On All Hallows' Eve

It is hard to believe that All Hallows' Eve is upon us yet again. It seems like only yesterday I was turning off all homefront lighting, disconnecting the doorbell and quietly reading a book in the back of the house. Time certainly flies, doesn't it readers.

Despite the many negatives of the holiday, I set about decorating the property this morning in the style of All Hallows' Eve. I enlisted the help of my new washwoman Isabel, whom incidentally fought me every step of the way. She asked why go to such exhaustive measures to decorate the entire property for just one day when she has to come early and take it all back down the very next? I tried to help her understand that decorating for holidays keeps one young, which in turn keeps a sparkle in the eye. But on the other hand, having seasonal decorations up for more than a couple of days is not only irritating, but also a safety hazard. From the look on Isabel's face I'm not sure she agreed.

Although Isabel insists that she is Spanish, I believe her to be German. I see it in her walk and refuse to discuss it further. I assumed her Teutonic eye would be a big help to me in staging sinister and menacing props around the house, but boy was I wrong. Not only did she not offer any ideas of her own, she seemed absolutely terrified all morning and afternoon and spent much of the day in nervous prayer. Luckily I was there to offer direction.

The trick to successful decorating for All Hallows' Eve is to go for a kind of Satanic Ritual look without going overboard. Having a startling and memorable decor is the goal, but compromising one's good-standing in social circles and the afterlife is to be avoided when possible.

In the snapshot above I've mixed a hellish raven and ritualistic black candelabras with heavenly crystal stemware and civilized silver leaf pumpkin votives. It's quite unsettling but very elegant. Nothing this tasteful could be soulfully inappropriate, now could it.

And finally, nothing says "October" like a plaque that says "October". Decorative signage inscribed with seasonal words or motifs placed in foyers and entryways lets visitors know exactly what they're in for, without a lot of sociological explanation from the homeowner. This allows the host and guest to engage in satisfying personal conversation much more quickly.

On Politics

From the very beginning, it has been my intent to steer clear of the subject of politics within this blog. I envisioned this site as a kind of "safe place" where both intellectuals and idiots could come together and stand hand-in-hand in the soft, indirect glow of my aesthetic judgement. (Over the years I've discovered that neither the felicitous nor the foolish have even the slightest clue about what constitutes pleasant indoor lighting.) Finding a sort of middle-ground on which to communicate, to help, and to enlighten, has been always been my goal, exhausting though it may be.

But as we approach November, I find myself feeling much more impassioned about expressing my opinion on the sort of politics I am encountering. Thus, I have decided to break my own rule. I will no doubt lose some of my followers as a result, but I truly believe that if I don't take a stand now I will not be able to sleep at night, despite my well-documented low-caffeine intake. So please hear me out.

You see readers, I have not won "Yard Of The Month" one single solitary time this entire year, and here it is practically November. And without any doubt, I place the blame squarely on neighborhood politics.

As an example, I live across the street from a woman named "Miss Hannah" who claims to be in her mid-90s and pridefully makes a great big show out of the fact that she still mows her own lawn and rakes her own leaves. Her pride however comes with a subtle sense of judgement which I have felt on occasion and don't particularly care for. She has won "Yard Of The Month" twice since March, and while I was happy for her the first time, after her second win I had a very uneasy feeling that biased neighborhood politics were coming in to play.

Despite the skillful work of two young gentlemen from the neighboring village of Pooler, whom I kept on an around-the-clock landscaping retainer during the months of June, July and August, my front yard seemed to go unnoticed month after month. In September I even paid Miss Hannah (a fair sum of $112) to mow and rake my front yard and install two flower beds, a cobblestone path and a water feature -- but even this seemed to do little to win the admiration of my neighbors. In fact it even seemed to upset some.

But in keeping a keen eye trained on the social maneuvers of the neighborhood, I have observed that the Y.O.T.M. Sign is consistently awarded to a select few who appear to have the time to exchange casseroles, baked goods and gossipy trivialities with one another on an almost daily basis. But as I've always said, scratch the surface of any "good neighbor" and one can almost always find a sinister and calculated intent of raw manipulation lurking beneath. Quite frankly readers, it's a game my scruples refuse to allow me to play.

So, in an attempt to end such blatant bias, I faxed the Neighborhood Yard Chairlady three weeks ago and proposed that we award two signs each month: one for Yard Of The Month, and another for Favorite Friend Of The Month.

I am still awaiting a response.

