In Good Taste

I have a good friend who is absolutely brilliant at wine. He dearly loves fine wines and has introduced me to some beautiful vintages through the years. Drinking wines that he has chosen is always a learning experience because he challenges you to identify the flavors with your eyes closed and your taste buds wide awake. I have actually gotten quite good at nailing some very exotic flavors that are subtle even to the wine aficionado, though I am not one.

I do know what tastes good and what is a lot of hype. For example, I love champagne dearly and a lot of the very expensive ones cannot compare to some that I have had from unknown makers. Magnificent taste does not always come with a high price. There are very affordable wines that are really good. All you need is a sophisticated palate, which is learned, and appreciative and discerning taste buds, which it helps to be born with.

This same friend took me to a Les Amis du Vin (The Friends of Wine) event in our city. This is kind of a fancy group of people who get together and drink and discuss great wine. OK, they don't just drink wine, they have an intimate affair with it. They swirl it, hold it up to the light, stick most of their face in the glass and inhale and then finally let it flow gently over their tongues and then down their hoity-toity throats. It's kind of fun to wait for the expressions that follow. Whether these tastes of the grape bring pleasure or disappointment, it is discussed. The members have their own lingo, so I just listened politely and smiled. I prayed that no one asked me my opinion. By the time I had sat through about three tastings, I was not only clueless as to what they were looking for, but I was a bit tipsy. Anyway, the evening was pleasant, if a little too snooty for me. It got me thinking... are you surprised?

There ought to be discussion groups for tasty pleasures that a lot of people enjoy. And then it came to me in a flash. I could easily lead regular group discussions on a subject that I dare say I am both an expert and a connoisseur. I thought about how much I could add to this world with my vast knowledge, teaching so many so much. I could start my own group and it might grow into international chapters. If people can gather to discuss wine, cheese, cigars and the like, wouldn't it be wonderful to get together and discuss CANDY? That's what I'm talkin' about.

I have loved candy for nearly as long as I have been on this earth. One of the best things about being a kid was when I earned money doing chores and could then ride my bike to the corner store and buy candy. It was always a special treat and it still is. I don't think anyone appreciates candy more than I do. I have had a lifetime to explore all the delicious varieties of candy confections. I can describe the taste, the aroma and the subtle nuances of every one of my favorite candies. Before we go any further, I am not only talking about exquisite Belgian chocolates or Italian nougat or German marzipan which I adore, but the candy every American child grew up on. The kind that is lined up on 3-tiered shelving on a solid aisle of yumminess in every drug store, supermarket and 7-11.

Of course, you can't simply trust the opinion of one person, although I am very qualified in this area. I set out to do research to find out what we all like to eat when it comes to candy. Fortunately I didn't have to dig too hard. USA TODAY did a fabulous job of coming up with the Top 50 Candies of All Time. When I read through the list, I agreed with many, disagreed with some and was downright shocked at others. I am convinced that there needs to be group tastings and discussions to sort this all out. My guess is that many candy lovers never venture outside their comfort zone and end up buying the same thing every time they indulge. Case in point: Werther's caramels came in number 50 while candy corn landed at the top. Number 13! Really? How in the hell did that happen? The Candy Corn Council obviously does a better job than the folks at Werther's. One of my personal faves, Necco Wafers, only made it to number 44. These delicious little discs of flavor that disintegrate into paper thin yumminess give pleasure to the taste buds and the tongue. Yet, Peeps made it to 23rd. place. Very confounding, indeed. Peeps are cute and they sell zillion of them at Easter, but I wonder how many of these fluffy sugar encrusted critters actually get eaten.

Below are the Top 10 candies that sell the most. I agree wholeheartedly with most of them, but if there was a Candy Society to assess the virtues and failures of big sellers, I think the list would change. People just don't know...

