so lucky! Everyone just loves this doctor. He did the same surgery on me.” I resisted the urge to examine his handiwork.

Another nurse popped in to take my vitals and gushed, “Oh, you’re so lucky! Everyone just loves this doctor. He performed the same surgery on both of my daughters.” I became concerned that I had been diverted to Stepford.

Then, the anesthetist came in to do her thing and smiled, “Oh, you’re so lucky! Everyone just loves this doctor…“ I waited to hear what he’d done for her, but we were interrupted by the arrival of the great man, himself.

“Good morning!”

The anesthetist scurried out, and the doctor closed a sliding glass door, pulled the curtain closed, and sat on a stool in front of me in his scrubs. I had to think for a minute if he was the same guy that I had seen for my consultation a month earlier. Without the navy suit, he looked much more chipper and much younger. He pulled out a 6-inch white plastic ruler, much like the one that the Veterinarian always carried in his scrub shirt pocket, and I giggled nervously (really, I’m not a giggler).

The surgeon used a purple surgical marker to draw a star at the base of my throat, and I became a living canvas. First, he drew a line with the ruler from the star through the center of my chest, followed by lines from the star to each of my nipples., and then big smiley faces under each breast and circles around the areolas, at which point my brain drifted to those visions of Victorian England. He sat back on the stool and considered his drawing.

“I’m like a carpenter—measure twice, cut once.” That’s exactly what he said. I kid you not. What kind of response can you make to that? I managed a smile.

He continued to look from breast to breast, my right to my left, tilting his head back and forth.

“You know,” he started, “this one on the right is bigger than the one on the left.”

I looked down. Well, no, I hadn’t noticed, but, then, I’m not a breast girl, myself.

“And it points in a different direction.” I nearly choked. No one had ever complained about it, not that anyone other than the Veterinarian, my gynecologist, or a mammography technician had ever seen it.

“I’m not sure I can fix that.” I didn’t know what to say. “And I won’t be able to suck out your armpit fat, because insurance doesn’t cover that.” Armpit fat? Who knew?

lost in baggy black

“Uh—“ I was at a loss for words, a rare occurrence. “Uh—well, that’s—uh—kind of—uh, my problem to deal with—I guess. I’ll—uh—have to work on that.”

He smiled indulgently at me, as if I was an imaginative and misguided child.

My brain threatened to flat line, as the nurse wheeled me into the OR, where the anesthetist waited with a cushion to put under my knees to relieve my sciatica. Again, I just blathered away, making jokes.

Unfortunately, the anesthesiologist wasn’t amused. He set up the IV and waited, then plopped the mask over my nose and said, “You need to breathe.” I took a couple of shallow breaths. “No,” he said gruffly. “You need to breathe deeper.” I looked at the surgeon, who smiled and took my hand in his.

“OK, OK. I’ll just close my eyes and go out gracefully.” I said a little prayer, took a deep breath, and was gone…

(to be continued)

September 23, 2014
by maggiex4 2 Comments

OMG! It’s Autumn!

My Fall Dilemma

OMG! It’s autumn! That means that winter is only three months away! What happened to summer? My hydrangeas never bloomed, and I have summer clothes that I never wore. (Well, they’re mainly tank tops that expose the worst parts of my arms, which shouldn’t be seen in public, anyway.)

In preparation, I bought an electric leaf blower, and my current dilemma is whether or not to blow leaves periodically as they fall from several hundred large trees in my wooded yard or wait until they all fall. If I start now, I’ll be bombarded by falling acorns. If I wait until the end of November, when all the leaves are down, I run the risk of an early snow turning them into four inches of slick mush that won’t blow at all. Looking at that mess all winter is too depressing to contemplate.

On Facebook, my friends wax poetic about sweaters, pumpkin recipes, and crisp fall air. The Daughter is planning her first Halloween party, and all I can think about is that leaves are falling, the days are shorter, and winter is setting in. My instincts tell me to grab my BFF Fiona and hunker down under a blanket on the sofa until March 1, 2015.

Living in Maryland, I’ve learned to fool myself into believing that autumn is really “Indian Summer,” until Thanksgiving, when the real autumn arrives on the Mayflower with John and Priscilla Alden and the other pious Puritans, followed by giant balloons and lip-synching celebrities on floats moving down Fifth Avenue in New York. (Yes, I know that is anachronistic; John and Priscilla didn’t marry until after they bumped into Plymouth Rock.)

Fall (September and October) was enjoyable as a child in Michigan. With my theatrical flair, Halloween was a favorite holiday, although we usually wore a winter coat over our costumes to trick-or-treat, which was a real downer. Then, there were high school football games on Friday night, college football on Saturday afternoons, and pro football on Sundays. Fall was preceded by hot, humid summer (June through August) and followed by long, nasty winter (November through May—read on).

