Rediscovering the Public Library

Happy Memorial Day! It's raining cats (and dogs) here. Has been for the past few days so it's been a wash as far as holiday weekends go. Since I can't really work in the yard or cook out, I've been reading. As much as I can with Miss Nettie in my lap. She views any open book or magazine as an invitation to lounge.

As mentioned in an earlier post, I use my commute to catch up on my reading. After several months of making the folks at Books a Million a little richer, I remembered I have a library card and decided to patronize them. They get the same books as the bookstores do. And they're free. Can't beat that.

I have always loved libraries since I got my first card at the Old Biloxi library some 43 years ago. I still remember the first two books I checked out, a modern illustrated Cinderella and a Madeleine book (apparently setting the stage for my love of Paris).

My mother signed me up for the summer reading program. I faithfully read two books a week (actually more like 4-5) and got a certificate (and a fudgesicle) at the reading program's graduation ceremony. From then on, I was hooked.

I am excited to have had an excuse to re-connect with the Hattiesburg Library. If you haven't been, it is a lovely building with sculptures, murals and a Mississippi room. Well worth a stop just to sight-see if you happen to be in town.

Not to copy Oprah, but I thought the readers among us might appreciate my take on some of the books out there. We're all short on time, and there's nothing I hate worse than committing 10 hours or so to a dog of a book.

Here are some of my recent favorites. They are particularly good on rainy days with a cup of tea, a cookie and a cat (or two or three) curled up in your lap.

The School of Essential Ingredients by Erica Bauermeister.
Anyone who reads cookbooks as if they're novels, will love this story of a cooking class and how the students use that time to deal with other areas of their lives, from encroaching Alzheimer's to the death of a spouse. The plot is a little contrived, but the writing is lyrical. The descriptions of the food are so vivid, that you'll put down the book and head straight to the kitchen.

Suite Francaise by Irene Nemirovsky
This book, set in France on the eve of the Nazi occupation, was published a few years ago, after lying hidden and unknown for 64 years. Nemirovsky, already an established author, related how people of different classes reacted to the occupation and war. Her intent, as indicated in the notes she wrote in the margins of her manuscript, was to follow her fictional characters' lives through the war. She never got the chance. Nemirovsky, a Jew, was arrested and deported to Auschwitz in 1942. She died there. This posthumous book is memorable, not only for it's beautiful writing, but for the tragedy of the author. The book has been edited only slightly and includes the author's notes as well as letters from her agent and friends trying to discover her whereabouts in the dark days after her deportation. It will break your heart.

So will The Zookeeper's Wife by Diane Ackerman .
Unlike Nemirovsky's true-to-life-fiction about the Nazi occupation, this is a non-fiction book written like a novel. It details the lives of the keepers of the Warsaw Zoo who used their home and the cages of their closed zoo as an Underground Railroad for refugees from their city's Jewish ghetto. Some of the passages will make you shake in horror and wonder how anyone raised in this environment ever turned out half-way normal.

The Girl with No Shadow by Joanne Harris
This is another one for food lovers (or more precisely chocolate lovers). It is the sequel to Chocolat. If you loved that book (or the movie), you'll love this one too. A word of warning: stock up on some Godiva before even opening the cover.

Happy reading!

Missing Paris

It's hard to believe it's been two years since my first visit to Paris. Lately I've been feeling that I could use a little Paris.

I love Paris in the spring time. And in the fall. I’m sure I’d love it in the summer and winter, too. Except I haven’t been then.

Yet.

A lot of my friends don’t get my love affair with Paris. They say it’s dirty, rude, overpriced.

Yeah, formidable ain’t it?

My frame of reference for dirty is New Orleans (another city I adore) so I have a high tolerance for filth. And Parisians strike me as formal, like the old-time Southerners I was raised around, rather than rude. So that doesn’t bother me either.

My deep and abiding affection for Paris really has nothing to do with the usual tourist attractions. I’m hooked on those perfect little moments that can happen only in this city. Moments like …

That first sinfully rich sip of hot chocolate poured from a little silver pitcher at Laduree. And if it’s accompanied by a bite of a delicate rose-flavored maccaron - even better.

Aromatic roasted chestnuts plucked from a paper cone on a crisp fall day outside the Musee d’Orsay.

Aligot – an Auvergnant specialty of potatoes, garlic and cheese whipped in a gleaming copper pot tableside at L’Ambassade d'Auvergne. It’s a beautiful thing.

