Happy Birthday.

We had my birthday lunch today at our favorite Greek restaurant-- Skipper's. They had been closed since Hurricane Ike stormed through here, leaving them with seven feet of water in their restaurant. When we talked to the owner today, he told us that the water stayed at seven feet for two days before slowly starting to drain away.

As a result, his wood-paneled, home-style restaurant was in tatters. All the paintings and posters of Greece were lost, as well as the photographs of some of his regular Bay Area customers. The outside of the restaurant is built of stucco, and when we drove into the parking lot we noticed the bright new coat of paint. The outside is now brown and beige, instead of the Greek blue and white. When we walked into the front door, if we didn't know where we were, we wouldn't have guessed.

Not a wood-paneled wall in sight. The old wooden bar has been replaced by granite-- I'd guess no one is going to try and carve their initials into that. All the wood tables and chairs are new, and the new ones are more modern-looking with leather padding on the seats. Track lighting is on the ceilings, all the ceiling fans are gone, and so are the old air-conditioning units that dotted the walls of each room--- Skipper's now has central air. The smoking room at the very front of the restaurant is gone as well--- actually, the room is still there, but smoking is no longer allowed. Well, three cheers for that!

The food is still as excellent as ever, and after all these months of being closed, all the cooks, dishwashers, and waitresses are all back, as if they'd never left. We sat in the back room, as we always did, but with all the bare walls in that room, it didn't feel like the old Skipper's. I told my husband that I'm going to shop around the consignment stores and find some framed posters or paintings for the owner. The local shops are filled with nautical pictures, and maybe I can even find some posters of Greece for them. It will be our gift to their "new" restaurant.

Everything is so bright and new in there, and it does look nice-- updated without looking too modern and sterile. But that wood paneling was warm to the touch, soft to the eye, and just said "home." The inside walls are now plastered with stucco, and very clean and bright-- very different. But the owners are still the same, the music is still the same, the food is as delicious as ever, and we were just happy to have them back.


This afternoon, our friend J invited me over for tea-- and she asked me to bring Gracie as well. She said she needed a "doggie fix." J is our friend who had to put her 12-yr-old Yorkie to sleep a couple of months ago. She misses her little dog terribly, and this isn't the first time I've taken Gracie to see her-- but it's the first time Gracie has been invited to tea.

When we got there, she had tea cups set out for the two of us, and dog biscuits set out for Gracie. Too cute. And Gracie was on her best behavior.... she didn't touch her biscuits till J told her she could have them, and she didn't bother us a bit while we had our tea and pastry. Gracie must have known somehow that J needed to pet her a lot, because after we had our tea, Gracie sat right by J's feet and didn't move away till way after J was finished rubbing her neck and her ears, and cooing baby-talk to that dog as if she was as little as J's dog had been.

J still doesn't think she'll get another dog any time soon. She's thinking that maybe she's too old to be starting out now with another puppy, and if she has heart problems again, who would take care of a puppy for her while she's in the hospital? When I started to tell her that I would do that for her, she stopped me in mid-sentence and reminded me that I already had one dog and three cats who needed my time and attention.

So for now, J will just call me so she can visit with Gracie, or call our neighbor S who will bring her dog Astro over for a doggie-fix.


The "pest control" guy was here this afternoon as well...... we now have mouse traps set in boxes up in the attic. The metal traps have been set with Jarlsburg cheese-- the pest guy forgot to bring his own cheese, which I bet would have been less expensive than the Jarlsburg. The pest guy didn't know what Jarlsburg was--- he said he only eats American cheese and cheddar cheese. "Ain't never had any cheese that wasn't orange." --He put the metal traps inside cardboard boxes with little mouse-hole shaped entrances on the sides. "This way, you can just pick up the cardboard box after the mouse is caught in the trap-- you don't even have to touch the trap or look at the dead mouse." -- Did he really think it would be me going into that attic to check on the traps and see if the mice had been caught? Not blessedly likely, let me tell you that.

I hate the thought of the mice getting caught in those traps, but we have no choice. And I sincerely hope the mice that do get caught aren't the same little mice that eat the birdseed out in the backyard every morning. I've stopped putting birdseed on the lower feeders in the yard, hoping that the mice won't find anything to eat out there and will find another yard to live in.

