A bit of pink history (warning: excessive unedited rambling ahead)

"When colors were first introduced to the nursery in the early part of the 20th century, pink was considered the more masculine hue, a pastel version of red. Blue, with its intimations of the Virgin Mary, constancy and faithfulness, was thought to be dainty. Why or when that switched is not clear, but as late as the 1930s a significant percentage of adults in one national survey held to that split."*

When I was in my twenties and having terrible migraines due to stress, I went to a psychologist who was obsessed with getting me to wear pink. How this would help my migraines was (and still is) beyond me. In spite of the fact that his office was but 20 minutes from New York City, then the capital of the all-black wearing world, this bit of style news had not reached Dr. I-forget-his-name. Besides his ridiculous assertion that my choice of wearing all black was an indicator of a morbid state of mind, I only remember a few things about this man, whom I saw once a week for a year. He hardly spoke, and spent a little too much time making distracting sucking noises and scrunching up his face. I just tried to make the same sound I remember, but wasn't able to do so. It sounded like he was trying to extract something stuck between his teeth. The strange movements of his mouth indicated to me that he may have been also trying to find that bit of something with his tongue. That, I can imitate, and the act of doing so makes me think of him. Seriously, I would have preferred he use a toothpick or excuse himself for a moment to go floss. But I suspect that there was nothing stuck between the good doctor's teeth. It was just a habitual act, and one I would imagine annoyed more than one patient.

Most of the sessions I had started with at least fifteen minutes of silence. He didn't believe in starting a conversation, even with the smallest of talk, such as "How are you?" No. He was most assuredly a tabula rasa kind of shrink. I knew nothing about him besides his propensity to make sucking sounds and the probable search for foreign objects in his mouth. He always wore a sharp looking suit and combed his jet black hair straight back, giving him more the look of a gangster than a psychologist. Maybe he led a double life. It never occurred to me until now, but I'd venture to guess he did not, and that I only suspect so because I watch the TV show Criminal Minds, which may lead me to believe any one of us is a potential serial killer.

For one year, I sat in near silence with this man. Finally, I decided to call it quits and he said, "Now you're ready to begin therapy. Would you like to start coming twice a week?" I had to laugh, for I then realized he was pretty much quoting the last line of Portnoy's Complaint. My answer to him was a definate "No thank you."

Besides his annoying sucking sounds, he really irked me with his pink-wearing prodding. I finally caved in and showed up one day wearing a dusty pink suit. I remember he thought this was some kind of breakthrough, though I'm thinking that was the day I started thinking I was wasting a good deal of money paying this silly man to badger me with gender stereotypes while I still continued to suffer from killer migraines. The suit did nothing to help my headache. It was ugly, unflattering, and a terribly dull, too pale shade of pink, a color which I've come to enjoy quite a bit, and not in the least because I've embraced my girly-girl side. There are pinks that are quite strong. It can be an intense color, unlike the insipid light pastels that grace many a baby girl's bedroom walls.

It's quite funny, thinking back, that I decided this fellow was completely useless as a therapist when I realized he couldn't see that my pink suit was just ugly. I have a vague recollection that I considered it a test of some sort. If he just approved of my ability to comply and nothing more, then I considered him a failure of a therapist. I had such odd notions about aesthetics; in truth they were terribly snotty and elitist. A person who couldn't judge the difference between shades of pink or see that I had intentionally worn something atrocious was not someone I could trust. I shouldn't have trusted him after the first fifty minutes of teeth sucking, but I was pretty insecure at the time, in spite of my snobbery.

I really was a jerk when I was young. I certainly can be a bore now, but I hope, at least, that I can recognize it when I am. Then, I did not, or when I did, I rather enjoyed myself. That kind of behavior is the behavior of the truly insecure, and I'm sometimes surprised to see it in people who are over thirty years of age. Snotty posturing is okay when you're in college or younger, but afterwards, well, one should really see a (good) shrink if you're still acting out of such insecurity.

I've seen quite a few terrible mental health professionals in my life, sad to say. At the age of fifteen, I was forced to see a therapist and this man gave me some of the craziest advice you can imagine. If it was today, he could be sued for telling a teenager what he did, which was "Go out and get laid. Smoke some pot like everyone else." Huh? Thankfully, he did not suggest I do this with him. And thankfully, if he had, I probably would have slapped him across the face. Yes, I've been known to do this, though it's been over ten years since the last time I've had the need. The last time, I felt awfully bad about it. I knocked the poor guy's glasses off, and that seemed far worse than a little slap for being a pig.

