LouLouBell part 2

My first days with Midnight were peaceful enough, maybe a little too peaceful; I barely knew I was the owner of an animal at all. She spent most of her time under any piece of furniture that would give her refuge, only venturing out when I was away from the house. I was fine with that in the beginning. I was still questioning whether a cat was a rational and reasonable substitution of the dog I truly yearned for. The days turned into weeks and the only hard evidence that I had of her existing at all was an empty bowl every morning, and the little "gifts" she left in the litter box. It's probably better this way I kept telling myself, we can get acquainted over time. After months of the same routine, I was beginning to take it personally, and trying hard not to feel that I had been duped. I already accepted my noncanine fate: I wouldn't be taking her for walks, or playing fetch, or teaching her to balance a treat on her nose, she would never be the beloved dog I wanted so desperately. I have a cat. Fine, so be it; but what kind of companion was this? She could at least come out of hiding long enough to let me know she was alive, rub against my leg now and then to tell me she around, or give an occasional purr to say thanks for the cat chow. Anything at all. Other than the telltale signs that she liked to start her day with a hearty meal, (she never left a morsel) we were still as strangers. She was as reclusive as Greta Garbo. I imagined that if I ever actually did encounter her, she would open her little kitty mouth and say with a slightly Scandinavian accent: " I "vant" to be alone", while retreating back into the shadows under the bed. It was beginning to resign myself to the fact that my only reward for saving this "scaredy cat" was going to be empty food dishes and full kitty boxes. Lucky, lucky me!








I was sitting on the sofa reading a book. Totally engrossed in the story, at first I didn't even realize that I wasn't alone. I bent down to grab my drink off the coffee table and out of the corner of my eye I saw something behind me. Slightly startled, I jerked my head around to see what it could be: lo and behold it was my elusive pet. There she was sitting on the back of the sofa like she too was enjoying the book, reading it over my shoulder. She looked different than I remembered, of course my memory was a little fuzzy, I hadn't laid an eye on her for half the calender year. She had gained weight, her coat was shiny. She looked healthy, rejuvenated; like she had been on a long kitty spa vacation. Hmmm I said, so you like read too. She just sat there fat and glowing, waiting for me to open the book back up so she could finish the chapter, but I wanted to talk. I put down the book, turned to face her and said: Listen you, I understand you needed a period to adjust, but I think you really should start acting a little more adoring and grateful. I mean, what am I getting out of this relationship? I saved you from Atilla the Vet, I put a roof over your head, I foot your enormous food bills, I keep your litter box fresh and clean etc... you gotta give a brother a break and show me a little gratitude. She stretched out her leg and licked her paw casually. I wasn't quite sure if I was being ignored or if she was thinking while she groomed. I decided to keep going (who knew when I would see her again). While we are at it: your name, are you happy with it? Midnight? She continued licking. Midnight I'm talking to you. She was quite thorough, working on each toe with gusto, never stopping to answer. How about Blanche? No reply. Eunice? Nada. Spike? Fluffy? Imogene? Whiskers? By this time she had moved on to her front paws, examining each one intensely, still silent and ambivalent about a name change. I, on the other hand, was determined to find a title more suitable for her. I'm not exactly sure why I was so adamant about it, she couldn't have cared less, but the name just seemed so wrong, it had to be made right. I pressed on: Maria is a pretty name. Patches maybe? Susan? Freda? Eloise? Nonplussed and non committed, she made her way to her tail, taking long swipes across it with her tongue. Completely frustrated, I picked her up and turning her face to mine, I tried to sit her on my lap. She bounded off my legs like she was walking on burning coals, hissing and growling. Jumping back on the sofa, shooting me a searing scowl, and a parting slap in the face with her tail. Indignant and furious at being interrupted, she turned her back to me, growled a low long growl as if to say; back off punk, and then resumed her preening. Sorry madame, I said: I just wanted your attention. I was defeated and ready to give up entirely. ok, I thought: if she doesn't care, why should I. Suddenly a name popped into my head out of nowhere. With one last ditch effort, I halfheartedly threw the name out in her direction. LouLouBell has a nice ring to it. She stopped her fastidious toilette, tilted her head, and looked up from her backside. Clearly and distinctly she said: Meeeeow! LouLouBell?, I said again. Meeeeow, she said again. Having to make completely sure this was the one, the tag she would carry on her collar from now on, I quickly whispered one last time; LouLouBell? MEEEEOW she hissed, as if to say: Yes; I like it, now leave me alone. I smiled, satisfied. LouLouBell it is. Funny, I thought to myself; she doesn't have a Swedish accent at all.








Slowly and surely LouLouBell and I became friends. She started spending more time on the furniture, rather then under it. She would randomly ask for my affections, pushing her head against my hand, or wrapping her tail around my arm while sitting beside me. She even sat on my lap now and then without acting like I had just lit her on fire. If she wanted to be petted, I petted her. If she wanted to sit on my lap I let her, and when she wanted to leave I let her do that too. I never forced her, I left everything on her terms. and eventually I gained her trust. She was cute, and charming, and I liked her independence. Over time I forgot all about ever wanting a dog. I fed her and loved her, and let her do whatever she wanted. She responded in kind, the more I gave her, the more she gave back. I think she knew I saved her, and she never forgot. As the years went by, it was obvious that we were devoted each other. Her personality blossomed, and she was quite a character. Being abused by her former owner which happened to be a woman, she never liked women at all. Most of my women friends were barely tolerated, and some she completely detested, but she let them all know from the beginning to keep their distance. One friend whom she particularly despised would try endlessly to make nice with her. LouLou would have none of it. She would turn around, flip up her tail and sashay away slowly, her back arched and her head held like she smelled something foul. It would become known as "giving the ass". Eva, covering her hurt feelings with humor would always say: "that's ok, she knows another bitch when she sees one". The only woman I ever saw her actually like was my friend Megan. She adored Megan, and we never really knew why. It was the strangest thing, any other woman would get "the ass", but with Megan it was all love. If I had to make an assumption, I would say maybe it was because Megan and I are a lot alike. We are both Geminis and have similar personalities. I can never say for sure, but besides Megan, she had no time for any female. On the other hand, she was absolutely enamoured of the boys. Boys of any persuasion. Human boys, feline boys, any male at all, and she was "all in". My friends Bill, Justin, Mike etc... all had her full attention and affection. She flirted, purred and cozied up to any guy that crossed the threshold; be it friends, the plumber or the UPS man. Not only did the males that came in my home get LouLouBell lovin', but every stray tomcat that was within fifty feet my house was subject to her feline adoration. When I adopted her , she came declawed and spayed. The spaying did nothing to deter her from sitting in the windowsills and doorways caterwalling to every randy male cat that was in spitting distance. She would cry and meow out her affection for them from behind screens and glass panes, telling them how she would love to show them a good time if only she could . They would catcall and growl back, encouraging her with all kinds of getaway ideas. Not having claws, I would never let her beyond the screendoor. One day when I least suspected it, she made her escape.