Oh well.... we'll see if anything gets caught in the traps by morning. Correction: my husband will see if anything gets caught in the traps by morning.

Downtown lunch.

We met K and B at the downtown German restaurant for lunch yesterday. We hadn't been there before on a Saturday, and it wasn't as crowded as it is on the weekdays. They must get a lot of people from the nearby office buildings from Monday through Friday. K and B hadn't been there before, so it was a nice switch-- us finding a downtown restaurant that they hadn't discovered first.

The restaurant, "Rudi Lechner's," has been there since 1976, and the decor reflects that, but somehow it just works. It's warm and cozy, very German-looking, mostly all of the chairs have thick cushions, and you can sit there for a couple of hours and enjoy a leisurely meal and conversation without feeling like the waiters want you to leave. The wait-staff there is very efficient, very professional.

We've ordered a lot of different things on the menu, and we haven't ever been disappointed. They have a salad bar with lots of German-style vegetables, and when I've just ordered soup and salad, it's more than enough for a meal. Yesterday, I ordered the grilled salmon (hold the butter, please), sauted spinach, and red cabbage. Delicious spinach, homemade red cabbage, perfectly cooked fish. Both my husband and K ordered German schnitzel dishes.

On the way home, we stopped at The Men's Wearhouse--- more shirts, more slacks, two more ties. While my husband was looking through the slacks, the saleswoman asked me if he really liked everything he bought last week. I told her that as soon as he got home with his new clothes, he went through everything in his closet and took out mostly every item that was in there. Once again, the on-site tailor hemmed up the new slacks while my husband looked at shirts and ties. Now why can't they have that service in a woman's store?


We've been hearing the pitter-patter of tiny feet up in the attic lately. I don't know what got in there, or how, but it's definitely a little critter of some kind. Not too big, because it's not making much noise, so I doubt it's a raccoon. We have had a raccoon up in the attic before, years ago, and it sounds like a bowling ball rolling across the ceiling. Can't be a possum, either, because it would be making that squealing sound every once in a while. Awful sound, right out of a horror movie. I don't think it's a squirrel because it isn't moving that quickly. Maybe a mouse? One of the mice that eats the birdseed in the backyard every morning? It's a mystery how it would get from the yard to the attic, though. I will have to call the Pest Control guy in the morning..... he'll come out here with a trap and set it up there. Three cats in this house, and there's a mouse in the attic. Go figure.

New York Tea.

I invited a few of the neighbors over for a New York Tea this afternoon. I called it a "New York Tea" because there was a New York-style, New York-made cheesecake from Manhattan's Carnegie Deli sitting in my freezer and just waiting to come out for a tea party.

My sister-in-law had sent it to us for the holidays, but I froze it as soon as it was delivered because we just had way too many sweets around the house at that time, and the cheesecake was too tempting. So into the freezer it went just before Christmas, along with a chocolate cheesecake (also from Carnegie) that came with it. Two cheesecakes-- too much all at once, that's for sure.

But the plain cheesecake came out of the freezer this morning, and by 3:30 this afternoon, it was perfect for tea time. The neighbors I invited had never tasted a cheesecake from the Carnegie Deli before, and now they know the difference between the "real thing" and the Texas-made cheesecakes that just pretend to be New York cheesecakes. I laugh every time I see that on a menu here-- "New York style cheesecake." It never, never is anything even close, and we've long since stopped ordering that in restaurants.

I had found little high-heel-shaped place cards in Marshall's after Christmas, and they were perfect for today's table. Silver high-heels with names written on them in pink-- and I made white miniature shoe boxes and filled them with chocolates, one at each place setting right next to those silver shoes. Very cute, very stylish, and very city-ish for a New York Tea.

Lots of laughs this afternoon-- mostly because of our down-the-street neighbor C telling us stories about the way her three sons are starting to treat her like a child. C always, always dresses very nicely when she goes out, whether it's going up the street or up to the mall. Her sons have started to ask her "What are you going to wear?" "What are you going to eat?" "Why are you driving there?" "What kind of food are you bringing to the party?"

C keeps reminding them that she is the mother, she is still in her right mind, she doesn't need a baby-sitter, and she doesn't need the sons she raised treating her as if she's six years old. Last week was C's birthday, and she told her youngest son that she didn't want a big party-- she just wanted to go to dinner with her sons and their families. "Just us," is what she told them.