In my head, winter actually starts the Monday after New Year’s Day. If I’m lucky, New Year’s falls on a Monday, which gives me one whole week to take down my Christmas tree. My goal is to vacation somewhere warm in January to lop off a couple weeks of winter. Football playoffs under the palm trees make it so much more bearable!

A season only a dog could love.

Snow at the holidays is delightful set-dressing. Snow on Groundhog Day is dirty, icy, hazardous, depressing filth. That’s why no one sings “Jingle Bells” or “Winter Wonderland” or “Let it Snow! Let it Snow! Let it Snow!” in February (whose only “musical” holiday is Valentine’s Day, which intensifies the depression.)

Still, winter here is better than winters that I remember from my childhood in Michigan, where the snow caked the sidewalks until it turned into layers of ice from November to April. As a college student at Michigan State, I daily wore a hat and scarf to cover my face, with only Vaseline covering the exposed skin beneath my eyes for protection from the wind. Crossing the campus from one side to the other was like a trek across Antarctica to the South Pole.

In Maryland, winter is supposed to last from January 7 through February 28 (with an extra, depressing day in Presidential Election years, aka Leap Year—watch out in 2016!). By March 1, Maryland is usually moving into spring, which I discovered when I moved here. It’s all snowdrops, pink and white dogwoods, and azaleas!

There was no spring in Michigan. Any season that required a special coat (yes, we had woolen spring coats) was not a separate season. Daffodils fought their way up through frozen clay in April. There was a snowstorm on April 11, 1957, when my baby sister was born, and there was snow on May 1, 1976, just before I moved to Maryland. This year, friends who live in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan (they’re “Youpers” to the uninitiated) reported that there were ice bergs floating on Lake Superior when they came south for a visit in June!

The Farmer’s Almanac says that winter 2014-2015 will mirror last winter, which lasted into April, which is why my hydrangeas haven’t bloomed! Keep your pumpkin pie. It’s time to plant bulbs, order two tons of wood pellets for my stove, stock up on ice melt, fill the generator with gas, and recharge the 12-volt batteries. A woman’s work is never done!

“Where’s the hope in all this?” I wonder. Let’s see…Time falls back at 2:00 am on Sunday, November 2, for an extra hour of sleep. The Ravens are playing their typical “It looks like we’re trying to lose this game but will pull it out in the last heart-stopping 10 seconds.” The Orioles may play the Tigers for the AL pennant, which is a win-win for me. I have Fiona to snuggle up with when the winds howl through the trees, and, after 6:03 pm, on Sunday, December 31, the shortest day of the year, the days will get longer again. I might make it, after all. So, who am I to complain? Life is good (mostly). Soli Deo Gloria!

To ward off the chill:

Cozy Crock Pot Cider

½ gallon apple cider

1 quart orange-pineapple juice

2 sticks of cinnamon

12 cloves, tied in cheesecloth

1 cup dark rum (or to taste – optional)

Combine all ingredients in crock pot and heat until warm, about 1 hour.

September 16, 2014
by maggiex4 1 Comment

Yes, I’m a Champagne sl**

Yes, I’m a Champagne slut.

Champagne Slut

That sounds just awful, doesn’t it? Visions of decadence dance in your mind, something like that awful hip-hop version of “The Great Gatsby.” Champagne makes me weak in the knees just thinking about it. Maybe it’s the sexy shapes of the bottles. Maybe it’s all the foil or the dangerous pressure that releases in a sweet sigh from beneath the stout little cork, held in place by the delicate wire muselet. Maybe it’s the glittering bubbles that race up the insides of the flute and foam the surface. Maybe it’s because it’s meant to be gulped, not sipped, so that all that mousse fills the mouth with tiny explosions. Maybe it’s the memories that fizz inside my head when I think of all the sparkling wine I’ve consumed.

Few things make me smile as much as a glass of Champagne sitting in front of me. And Champagne is sooo versatile. It goes with most every kind of food, and a glass before dinner fills me up with enough carbonation to act as an appetite suppressant. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

About 20 years ago, I met an importer of German wines, who conducted a guided tasting at our cavernous, local wine/liquor store. The Veterinarian planned to join me later, so I sat in the backroom of the wine store, surrounded by cases of beer, some baguettes, some water, and a few good friends. The Importer enlightened us with his expertise, and, an hour or so later, I staggered into the main area of the shop awaiting my ride home. Naturally, I stopped to gaze longingly at the rack of Champagne. Mr. Importer sidled up next to me.

“You like Champagne?” It wasn’t a pick-up line, just one wine aficionado chatting with another.

“It’s my absolute favorite,” I replied, “especially a brut rosé.”