Please note that I'm not advocating hitting people. Diplomacy is the best option, but I think there must be something primal and old-fashioned in me that overrides my normal judgment when confronted with digusting commments made by men. And I fully admit to having a double standard. Women have made inappropriate lewd comments and such to me, and none of them got slapped. Maybe that's because they aren't as much of a physical threat. That's the only thing I can think of. Well, these days this stuff doesn't happen any more, so I don't have to torture myself thinking about it.

Phew. This is what came out of thinking about the color pink?

Here's a good place to stop and take a break. A cup of tea perhaps? The subject is about to change, not once, but twice. Two breaks may be in order. Or you can come back. One needn't read an entire entry in one sitting. You wouldn't eat an entire pie at once, would you? If you said, "oh sure I would!", then proceed. . .

Since I'm babbling and rambling, I might as well tell you about some of my day. I won a Christmas gift basket, which included a 22 pound turkey and all the food needed to cook up a feast for a family of six. I had forgotten I had bought a raffle ticket on Election Day. When I answered the phone and heard it was the woman from the Town Office, I thought, "Uh oh." I do owe some taxes. But no, I won the raffle. Now, I don't need a big turkey, but I suppose I could have used the rest of the groceries. I asked the woman if she knew of any families that were really in need that might be better recipients. She seemed surprised that I wasn't all excited about winning. I was surprised that I won something, no doubt, but it didn't seem right to accept it as there was a high probability that some family with children would appreciate it more than I. So, I asked her to please give it to someone else. I have to admit (do I really?) that I would have liked to personally deliver it, but that's really a selfish desire on my part. It doesn't take all that much largesse to give away an unexpected raffle prize. I do hope that it makes someone's holiday a little nicer.

On the perfume front, I discovered that I really miss having some Serge Lutens' Bois de Vanille. It's such a soothing scent, even if it smells pretty much like cotton candy (though I try to convince myself it's "a sophisticated cotton candy"). I keep thinking there must be a cheap-o perfume that smells like this, but I haven't found one. When I discovered that indeed there wasn't a drop left of the stuff, I decided to re-try Louve, and once again was taken with how truly ordinary this scent is. It's opening is overly sweet, even painfully so. Every time I've tried it, I recoil to the point of not being able to tell you (or understand myself) what in the world I am smelling. It's screams at me to close down my senses. What's truly strange is that less than a half an hour later it's so banal a scent that I don't even notice it. To me, it smells like talcum powder for tweens, a truly drug store perfume smell that I still can't identify. A hint of candied cherries? Oddly, I neither like or dislike it. That is the definition of banal, I suppose.

So, I crave the smell of sweet vanilla and turn once again to Hanae Mori's Butterfly, a truly unsubtle scent. But it satisfies my craving. It's like getting Edy's when I really want Haagen Daz iced cream. Or maybe not. I'm probably just trying too hard. And come to think of it, I keep dismissing the Hanae Mori scent, for no reason that I can think of. Maybe I still am a bit of a snotty elitist. No, the Hanae Mori is not as good as the Lutens' Vanille, but the Lutens Louve is a fairly wretched, pointless scent and I'm not constantly writing about how lousy it is. Poor me. I'm so positive that a Lutens is good, while something I can get at Macy's can't possibly be, that I am missing the fact that I've been enjoying Butterfly over and over again. I must give this some thought.

Well, my dear reader, if you've made it this far, you deserve some sort of award. For what, I'm not entirely sure. There were other things I meant to write about today, but it's been another weird day that feels like it's been a week long. So, I'll save whatever else I have to write for another time. Maybe next time, I'll be more terse. Lately, that's been almost impossible. I will end this entry here. Abruptly. There's no conclusion, for this entry is one big mess. I could delete it with one keystroke, but I won't. This big mess is rather like my life at the moment. Well. No wonder that's what I'm writing!

I just realized that the impetus for this entry was never even mentioned. I should have a good laugh at my expense. I stumbled upon a fun little thing called Instant Flowers, an on-line tool to create pretty somewhat cartoonish bouquets. It's quite a bit of fun. Unfortunately, their save-to-blog feature doesn't seen to work. I suggest giving it a try. It's a sweet, nice diversion.

Painting note: Henri Matisse Woman in Pink 1923 On my laptop screen, she looks like she's wearing coral. What do you see?

*I had read about this years ago, but don't remember the source. This quote is from Peggy Orenstein's New York Times article "What's Wrong With Cinderella?"