On Sanka

Nights can seem endless when one is unable to to sleep. And as one twists and turns in bed, troubling thoughts always seem to rise to the fore - thoughts which one would never think in the daytime. Vivid thoughts of bloody home invasions carried out by societal drop-outs under the influence of lysergic acid diethylamide, or hundreds of large poisonous snakes dropping through ceiling tiles onto the bed are typical. And often such thoughts can be traced back to a single cup of coffee which one had earlier. However, one needn't give up coffee drinking to enjoy a pleasant night's rest. Simply switch to Sanka.

Sanka is perfectly fine and scientifically engineered with a fragrant, full-bodied flavor that is so often associated with coffee. Yet Sanka is easy on the mind, because 97% of its caffeine has been laboriously removed by trained professionals. Sanka allows coffee drinkers to enjoy as much as they want, as often as they want.

Sanka is also available now in portable purse or pocket packets, allowing at-home drinkers an extended range of mobility should they ever feel so inclined.

On Bay Windows

The seventh most important feature of any good home is its presence of bay windows. Not only are these faceted protrusions a knowing nod to style and sophistication, but they also provide a heightened sense of security courtesy of the extended range of sight they allow across the property. Installing bay windows on each and every side of the home is not only admirably attractive, but cunningly clever.

Within months, these window installations can pay for themselves due to the 180 degree line of sight they provide from neighbor to neighbor. No more manic dashing from window to window and paying for costly red wine and decaf coffee stain removals from carpets and rugs, bay windows allow residents to sit secure and stationary for hours on end with a full range of vision from "neighbor-left" to "neighbor-right".

Bay windows are often associated with Victorian architecture and were a part of the Gothic Revival style, but don't let that put you off. Even in up-to-date normal times, a bay window still exudes elegance and a sense of spaciousness, particularly when beautifully draped.

Seldom does architecture function in favor of both style and security, but a bay window - or several - is the exception to the rule. Install one or more today.

On Celery

Recently I've become obsessed with celery. I kept the news to myself for the longest time, until finally I phoned my sister Paula and shared it with her. I told her everything: how I like eating it raw as a snack, or dipped into organic peanut butter, or stuffed with pimento or cream cheese, or finely diced and folded into a wonderous Waldorf Salad.

I spoke about celery's crunch factor, and we both agreed that my description of the taste as being "mint-like and yet not really" hit pretty close to the mark. We discussed celery salt and how neither of use it enough, nor to its full advantage. We probably mentioned 100 recipes that use, or could use, celery during our conversation. As you can see, I'm simply smitten.

As we were about to finish our call, I remembered a rather strange fact from my days within the Perfume Industry. I have tried, with professional assistance, to forget everything I ever learned within the world of perfume due to the painful manner in which I was driven out. But at that moment I remembered: celery contains andro-testosterone, a powerful hormone that is released through perspiration and acts as a sort of romance magnet. By eating celery, one releases a higher level of pheromones. Everything was starting to begin to almost make sense, in a way.

I broke my own rule about shoehorning Boom's name into casual conversation, but wondered aloud if my new obsession with celery might perhaps be nature's scientifically magical way of beaming out a kind of "pheromonal beacon" to the love that I lost. Could my beloved Boom be sensing my celery-strengthened scented signal? Could it be? What if? Why not? Can you imagine?*

*The questions raised within this entry are hypothetical as well as being highly personal and are not intended as a conversation starter.

On Ipanema

Judging by the overflow of faxes I discovered upon my return home yesterday, not many of you knew that I was out of the country traversing the beautiful Ipanema Beach in sunny Rio de Janeiro. The nondisclosure was intentional, as I feel that being chatty about one's movements can often leave one's home vulnerable to thievery. I also feel that sharing certain aspects of my schedule could be misconstrued as braggadocios to quite a large number of you.

Embarrassingly, I took part in the trip as part of a local tour group in a disastrous attempt to "engage socially". But due to immediate disagreements on itinerary, philosophy and grammar, I broke off from the group upon landing and made arrangements with my travel agent for my own return flight home. Vacations are, by nature, very stressful affairs which are compounded by the number of people involved. When faced with this situation, it's best to cut ties immediately rather than put on a brave face and develop an ulcer.

Ipanema is famous for its elegance and affluence, and visitors should dress accordingly. Wikipedia, a computerized resource of facts and information, lists Ipanema as one of the most expensive locations in which to live, and further states that a majority of its residents are economically pegged as "upper-middle-class". It's one of four and a half places on this planet where I truly feel at home.