10. Hershey Bar. You will get no argument from me. Perfect. And without them there could be no S'mores. Unthinkable.

9. Twix. Not a big deal to me but I appreciate their fan base. Those who love them, love them. Good enough.

8. Butterfinger. Yes, baby! Messy to eat but heavenly.

7. Gummy Bears/Gummy Worms. OK, we have to have to let the kids have a say. I also know that dieters like these because they are low in sugar and a serving is a lot of pieces, I would much rather have a delicious Tootsie Roll Pop (# 15) that satisfies a sweet tooth, lasts a long time and is only 50 calories. If there was a group, you would know that already.

6. Kit Kat. Again, not my thing. More of a cookie than a candy and I am a purist. I know lots of people love them, so I cave to this confection's undeniable popularity.

5. Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. A superstar in the candy world. Fabulous!

4. Twizzler's. Oh, come on! I will pit waxy tasteless Twizzler's against soft, chewy and flavorful Red Vines any day. No comparison. Red Vines are way better. This is what happens when there is no group that brings these details to forefront.

3. Snickers. Who doesn't like a Snickers? One of the greatest candy concoctions ever created.

2. Hershey's Kisses. Perfect name, perfect amount of chocolate to make your mouth happy.

1. M & M's. Created in 1941, these scrumptious little candy-coated milk chocolate morsels are at the top of my list, as well. I would rather have a bag of plain M & M's over of a truck load of Godiva Chocolates. That's just how good I think they are. The fact that they melt in your mouth, not in your hands has never mattered much to me. They are never in my hand long enough to get squishy. The DO, however, melt in my jeans pocket in the clothes dryer. Long story.

So, whenever you out there are ready to form a Candy Connoisseurs Club, I am ready, too. There is an imbalance in people's taste levels when it comes to candy and we can change all that. It is up to you and I to set the world straight. Milk Duds only made it to number 32. Very disturbing.

Tipping

Those of you who regularly read my columns know that my brain is very special. The craziest thoughts get stuck in my blonde head and the longer that thought is running around in my brain, the more likely it is to go haywire in a variety of directions before I am done with it. These thoughts eventually turn into words and get sent to you to read over the weekend with morning coffee. This weekend will be no different, my dear readers, because I totally got hung up on practice of tipping and what it all means and how it got started.

Tipping

The practice of tipping the waitstaff in an eating establishment started in England and made its way to Colonial America. The term "tip" is thought to have originally been an acronym meaning "To Insure Promptness". Tipping servers in restaurants has long been customary in the United States, but how much to tip seems to confound some people. I recently went away for a few days with a group of friends. We ate in restaurants at every meal and it was very relaxing and quite fun to spend that time dining together. When the check came, we divided up the total by the number of people at the table. That's the easy part. My friends would never start taking inventory of who ate what because they simply are not like that. They also know that my head would explode. They wouldn't be my fiends if they were worried about who had what. The check was divided by six and that was it. Then came the discussion about the TIP and what the percentage should be, what kind of job the server did, and so on. Do we add on 15%, 20% or more because we were a party of 6? Was the fact that we had to ask for more butter twice a reason to subtract percentage points from what we leave our waiter? I listened carefully to what everyone was saying and kept quiet. I can't expect the rest of the world to embrace my philosophy on tipping in restaurants, so I just join in with what everyone else decides and if I don't think it's enough I add to it when nobody notices or slip extra to my server on the way out. I am a big tipper because I am so damn grateful that I never had to be a waitress and I appreciate what they do. I even tip well when they suck because I figure that they may not have a job for long. It's kind of my own little personal charity.

So, now I was curious about tipping in general. There's been a lot written about it so I looked it up. We tip in the U.S., but there are lots of places in the world where they don't. If you are not a fan of tipping, then a move a move to Austrialia, Croatia or Greece might be an option. They don't expect it in those places. Countries like France and Italy add it to your bill before you get it. There are also countries that find a gratuity to be an insult.