The seven weird random things meme (skip to the rules if you don't care about scent)

Two days ago TMC tagged me for this meme. Okay, I wasn't up for it. First of all, I was feeling like crap physically (as if you didn't know that). But more importantly, Dick's mother passed away on Thursday evening. Blogging about anything seemed completely inappropriate, and even right now, not writing something meaningful about her or about the preciousness of our oh-so-short lives seems absurd. Yet, I think back to when a friend of mine's father died, and how we played Boggle for hours on end. A bit of fun is neccessary. Anyway, Dick's mother wouldn't have liked anyone sitting around moping.

I had a long blog entry that I was in the middle of when I heard the news. I just looked it over and decided, nah, I'm not posting that. It was too "heavy" (a word I detest, but I'm feeling lazy) I feel like writing, and I've little to say that isn't too personal. Yes, you heard correctly; I actually do think that some things are too personal to blog about.

Scent Interlude: Thank you, Serge Lutens, for Chypre Rouge. It has helped cheer me up in the last few days. Luca Turin says there's no such thing as aromatherapy, but I respectfully disagree. I found wearing this scent to be truly helpful when I was down. When I'd bring my wrist to my nose, I would have a moment of pure pleasure. Now, that's not what aromatherapy is "for", but I consider it excellent medicine if one can be transported out of oneself while in any sort of pain. I also disagree about Chypre Rouge itself. In the Guide, Chypre Rouge is described as a "disaster" and "reminds [one]. . .[some] smells in nature serve to repel rather than attract." I'd plead that my sense of smell is impaired, but I've liked Chypre Rouge since the first time I sniffed it. Unlike some, I don't care a whit if The Guide and I disagree. So, maybe my nose is untrained and stupid. It's not my job to sniff perfume, nor am I suggesting that you go out and buy or even try Chypre Rouge. I hear most people don't like it, actually. Dick seems to, but he also said something mysterious the other day about my smelling like something akin to manure. I wish I could remember what it was! Now, that's not something one wants others to think, is it? Great, a scent that smells like you've pooped your pants or smell like cow dung. Hey, there's Bulgari Black, which is meant to smell like a rubber fetishist's dream. Maybe there's a scent for coprophiliacs that I haven't heard of yet.

I'm sorry if I've offended anyone. I would imagine I have.

I don't think Chypre Rouge smells like manure. It smells, to me over-ripe fruit, honey, dates, prunes, a touch of desert sherry, a big pinch of curry garam masala (quite a specific mix of curry spices), and yes, a bit of flowery dirt. It smells like a freshly made fruitcake (which, while much maligned, can be wonderful). Perhaps it's not the scent of sherry, but of rum. My nose for alcohol isn't all that good. I've never had mead, which is honey wine. I'm now most curious.

Well, the scent interlude is over, and I have no idea what I came here to write about. Oh yes: Seven weird and random things about me.

The rules:

* link your original tagger(s) (done above, click on TMC), and list these rules on your blog.
* share seven facts about yourself in the post - some random, some weird.
* tag seven people at the end of your post by leaving their names and the links to their blogs.
* let them know they've been tagged by leaving a comment on their blogs and/or twitter.

Okay, here they are (and I'm thinking, is there anything that isn't random and weird about me? And what, exactly, does "random" mean in this context?)

1. Number one has to be, at least tonight, the fact that I love Serge Lutens Chypre Rouge, even though it is supposed to be lousy.

2. Since I've already mentioned Bulgari Black (which is supposed to smell like rubber and talcum powder), I'll admit to owning a latex tank top. It's way too small for me now, though I haven't a clue where and when I'd wear it if it did fit.

3. I didn't learn how to drive until I was two weeks away from turning 30. I passed my road test on the first try. When the tester said I had passed, I gave the guy a kiss on the cheek. I am not a touchy-feely person, so it surprised me as much as it did him. So did my passing the test. I thought I'd fail, for I still hadn't mastered the art of parallel parking. But the little gods of motor vehicles was shining down on me that day as I slid the car oh so beautifully next to the curb.

4. My dream job is being a stand-up comedian (and having a talk show).

5. I bicycled 75-100 miles a day every day for two months when I was 15 years old and spent months in training. This isn't weird, but it sure doesn't sound like something the person who writes ths blog might do. I also wanted to race on a track, but that never wound up happening.

6. I was fascinated with doing standing broad jumps when I was a kid. It seemed amazing to me that one could actually go all that far without running first. I was terrified of high jumping for no apparent reason. I couldn't explain it and still can't. I would run up to the bar really fast and then stop dead. I failed gym when I was in the 8th grade and was grateful that you didn't get held back on account of that.

