The Unhemmed Skirt: Fashionable Young Women of the 21st Century

Yesterday, we had a showing re: the sale of the building: The Wesleyans (Methodists, as you no doubt know). A group called Mosaic, which I think is their outreach program for downtrodden urban centers... seem like nice folks.

Toward the end of the showing, one gal is talking with Tom, my broker, in my office, and they're reviewing codes, etc. I'm sitting there, working. The girl is a slender tall, black woman with perfectly matched everything and fun black braided, woven hair. Jewelry, etc. all pinks and wines and puces... Little bowed Pappagallo ballerina flats with bugle beads and sequins. Again, exactingly attired.

Except for one thing: She was wearing a tea-length, tiered, cotton/gauze/muslin dyed skirt (remember those?) in the softest shade of burgundy--how nice. It went beautifully. However, each tier had tons of loose threads hanging from it. Tons. The hem was missing altogether: It simply wasn't. Just raw cloth that looked as though a heel had gotten caught in the stitching, pulled out the entire thing. It was hanging jaggedly, with more threads, all the way around.

Ghastly.

Here was this absolutely lovely girl, dressed to the nine's, with threads hanging everywhere... I couldn't take it. I simply couldn't.

Thus: While she was talking with Tom about the codes, laws, remodeling the bathrooms for the handicapped, etc., regarding moving an outreach church into my building, I quietly took out my shears and clipped the threads on her skirt. Not the tiers because there were too many threads on every layer around the skirt; I worried i might be sued for sexual harassment if I felt my way up from mid-calf to hips. But I did take the wad of muslin that was the large, gathered long skirt hem,, and I continued clipping away. Tons of burgundy shavings fell to the floor.

Interestingly, neither Tom nor the young woman missed a beat in their conversation. I just went on trimming. I can't tell you how happy it made me to see that Mess disappear.

When I was finished, the girl said to me, "You know my mother can't stand this skirt. She doesn't think it should have these threads, either. But this is the way I bought it."

I said to her, "Your mother is right. It's terrible. You're a pretty girl, delightfully dressed, and the skirt looks like it got caught around the center post in the washing machine." I went on, "I bet you paid extra for the manufacturer not to hem the skirt, or finish off the edges."

She confessed it was indeed costly.

I told her that now, she looked 100% better, she still had all the hanging mess on the tiers of the skirt, but that at least the hem wasn't in shreds any more; it was still raw unfinished cloth, so that she could feel as Bohemian as she wished without the stragglers, dripping down. She looked at me.

I said, "You'll thank me later."

Tom, who has been on oxygen since he met me, and has to keep slapping himself to reassure that I'm for real, rather fainted after this. Being raised with the sisters in Ohio Catholic schools, he is not used to my wanton flagrancy...

When he left, he said they would never buy the building...
***

Today, we got an offer from said church, for the highest amount, yet. Higher than any of the previously interested folks. Tom was in a swoon. He said he'd never in 30 years had three simultaneous offers on a single building. He couldn't believe it. Thing is, they want me out in three weeks and I have orders to finish.

Oy.

Tom says I can pay them rent. I said, "Listen, Tom. I'll pay the taxes, the utilities, the bills, for as long as I'm there; I will be out by the 4th of August or sooner. But I have to have time for my customers."

He said, "You'll have to pay rent."

I said, "Tell the gal that instead of rent, I'll finish clipping the threads on the skirt. No charge. That that alone should take care of it."

He said, "No, really. What can you pay in rent?"

I said, "Yes, really. I'll pay all the bills for as long as I'm there, and I'll fix her skirt. Start there. Then, we'll see if we need to negotiate." And that.was.that.

I'll let you know what ensues.
***

That's also why I guess I can't work at Macy's, should I want to go back to retailing. My time has come and gone... If a customer were to come in hideously attired in my opinion, or if new merchandise were to arrive that wasn't right, I would just take a scissor and cut away, or throw away. The store and the customer would be much better off for my assistance. I have no doubt. The thing is, I'm not sure management or the customer would agree. Even though I know they would "thank me later..."

Irish Dessert: A Reflection of the Irish People

I'm standing here, or rather sitting at this moment, in a bib apron and my house shoes. Nothing else. It's too hot.

I just rouued my first lade.  I hope it works.

