Cake. C-A-K-E. CAKE!!!!

It's my birthday again this coming week. I thought it was a good time for us to talk about The Cake.

I've been eating The Cake for a long time. I make it for my birthday every year, as I have since I was 16 and found the original recipe in one of the Salt Lake City newspapers. I try not to eat it in between. (Otherwise too many people find out about it and they whine. A lot. "When are you going to make us another cake, Marti." Bah. Whiners. Never.)

The Cake has changed since I was sixteen. The recipe has evolved. It's de-evolved. And then re-evolved and "gone foodie." And even then, it varies greatly.

There's "The Picnic Cake" which is pretty similar to "The Church Party cake." (Cool Whip. Ugh. "I'll just have a sliver. I brought this for you, anyway, right?" Right.)

There's a "Marti Doesn't know the Oven Cake" version. (See the darkly browned sides and bottom? Yeah. No!)

Also a "My Friend's Kids Are Diving In Cake" version. (There's something wonderfully "Dr. Seuss" about this particular shot, don't you think?)

There is "Dinner with College BFF and Hubs Who Are Also Foodies Cake" and as well as a "Dinner with People Who Will Eat ANYTHING" (my grade school pals in March) version.

It was spectacular watching them eat The Cake because, well, it was just so darned great to see them all again. I love a good "Happily Ever After," so having a whole room of them was swell. Just swell.

There is "Houseguests Feel The Love Cake," as modeled here by Greg. Still in his jammies. He was leaving the next day. Very little of this cake ever goes to waist. Er, waste. Freudian.

This was the "Best Family I Ever Shacked Up With Cake" version (long story involving short-term housing) which was very well received. Great lighting, eh? As if their household had some sort of inner light.

This was one of my favorites: "The Cake with Beloved College Roommate" who, after figuring out what leaving me alone in her kitchen on my birthday would mean, regularly left me alone in her kitchen on my birthday. Suh-weet!

When I started to write this post, I thought I would fit some metaphor of life into this blog. But as I got into writing it, turned out it I just like posting pictures of The Cake. Other than that, the subject of my birth is about as deep as, well, The Cake, but without the whipped cream and berries.

Alongside All that Fur...

The visit to Utah went well. The fur coats kept arriving, removed from the hallway in front of my apartment by an obliging neighbor until I could return home to open the boxes and air out the furs. Many of them need copious amounts of air.

They are interesting furs. Some are exactly as described: thick, luxurious and pretty in a "formerly alive" sort of way. Not something I want to sit around and "pet," but they're attractive. One felt damp; it traveled from the UK, so perhaps it came by that naturally. One is yellow; not white, as advertised. Most are more than 20 years old (with one about 70, I believe... my mother was four when that fur came to be) and all are intriguing.

Now they've been joined by... a wedding dress. And not just any wedding dress, but... well, you take a look. Here it is:



If it were featured in a catalog, this is one possible description:

"This vintage candlelight white bridal gown is hand-made of yards and yards of the finest silk duppioni fabric with a fitted bodice and features a round neckline, mutton sleeves gathered to a fitted lower sleeve, set off by lace embroidered with seed pearls at the wrist. The view from the back sets off the bride's tiny waist with a full, multi-tiered bustle bedecked with handmade (from the same silk fabric) roses."

To put it more succinctly, it's ugly, out of style and even when it was in style, it just wouldn't do. It's also a size 6 (4?), so this description applies in more ways than one.

What's it doing in my closet? When I told "Mum" about the fur coats (which are reproducing in that closet and now number 11) she said she had a wedding dress to donate to my various projects. So I returned from Utah with a wedding dress, but no husband.

Mother tries so hard, but alas, that "Abra-ca-dabrah!" thing doesn't work. (Whew!)

But the dress has had a side effect. Just looking at it makes me happy, once again, that I am single.

(Editor's note: this dress was made by my mother, at the express and explicit direction of a bride who wore it, alas, to her "FIRST" wedding. Which says it all, don't you agree?)

Update: International Friendship and Understanding

A little update on the post below.

As you can see, my blog is routinely getting more and more interest overseas. In fact, frequently, I get more comments from people in Asia than I do from my American friends. How can that be?

When I see these comments, sometimes, they don't view correctly on the poor, tired laptop that I am using currently. I click on the sender's name and I don't really see what's going on with them.

In our Age of Internet communications, I have found that lots of people like to "follow" people on twitter.com as a way of getting attention for their own twitter account. If I make the mistake of clicking on that, too often I get an unwanted eyeful of some cyber-Lolita, hawking her wares very openly. So I've been a little reluctant to allow the unknowns of Asia to post comments on my blog.