The fact that we tip our waiters and waitresses in America is a necessary custom. Did you know that waitstaff in this country depend heavily on gratuities to survive? The Wall Street Journal reported that 15% of waitstaff in this country live below the poverty level as compared to other hourly workers where only 7% fall into that category. When reading up on this subject I also learned that waitresses who are pretty earn more tips and strangely enough studies show that female servers who wear a barrette or flower in their hair make better tips. I was delighted to learn that a 20% tip is closer to the standard in restaurants these days, so people are paying up to be served. I read that tipping cab drivers 20% is considered the going rate, but here's where I get tough. If they don't willingly handle my luggage, or if they smoke in the car or talk on the cell phone instead of paying attention to the road, their tip dwindles with every infraction. I can deal with a disgruntled cab driver, but the people who handle my food and my dining experience are well taken care of.

Tip of the Iceberg

The words "tip" and "tipping" just wouldn't leave my head. Maybe because they are both pretty cute words. Whatever it is, my brain skipped around and landed on "tip of the iceberg". This refers to a small, noticeable part of a problem, the total size of which is really much greater.

How about tipping your hat? Where did that come from? When men wore hats as part of everyday dress, lifting the brim of the hat from the head for a moment was considered a polite, non-verbal way to show recognition, gratitude, or a simple greeting to another person. How adorable is that? My brain was still going and I thought about something being on the tip of my tongue or how mischievous it felt to be tip-toeing for some reason. Yep, I got hung up on tip/tipping and I dragged you along with me! I know I have to stop this madness, but not just yet. Stick with me through just one more!

Cow Tipping

Is it a real thing or just legend? Before I get off my journey on The Tipping Express, I have to know.

ow tipping is purportedly the activity of sneaking up on an unsuspecting upright sleeping cow and pushing it over for entertainment. I was relieved to find out that it's just an urban legend and does not really exist. Good to know. I like cows.

Well, I'm done for now and my mind is now empty for the time being. Whew! That was exhausting...

Talk to you next week. Love you. Mean it.

My Darlings

It's the Wednesday before Thanksgiving and I am all mushy and squishy with thoughts of tomorrow. I am not cooking this year, so it will be a relaxing day for me. I am looking so forward to it. I decided to write you a letter instead of an article this week. You all are so busy with stuffing turkeys and eating and shopping, you wouldn't even have time to read it.

It's that most wonderful time of the year when Black Friday and Cyber Monday are the bookends to 4 great days of shopping for crazy good bargains. I used to be out there at O Dark Thirty with all the other crazies, but I am an online girl for the most part these days. I never want these love letters of mine to sound like a commercial for LoveFifi.com, but I will say we have some great stuff at some stupid cheap prices. I guarantee you will have fun when you are not at the mall shopping for bargain undies IN your undies. Good times!

I wish you everything wonderful tomorrow and always. We should always give thanks for our gifts in this life and there is nothing that brings that home more than being with family and friends. It doesn't get better than being with the ones you love. I will get up when I wake up which is a luxury in itself. I will brew a perfect cup of coffee and sit with my doggies and watch the Macy's parade. It's corny, but it's tradition... and I love tradition.

We are going to a fine restaurant. We started doing this about 5 years ago and it has been great. It's not home cooking, but it is really good. There is no getting up at dawn to stuff a bird, no worries about timing all the side dishes perfectly, no dishes and no mess. There are also no leftovers, so I always cook a turkey breast and dressing at home. I don't buy a pumpkin pie for my house because that would not be wise. I would eat it all and never confess. Only my hips and bottom would tell the truth. I will buy the cranberry sauce with the whole cranberries in it. Nobody else in my family likes that one so now I can be a rebel and NOT buy the jellied one. So I will have turkey sandwiches, which is the best part of Thanksgiving food, if you ask me.

Have a beautiful holiday and get your shopping done. I will be decorating this weekend. I like my Christmas wonderland to be up for as long as possible. It takes me forever to put it up and it takes me even longer to take it all down. It really shoots the hell out of February.