Well, her youngest son wasn't listening. He invited just the family, but he also invited nearly thirty other people, half of whom C didn't want to be spending her birthday with. On the night they were supposed to go to dinner, C found out about all the other people and got so upset that she told her son to have the party without her because all she wanted was a quiet dinner. So that's just what she did-- she drove herself to a local restaurant and had a quiet dinner by herself and enjoyed every quiet bite.

C said she hated to do that to her son, but she said it was time that he learned a lesson. "When he asks me what I want, and then does the opposite, it's time for me to remind him that I am the mother and he is still my child."

C will be coming to our Valentine's party, and she said that her sons will probably ask her "What are you going to wear, mother?" She told us that they asked her that same question before she came here to our Christmas party in December. C is all ready for their question this time-- our neighbors J and V gave her an "outfit" to describe to her sons when they ask: "Black stiletto heels, fish-net stockings, a leather mini-skirt, a red bustier, and a pink-feathered boa." C was still rehearsing and repeating all of that as she left our house this afternoon.

"At Last."

I watched nearly all the ceremonies and festivities on Inauguration Day. As cold as it was there in Washington DC, you never would have known it with all the happy smiles and ecstatically happy people there. Over a million and a half people in DC, to see Barack Obama take the oath of office as President.

Wonderful day for the Obama family. Amazing, outstanding, historical day for this country. At the first inaugural ball Barack and Michelle Obama attended, Beyonce sang the old song "At Last." That song is enough to bring tears to your eyes, but hearing the words as she sang them to the President, and the look on her face as she tried not to burst into tears while singing-- that one song, that moment, had to be just the happiest, most gratifying moment in time for the Obamas.

All the critics have discussed Michelle's wardrobe since the other day. I think she looked stunning. The dress and coat set for the swearing-in ceremony was perfect. A friend of mine in North Carolina didn't like the rhinestone sparkles at the neckline of the dress, but I told A that a little bit of sparkle never hurts. And besides, it was such a special day-- why not sparkle!

The reviews on Michelle Obama's inaugural gown were mixed-- some loved it ("very soft and feminine") and others hated it ("looks like she rolled around in a cotton field"). I agree with the first opinion, and take exception to the second. One thing I do hope--- that Michelle Obama just wears what she likes, without listening to (or caring about) what everyone else has to say. She knows what looks good on her, and what feels comfortable, and that should be all that matters.

The Obama girls, Malia and Sasha, looked adorable in their outfits, and you could see how happy they were for their dad after he made his speech. I loved it when little Sasha gave her father a "thumbs-up" after his speech.

What a happy family they are..... and what a great President he's going to be!

And I agree with Beyonce---- At last!

Warm, warm, warm... and Shopping 101.

Absolutely beautiful day. In less than 48 hours, we went from winter to summer. As they always say in this state-- "If you don't like the weather, stick around and it will change in fifteen minutes."

Speaking of change..... yesterday my husband told me that he was thinking of going shopping for some new clothes. And no, he didn't have to pick me up off the floor when he said the words go shopping. I told him I thought that was a great idea, but then I didn't think anything more about it because he's had that thought before and then he just didn't get around to it.

This morning, however, he said it was a good day to go out shopping, and then go out to lunch. And where did he want to go shopping? "The Men's Wearhouse." I was thrilled at that idea, since going shopping in a mall with a man who doesn't really like to shop is like going into a maze that has thirty-seven entrances and not one exit. Too many stores in a mall for a man who doesn't shop on a regular basis. They get overwhelmed and over-shopped within forty minutes.

But Men's Wearhouse is a store just for men. We hadn't been to this one here before, but I had great hopes. During the drive there, I was praying for a salesperson who wasn't too pushy, who would listen to what my husband was wanting to buy, and help him find more than what he was looking for so he would have a choice.

And the heavens opened up and sent us an angel named G. Soft-spoken, efficient, confident. She listened, she measured, and within minutes my husband was looking at more than fifty choices of sports jackets and at least forty choices of slacks. When G thought something wasn't fitting as well as it should, she quietly suggested something else, which turned out to be a better choice. (That seemed to work much better with him than me standing there and rolling my eyes towards the ceiling as I say "You're not really going to wear that, are you?")