“Me, too,” he sighed. “In fact, I’m a Champagne slut.” We burst into a wine-fueled fit of laughter. It sounded crazy, and it was so, so true. When the Veterinarian arrived, we shared the joke with him, and, from then on, we were the Champagne Sluts.

I once took a job as artistic director of a dance company because the college agreed to pay me $1 for every ticket that I could sell to The Nutcracker. We put enough butts in seats to buy me six bottles of Louis Roederer’s fabled Cristal cuvée. The next year, I brought in enough to buy an entire case. So, yes, I would do anything for Champagne. I argued with 50 children between the ages of 8 and 17, let them call me a “bitch,” and wrangled with their stage-mothers, so I could secure a case of really fine Champagne for my own needy family. Then, Champagne got too expensive and was no compensation for the torture that listening to Waltz of the Flowers a thousand times can inflict on a sane person, so I quit.

It’s not just for NY’s Eve.

25 years ago, you could get a nice bottle of non-vintage Champagne or good quality sparkling wine at a reasonable price ($18-30), especially if you bought a case and got a discount. We didn’t drink it like pop [See? You can take the girl out of Michigan, but you can’t always make her say “soda.”), but there was always a special occasion, a birthday or anniversary, an adoption, a holiday, a full moon, a hot tub, a roaring fire, whatever. Then, the price started to creep up. We gave up the expensive stuff and went in search of bargains on Champagne from equally wonderful but little-known (in the U.S.) producers, sparkling wine from the Loire and from the great Champagne producers working in California, and Prosecco from Italy. There was even decent sparkling wine from Spain, Chile, and — wait for it — New Mexico!

My Mother regularly gave the Veterinarian a bottle of non-vintage Veuve Clicquot for Christmas and, six months later, for his birthday. With the bright yellow label, it was the one bottle of wine she could pick out at the liquor store that she knew would delight him. It became his favorite brand because of the taste and became mine because of its name. Veuve is the French word for “widow”.

In the nineteenth century, my heroine, Madame Barbe-Nicole Clicquot (née Ponsardin), was 27 when she inherited her husband’s Champagne house and not only struggled to keep it and her family’s good name alive but revolutionized the production, marketing, and popularity of Champagne.[1] She remains known as La Grande Dame de Champagne, and Veuve’s best vintage is named her honor.

Memories

Three years ago, the Veterinarian sailed over the horizon, and the Daughter and I sat in our living room with two of our dearest friends and drank a bottle of Veuve in his memory. A week later, the night before his memorial service, we toasted him with another bottle over dinner with another group of dear friends. The perfect send-off for a Champagne slut by his own veuve.

Today, I don’t know if the renowned wine importer recalls a wacky housewife giggling with him over Champagne, but I am still a Champagne slut. The Veterinarian left me with a few bottles of real Champagne that I’ve been opening judiciously, interspersed with other sparklers, from time to time. But Champagne has a relatively short shelf-life, so I’d better have at it. After all, I have my slutty reputation to uphold. So, who am I to complain? Life is good (mostly). Soli Deo Gloria!

How to open a bottle of Champagne or sparkling wine

Opening a bottle of Champagne is one of my more ridiculous talents. I once opened a dozen bottles of sparkling wine at a wedding reception because no one else knew how to do it. Initially, I was a little embarrassed that I was so adept at such a frivolous task, but I served an important function on the couple’s big day. (It’s really not tricky.)

Let the bottle sit quietly upright so the pressure settles. (Chilling it upright in a bucket is ideal.)

Remove the foil from around the neck, and place a clean dish towel over the top of the muselet (the wire cage).

Working underneath the towel, untwist the loop and remove the wire from the cork.

Holding the cork away from your face, grasp it firmly with the towel, and slowly twist the bottle (not the cork), until the cork releases. You should hear a sweet little sigh, not an explosion.

The towel keeps the cork from shooting across the room and catches any spills.

Pour into a clean (ie, grease- and soap-free) flute.

Salut!

[1] The Widow Clicquot: The Story of a Champagne Empire and the Woman Who Ruled It, by Tilar J. Mazzeo

September 9, 2014
by maggiex4 2 Comments

Why I am a proud eHarmony reject

I went on my first date in almost 45 years last week. “How did I choose my date?” You might ask. I chose my date the way that we English majors do. He was the only man who wrote in complete, grammatical, correctly spelled sentences. We pleasantly spent two hours listening to him talk (I think he only asked one question about me), and he was gracious enough to pay for my tuna sashimi appetizer and half-priced glass of chardonnay, although I popped out my credit card and made an offer to pay my share. As I dashed off to a meeting, we concluded that we would “keep in touch.”

