Omen of the Scarlet Ibis

I'm still thinking about animal encounters and today want to share my tale of the scarlet ibis.

But first a bit of background material: The scarlet ibis, red as a St. Louis cardinal, is native to South America, particularly Trinidad and Tobago.

For a scarlet ibis to be seen on Fort Myers Beach is a rarity. To see him each evening at the same time flying above the back bay with a flock of white ibis, all heading to roost, creates much excitement on our small barrier island.

People stop their day in an attempt to catch sight of him. I myself had tried on several occasions to see him and had dragged my husband to the back bay more than once at 6:15. But we either weren't quite timely or the light was such that you couldn't quite make him out as the flock flew over your head.

And now let my tale begin... 

There once was a couple (whom we may as well call Kenny and Laurie) who traversed this great country with all their belongings on enough occasions that their friends and family tended to lose track of where they'd been at certain moments in history.

This couple continued to soothe their restless natures even after their children were born.

It should have come as no surprise then that their first born (whose favorite color happened to be red) would reach an age where he, too, felt compelled to leave home and seek his fortune in another land. (Let's say for the sake of argument and accuracy that this young man chose the land of St. Louis.)

His announcement of his intentions caused his parents (well, mostly his mother) a great deal of angst and worry.

One evening the father in this tale decided to take his boat into the back bay to fish. After he left, the mother in this tale stepped onto her second story deck and called her son. As she listened to him speak of his departure, she wished with all her heart for an omen to be delivered to her. Some sign that all would be well with her son.

At that very moment she looked up and to the right. She had not paid any attention to the time but there they were. The flock of white ibis were making their way towards her and, as she was high above the ground, she saw him for the first time. The scarlet ibis.

And he was as red as a St. Louis cardinal. As red as the St. Louis Cardinal shirts her son most often wore. The scarlet ibis flew past and away from her.

She became teary-eyed in her thankfulness as her son continued to talk.

Later, she heard her husband walk through the front door. She ran out to greet him and tell him what had happened. But before she could say anything, her husband cried out to her, "You'll never guess what I saw!"

He, too, had seen the scarlet ibis fly toward and then away from him, at the same moment as she. At the same moment their son spoke of his departure from them.

And so the hearts of this couple (well, mostly his mother's) were soothed. All would be well their son. 

I do understand. The problem with anything perceived to be an omen is that its inherently wrapped in a certain degree of wishful thinking. Yet, some moments come together in such a serendipitous fashion that you're left wondering...could they be anything BUT an omen. Such is life for those paying attention to such things.

Odd Encounters

Animal encounters, strange or otherwise, aren't a surprise when you're hiking or camping.

But you hardly expect to have such encounters when you're antiquing in Homestead, Florida with Babs Snyderman and Dr. Leslie D____.

There we were last week, wandering leisurely through a slice of old Florida, the historic Cauley Square, when we saw them. Not one. Not two. No, not three. Twelve. Twelve raccoons were playing in a secluded stone pond possessing what was once a waterfall feature. They romped. They frolicked. They appeared to have not a care in the world.

What a sight! What a photo op! Dr. Leslie D____ was the only one of our trio toting a camera. As a matter of fact, she and her camera enjoy one another immensely and she certainly isn't in need of my instruction.

However. I couldn't help but feel that a photo worthy of National Geographic could perhaps be had if she moved closer or slowly edged her way around the left side of the pond and climbed onto the rocks of the defunct waterfall feature. She'd be only feet away from them! 

Of course, she'd first have to skirt the really large raccoon loitering on that left side. But, he seemed to be paying hardly any attention to us at all.

Dr. Leslie D_____ appeared to hesitate just as one of the baby raccoons began chasing his tail. I gently nudged her forward as Babs, standing behind me, dryly mentioned, "You know, raccoons can have rabies."

Dr. Leslie D____, as it turns out, can be quite immovable.

"Don't worry," I said. "I'm right here. Right behind you."

My rear guard appeared to be little comfort but we did take the slightest step forward when the large loiterer on the left suddenly rushed towards us. Trotting with intent might better describe him but, however one might gauge his speed, suffice to say we took him seriously. We squealed like little girls and scrambled back from the pond. The photo op, so we thought, was lost.

