You've got to be kidding

I know that designers have looked back to the 70's for inspiration this spring. Frankly, I remember the 70's as being a pretty poor decade for fashion, bell bottoms and peasant tops, but what do I know? Even so, I couldn't believe this dress that I saw at Belk on Sunday. It looks like something June Cleaver would have worn to scrub her kitchen floor. Actually, I'm pretty sure June would refuse to be caught dead wearing this dress even if she was just planning to clean that day. Since when do we start looking in our grandmother's closet for something to wear?

Warning, this post may induce nausea

Generally, I don’t cook on Sundays. We go out to breakfast. Dad’s on his own for lunch; I usually hear the rustle of cellophane as he unwraps a pack of Nabs. Then we have a sandwich for supper. Yesterday for some insane reason, I decided to try a recipe for split pea soup cooked in the crock pot. I’ve never made split pea soup before. I’ll never make it again unless I decide to pursue a career in special effects.

Who invented split pea soup? After they made that first batch, how on earth did they ever convince anyone in their family to eat it? Why did they decide to preserve the recipe for future use? The answer to all of those questions completely baffles me.

It was easy to make. Chop a couple of parsnips, carrots, celery and an onion. Add the split peas and two ham hocks. Pour in 6 cups of water and set the crock pot on high for 4-5 hours. I will admit that it smelled wonderful as it cooked. So I was hopeful when I took the lid off at supper time. Then I got a good look at the finished product.

You rarely see that color chartreuse in a food group. And I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a solid substance cook down so completely to the consistency of sludge without first being pureed. You could still see a few chunks of white parsnip and orange carrot, but that just made it more disgusting. Still, I’d made it and we were going to choke it down somehow.

I dipped up two bowls. A full bowl for me and a half bowl for Dad. Then I called him to supper. He stared in disbelief at his bowl. “Doesn’t split pea soup come out of a can?” he asked. “Yes,” I replied, “but aren’t you lucky that you’re getting the homemade version.” He looked very skeptical as he cautiously dipped a small spoonful. “It’s tastes better than it looks,” I assured him. He took a small taste and looked dubious. “It really should be eaten while wearing a blindfold,” I continued. He looked at me as if I were crazy.

“Just think how good it is for you. You’re getting multiple servings of vegetables all in one bowl.” He still wasn’t convinced, but he kept eating. It really wasn’t bad as long as you didn’t look at it. Every time I looked at my bowl, I felt vaguely nauseated. If memory serves, they used split pea soup in The Exorcist when Linda Blair’s head was spinning and she was hurling. It makes a great special effect, but when served in a bowl is distinctly unappetizing.

After supper, Dad assured me that he’d his year’s allotment of split pea soup. “But there’s a whole pot left,” I told him. He just shook his head. Fortunately, the ingredients were cheap, so I don’t feel too wasteful throwing it away. I tossed the recipe as well. I wouldn’t want to accidentally make it again.

Company's coming?

Last Friday afternoon Carol, the office receptionist, and I were discussing company and the amount of work involved in preparing for a visit. I told her that while I keep house good enough for myself and Dad, my house is not ready to receive company without plenty of advance warning. “I have one uncle that I don’t mind coming over at any time because I don’t think he’ll go home and tell the world what shape my house was in,” I shared.

An hour or so later, Carol came back to my desk and announced, “Your Uncle Thomas is up front.” After taking a moment to stare at her in disbelief, I went out to greet him. “Do you need a lawyer?” I called across the reception area. “Because we don’t handle criminal law.” Yes, I know Miss Manners just cringed, but Uncle Thomas and his friend, Joan, both laughed.

“We rode over to check on the monuments at the cemetery,” Uncle Thomas informed me. “Then we went by your house, but your father must not be home.” “Is his car in the driveway?” I asked. “Yes,” came the reply. “But he doesn’t answer the door and we called the house, but no one answered the phone.” “If his car is there, he’s there. He doesn’t hear the doorbell and he refuses to answer the phone even if he does hear it ring,” I told them.

It seemed silly for them to have come all that way; they live 3 hours away, without seeing Dad. On the other hand, it also seemed silly for them to have come all that way without giving us any advance warning. I realize it was just a quick visit, but a heads up would have prevented the situation in which they now found themselves. I couldn’t leave the office to go let them in. Calling the house would do no good because Dad won’t answer the phone. I wasn’t giving them my house key because what if they forgot to give it back or leave it at the house when they left, which would probably be before I got home. How would I get in the house?