7. We had to wear gym uniforms at the Junior High School I went to. We had to put our names on the breast pocket, either by using a cloth name tag if we had one, embroidering it, or using a waterproof marker. I embroidered my name. That's not accurate: I embroidered a fake name. It was Gertrude Singer. I knew who Gertrude Stein was (though I'm not sure if I knew what she actually did) and liked her name, but I didn't want to steal it outright. I got in trouble for this bit of silliness and for the fact that I didn't wear white socks. I had taken my white gym socks and tie-dyed them just to be contrary. I suppose this may have contributed to my failing gym class.

Okay, that's that. Now I have to tag seven people to announce seven weird and/or random things about themselves.

I'm going to change things up somewhat. I'm not tagging anyone. I am, once again, asking those who never leave comments to finally just do it. I am also going to post this link on Twitter. So, you can leave your lists in the comments section, you untagged folks. If you have a long response, you can e-mail me (see my profile), and I'll give you your very own post. How's that for an offer? Somehow, I have a feeling that the response to this is going to be poor. C'mon you folks, prove me wrong!

You're it! And again, you know who you are. . .

If you do have a blog, link back. Otherwise, you could ask the next person you speak to "What's something weird about you?", but that might be a real conversation killer. I would imagine the response might be, "Um. Huh?" Then again, you might find out something really interesting. Don't forget to report your findings!

Painting note: Detail from a painting that you can learn more about here. I was too lazy to read the entire article or to look for something else. And no, it wasn't straightforward. Most odd.

Reason for the image? It's a conversation. I doubt any of us look like this, but if you do, please mention it in your "seven weird and random things about me meme".

Response times, amongst other things

Let's see: I wrote a mildly bad review of a Maidenform bra and received an e-mail from the CEO of the company the very next day. I bought some propane and contacted the governor's office on energy and have heard nothing in four days. I would guess it's been about a week since I asked to be on the blogroll of Allmediocre. Someone asked me to submit a piece of writing for an anthology back in July, I did, and I haven't heard back from him since.

Maidenform wins, no doubt about that. It figures. It's the least important of all of them. Allmediocre, well, I see they don't update their blog every day, so I'll let that slide. Anyway, if they call themselves that, I shouldn't expect much. The fuel oil thing? I would have expected something by now. And lastly, the fellow whom I sent two pieces of writing to, well, it's just rude. It's been almost six months, which I'd say is "not getting back to me." Like the girl who is still waiting for that guy to call, I'd have to say, "Gee honey, he's just not that into you."

I dislike rudeness. I really do. It's old fashioned of me, I know, but I think decent manners are nice. If you have to reject someone, just do it, and do it in a respectful way. It you can't get back to someone in a timely fashion, let them know you won't be able to. Hold the car door open for whoever is riding with you. It doesn't matter what gender they are. It's just a nice gesture. Don't let regular doors hit the people behind you in the head. Say thank you and please. It makes a world of difference.

Last week we had our neighbors over. I set the table as if we were having a fancy dinner, which I suppose we were. I noticed the kids were more reserved than normal. I realized that they may have been nervous. I thought it would just be good fun to light candles, serve juice in wine glasses and use fabric napkins, but it sent them the message that they better be on their best behavior. Not my intent. I wouldn't have cared if they put their elbows on the table or burped. After all, it was just supper at my house.

I put my elbows on the table most of the time. I don't know the rules of multiple forks or bother to eat my soup spooning away from me. This stuff is just silly, most of it. It's a way of separating the savages from the cultured.

But, plain ol' courtesy just makes life a bit nicer. Just my opinion.

Image note: From "A Manual of Domestic Economy" John Henry Walsh 1874

Addendum: I am now officially mediocre. See links to the right.
Note that there are sidebar changes. You can donate rice to needy people just by participating in a vocabulary quiz. The link to books on Amazon is gone. Noone ever used it. Too bad, for there were some obscure and worthy books on there. Now I have to do the work of posting on these topics in order to bring attention to some books?! Okay. Make me work, go ahead.

Embracing mediocrity, again

I have written extensively on this subject. Just read any post about NaNoWriMo (see tags - I'm too lazy to supply you with a link right here).

I found a website that I can realy get behind and now have a link to it on the sidebar. It's allmediocre.com. See, I'm so lazy right now that I'm going to force you to amble over to the sidebar if you want to see the site. Big hint: the button is green (and I wish it was a different color). Now, the folks at allmediocre didn't even make that a clickable icon, but I did. Is that because they're mediocre? You'd have to ask them. I'm surprised I remembered how to turn a graphic into a link, 'cause I thought everything I knew about html was lost, along with any knowledge I've had of any other languages I've studied.