At least, he was literate. Not to put too fine a point on it, but many of the people at the online dating services write incomprehensibly, so I can only guess how they would sound over a glass of wine and tuna sashimi. A friend suggested that I should cut them some slack, as people tend to write in shorthand, these days, but, if you’re trying to impress a potential date, are you really going to use slang, incomplete sentences, obscure lingo, and basically write in such a way that she can’t understand what you’re saying, much less, who you are? And if she has made it clear that she is an English major…well, let’s not state the obvious.

It’s true that the Veterinarian, brilliant though he was, was a questionable speller of ordinary language. He could perfectly write any multisyllabic medical or scientific term, but he perpetually was confused by their, there, they’re and its vs. it’s. He never submitted any article for publication without running it by his in-house editor, moi. We attended the same schools and university, but he was a math-and-science guy, and I am a language arts person. I’m crossword puzzles. He was Sudoku. We complemented each other perfectly.

I don’t know how I became a grammar nerd. I can pick out the word that doesn’t belong in a sequence at a glance. Like a walking thesaurus, I can pick out synonyms, antonyms, oxymorons (or any moron), and onomatopœia and tell you when you need an Oxford comma or semi-colon. I grit my teeth reading some of the memes and shared posts on Facebook. I would worry about having OCD, but my house is a mess, and I’m happier in wrinkled jeans than in jeans with a crease. It’s just a grammar thing, one weird flaw in my otherwise sterling personality.

However, while I can spell it, I don’t remember the Pythagorean theorem without googling it and am pretty sure I’ve never used it in my real life. My tenth-grade geometry teacher once threatened to “hang [me] by [my] thumbs from the flagpole at 3:10,” if I couldn’t tell her why I could figure out a proof without being able to enumerate the steps.

“I don’t know, Mrs. Smith. I just looked at the figure, and it came to me.”

“That’s not possible,” she blustered. “You need to go step-by-step, logically. Here, try this one.” We spent the next 20 minutes with me giving her answers without being able to follow a “logical” process. She did not pin me to the flagpole, but she did threaten to keep me from advancing to Algebra II (which I breezed through the following year, by the way).

Now, I have taken my illogical self to online dating. It was suggested that more intelligent men (ie, the kind who use the Pythagorean theorem in real life) are on eHarmony. Match.com isn’t selective enough, I heard. You pays your money; you gets to pick. With eHarmony, you are required to take a lengthy “Relationship Questionnaire” to determine your match criteria before paying them huge sums of money to find the man of your dreams.

I don’t know what happens after you finish the quiz, because they rejected me. Halfway through answering questions about my assertiveness, my faith, my goals, etc., eHarmony congratulated me with a hearty “Most people don’t make it this far!” I found that a little weird but spent another 10 minutes thoughtfully considering my answers, some of which were met with a cryptic “Do you really mean this?” message.

My answers were all over the spectrum, not just on one end or the other or even all in the middle. I thought I was being really thorough and assessing myself carefully. Heck, I may not be expecting the man of my dreams on eHarmony, but I wouldn’t want to be as poorly matched as I have been on Match.com. I hit the submit button and waited for what seemed like an unusually long time. Finally, this popped up

Badge of Honor

Huh? It’s a dumb online questionnaire for a dating site, not an application to the CIA. I googled “eHarmony rejects” and read of people who were rejected because they were homosexuals (not I), atheists (not I), independent (could be) or assertive women. Ding-ding-ding-ding-ding! We have a winner!

Several writers suggested that the eHarmony matrix (the mathematical probability of matching people) doesn’t allow for “complex thinkers.” Well, there you go! It’s “mathematical.” It’s “logical.” I am not. I don’t see anything in black and white or even shades of gray. Sorry, guys, I’m all over the place. I’m creative, a singer, actor, dancer, writer. I just don’t fit into neat little boxes. Oh, well.

Well, it’s time to read this over for grammatical errors before I post it. “Spell-check” doesn’t work. I constantly re-read my posts on this blog and pick up errors and edit them. Honestly, I don’t know how you can stand to read some of my posts! I am my own worst critic. Maybe that’s my biggest problem. Maybe I need to lighten up. Who am I to complain? Life is good (mostly). Soli Deo Gloria!

September 2, 2014
by maggiex4 3 Comments

How I became a killer

It’s that time of year, again. No, I’m not talking about back-to-school or hurricane season. It’s that time when all cold-fearing creatures seek the dangerous shelter of my home.

Living in the woods, I have more than my share of things that creep, crawl, dart, and fly. I have spiders large and furry enough to speak, roly-poly millipedes, and centipedes big enough to use for dust mops. Ants in the spring. Stinkbugs in May. Beetles in June. Mosquitoes in July. Flies in August. Crickets in September. Mice in October, and the Second Coming of stinkbugs in November. Snakes all the time. According to Ecclesiastes, “For everything there is a season…a time to be born,” and, right now, they all are headed indoors for the winter, “…a time to die…and a time to kill…”

I hate the creepy crawlies. There is not a single one that I would call “friend.” I understand that they serve a purpose in God’s creation and/or the Cosmic Order of Things (take your pick, depending upon your religious preferences), but they serve no purpose in mine.