I offered the key to the padlocks on the gates. “Then you could go around back and knock on the back door. He’s probably sitting in the den and he’d hear that.” Uncle Thomas shook his head. He didn’t like that idea. “We thought we’d hear your dog bark when we knocked,” Joan told me. Since they weren’t carrying bacon and they weren’t me, I’m sure Dillon just kept lying on the bed, waiting for them to go away. He’s not like Katie who barked at everything. I’m the only person that Dillon is guaranteed to run to the door barking to greet. “You’re not driving a garbage truck,” I told Joan. He had barked at the garbage truck that morning.

I finally suggested they drive back to the house, pull up in the driveway, and keep honking the horn until Dad came out to investigate the noise. That was Dad’s suggestion the last time we had this problem. “Won’t that bother your neighbors?” Uncle Thomas asked. “Probably not and there‘s no other option,” I answered.

They left to give it another try. Carol asked if that was the uncle, I’d referred to earlier. “No,” I said, cringing as I mentally reviewed the state of the house. From listening to Joan on previous visits, I get the impression that she keeps a very neat house. She talked about dusting all the books on the shelves and washing the windows regularly. I rarely dust anything and I don’t do windows. I hadn’t vacuumed in a week and I’d have cleaned the bathroom if I’d known we were expecting company.

When I got home that night, I asked Dad if Uncle Thomas had finally gotten his attention. Dad claimed to have been out in the shed in the backyard the first time they came. If they honked the horn the second time, Dad didn’t hear it. He just happened to look out the window in the garage door as he was passing through on his way to his room and noticed a strange car in the driveway. “I wondered who the devil was in our driveway,” he groused. “When I went out to look, Joan was sitting in the car and Thomas was banging on the front door.” Dillon still wasn’t barking, but he did venture out to check on things after Dad let them in.

I just shook my head. Anyone coming to visit needs to give us plenty of advance notice, particularly if they expect to find the house clean, or bring one of those really loud can air horns or personal alarms. Although I won’t swear that Dad would hear those either. Otherwise, it’ll be a case of sheer luck if Dad happens to notice they’re there. Katie was a big help because she did charge to the door barking if anyone knocked or rang the bell. Dad was always telling her to be quiet, but at least he was alerted when visitors arrived.

I’m beginning to think I need some of those fake security alarm signs to make the bad guys think the premises are protected. Obviously, Dad and Dillon aren’t much good for threat awareness and deterrence. Maybe I should post some Beware of Dog signs because otherwise potential burglars will never know there’s a dog on the premises unless they happen to notice him on my bed when they’re robbing us blind.

Y'all come see us now, ya hear!

Enter at your own risk

I drive a ’95 Toyota Camry. I took advantage of the spring-like weather over the weekend to wash it. I even used tire foam on the tires. It was lovely to see the paint sparkling in the sun with those shiny black tires. Unfortunately, my initiative ran out before I got to the interior of the car.

Yesterday as I was leaving work, my boss asked for a lift to pick up his car, which was in the shop having a flat tire repaired. "No problem," I said. Then I remembered what the inside of my car looked like. As I was handing him some files, I told him that while I’d washed the exterior of the car, I hadn’t gotten around to cleaning the interior. “So, you enter at your own risk,” I warned. “That’s fine,” he said, blithely unaware of what the inside of my car actually looked like.

As we went out the office door, I told him that the first thing I had to do was shovel out the front seat so he could get in. “Well, you straddled the files in the floorboard of my car yesterday.” That was true, but that was small potatoes compared to the crap thrown into the passenger seat and floorboard in my car. As Tom waited, I tossed an umbrella and audiobook into the back seat and swept an old towel onto the console. Then I started scooping up handfuls of napkins, grocery lists and coupons, receipts, sunglasses, a pair of leather gloves I’d forgotten about, a tire gauge, and assorted unidentified objects into the already full box resting on the floorboard.

“I started using the box so that I could move my stuff out of the way when people rode with me,” I said, as I continued to throw handfuls into the box, whose contents were now spilling over onto the floor. “I could sit in the back,” Tom volunteered gamely. “You really don’t want to do that,” I said. “That’s where the dog rides.” A dog seat cover that’s full of dog hair and dirt covers the backseat and an old beanbag-style dog bed is wedged between the front and back seats to prevent the dog from falling onto the floorboard when I brake. There’s no way a person could sit back there unless they wanted to ride with their knees under their chin and emerge covered with dog hair and dirt.