For a reasonable fee, one can employ the services of certain locals to act as a personal guide and/or interpreter to mature adventurers traveling alone. Here, my Monday through Thursday guide, Paulo, gives the universal "thumbs-up" signal when presented with the iPad he requested.

I was ecstatic to find Coca-Cola Zero available at a small cabana on the far end of the beach. I believe that one can best enjoy a foreign territory when equipped with a modicum of familiar trappings. It helps to keep one grounded. Too much of any foreign culture can be unnecessarily disorienting and trigger panic and anxiety attacks. When traveling, always appreciate, observe and respect the exotic beauty of your foreign locale, but never forget who you are in the process.

One final word of warning, however: the beaches of Ipanema can be as deadly as they are beautiful. On one particular morning, my weekend interpreter Narciso and I awoke to find a body floating in the hotel pool. After screaming, I took a series of artistic photographs of Narciso as he heroically pulled the body from the water, one of which I am debuting here within this blog entry. I've pixelated the victim's face in a tasteful and conceptual recognition of privacy.

On A Fairer Flush

Once again I find myself being moved by turquoise toilet water. But like high hemlines and third-world countries, turquoise toilet water is "á la mode" one decade and then corny and passé the next. Today, contemporary culture is bowled over by clear toilet water, but why? Is there more to it than meets the eye? When is it ok to buck a trend? Let's examine this more closely.

I have noticed an ugly barebones approach to lavatories these days which I believe is a reaction to our "get-it-done-yesterday" world of faxes, beepers and wireless telephones. Modern lavatories seem to scream "spend as little time in here as biologically possible!" so that you may quickly get back out, face to face with yet another 500 mph nervous breakdown. Perhaps readers, it's time to take our toilets back.

Stylish and comfortable lavatories were once a destination point in the home, due in no small part to the technicolor tint of turquoise which calmly greeted visitors from within the bowl. Relaxing and reminiscent of tropical locales, the blue made one eager to sit down, to relax one's shoulders and perhaps, just perhaps, even smile.

Ask yourself, do you currently put off a trip to the lavatory until the very last minute? Can you even recall the last time you used the lavatory? Are you consistently irritable and on edge? Chances are you've fallen prey to contemporary clear-water culture, but sometimes the simplest solution is the best. Simply drop a big blue tablet (available at your local grocer) into the back of your tank and get ready for 3-4 months of smooth, civilized sailing.

On Magnificent Obsessions

One of the things about my home that puts visitors on immediate notice is the astonishing exhibit of collectables that I display throughout. Obsessive collecting not only brings whimsy and interest to one's home, but also acts as a magical distraction from personal disappointments and anxieties.

Perhaps you would like to start a collection!

First, work out what you are interested in. Make a list. Perhaps it is coins from foreign countries that have always attracted you, or hammers, tambourines, fragile fawns, or stamps featuring former First Ladies? Of course it's entirely possible that you've never felt this way or that about much of anything, and simply wish to copy or vary what another collector is doing. And that's fine too.

Now take a long hard look at your list and decide what is within your realm of capability. Consider also any limitations to starting your hobby, like space, cost and availability. If your interest is extremely rare and expensive, consider how far you are willing to go to get the money to buy it. If your personality runs toward the meek and scrupulous, that is an indicator to start smaller.

Next, find out how can you get it. Take a trip to the library and research the subject, its history and where it can be acquired. Once you complete all your research and fact checking, start collecting!

Remember to keep it unique. Once you become acclimated to collecting and begin to feel it taking a front seat in your daily life, then it is time to begin the hard work of making your collection stand out. Some suggestions for making a collection unique include:

1. Creating a theme, for example, hammers, one color objects, or items relating to an uncontroversial event in history.

2. Quantity and quality. (Have the most, and have it in the best condition.)

3. Prior ownership by someone famous, infamous or curious.

The value of a collection increases with its uniqueness, presentation and display. How you present it and have it "tell a story" is the difference between a connoisseur and a hoarder. Also be aware of the history and trends surrounding your collection and keep such information nearby, or have it engraved onto brass plaques mounted next to the displays. And above all, remember to keep a very keen eye trained on fumbling visitors.

On The Rockies

This past weekend I accidentally visited the Rocky Mountains. I felt a romantic sadness coming on, so I asked my new gardener Nikolai to escort me on a quick jaunt up into the Rockies. Being new to this country and destitute, he jumped at the opportunity to drive me.