After my husband picked out two great sports jackets and three pairs of slacks, G asked him if he needed shirts and ties. He was about to say no, and he looked at me-- and I guess I had a look on my face that said If you don't buy new shirts to go with these jackets, I'm going to hold my breath till I turn blue.... so he told G he would be happy to look at some shirts.

Within three minutes, an impeccably-dressed salesman looked at the jackets and slacks my husband was buying and he spread out six shirts and twelve ties on a counter and showed my husband which ties and shirts would look best with his new jackets. The shirts were all 100% cotton and fit my husband as if they'd been tailor-made just for him. Plus, the shirts and ties were in a classic, conservative style which my husband likes--- nothing edgy, nothing retro, nothing ridiculous.

I could have danced around that store. Without a doubt, it was the best shopping experience we've ever had when my husband has gone out looking for new clothes. To prove that point, on the way to lunch, my husband asked me if I would help him go through his closet and "eliminate a few things." (I resisted the urge to tell him to just toss a grenade in there and shut the door so we could start from scratch.) "Of course," said I--- "I would be happy to do that."

And that's what we did---- and my husband was without mercy as he looked at each and every single thing in his closet. Two hours later, we had six huge piles of clothes that I will take to the local church for their "Free Clothes Closet." Slacks that no longer hold a crease, dress shirts with slightly frayed collars and/or cuffs, ten-year-old tee-shirts, ties that hadn't seen the light of day since 1976, belts without a hint of leather in them, sweaters too heavy for Texas and not heavy enough for Alaska. Out, out, out, all of that stuff... I am personally bringing them to the church tomorrow morning.

One of the best parts about Men's Wearhouse--- they give you a plastic card with a number on it. Whatever you buy in there gets swiped onto your card, and when you spend over $500, they send you a certificate good for $50-worth of their clothes. Now if that isn't an incentive to shop, I don't know what is.

I told the saleswoman G that the store makes it so simple for a man to look great from head to toe-- they sell socks and shoes as well, for goodness sake, and the salesmen line up everything on those counters and put all the outfits together for the guys. Now, honestly-- can it get any easier to look like you just stepped out of GQ magazine? (Do they still publish GQ?) And I forgot to mention that while my husband was picking out the shirts and ties, the tailor was in the back room hemming up the slacks he had picked out. What a great store.

Today's shopping adventure not only resulted in some new clothes for my husband, but it got him to look at everything in his closet-- and precious little of what was in there measured up to what he bought today at Men's Wearhouse. The only survivors were the newest shirts that I had picked up for him during the past six or seven months and a few new ties that he had bought within the last couple of years.... everything else went into the donation bags. There is, indeed, a god. (And his name is George-- the owner of Men's Wearhouse.)


Speaking of survivors----- we went to Joe's BBQ out in Alvin for lunch today. It's a huge two-story rustic barn of a restaurant, and its decor is strictly Texan, with huge moose-heads, deer-heads and steer-heads mounted on the walls from one end of the restaurant to the other. In the back room of Joe's, the walls are filled with signed posters of baseball-great Nolan Ryan, who grew up in (and still lives in) Alvin. While we were waiting on line to order our lunch today, we noticed a sign hanging up by the salad bar. The sign didn't look too new, so I guess it had been there all along and we've just missed it----- "No trespassing. Trespassers will be shot. Survivors will be shot again."

Cold, cold, cold.

How cold is it? Cold enough to stay inside the house. But not as cold as it must have been in the Hudson River when that plane went down yesterday. Thank heavens for an experienced pilot who stayed calm and made a split-second decision which saved all those people. Honestly, there must be something that can be done about all the birds hanging around the airports. To think that people's lives are at stake because of birds getting caught in plane engines...

It's been so cold again that I haven't gone out much. The house is already decorated for our Valentine's party; I've gone through all of last year's receipts and everything is ready for tax-time; I've been cleaning out my closet again, donating sweaters and shoes that I haven't been wearing. Instead of taking tops from the front of the closet, I've been reaching towards the back for things that haven't seen the light of day in months and months. My new rule is if I don't keep it on after I've put it on, then into the donation box it goes. There's got to be a reason why it doesn't come out of the closet too often, so that's reason alone to pass it on to someone who needs it.