We couldn't help but notice as we made our way to the shop fronting the pond that still more raccoons were peaking out at us.

And cats. At least 20 cats.

As it turns out, thanks to the woman who owns this shop, raccoons and cats live in perfect harmony. She throws food out for all of them while they lounge upon her porch, climb onto her roof and crawl from under the house.

It was endearing yet oddly creepy. It also raised some quite practical questions we thought best left unasked.

But my imagination can't help but run wild. What kind of woman invites that many wild and feral animals into her life and business? She's hugely outnumbered. What if they should rally and rise against her? Is this population proceeding unchecked and are there mutations occurring even as I write? Or, is she herself a shape-shifter with a diabolical plan aimed at wresting Cauley Square from humans. Does this raccoon slash cat lady realize her life is a heartbeat away from becoming the stuff of nightmares?

And what kind of animal encounter would this woman find odd?

She might just be a perfect character for my ghost story... 

I've had several unexpected animal encounters in my time. One of the oddest occurred when my kids were still small. My husband had brought home a three foot black snake who took to living in an aquarium in our kitchen. One morning my little Kenny woke me up from a deep sleep as he climbed into bed with me. I told him I had been dreaming that our snake's eyes had clouded over, which led to a discussion of a snake shedding his skin. We got up and went downstairs to the kitchen for breakfast.

Our snakes eyes were clouded over. He shed his skin ten days later.

What on earth do you make of that?!

The picture above was taken by Dr. Leslie D___.

Harder Than It Looks

Although I was enamored of them for a time, cooking shows have lost their luster in my world.

I stopped watching Rachael Ray's 30-Minute Meals upon realizing I was spending 30-minutes learning to make a 30-minute meal. It seemed poor time management.

It's not that cooking shows aren't helpful. After all, I was only able to truly master the art of the omelet by watching Alton Brown's Good Eats. Who would have thought there are at least 7 steps to making the perfect omelet? Foregoing at least half of them does indeed make a difference. 

But in the end, the camera shots on Good Eats tweaked me ever so slightly. I bid farewell to Mr. Brown.

Giada DeLaurentiis' show, on the other hand, is surely the most sensuously filmed cooking show of all time. Yet, I found that, in the end, all Giada inspired me to do was watch Giada cook. Time management ceased to exist. It was with poignant regret that I bid farewell to her.

I would give much to spend time with Paula Dean in her outdoor kitchen, but the first time I saw her show I thought it was a spoof on cooking shows. The way Paula Dean pronounces pecan pie was a source of wonder for this mid-west girl. For the next 30-minutes I simply could not make myself stop trying to capture her drawl and inflection. And there I was yet again - guilty of poor time management. I bid farewell to Paula Dean.

But I've tremendous respect for these people. Have you ever tried to keep a smile on your face for 30-minutes while running a solo conversation and cooking? It's much harder than it looks. I know this to be true because I tried it yesterday while making my Thanksgiving cupcakes and my cranberry sauce.

Here I am a speaker, a consummate multi-tasker, and no stranger to the kitchen. Between all that and the innate uppish-ness I usually work hard at keeping in check, I've often thought perhaps I should host my own cooking show.

But all I can say now is thank goodness I was cooking something that didn't require the use of a knife. Otherwise, I'd be hunting and pecking at my keyboard today with less than the usual number of digits.

As it was I dripped chocolate down my shirt, knocked one bowl off the counter, added salt twice, and forgot my train of thought more than once. And never was I the least bit witty. As a matter of fact sometimes I just couldn't think of a thing to say beyond the obvious, "Fill the cupcake wrappers 3/4 full" or "Stir occasionally til the berries pop".

Alas, I realized hosting my own cooking show was a mere pipe dream. And as I really do not have the many spare moments this post implies, I stopped with the foolishness, turned on some Lucinda Williams tunes and began my coleslaw. It's the one with the secret ingredient - which I may have gleamed from an episode of Rachael Ray.

Anyway...Gobble On! 