I finally had the seat empty so that Tom could sit, but he was on his own to find room for his feet. I’d have gotten a hernia if I’d tried to lift the box off the floor and across the console. The tire shop is only a couple of blocks from the office and he probably could have walked there in the time it took me to make room for him. I must say, he was much more gracious about my mess than my father or Marvin, both of whom make disparaging remarks whenever they hitch a ride with me. Of course, he was probably mentally reviewing his health chart to try and remember when he last had a tetanus shot and adding a trip to the drycleaner to his to-do list.

When I shared the story with Dad, he just laughed hysterically. When Marvin stopped laughing, he suggested I clean out the interior of the car. “What’s the point? It’s after the fact now,” I griped. “You’d be ready for next time,” he pointed out. “Do you seriously think he’s ever going to ask me for a ride again?” I asked. “Well, you’ve got a point there,” he agreed. On the bright side, Dillon doesn’t press his face to the windows like Katie did, so at least the windows weren’t covered with dog drool and nose prints.

A taste of spring

It's spring here, absolutely beautiful. I'd be thrilled except I know Ohio weather: It snows in March and then come the tornados. Today, singing birds, tomorrow flying cows.

- Jennifer Crusie

I'm a huge fan of Jennifer Crusie. She writes wonderful dialogue and she's a master of snark. Her books always leave me entertained and amused.

It was in the mid-70's here yesterday. One of those days when it's warmer outside than in, so I opened the screen doors and the windows to air the place out. When Dillon and I left for our walk, I was wearing a white cotton shirt and a lightweight twill jacket. I was carrying the jacket on the way home. I sat in a rocking chair on the back porch to drink my second cup of coffee. Dillon stood at the door, wanting back inside. We have different ideas of luxury.

While I'm eagerly grasping every small sign of the coming spring, I am still glad to be enjoying one of winter's greatest pleasures, lounging around the house in my flannel pj's. There's nothing more comfortable than coming home from work and donning my pj's and slippers. I'm particularly enjoying the silly kissing monkey pair that I got for Valentine's Day. Their pink cheeks and flying hearts on a periwinkle background make me happy.

The Light

Can't you just feel the warmth of the sun? I love, love, love this painting by Kimberly Kelly Santini. She's the artist behind the Painting a Dog a Day blog. She features the occasional horse and kitty as well. I think she's fabulous.

A piece of advice

Oh wait, you didn’t ask for my advice. In which case, perhaps I should refrain from offering it. A lesson my father would do well to learn. When I casually mentioned yesterday that I had quit Kiwanis, I was club secretary for the past 4+ years, he immediately frowned and launched into a lecture on the importance of cultivating contacts and the benefits of networking. As if I knew nothing about such things.

Given that I quit two weeks ago, after considering the decision for the past year, without asking for his input or advice, I don’t know why he thought I’d want his opinion after the fact. He didn’t bother to ask for the reasons behind my decision. Frankly, I resented being lectured on the benefits of community involvement by someone who has never, to the best of my knowledge, been a member of a civic organization and in fact can’t even be bothered to officially join the church, after switching his membership, because he’d have to actually attend in order to do so.

I finally had to point out that the deed was done and nothing he said at this point was going to change my decision. He shut up then. I decided to stick to the old adage if you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all and instead of pointing out his do as I say not as I do attitude and the fact that I’m a middle-aged woman perfectly capable of making my own decisions, finished my lunch and supper in silence. I do a superior silent treatment.

It’s not as if I’m not involved in the community in other ways. I still volunteer as a Reading Buddy and I’m still in the handbell group. Perhaps he should get out of his chair and follow his own advice instead of using his hearing loss as a crutch that enables him to avoid social interaction. Helen Keller was deaf, dumb and blind but managed to live an amazingly full life of her own.

But since he hasn’t asked for my opinion, I’ll refrain from offering it.

Happy Valentine's Day!

"Love is patient, love is kind, it does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs."
— 1 Corinthians 13:4-5

Obviously, I have quite a ways to go before I measure up to all of that. This blog is a prime example of keeping a record of wrongs! Perhaps I made a start when I baked Dad his very own apple pie for Valentine's Day. Hope yours was sweet.

Suits me to a T

My favorite stores both begin with a T, Talbot's and Target. My spring wardrobe is off to a great start. I got the skirt from Talbot's. I had a discount card and a Christmas gift card burning a hole in my wallet. The skirt is linen and I can see wearing it almost anywhere. It even has pockets. I just love it. Skirts are so much fun in the summer. They're comfortable and a lot easier to fit than pants and shorts.