To be continued...

The Legacy of LouLouBell, one cats journey (part 1)

Once, when I was little, I got a card from a distant great aunt. Animated kittens tumbling out of a knitting basket, wishing me a happy 4th birthday. I was 7. Inside was a single dollar, not 7 to celebrate each year I had actually lived. Not 4, for the years she thought I had been on earth. Not even 2. 1 for each hand maybe, 1 for each pocket, 1 to keep the other company; 1, and 1 to grow on. Nope, just 1. 1 wrinkled and creased face of George Washington, peeking sheepishly out from under a card that even he seemed embarrassed by. A cutesy card of frolicking baby felines, playing with little woolly balls of yarn, telling me that I was only 4. Adding insult to injury on my special day by giving me a singular, soiled and rumpled bill. Is this a joke? Why didn't she just throw 3 quarters into the damned envelope, that way she could have recouped the cost of the stamp. Who was this cheap, crazy, cat lady anyhow? The nerve of this woman trying to pass herself off as my Aunt. She was definitely no relative of mine. My Mother thought is was sweet, and wanted to sit it on the mantle. I was having none of it, I ripped it apart like a tiger mawing its freshly killed prey. With lion pride, I tore it to bits and threw it on the floor. My "warm and fuzzy" birthday greeting lay there shredded, and bedraggled, like a freshly coughed up fur ball. She can take her stupid kitty card and shove it up her... (I would be almost 11 before I learned that phrase) I stuffed the dirty, lone buck into my "winnie the pooh" shorts, (I was no fool, money is still money) and stomped off to my bedroom full of grown up indignity. I sat on my bed, wounded, a thorn still stuck in my paw. I was seething with "cat scratch fever". From that day on, I held no affection for cats. To me, they were no more than self indulgent, self absorbed creatures, with no time or care for anyone but themselves. Draped deliberately over sunlit windowsills soaking up the sun, as if it was shining just for them. Brazenly sharpening their claws on sofa cushions and chair legs like it was their birthright. Preening and grooming on counters and kitchen tables; snobbish and stand offish, with a solitary air of royalty. You can't make cats sit, roll over or beg for treats. Can their bark chase away unwanted intruders, or warn you that little Timmy has fallen into the well? I think not. You cannot take them for walks or jogs, and they won't catch a Frisbee in their teeth, no matter how many you fling their way. Mans best friend is not a cat. They say that the world is divided into two kinds of people: dog people and cat people, and I was definitely on the canine side of the universe.




I had lived on my own for a few years, and although living without parents, siblings or roommates was really great, I guess I was just a little lonely. I really wanted a dog, I needed a dog, I had to have a dog. I lived in a one bedroom apartment on the 2nd floor, and a dog has to be a dog. They have to run, play, bark, dig holes in the yard, chase the mailman, all the awesome things dogs do. I was fine with that, but I knew the neighbors wouldn't be. It was out of the question, as much as I tried to convince myself otherwise. Regardless, I still had visions of me and my Irish Setter Whisky sitting by a roaring fire, me in my tweeds and pipe, and Whisky, cozy at my feet. My faithful Bulldog Winston, taking leisurely strolls with me, Winston; stalwart and proud by his masters side. Blondie, my spirited yellow Labrador Retriever playing fetch in the park on a spring day, nuzzling my hand with her warm muzzle, imploring me to throw the stick again and again. Me and my Jack Russell terrier... alright, okay; you get the picture. Holding on to my "Marley and Me" illusions tighter than a puppy playing tug of war with your best shoe, I pined for a pooch of my own. I started taking trips the ASPCA, no particular reason I kept telling myself. Just little jaunts to the nearest Humane Society to make sure they are doing their job. I made donations, I had a right to see my money at work, didn't I? My sporadic visits turned into weekly rituals. I became a faithful, devout member to the church of the Great Dane. I prayed fervently and consistently for divine doggie intervention. The more I prayed, the more tortured I became. A martyr really. Not willing to let sleeping dogs lie, I cried out to the canine gods for mercy. I would climb up onto my milk bone cross daily, bemoaning my fate in life; to be dogless, and alone. Hiding my stigmata with shame, wanting no one to see my empty leashless hands. Running out of faith, I took one last pilgrimage to my area dog house of worship. Each mile closer confirmed my suspicions that I was rapidly losing my religion.