That is until yesterday.

I was at work at Voice of America and sitting across from the Asian Bureau Chief. Diane Gao is from China originally, very educated, intelligent and oddly patient with the deskmate that likes to tease her incessantly. (Why do I do that? Do I have a death-wish? Many at VOA seem to, but I work there only part-time, and appear to be a happier person than my fellow government workers; so the question remains unanswered. And life goes on... teasingly.)

Diane speaks and reads fluent Chinese. So when two Chinese comments arrived within a minute of each other last night, I mentioned it to her. Abundantly patient and curious woman that she is, she walked around to my side of the cubicle to review the comments and I got an eye-opening lesson in international goodwill.

The comments, it would seem, are aimed at boosting my site response. They are trying to help me boost the income of my blog. There's no porn-y blogsite to trail back to; just goodwill towards all.

(I had translated them using the "Google Translator," but Diane informed me those translations have been utterly, completely wrong. Which makes perfect sense, considering that the google translations were utter nonsense.)

I was a little surprised. Even the names are innocuous. It's all so very "hello Kitty!" isn't it? So if you see a few more written responses in some beautifully feathery Asian-style script around here in the future, you'll understand.

So here's to improved communication among the peoples of the world. I really have to blog more frequently. The People of the World, MY PEOPLE, are waiting.

Moving Day

I'm moving this week. It started with just a few things that I took over Saturday when I went to pick up the keys. And enroute, I called a friend.

"I'm moving! I'm moving! I'm moving! I'm moving!"

I sounded like the audio version of a 6 year old on a pogo stick, bouncing up and down with excitement. Who gets excited about moving? Nobody. Certainly not me. I've never been this excited to be physically carrying my things out of one residence and into another. Normally, like most peoople, I dread moving.

What makes this time different? Well, one reason is an painfully negative, current living situation. The friends that already know about it have heard enough and the ones that haven't heard don't need to, right? Right.

Another reason is that almost all of my belongings are still in a luxurious temperature controlled storage locker in Los Angeles. I haven't acquired a lot of household goods on this coast and the things I do have with me are either very necessary or very inexpensively acquired. It's an odd thing, buying something that is so ugly you know you'll be glad to take it to Goodwill one day in your fantasy future. But that's what I've done.

I asked my mother for the ugliest, tackiest holiday decorations she could send at Christmas. (She showed an absolute flair for that, by the way! Thanks Mom!) A beloved niece handmade my miniature Christmas stocking sticked with a personal message. And I've picked up anything else I needed at thrift stores and out of the way places. It's been sort of fun.

I think once you've been through the whole mess of being able to buy whatever you really wanted and then having to carefully box, stack and store those things thousands of miles away, you don't need to feel sad that they're gone. I don't need anything more because my stuff is just somewhere else at the moment.

If you have heard part of that Carrie Underwood song out in the last couple of months, called "Temporary Home," then maybe you understand a little of how I feel:

"This is my temporary home.
It's not where I belong.
Windows and rooms that I'm passin' through.
This is just a stop on the way to where I'm going.
I'm not afraid because I know this is my temporary home."

I'm not sure how long I'll stay in the Washington area. It might be just a stop. It might be The Stop. But I do know this: Monday night, I am moving.

And today, three different friends all volunteered to drop everything and help me move. So for a temporary home, this is feeling pretty good right now.

People Candy: Gordon

As you may have noticed, my life is sometimes a bit like a soap opera.

So it can't surprise you that I consider most of the people that I meet to be very interesting characters. In fact, people-watching is one of my dearest joys in life. It's how we end up here at People Are Candy with such a plethora of delights!

This is Gordon. He's 6-7.

Which is to say, he tells me he's 67 and I'm guessing he's 6'7" in height as well. I'm not quite sure what to make of that perfectly round goose-egg looking thing on the upper portion of his forehead. It was, uhhhhh, actually more pronounced in person.

Here's how I came in contact with Gordon: I was in Dupont Circle, having a spot of pizza with a relative who was about to leave the Washington area when I caught a glimpse of Gordon, all 6'7" of him, walking by out in front of the restaurant.

"Wow, look at that man! He's totally an eyeful! Isn't he just wonderful!?"

My cousin is actually accustomed to my great delight in people who are out of the ordinary, so she turned around to see who was walking down the street.

In addition to that sleeveless campshirt, Gordon was wearing khaki shorts and a brownish "nude" colored sock on his right lower leg that made me contemplate whether it was "orthopedic" (support hose?) or an ultra-cool fake lower leg. He had a bit of a "gait" going on.