Then I found these cute sweaters at Target. I bought the navy stripe one yesterday. It looks great with my new skirt and with my jeans.


I bought this green one on sale a couple of weeks ago. I think I paid $20 for it. There's one that's remarkably similar in the new Boden catalog priced at $98. The Boden sweater may be better quality, I've never bought anything from them so I can't vouch for that. But given that it's essentially a novelty sweater in this season's hot color, I'm quite pleased with my Target version.


Target has some cute things if you look. I got a pretty scarf too for only $12.99. Of course, their clothes are sized much smaller than I normally wear. I have to buy their sweaters in x-tra large. But given the price, I don't object to going up a couple of sizes.

It's a tie?

I made a chicken pie casserole yesterday with broccoli on the side. I added a baked butternut squash to my plate. I didn’t offer Dad any because he’d made his feelings about butternut squash quite clear the last time I served it. He’s not a fan. Even though he’s never tried it.

The whole time we were eating, he kept glancing over at my plate. Finally, he asked what I was eating. I told him it was butternut squash and last time I served it, he’d channeled his inner two-year-old, screwed up his face, and went “ewwww.”

“I did what?” he asked. I repeated my earlier statement, complete with facial grimace. “That sounds about right when it comes to my opinion of squash,” he laughed. ““So I’m not offering you any. You reap what you sow,” I replied. “You must like it,” he said. “I rarely cook things that I don’t,” I answered.

“It’s nice that you like so many different foods,” he said graciously. Leaving me to wonder who looked more like the two-year-old this time.

Can you hear me now?

I made Dad’s doctor appointments yesterday. One to have the wax cleaned out of his ears and one with the gastroenterologist. I kept all my notes on the half-page newspaper ad for the gastroenterologist that he’d given me when asking me to make the appointment. There was a lot of white space in the ad, so plenty of room to write. There were two dates that he’d specifically asked me not to schedule because he already has appointments on those days.

I kept all my notes segregated by topic. The ear appointment went on the left side of the page. The do not schedule dates went on the top of the page. The gastroenterologist notes went on the right side of the page. I should have typed up a memo, perhaps with bullet points. Because my notes weren’t clear enough for Dad. Of course, that’s the story of all my communications with my father. It’s sort of like the Verizon commercial, “Can you hear me now?”

I handed him the newspaper ad and pointed out the relevant notes as I briefed him on each appointment. His forehead creased in confusion. I went over it all again. “But what are these two dates at the top?” “Those are the dates you told me not to schedule.” “So, those aren’t dates for the gastroenterologist.” “No, they’re the dates you told me not to schedule.” “Because I thought maybe you had me scheduled for three dates.” He’s supposed to go by prior to the actual appointment to fill out some paperwork so they can access his medical records, but there is no set day or time on which he has to do that.

Then he pointed out the notes on the ear doctor. They want him to come in ten minutes prior to the appointment to update some information. “But they already have all my records. Do they want my test results?” “No, they’re the ear doctor, they don’t care about your gut. They just need to update some information.” “They don’t care about what?” “They don’t care about your gut,” I repeated, gesturing towards my stomach. “But they already have all my information.” “All I’m telling you is what they said. I don’t make the rules,” I replied in exasperation.

After we finally got the schedule straight, then it was on to location. He’s been to the ear doctor before, so after we established that he was going to the same office again, not to Rocky Mount, we were clear on that. Then I started trying to explain where the other doctor’s office is located. Naturally, he kept looking confused. I finally pointed out that he has nothing but time, so if he’d drive over to the hospital and attempt to follow my directions, he was bound to stumble upon the correct office eventually. It’s not like I’m sending him into the wilds of Africa or the heart of New York City. He manages to find the location of the yard sales and auctions he’s interested in without my help. “Will someone send out a search party when I get lost?” “The question is will anyone care?” I shot back.

He took my notes and headed for his calendar. Heaven knows what he wrote down. My patience had disappeared much earlier in the conversation, so I didn’t follow to see what he wrote. I probably should have kept a copy of my notes because I guarantee there will be more questions. Can you hear me now?

Okay, that's just going too far

The post office returned a couple of Valentine's I'd mailed, saying they required extra postage. I don't send nearly as many cards as I used to, but there are still a few old family friends who aren't connected to the internet, so I try to send them the occasional snail mail update. This morning, Dad wanted to know what was in the envelopes. I explained that they were Valentine's. "Where did you get them?" "From the card box in the garage." Mom had hundreds of greeting cards for just about every occasion and we've been slowly working our way through them.