My heart still skips a beat when startled by an especially fearsome bug, but I was trained by the Veterinarian to remain calm. As a young bride, renting an apartment on a farm, I shrieked loudly, and he came running.

“What is it? Are you ok?” I pointed to the wall where a spider was quietly crawling to the ceiling.

“That’s it? A spider?” He was incredulous. “You gave me a heart attack.”

“Well, get it.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake. It’s just a spider.” He gently scooped it up in his hands and placed it outside the front door. “Don’t do that again.”

“It scared me,” I protested.

“It’s not going to hurt you. Just call me next time, but don’t shriek. I thought you were hurt.”

So, for 39 years, whenever I saw an insect bigger than a pencil eraser, I called him. Now, he’s gone, and I’m armed with my central vac and a can of Raid. I swoop in with the vacuum, suck up the interlopers, and spritz Raid into the running hose. Vacuum vengeance. Clean and painless — for me.

During stinkbug season, I keep the vacuum curled up in the dining room, ready and waiting. When I suck up a stinkbug (sometimes as many as a dozen a day), its little armored shell rattles in the vacuum hose as it spins its way down to the canister in the basement. Ahhh… I’m safe again.

It’s a little tougher with the snakes. Yes, I have snakes, black, garter, king, and ring-necked. As far as I can tell, they are all outside, but, occasionally, if I go into the crawl space to fetch a bottle of wine or check on the oil tank, I find the skins that they shed as they grow.

One of my resident black snakes

Also thanks to the Veterinarian, I learned not to fear them. The first time that my Mother met him, he had a boa constrictor twined around one of his biceps and a ball python around the other. It was “Back-to-School” night of our senior year in high school, and he stood about 10 feet from us. He opened up his letter jacket to show us his friends. My Mother managed to smile at him from a distance and mumble something like “Nice to meet you.” Then, she turned her head to me with a crazy look that silently asked, “Are you out of your mind?”

43 years later, my Mother and I sat in my kitchen, watching a five-foot-long black snake work its way up the enormous red oak that sits outside my window. Maybe it was the safety of the glass between us, but we weren’t at all frightened this time.

We were fascinated for 30 minutes by its maneuvering 15 feet straight up the tree, until, apparently, the effort became pointless, as the snake made a U-turn and headed back down, manipulating itself in the bark for support until it disappeared in the brush.

About a month ago, while relaxing on my deck with my Kindle and an icy adult beverage, I was horrified to see a six-foot-long black snake zoom past me, up the electric meter and siding, and disappear into the overhang of my roof. He’d better be up there earning his keep, awaiting the mice that will soon be nesting for the winter.

Ah, yes, mice, those adorable little creatures pulling pumpkin carriages, driving roadsters, and preparing fancy French dinners. In reality, they destroy Christmas ornaments, chew on wiring, shred toilet paper to make nests, and aren’t housebroken.

J’accuse!

We once had a cat named Buddy who was a great mouser. He learned to chase them into our walk-in shower and play with them at five o’clock in the morning, until I could rouse the Veterinarian or the Daughter to scoop them up and toss them outside. If Buddy couldn’t find anyone home to show the invaders the door, he eventually would dispatch them, leaving their headless carcasses for us to trip over. Buddy, too, has gone over the Rainbow Bridge or heaven or wherever, and left me to my own devices.

At first, I baited the cheapest wooden traps that I could find with peanut butter. (Nothing worse than hearing that cruel “snap” in the middle of the night with a momentary feeling of guilt, followed by intense satisfaction and sound sleep.) In the morning, I would approach the trap with a pair of barbecue tongs, carry it deeper into the woods, and toss the entire contraption into the brush. This seemed expensive, so I bought clever little reusable plastic traps that you bait and cover, so that you never see the victim. I carry the trap and its victim into the woods without the use of tongs, pull the release lever, and drop the little corpse into the trees without ever seeing it, and, presto! The trap is ready for the next hapless mouse.

Two years ago, I had my exterior doors and siding replaced, securing the premises against invaders of the none, two- and multi-legged kind. So far, the snakes stay out. I plugged up a hole between the garage and mudroom with steel wool, which has kept out the mice. Twice a year, I reluctantly spray insecticide around the perimeter of my house to dispel the pests that long to chew on the wood siding and the wasps that build nests in my light fixtures next to the doors.

I’m still trying to figure out how the stinkbugs get in, but the vacuum is at the ready. So, who am I to complain? Life is good (mostly). Soli Deo Gloria!