The sidebar has gained a mediocre link and lost the Amazon begging-for-donations link. Amazon has ended that program, which is just as well. I received exactly $2.61 in donations. I don't blame anyone. What with the zillions of blogs out there, why would you donate to mine? Don't blame me for trying, though. And I thank whoever that one person was for their donation.

It seems fitting that the begging bowl is gone and the admission to mediocrity is up. Sure, like every other blogger, I want to be special, but it's like I used to say about people getting tattoos, "I want to be special, just like everyone else." Well, I do think we're all special, actually.

It's just that I enjoy blogging so much that I really want to justify it with some income. I can justify it by saying (and this would be true) that it's enriched my life. I adore the people I've met through this blog. Truly. I don't know why, but the folks who've left comments here all seem to be people I truly like (yes, I said adore, didn't I?)

That in itself should be enough, and it is, for the most part. Of course, since I'm unemployed, I need some income. But, looking for it in this arena is a pipe dream that an awful lot of other folks have. I might as well just play the lottery every day.

I'm not going to become the next "Things That White People Like" blog turned into best seller. No way. I have no gimmick and no hook. That's a problem. I can't even figure out what to tag my posts. What kind of tag is "something about us", anyway?

I like that tag, but it means nothing in the blogosphere. I just can't help being who I am. I really don't think I'm all that mediocre, but I sure don't fit into a neat little box that can be sold easily. And I did get a 7.3 on blogged.com (those jerks!) That's mediocrity!

This post is fairly pointless, isn't it? I have some things I'd like to write about, but I'm tired at the moment. I just wanted to bring your attention to the sidebar changes. And of course, Julie has a hard time getting to her point, every time.

Should we worry that I just spoke of myself in the third person? I'm not turning into George Bush, don't worry. I was just trying it out. I don't like it and don't plan on doing it again. Promise.

Painting note: Julian Schnabel, Untitled (Los Patos del Buen Retiro), 1991, oil, gesso on velvet, 457 x 457 cm
What does Julian Schnabel have to do with this post? Let's see: First, he's got one of the biggest egos of any human being I've ever heard speak. Noone can say a negative thing about Schnabel (see this past week's 60 Minutes). I admire his films quite a bit. He's an excellent director. His paintings? My opinion is so colored by that ego of his, that I can't say I have an honest assessment. The prices his work command is another issue (3 million dollars for an eh painting?) Whatever he does is golden. I doubt he's ever thought anything he's done in his life is mediocre. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe there's an insecure little boy inside that body somewhere. I certainly have to examine why he irks me so much, that's for sure.

I suppose it's pretty obvious. Last night, I was scratching my lottery tickets while thinking "I hope I win enough to buy a new mattress" over and over again. A new mattress?! Wow, I have big dreams, don't I? But I need a new mattress quite badly and I can't afford it. Meanwhile, Schnabel can sell a scribble on a napkin for the price of the mattress I can't afford. Not to mention all the starving children that need to be fed (big leap of thought here, I know). . .

Is embracing mediocrity a good idea? Yes and no. Yes, in the sense that it seems to free me up to be more creative. But then, I have to believe in what I've done and not call it mediocre, right? I have to practice all this. It's new stuff.

Addendum: I just realized I don't even know if allmediocre has even accepted me for their "mediocre blogroll." Geez, what if they don't? I will surely be embarrassed!

An oddly great day

Both a preface and an addendum: I wrote this on Friday and took it down sometime over the weekend. I felt badly that I hadn't thanked a number of people who have graced my life in person. I also thought "no more diary-like entries." Now I'm re-posting it, without any changes:

Today is my birthday. I woke up, had a shower, and Dick drove me to the emergency room. On the way there, I noticed I had a lottery scratch ticket in my bag. Once in a while I buy a bingo card, because they take some time to do, and I have a good time calling out the numbers if I'm alone or in my head if I'm not (okay, sometimes I do this when I'm not alone). I have never won my two bucks back. Don't get all excited yet. I only won ten dollars. But it seemed like a good sign.

The hospital waiting room was blissfully empty. I only waited five minutes before I was seen. I stepped out to use the restroom, and when I came back, the doctor was there. He said something like "you seem quite mobile" in an accusatory voice. I was immediately on edge. The night before, I was in agony, but I knew I could get through it, and honestly, emergency rooms are usually nightmares after midnight. I'd prefer to suffer at home.

I didn't feel all that bad this morning, comparatively, but I knew I was getting worse, not better, and as I don't have a doctor's appointment until the 22nd, it was back to the ER.