The cats haven't spent too much time out on the screen-porch, except for a little time each afternoon when it warms up a little bit in the sunlight. I think they're getting bored in the house because they're picking on one another (actually, Mickey Kitty and ShadowBaby are picking on AngelBoy). Mickey Kitty's favorite playthings this week are the Valentine decorations-- he has rearranged several things for me each day. Considering that the cats never touch anything in this house (not even the Christmas decorations which are all over the house in November and December), I have to believe that the cold-weather boredom has led Mickey to take an interest in every red heart that he sees around this house. A red heart that is on the piano when the living room lights are turned off at night will mysteriously find its way to the foyer by morning.

AngelBoy starts every night in the laundry room, in his private little bed on top of the washing machine. He wakes me up between three and four o'clock, banging his fluffy paw against the laundry room door because he has used his litter box in there and heaven forbid he should stay in that room with a soiled box. Up I get, walking with a flashlight from our bedroom to the laundry room so I don't trip over the other two cats or the dog. In the few minutes it takes me to clean out that litter box, AngelBoy has walked into our bedroom and curled himself up next to my pillow, where he will stay until I get up later on that morning. AngelBoy thanks me for all of that by leaving his play-mice in my shoes. Every morning, when I go into my closet to get a pair of shoes, I will find his little mice in one of my shoe-boxes. (I know it's AngelBoy because ShadowBaby never goes into any of the closets, and Mickey Kitty will only go into my husband's closet.)

I've also gone through my basket of books to-be-read, and the pile has dwindled down and down. All the books in there came from either yard sales (50 cents or less) or the dollar-shelf at Half Price Books. Since last week, I've decided I didn't want to read the life story of Lillie Langtry. Ditto for Gloria Vanderbilt. Nor did I find a novel about The Alamo all that interesting. And even though I loved "The Secret Life of Bees," I found the author's second novel ("The Mermaid Chair") to be just another novel, one that I could do without.

The one book I continued to read, and one I will keep, is "The Kite Runner," by Khaled Hosseini. It's a novel about a young boy growing up in Afghanistan. Reading this wonderful and heart-wrenching story, I have to wonder how much of this novel is really a novel.

So that's been my cold-weather story. As I said-- it's cold for here but it's been a piece of cake when you compare this to the frigid horrors in the Hudson.

Gran Torino

We went to the movies the other day to see Clint Eastwood's latest film, "Gran Torino." Considering that Clint is now 78 years old, you would think that he wouldn't be in the least believable as a tough guy. But he played a tough old guy in the movie, and you couldn't help but believe him.

I didn't know how that movie would end, and I wasn't expecting what did eventually happen, but now, looking back on the story, there was no other way for this movie to come to its last frame. I didn't realize I'd need a couple of tissues at the end of it, as I was getting them out of my purse, the guy next to us said Aw, you don't have to cry... it's only a movie. Well, I know it's only a movie, but sad is still sad, and I needed a tissue.

The next movie we have to see is "Slum Dog Millionaire," which our corner-neighbor S recommended-- she said it was a feel-good movie, not a car-wreck/chain-saw/special-effects film (which is what she normally goes to see). It's amazing to me that two of our oldest friends, both ladies "of a certain age" who look as delicate as can be, both love violent movies that make me cringe.


The weather has been crazy these last couple of days... so cold that I stayed in the house except to walk Gracie around the block in the afternoon. Today is more like Spring, with sunny skies and milder temperatures--- still not warm, but at least I don't have to bundle up in four layers and put up the hood on my knee-length coat. I hate all these layers of clothing. And certainly, the temperatures here aren't as frigid as they are in other parts of the country, but for here, anything under 55 degrees is just plain, flat-out cold.

We went out for lunch today, to the local Thai restaurant. We've been going there on a regular basis since Hurricane Ike marched through here and flooded out the little Greek restaurant in Kemah that we went to every week. They are still not open yet, but word has it that they'll be back in business before the month is over. The flood waters were five feet deep in the Greek's, and this wasn't the first time that they had to recover, re-do, and re-decorate their restaurant.

We miss that little restaurant, even though there's another Greek restaurant even closer to us. The food there isn't as good as the Greek's in Kemah-- he tends to over-salt everything, plus his spinach pie goes from his freezer to his microwave to your plate-- which makes for a pale white spinach pie instead of a crispy brown one. Not very appetizing, to say the least. In the Kemah restaurant, the owner's wife does all the cooking-- homemade, handmade Greek food, like your mother and grandmother would make, if they were Greek.