"We haven't heard from so and so in a while, and I can't call them. Would you send them one?" he asked in a plaintive tone. EXCUSE ME? You don't have to be able to hear in order to choose, sign, stamp, and mail a greeting card. I like these people too, but that's not the point. He's perfectly capable of sending his own cards. He does it all the time.

He's way to into this personal servant thing. As Barney Fife would say, "You've got to nip it in the bud." It's obviously too late, but I proceeded to try when I informed him quite firmly in a very exasperated tone of voice, "The cards are in the garage. You're perfectly capable of sending your own." He walked off looking wounded. Barney's words are still ringing in my ears, "Nip it. Nip it in the bud."

How old is your father?

Dad goes to almost any lengths to avoid having to talk on the telephone. He won't answer the phone if it rings and he won't make any of his own phone calls, leaving me to play the role of secretary/personal assistant. Although I have noticed there are some calls, mainly involving financial matters, that he does handle for himself. So obviously he can hear on the phone if he really wants to. He just prefers to have me do the grunt work and the socializing. He's become really lazy in his old age.

This morning, he handed me a piece of paper and instructed me to call and schedule an appointment to have the wax cleaned out of his ears. I put the piece of paper on my desk to call after I finished breakfast. When I got ready to call and looked at the name that he had written down, Park Avenue Pediatrics, I thought that sounded strange. However, he'd stressed that I tell them that he wanted an appointment to have the wax cleaned out of his ears and the one time that I was in the doctor's office when he was having that done, the nurse had commented that she'd never seen an adult with such a small ear canal, that it was more like a child's. So, I thought maybe his doctor had recommended that he go to this pediatrician's office.

I called the number and when the phone was answered, "Park Avenue Pediatrics," I paused for a moment. Usually when making calls, I begin with my name. I don't give as much weight to anonymous calls when I'm the one answering the phone and it's been my experience that is usually the case when others are answering the phone. However, this time the little voice in my head whispered, "Don't tell them your name." I had a feeling this call was going to make someone look like an idiot and I'd prefer that it not be me.

"My father gave me this number to schedule an appointment to have the wax cleaned out of his ears," I said hesitantly. "This is a pediatrician's office. How old is your father?" the woman on the other end inquired. "He's 85, so I thought it was kind of strange he'd have me call this number," I answered. "We're a pediatrician's office," the woman repeated. "I think you need to call somewhere like Roanoke Clinic."

I thanked her and hung up, grateful that I hadn't given my name and that I have our name and number blocked on outgoing calls. I figure that call just got added to the list of "You're never going to believe this one," calls that every business receives. I definitely prefer to remain an anonymous entry in that hall of fame.

I went out to the den, handed Dad the piece of paper and pointed out that the name he'd written down was a pediatrician's office. "They don't do adults," I informed him. He fetched the telephone book, turned to the yellow pages, and pointed out a heading that read "Physicians & Surgeons-Pediatrics, Otorhinolaryngology (Ear, Nose & Throat)". The sole listing underneath the block heading was for Park Avenue Pediatrics. The way the yellow pages lists physicians can be confusing, but it does look like he'd have realized that the doctor's office he went to before wasn't listed. Yes, the heading included ear, nose and throat, but the fact that it began with the word pediatrics, should have given him pause.

I asked for the name of the doctor he'd been to in the past. He had a card in his room, but the address was in Rocky Mount whereas before he'd seen him in town. "I suggest that the next time you're out, you ride by the office and see if they're still there," I instructed. "Because I'm not calling any more pediatricians."

When Dillon and I returned from our walk, Dad had found the postcard the physician's office had sent and the listing in the phone book. He also handed me the newspaper and pointed out an ad for a new gastroenterolist that the hospital has recruited who is advertising for patients. I called and left a message, which required that I leave my name. Hopefully this phone call will be less embarrassing than the first I made for him today. Personal assistant to an old man is not a position I recommend.

Hits and Misses

When I said I was going to pull for the football team with the fewest convicted felons, I didn't realize that Ben Roethlisberger was the quarterback for the Steelers. He may not be a convicted felon, but it sure did make it easy to pull for the Green Bay Packers.

Christina Aguilera could have gotten every word of the National Anthem right and I'd still have hated her performance. Why can't they just sing the song like it's written? My vote for best rendition of the National Anthem at the Super Bowl still goes to Cher.