I think for desserts, it's called a roll.  Meat is for the other.

In an Irish cookbook, whipped cream, raspberries, and chocolate in a powder sugared towel is a roulade.

It's cooling as we speak.

We'll hope for the best.

I hope I don't have a bent broken brownie.

I have no idea how this works.

I went to Joy of Cooking which has pictures and instructions, thank Heaven.

The Irish cookbook assumes that if one is Irish, one already knows how to cook.

It reminds me of the time it said to put noodles in a casserole dish with tuna and mushroom soup, and bake. Never said a thing about boiling the noodles in water, first.

Or the time it said to put two tomatoes in a pan of water and heat, for sauce.  Never said a thing about cutting them up, first.

Or the time it said to put a chicken in the oven at 425 for 2 hours until brown.   Never said to turn on the oven, first.  I even put it in the oven at 4:15.

Soon, I'll go and whip the whipping cream.  Boing.  Peaks.  What I'm supposed to look like in this apron. but don't, and never did.

Probably, I could have used Cool Whip and gotten the same effect.

I mean, Ready Whip.  In the can.

I'll let you know how it turns out.

I figure it will either be charming, or a small heap of stuff.

It should taste the same either way.

I wonder if they're hiring in the kitchen at the School For The Blind...

The United States: First Protestant Nation

What many people today don't realize is that the United States was founded on Protestant values--Christian values--that originally evolved from Judaic values.  To ignore the religious origins of America, or not  to accept  the underlying premise of religion in America, is not to comprehend what it means to be an American.

While the founding fathers were firm about freedom of religion, and separation between church and state, it must be acknowledged that the United States was created by people for whom God and the Old and New Testaments givens.  Belief in God and morality as set down in the Bible, were the guiding principles that supported the entire concept of the Declaration of Independence, the Bill of Rights, and much of the focus of the Constitution.   Yes, really.

A wholly secular America cannot sustain itself, nor can an America where morality is considered to be originated by man, thereby becoming relative to time, place, and individual need; thus becoming expendable willy-nilly upon necessity.  The foundation of this nation is based upon enlightened Judeo-Christian morality.  "In God We Trust;" "Epluribus Unum (out of many, one)" are two ubiquitous mottoes which represent this land.  Both reveal an absolute recognition of and necessary belief in God--with a clear reference to the Holy Trinity.  Check your coins and paper money if you doubt this.  Each time we make a cash payment, we validate an understood if not a given, belief in God.

One of the primary reasons that individuals immigrated to the New World  was to escape religious persecution.  By coming to a new land, people felt that for the first time, they would be out from under the autocratic demands of various monarchs with their reliance on this church or that, and they would be free to worship as they chose.  Economics and exploration were also motivating factors that influenced the development of America; however, the notion of freedom of religion--by and large Christianity--was paramount.  To lift a country out of its origins and the reasons for its creation, is not to understand how or why that particular country managed to exist in the first place.  Without purpose or thorough knowledge of origin, nothing can continue to exist.  Change is one thing; abandonment of original intent, definition, or essence of an entity, is about its demise.

Rhode Island with Roger Williams; Pennsylvania with William Penn:  Two of the earliest Colonies/States that insisted upon religious tolerance for everyone.  This was unheard of in Europe, where religious leaders of one kind or another, dictated what its inhabitants could follow.  The Pilgrims and Puritans, the Jews, the Catholics, in light of the Protestant and Counter Reformations, all came to the United States seeking the right to worship as they chose.  The notions of  "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness" as being "inalienable rights," were synonymous with "God given."

The American Constitution essentially was created by men who were Deists or believers in God without a particular church affiliation; Humanists, who were of a similar bent; and Protestants.  All of these men, however, were infused from birth with the Bible, and with the religious values of Judeo-Christian morality.  Atheism, agnosticism, denominations from the East, were not a measurable part of European society during the 16th, 17th, and 18th centuries.  In one way or another, virtually everyone who emigrated from other countries to the United States, believed in God.  Not to believe was the same as heresy and treason, all at once.

The Protestant Ethic, which is the idea that one should work for a living and gain by the sweat of his own brow, is not far from the basic tenets of Capitalism.  The Bill of Rights--the first ten amendments to the Constitution--are about basic moral freedoms that allow individuals to become and to be: The Ten Commandments, in a similar vein, were taken from Christianity's Old Testament.