Sipping champagne while watching the sunset from my tiny 5th floor balcony at Hotel Caron de Beaumarchais …

… and smiling when I spy the occupant of the Marais apartment opposite me scoop up her cats and kiss their noses as she walks in the door. I have the same joyous reunion with my cats every day after work

Paying homage to the Lady with the Unicorn tapestries in all their breathtaking splendor at Musee de Cluny.

Chocolate shops on every street corner. And feeling free to indulge because I know I'm going to walk it off that day.

Catching another American’s eye in the street and sharing an unspoken “Hey, can you believe we’re in Paris?” moment.

The orgasmic experience that is Saturday morning market day. The bountiful produce. The ripening cheeses. The exotic spices. I just want to buy one of everything and go cook up a Babette’s feast for all of Paris.

The musical chattering of French school children as they walk in double file formation down the street – a tableau straight out of a Madeleine book.

The elderly man in a plaid jacket flirting with me in raspy Maurice Chevalier tones “Madame, vous etes seule. Moi aussi, je suis seule.” Oh, non, non, non grand-pere. But thanks for noticing.

The young man who sweeps my heavy suitcase up onto his shoulder, hauls it down the metro stairs and sets it at my feet with a wink and a bow. Oh, that Gallic charm.

Shuffling through dried leaves in the Place des Vosges while a string quartet plays Vivaldi.

Music everywhere - in the parks, museums, subway stations. It's as if I'm the star of a movie and this is the soundtrack.

Buying a pain au chocolat as an afternoon pick-me-up and not feeling guilty because all those skinny French women are having one, too.

Discovering small museums with private art collections and jewelbox tearooms.

Shopkeepers who carefully wrap all my purchases like presents instead of heaving them into a bag.

Scoring bargains at Monoprix -- Target with a French accent.

“Licking the windows,” as the French call window-shopping. And with good reason. The clothes are scrumptious.

Admiring how elegantly an impeccably groomed woman tucks into a big split bone for its creamy marrow. I envy her table presence.

Steak, frites, walnut salad and profiteroles at L’Entrecote. It will be a sad day when someone finally cracks the code to that fabulous secret steak sauce.

Going someplace crowded and noisy for dinner. Noise always sounds better in French.

Being mistaken for French -- by a French person. There is no greater compliment.

All the other magical moments I haven’t discovered.

Yet.

Front Porch Editorial

It's still spring but we're settling into our summer rhythm here in the neighborhood.

The ice cream truck rolls round in late afternoon. The mosquito foggers make their rounds at dusk. Kids roam the neighborhood in posses on their bikes arguing over the things that matter to kids. After dinner folks cut their grass, water their gardens, put the finishing touches on home construction projects before the first big summer heat wave hits.

I drink it all in from my front porch swing at The House Where the Black Cat Lives, discreetly hidden behind a hedge of holly and juniper.

That's something I learned from my cats. If you just sit quietly by the window and observe long enough eventually -inevitably - something of interest will come to you. I don't need to look far.

My neighbors are adding a sun room to their house. This fact probably wouldn't be noteworthy if they hadn't already added on so much over the years. The original structure, a 1920s bungalow, now sports a Rapunzel's tower. And an imposing three-story fortress. And a gazebo. And a fountain. And an assortment of gingerbread, iron grill work and stone masonry.

On top of all that, it's large. Very large. And pink. Very pink. To quote my favorite style guru, Tim Gunn, it's a lot of look.

And people do look. Actually they stare.

I like my neighborhood. It's old, diverse and has character. The melange of architectural styles range from Hollywood Spanish and Tudor cottages to asbestos-shingled 1950s tract houses. Until recently we weren't too snobby. We were who we were, our architectural differences be damned. But then we decided to try to turn ourselves into an Historic District with all that goes along with that. Now we have Rules.

Not that that's a bad thing, but I suspect that the people who make "the Rules" do not approve of my neighbors' addition. I'm pretty sure they do not approve of many of their additions. I also suspect my neighbors take a certain pride and pleasure in NOT following the Rules.

I'm not sure whose side I'm on. On the one hand, I'm all for historic preservation. I've seen too many unpretty examples of what happens when the past is not preserved or preserved badly.

On the other hand, I am a strong supporter of the rights of the individual. Believe me if I wanted to live in a place with covenants, there are many other places I could live. But I live here. And I like it. And you know what .... I like my neighbors' house. It's odd. It's quirky. It's unique.