August 26, 2014
by maggiex4 Leave a comment

How I wandered into online dating

Tasteful lady disguise, 2014

Have you heard the pop song, “6-2” by Marie Miller, with the refrain “Lord, I don’t care what he looks like”? The Daughter and I laughed about it when we first heard it, as the singer goes on to ask God for her ideal man, which changes as the song unfolds.

Last week, I ventured into the world of online dating for the second time. I chickened out the first time after accepting a 30-day free trial offer. With the Daughter’s help, I carefully crafted my online profile, trying to sound intelligent and witty. Besides an essay, I was asked to describe myself and my preferences, which you can opt out of by selecting “No preference.” Well, you know me, I have plenty of preferences and made clear what they are. I even indicated what would be a “deal breaker” (eg., smoking). Despite all this, within 12 hours of posting my profile, my inbox was flooded with “likes,” “favorites,” and “winks” (don’t ask—I don’t get it, either). I found that I was “matched” with men who didn’t match me in any way, shape, or form. Not only were they from more than 50 miles away, but I didn’t match what they were looking for in a date.

For example, the very first match I got was for a man in Manhattan (NY, not Kansas). He sounded very interesting, a professional in the world of the “theater arts” with an “advanced degree.” But 200 miles is a little far for my first foray into what is, essentially, a blind date negotiated by strangers and computers. More improbable matches followed, so I did what most of you might have done, I took it down after less than 24 hours.

Last weekend, after speaking with several mature, sophisticated friends who found their admirable spouses through online dating, I decided that I might have been too impatient. They told me it takes six months or so to weed through the unsuitable and sometimes downright creepy people.

This time I paid for one of the “better quality” services, thinking the internet gods would be more selective, but, alas, it continues to be a nightmare. Yet again, in the first 12 hours after my profile appeared, I was bombarded by likes, instant messages, emails, and those pesky winks. In the first 24 hours, a man, who did not fit my profile preferences, not only asked me out for a drink but sent a follow-up the next day commenting that he had driven through my community and thought of me and demanded that I respond or click the “Not Interested” button. Guess which option I chose?

Geeky teenager blossoms into swan, Senior Prom 1970

Geeky teenager blossoms into swan, with the future Veterinarian, Senior Prom 1970

Actually, I have no dating experience. A smart-mouthed teenager, I didn’t have a single date until my senior year in high school. Yep, I was Sweet Sixteen and never kissed. A male classmate told me, “Oh, sure, lots of guys think you’re cute, but you’re such a— such a lady that they’re afraid you won’t go out with them.” All those Seventeen magazine articles about good manners and the right clothes hadn’t helped at all.

And then, out of the blue, one guy was impressed by my smart-mouthed remarks in our Sociology class, where we both challenged the teacher’s theories. That guy turned out to be seriously smart and kind, with an intense focus on where he was going in life, a love of music, theater, and art, not too shabby to look at, with great manners and even an appreciation for — ME!!! Knowing a good man when I saw him, I asked him out, latched on, and never looked back. I don’t think he ever knew what hit him!

Since then, I have learned a lot about men. They are all perfectly happy to be 12-year old boys, emotionally. They may excel at surgery, weld intricate pipes, command ships, or create the latest information technology, but, at heart, they never got past the age of 12. Their bikes now come from Harley, and their toys are more expensive and dangerous, but they remain boys. They buy expensive seats at sporting events and concerts instead of performing, but they live vicariously through their favorite athletes, action heroes, and rock stars. The most immature still think women in men’s magazines haven’t been airbrushed, or, even worse, they simply don’t care. I don’t know any real women striving to be Barbie (except the ones I see on reality television), so these guys will be waiting a lonnnng time.

I bring this wisdom to my current online dating experience. When asked to describe their perfect match, I actually saw a man say “a C-cup is a bonus, a D is a definite match.” OMG! Do you understand why I’m frightened? It’s unnerving that he thinks that the woman in my tasteful, ladylike profile picture is waiting for him to call. Oh, wait! He’s not a thinker. He gets the big red X.

Most of the divorced men want a woman who will “appreciate” them, who are “kind,” “patient,” and “calm.” WHOA! You work out those issues before you talk to me again. I ain’t that woman. Then, there are several Mr. “I can’t wait to spend time snuggling with you.” Ewwww! On a first meeting? In a public place? Get a dog, buddy! Better yet, get a therapist.

Or, how about, my late wife was “a real stunner, turned heads wherever she went, but I don’t expect I’ll find that again.” Oh, really? Well, since it’s impossible to compete with that, let’s not try.

Of the many men who have “favorited” [sic] my photo, I sent an email to one who sounded witty and compassionate and had some very similar life experiences. I guess he is not as confident as my high school boyfriend, because I’ve not heard back. OK. Works for me. Maybe I just scared the 12-year old boy in him.