Before I say goodbye for now, I think I will tell you a big secret about me. I may have mentioned it before, but it is certainly in keeping with the spirit of this holiday. When I was 6, my first grade teacher asked each one of us what we wanted to be when we grew up. Without hesitation, I answered "a pilgrim". My teacher smiled and never let on that my dream was pretty impossible. She then asked me why. Again, with great conviction, I told her it was because I liked their outfits with the stiff hats and the big buckles on their shoes. Isn't it ironic that I wanted to wear clothes that covered every inch of skin, yet I ended up designing and selling apparel that doesn't cover up much? My sister has always cracked up every time she thinks about me wanting to be a pilgrim. OK, so I wasn't a big thinker at 6 and it never occurred to me that this wasn't a real job. Still, my sister finds my early aspirations hilarious. This from a woman who wanted to be a mermaid.

Branching Out

For the last 10 days I have had the luxury of sitting in the passenger seat of a very fancy SUV and watching the world go by. My sister did all the driving from Atlanta to Cleveland, where we arrived a few hours ago. We took our time along the way and stopped wherever we felt like stopping. Our route took us through two national parks, miles of pastoral scenery, alongside placid lakes and rushing rivers. I saw a million postcard-worthy views of this beautiful country. I had time to get lost in my thoughts and come down from a life at home that is wonderful, but often crazy busy and jam-packed with stress. Every day has been both an adventure and a dream. The whole trip was planned out perfectly so all we had to do was show up to our next destination and enjoy the sights in between. We shopped, we antiqued, we dined at local eateries and we took in the points of interest at our own pace.

If all that wasn't blissful enough, sister and I got lots of time together in the car to talk. Between the oohs and aahs of appreciation for the exquisite scenery, we talked and planned and even schemed a bit. We kept the CD player playing our favorite songs and we snacked on goodies we don't indulge in often. Skittles never tasted so good. We got up in the morning whenever we woke up. No alarms, no wake up calls. We followed our whims and did what we felt like doing. After over a week of living like this I can truthfully say that being irresponsible is highly underrated.

This is a trip I will never forget for many reasons. I think my brain and my body have finally learned to truly relax. Sitting there and appreciating the wonders of nature while traveling down the road with no demands on my time has been so good for me. All I had to do was suck in all the beauty of my surroundings and let my mind run with it. And that's just what I did.

From the moment that we hit the road, I have marveled at the trees. It's fall, so the trees along the way were particularly spectacular. The more trees I saw, the more I thought about them. No matter where we traveled, the trees were amazing. I thought about how long it took them to grow to be so tall and grand. I thought about the significance of trees in our lives. They shade us from the heat, they give texture and beauty to every landscape, they make a brilliant playground for kids and squirrels and their trunks provide a permanent monument for lovers carving their words of undying love.

This trip has opened up these green eyes to so much and I am so grateful for the experience. I have even seen the true meaning of what Brenda Bettencourt wrote in huge writing on the first page of my high school yearbook. I was a little insulted at the time but now realize what a fantastic compliment she gave me.

"Remember the mighty oak tree was once a nut like you."

These words are now music to my ears. Thank you Brenda for likening me to something so awesome.

Taking a Tranquil-izer

I just finished my third week of yoga and I really love it. It has been a pretty life changing experience for me so far. One of the life lessons I never learned was how to relax, so the prospect of getting to the point of being “at one” with myself and the universe seemed nearly impossible for this crazy girl.

I owe a lot of my positive feelings about yoga to my yogi, my teacher. Before I met her, my only knowledge of a yogi was the one who was a bear and had a sidekick named Boo Boo. She is an older woman who speaks in poetry and never hesitates or falters. Her words are seamless and flow in continuous perfection every minute of class time.

On my first night, I got there what I thought was right on time. It was 10 minutes before the start of class. I was surprised when I found the room and there were already 15-20 pairs of assorted Birkenstocks, sandals and flip flops all lined up. I knew I was in the right place until I removed my shoes and added them to the rows of discarded footwear. When I looked at their shoes and then looked at mine, I thought for a moment that I might not belong.

“When I looked at their shoes and then looked at mine, I thought for a moment that I might not belong.”