The Black Eyed Peas may not be quite as over-the-hill, past-their-prime as previous half-time performers have been, but they were still lame. If I were a performer asked to do the Super Bowl half-time show, I'd retire. There's no clearer signal that your best days are behind you.

I thought this year's commercials were better than the last few years. I loved the Doritos ad with the pug running toward the door and the teasing jerk finding himself with his nose smashed against the glass. On the other hand, Doritos also won my vote for most disgusting commercial with the Doritos crumb ad. YUCK! Closely followed for most tasteless by the Teleflora rack ad. I guess they figure men are the ones who order the most flowers on Valentine's Day, so it's okay to go raunchy and boorish?

The VW ads were both good. How could you not like the one with the little boy, dressed as Darth Vadar, starting the car? That was practically a Hallmark moment. I even liked the one with the beetle that ended in a silhouette of the new version of the Bug.

The Bridgestone ad with the beaver avoiding becoming roadkill and then returning the favor later was another good one.

The Budweiser ad with the bar full of cowboys singing at the end was dumb. Why did they pick an Elton John song? Wouldn't oh, say, Toby Keith have been more in keeping with their target audience? (That's not intended as a compliment, by the way.) He even had a song called Beer for My Horses.

Frankly, I thought Super Bowl ads were better when they focused on the horses as opposed to the horses' asses among us.

Channeling Betty Crocker

I'm feeling very domestic and self-satisfied. It's been cold and gray and rainy today, really dreary. Just the perfect day to spend in the kitchen. Except that I don't really enjoy spending time in the kitchen all that much. However, I do enjoy eating the fruits of my labors and listening to a Margaret Maron Judge Deborah Knott mystery while I worked lightened the load.

We had homemade lasagna for lunch. The recipe I use came off the side of the Mueller's lasagna noodle package and is very basic, but tasty. It filled the house with a wonderful aroma while it was baking. My mouth was watering by the time it was ready. Dad and I both went back for seconds of all that lovely tomato sauce (thank you, Paul Newman) and rich mixture of ricotta and mozzarella and parmesan. Yum. I don't know why I don't make it more often.

Since the oven was already heated, I mixed up a recipe of chocolate chip pumpkin bread. I've been making pumpkin bread for years, but just started adding chocolate chips when I came across a new recipe around Christmas. I've been hooked ever since. It's my new breakfast of choice. Chocolate chips are a wonderful way to start the day. Why wait for dessert?

Then I baked Dillon a batch of applesauce cinnamon dog biscuits shaped like hearts. Valentine's Day is right around the corner after all. Who better to spoil than my sweet boy?

Dad came out on the short end of the stick as usual. I didn't bake him a new dessert. Before you feel too bad for him, he's still working his way through the Cherry Black Forest cake I made him at the beginning of the week. Pillsbury has a sugar-free devil's food cake mix. You team that with sugar-free cool whip and Comstock reduced sugar cherry pie filling and voila, Cherry Black Forest cake. Dad even commented that it looked like a Valentine.

Since Dillon and I didn't walk today, I worked out for an hour. Now I don't have to feel guilty about indulging. Besides, tomatoes and pumpkin and chocolate appear on many lists of healthy foods. And as far as I'm concerned, sugar is one of God's gifts, not Satan's temptations.

Who Knew?

My father has long favored what Mom and I always referred to as high-water pants. Mom and Dad had heated discussions about pants length. He always wanted her to hem them way too short. She refused, he'd walk around with the hem of his jeans rolled up to his preferred length. Who knew he was such a fashionista? Perhaps, all these years we simply didn't appreciate his European sense of style.

These photos are from The Sartorialist blog.

On The Street.....Layering, Florence (That would be Italy, not South Carolina.)


The Best of Junya Watanabe, Paris


I'm sorry, don't you think this guy looks like someone dressed in clothes he picked up cheap at the Good Will store? And angrily embarrassed to be seen wearing them in public?

Super Sunday?

I haven't been a football fan since the days of Broadway Joe Namath. I do make a point of having the Super Bowl on every year so I know what commercials everyone is talking about and can see the half-time show. Frankly, the Animal Planet's Puppy Bowl is usually more entertaining.

I wasn't even sure who was playing this Sunday. I asked Dad at lunch which team had less convicted felons playing on it, so I'd know who to root for. Football players seem much more prone to behaving badly than hockey players. Which is sort of odd given that hockey is the only sport that condones fighting between players during a game. Dad laughed and said probably Green Bay. His logic being that the area is so sparsely populated that there is less opportunity to get into trouble.