The picture you see above is one of my Thanksgiving tables for this season. Ever fond of the eclectic, Thanksgiving usually finds us eating from antique china platters - all of which are different. They don't lead to gluttony but they are bigger than dinner plates and perfect for those among us happiest when their menu items are not touching one another.

And, here's a tip for those who, like me, cannot count flower arranging among their skills. Anyone can arrange a few flowers in antique salt and pepper shakers.

Ghostly and Gothic

What should I do next now that I'm a genuine devotee of my character, Octavia Ashford (as well as her ghosts)?

I'll likely read ever more ghost stories, especially as the ghost story season draws near. 

Ghost stories at Christmas time? Odd to us now, reading ghost stories at Christmas is as Victorian as Queen Victoria herself.

My awareness of this historical tidbit coincided with our migration to Florida and ever since - for nine years now - I do pull out my ever growing collection of ghost stories once December rolls in. I've discovered the words of Mamillius in The Winter's Tales to be true: A sad tale's best for winter. I have one of spirits and goblins. 

I'm leaping ahead this year as I'm already on page 109 of J.S. LeFanu's Uncle Silas, a book famous for "creating an atmosphere of unrelieved terror and suspense." Technically it's more Gothic than ghost, but the two are close relatives and exchanging one for the other during the season does not portend some dire calamity.  

Uncle Silas is quite good. It's diabolical. It's gripping. One deeply feels poor Maud's fear and suspicion of her fiendish governess, Madame de la Rougierre.

Yet, at the same time one wonders why poor Maud hasn't the presence of mind to more quickly put a stop to this woman who wields such an unpleasant hold upon her nerves. A young woman with bravado, such as my Torie Montana, would easily have made short work of a fiendish governess. 

But I suppose a ghost or gothic story without a frightened woman seeing lurid treachery at every turn is one without legs, isn't it?

Back to what I'm going to do next. I've a ghost story of my own beginning to form in my mind's eye. I'll take care that I don't allow it to over excite me through the holiday season. Yet, when I'm alone, I cannot help but wonder down what dark and thrilling path it will lead.

I cannot share more for I must part from you now with unnatural speed. But do not fear. A undefinable sense of danger has not smote me. A malevolent dread is not mingling with the blood coursing through my veins. Nor is panic gathering round me.

I simply must visit Netflix. The English filmed Uncle Silas as The Inheritor. I've got to order it on the chance it could be here by Thanksgiving.

Hello Octavia!

Well my friends, the time has come for Lady Octavia Ashford to at last go live. I'll be doing Octavia Ashford and Her Ghosts, for the first time in its entirety, at the Walk Through the Arts Festival in Fort Myers tomorrow.

It's taken an inordinate amount of time for me to become comfortable with this but I finally feel Octavia.

I've raised the bar here. All of my programs before now have required only an animated version of myself. With this, however, I throw myself into acting and storytelling.

I wanted to tell a ghost story but I also wanted to provide background on the ghost story genre as it stood in the Victorian era. Hence Octavia. As an engaging hostess who sometimes has trouble staying focused on the task at hand, she provides the frame surrounding the story.

If you click on the link below, you can hear the beginning prior to Octavia actually telling the ghost story. It's just short of six minutes long.

But first, read the words below as it's what you'd hear if you were with me in real time: 

Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. I invite you to step back in time with me to a December afternoon in 1898. To the parlor of Lady Octavia Ashford - just as the sun is bidding farewell to the afternoon...ok now, click here! Enjoy!

In case you'd like to check out all that goes on at our Alliance for the Arts where the festival is held: http://www.artinlee.org

Working In Threes

Odd numbers are pleasing to the eye. I happen to be especially fond of three's.

I had wanted three children but it's likely time to stop wishing for a third. At this point in life's game a third child would require an extraordinary explanation. No Cobwebs Here would also come to a screeching halt. 

I had wanted three pets. I had two and am now down to one. I'm good there I think, especially as one is an odd number. Although the question begs to be asked - would two Shih Tzu puppies forever put to rest that longing for a third child? 

Other than the above, I work in three's pretty faithfully. I always buy three:
- of any plant calling my name
- matching panties per bra
- bottles of wine (Please note I'm never compelled to drink three bottles of wine) 

I must also have three desserts on my holiday table.