I entered the dark-ish room and everyone was sitting in what I now recognize as the lotus position. The teacher welcomed me and beckoned me to find a place for my mat. Easier said than done, I want to tell you. I have had more luck finding a parking place at Macy’s on Christmas Eve day than finding a space in the makeshift yoga studio. It seems that the room is normally used as the playroom for child care. It’s carpeted, but all those places were taken. All that was left for me was a space in the linoleum lined “kitchenette” alcove behind the teacher. At least I was alone and wouldn’t be bumping arms and legs with anyone. Even the cushy new yoga mat I had just purchased at Marshall’s couldn’t protect my old body from the hard floor. As she began her melodious instructions, I had a hard time paying attention at first because the man in front of me was taking up two spaces on the carpeted area and it pissed me off. I quickly got a hold of myself and paid attention, although I was finding great pleasure in plotting the carpet hog's death.

The hard floor made everything hurt but I listened attentively to her direction. “Cultivate stillness in your life”, she purred. “With yoga you have the power to break through that which holds you back”. I liked the sound of that and did everything I could to emulate what everyone else was doing. She had us lie down and asked us to “flower” our toes. It didn’t take me long to realize that there was a yoga-speak that went along with the yoga routines. I had to listen really closely because the sweet yogi lady spoke very softly and the boom box with the accompanying yoga music was right over my head on the kitchen counter. She then asked us to raise our knees towards heaven with feet planted on the floor. “Establish a friendship with the floor”, she prompted. She then took us from the tops of our heads, down the back, hips and to the feet with feeling our relationship with the floor. I kept thinking that the floor and I could have gotten off to a better start if I were on carpet, but I did as she asked for the next hour. I muddled my way through the first class and she had only praise for all of us and thanked us all profusely for allowing her to teach us. Thank goodness she couldn’t see my sprattle-legged attempts to follow along. I may not have made friends with the floor, but the kitchenette cupboards and fridge and I are very well acquainted.

The next week was so much better. I got there 20 minutes early and got the best mat space in the room. I close enough to the teacher to see and hear her. Even though this was described as a class appropriate for beginners, most of the participants were obviously yoga veterans. When it came time to do the pigeon pose, my teacher promised it would be a gift to the hips. My hips probably won’t write her a thank you note, but I did feel things I have never felt before and I liked it. By the middle of the second night, I had thrown my heart and soul into trying to do yoga. I was feeling pretty good about it when all of a sudden the teacher rose to her feet and started to roam around the class room watching us. Who do you think she sought out first? Me. Oh crap, I thought. She is coming to personally escort me to Special Ed Yoga. But no, she just wanted to “align” my movements. As she looked directly, but very nurturingly at me, she told the class to draw attention to the core of our bodies, the epicenter of all movement. She smiled at me like she understood that my core had quite a little tummy that went with it and not to worry.

I will tell you that when you get into to doing yoga you cannot be shy. You spend a great deal of time with your ass in the air and your legs fully apart like a human wishbone. None of my gynecological appointments ever made me feel as exposed or vulnerable. My biggest revelation is that even though I am a damn good dancer, I cannot coordinate yoga moves with breathing in and out. If we are supposed to be lowering our arms and legs on the exhale, you can be sure that I am on the inhale. But I am getting better and I must be really honest. Even though I am awkward and stupid when it comes to yoga, I feel fantastic afterwards.

Right now my favorite pose is Savasana, or the corpse pose. You lie down at the end of the session, close your eyes, hands at the side with palms up. You let your bones sink into the earth, allow your whole body to melt like ice on a sunny day and think to yourself “welcome into the world of bliss”. You get to stay like this and enjoy the peace until she gently rings little brass bells. It’s fantastic.

We all rise up into lotus, put our hands together prayer style pointed towards the sky and say Namaste. When I went home, I looked up the word and it translates as follows: Nama means bow; as means I; and te means you. I bow to you.

Your Miss Fifi is becoming “at one” with the world and it feels so good. Talk to you next week. Namaste, my dear readers, Namaste.