It was all so delicious. I decided I liked him immediately... for a part in the next John Waters' film set in my mind's neighborhood.

But too quickly, Gordon lurched off and I lost hope of further relishing his presence.

After dinner, the cousin and I wandered over to Second Story Books (directly across the street from my favorite pizza place ever) and when I walked into there store, Gordon was behind the counter! And when I asked if I might take a few snaps for us, to my utter delight, he graciously agreed. (And before you ask, YES, he does have a left arm. He's just tucked it behind his back.)

This is when you know someone is The Good Stuff. He said yes. He knows he's a character in someone's "yet to be written book" and is so wonderfully comfortable in his skin. He has a bit of a gentle way about him. It was possible to like him immensely, so I did. How could I not?

Gordon told me he's lived in Washington for all his 67 years. He doesn't own Second Story, but he's been working there for a very long time.

I may need to go back and buy a book. If you go into Second Story Books in Dupont Circle, be especially nice to Gordon. He'll likely be a famous movie star some day.

My Someday Neighbor

This is my new friend. Her name is Rachael. I'm thinking about moving back to Los Angeles to be her neighbor.

I should explain to you that I've been at a global conference on women's sexual and reproductive health called "Women Deliver" all week. In pursuit of this fascinating topic, I've interviewed a couple dozen people each day and although I have greatly liked many of them, I am pretty sure Rachael is my favorite.

Which is very unusual for me. Because the smiling, sweet, funny woman that you see there is in fact, an actress and director. Her full name is Rachael Leigh Cook.

You can see why she's famous, right? Great smile and bright, engaging eyes? Yes, yes. But I've interviewed a couple hundred celebrities in my life. I've generally thought most of them were a bit more of a pain than the interview warranted. And I'm pretty sure they thought exactly the same of me.

I didn't feel that way about Rachael. She was my third and final celebrity interview of the day.

The first actress was, as my British producer gently pronounced, "a bit of an ice queen." (This is a prime example of the British people's "gift for understatement.") I'm leaving her name out because this isn't a celebrity tell-all blog. It's People Are Candy and I'm thinking the first interview was a Zotz.

The second was Ali Larter, one of the stars of the hit show "Heroes" on NBC. She attended the conference with her mother, which was very sweet. She was very accomodating to us and at the same time, showed a good amount of concern for her mother's comfort and feelings, too. All in all, a solid "butterscotch" experience.

Rachael was with her assigned public relations "friends." We were scheduled for an interview an hour later, but then one of her companions trotted up and offered to bring her a bit earlier than previously agreed. My rule is "Always Accept What Is Offered" and so we immediately started to throw up lights to better photograph her.

A moment later, here came Rachael Leigh Cook, catching us with our proverbial pants... er, lights down. But she was agreeably nibbling on her boxed lunch, so she walked a short distance away where she seated herself on the stairs and finish her lunch.

We finished the lighting set up and I walked down to retrieve her. I hate to drag someone off mid-chew, (and it's hard to be demanding of someone who is already being extra accomodating) so I stood by chatting with her and the other two women as they mostly finished their meals.

As a lot of you probably know, some days I have "it;" some days I don't.

And by "it," I refer to my innate ability to be so utterly offensive in under ten seconds that everyone within a two mile radius gags on their veggie wrap and pasta salad.

This particularly day, I apparently left "it" at home. As I stood there and talked with these women, Rachael Leigh Cook turned out to be the nicest, funnest person I've met in awhile.

I liked her so much that I said, "If you and I lived on the same street, I believe we'd be great friends."

Not to worry; I have no intention of hustling off to LA to be someone's weirdo stalker-ratzi-fan-neighbor. (There's a wide-open "if" tucked in there.) I've still got stuff to do here.

Yet the conversation rambled along. We discussed my concern for American women's health and weight issues. She offered a theory that it's caused by hidden anxieties. I suggested it was caused by hidden sugars. And we laughed and chuckled over my angst-filled meeting of Arianna Huffington the day before. (Ms. Huffington was so stunning in person, that I tried to give her a compliment but instead, wound up with my foot so painfully far in my mouth that I'm pretty sure I was letting off toenail polish on the other end.) I'd been trying to talk myself out of my horror ever since, so meeting Rachael Leigh was both a relief and a delight.

And then it was something more.

I was about to begin her interview when I saw a few stray hairs. I pulled out a comb and asked if she minded if I gave her just a little... touch up? She has beautiful brown hair, but it's very humid here in Washington, so I smoothed it a tiny bit. Not so much, really, right? Right.

