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.

God Is In The Details

The most amusing thing just happened. While sitting on the sofa watching television and having a cocktail as I waited for lunch to be brought around, the doorbell rang. It was the Jehovah's Witnesses. Again. I can't explain why, but I knew it was them instead of the meal I was anxiously awaiting. The bell sounded different; sharper and more piercing than when invited guests press my button. I won't say I was rude upon opening the door, but I won't say that I was any too hospitable either. I feel like they can handle -- and perhaps even enjoy -- the stern rejections that comprise their neighborhood ambles.

As I was just about to turn up the heat, the two old gentleman noticed the drink in my hand, and specifically the adorable mermaid adornment which I always hang on the side of my glass.

They confided in me that they both drink in secret and how much they would love to adorn their drinks with these festive creatures so steeped in romantic mythology. Without hesitation I went to the bar and grabbed a handful of the little gals and dropped them into each of their hands, careful not to make contact with their skin. (It's an across-the-board policy I have for anyone I don't know).

I told them about my blog and one of the old men wrote down my blog address on the back cover of a Watchtower magazine. I promised to provide them with a link to where they can purchase more cocktail mermaids, as I had only provided them with about a week's worth. Perhaps more of my readers would like to have some as well. Here is the address: http://www.myriahsbazaar.com/Cocktail-Mermaids-100-Assorted-Colors-p/s341.htm

Isn't it funny how things have a way of working out?

On The Matter Of Taste

I lay awake in bed for an inordinate amount of time last night, worried that I might have given readers the wrong impression amidst the excitement of yesterday's introduction.

Before I really get things rolling, I want to be clear that I can't teach you taste. Taste is something one is born with -- born with a desire for it, perhaps without even knowing it. If you have come here with the expectation that I can somehow magically bestow the gift of good taste upon you, then I'm afraid we will both end up pulling our hair out in frustration before this is over with.

But the good news is that I can give you the tools to camouflage your lack of taste and sophistication. We learn through exposure: seeing good homes, looking at good paintings, studying good window displays as we walk down the avenue, as we go to art galleries.

Perhaps you can't afford the things you see, but by observing, we learn what we would like to live with -- and that is a wonderfully important step in the right direction.

My Very First Post

Hello. I am Evelyn Montford, and I am just as surprised to be here as perhaps you are to see me! I'm fairly certain that none of us ever expect to find ourselves resorting to the "internet" as an outlet for personal communication and expressing opinion, but nonetheless, at the gentle urging of former friends and certain healthcare professionals, I now find myself embarking on a blog.

Oftentimes when visiting former friends' homes, it has been brought to my attention that I have quite the critical eye when it comes to décor, art, etiquette, lifestyle and alcohol. What better way to share my thoughts on these aesthetic matters than to do so via the world wide web? The concept of reaching people I would never interact with on any type of personal level is wonderfully inspiring. Not only can my blog help others, but in the process I can heal myself as I recover from shattering heartbreak, a false arrest, and eleven years of professional abuse. I invite you to join me on this journey of decorative healing. Welcome!