Our loyalty stays with the Greek restaurant in Kemah, and we'll be happy when their doors are open for business again. We've been going to the Thai restaurant so much these past few months that as soon as we walk in the door, the waitress goes into the kitchen and places our order, which never changes. By the time we're settled at our table, she's bringing out the soup, then the spring-rolls and salads.... then the chicken fried rice for my husband and the Shrimp Pad Thai for me. Sometimes I wonder if being that predictable is a good thing.

The oldest cat.

I just realized that our oldest cat, AngelBoy, is twelve years old now. Seems like just yesterday when I found him at the SPCA, and now he's the senior cat of the three that we have.

This once-tiny ball of silver gray fluff was half of a set of twins, both so identical that you really couldn't tell them apart when they were so little. I've often wondered how the other one turned out-- is he as picky and as prissy as this one? And I have also wondered if we changed AngelBoy's personality somewhat right at the beginning by taking him away from his twin. Would he have been a better cat if kept with his brother? Less prissy? More tolerant? Should we have just adopted both twins?

Looking back on this blue-eyed cat, we really didn't start having problems with him until our next cat (ShadowBaby) came along-- quite by accident.... we went to an antique shop in a tiny town west of here and found this tiny black kitten sitting on the curb in front of the shop. He ran up to me as soon as I got out of the car. Of course, I had to pick him up, and he nestled in underneath my chin and that was that. The owner of the shop told us the kitten had been out there all morning long, just waiting for us, she said. (At the time, my husband wondered if that lady had a box filled with kittens-- and was she putting them out on the sidewalk one at a time?)

AngelBoy wasn't thrilled when we brought home that tiny black kitten, who is now ten-year-old ShadowBaby. Just like our dog Gracie, AngelBoy is a one-pet pet. Gracie wants to be the only dog, which she is. AngelBoy wanted to be the only cat, which he isn't. We had an orange and white Manx when we brought AngelBoy home, and he didn't mind Rusty, probably because Rusty was already here when AngelBoy joined the family. But this blue-eyed AngelBoy made it clear that additional kittens found after him were not in his best interest. Or maybe they weren't in our best interest, because that's when AngelBoy began having his little "accidents." (The guy who cleans our carpets would walk in here and ask me "So... you still have that long-haired cat..."-- and he'd just smile.)

AngelBoy has indeed been an angel for months and months now. I don't really give him a chance to be anything but. He's on the screen-porch when I can't watch him, in the laundry room at night if it's too cold on the porch, and he's been following me around when he is in the house. AngelBoy knows the phrase Go use your box! When I tell him that, as I'm pointing to his litter box, he will calmly walk into his box and use it. If he doesn't have to pee, he still walks into that box, stays there a second or two, staring at me with those blue eyes of his, and then he walks out of the box. "There! Are you happy now?"

When AngelBoy is in the house and I tell him Stay where I can see you!-- he will do just that: follow me, rub up against my leg, and if I sit down at the table, he will jump up there and sit right in front of me like a centerpiece. "Is this close enough so you can see me?" If I sit in a chair to read, he curls up and puts his head on my foot.

My husband and I have always said that there's a little person inside this cat. A tiny person who understands every word we say. His face says it all-- he can scrunch up his face to give you a dirty look if you have disturbed his nap, or change his features quickly to a loving look if you're standing there with the jar of cat treats in your hand.

If nothing else, this blue-eyed Birman has taught me patience. I thought I was patient before this cat, but having AngelBoy in the house has taken my patience to a saintly level of endurance. Okay, so he wet the carpet. Well, maybe I would too if two other cats were chasing me from one end of the house to the other. (They pick on AngelBoy because they know he won't fight back.) I have learned to intervene as soon as I hear the others running after AngelBoy. I quickly scoop up this blue-eyed cat into my arms and he looks down at the other two as if to say Mama saved me again, you bullies!

Reading about Birmans, I've learned that they need a lot of attention. And they don't care if you're busy with other things, other cats, other people. If they want you, they want you now. We didn't know he was any particular sort of breed when we adopted him. He was just a silver gray-white ball of fluff, as cute as cute could be. As he matured, his fur developed a lavender-silver tint on his paws, his tail, his ears, his face. Way beyond cute, he grew into a beautiful cat, without a doubt. And he knows it. But he has been on his best blue-eyed behavior these last six months, eight months, even longer.