Around here, and I suppose probably all over this country, people go to the ER with headaches and backaches, just to get drugs. So, I suppose seeing someone who said they were in so much pain looked suspicious.

But, this particular doctor was listening. I explained what had been going and he took me seriously. He seemed positive that he knew what the problem was. He wasn't going to slough me off on someone else. He said he was going to give me an injection in my spine. I asked, "Will that hurt?" "Not to me", he answered. I had to laugh. I said, "When I was a tattooist, I used to say that to everyone." Then he asked me if I knew this old tattooist, who had died years ago, which I did, and we talked about him for a while. It occurred to me later that this guy was smart enough to realize that a person who's heavily tattooed would not complain of so much pain if they didn't mean it (well, unless they were looking for drugs). But I wasn't. I was looking for help. The pain and numbness patterns all told a story that he understood, because, for once, someone was really paying attention.

I got my shot ("I guess you must be really scared of needles") and as the medication spread into my spine, the pain went down a couple of notches, even in places where I can't remember ever not having pain. I have had this pain for most of my life, and I have never had appropriate medical attention. I got used to it. I did a lot of yoga. I stopped bothering with doctors. But then, it got so bad I couldn't do any physical activity.

You don't need to hear the whole story, do you?

The thing is, I had a lovely day. I really did. After we got out of the ER, Dick and I went to a real hole-in-the-wall Lebanese restaurant where the food wasn't dumbed down for Yankees. I felt like I had left the country for an hour. I had a falafel and hummus sandwich on home-made pita bread. It was spicey and tasted like there might be an entire head of garlic in it.

Afterwards, I got a haircut. I looked a wreck; pale, bags under my eyes, exhausted. My hair even looked exhausted. I've dyed it one too many times and it's been completely robbed of any luster. No hope for it at all. In the past, I would have just shaved my head (see last post) but I felt like doing something new. A real "style". Quite frankly, it's awful. I'll never be able to do whatever the hairdresser did with that huge round brush and a blow dryer. Eh, it's only hair. I had a good time having someone wash my hair with some insanely fruity shampoo and being around folks who all seemed so animated. I said that the shampoo smelled nice. "Do you want to purchase some?" "No, it doesn't match my perfume" I was exhausted when we were through. I suppose staring in the mirror at my lusterless hair and tired face wore me out. And, I had been at the ER for almost three hours. But, I had to stop and buy a hairbrush.

We made one last stop to for birdseed and suet and headed home.

My mailbox was filled with goodies; a bottle of Annick Goutal Encens Flamboyant and another free book from Amazon, "The Housekeeper and the Professor" by Yoko Ogawa. This looks like it's going to be the first of four books I've received that I can actually read. The rest have been duds. An awful lot of junk is published, and I suspect an awful lot of good writing is not. Who are these editors?

We ate avocados and sourdough bread for dinner. I adore avocados, and they seem almost decadent when it's twenty degrees outside. What a pleasure.

I discovered dear TMC put up a birthday wish for the entire world wide web to see. This touched me greatly. I have met many wonderful people on the Web. I read and hear so much about the "bad side" of the Web, but you can find something bad in everything. I want to give my thanks for all of you I've met here. You are all special, and have enriched my life. Hyperbole? Perhaps, but tonight I think not.

And with that, my day ends. An odd day, not one that is the picture postcard of what a birthday might be like, but it was a very beautiful day in its way. And I want to thank my partner, Dick, for being the kind human being that he is. He gave me a card with a photo of two young girls playing dress up. Inside, besides the personal stuff, he wrote, "I'm the one on the right." The personal stuff is personal. Yes, some things still are.

Painting note: Jan Steen The Doctor's Visit 1626

Addendum: I also wore my brand new replacement bra. But I'll save that story for another post.

We are all connected

I just discovered that Tania Sanchez, the co-author of "Perfumes: The Guide", participated in this year's National Novel Writing Month. This makes me happy. I'm not sure why. Tania, if you happen to stumble onto this blog, did you write about perfume? My book has not a single word about the subject. And, of course, congratulations for making it to the finish line!

It occurs to me that discovering that Tania Sanchez, whom I adore from afar, was participating in the same activity as I was during the month of November makes me feel like we are close in some way. I don't mean "close" in some creepy, stalking way, but close in that knowing she did NaNoWriMo, too, makes her more of a real person to me. Of course, I knew that she was (and is) a real person, but there is something unreal about celebrity crushes.

Everything I write makes me sound like a stalker. I've written about Tania's husband, Luca Turin, in my post "I finally found a hero of sorts". I got a thank you e-mail from him, which was most gracious.