Sadly, I’ve also seen widowers who detail how they cared for their late wives in hospice. It tears at my heartstrings, so I say a little prayer for them and move on. Either they aren’t ready to date, or they’re manipulative. Finally, my least favorite are the 62-year old men, in poor physical shape, who want a women under the age of 50. I look at my 62-year old self and think, “You’d be darn lucky to have me!”

This could be my dating dilemma. The Daughter says I should consider if a man is worthy of me before responding. Seems a little arrogant, but I think that’s the same advice that I’ve given her. I’m not looking for a lifetime commitment. I’d just like to have dinner or go to a movie with a sane, intelligent, adult male, not a 12-year old boy. I guess, I’ll just have to be patient. I enjoy being with my daughter, mother, sister, and girlfriends. Stay tuned. As the song says, “Lord, take your sweet, sweet time.” So, who am I to complain? Life is good (mostly). Soli Deo Gloria!

August 19, 2014
by maggiex4 Leave a comment

How I became a carb junkie

French Bliss

My name is Suzanne, and I’m a carb junkie.

Following a serious two month schedule of abdominal crunches that I found on Facebook, I read that you will never see your newly-toned abs, if you don’t get rid of the flab that covers them. Well, duh! Smack me upside the head! Then, I saw the comedienne Rosanne Barr on The Talk explaining a device that tracks activity and realized that I needed to get off the couch, away from the internet and silly talk shows, and get moving.

Giving the internet a chance to redeem itself, I searched Google and Amazon for a similar tracking device, and, having no sit-com residuals to fuel my spending, I chose a cheap little device called a “Fitbit.” Fitbit clips to a pocket or to my bra and not only tracks my steps and activity but also my eating habits. Uh-oh. I discovered that I consume too many carbohydrates. A lifetime of comfort has caught up with me.

When I was a kid, I was a picky eater, so carbs were a safe choice, not too spicy, but filling, with rich, complex flavors primarily derived from sugar, fat, and salt. When my high school friends snacked on apples from the apple machine, I enjoyed ice cream sandwiches and Tootsie Rolls from the school store. By the grace of God and youth, I weighed about 95 pounds. Ahhh…those were the days…

I craved potatoes fried in cast iron skillets or mashed with butter and whole milk or boiled and topped with melted butter; crispy hashed browns from the Nugget diner on Southfield Road; and, of course, any restaurant’s French fries. My Mother cooked real vegetables, made fresh salads, offered a variety of fresh fruit in season, but I wouldn’t touch them. I was a meat-and-potatoes girl.

In my multi-cultural neighborhood in suburban Detroit, I could make a meal of Italian bread with sesame seeds from Marino’s bakery on Allen Road, chrusciki (aka Angel Wings, powdered sugar-dusted, deep-fried Polish wisps of pastry) from Briggs’ Bakery on Park Avenue, or the Delray Baking Company’s Hungarian half-rye bread, which I ate toasted for breakfast. My southern grandma made the best cornbread in her mother’s cast iron pans, which she also used for her thin, crispy-edged pancakes. Her dumplings, rolled into thin, light strips and simmered in golden chicken broth or long-simmered pinto beans, remain unequaled.

In those days, carbs were delivered to your door. Not only did milk, egg, and produce deliveries appear, but Awry’s bakery came twice a week, offering bread, rolls, cakes, and cookies. Charles Chips and Q-Man (in the blue can) came weekly with chips, pretzels, and popcorn.

Thanks to The Joy of Cooking and Julia Child, I met pâté choux, formed into cheesy gougères and profiteroles, which, I was surprised to discover, I had eaten since childhood as Sanders’ “Hot Fudge Cream Puff.” When I finally got to Europe, I stuffed myself with pains au chocolat, baguettes jambon beurre, crispy tapas, risotto reminiscent of my Italian granny’s, baklava, scones slathered with Devonshire cream, Yorkshire pudding with roast beef, and Scottish shortbread. No truffles, foie gras, sweetbreads, or stinky cheese for me!

Closer to home I discovered jambalaya and pralines in New Orleans and tortillas, fry bread, and beans and rice in the Southwest and in Central and South America. Elsewhere in my travels, when I felt stumped by a culture’s cuisine, there was always some version of rice, couscous, or naan or something breaded and fried.

A little turkey, a few Brussels sprouts, and a whole lotta carbs, including cornbread

Unfortunately, I passed my habits on to the Daughter, who reminded me that on “snow days,” I baked homemade bread and “Snow Cakes,” devil’s food cake baked in a sheet pan and topped with my buttercream frosting. Oh, yes, and every Wednesday, on our way to her cello lesson, we stopped at Dairy Queen. And, oh, yes, every Friday night, the Veterinarian picked her up from swim practice with a pizza. Every holiday was carb-overload. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

So, here I am, six decades later, struggling to wipe carbs from my memory and my abs, following Julia Child’s advice, “Everything in moderation…including moderation.” The other day, I persuaded the Daughter to give me a couple of her McDonald’s fries—ok, ok, I ate six—maybe eight, but not an entire order. I accompanied My Mother to our local “authentic” Mexican restaurant and ordered the tacos de carne asada, grilled steak wrapped in corn tortillas. I ate the steak and nibbled on the tortillas, but, how many carbs were in that 14-ounce Margarita?