Pumpkin pie with real whipped cream is a given.

Something chocolate is also an absolute must. For the last two years chocolate cupcakes have put in an appearance. Not just any old chocolate cupcakes, mind you. We kindly remove ours from their wrappers, cut them in half across their girth and before they know what hit them, we smear the bottom half with a thick layer of chocolate mocha mousse. The top half is carefully put back in place and the dark little beauties are then quite generously drizzled with a dark chocolate glaze. How I wish I could tell you I thought of these! But they're the brain child of Elinor Klivans and can be found in her book Cupcakes!.

The third dessert is always the wild card. I was leaning strongly towards creme brulee this year but have opted instead for a white chocolate bread pudding. It's a recipe I created for Steeped: The Wanderings and Delights of a Tea Adventurer and I like it because, not only is it wildly yummy, it freezes well and you can slice it and pick it up with your fingers to eat. Quite novel for bread pudding, don't you know. 

In case you, too, need a third dessert for your holiday table, here's the recipe:

White Chocolate Bread Pudding
8 ounces white baking chocolate
2 cups half and half
1 cup sugar
6 eggs
11/2 cups evaporated milk
1 teaspoon vanilla
8 large croissants

Preheat your oven to 350 degrees. Break up the white chocolate and put into the top of a double broiler with half and half. Warm on medium low heat, stirring occasionally until the white chocolate is melted. 

Add the sugar and continue stirring for 1-2 minutes. Remove from heat. 

Break the eggs into a large bowl and whisk until the yolks and whites are well blended. Add the evaporated milk and vanilla. Slowly pour the half and half mixture into the evaporated milk and eggs, stirring constantly.

Grease an 8.5" x 13" baking dish. Break the croissants into 1-inch chunks and place in the dish. Pour the cream mixture over the croissants. Use the back of a spoon to press the croissants into the liquid. Let sit for half an hour. 

Press the croissants into the liquid one more time before placing the baking dish into a larger pan. Place all into the oven and then carefully pour boiling water into the larger pan. Bake for 40-45 minutes. Once cool, cut into small pieces.

They say you must have three of something before you can call your two of something a collection. My search for a third elephant continues.

Culinary Daring

One measure of your culinary confidence is your willingness to attempt the unusual while knowing your table is decorated with holiday guests. Holiday guests tend to have higher expectations than your average dinner guests but that doesn't always lend them the sense of adventure you might expect. 

If you choose to announce, for instance, that "We're having an arugula and beet salad with a homemade chunky bleu cheese dressing" or "I thought we'd start with baby onions and brussel sprouts in a horseradish cream sauce," you've got to expect a few blank stares. The silent graciousness of your guests doesn't belie the fact they're now wishing they'd accepted their "other" invitation.

Before you think me brimming with foolish bravado, let me share with you the key to this sort of daring.

You mustn't lead with your exotic menu offerings. I've been collecting extensive data on this for years so you can trust me when I tell you: You can serve whatever culinary delight strikes your fancy as long as you lead with a must have stand by - green bean casserole.

I don't know how this came to be, but green bean casserole is now as enmeshed in holiday tradition as pumpkin pie and Christmas cookies. A scoop of the stuff on their plates gives your guests the pleasant sensation that tradition is not lost. Nor has the world gone topsy turvy with madness and zealous foodies.

It gives them the courage to consider beets and brussel sprouts - even if it's just the smallest spoonful of consideration.

There are limits of course. I doubt even green bean casserole could overcome your guests' trepidation should they discover rare, still undulating rattle snake on your holiday table.

Yet, what if it were braised just beyond undulation and served with a chipolte mayonnaise and topped with a dollop of sweet chili sauce?

Wait, come back! I was only thinking out loud!

That 's What Happens When You Break Tradition

The newest issue of my Sweet Willa's Review, with its feature on feather trees, adds a new layer to a smallish but on-going problem.

I've got Christmas tree angst.