One evening a family new to the neighborhood cruised by on bikes. As they approached, they slowed, they gaped, they pointed. And then the littlest girl, a child of about seven gasped, "Look Mommy. Isn't that the most beautiful house you ever saw?"

I felt that way the first time I spied my Barbie's Dream House under the Christmas tree. I felt that way the first time I saw Cinderella's castle at Disney World. I felt that way the first time I saw Versailles. All these structures are a little over the top -- but exactly perfect just as they are. And who is to say the pink house isn't perfect just as it is? Certainly not I.

I hope my neighbors enjoy their new sun room.

Guilty Pleasures

Everyone needs a guilty pleasure. I need several of them. Did I mention I take care of seven cats and spend two hours a day commuting? There's chocolate (dark of course) which has almost attained too much respectability to be truly guilty anymore.

Then there's smut TV. For me it's "Dancing With the Stars" and "The Bachelor(ette)". I know this doesn't speak well of me at all. For the record, I also watch Masterpiece Theater and all that educational stuff on TLC so I'm entitled.

I can think of no better way to lure myself into another unrewarding week than with an hour or so of "Dancing" on Monday and Tuesday nights. Maybe it's because I can't dance at all. Maybe it's the cheesy music, the costumes or those ridiculous orange spray-on tans.

But mostly I watch it for Gilles Marini who seems poised to take home the trophy next week. He's a French-bred, half-Italian, half-Greek, all hot actor. Did I mention he's French? And that he was Samantha's naked neighbor in the "Sex in the City" movie? Aaaaah, now you get it. He definitely makes my short list. I can't wait for the "Sex in the City" movie sequel. Can you pre-order those tickets? I think we all need to go see it en masse ladies.

Speaking of pre-ordering, my sister tells me that you can now pre-order the first season of "thirtysomething" on DVD at amazon.com

Learn more


It's about time! It seems music rights were the big hold up. The fictional Michael Steadman -- another man who made my short list back in the day.

So with "Dancing" due to take its bow next week, what will I do when I can't watch Gilles' tight booty tangoing across the ballroom floor? Watch The Bachelorette of course. I've been a fan since the get-go. The show's premise is beyond stupid, but I've always found it highly entertaining, though only a few of the Bachelors actually ever made it onto my short list.

Did you know I actually kind-of, almost met one of them, Andy Baldwin, a year ago? OK I was in a big conference room with him and about 300 other people, and our eyes met and we smiled, but it counts. It beats my only other celebrity close encounter -- passing Gloria Steinem toilet paper under the stall in the ladies' room at the Gulfport airport 12 years ago.

I work in public affairs for the Navy and I was at our big PAO meeting outside DC, and Andy was there in uniform. I still haven't figured out what he was doing there since he's a doctor, but it was definitely him. For the record he looks just like he does on television. Pretty cute. But he's no Gilles.

Speaking of which he'll be coming on soon. Gotta go primp.

Useless Stuff People Buy For Their Cats

I spend a fair amount of time in Pet Smart. It's the cat mama's version of Toys R Us.

Let me tell you there is a lot of useless -and expensive- stuff out there designed to separate indulgent animal lovers from their hard-earned cash. Somebody must be buying it. As they say, there's a sucker born every minute. Well, Happy Birthday to me.

You know those seasonal costumes that turn your cat into the Easter Bunny, the Great Pumpkin or Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer? Well, last Christmas I decided to bedeck the kitties in holiday finery for our Christmas card photo. My blood sugar must have been low that day. We don't do holiday card photos. Because I have never been able to get all seven cats to sit together for a photo. Or get clothes on them.

I still haven't.

If anyone's interested, there will soon be seven never-worn Christmas cat costumes for sale on e-bay.

Useless stuff people buy for their cats: Cat clothes.

Some useless stuff people buy for their cats actually seems practical at first glance. Exhibit A: The PediPaws nail trimmer. As Seen on TV.

If you read my blog on kitty flea treatments, those are a day in the park compared to kitty pedicures. Not only do you have to catch the cat, extend its claw (without scratching yourself), trim the claw (without cutting off the toe), you have to do it 10 times. Per cat. Twelve times in Ernie's case -- he's a polydactyl. Ain't no cat in the world that patient. Or stupid.

So when I saw the infomercial for the PediPaws, I was intrigued. Its low-noise, battery operated whirling emery wheel allegedly offers a fast, easy and painless alternative to conventional nail clippers. There's even a container attached to catch the trimmings.