So of course I am watching him even more closely now... as I wait for the other paw to drop.

Momma's Pie.

We went to our friend J's house for "Momma's Pie" yesterday afternoon. This is our friend J whose little dog had to be put to sleep in mid-December, which resulted in J being rushed to the hospital with heart problems.

Her heart is just fine these days, and she seems to be back to her usual smiling, witty self, but she surely does miss her little Yorkie. I'm waiting for the day when she calls us up to tell us to walk up to her house and meet her new little puppy.

Anyway-- J's "Momma's Pie" is just that..... her mother's recipe for a chocolate-silk pie topped with homemade whipped cream. This is the third year that she's invited us for tea and Momma's Pie, and this year, she included our at-the-corner neighbor S. J also asked her son and daughter-in-law to join us so we could all meet. Apparently she had told her son all about going to the movies with S, and coming to our home for parties... so I think she wanted to assure her son that we really did all exist.

The pie was better this year than we remembered.... less sweet, more of a milk chocolate than a dark chocolate, and the whipped cream wasn't overly sweet either. Beautiful consistency on this pie, with everything homemade-- the crust, the chocolate custard, the cream. And no embellishments on the top, either-- not a chocolate curl or sprinkle in sight. J sticks to her momma's recipe and it's "plain-Jane all the way from the pie plate to the dessert plate."

As we enjoyed the tea and the chocolate pie, J said she had a confession to make-- the pie we were eating was her second attempt... after the first batch found its way to the garbage disposal. The story goes that J had her new MP-3 player (a Christmas gift) plugged into her ears while she was making the chocolate custard. She started singing with the music, dancing around the kitchen, and before she knew it, "those blasted eggs just went and curdled up in the custard and it looked like chocolate scrambled eggs."

Into the garbage disposal it all went, and J got into her car and went up to Kroger for another dozen eggs and more baking chocolate. When she got back, she said she made sure the MP-3 player was on the other side of the room till the pie was safely done. The thought of J dancing around in her kitchen is hard for me to imagine. J is a tall, stately, elegant woman "of a certain age" with gray hair, Victorian-straight posture, and a voice like Lauren Bacall (if Miss Bacall had been raised in Louisiana). Try as I might, I just can't picture J (or Lauren Bacall, for that matter) prancing around a kitchen like a go-go dancer.

Mary Engelbreit's Paper Dolls

Every last bit of the Christmas and New Year's decorations have been packed away now-- in a storage closet that looks like a jig-saw puzzle. I'm always amazed at how much I can pack into this closet, as long as I do it neatly enough. I had to fill more boxes this year so I could stack them all right to the ceiling. I used to have the Santas and angels lined up on the shelves, and they'd smile at me when I opened the closet door... but with all the extra holiday plates and mugs (and Santas) I found at the consignment shop in November and December, those figurines have to be content in boxes now. Hey, Santa-- can you breathe in there?! (I doubt they're smiling now.)

We usually have our Valentine's party on the second Saturday of February, and this year, our party falls right on the 14th. Originally, I thought that our friends might want to go out for dinner on that night, but so far, everyone I've talked to about the party date is thrilled-- not to have to make reservations for dinner on such a busy night. So the 14th it will be, and I've been getting the invitations ready.

I tried to think of something different to do with the usual Valentine party cards, and I came up with a great idea. With all my back-issues of Mary Engelbreit's "Home Companion" magazine, I have a box filled with sheets of her wonderful paper dolls. I took all the paper doll pages out of the magazines to keep them from getting folded or bent, since I page through all those issues looking for good party ideas and decorating hints. Her artwork is fun and whimsical, and very colorful-- you might call it busy, which it is, but it's soothing and serene just the same. And whimsical-- the world needs more whimsy than ever these days.

So out came the box of paper doll pages, and there I was this afternoon, cutting out paper dolls with blonde hair, brown hair, curly hair, straight hair-- matching the paper dolls as best I could to the women in our Charades group who come to our parties. After matching the dolls to the ladies, I went through the pages again, looking for red and/or pink outfits. I found a Valentine-y paper outfit for each of the dolls, and also cut out tiny red and pink hearts-- one heart for each dress, so it looks like a brooch.