She was an ordinary cat, at least that's what I thought when I first saw her. I walked right past her, focused directly on the dogs for my final baptism of canine love. I entered the hallowed sanctuary and genuflected at the doggie dishes, offering up a conclusive prayer amongst the kibble and chew toys. I petted and played with the beagles, terriers, hounds and mutts, knowing this was it. My hopes and puppy dreams were forever dashed, my dog days of summer at their end. With great sadness, I bid them all a final farewell. They wagged their tails, and barked out a chorus of goodbyes until I could take no more. Quietly and reverently, I made my way toward the exit. On my way out, vowing to banish my heart forever from this barbarous Parrish, I spotted her. A sole cat, in a sea of empty cages. Rows and rows of little metal jail cells, all uninhabited except for one. She sat there behind the bars trapped and alone: reminiscent of a death row inmate awaiting her last meal. Looking dejected, afraid, and on edge, I felt sorry for her. True, I wasn't fond of felines, but I wasn't completely without humanity either. I went over and scratched her under her chin, talking soothingly, reassuring her, like a priest giving her last rites. She responded fully and instantly. Purring and rubbing her face against my fingers, wrapping her tail around my wrist. Whoa, wait a minute, hold up sister. No need to get all frisky with false hope. I'm just saying hello, I'm not taking you home. She seemed to understand, respecting my decision, she backed off, but still looked at me with pleading eyes. There was a torn piece of lined note paper taped carelessly to the front of her cage. Scribbled in a sloppy scrawl was the name Midnight. Midnight? This cat was black and white, with a little gray mixed in. Midnight indeed. Stormy, maybe. Dawn would be a stretch. Dusk at very best, but Midnight? It seemed even her name was picked without any heed or thoughtfulness. Poor thing. A Veterinary assistant, with a painfully slicked back ponytail and shiny black rubber soled shoes came goose stepping precisely and purposely down the hallway. Noticing that I was having a tender moment with the incarcerated "Midnight", she turned on her heel abruptly to tell me that there was no need to become attached to this animal, as she was scheduled to be euthanized this very day. With all the caring of a paid assassin, she stated that due to "problems", this animal was going to be "put down". Put down? Euthanized? What the @#&%? I stood there reeling. Riddled with her stinging apathy, tearing at me like bullets, each slug digging painfully deeper. Problems? What do you mean problems? Was she a kitty sociopath? A feline psycho? A puss in boots serial killer? Define "problems". She smiled a toxic smile. Oh my God, this freak was actually enjoying this. Quick, precise and lethal, she check listed all of Midnights crimes. She doesn't get along with other animals, she is allergic to plastic, she has trouble digesting certain foods. She was abused by her last owner. Starved and neglected, a paw was broken, and never properly healed. She doesn't like people, and is aggressive toward them. The words spat off this reptiles venomous tongue, with no emotion, no concern. She was as a warm as a bag of pit vipers. Each petty offense now a death sentence, extolled without so much as a hint of compassion, understanding or charity. A caricature of evil, she had the look and manner of a Cruella Deville that took fashion tips from the Marquis de Sade, and adopted social graces straight from the Gestapo handbook (S0, you vant to be mein Fuhrer). Standing there tight haired, tight assed, and black hearted; an arrogant smirk pulling on her knife slash of a mouth, arms folded with perverse satisfaction. As vicious as a junk yard dog, she definitely had a personal vendetta against this particular pussycat. Ill take her, I said: a little too loudly, a little too quickly; my voice cracking slightly. The smirk dripped slowly and poisonously away from her tight lipped face. Her flinty eyes scoured over me like a belt sander; rough and painful. Her withering glare made me feel flushed and weak. For a split second, I thought she might reach into my chest and yank out my heart. I wanted to run, but I held my ground, my stare matching hers. After what seemed like an eternity, she jerked her head up and down violently and hatefully. Fine, she said; acknowledging my decision with unhidden rancor and loathing. Turning on her cruel heel once more, she marched away to fill out the paperwork. Whew, this woman scared the hell out of me. I took a minute to steady myself. I was sweaty and hot. I had the urge to lay down on the floor and rest my burning cheek on the cool linoleum. No time for that, I had more pressing business at hand. I mentally went through Midnights problems. Alright, she had some issues, but didn't we all of have a "problem" or two? Did a few challenges automatically equal extinguishment? I was completely sure that if this Sadist knew I was lactose intolerant, or prone to inner ear infections, she would have me shipped off to the gas chamber faster than I could say Heil Hitler. Maybe I was insane. An impulse buy at the local pound, and I didn't even like cats. What am I gonna do with a cat? Well, whats done is done. I never really believed in regrets, things happen for reasons. Its up to us to figure out why. I was shaky, but resolved. I paid my fees, throwing in another $5 for a cardboard carrier. Signing on all the dotted lines, there was no looking back now. I thanked Nurse Ratchet for her "kindness" by telling her she would have made a "swell" Nazi. Swooping up my corrugated suitcase firmly by the handle, I turned on my heel (just as she did), and like a cat on a hot tin roof; I pounced to the door. Once safely in the car, I sat there trying to make some sense of what I had done. A cat, I now have a cat. Why? Because you are a fool, I told myself. I reached over and pulled the seat belt across the front seat, securing the carrier with the click of a metal fastener. Safety first, I said to the box. The box was silent. I pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward home. I talked to the box the whole trip. Babbling, nervous about what lay ahead. Telling it all about my life, my expectations etc... Droning on and on all my misgivings and doubts about this union, and still not a sound from the box. Pulling up in from of my apartment, I turned to the box and said: Well, this is it, welcome home, I guess. Nothing. Hmmm, I opened the lid gingerly and peered in, not knowing exactly what was in store. There she was looking up at me. She was very calm; she seemed content, almost happy. She didn't try to run, or scramble to get away, she wasn't skittish at all. She just sat there serenely, gazing my way peacefully. Whats the matter I said: Cat got your tongue?

To be continued...

Ode To A Pretty Girl

Pretty girls. For me, that phrase conjures up images of my best friends older sister; blond and petite, with a smattering of golden hued freckles dusting her perfectly upturned nose. My childhood babysitter, tanned, responsible, and fun (she played a mean game of "go fish"). The girls in high school, with shiny hair and cheerleader sweaters. Pom pom bearing flamingos; flocking together in hallways and cafeterias, willowy, spirited and girlish pink. All irresistible creatures; delicate charmers that could seduce you with the wink of a curled eyelash, or the flash of a feminine smile. I sat in front of the television watching some frivolous award show about young celebrities. A show where they handed out oscarlike trophys to whoever had the best catch phrase, or something equally absurd. My only excuse for not flicking the channel on this insipid bit of ratings fluff was pure laziness. I lost the remote control somewhere under the sofa. Cursing my luck at not having my own personal butler (oh Jeeves, please fetch the clicker), and not wanting to relinquish my couch potato status, I decided to tough it out, and stay tuned. It was a little rocky at first. To be completely honest, I had never even heard of half the people they were honoring. I had absolutely no desire to know who coined the phrase "that's hot" or "flip a bitch", (Paris Hilton and Justin Timberlake respectively), but after the first half hour I was spellbound, in some horrible hellish trance I couldn't break. I felt like I was sucked into a black hole of some parallel universe. Am I really that out of touch with reality? So uncool and out of date, that names like JoJo Levesque and Justin Bieber don't even register a palsied blip on my pop culture radar screen? Completely out of tune with the fact that the pretty girls of my adolescence were now replaced with tough looking chicks with names like Miley and Brittany. Disney channel actresses and singers taking the stage in costumes better suited for 20 dollar hookers, rather than 16 year old ingenues. Hard, wizened looking maidens over made up and under dressed. On display in skintight, sequined outfits that would make a Vegas showgirl blush. Using props like whips and stripper poles, teetering around obscenely on 6 inch stiletto heels. Young things; parading and prancing in circles, with desperation overshadowing their talent, begging for acceptance. I quickly said a silent prayer to the gods, thanking them that I didn't have a daughter. Knowing, as sure as I know that Lindsay Lohan is a true redhead (thanks for the spread eagle pics Firecrotch), that childhood innocence for girls has been all but completely obliterated. My jaw was on the floor, somewhere in the same vicinity as the hiding remote. I felt old fashioned, and out of touch, and I always fancied myself a progressive thinker. I was now scrambling to find the remote, I had to get this teenybopper peep show off my TV set, and quick. I felt dirty and creepy, I suppressed the urge to scrape at my eyes with my fingernails. Click, click, click, click, anything, anything at all, just no more of this. Ah, Little House On the Prairie is on PAX, perfect! (deep cleansing breath) I was still dazed, confused and vexed. Snippets of what I had witnessed still piercing my brain, sending me well on my way to my first migraine. Was this really progress, or have we just lost our way? Laura Ingalls what do you think of all this? Wasn't Nellie a mean girl, a bad girl? Would she be a budding stripper with tribal tats and nipple rings if she were somehow transplanted to the here and now? What has happened to young women? Women who do not want to be objectified, have become objects, and of their own volition. Damnit Half Pint, say goodnight to Ma and Pa and Mary, and give me some insight. I'm dyin' ovahere. Sex isn't a new thing, we had plenty of sex, drugs and rock n roll "back in the day", but somehow it was different. I'm not talking about some puritan naivety, or the contrived innocence of when knighthood was in flower, just different. It wasn't flagrantly and continuously pushed and peddled by the media then. So raw, so in your face, forcing you to take it, whether you want it or not. There is no need to give away all your secrets within a first glance. Being sexy, is a natural, organic part of who women inherently are. Whatever happened to the mystery, the allure? The thrill is gone. Sexiness has been replaced by cheap, blatant displays of gratuitous vulgarity. Trash TV has taken on a whole new meaning, bumping and grinding its way into your home 24/7. A ratings bonanza to see who can pull in the most viewers, via teenage Lolita's. Pubescent lasses warbling simpering ballads about lost love, (what do they know about lost love?) while gyrating seductively to the beat. A lifetime already written across their young faces. My newly found carnal knowledge made me feel queasy. I, myself felt naked and bare. Stripped of all my "swagger and shine". Life was no longer as "groovy" as it used to be. Exiting a car sans panties is about the same as saying a casual hello these days (that way the paps can get the best snaps). A homemade porno leaked onto the Internet, and wham, bam, thank you ma'am; you are now a Superstar. Contemplating if "throwing" gang signs, sending "shout outs to my peeps", and being on the "hip hop tip"; is this the answer to amp up my "gangsta flava". Pondering that if I had a few "bitches and hoes" who consider a G string and pasties "fly" for any occasion, or a " baby mama" that thinks it is "off the chain" to bare her ..."ass ets" in public; would that make me more relevant? In a world that has traded ethics for greed, regards kindness as weakness, where children cannot be given the luxury of playing outdoors for fear of being preyed upon, and human life is worth no more that the cost of a bullet; maybe a little modesty and self protection doesn't sound like such a bad choice after all. Sometimes it seems like this planet has gone stark raving mad. They say that times change, but people don't ... I have my suspicions. I worry, and I wonder!