Keep the kale and sprouts, juice cleanses, tofu, yogurt, and sashimi. Give me the food of my life, the occasional pancake or cornbread from those same cast iron skillets, a slice of pizza or maybe pasta on a Sunday. [You know that there aren’t any calories on Sundays and holidays, don’t you?]

Daily, I’ll keep myself carb-happy with one slice of whole wheat toast in the morning or a dry, toasted frozen waffle. I’ll carefully measure croutons for my salads and count out a safe number of mini sesame bread sticks to munch with my six ounces of dry white wine or a handful of nuts instead of potato chips with my daily 64 ounces of water. Sigh. Homemade hot cocoa instead of chocolate soufflé. Yummy.

While I’m not earning many “badges” for my vigorous exercise regimen, my Fitbit sends me cheerful memos when I’m “In the Zone” at the end of the day (meaning my “Calories Out” exceed my “Calories In”), and I’m slowly and happily, dropping the lbs. It’s going to be a long trek to see my abs, but I’m on my way. So, who am I to complain? Life is good (mostly). Soli Deo Gloria!

My Hot Cocoa

1 Tablespoon best quality cocoa (I use Pernigotti)

2 Tablespoons sugar or sweetener equivalent

Pinch of salt

2 Tablespoons + 6 ounces skim milk

Mix dry ingredients in large mug. Slowly mix in two tablespoons of milk until smooth (a miniature whisk is great for this). Microwave on high for one minute. Stir out any lumps. Slowly mix in remaining 6 ounces of milk, stirring until smooth. Heat until warm, stirring occasionally. If you don’t use a microwave, heat the milk first and add to the cocoa mix, but I’m just waaayyyy too lazy for that.

August 12, 2014
by maggiex4 Leave a comment

How hope sustains me

We need a little hope, right this very minute. This morning’s media reports (print, broadcast, and you, my friends on social media) ran the emotional gamut from despair (Robin Williams) to generosity (the Ice Bucket Challenge to benefit ALS research). Since I claim that this blog is “about hope,” I jettisoned my originally scheduled post on my love/hate relationship with dogs for the brand of hope that has floated my boat through the crises of my life.

Turn away now, if discussions of faith offend you. Stay with me, if you’re curious.

In his letter to the believers (and non-believers) in Rome, St. Paul writes “…And we boast in the hope of the glory of God. Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us.[1]” [Romans 5:2c-5]

That’s it. That’s all I’ve got today. Life is a struggle. You’ve had yours. I’ve got mine. It’s not a contest, but, in the length of a life, it seems like a marathon. Married too young at 20, but I persevered. Hysterectomy at 24, clinical depression at 25, but I persevered. My father’s death from ALS when I was 33 (and he was just 58), but I persevered. Adoptive mother at 47, but I persevered. Suddenly a widow at 59 beset by legal problems, but I persevered. And, now, at 62, I persevere because God’s promise to redeem all the “problems” in my life is revealed continually.

Elsewhere, the news is grim. Ebola kills. Racism kills. Greed kills. Fear kills. Despair kills. Thus it has ever been for humankind, since recorded history began. Check out cave paintings and Gilgamesh and the Bible and the great writers of every civilization on every point of land on Earth. The Mesopotamia flooded, and typhoons and tornadoes, earthquakes and blizzards threatened creation every year. Plagues and insects killed creation every year. Feudal, tribal, and personal disputes killed, maimed, and injured creation every year. No amount of rationalization or evolution or legislation changed it.

Still, humans search for solutions and, in the process, tend the sick, bless the dying, soothe the suffering, and pity the afflicted (to paraphrase a prayer from the Episcopal Church’s Order for Compline). Whether I need to say something to God or not, I talk to God every day; whether things are going great or if I’m dealing with my own fears or those of others. There is hope every day, as God provides the answers for the problems that seem insurmountable. They rarely are the answers that I anticipate, but I am moving forward. So, who am I to complain? Life is good (mostly.) Soli Deo Gloria!

Prayer attributed to St. Francis of Assisi

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.

Where there is hatred, let me sow love;

where there is injury, pardon; where there is discord, union;

where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope;

where there is darkness, light; where there is sadness, joy.

Grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console;

to be understood as to understand; to be loved as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive; it is in pardoning that we are pardoned;

and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. Amen.

[1] New Revised Standard Version

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