(You will find the original organization of the court system in the Old Testament/Holy Scriptures, Book of Exodus, Chapter: 18/Jethro.  There are many such examples in both the Old and New Testaments.)

Manifest Destiny was another concept that dictated the intentions of a forward looking, and successful  United States.  Not without connection to a Higher Power and a heavenly afterlife, the realization of the American Dream was indeed allied with the religious focus of Kingdom Come here on earth--in America.

Particularly in the North, the value system was very Christian and quite definite about following Scripture to  the letter of its laws.  Interestingly, there was no slavery in the North, while at the same time, there were multitudes of cities, towns, and industry--men coming together in intensely populating regions, working for their families and themselves: Observing what the "Good Book" said.  The South, which was less focused on Protestantism, and more on Humanism or Deism, allowed for less stringent rigor when it came to Biblical rules and regulations: It is not a coincidence that slavery flourished there--an essential difference in the commitment to Judeo-Christian morality.

These same values spread throughout the expanding country as people went West, building churches and schools along the way.  While not everyone necessarily worshipped formally in a particular building, or with a definite sect or denomination, to assume that America was ever secular in its primary focus is to not understand the underlying strengths of American society and how/why it was created.  While worship itself may or may not have been a weekly thing for all, the undertones of belief and faith in God, with God's word dictating an Absolute Morality, were understood as a given part of life, and the way things were.  People followed God's laws; God didn't morph to follow man's convenience and comfort.

A secular United States cannot last; the essential base upon which the country was built, will erode and topple.  To say that times have changed, we don't need God any more now that we have science, morality is relative and not absolute, is to misconstrue the essence of Americana, and the presence of God as an underlying cornerstone of this country.  Such is counter to the original American values that made this nation possible.  As Protestantism broke away from the Catholic Church, so did America break away from European monarchies and oligarchies--the belief in God and the dictates of  Biblical Morality, however, were never questioned.

America was never conceived as a land of the inoperative, the helpless, or the incapable.  Rather it was the notion that every man was created in the image of God, was given those certain inalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness; and by golly, if he wanted such, within the moral and ethical boundaries  that were handed down to our forefathers--both Biblical and national--then he needed to go after them.  Nothing would be served to him for free.  It is no different in the Bible: The original guide book and rules manual for the United States.

The bottom line is not whether one must support the fundamentals of the Scriptures, but rather that there is a necessary understanding that must take place:  Without certain values and ethics such as community, education, family, economic well being, respect for nature and its creatures; without discipline, responsibility, integrity, and a unified commonality of moral outlook and beliefs; without a firm conviction that we as Americans, and our country America, are committed to a unified focus toward a unified Higher Morality, this nation will not be able to survive:  Its very reason for existence, its essence as a viable nation, will have ceased to exist.

Fuzz Bucket 3: The Extreme Makeover

When Sydney arrived,  he was 9.6 pounds of loose skin and bones.  Completely shaved, he had no whiskers, eyelashes, or fur of any kind, other than his scraggly long tail, and the hair that covered his short floppy ears.  (The previous owners shaved rather than bathed him whenever he got dirty.) His bald skin was pink, with grey patches here and there  The epidermis from the end of his nostrils, was a mottled brown/black/pink affair that was denuded and raw all the way from the tip of his nose up his snoot until  it reached the bridge by his eyes.  The eyes themselves, were bulging and brown, protruding  from his head like large marbles in smooth sand.  "Ugly" would  not have been inappropriate to describe him.

I spent the following six months staring at the poor beast from this perspective or that, as I concocted just how he was going to look once there were enough hairs that could be trimmed into something sensible. Clearly, any love I would have for him was conditional; directly proportionate to the amount of fur that hopefully would grow.  Thus began the vigil, not unlike watching grass grow, or paint dry on a wall, measuring at 1/16th inch per day.  I brushed and combed, pulled and stretched, convinced that the beast was actually becoming both lovable and lookable.

Slowly,  it  became obvious that Syd was indeed filling in with fur, and filling out in shape.  He was put on a decent diet, his teeth cleaned and pulled where loose, and given a fortune's worth of pills, shots and tests as demonstrated by all the tags that were attached to his collar.  I only knew for sure that he had miniature poodle in him, but was convinced that he was not a purebred, despite what the previous owner had told me.