Natural Woman

It's a beautiful day here in California. Spring has officially arrived and I am beside myself with angst. It's not that I don't love the blue skies and new blossoms, but my whole world changes in spring.

If you haven't noticed, the garden centers are abuzz with customers. I was watching QVC a few weeks ago and they had a day of spring flower offerings that was amazing. I wanted everything that they were showing. I was especially taken with the Dinner Plate Dahlia's that have 10" blooms and the exquisite roses in exotic colors.They made it sound like growing the plants was easy-peasy and guaranteed them to be fully grown and blossoming within 90 days. Except at my house.

I have told you before that I do not have a green thumb, but I do have a gardener who tends my flowers. He has the magic to make things grow so I leave it to him after I have planned what to plant and decided what goes where. The result is spectacular and I love every minute of bloom time.

Now here's why spring is so exhausting for me. I live in the hills and there are many little creatures who do not consider my garden a thing of beauty. They view it as more of a salad. My very small backyard has a 3' fence and then a slope on the other side. I can't have the fence any taller or I would lose my view.

When I first moved to my little place, I foolishly planted rosebushes along the fence. When the bushes first bloomed I was in awe of my exquisite rose garden. A few days later I came out to a row of leafy plants with sticks jutting out at the top. That was the day I learned that deer think roses are delicious.

Deer are so beautiful and sweet, so I set out to find a way to discourage them from eating my roses. I did not want to put wire or anything that would hurt them, so I ordered this stuff called "Deer OUT". It's supposed to have coyote urine as a base and the deer smell danger and keep away. Unfortunately the smell of my roses trumped the coyote pee, because as soon as I got a new rose, the next day it would turn into a stick. I then bought some sensors that give off a vibe that deer are supposed to fear. I had them installed at great expense. My deer didn't fear them at all. I eventually took out the rose bushes and gave them away. I have been experimenting with a "deer proof" garden but it's not that pretty. Deer obviously have great taste in what they like to nibble on because they don't seem to fancy the plants that aren't pretty.

Do you remember when you were a kid and watched cartoons? Remember when there was a gopher in the garden and the flowers were instantly sucked into the ground? I always thought that was an exaggeration before I lived on this hill. I have watched my hollyhocks and cyclamen literally vanish in the blink of an eye. I have been told that the only way to get rid of gophers is to put poison in their tunnels. I can't kill them or make them sick, so I will find the magic. I understand that fox urine is a deterrent. By the way, who are these people who gather up animal pee and sell it? Interesting job...

And let's not even talk about squirrels! I have watched them swing like Tarzan on my "squirrel proof" hanging bird planters until the whole thing (including the squirrel) falls to the ground. Once the feeder is broken in half, the seed spews out and my patio becomes the Ground Squirrel Cafe. My poor little birds get nothing until I buy a bigger and badder bird feeder.

And then there are the possums. I don't think they bother my garden, but they bother my sense of beauty. When I get to heaven, I plan to ask God what he was thinking when he created possums. Not some of his best work, in my opinion.

It's not like I am new to this battle against nature. I have been a hill dweller forever. In the house where my kids grew up, we had problems with raccoons. They would tear out the roof and live in the attic. Their favorite place to make little raccoons was right over the ceiling in the master bedroom. In the middle of the night, you could hear the mating calls and practically feel the house shake when they would chase each other. You may have never seen it, but I can tell you what raccoon love sounds like. It's noisy and not even me pounding the ceiling with the broom handle could stop the passion. And then it would get eerily quiet. I would lay in bed and visualize two raccoons relaxing and having little cigarettes. I hired a service to trap them and then drive them 35 miles away before I had raccoon babies living in my attic. I then repaired the roof. It was all very successful... sort of. I did it every spring for 20+ years.

So,that is my tale of woe. Spring has sprung and I will be very busy protecting my petunias and guarding my gardenias. If any of my readers have humane ideas for getting rid of my pests, please write. I really don't believe that poison and pee are my only options. Hmmmmm... poison and pee... isn't there a band by that name?