We left the next morning but, as former friends will attest, I am renowned for getting my mountain ranges confused. In my mind I was saying "The Smokey Mountains," not the "Rocky Mountains". So, what I thought would be a 6 hour drive into Tennessee ended up a 25.5 hour road trek into Colorado. I always ingest a discreet handful of calming pills before I travel, so by the time I awoke and realized my mistake, it was simply too late. After I calmed back down, Nicky and I began to laugh. We laughed and laughed the entire rest of the way.

Finally there, we stayed at a small bed and breakfast at the foot of one of the range's most beautiful mountains. The inn was run by an old woman and her two daughters, none of whom I particularly cared for. One morning Nicky showed me how to snap a photo with his new i-Telephone I had given him. Here he is standing in front of the mountain I was telling you about. Have you ever seen anything so rugged and breathtaking? Isn't it just begging to be climbed?

With a picnic basket in hand, we set off on foot up the mountain. Nicky was a saint, constantly catching and saving me as I would nearly fall off a steep embankment or step on an indigenous snake. It was a wonderful day, until Nikolai was nearly mauled to death by a wild cougar who seemed to jump from out of nowhere.

I must have fainted, because when I came to I found Nikolay in the snow, bruised and unconscious with scratches from head to foot. For a moment I tried dragging him back down to the Bed and Breakfast, but he was simply too big so I left him there. I made my way back down the mountain and ended up paying the old woman and her daughters to go back up and bring him down.

UPDATE: Nicky has been taken out of ICU and as I understand, plans to make his home in Colorado rather than come back to Georgia. He must have really fallen in love with those Rockies! I can't say I blame him. They're magical.

On Busts

When it comes to gifting, I am quite renowned for sharing a beautiful bust. Perhaps at first the idea seems extravagant and outlandish, but nothing makes a more unique and memorable statement than gifting these wonderful works of art to those who can appreciate a lovely bust in their home.

My busts are certainly not the most contemporary gift, but that's exactly what makes them so unexpected and unique. And when the occasion is truly special, I like to give a pair. The looks on the faces of recipients after unwrapping a pair of my shiny neoclassics are often worth every penny I paid for them. Whether bronzed or in alabaster, bust giving truly makes a statement.

After they have been unwrapped and studied, take the onus on oneself to help the recipient find just the right spot for them. Place them on a shelf beneath dramatic lighting, or try them out on the lid of a polished piano. Perhaps they would look impressive atop a dining room table? Hold them up over a mantle on the fireplace. Be uninhibited and try out a wide variety of positions throughout the home. This unique gift of ample elegance will really add a certain "je ne sais quoi" to any room.

On Residential Refuse Disposal

After the controversially libidinous end to my urbane career within the Perfume Industry, I lit upon the small town of Savannah as a means to clear the air. I moved into a large home in a small neighborhood, eager to embark on the long journey of rebuilding my capacity to love and trust.

Soon after I discovered the city's trash removal service makes its rounds every Tuesday, unless conflicted with a state or national holiday. But living alone as I do and purchasing products of high and long-lasting quality, the volume of waste I generate is markedly less than that of the average consumer. I seldom have reason to pull the receptacle out to the street on absolutely every Tuesday.

I noticed however that on the weeks I left my receptacle at the house, a city worker would walk up the drive, collect the can, dump the trash into the truck, and then walk the can back to the house. On one occasion I inquired as to why he was performing this task for me? I was told that my address was on the "Needs Assistance List", which I hypothesized was due to the previous owners being an elderly couple of the infirmed variety. I felt very lucky.

I was now freed-up on Monday nights to pursue personal interests rather than rolling trash cans up and down the driveway. And on Tuesdays, when the trash collectors would appear at my residence, I would quickly lay down on the sofa in the front window, being very still to look as if I were unable to walk, while they performed the task that the special-needs list absolved me of.

Things were going swimmingly until a sanitation official spotted me performing a low-impact aerobics routine through my living room window two weeks ago. I immediately jumped behind the drapery, but it was too late. As I peeked out I could see the city official shaking his head and writing on a clipboard. I knew the ruse was up. I am now rolling my own trash receptacle to the street, just like the rest of the neighborhood.

Brilliantly though, I have incorporated this new chore into my low-impact exercise routine, and after just a couple of weeks, I have already noticed a pleasing difference in both my left and right calves.