One week, I imagined he was part cocker spaniel; another, I knew he had to be a dwarfed golden retriever; no, this time I was certain--Sydney was definitely a Jack Russell terrier mix...  With each surmisal, I read voraciously about this breed or that, comparing breed characteristics with the emerging personality that Sydney had begun to display as he became more comfortable in his new surroundings.  Understanding that he was safe at last had made a tremendous difference (his roommates in the past had been a Rottweiler, German shepherd, pit bull, and a chow).  Observing him discover himself reminded me of the old quiz show, What's My Line?  I even read a book about Chihuahuas, in spite of the fact that since frightening encounters with them as a child, I could not stand that particular breed.   Fervently, I wanted him to be a Lhasa Apso.  However, I was running out of shelf space for dog books, and my curiosity was getting the better of me:  I had him tested genetically.

Eventually, I discovered that he was the offspring of two purebred breeds; he was a first generation mix of miniature poodle (which I had been told), and alas, part...dare I admit this in public?--Chihuahua.   I figure the  father was the smaller of the two breeds; the mother must've been the poodle.

I bathed him every two weeks, with the vet's blessing.  I hoped that as his fur grew, the warm water would stretch out each hair, so that it would grow faster and longer. Whether it did or not, I cannot say.  His collar  fits him, and he is proud of it.   To this day, when I remove his collar for any reason, there is a wistful look about Sydney, as if to say, "Don't you want me?  Did I do something wrong?  Are you going to give me way like all the others did?"  Not a chance.

Then began the Search.  Toys were first--I was told that Sydney did not play, instead, just ate or slept.  I got him a fuzzy squeaky toy: A fox.  Just to see.  Hah!  He and the fox have a wild time of it just about every evening.  I purchased a skunk and  raccoon, too.  There is one on each floor of the house, and at the shop.  It's all he needs, accompanied by pizzle sticks (bull penises) for a hearty gnaw.  He is delighted.

The collar, as mentioned earlier, was a struggle.  I tried about eight different colors on the then pink animal.   This one was too bright, that one blended too well.  This one wasn't good with his fur; the other one was more showy than the hound.  Finally, I settled on a bright, snappy red.  Red leash, harness, collar.  It was perfect.  To be truthful, Sydney bears a distinct resemblance to my grandmother, Elizabeth.  So help me, the expressions and the facial features are similar enough to wonder if earlier in time, the two were related, or if Syd is indeed my Grandmother reincarnated.

The wardrobe is mostly for Fall/Winter, other than a Spring rain slicker.  He has multiple outfits--some for holidays, most for seasonal wear.  He's an autumn, color wise: He needs strong, fallish colors but not pale.  He is pale, you know, so we want to contrast, not compare.  No white.  No greens other than olive.  Reds have to be slightly to the more golden tones, rather than blued (burgundies are best because they carry brown).  Not white, grey, orchid or pink.  Augh!  Terrible.

I want you to know that Sydney Hates his wardrobe.  He looks like a million dollars to my way of thinking; to his, it's about looking like a "pussy" in front of the other dogs down the block.  He would rather freeze.  Which he certainly does.  However, he and I have come to an agreement: He only has to wear the outfits when it's less than 45 degrees, and never inside.  We have made a pact, and as these last days have been below zero, he is finding that it's not all bad to sally forth in couture fashions.

The day finally arrived for a haircut.  It took six months for Sydney to begin to be presentable.  The groomer gave him my favorite "full teddy" do.  His ears have grown longer, his tail has filled out, his body, now smartly snipped 1/2", is wavy and strawberry blonde with large patches of white that blend.  The fur is more wavy than curly, more like an alpaca's than a dog's.  It is incredibly soft.  The bulging eyes are now recessed into the thick muzzle of a nose.  Brownish epidermis that once showed up to his eyes, is now covered with soft blonde fur.  The ears and tail are deeper in hue, approaching apricot.

Sydney remains alert and wary of strangers, which I encourage.  However, once he is reassured, he is their friend.  He talks--it doesn't sound at all like a dog's voice--and can sit or dance upon request or desire.  He is the master of his home, and his people.  He is constantly on guard to insure our safety.  We go everywhere together: Inside and outside. Rest assured that he is a gentleman, does not pee or poop indoors, and knows his job is to be silent when I'm working or with others. Best of all, when something is not to his liking, Sydney groans.  I am convinced that he is a Jewish dog; Oy is one of his favorite words.