Woman Of The Cloth

You already know that I am quirky, so you won't be shocked by my next admission. As I was ironing my cloth napkins over the weekend, I had sweet thoughts of my mother teaching me how to press them just so and stack them when I was a girl. Just in case you think I was preparing for the holidays, I wasn't. I use cloth napkins at my house every day, even though I am usually the only one dining.

Now when I say "dining" I am referring to any kind of eating at home. If I have a peanut butter sandwich, I use a cloth napkin. You have no idea how elegant a PB&J can be when you wipe your lips with real cloth.

Believe me when I tell you that switching to cloth can even make eating a Hot Pocket on the couch feel sophisticated.

Think of how it feels when you go to a fancy restaurant and the waiter takes your starched napkin, unfurls it dramatically, and places it in your lap. It's special... and you probably sit up straighter and look forward to your meal with greater anticipation. I get the same feeling when I use cloth napkins at home. I skip the unfurling part because it scares the dogs, but the feeling of cloth in my lap instead of paper makes me feel like a queen.

I really hate it that with most people, cloth napkins have become something for only special occasions or 5-star restaurants. Believe me when I tell you that switching to cloth can even make eating a Hot Pocket on the couch feel sophisticated.

It is really no big deal to throw a weeks worth of napkins in the washer. The ironing part takes no time at all and sometimes I can just kind of smooth them with my hands. It's all worth it when you sit down to eat. And when you have a guest? Just watch their faces when you hand them a cloth napkin to go with their coffee and bagel.

I guess I am just a tactile person. I love thick towels, soft sheets, and lofty comforters, as well. Thank goodness the same people who make paper napkins and paper towels didn't tinker with converting other cloth items into disposable paper. Can you imagine getting out of the tub and tearing off a big wide piece of perforated paper toweling from a big roll? I wince at the thought. The best part of bathing is the "hug" you get when you wrap a towel around yourself.

I had a dreadful experience once that proves that this is so true. I was staying in a friends guest house which was located about 100 yards from the main house. I was happily taking a hot shower and did not realize until I got out - dripping wet - that the host had forgotten to restock the bathroom with towels since the last visitor. Not wishing to damage the wood floors in the cottage, I turned to my survival instincts. I got back in the shower and shook my tailfeather and a few other things to get as much water off me as I could. I then stepped out and used most of the box of Kleenex on the counter. I got dry enough to race to the bedroom and finish up with my sweatshirt. I have worshiped the feel of bath towels since that day.

Granted, some things make much more sense made out of paper. Motherhood has become more convenient and less stinky with the advent of disposable diapers. Although good handkerchiefs are very old school and romantic for both men and women, I never liked the idea of carrying around a booger-y hanky all day. You can only use it once before it is disgusting. I like my tissues, thank you. Now, if you want to give paper a real round of applause, lets hear it for toilet paper! Before it's invention, people used everything from leaves to corn husks to do the job. French royalty used lace, which sounds nicer, but still terrible. I am grateful for my ultra thick, 2-ply, kitten soft, toilet paper, but I am still opposed to the use of paper napkins in the home.

I imagine that I hold on to some of "old school" ideas because I really don't love it that the whole world has gotten so casual and forgotten how some things can make simple everyday occurrences more pleasurable. Maybe I've seen too many 1940s movies where ladies do ladylike things like write their daily correspondence on real stationary with their initials embossed on it. Now women just dash off an email or a text message if they want to say something. They don't even take the trouble to write whole words these days. Is anybody THAT busy that they don't have time to write "you" instead of just "U"? I am pretty sure that I won't have much luck convincing these same people to use cloth napkins, but it's their loss.

Think about what I'm saying. Think about buying some napkins made of real cloth to use every day. I promise that you will see what wonders it does for your sense of well being. It will make you feel regal and elegant, even if you are eating a Lean Cuisine and watching Family Feud.

Trust me on this one.