On The Medium Of Television

I have been approached in a professional manner via The U.S. Post Office to record my thoughts and opinions on the current state of the television industry. The Nielsen Corporation is one of our country's most highly-esteemed surveyors of trends in American television broadcasting. And without bragging, I will let you know that this is not the first time they have come to me for my input regarding the future of this largely small medium.

Last night, after finishing up some private matters, I turned on the set in the living room and while giving it time to warm up, prepared myself a Classic White Wine Spritzer: 1/2 cup club soda to 1 cup of wine, with peach schnapps added for flavor. (I enjoy light wine spritzers when performing tasks that require full use of my faculties and reflexes, like giving a speech, driving a car, or recording my thoughts in my new Nielsen diary.)

As most of my time is occupied with literature and the visual arts, it had been quite a while since I focused my critical eye on the old "idiot box" -- and once I did readers, I was alarmed at what I saw. Half-naked teenagers from New Jersey cursing and screaming... half-naked housewives with duck-like facial deformities cursing and screaming… And worst of all, the sordid story of a sociopathic prostitute and her silicon-filled rear-end, in which once-noted athlete Bruce Jenner has somehow become involved.

I began pressing the channel changer with such pressure and ferocity that I became seriously concerned I could have done permanent damage to the soft pads of my thumb and index finger. On each and every channel there was someone burping.. Or walking backwards.. Or sexually gratifying themselves on the rooftop of a moving car.. Or eating a bug, or flinging dung.. I couldn't believe it. It was a real eye-opener.

And then finally I came across what I believe was the Turner classic movie channel, my favorite. Judging by the script and costuming, it was an old sci-fi B-movie from the 1950s and while the dialogue was juvenile and trite, I absolutely adored the smart red dress the actress was wearing! The character on the screen was called "Ann Romney" and she was playing the role of the President's wife or secretary on the eve of an alien invasion from outer-space, which was coming to earth to destroy marriage and families, as best I could tell. The movie was called "A Republic of Convention" and I tried staying awake to catch the name of the dressmaker (whom, were it not for the picture being such a low-budget affair, I would bet was famed designer Edith Head) but I fell asleep quickly and didn't make it to the end.

Perhaps it's best that your writer stick with her inclinations toward literature and the visual arts, and leave the television to other types of people!

On Decorating Around A Baby Grand

1. Place the piano in a spot that is not in a natural line of traffic, but is in plain view of guests as they would enter the home. Make sure that spot is not in direct sunlight, as this will cause the piano to go out of tune quickly. Also, remember that there is no need to put the piano up against a wall as many of you will no doubt be inclined to do.

2. Add a breathtaking mirror to a wall that faces the side of the piano. This will increase the aesthetic benefit from more angles. Depending on your personal circumstances, the mirror and its frame can be simple or extravagantly ornate.

3. Place the piano on a non-carpeted surface like Italian marble. If the entire room is carpeted, have a portion of the room tiled in marble, on which to place the piano. Carpet dulls the sound of the instrument.

4. Place a large vase of fresh roses or orchids atop the piano for a civilized look. Don't forget to remove the vase when propping open the lid.

5. Arrange a seating area near the piano. The chairs, couches or love seats should be in neutral, monochromatic tones to assure visitors can't help but notice the piano. The seating should be padded and comfortable, with a table on which to set adult beverages.

6. A large floor-based candelabra positioned near the back of the baby grand will add a warm glow to this centerpiece. Choose a candelabra with a muted finish, so as to enhance the piano itself rather than detract from it. Naturally, the same rules apply to chandeliers.

7. If the room allows, corner tables with matching vases are an attractive addition. Have the vases complement the color of your eyes.

On Getting Oneself Into (And Out Of) A Cult

As summer turns to fall and the evenings get cooler, I would like to remind readers that it is the time of year when one is most susceptible to becoming involved in outdoor pagan ceremonies and cult activity.

With the nicer weather, our natural inclinations are to go out of doors, to socialize more, and become more talkative and agreeable. Nothing could be more dangerous.

One minute you're meeting a new acquaintance for lunch at a reputable restaurant, and the next you're dressed in a woolen robe in the middle of an unfamiliar forest, chanting (in what you hope is Latin) on the eve of some seasonal solstice, complete with astrological and horticultural overtones. It can happen to the best of us.

But, good news readers! I have found the secret to extricating oneself from the clutches of any kind of cultish behavior is down to one simple thing: Allergies.