Here's where I knew we'd be the very best of neighbors and to me, she became and always will be "Rachael from The Block:"

When the camera turned on me for "reversals," she knelt down, retrieved the comb back out of my purse and started doing the same to my hair. Touching me up. Well, I never!!

I've interviewed a lot of people. I've had a lot of fun meeting them all. (Even the first celebrity of the day, admittedly a bit of a pill, was interesting.) But I found Rachael Leigh Cook to be one of the most genuine, open people I've met in awhile.

So forgive me, but I may buy that house and live in that flower-filled neighborhood in my mind for sometime to come.

And if People Are Candy, Rachael Leigh Cook seems like she might just be an (almond) Joy.

Of Church Fairs, Wild Hairs, Car Repairs and... Barbecue

I went to get my hair cut and my car worked on yesterday, and I came away with a good bit more.

My hair appointment was about 90 minutes north of Washington, DC in Towson, Maryland. (Towson is not a great mecca of hair styling, but the closest one of those, near as I can tell, is in Los Angeles. Suffer with me here.) (And, no, you aren't entitled to a look. It's just hair.)

After the hair appointment, I drove to the mechanic's house. He lives with his mother. That's actually one of my favorite things about him. He's the son of a friend who I like to beg into doing my mechanical stuff. He's willing to do it, and I pay him a nominal fee for his particular grease-monkeying.

This particular day, he finished the mechanics and tossed in removing a screw that I had stripped. As it turns out, I'm quite good at stripping screws. He expressed his admiration. I expressed my cash. Everybody's happy.

Except on the way in, I had seen this little arrangement off of a wayside church.

Having grown up in a small town, I can't resist a gathering of gentle folk at a small country church. Toss in barbecue and I'm a goner.

I asked the mechanic. Sure enough, he was game. After the car repairs, off we went.

Here he is, with his plate, waiting on me to get my barbecue sandwich so we could find a table to dine. He looks pretty reasonably happy, doesn't he? You can tell it's not a date with that stack of onions! (And he's recently engaged. Congratulations, Grant and Taylor!)

This next picture is the server.

I forgot her name, but I won't forget that grin. Or her generosity. That's MY plate. You think maybe the mechanic and I should have swapped plates? My gracious, what a little chitty-chat will do for the person wielding the barbecue tongs! All I did was ask for a taste of each, and pretty quick, I had a plate full of both!

Along the way to the seating area, we dawdled along the rummage sale. Some homemade goods, some far away stuff and lots of the usual suspects.

This Santa Claus figure caught my eye. He looks like he's trying to hook a ride, doesn't he? But he did not come home with me.

And then I caught sight of this little game:

He's trying... really trying to... Oh! There it goes!

The inflatable alligator lands on top of the barbecue stand. I'm not sure what the game was here exactly, but it seemed to be irresistable.

Maybe you had to be there. You wish you had been, don't you?

I love a little country gathering, with families wandering throughout the entire scene. And me and the mechanic, enjoying the barbecue and the air out there.

All in all, I got a good deal more than just the great deal on automotive work and hairstyling.

Rolling Thunder on Memorial Day Weekend

This was the scene today outside the office where I work weekends:

I sort of dig it, don't you? My coworkers weren't any too happy about an estimated 400,000 motorcycle enthusiasts, albeit veterans descending on our fair city.

"Noisy, and they will be here until at least 6pm, riding around the National Mall, gunning their engines and making noise," said one of my charming colleagues.

But me? I found it sort of sweet: American motorcycle clubs (that quintessentially American group) honoring those who served in the United States Armed Forces.

I almost felt as thought I wasn't serving them and their memories right to go out and stand along the sidewalk and cheer these bikers on. Seemed like the American thing to do.

By the way, I haven't forgotten about this little blog, nor its stated purpose to enjoy every day people along my way.

I am a little absent because I'm working on the launch of a new website. I can't tell you more about it other than it's the dream of a great career. I'm very excited about it and hope it will be something you'll enjoy as well.

Soon, I'll let you know when it's ready and where to look.

Dinner Included...

A fish eyeball.

It was not my intention to dine on fish parts when I went out, but that's how it ended up.

Here's how that happened.

I went to hangout with a friend who's been asking to get together with me for awhile. We went down to the Old Post Office in Washington, DC. We were hoping to go up in the elevator and catch the view. The weather's been just about perfect for the last couple of days. But unfortunately, we arrived just as the last load of elevator-view-watchers for the day was emptying out. No trip to the top for us.