It's that @?;*;%^($#!>* Charlie's fault - hurricane Charlie. This disastrous August intruder created three months of unprecedented labor. While my holiday treasures had escaped his wrath, my willingness to hoist, haul and arrange etc. was at a historical low as the 2004 holidays approached. 

I decided not to put up a tree. Oh please, stop with the gasping! I know it was a monumental decision. You're reading the words of a woman who has collected ornaments ever since she herself was a child. 

Yet I found it oddly freeing. My plan was to tuck Christmas presents among my Santas. It would take far more than that @?;*;%^($#!>* Charlie to keep my Santa collection boxed. To be truthful, an ever growing portion of this collection refuses to be put back into boxes each year. 

My family, however, would have none of it. My husband, who has rarely hoisted a Christmas ornament in all the years I've known him, seemed to take it especially hard. He brought home a somewhat crumpled, 3' tall tree with a missing branch. It possessed a distinct Charlie Brown quality, but he was sure it'd take only minimal holiday effort to transform into a magical part of our Christmas.

I, of course, scoffed. But the next day's trip to JoAnn Fabrics found me in the Christmas isle - where there was a sale on pink glass balls that struck my fancy. It occurred to me that, especially as the tree was so small, I could perhaps transform it into something magical - especially at a 50% off Christmas sale.

I called it my Florida tree.

Although I'm certain some of my Santas snickered, my Florida tree served me well for a number of years. The ease of simply wrapping it in a sheet and popping it into the attic - ornaments and all - did set me to humming Joy to the World as the next season rolled around.

But last year I found myself bored with it and so sent it on its merry way to Good Will on January 26th. So now I'm treeless. I've broken with tradition but am not yet prepared to go back.

Oh woe is me! What am I to do? That @?;*;%^($#!>* Charlie! 

Is a feather tree the answer? It could be...but I think I see three. A feather tree forest if you will. Not even my most uppity of Santas could snicker at that! 

To read the current issue of Sweet Willa, paste this link into your browser: www.glily.com/sweetwillasreview.htm 

The lovely feather tree image you see is reprinted with permission of Home Traditions - the place to purchase feather trees and their accessories. The image first appeared in Romantic Homes. You are invited to visit www.hometraditions.com

Longing for His Return

The moment he makes his presence known I stop - quite still. I listen and wait...breathless with anticipation...as if a lost lover has at last whispered my name. I've longed for his return, but is it really him? 

Of course it's him. How many bagpipe players do you know? 

Actually, I don't even know this one. But, each year at this time, as our low season rolls in, this man bids farewell to whatever chilly northern locale he calls home. He returns to Florida...and to me. He just doesn't know he's returning to me.

And I do wait for him with longing. Granted I might feel differently if he lived right next door, but as he lives one street and three houses away, what drifts towards me is the low and haunting sound of his bagpipes. 

He reminds me there are memories larger and older than my own. He stirs a wistfulness inside of me that, for whatever reason, is a part of my Florida existence. He's also a part of my holiday season.

It was on a particularly quiet New Year's Eve that my bagpipe player first serenaded me. The ball had dropped, the fireworks had faded and the new year had chosen to make its entrance shrouded in mist. I was sitting at the table on my back porch, alone and somewhat melancholy, pondering what a new year in Florida might bring. As I recall, I was also resisting the urge to avow anything resembling a New Year's resolution. 

And then I heard him. My first thought was how odd to hear such music in subtropic zone 10. But is that not the way of Florida? Was there ever a place so brimming with contradiction?

The mist, the quiet of the evening, and this gentleman's music...all came together in a shifting moment that was mine alone. My melancholy disappeared and I felt I could now welcome the new year I'd been holding at arm's length. I was suddenly so thankful for this man.

I'm sure he'd be happy to know how his playing affects a gal on the next block, but I think I like the romance the slightest bit of distance and mystery creates.

He called to me yesterday for the first time since last season. I was climbing the stairs to my front door and, as he always does, he stopped me dead in my tracks.

Welcome back, my darling. It's time for pumpkin pie.

Backwards with Aplomb

Occasionally there's a costume glitch. And there was the one time, with the house half full and the program soon to begin, that I forgot my cordless mic was live as I walked to the restroom and began singing Tea For Two as I took care of business.