I was at a friends restaurant the other day. I spotted a small group of clear skinned women celebrating the holiday. The tinkling of glasses clanking softly together mingled with their laughter, the toasting of wine, food and friends. Each pretty spring flower in Easter egg pastel dresses. Not prim and proper old lady frocks, but stylish ensembles, soft, muted, and not a midriff or an exposed breast in sight. A wave of nostalgia washed over me, I stood there a moment trying to sort out this feeling that I couldn't quite define. Not coming to any direct conclusion, I shrugged it off and walked to the front of the restaurant to say hello to the hostesses. We stood there a few minutes talking, sharing a joke. One flipped her hair back from her fair face, and the other one giggled while chewing demurely on end of a pencil. There it is again, the same feeling. This fleeting freeze framed deja vu. Something I knew, but had somehow forgotten. The exact feeling I had no less than five minutes before. The girlfriends sharing a meal, the hostesses having a laugh. Holy cow, it hit me like a ton of instant celebrity bricks. These are the pretty girls I remember. They aren't extinct after all. They have no need to stoop to tacky and tawdry clothing, or desperate lewdness to prove who they are. Chic without being contrived. Charming without assuming silly airs. Witty, and smart and beautiful. Classy young women, comfortable in their own skin. Confident in knowing that just being who they are is enough, and it was so damn sexy. I come from another time, a distant land where "peeps" were baby chickens, and "hip hopping" was done by rabbits. An era where selling your self esteem for 15 minutes of fame was unheard of. An antiquated place where "bitch" or "hoe" was not a term of endearment. Maybe its time to pass the baton on to the tweens and teens, letting them make their own distinct antiestablishment mark on the world. I would be hard pressed to say that I don't have a healthy amount of angst for for the daughters of this generation. A new age landscape where little girls no longer aspire to be doctors, teachers, scientists, or ballerinas. I guess I'll have to let time tell me if my fears were all in vain. I have my fingers crossed, but for the time being; I have officially become my parents. Unyielding, disapproving and tragically unhip, and that's just "peachy keen" with me.


As Keats penned so eloquently: "A thing of beauty is a joy forever". A pretty girl transforms any interior to a higher level, making it just a little bit lighter, a little bit brighter, and a lot more fun to be in. Beauty is always in the eye of the beholder, and that's the greatest beauty about beauty. So to all the pretty girls everywhere, I raise my glass to you. You have made my life fuller, richer and happier, and I will be forever glad I knew you. And that's that! (cue the pole dancers)

A kitchen by any other name...

It was a rainy, cold and dismal morning. I woke up feeling just like the weather, chilled and cross. Never being a huge fan of breakfast, I rarely, if ever shuffle into the kitchen and think: just the day for a french omelet and blueberry scones. My idea of breakfast, (if I decide to eat it at all) is more like a cold slice of last nights pizza and a coke with lots of ice. I must confess that not only am I not a huge lover of the first meal of the day, but my mastery of the art of cooking is .... well, lets just say I'm pretty much talent free when it comes to "cheffing it up". You could cart my stove out the back door, and I wouldn't bat an eyelash, but if you took the microwave you would definitely have a fight on your hands. My only epicurean proficiency is pushing the little button that says cook, or sometimes defrost if I don't have on my glasses. I lean against the counter with no anticipation, waiting for all the atoms and molecules to clang around inside the little metal box, and serve me up a steaming helping of vulcanized rubber. Surprisingly, I never have the patience to wait for the little electronic bell to ding, even though I know full well what the outcome will be. A molten nuclear concoction somewhere between a Stouffers hot pocket and roofing tar. Oh well, a pair of Teflon gloves, a bottle of ketchup, and voila: breakfast is served. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I stand in front of this foreign creature with the name KitchenAid tucked into the right corner of his door. A thin silver plate, declaring who he is, much like the sticky backed (My Name Is:) tags that are handed out at public events. A paper badge screaming out your identity, making you feel individual and exposed, all at the same time. This rectangular patch plastered haphazardly on a shirtfront, deceptively conveying a sense of familiarity to complete strangers. True to life, I would have no inkling at all as to who KitchenAid is. My only clue being the tattooed moniker on his chest. I stare defiantly at this stranger with a haughty fear masked as indifference. My squinted gaze looks him over like a gun slinging rival at the O K corral. I saunter around him, nervous and distrusting. Sizing him up from hood to broiler, while pacing back and forth in my best Clint Eastwood imitation, complete with an itchy trigger finger. He stands there like a stainless steel sentinel, cool, stoic and untouched, an enameled frontier squatter daring the true landowner to challenge him. My eyes eventually rest on the digital clock smack dab in the middle of his control panel. An illuminated warning sign, flashing tin star bright, proclaiming who the real sheriff is in this kitchen. Three years after staking his claim on my property, and still blinking neon, menacing green at 12:00. (I never dared to get close enough to adjust the time) Wondering if he is trying to tell me whether it is midnight or high noon (either equally appropriate for a gun fight), I prepare for a showdown. I take one last look at the name riveted across his shiny, metal breast, resisting the urge to say: "go ahead punk, make my day". I brazenly draw my weapon of choice, a cookbook. With false bravado and cowboy stubbornness fueling my impetus, (Ive always hated to be told no, or that I can't) I muscle my way through this attempt at cookery like Custer at Little Bighorn, not yet knowing if this too will be my first and "last stand". I stiffened my spine, rolled up my sleeves, and got to work. I followed each recipe to the pinch, dash and teaspoon. I mixed, whipped, folded and buttered with a determination of a maverick wrangler, rustling up grub like my life depended on it. I flipped pancakes and eggs with an unwavering hand, while the bacon spit and sizzled in a pan nearby. When I finished, I surveyed my fantastic, misshapen, lumpy hot cakes, heavenly, gelatinous, undercooked omelet and glorious, charcoal pork strips with a self satisfying triumph. I felt like I had just won the blue ribbon at the Pillsbury Bake Off. I took no notice of the kitchen that looked like a war torn battlefield. Blackened pots, random kitchen gadgets, broken eggs, and overturned salt boxes; counters and floor strewn with the casualties of war. I finally conquered my "Alamo", and had no time to cry over spilt milk. I was way too busy busting my buttons with western pride. Wiping my flour sweaty brow with a scorched potholder, I sat down to my homespun feast. Trying extremely hard not to boast or brag, I pointed out all the morning culinary delights to the only other person at the table. Standing there, her arms folded, apron smooth, neat and tidy, with just a hint of a smile forming around her mouth: Mrs. Butterworth was quiet and still, but somehow I knew that she was proud too.