At a yard sale long ago, I found a small box of tiny clear plastic envelopes-- crisp and new, and I figured I could use them for something along the way. And those cute little envelopes were just the thing I needed to hold each paper doll and her Valentine clothes-- the dolls are standing in the clear envelopes up to their waists. I used double-sided tape to stick the envelope to the left side of the invitation, then wrote out the party information on the right side of the card. At the top of the left side, near the paper doll's envelope, I wrote Wear red! Wear pink! Pin a little heart on yourself!

The invitations look more Valentine-y than ever. Not only was I able to match up the paper dolls to the person, but with all the paper doll pages, I was able to pick outfits to match their personalities. I can't wait to see the look on our friend K's face when she sees her blonde paper doll (complete with glasses) wearing a "hippie" outfit from the 1960s.... so perfect for her! And for our friend J, I found an angel costume-- she collect angels, and I'm betting that she will put her little angel paper doll on her angel-filled Christmas tree in December.

What I should do is send an invitation to Mary Engelbreit herself...... to show her what I've done with her paper dolls. There is an artwork page in quite a few of ME's magazine which says "Yes, we play with paper dolls. Want to make something of it?!" To go along with that quote, I can see one of ME's characters standing there with her hands on her hips and a smirk on her cute little face.

I think the ladies are going to enjoy getting the paper dolls in the invitation cards. We are all old enough to have played with paper dolls when we were kids-- before "Colorforms" were invented (those thin-plastic clothes for those cardboard dolls didn't tear easily) and before the Barbie doll was introduced to the world. Paper dolls were prized possessions, and we all had a shoe box filled with pages from McCall's magazines, and movie-star paper dolls cut out of Life and Look.

Mary Engelbreit's paper dolls are the best... they make little girls smile, and they make older girls remember.

Happy New Year

We are having a quiet day today, just as we had a quiet evening last night. We had talked about inviting some friends for dinner last night, or for a lunch today, but then just never did it. I think we had more company during the month of December than we'd had for and since the Halloween Party, so it was nice to have a calm and quiet "holiday" night yesterday.

One of the local supermarkets had lobsters on sale again for eight dollars a pound, so that's what we had for our New Year's Eve dinner. After that, we watched a movie called "Millions," recommended to us by our corner-neighbor S. It's about a little English boy who finds a huge bag filled with money in the British countryside. Wonderful movie, very inventive and different, and sure to have you crying towards the end. But it's a happy ending, and worth seeing-- we rented it from the video store.

Warm day yesterday, and warm today as well. I took down the outside holiday lights, and put the lighted deer into the garage where they'll stay till the next holiday season. Those yard sale deer have been in our front yard for years now... not bad for less than five dollars each.

Speaking of yard sales, Miss C has already called me today to ask if I'm planning to go to the yard sales this weekend. We were so busy during December that I stopped going to yard sales for the entire month, and told C that I'd start up again after the holidays were over. So here we are, on the first of January, and she's already wondering if we can go to the weekend sales.

Indeed we will, I told her, as long as it isn't raining. It was supposed to rain today, but that never happened. The sun was out, the temperature seemed to be around 75 degrees, and it was a really pretty day. Now the sky is looking gray and overcast.... we may just get that rain after all.

We watched the New Year's celebration in NYC's Time Square last night. We always watch that, and the NY midnight hour becomes our own beginning of the New Year. It was sad to see how old and fragile Dick Clark has become, and it must be very hard for him to get through the television time for the end-of-year party up there. I was happy that he wasn't out in the cold and the wind last night... he looked quite comfy and warm wherever he was. But maybe it's time for Dick Clark to give up his New Year's Eve job. He looked comfy, but he didn't look confident, and his fragility is just so very sad.

An hour later, as our Texas clocks got to midnight, we heard firecrackers going off around the community. I'm sure they had celebrations in the downtown areas, but we've never gone to them. I remember the years when Guy Lombardo and his orchestra brought in the new year from NYC's Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. And then Dick Clark became Mr. New Year's Eve. I hope The Powers That Be in New York can come up with a suitable replacement for Dick Clark.... Ryan Seacrest just isn't going to cut it.