When putting on their robes or attire, begin to sneeze. Apologize profusely, but don't let up. Blame the flora, fauna, or fabric blend. And if any insence or potpourri is lit afire (and I almost assure you it will) begin to cough uncontrollably. Apologize, and repeatedly ask the High Priest (or these days it might even be a "Priestess") if he or she can repeat themselves and perhaps even speak a little louder. And finally, ask to take a "sit-down" break several times, continuing to sneeze and cough. The very next week at the same time, I'll bet you a dollar to a dime that you'll find yourself at home enjoying your drink of choice, blissfully alone on your own comfortable sofa.

On Grout

The number of positive comments I've received on the beautiful shade of grout that is featured between the pink tiles of my lavatory has astounded even me. One knows when even burly lawn care professionals are noticing such a thing, that one must share this knowledge amongst virtual friends who are in desperate need of good aesthetic advice. I'm attaching a photo here with my personal haircare and bodywash products pixelated for privacy.

The color of grout used within my lavatory is called "True Ivory," and is based on an absolutely beautiful shade of tusk I discovered on Safari in Kenya some years ago. Upon seeing these tusks, I knew immediately just how I wanted my bathroom to look. I brought a truckload of them back into the country with me and took them straight to my decorator, with strict instruction to color match my grout.

And before anyone becomes the least bit upset with questions of ethics or morality, rest assured that I turned in each and every name of all persons involved with this despicable practice once the bathroom was completed. And, in hopes that this never happen again, allow me to publish the color breakdown: mix two parts of Valspar's "Brilliant White" to one part Liquitex's "Happy Yellow", before finally adding two drops of Dior's "Bashful Pink" rouge into the grout mix. Have the tile and grout washed and polished every 8 hours to preserve maximum radiance.

On A Strong Sense Of Security

A chilling thing happened yesterday. As I was sitting down at the machine to post an entry about my cat, I noticed that a "comment" had been entered into this blog -- and it was sent from somewhere outside of the house! Without hesitation, I nervously phoned my sister Paula who in turn phoned the authorities while I quickly examined windows and doors both upstairs and down. Everything appeared secure, but nonetheless, the fright drove me straight to the liquor cabinet. I threw a sweater around my shoulders as it seemed the temperature in the house had suddenly dropped, and I downed two large belts of brandy. I was pouring a third when the silence was violently interrupted by a loud knock on the door. I dropped my snifter and it shattered on the floor. I didn't mean for that to rhyme. My head was spinning but as I gained partial composure, I heard the words "State Police" and I ran to the door.

I was relieved to see Lieutenant Ricky Rodgers with 9 competent officers standing behind him. Lieutenant Rodgers, perhaps the youngest and tallest member on the force, has been out to the house eleven and a half times in the past month. As a result, I believe we have forged something verging on friendship, at least as far as I'm concerned. The officers did a professional sweep of the grounds and found nothing out of the ordinary, although it appeared my new ottoman had been torn apart by what we assume to be raccoons. Still, I was comforted that Lieutenant Rodgers spent almost the entire night sleeping in his patrol car which was situated right at the end of my drive. Like you, I do hope things return to normal very, very soon.

On An About Face

Hello there. Did you miss me? Before I begin this evening's entry, let me first thank everyone for the all of the lovely faxes and telegrams I received while collapsed in bed with depression. My 6 year old niece Betty collected them all in a very neat stack on an adorable side-table in my office, and I promise to get around to reading them one day fairly soon.

As I lay in bed these past couple of days in the throws of despair, it occurred to me, for the very first time, that the vast majority of you must certainly be in worse shape than I. It was in that moment of personal growth that my toes touched the floor and I was out of bed and on my way.

Now that I am back on my feet, allow me to share with you some of the secret pick-me-ups I use to shake myself out of the doldrums. Perhaps they will work for you!

I find that in times of despair, wearing two and half times the amount of make-up one normally wears provides a boost of glamour, confidence and excitement. Before putting on make-up, apply a thick coating of Vaseline to the vanity mirror, distributing it evenly over the entire surface. Now, paint on a bold shade of lipstick, enlarging the mouth by a third. Yves Saint Laurent's Rouge Volupté Pearl lipstick in Insolent Beige is absolutely perfect.