Kitchens. No longer just the utilitarian, dismal cramped quarters of yesteryear. Kitchens now, are not only practical and functional, but they have become the star of many homes. Whether your taste runs sleek and futuristic, or more toward the rustic and quaint, the sky is the limit. If you have the budget, a smart kitchen is a cutting edge option. Microwaves read bar codes from packages to cook your pre packaged food perfectly. Convection heating can cut your cooking time in half. You can wake up to your morning java already brewed with programmable coffee makers. Icebox counter tops can keep your perishable food items cool without the need of a refrigerator. You can activate your appliances with ease, all from the touch of a computer screen, or a cell phone. If your pocketbook isn't quite big enough to afford these space age conveniences, even today's standard appliances pack a technology wallop your grandmother never dreamed of. Besides the finger touch readiness we enjoy in this new millennium, kitchens have become so much more than a mundane place to bake a tuna noodle casserole. They have evolved into family hubs that encourage so much more than food. Functionality has definitely evolved, but the wow factor of modern kitchens has been ramped up to a level that is equal to the beauty of the rest of the home. Just a place to store can goods, and house the oven has forever been replaced with gloriously efficient and attractive spaces. Kitchens are now multi functioning, livable, work and play areas that can be as unique and individual as you are. This room is now allowed to be beautiful and comfortable, without losing any of its function. Today's kitchens run the gamut from A to Z when it comes to design. Whether you prefer the slick, cool vibe of a minimalist environment, or the warm, comforting feeling of a bygone era; you're options are virtually endless. Luxurious, Eco friendly, Budget conscious or Campfire, there is something for everyone. More than ever before, the kitchen is truly the heart of the home. So, if your cucina, cantina or cafe is leaving you hungry for something more, take the fatted calf by the horns and make your kitchen all that you want it to be.
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You Say You Want A Revolution... A New British Invasion

My appointment was for 11am. I arrived 10 minutes early for my semi annual check up for this pesky thyroid problem that has recently become a part of my life. You get older, and your body starts to betray you. Bette Davis said: "old age ain't for Sissy's". That's comforting, considering I need a weeks bed rest when I get a hangnail. I figure by the time I'm 50, I will need an around the clock nurse, a closet full of incontinence pants, a bib, and a days of the week pill holder. Even though my body is proof positive that I'm no longer a spring chicken, it never ceases to catch me by surprise when I think about it. In my head, I'm still a kid. A health problem? Ridiculous, I'm much too young to have health issues, never quite realizing that in 20 odd years, I'll be eligible for social security (if there still is such a thing). I stand in line to sign in at the little hole in the wall with the sliding glass window. An older man with a bad rug, and a manilla folder is in front of me, speaking quietly, but forcefully to the lady in the glass front box. I stand there staring at the back of "manilla folders" head; hair jet black on top, and dull listless gray around the ears down to the nape of his neck. I promptly decide that he must be discussing his cataract medication, because it is obvious the man is completely blind. After making my conclusion as to why "toupee" is in front of me, I began pondering why the receptionist needed to be enclosed and separated from the rest of the outer office. Maybe it was just a kindness to all the frail, ill people in the lobby, shielding them from overhearing the doctors and nurses hushed talk of swine flu, ringworm, and angina. Ugly little words, not so much for their sound, but more for the small fortune that is shelled out in prescriptions, return visits and specialists that your HMO doesn't cover. Maybe it was to keep her constantly ringing 4 line phone from disturbing the delicate constitutions of her sickly charges. Or maybe her little cubicle was hermetically sealed from the coughing, sniffling, pox laden mob, just so she herself wouldn't catch some dreaded debilitating disease. I mean, after all, she is the epicenter of this practice, what would they do without her? The other receptionist is out on maternity leave, and even though she has varicose veins and a demanding 2nd husband (her kids despise him) who expects dinner promptly at 6pm every night, she dutifully gives her all, 5 days a week, from 8:45 am sharp until 5:01 pm sharp, minus her half hour for lunch, and 7 cigarette breaks. Her name is Brenda and...uuuuuuurch, like a needle being dragged backwards across the smooth grooves of a long playing record, I am ripped from my wondering thoughts and jerked back into reality when "wigs r us" abruptly turns around, putting my nose in spitting distance to an impressive matt of white chest hair showcasing at least 6 gold chains. Yikes! This guy burned my retinas like the blazing intensity of a thousand suns, and I realize painfully, that is probably gonna be me in fewer years than I want to be reminded of. Me, Peter Pan, standing at a doctors office window arguing with some random "Brenda" about my ailing liver. Holding on to my vanity like an over the hill peacock, with my gaudy pinkie ring and synthetic hair; silently and painfully relieving my bladder into my extra absorbent adult underpants.