So we walked around for a bit. Did a lot of people watching. And then he said he wanted to go get some dinner. He wanted to try Greek food. I'm generally pretty adventurous, right? (Barnacle-like mollusks peeled off bay rocks and directly into open mouth on Molokai, chicken feet in Hong Kong, fried frog in Cambodia, smoked goat, quail eggs and innumerable attempts at both Rocky Mountain oysters and dog.. ring any bells?) Except that Greek isn't adventurous; it's merely great food. Oh well.

I ordered the fish. The fish turned out to be bass, sauteed in 0live oil and served on a platter. When it arrived, the waiter asked if I wanted him to debone it. I declined. I said I could handle that. And I did just fine.

It was excellent fish and nicely done. Crispy on the outside, moist and flavorful on the inside. I ate and ate and ate.

And then I turned the carcass over. A weird little quarter-inch white ball rolled to the side.

The fish's fried eyeball! I batted at it with my fork. ("Don't let a little respect for the dead stop you from playing with your food, Marti.") The eyeball itself seemed sort of dense. Maybe even solid as it rolled up and down the plate to my very great amusement.

"Look!" I said to my date, with joyful glee, "The fish's eyeball." (Fish eyeballs are always surefire fun. I've grossed out many a dining companion before by merely sticking a fork in! For those of you who arrived here from google, yes, they are also considered an Asian delicacy.)

"I dare you to eat that! I'll give you five bucks if you do!" my friend offered.

Okay, I am not this poor. But I've heard that fish eyeballs are an excellent source of Omega fatty acids and this one seemed fresh. It seemed firm. It did not seem mushy, gooey, squidgy or otherwise likely to explode in one's mouth. Eating it seemed sorta... doable.

So what do you think happened next? Before I could stop myself, that eyeball was balanced on my fork. I tossed it into my mouth and washed it down with a big gulp from my water glass.
It was done! Gone! Down the hatch!

"Five bucks, Sir. Give it up!" That's right, money AND the bragging rights for a very long time. The end.

PS: That's the fish's head on the end of the knife. Next adventure: amateur taxidermy?

In Touch With Your Inner Child??

I was coming home from Downtown DC, one afternoon this week. I was deep in thought as I left the Metro and crossed the street toward my car.

I was contemplating the afternoon meeting at a law office, my latest job application, the new website that a friend and I are building together, whether I should get my hair cut, how the Universe was formed and....

...what kind of deep-seated emotional need and insecurity would motivate a woman suck her thumb after the age of four? I didn't stop her to ask, so I guess we'll just never know.

Bagels, Mary and Candy

I didn't notice Mary right off. I was walking towards Bethesda Bagels with a former colleague that I hadn't seen in years. We had met for a "catchup" over a quick drink.

Mary, however, was not to be missed. She's a bit insistent, matter of fact. But... in a good way.

In this picture, she's sitting right outside the store. You can see if her you look close, sitting as the woman with the blonde crew-cut hair passes by.

That's her, behind the "Jackie O" sunglasses and green hand knit beret. She's quite an eyeful, once you stop to look. I might not have spotted her at first glance, but once brought to my attention, it was impossible to miss the generosity of spirit.

And of bagels.

When I lived in Bethesda several years back, I would often stop and grab a dozen bagels on the way home after work. This past Friday night, as we walked back to my car, I thought it would be nice to see if they had any good flavors, but when I got there... the door was locked.

The sign on the door said "8am to 5pm." It was 4:59:30pm on a Friday evening and the employees inside were determined to be on time. I could see them through the locked door where they were helping their last customer. At one point, they came over and checked the door to make sure I was locked out! Cruelly determined buggers!

I was still at the door with my old friend, hoping they'd let me in to buy a dozen, when Mary spoke up.

"You just missed 'em."

Er, yes. Thanks for that. I must admit I have no great love of people who point out the obvious, so this was not particularly appreciated commentary.

"They just locked the door before you walked up."

Again with the painfully obvious? Arrrgghhhh!!

But then I looked over at her, sitting there on the bench in front of the bagelry. She was pure fun. Just a picture to look at. Sitting there with an elfish grin and a mouth happily full of bagel. How could I not like what she brings to the Candy Party?

You can't tell (because even with a point-and-click, I am hopeless!) but she has thick, dark, wavy brunette hair and wears lipstick that could best be described as deep cherry. And she was busily gnawing away at the bagel in her hand.

"What kind of bagel is that?" I asked. (You can't tell of course, because I'm so bad with the camera.) It looked the color of pumpernickel, but what was that stuff sticking to the outside of it?

Those of you who have hung with me know that I have an very odd curiosity about other people's food. I'm downright nosy. Constantly. And yes, I'm sure that is as annoying as it sounds to those around me. I just can't help myself. I always ask.