After painting the mouth, draw in completely new eyebrows with a black pencil, and liberally apply Chanel's Illusion D'Ombre Long Wear Luminous Eyeshadow in Mirifique to the eye lids, blending it far out into the temple, almost to the hairline. Apply two sets of false eyelashes to the top and bottom lash line, then put hollows in one's cheeks using a very dark foundation.

Feeling better? Great. Now you're ready to greet the world, brimming with confidence and style. Go shopping! Buy yourself that antique you've been eyeing for the past few trips into town. Attached below is a photo of your fair writer doing exactly that. A former friend snapped this photo as I was watching a couple of young men load an oversized antique ottoman into the trunk of my car on one of the hottest days of the year. Once home, I placed the ottoman outside in the back garden and I think it's charming. Don't you?

On Sporadic Absences

REaders, it pains me to infoRm you that there r days when I AM simply un nable to get out of bedd. Today is One of those days., I usually type mye blog entries myself, but i today i Am relying on  mhy 6 yeaR old niece BETTY to key i n this entry. eToday the wieght of romAntic HARTBRAKE has caught Up with mee and conFines me to my bed. Missing the eM brace ofmy BUtiful Lost darLing  is Simply too much to deAl with. Today. I well return once thiS depreshun subsides. Kind thaNks to my preshus neece BETTY this After Noon. And to Boom, where Ever YOU are, ALL of mY hEart  xo EVelhn

On Creating A Pile Of Books

While I've never been one to jump onto bandwagons, I would be remiss to not acknowledge the decorating trend of throwing a jumble of random unread books in strange piles all around one's living space.

As a bibliophile, I find the sight of books enthralling and for that reason I can't in good faith urge anyone to "not" decorate with books. It would be splendid however if the books adorning one's home were acquired because of an interest in the subject matter and words within, as opposed to the color scheme on the covers and spines and how they would look strewn willy nilly across one's living room.

Still, if you are inclined to partake in the book pile trend, I will tell you how it's done. The effect can be achieved in 5 easy steps:

1. At 2:00 pm, after a hearty lunch, remove every single book you own from all shelves and tabletops within the home. Throw them on the floor and rough them up, as though they had been dragged behind a truck, or rescued from a fire. Leave them all on the floor.

2. At 2:20 pm, take a shower and put on a fresh change of clothes that one would wear to an informal afternoon social engagement.

3. At 4:00 pm, visit soon-to-be former friends, preferably at a Country Club or an upscale Steakhouse where hard liquor is served.

4. Drink liberally from 4:00 until 8:00 pm without eating dinner.

5. Return home by 9:00 pm and just before having a nightcap or retiring to bed, quickly cram all the books on the floor back into the shelves without rhyme or reason, or hurriedly place them into bemusing stacks against the walls or on a stairwell. Tie them up with ropes, or shreds of strange fabric.

Certain people will adore this kind of semi-statement. Pay careful attention, however, to keep the stacks out of heavy traffic areas, lest you or a loved one trip and fall over your new book pile decoration.

On Salads

I detest the way some restaurants insist upon bringing a salad to the table with the various ingredients segregated into different corners of the platter. Olives at one corner, green peppers in another, and the poor tomatoes squeezed into yet another as if they'd been warned that the olives were gun-toting terrorists. Call me old-fashioned, but for $12.95, I don't believe I should have to toss my own salad.

I have a stock response to this occurrence, which is to look over my sunglasses when the plate arrives and very loudly announce to a startled waiter: "I was against segregation then, and I am against segregation now." I then ask to speak with a manager, and in a firm but well-meaning tone I tell him (or nowadays it might even be a "her") that if I'd planned on participating in the preparation of my own meal I would have worn an apron, rubber gloves and a hair-net into the establishment. I really let them have it for a good 10 to 15 minutes. After that I back off and more often than not, my drinks are on the house, as a gesture to smooth things over. It's certainly not necessary for a restaurant to comp my drinks when this happens, but I think what separates us from the animal kingdom is the ability to apologize for culinary inadequacies via small monetary gestures.

Speaking of salad, I must brag finally, that I'm famous among a small group of former friends, for my coleslaw. The basic ingredients are shaved cabbage, green peppers, finely chopped pimento, carrots, almonds and pineapple. Over this goes a heavy dressing of mayonnaise, a liberal helping of both dry and prepared mustard, the juice of eleven lemons, olive oil, cider vinegar, four teaspoons of vodka, hot peppers, and a magic mixture of spices and herbs that I buy from a restaurant in downtown Savannah called "Lady and The Tramps", if I recall correctly.