Fuzz Bucket 2: The Assessment

Having done due diligence, the nurse had finished her day and left the dog with me.  Rid of him, she had deposited his luggage on the floor: A soiled polar bear rug with a roaring stuffed head, and a black throw-away plastic dish with a handful of dry food left over from whatever was on sale.  There was a leash of sorts, and an old collar made of royal blue nylon with heavy chain.   A pit bull could've worn it adequately, it was that big. Finally, there was the creature she had left behind, who hung his head under the metal weight of the collar, as though his neck was a disconnect from the rest of the quivering body.

At once, I resolved to purchase everything new for him, my eyes rolling at the impending expense.  I called for an appointment with Liberty's vet from many years earlier, and as our first afternoon together began to become evening, I started to study this beast in earnest. What at first might have seemed to be a menacing malcontent, became picture of sadness. He lay there, not a friend in the world; his only connection with familiarity, vanished. Precariously parked on top of the chair, watching the door and waiting for an opportunity to go home, he stayed there well into the night.  Watching, waiting, wondering.  What now...

As early evening began to approach, my Prince Charming stopped by for our after-work time together.  Himself, a dog aficionado acquainted with multiple breeds, the Prince entered through the door that was currently being kept under keen observation, slowly circling the dark green chair as he evaluated the beast on its top.  Quietly, steadily, Prince made himself a drink, went to his own chair across the room, and sat down.  He didn't say a word, moving like stealth, so as not to frighten the creature.  The dog, with a growl in his throat yet with no one to defend or protect, was silent.  Prince looked at the beast and watched him watching himself.  The two males were sizing up one another.

Attending to every sound, every move, the animal focused.  Still, he never left his perch on top of the chair, and like a large bleached rat, continued to face the door while he waited for the nurse to return.

Prince was thoughtful.  Then he made his assessment.  "This dog is smart," said he.  "He has excellent hearing, good eyesight, he knows enough to weigh his options, and he's not mean.  In fact, he's kind of a cute little fellow.  Small, looks like a 'roach' back to me--the way he's all humped over.  Fat--stomach hangs.  But not a bad sort.  There's something about him...I think he might be okay...  What's his name?"

"Butter," I  managed.  "He had a brother named Peanut.  This one is Butter."  I can't tell you  how really awful it felt to think of owning a dog named Butter.  Aside from the descriptive misnomer, each time I thought of the name, I was reminded that he wasn't an individual--he was merely half of a set.  (Peanut had previously been put down.)

"Humph," mused Prince.  As we spoke, he had all the time continued to watch the creature carefully, while he sipped his drink.  "To me, he looks like a...oh...  Yes, I think a Seymour? No, that's not quite right.  Something, someone...hmmm...  That's it.    He looks like a Syd."

There was indeed something about the dog, about Prince Charming's summing up, about the deeply earnest look in the huge balded eyes with the shaved, pointed muzzle, that really did seem like a Syd.  Hapless and alone, yet with enough panache to insist upon the very top of the chair, the little beast gave the appearance of exactly that name.

I had never changed a dog's given name before--having felt like it belonged to the animal. This time, however, I couldn't deal with "Butter."  It didn't fit the strawberry blonde coloring on the scrawny, angular hound, and it was more of a gimmick than a real identity.  After all, Peanut was long gone.

You know, it came to my mind that there might be some substance to him--more than just a hand-me-down taken in out of pity and resignation.  Perhaps, there was even a...well, a smile inside.  I perked up.  Syd...  Syd...  I was trying it on for size.  Out loud then, "Sydney," I confirmed.  

Nevertheless, not wanting to leave his original handle entirely behind, I gave him a middle initial--B ( for Butter). Then, from the color of his ears and matching tail that held a hint of orange against the pinkish blonde body, came "marmalade." Marmalade?  No.  A "Sydney" had to be Jewish. Marmelstein.

Sydney B. Marmelstein.

The Prince and I looked at one another.  It would be all right.  Sydney had found his name, a  home, and something I suspected he never had before: Attention.   I, on the other hand, had myself a dog.