I sit down in the waiting room in the only available empty seat, sandwiched between a young Hispanic woman with a cute, but completely out of control child on one side. He screams loudly and constantly for no apparent reason, while steadily kicking his Mother on the leg with his miniture Nike clad foot. Every methodically timed thump on the back of her calf has a soothing cadence (not for him, but for me) I imagine making that same satisfying sound upside his screaming head. The mother ignores him, and talks on her cell phone. On the other side of me is a man the color of a rainy day, holding a plump plastic medical bag in his lap. A small tube is a attached to the bag, it curls and winds across his legs, slithers under his jacket to some unknown place, providing him with liquid medication. He is breathing heavily, with small staccato breaths. I feel sorry for him, and I'm thankful it isn't me at the same time. I don't dare look him in the eye, I don't want to embarrass him by letting him see the pity that is evident on my face. I sit there on the hard office chair staring straight ahead, trying not to think of how uncomfortable I am. The lack of cushioning on the chair, the tantrum throwing brat beside me, the poor wheezing man to my right, all conspriring to make me turn to "flight or fight" mode. I'm sitting there thinking Id rather be taking out my own spleen with a rusty cocktail fork than be in this godforsaken place. Someone (presumably receptionist Brenda) switches on the radio and the elevator version of: The Long and winding road by the Beatles plays statically in the background. The long and winding road, thaa aat leads to your door.....la la la la la.....it always leads me here, leads me to yoooo ooour door........ la la la. I think of my 7th grade teacher Miss. Freeman. Miss. Freeman, I haven't thought of her in years. I liked her, she was young, maybe 25, she was pretty, and she was solely and completely in love with the Beatles. John and Ringo, Paul and George were incorporated into civic lessons, and Beatles lyrics became the part of debates. She tacked Beatles posters onto the class bulletin boards, and on very special occasions she would bring in her own personal portable stereo and play Beatles songs. She would turn off half of the overhead lights, we would sit there in the semi darkened classroom and listen to Hey Jude, Yesterday, and I wanna hold your Hand. We would take our cues from her, close our eyes, and listen silently and intently, swaying softly at our desks, absorbing the music like we too loved the Beatles, and eventually: we did.

There is a new British invasion that is taking over our country. No, the Beatles haven't reunited. Twiggy is now a grandmother, and Mary Quant's mini skirt is well over 40, but The USA is being reintroduced to our cousins across "he pond" with a whole new wave of English actors on prime time TV, BBC America on cable etc... Beautiful Nigella Lawson making food sexy, with her seductive accent, and sultry pot and pan rattling. Hugh Laurie as Dr. George House, Robert Pattinson of Twilight fame, all while Lily Allen, Amy Winehouse, and the Fleet Foxes are filling our airwaves. British Interior Design is also Hot Hot Hot! English interiors are no longer, over crowded, overpatterned, chintz filled rooms, but ultra cool, hip and cutting edge design that give homage to the past. Designers like Kelly Hoppen and Afroditi Krassa are making a big splash on both sides of the Atlantic and more established British talent like Anouska Hempel have helped to create a British tsunami that started a decades ago. English icons like Burberry, have not only put their distinctive stamp on fashion, but also on home design, with a whole line of furnishings. Liberty prints scattered across cotton blouses like your mother used to wear have made a huge comeback, and can be found on everything from sofas to watering cans. Retro images of Twiggy, and the Beatles can be found on toss pillows and graphic pop art of today. Debbie Travis can be seen refurbishing homes with her unique paint treatments on the FLN network, and Absolutely Fabulous and Little Britain have become a part of the American lexicon. Everything from Britcoms to English "wellies"(rubber garden boots) have landed on our shores, with no hint of them going away anytime soon. English gardens with their riotous color are still a standard, and a classic British Chesterfield sofa still reigns supreme in many a stylish American home. Gordan Ramsey screams profanities at us to not make a meal of "shit", and we dutifully obey. Jennifer Saunders has us in tears of laughter, making us realize why she is Britain's best loved commediane. Monty Python and Benny Hill are still a go to for a quick comedy fix. English design was not only brought over on the Mayflower, but continues to flourish in this country today. So pip, pip, and cheerio, put a little British design into your bloody lives today; and God save the Queen y'all, Ta!

Why You Should Love White

I was driving faster than I should have been, always rushing. Not only do I have a lead foot, but I need constant distractions, probably harking back to my first years as a card carrying licenced driver. Now that I am rapidly (and it pains me to say this) approaching middle age, I really do not enjoy driving. As a teenager with the ink barely dry on my newly minted rite of passage (complete with picture and birth date, that I would later try to alter so I could buy alcohol), I would take the tiniest opportunity available to get behind the wheel of my mothers Chrysler New Yorker. Could I run to the store for milk? No problem. Would I be able to pick up my little sister from band practice? You betcha. Go collect the trash cans from the end of the driveway? Absolutely, as a matter of fact Ill just drive down to get them, those cans need to be back beside the garage pronto. Any excuse to show off my barely passing C minus drivers education skills. Looking back I shouldn't have been allowed to drive a shopping cart, let alone a two ton tank of a car. Regardless, off I would go to the grocery store, carefully putting on the turn signal to exit the drive, demurely accelerating to 20mph, as my mother stood at the door with a worried look on her face. As soon as I turned the corner of my street, my parental vehicle would become a Nascar worthy dragster, racing down residential avenues at twice the posted speed limit. I would round up at least six pimply faced buddies with bad 80's hair, and attitudes to match; needing an entourage of friends to help me make the best milk selection possible. We were all so cool, so bad ass, music blasting at eardrum shatter, and unattended cigarettes burning holes into the tan leather upholstery. We would cruise the town like we owned it, making pitt stops at all the local adolescent hot spots, "big pimpin'" in my moms champagne colored town car. Hours later I would drop off my pals, quickly clear the littered car of fast food wrappers and empty Marlboro red packs, (man, was I in the trouble) and frantically make my way toward home. Flying into the driveway with no concern about appearing to be a "safe driver", I slammed the car into park, and sat there a minute to compose myself. Seeing the living room drape pull back from the window, I knew I had to go face the fury of pre cell phone worried and angry parents. I get out of the car with head hanging appropriately, and I take the long shameful walk to the front porch. As my sweaty nicotine stained fingers sheepishly turned the front doorknob, I would realize I forgot the milk.
Yesterday I was driving my sporty new little (American made) SUV to a thrift store that I heard about via a friend. I saw a nun dressed in an all white habit walking up the street. Yes, a nun in full on penguin gear. Head veil (I think its called a wimple) long dress to the ankle, apron, stockings, sensible shoes, a dangling rosary, and everything completely in white. She was stunning! I was at a busy intersection, waiting for the light to change. Typical of when I'm in the car, I fidget, I fiddle with controls, I play with the radio, . My innate nervous energy takes over, as I'm always impatient to get to the destination. Usually stop lights are torturous to me. I find it impossible to sit still that long, but I was completely mesmerized by this beautiful little sliver of crisp white in a sea of colorful people, stoplights, billboards, and shops. I was so engrossed, so transfixed by this fantastic creature that I didn't even notice that the light had turned green. The car horns blaring behind me shook my out of my revere, but I wanted to linger, I wanted to emblazon this gorgeous image into my minds eye forever. As I sat there watching my lovely little cloud of pureness retreat further into the distance, it reminded me of why I love white.
1. White is versatile: it goes with everything, even more white. It enhances color, a pop of color on a white backdrop is dramatic and draws your eye directly to it, and vise versa.
2. White is calming: a room done in various shades of white, cream, ivory and alabaster mixed with plenty of textural elements is just the serene and tranquil spot we sometimes need in our hectic, hustle, bustle lives.
3. White is clean: it brings up mental images of waterfalls dropping into a frothy pools below, or of beautiful snow covered trees, or maybe even an efficient and sterile environment. I love white bathrooms for that very reason, somehow an eggplant colored toilet never computes in my brain as clean.
4. White is romantic: sheer white drapes fluttering gently at a window, white candles flickering softly, a bunch of white flowers in a cream ware pitcher, pure romance.
5. White is comfortable: crisp white linens on a bed, soft overstuffed white furniture and pillows, a fluffy white bathrobe, they all make you want to curl up with a good book or the TV remote and just relax.
The list for white is a long one, and for good reason, white is cool, literally and figuratively. The next time you go to buy sheets and bedding, think about white. Tired of those scarlet walls you loved five years ago?, try out a shade of dove, or misty white to calm you. Wrap yourself in a fuzzy white blanket, put on some mellow jazz and chill. As Martha would say; White, its a good thing!!!