So, these are real people, living their lives, just like the rest of us. They certainly have a larger collection of perfume in their household than the rest of us. And neither of them, I'm sure, judge scents with phrases like "I dunno what this smell is" or variations of "I don't know much about perfume but I know what I like" that are inherent in many of my assessments.

Then again, maybe even the finest nose has "I dunno" moments.

Painting note: Amazingly, I've just spent fifteen minutes trying to find out who painted this portrait of Catherine de Medici, with no luck at all. I obtained the jpg on Wikipedia Commons, where it said nothing. Google searches supplied me with more pics, but no info. Most odd.

I'm glad I went on this search, for I wound up at a delightful site, The Racous Royals, where I learned we can hold Catherine responsible for corsets and high heels.

I was trying to remember why I wanted a painting of Catherine de Medici at the top of this post and couldn't. It was only this: I Profumi di Firenze says that they were "inspired by original 16th century secret formulas commissioned by Catherine de Medici."

Ten things I'm thankful for

1. My partner, Dick, who can fix anything. Our oven broken down just in time for Thanksgiving. Being me, I was perusing the web for cheap ovens. He figured out what was wrong with it in five minutes and fixed it in about an hour. I wondered what the difference is between a four thousand dollar oven and one for 250 bucks. Do the high end ones produce genies that clean it out and poop truffles while you're sleeping?
2. Dick (again), who cuts down dead trees, even if it's pitch black out, chops 'em up, and provides our home with heat.
3. The fact that, even though the government says we are poor, we have more than enough to eat.
4. Barack Hussein Obama will be the next president of the United States.
5. The wonderful Quaker meeting that I was a member of in New York.
6. Treetop Zen Center.
7. The Web, for both its wealth of information and the chance of interacting with strangers all over the world. According to Sitemeter, my blog has had visits from 32 different countries in the past week, including Malaysia, Indonesia and Croatia. Nice to meet you!
8. Sheep. My life would be far less rich without yarn. I also think they are beautiful (and terribly cute).
9. Wild birds. I'm sorry we are destroying your habitat.
10. That I was lucky enough to be born with a fairly well functioning brain.

That's it. I know the graphic has nine images, but I couldn't figure out how to display ten. The list could go on for pages. Happy Thanksgiving.

Heifer International ("Ending Hunger. Preserving the earth") is one of the few charitable organizations that doesn't include proselytizing a religion.Sponsor a sheep or a share in a flock of sheep and llamas for wool production here.

BigHugeLabsMosiac:
1. Dixsons Stove polish, 2. Stacked firewood, 3. Progress, 4. Interior Light, 5. Untitled, 6. World Wide Web?, 7. Mountain view with sheep, 8. Cardinal at Feeder, 9. My Brain on MRI

Shout!

I've made a few changes to the blog. I took down the LastFm player, which no one was listening to (alas) and also removed my Amazon picks link because it wasn't showing up correctly on most browsers . I've replaced it with "I recommend".

I've installed a Shoutbox (courtesy Shoutmix). Now all you perfumistas can tell me what you're wearing and the rest of you can not only voice your opinions but actually chat in real time. Note: the "real time" seems to be four hours ahead of me, and I can't figure out how to change it. C'est la vie! There's no real time in cyberspace, anyway.

Painting note: Edgar Degas L'absinthe 1876
I hope we have better conversation in the shoutbox than these two are having.

I suggest reading like this

No, you don't have to wait for a warm sunny day nor find a field with access to wi-fi to read this blog. You don't need to wear 19th century attire, either. Though, if you are sitting outside, I do suggest a hat, for you should protect your skin from the affects of UV light.

Never mind that bit of silliness.

This blog has longer than "normal" entries. Because of that, I suggest that you, the reader, treat them more like chapters in a book than blog entries (like this one). You don't have to read the entire thing in one sitting. Nor do you have to read them at all! It is a blog, after all. It's not a textbook, nor is it a novel, so there is no need to read in order (though there are some entries that play upon past ones. I try to link them, when I think of it.)

I also may be boring you. In this age of too much information (which is not a judgment from me, who loves it), publications, such as magazines, are becoming more specialized. I recommend going into a Borders some time and counting how many magazines there are for sale. I haven't done so. Borders doesn't even carry them all, not by a long shot. I just googled the question "How many magazines are published in the USA?" and the answer I received was "too many" (literally, hence the quotes, from Yahoo answers). Again, I'm too lazy to research this.

I just hopped over to Amazon and discovered that they have 479 magazines available for subscription on architecture alone!

