About Me

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Five years into widowhood, after one year of incredible happiness and nearly 14 years of single blessedness. Have given up perfect manicures and pretty hands in order to resume playing the soprano recorder and to see if I can figure out how to play bluegrass banjo. Singing in the shower. Still really, *really* love to knit!

Monday, June 01, 2015


I could not get the Internet to cooperate last night, so I read instead. This, from the book I purchased when in Minneapolis in March (which has been languishing by the side of my bed since then):

The French have always known what I have long suspected; there is nothing sexier than watching a woman eat. Men love this. I'm positive that I owe many a second date in New York to a chocolate cannoli or a late-night coupe of rice pudding with whipped cream. It's simple: Women who pick at their food hate sex. Women who suck the meat off of lobster claws, order and finish dessert ~ these are the women who are going to rip your clothes off and come back for seconds. I have a friend in the States who never considered herself a very good flirt, but I never worried for her, because she is a fabulous cook and an adventurous eater. I never doubted that when the right guy she would devour him like a hot fudge sundae, and I was right. (Elizabeth Bard, in Lunch in Paris: A Love Story, with Recipes, which I am reading with a bottle of White-Out because her language is intermittently atrocious, and the recipes are intriguing. The bottle got a good workout in the past half hour.)

I am also reading Gene R. Cook's Searching the Scriptures: Bringing Power to Your Personal and Family Study as a palate cleanser. I borrowed it from my home teacher several months ago and want to finish it so I may return it at their next visit.

And I have begun The Time of Their Lives: The Golden Age of Great American Publishers, Their Editors and Authors by Al Silverman. I borrowed it from SemperFi in April.

Why all this reading, you ask? because Ancestry and FamilySearch were not playing nicely last night. See "no Internet cooperation" above. I don't know if it's due to all the rain we've gotten, and maybe my cable is gargling, or if it was Sunday night deathbed repentance from the other Saints.

The house appears unscathed from all the recent storms, but I noticed that the railroad ties that serve as a retaining wall at the front edge of my property have emulated the Guess Who song and come undone.

I put together a four hour playlist on iTunes. Kinda proud of myself.

And that was my Sabbath. In spite of a good night's sleep and a decent breakfast, I ran out of "spoons" midway through Sunday School. Stuck it out for all three hours and was glad that I did. Once I got home, I ate the barest minimum of something and headed straight for bed.

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