The bagel in her hand (as bad as that picture is, it was the best of the FOUR that I took of the bagel she was eating) smelled slightly sweet and looked a little damp. It looked like it had been freshly baked and sealed in the plastic bag. For a little. Too. Long.

Mary didn't seem to mind my asking, though. In fact, she seemed excited to tell me.

"It's a French toast bagel. I got a dozen of them for $2.59 on special, because they were closing. Here! Take one!" She offered me the bag to choose my bagel.

I'm curious about other people's food, but I draw the line at taking it from them. Nobody likes a mooch. So while I'm curious enough that I have to ask, I'm not dropping hints. You know that about me, right? I don't want to mooch someone else's food.

But Mary was insistent. In the nicest way possible, she made it clear that she truly wanted to share the experience (maybe because I did ask again if it actually tasted like the breakfast item?) of this particular bagel.

She said I should take a bite. And before I knew it, I had torn off a piece, offered my dear friend a bite and when she declined, stuffed half of that somewhat rubbery chunk in my mouth and commenced chewing. Ahhhh! It was a bagel after my own heart!

It was quite good: sticky, slightly sweet as it dipped in Mrs. Butterworth's or Log Cabin or something even better... and so bagel-chewy-wonderful! A very satisfying bagel experience that my friends in the West will never truly understand. An East Coast bagel can be a revelation and this one surely was!

A second later, Mary insisted that she give me a bagel for my own. It's a sharing thing, isn't it? The communal breaking of bread defines us as humans and in a twinkling, turns someone who was a perfect stranger minutes before suddenly into...

People Candy: French Toast Flavored!

Mary never told me her last name. She seemed a bit concerned that she'd end up in Time Magazine. I said no, just my own little corner of cyber Happy Town.

How I Spent My Snowed-In Weekend

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Winter bliss!!

I'm a little embarrassed that I haven't posted my snow pictures, and to be honest, the pictures above and below are not mine. Oh well. Can't exactly brag about my photography skills anyway. (I was always on the other side of the camera, I b'lieve.)

I spent Friday night through Sunday afternoon working at a government agency. I may not be staff. I may not be highly paid. But it turns out that what I am is "essential personnel."

I think in my particular case, the promotion to "essential" came immediately after government managers learned that I lived less than half a mile from a MetroRail station that was two stops from their doors.

So I got a weekend sleepover with bad food, a cramped couch and coworkers possessed of weary, wonky and somewhat bleak outlooks. It was not the best, but to be honest, there were others who suffered far worse than my fate.

If you are looking for someone who is suffering under the 20+ inches of snow, this ain't her blog. I'm not particularly fond of snow, but my roof hasn't collapsed, my power isn't out and I haven't even tried to dig out the back steps.

In the absence of anything better, I've sort of adopted this attitude:

Yes, it has all been great fun, but nobody else seems to share my feeling. This is probably a "once-in-a-lifetime" weather event, but apparently while they're in it, not a lot of people are enjoying the ride.

By the way, my car isn't in this picture, but it does look a lot like these.
I was thinking that tomorrow, I might make a snow angel on my Ford Focus' roof, except I think three feet of snow angel plus a live human on top just might be the straw that broke the camel's back. Or caved in the car.

As for the forecast, we're expected to get another 8 to 20 inches in the next 48 hours, depending on who you listen to. I may yet spend another night (or three) on some government manager's spare couch.

So I have my pillow, an apple, a stash of Costco's finest Belgian Chocolates and the promise that "this, too, shall pass."

Unlike the truck below.


Because that, my friends, is a snow plow in Wheaton, Maryland on Sunday. It might still be there.

And it's stuck.

People Candy: Making the Most of Your Flight

This is Brenda Dymock. She's a flight attendant.

I won't say what airline, but it's not one of the newbies. No "Jet Blue" or "Midways Air" for her. She's an original.

She's been flying for more than 20 years. I met her on a flight in 2009 and this picture has been floating around my hard-drive ever since, making me smile every time I bumped into it.
And now here it is for you.

What, you say you haven't seen a uniform like that in quite some time? I told you, Brenda is an original.

Brenda began flying in the old days, when the job was still called "stewardess" and flying was glamorous, exciting and relatively safe. We'd never heard of "al Qaeda" and the only people trying to get into the cockpits were the occasional hijackers who even more occasionally, jumped out with their loot and were never heard from again.

Looking back, those folks seem sort of tame.