Other than these rare occurrences, I don't expect much of the unexpected with most of my programs. 

But I quickly learned that The Stories My Clothing Can Tell is a different animal. It's always lively and entertaining, but it's also "cloaked", if you will, with an unavoidable degree of volatility.

My models are always different and there's rarely time to seriously work with them. The gowns are unfamiliar to them and the fastenings - which are often many - can be less than obvious. 

And, despite my best efforts at instruction, once the show begins there'll inevitably be a model who shoots from the gate early and yet another whom you fear has disappeared via a rear exit rather than step into the room.

As I'm used to all this, I also work with the models during the show if need be and that seems to work well. But even I was nonplussed for a moment this past weekend at Old Florida Days in Naples.

My last model, wearing a 1920's sea green ballgown, had just entered the room. I'm smiling and talking... 

"Of course a flapper had to 'park' her corset while dancing. You can't do the Charleston, the Shimmy, or the Black Bottom while wearing 'old ironsides'... 

But I'm thinking... 

"What on earth is wrong with that dress?!"

Once she was at the front of the room and had spun a graceful pirouette, I could see the problem. Ms. Georgia H____ had put the gown on backwards!

I debated on whether or not the situation even needed handling since the audience had no idea, but it was too priceless a moment to let pass.

I waited until Ms. Georgia H____ had exited and began laughing. 

"Ladies and gentlemen, I cannot keep this from you. The lovely Ms. Georgia H___ was wearing that 1920's sea green ballgown...backwards." 

The crowd roared. Within moments all my models entered for a final walk down our "runway" and Ms. Georgia H___ had already slipped the ballgown on "forwards". For a moment I thought the crowd might now give her a standing ovation!

I believe the lovely Ms. Georgia H___ stole my show right from under me! You know you're a beauty when you can wear a 1920's sea green ball gown backwards and still pull it off with aplomb.

But it's all copacetic my friends and I'm wondering if I should make that bit of costume glitch a permanent part of The Stories My Clothing Can Tell.

Just Ironing

My vintage fashion show, The Stories My Clothing Can Tell, is catching on. I'll be doing it this Saturday and Sunday at Old Florida Days in Naples.

This is one of my funnest of programs, especially if my models - always different - have the moxie to ham it up for the audience. But it's also one of my most labor intensive of programs.

I've racked my brain for every magical word I've ever chanced across. Without the least success, I've wearied each and every facial muscle attempting to coax a wiggle from my nose.

These gowns simply refuse to iron themselves.

Luckily, I don't find ironing to be the abhorrent task that some do. You might think me bee-headed, but I love my iron. It's big and heavy and glides along in a fashion that can only be described as graceful. Pressing the steam button makes a warm and fuzzy "Pshhhsssssssss" that I find oddly pleasing. The wrinkles want to vanish.

Good thing since I can never get to the dryer in a timely fashion. 

So once I'm on gown #3, ironing becomes something of a meditation. By gown #5 the troubles of the world are held at bay.

The following words came to me yesterday at gown #6:

Safe in knowing this is best
You fold your thoughts
   with perfectly quiet creases,
Tucking them neat and still
In an attic drawer
At the end of the stairs
   I rarely climb.
But me?
Mine spill noisy and wrinkled
   (forever a tussle)
From an open box
Recklessly perched upon a low shelf.
Always in easy reach.
But maybe not so safe.
I've lately been tripping over them.
And there you are to catch me.
   On your way up the stairs.

My mama walked in the door at dress #8.

"Honey, why are you ironing those big dresses on that little ironing board?"

Talk about an "aha" moment. 

Our home had come with an ironing board that falls out from the wall - most convenient from a storage perspective. But at only half the size of your run of the mill ironing board, I guess it's hardly practical when ironing an Edwardian wedding gown.

Lofty with meditation, poetry, and my grand ol iron, it just never occurred to me to make a Target run.

I might indeed be slightly bee-headed on occasion. But I like to think those moments are short lived. I was off to Target in a heartbeat.

What would I do without you Mama.