So, as usual, I am off topic. The point is, while thus far my entries have been predominately about fragrance, as evidenced by the last one, you will never know what you will find here. It's more like the old "Life" magazine without the big, award-winning photography (and that magazine is out of business).

So, I'm using the most modern of formats for an anachronistic, generalist purpose.

I also want to remind my readers that I am not a revewer. When I write about perfume, or someone's book, (or whatever), it is only as a jumping off point for other ideas. Whether or not I am succeeding is another story. This blog is still in is infancy.

I give my opinions because I am aiming to give you an idea of what is going on inside of my mind. This is also why I choose not to edit (except for spelling). I want to expose the workings of my mind in all it's long winded and side tracking glory. Why? I don't know. It's something to do, as the old timers say here in Maine.

I am fascinated by the difference in the way we each see and experience the world and everything in it. So, I include my own thought processes in my interest. I do find it fascinating to see why certain ideas and experiences "hook" me, lead me into other explorations (or not). I find other peoples' fascinations (almost) equally fascinating. There: I was brutally honest and wrote the word "almost". Yes, I admit to my narcissism. In theory, I am most fascinated by what common factors lead things to be nearly universally captivating. For instance, why are certain facial types considered more beautiful than others or certain types of music more "sticky" (a loose term used by neuroscientists)? Great questions, but first I must examine what those things mean to me. This is a personal blog, not a piece of scientific research.

Skip that which you find unenjoyable. Leave a comment when you have a thought. If you have something quite long to say, send me an e-mail, which I may or may not post in its entirety.

Last note: There were so many typos in this blog entry (because I was falling asleep) that I've spent an hour correcting it. Now, I'm still tired. Does the sentence that makes no sense actually make sense? The sentence is now in red.You tell me (if you can).

Note: "Reading" c.1873 Artist: Berthe Morisot

Lovesick

There's no mystery left. Dr. Frank Tallis has written a book called "Lovesick: Love as Mental Illness". Here is an excerpt from the preface:

"The symptoms of love are many and varied. What’s intriguing is that if we list them- for example, preoccupation with the loved one, tearfulness, euphoria- and check them against accepted diagnostic criteria for mental illness, we find that most ‘lovers’ qualify for diagnoses of obsessional illness, depression or manic depression. And this is no superficial relationship. Neurochemical and brain scanning investigations have shown a considerable overlap between ‘the brain in love’ and ‘the brain in the throes of mental illness’"

The other night, I said to a friend that even if we could explain everything with science, there would still be something ineffable, mysterious and transcendent about human experience. Though our feelings of love may simply be the effects of too much oxytocin, we still feel emotions. These emotions lead us to see the world and others in a different way. They may be "crazy", or be chemically induced, but does that render them less important or meaningful? No.

Dr. Andrew Newberg, in his book "Why God Won't Go Away" explains the neurochemical state of meditators. In a Q & A on his website, he states:" Our studies, as well as those of other investigators, have shown that meditation increases activity in the front part of the brain and decreases activity in the area of the brain that orients our bodies in space. . .The decreased activity in the orientation area is believed to be related to the changes in spatial perception and the loss of a sense of self that are associated with meditative states."

This sense of "loss of self" and changed spatial perception are the same phenomenon found in those we call "lovesick". In both, the meditator who feels the exhilaration of a new found expansiveness and oneness with the universe or the lover who finds a oneness with the beloved - can we say these are illusions only because they can be "explained away" by chemicals? Absolutely not. Altered states can show us things we would otherwise not experience.

This is one of those moments where I want to opt out of an intellectual point that I'm trying to make. I am lazy. I don't have the intellectual rigor it takes to, shall we say, close the deal. I may be prone to debate, but when the going gets rough, I'd rather walk away. As my father says (accusingly), I am just a ruminator.

I like to chew on thoughts. I don't really care if I'm "right or wrong". I don't care if you agree or not, either. Ideas are like grass to this cow and I need to graze in the field of ideas. My words are, then. . .what? Excrement? I didn't know I'd wind up here when I wrote "Lovesick" in the title. Hmmm.

Aromatherapy: I am still in love with the perfume Passage D'enfer and had to scrub off some lotion a friend asked me to try, Demeter's "Fiery Curry". I only want to smell the L'artisan scent. I keep smelling my wrists. Is Passage D'enfer a good substitute for an anti-depressant drug for me?

Is that all she could say about love?

Yes, it was. I should sit myself down and give this subject more thought. I try not to think about romantic love. That's telling, isn't it?

We all use the word frequently. People "love" their iPhones, their sexual partners, movies, a particular restaurant (blah blah blah). The same word, love, is applied to all. What a broad brush we are using!