It's Easy Being Green

Today was a beautiful day. A mild, sunny early spring day, just balmy enough to let you know that winter had loosened its icy grip for yet another year. I walked to my mailbox to collect my daily assortment of bills, flyers, circulars, take out menus, advertisements etc... a metal cylinder stuffed to the brim with unwanted paper. Paper white, sterile and impersonal, telling me that my checking account was overdrawn. Slick, shiny paper, long and folded like a pseudo menu printed with idyllic graphics of what I assume were to be the rolling hills of Tuscany, offering me an obscene amount of free cola if I only buy two large pizzas at a set price (extra toppings excluded of course). A thin fluttery book of paper the size of a wedding album showcasing picture perfect images of antacids, corn removers and hemorrhoid cream, all on sale; this week only. I stood there sifting through my armload of daily brow beating, wondering how many trees were sacrificed to tell me I needed get to the nearest "blah blah" ASAP to stock up on shoe laces. A dark cloud had obscured my lovely day. I thought if a tree had to die, why couldn't I have at least gotten a card from a friend to wish me happy spring, a letter from a loved one telling me they missed me, or a check from the bank saying they wanted to thank me for all my faithful years of entrusting my money with them. I was sad, I just stood there with my reem of papers; unloved, unmissed, with no compensation for my slavish loyalty to my local savings and loan. I sighed a long sad sigh, turned my back on my sad mailbox to make my sad way back to my sad existence, and as my sad eyes cast their gaze over my sad walkway; there, just beyond the first step to my door, I saw the alive, delicate green shoots of the crocus pushing its way out of the sad brown soil... and I smiled.

There are so many options today that can help us be ecofriendly or "green" without sacrificing style. Sustainable hardwood floors have become the norm, bamboo and other fast growing woods come in a large selection of hues and finishes. Beautiful fabrics are made out of hemp or soy. Carpeting ,rugs, furniture, art etc... are made from recycled plastics, and that's just the tip of the iceberg (pardon the global warming pun) I'm not saying you have to stop living your gorgeous, glamorous, rock n roll lives, just make some different choices. The next time you want to reupholster the sofa, look into natural or soy based fabrics, and forgo the synthetics. Instead of throwing out your old chest of drawers, paint it a beautiful color with no VOC (volatile organic compounds) paint, change the hardware and use it as a buffet in your dining room. It will look personal and chic, and hold all your linens, place mats, napkin rings, and that hideous cut crystal deviled egg plate your Aunt Myra gave you for Christmas. Donate your old clothing to the charity of your choice. Better yet, take your old sweaters and make throw pillows (its not that hard) There are endless things you can do that will not only show off your originality, but will help save our beautiful, wonderful planet for our kids, and their kids, and so on, and so on.......
Iam going to try to post some pics that will show you just how cool green can be, I'm not having the best of luck with the uploads, hopefully it will work. Remember, keep it green if you can!