The Stories My Clothing Can Tell was the spring fund raiser for the Friends of the Mound House. If you'd like to see a number of the gowns as well as some of the Fort Myers Beach beauties who wore them so well, you can visit: www.laurienienhaus.com/fashionpage.htm

Southern Sass

What is with all of these personality quizzes? It seems a monumental waste of time to answer questions leading to the discovery of what farm animal, sub sandwich or Greek god one might be.

But because I like to be kept in the loop of trends, I squandered a few minutes this morning - actually it stretched closer to sixty - browsing different on-line personality quizzes.

I've discovered I'm a whimsical and dreamy sea otter craving harmony but am one whom others don't always "get".

Far be it from me to criticize, especially as this is not my area of expertise, but I'd hesitate to make any assumptions about a person based on their preference for tater tots over waffle fries - hence whimsical.

People find these tests amusing I suppose. My Mount Dora, Florida friend, Margaret Andersen, clearly thought so. She devoted one whole page in each issue of her Maggie Mae Magazine to featuring a woman answering the questions she posed. Calling this page Southern Sass, Margaret left it to her readers to make what they would of the answers.

I was fortunate enough to once be featured in her Southern Sass. If I hadn't wasted time this morning with these silly tests I'd perhaps have something more profound or intriguing for you today than a reprint, update, and commentary on my original answers, but alas...I'm now burning daylight.

 1. What is your favorite comfort food?  Mashed potatoes (gravy optional)

 2. What is your newest interest? Palm reading (You probably thought I'd say tea leaf reading, didn't you? There's less breakables to haul about with palm reading.) 

 3. What could you not live without? Moisturizer (and more and more of it as time goes by) 

 4. What is something you've wanted to do but never have? Travel the inter-coastal waterway from beginning to end (Surely river otters are kissin cousins to sea otters.) 

 5. What would your message in a bottle be? Live an extraordinary life (I almost went with: Always clean up your own mess)

 6. What keeps you up at night? Possibilities (and blog ideas) 

 7. What are you reading right now? Three Cups of Tea by Greg Mortenson and David Oliver Relin (Hands down, nominee Greg Mortenson would've been MY choice to receive the most recent Nobel Peace Prize. This book is a must read BTW) 

 8. Have you any obsessions? Essential oils (I've a shelf devoted to these little bottles of health, healing, beauty, and serenity. I've also just discovered helichrysum oil - amazing stuff)

 9. What is your favorite way to decompress? Get a massage (the deeper the better) 

10. What would you like your tombstone to say? She'll be hard to forget (Some statuary nearby would be lovely as well.) 

11. What is one thing you'd never do again? Howl at a full-moon tequila party (But I'm glad I did it once.) 

12. If you were a flower, which would you be? The one still blooming in the vase (a pansy would've been my non-smartypants answer) 

13. What is your favorite meal? Lobster with a creme brulee back (Of course there are mashed potatoes on the side!)

SHIFT

Some mornings I woke up with the strongest yearning for rose colored glasses. Rather than muggle over the whys and wherefores of such desire, one day I just bought a pair.

They work magic on an already glorious sunrise, but slipping them on does not set me assail on the good ship lollipop.  

I've long held a first class ticket on that vessel anyway and, generally speaking, there's no need for it to even leave the dock.

But my rose colored glasses do create an inner shift. I swear to you it's true. Some of my best ideas climb aboard when wearing them. I'm more easily able to hoist the anchor on stubborn problems. Words sail from my pen.

I think you get the picture. 

Oh My Goodness! Did you hear that? I think it is a crackerjack band!

Here's a poem that popped into my head yesterday afternoon when wearing my rose colored glasses. If packaged in a box it'd come with a warning: The words contained within have not been tested and the author makes no claims to being a poetess regardless of her eye wear. Read at your own risk.

Two hearts heavy and tattered
Each quiet with wear
Each savvy still knowing 
That love's waiting there 

Above you see a section of the bulletin board next to my desk. Donning my SHIFT necklace works along the same lines as my rose colored glasses. I've never tried wearing them both together though. Hmmm...now there's a thought.

The wildly handsome young man is my son, Kenny. He's holding the real Ella Bell of Nana's Socks - back when she was a wee babe.