My recurring gentleman caller, though not a cat lover, immediately picked up on a red flag: The infomercial featured extensive footage of five tail-wagging dogs. And one very brief screen shot of a trembling cat. I bought it anyway.

The first time I turned on the motor to get the cats "used to the sound" as the instructions suggested, they all ran under the bed. And stayed there. The PediPaws went into the junk drawer. And stayed there.

I've noticed a lot of them in the clearance bins recently. Maybe dogs aren't so crazy about them either.

Stupid things people buy their pets: battery operated nail trimmers.

Today, while browsing the pet section at Target, I saw the Grand Prize Winner for Useless Stuff People Buy For Their Cats.

A bungee harness and leash for walking cats. I kid you not.

This product (retail price: $14.99) promises to "enhance" your cat's life by safely exposing them to " the sights, smells and sounds " of the great outdoors.

The cat on the package did not look like her life was being enhanced. She looked pissed.

And when was the last time you saw a cat walking on a leash?

I tried it with one of my first black cats back when I was a teenager. It was an adorable pink leash with rhinestone-studded collar that would have made David Bowie salivate. Pookie just wasn't into the whole glitter rock look. He promptly laid down and no amount of coaxing could get him on his feet. He looked at me pityingly before curling up for a nap, still wearing the collar with leash.

It's safe to say I'm not falling for that one again.

Learning to Love My Commute

When I moved to Hattiesburg three years ago, I bought not only a house, but a daily two-hour commute. Actually it's one hour and 10 minutes each way, but who's counting -- it's long.

Fortunately I'm not the only Coast transplant up here. Six months ago 10 of us formed a van pool to our jobs at Stennis Space Center. Misery does love company -- and saving gas. Unfortunately, I had to adjust my work hours to reach work at 7:00. So I now leave the house at 5:30. I get up at 4:00. As in A.M.

I am not a morning person. As one of my van mates pointed out, 5:30 is not really morning, but the middle of the night. Nice logic, but it doesn't make me love that hour any more.

Left to my own devices, I would stay up all night reading, watching old movies, cooking and, now, blogging. And though my devices are not my own these days, I often pretend they are and suffer the consequences.

Last night I stayed up to watch this fascinating TLC special about twin savants . This morning. I brushed my teeth with mousse. The hair kind, not the chocolate kind. It did not taste good. Consequences.

Sleep deprivation and compromised oral hygiene aside, the van pool commute is not all bad. It beats the hell out of doing it solo. Here are some of the other positive aspects I've discovered about spending 10 hours a week on the road:

I get to watch the sun rise. Every day. It's really worth seeing.

I'm catching up on my reading. I virtually gave up recreational reading three years ago. Now I've dusted off my library card, and I'm devouring all the books I can get my hands on. I am currently reading "My Mistress's Sparrow Is Dead," an anthology of love stories from authors of different nationalities and eras. Makes me want to go back to school and study fiction writing.

I am brushing up on my French via podcasts. Because I just never know when the urge to spend a long weekend in Paris will hit.

I catnap. Ironically, this is difficult to do at home because of all the cats.

I'm saving up to $250 a month on gas!

I'm doing something good for the environment (not to go all green on you, but it is important).

I make out grocery lists, to-do lists and lists of other lists I want to make. I tested off the charts as a "J" in Myers-Briggs. Does it show?

I get to run my dinner plans and menu ideas past a human audience. I've tried doing this with the cats, but they always vote for tuna which gets old.

I'm getting home early enough to tend to my garden and spend quality time on the porch swing.

I have every other Friday off to spend as I please.

These days, it pleases me to sleep in.

What Is it About a Hair Cut?

There is defnitely something about spring that makes you feel frisky. My cats are feeling it for sure. Every night it's kitty gymnastics, and guess who gets a front seat to the show? I enjoy their antics, but I kind of wish they would limit their Flying Wallenda demonstrations to the daylight hours. Mama's getting on in years and needs every bit of beauty sleep she can get!

Speaking of beauty, I'm feeling kind of sassy with the warmer weather myself. Got my hair bobbed Saturday, and there's something about that little extra bit of breeze on your neck that makes you feel kind of sexy -- like breaking out the big swingy earrings, the strappy heels, the bright nail polish and lip gloss to match. Red is my go-to color.

In fact, I just love red in general. My signature flower here at the house are red geraniums. So pretty against the white house and green lawn and very European. Don't they look great?