Sometimes It Really Is All About Me

Hmmm, where to start? Well, I guess I'll start with me, not original, but it seems like a good jumping off point. I've heard of interior design blogs, looked and perused design blogs, and even have a friend or two who have written interior design blogs, but never thought I would be writing one of my own. As with many things in my life, there was a time when interior design wasn't a part of my every day vernacular. I have an art background, and I can draw a "purdy" picture, but I have found that I also know "where to put the ottoman". I think I have known where to put the ottoman for most of my life, and have always been training for a career in the home interior field without consciously knowing it. I'll start at the beginning; as a child my Mom would leave the house for whatever reasons Mothers leave for the day, probably to get a little distance from their bratty kids. Being older than my sister, I would be in charge. I would look at these times as an opportunity to turn our house into "home beautiful". After letting my younger sibling know who was the boss, we would tackle the rearrangement the living room or the dining room or maybe a bedroom, it depended on the mood I was in. We would spend laborious hours hauling furniture back and forth from one part of the room to the other, moving pictures, taking toss pillows from the living room to use on the backs of dining room chairs etc... all under my watchful eye and direction. Looking back I was quite a taskmaster, usually ending with my poor little sister Amy curled up in the fetal position under an end table fast asleep. Regardless, my masterpiece would be complete, and I would wait with just a little smug anticipation for my Mother to come home. I would drape my self across the sofa with a well rehearsed casualness, waiting for her to walk through the doorway and then faint dramatically from the sheer beauty of what I managed to create out of a few sticks of furniture and a throw rug. Needless to say, my fantasy wasn't quite the reality of what would usually be the outcome. My Mother who always had quite a flair for design herself, would walk in and sweep across the "redo" with a critical eye, tell me to get my sister out from under the table, then go to the kitchen to start dinner. Is this woman blind? Couldn't she see the mastery of my ingenious work? Note to self: find a new and much more savvy Maternal figure. Dinner would come finding me sullen and unappreciated. My Mom not known for her culinary skills, would put the charred meat, overcooked vegetables and wilted salad on the table. While we sat there scrapping the blackened and burnt skin off the chicken breast, she would tell me truthfully all the parts of the redesign that she liked, and what she thought could use some work. After dinner would find me moving the sofa from the kitchen back into the living room, (it seemed like a good idea at the time)and removing the afghan from the wall and folding it back onto the chair (I read somewhere that handicrafts made unique wall art). These minor setbacks did not squelch my appreciation of a well appointed home, and I would spend the rest of my formative years randomly honing my interior design skills. We got many magazine subscriptions at my house, amongst them were quite a selection of interior design mags: Better Homes and Gardens, Architectural Digest, Country home etc... and I would read them all from cover to cover, soaking in all the beautiful lamps, hooked rugs, mid century chairs, and art deco drawing rooms. If my Mother was missing her Southern living magazine, she knew where to find it; My room. I loved everything about it, to me it was art, and I devoured all I could of it. Life, as it seems to do, went on; and as I got older, I focused more on the fine arts, seeming to forget all about my adolescent love affair with home decoration. It wasn't until I sewed most my wild oats, and moved into my first home that my old flame home design came back into my life. As we all know, wild oat sewing is expensive, so by the time I had a place of my own, I had precious little money to bankroll my castle. I was pretty much over the "poor college kid" school of design: beach chairs in the living room, milk crates holding my clothes, a microwave missing its glass turntable, and a mishmash of plastic fast food cups, and pilfered cutlery from the local diner. Topping all this grandeur off with the dreaded Tye Dye wall hanging, hung with thumb tacks over the mattress on the bedroom floor. After taking inventory of my sad assortment of home fittings and furnishings I decided being a sophisticated adult of 22, these tawdry, pathetic items had to go. My lofty ambitions about home far outweighed my wallet. I had to come up with a plan. Being moderately intelligent and more than just a little thrifty; I set out to make a proverbial silk purse out of a sows ear. I rose with the sun to go to yard and tag sales, picking up as many treasures as $10.00 would buy, giddy with the hunt. I scoured the papers for estate sales, beating the early birds by camping out on doorsteps hours before the sale began. I was like a rock band groupie determined to get the first and best tickets to the concert. I haunted thrift stores, goodwill's and salvation army's like some hyperactive ghost searching for the holy grail of credenzas in a sea of wicker, paintings on velvet, and mismatched veneer bookshelves. I found myself sneaking out on trash nights, stealthily coasting down darkened streets stopping at curbside trash heaps, searching for anything that resembled a table, chair or lamp. I searched every nook and cranny of my family attic and my grandmothers basement. At parties or dinners at friends homes, I could usually be found in their garage, inquiring about what they were going to do with the buffet that was missing a leg. Looking back I was ruthless, and probably more than a little obnoxious. I was on a mission, and no stone was left to be unturned. After all my collecting, It was time to transform all my (ahem) gently used, vintage and lovingly discarded home goods into gold. Okay, okay, it was trash, but it was trash picked with a discerning eye, burning feverishly with what it could become. I sanded, painted, changed knobs, faux finished, framed, gutted and re stuffed, reupholstered myself into the next winter of the second year in my "new" home, and when it was done it was astonishingly, jaw dropping, eye popping, heart racing beautiful. Alright, your heart didn't really race, but it was damn good! With blistered hands and a lower back pain that wouldn't go away, I finally settled into my newly refurbished haven. Satisfied at the mark I made in my home, now it was time to go out and make my mark in the world. Sad to say it was much harder finding my "special purpose" in the career world than it was to make my home special. I became a "jack of all trades" as my Grandmother would say. I waited on tables, which I was good at, but it bored me to death. I tried my hand at teaching, some people are born to teach: I wasn't. I sold real estate, enough said. I worked at a casino, that's lofty. I managed a restaurant, can you say burn out? The list goes on and on. While casting my net into many career waters throughout the years, there was one distinct and quietly powerful constant: Design. It was subtle, almost like a whisper, in the background just patiently sitting there, waiting for me to pull it out and use it whenever necessary. It was so unconscious, and so threaded into the tapestry of who I am that I didn't even recognize that is was softly and continuously talking to me as I was crashing and banging through life, trying to find my way. In all my fumbling and tripping down my myriad of "career" paths, people would seek me out about design problems and solutions. My friends would call me ask me what color to paint their bathrooms. Neighbors would plead me to come by and tell them where to hang their art. Strangers would come into my house and ask me who my designer was. My newly married friends would invite me to dinner as a ruse to help them place their furniture. Of course I would always comply, I would turn friends, neighbors and strangers hovels into comfortable attractive homes, without really thinking much about it. To me it came as natural as breathing, and they would gobble up my advice faster than I could dish it out. They were literally starving for direction, for reassurance, for a place they could love. I never thought past that, to me it was about the same as if I asked a friend that had car knowledge to come over and show me where to pour the anti freeze. (my car expertise is a sad affair) I did this as a friend, and in a very nonchalant manner for many years. Never turning down the volume of the rest of my life to listen to what was really being said to me. It wasn't until I managed a restaurant that an epiphany was given to me. I had worked there for a few years, feeling increasingly disillusioned and feeling more and more like I had once again ended up in a career that had become stagnant, dead end and completely boring to me. In the process of working there I became friends with the owner of the restaurant, she is still my dear friend today. She knew that I had this uncanny design knack, and she herself would always come to me for design advice for the restaurant or her home. She also knew that even though I was competent as a manager, my heart was just no longer in it. Being the friend that she is, she pulled me aside and told me quite plainly, to get on with and become an interior designer. She stated that a talent left to waste away was her idea of the ultimate sin, and it was time for me to give up my "sinning" ways and follow my passion. Whoa!!! Eureka, the little light bulb lit up instantly and burned brightly right over my big thick skull. There it was, with me the whole time, right below the surface, bubbling quietly just waiting for the moment to erupt like a volcano that has been dormant too long. I felt like the blinders had been ripped from my eyes. This tiny woman speaking to me honestly and with quiet conviction, and thankfully I got it, I finally knew what my career was to be, it was already written. I have been studying for this my whole life. To me she was Santa Claus, Jesus, The Easter Bunny and Buddha all rolled into one that day. I was grasshopper snatching the pebble from her hand (you have to be of a certain age to know that reference, we all have a computer, google it) I gathered up my courage, took a leap of faith, hung out my design shingle, and here I am six years later doing what I love, doing what I am passionate about. It has been a roller coaster of a ride, but I never even thought about getting off of the ride. I've learned many things about myself on my quest of enlightenment through design. I'm not curing cancer, and I haven't found the solution for world peace, but I have learned that in my own small way, I too am changing the world. There is no price tag you can put on happiness, when you are in harmony with your environment, when your home is the place you most want to be, when you walk in the door to your own personal and unique sanctuary, that's a little piece of nirvana that brings us all closer to enlightenment. Here it is, my first blog. I hope you join me regularly, enjoy the ride with me, and let me help you "know where to put the ottoman" too.