Flying was an adventure in those days. If you saw the movie, "Catch Me If You Can" with Leonardo di Caprio and Tom Hanks, it was during the period when "stewardesses" were the smartest of career gals (at a time when the word "gals" was still PC because PC hadn't been invented yet). They were the ones who flew in, enjoyed the best that any city had to offer and then flew out again. (By the way, if you aren't already stunned by that photo, click on it for a closer look. In person, it's as if a giant red bird was walking the aisles of the flight. You can't miss Brenda coming.)

Brenda joined that set and has been amongst them ever since. She told me that this particular uniform is one of the company's many choices, but very few of the current flight attendants deign to wear it. They opt for something a little more modern. And a lot less distinctive.

But not Brenda. Like I said, she's an original.

Support Your Local Candy Drive!

Today, I thought we'd go on a field trip. You remember those, right? Where you take a piece of paper home to get it signed, load into a smelly, cramped bus with your specially packed (moldy) sack lunch, sit with all your grimy little friends and on arrival, ruminate in place for another half an hour while the teachers figure out that yes, indeed, in order to enjoy the Zoo, you have to actually get out and walk around in the Zoo.

We'll skip all that. We're grown-ups and we're in charge.

Instead, I thought we'd take a little trip down Memory Lane with Vita-Mix. Okay, not really, but when you hear the name Vita-Mix, don't you think of this:

Ha! Thought so. It's a happy memory, isn't it? One of the most beloved comediennes of all time, Lucille Ball in one of her most famous comic sketches: VitaMeataVegimen.

Why do I bring this up? Because today, we're going to do something nice for someone. We're going to be supportive friends and now click on a link on the website for Vita-Mix.

Be a good sport and do it now.

Do you see that video? It belongs to this woman:

This is Brooke MacLay, who if you've been hanging around here for a bit, you may already know from her blog. Together, we had a quite little literary adventure with Jan Karon awhile back. It thrilled our aspiring wanna-be writer-hearts on both sides of the Mississippi. (That Jan Karon connection just keeps giving. And giving. And giving!)

You may not know it, but I've done a lot of things in my television career. However, I do not dress up in costumes and adopt fanciful character acting, as Brooke does frequently for her blog. And I haven't let people into my private life the way she has. I admire that, er, while not wishing for the level and number of stalkers that would encourage.

I think we ought to be supportive here. It'll only take you a few seconds to sign up. I would hope by now you've gotten an email address for "sign-ups and other Internet business" that you can easily use. (Otherwise, get ready for an onslaught of SPAM with an aftertaste of "Vita.")

Seriously, can you turn this face down?

And as Brooke herself would say, if'n I let her talk on my blog...

"Be a dear. Click over, sign up, sign in and click on the FIFTH STAR. Smooches!"

(FYI: Voting is simple. Go the page. See the row of rating "stars?" Click on the fifth one. You're done. Thanks!)

People Are Candy: Ann Samuel

I'm learning. We're all learning, right? I'm learning and today... this was my teacher.

This is Ann Samuel. She's originally from Georgia. I like her face, don't you? It shows that she's really lived. She won't leave empty-handed. And she's not leaving anytime soon. At least I hope not. She seems to have a lot to teach some of us, including me.

Reporters, in case you didn't know it, are feistier some days than others. We pretty much like a little squabbling most of the time, but some days, we are spoiling for a fight. Er, professionally speaking, of course. Oh well.

I went out early Thursday afternoon to pick up my mail and buy some supplies. I was loading those supplies into my car at the pickup curb at an Alexandria, Virginia grocery store. (Grocery stores in VA often don't allow you to cart your groceries to your car, so instead they have drive-up areas where you pickup your groceries.)

Suddenly, I heard an elderly male voice, loudly telling me not to use that "yellow curb zone, because it's for handicapped people."

I immediately looked down to check for a wheelchair access ramp. It was forty feet away. And again, I was in the grocery pickup area. I said "Sir, this is the grocery pickup area. It's not an area for handicapped people."

"You should be ashamed of yourself!" He continued. "This is a handicapped area. You should not be here!"

Let me just state for the record, if he had been right, I would have been ashamed of myself. But he wasn't. Still, it brings a certain level of color to my face to be accused of violating the few privileges accorded to a certain segment of the population when I am not. NOT.

"Sir, it's not a handicapped area. There is no handicapped access curb. This is a grocery pickup area."

He started in on me again and I began to realize that perhaps there was another handicap in the process of making itself known.

And then I heard this gentle voice say, "Honey, don't let anyone ruin your day."

The previously mentioned geezer wasn't about to ruin my day, but this sweet little thing was about to make my day.

Ann is 89 years old. She was married for most of those years until three years ago. Her husband died that February, just months short of their 61st anniversary in April. She tells me she leads a "blessed life," because although she uses a cane, she can get out and do for herself. I'm guessing she's not the only one whose life was blessed today.

Take another, closer look at that face. And let me point out, you don't get smile lines like those unless you actually smile. A lot.

She let me hug her before I got in the car. I say "let" because I was wearing a big down jacket and looked like a berry-flavored Sta-Puf Marshmallow monster. But she didn't flinch a bit. And I just liked her. Don't you?

That's sweet, old-fashioned homemade honey taffy, is what that is.

Sit a spell and savor it.

People Are Candy: Church-Ladies Are Us!

To start off the year, I thought we'd go with something simple. Pure people candy, discernable on sight. Here it is:

I'm hoping the People Are Candy of this is immediately accessible to all. It's a picture that I took last winter, outside the church I attend in Alexandria, Virginia. As I was leaving after the meetings, I saw the couple standing outside, posing for pictures and I couldn't resist. I stopped to stealthily snap one just for you.

I have, uh, changed a few things about the photo. To "protect the innocent," I've switched in my face as well as a photoshopped headshop of Brad Pitt. He's in the public domain and the actual people in this photo are not.

At first glance, it's a darned fun photo, isn't it? But I want you to think about it.

The woman who actually owns this dress, I'm guessing, is loved. She's very, very loved. She's loved by the wonderful beloved friend who made this dress for her.

Because someone has to make this dress for you. It doesn't just happen. This is not a dress that you can buy "off the rack." Someone has to love you, know your height and sizes and have faith that they know your taste. They have to care deeply enough to go out to the store, pick out the materials, choose the colors, buy the stuff, cut it out, sew the whole shebang together and generally, do the work to make this "dream outfit" become reality.

And then you have to love them enough to wear it. It's a leap of faith on both sides.

And don't Brad and I look thrilled to be out together?

Merry Christmas!

It's all sort of hemming and hawing from here until Christmas, isn't it?

So while we're waiting, I thought I'd show you my collection of lovely holiday light pictures. WHO KNEW I could produce such wonders with the little point-and-click gadget that I keep in my purse? Certainly not me! Imagine my surprise!

But I do love to drive around during the weeks leading up to Christmas for a look at holiday lights. These are a few of the snaps I took prior to the big snowstorm that hit Washington last weekend.

They look a little bare, in that context, don't they? But I find myself charmed by the simplicity of some of these light displays. I like the honest, simple honor of the holiday.

The people who put up this display also dance in rainstorms, I like to believe. A demonstration of childlike joy in holiday lighting! These lights seem a genuine celebration to my eyes. But this next one makes me wonder.

Can you explain this one to me? Do Boss Hawg and his Missus actually live inside?

Or exactly what do these little critters signify? Love of all things bacon, perhaps? A sausage fetish? I have a friend in California whose last name is Lamb; she puts lighted sheep figures on their front lawn at Christmas. Maybe it really is the Hoggs, Hawgs or maybe bikers (people who ride 'Hogs') living inside?

I liked this picture again, because of the intensity and the simplicity of feeling. They only put up one strand, but it was nicely done, wrapped around in the branches of a small, unusual tree in the front yard.

This next one reminds me of my past life in Southern California. You can see it from half a block away. You know why it reminds me of Los Angeles?

Because in Southern California, I lived in Glendale, just above Hollywood and Burbank. Glendale, in case you aren't aware, is the capital of Armenian-America; and Armenians (in my experience) often like to position a different holiday decoration about every two feet on their front lawns. This display is enough to make me wonder if the people inside are Turkish or Russian Armenians?

They didn't stop at lawns. No, not them! Ahhhhhhhh, feel the nostalgia sweeping over me! Shall we drive on?

This was a nice little, honest display, don't you think? In many Washington homes, the holiday tree is lit just inside the front window. You can't see it in my pictures, but... I know it's there.

And finally, my favorite picture. This house is half a block away from my apartment. I like it best because of the kind of lights that are on the tree: red and green and retro. They are the larger bulbs, about 3/4 of an inch, just like the ones my Dad used to wrap around the tree when I was very small.

He'd put up the lights, plug them in and stand back for a look. After a few adjustments, he'd give the go-ahead, Mom would bring out the boxes of holiday ornaments and a couple of packages of extremely environmentally unsound tinsel and we'd be amused for hours.

And every few nights thereafter until Christmas, we'd gather there at the end of the day to sit with the lights out and sometimes, sing carols.

I guess that's what it all boils down to for most of us: a simple reminder of holidays past, family far away and emotions we thought were packed away that suddenly come to the surface at the sight of a simple strand of lights. At least, I hope you're having that experience again this year.

Merry Christmas!