Velvet Verbosity

I am busy folks. Busy gathering together a list and images of Velvet Verbosity’s best gift ideas for the holiday 2007 season. Yes, I am one of THOSE PEOPLE. The kind of person who gets impossibly cheery at the very thought of wrapping up a special gift for someone. The kind of person who hums holiday carols before the turkey has even become a leftover. One of those people who will smile at you just because it’s the holiday season. A lover of trimmings, and wrappings, and twinkling lights, and traditions, and swelling hearts FULL OF THE HOLIDAY SPIRIT!!

(deep breath)

I am not, however, a lover of holiday stress or the fake smiles that accompany unwanted gifts. Therefore, Velvet Verbosity is compelled to share her ultra-hip, fabulous, won’t break the bank, holiday shopping list.

Wait for it. Wait for it.

This was first posted on my original blog, www.velvetverbosity.blogspot.com, before blogger went temporarily insane and locked me out of my account, forcing me to start here anew. I am in process of moving what I want to save from there to here. Eventually, I’ll get my own domain, but for now I want to merge the two blogs, and give readers of VelvetVerbosity2 the opportunity to read some of what was written “then”.

It is 1976 and my white hair falls well below my shoulders, skimming the floor and picking up dust when I lean under the bed to pull out the photo album. I run the pads of my fingertips over the front of the album, across the face of the foal pictured there. At 6, I’m a natural at wistful longing.

Inside are three pages of photos spanning a decade or so. In one, he leans coolly against a car, not smiling, but soberly penetrating the lens of the camera. This picture I took from a box of photos belonging to my mother and I imagined it was taken during my mother and father’s “dating”, pre-baby years. In another, he is younger still, dressed in a military uniform. I retrieved this one from the same box and I know this was taken before my mother. She knew him after he was in the navy. That much I knew…that much and little else.

I stare for long moments, look into his eyes and try to figure out who he was, where he could be now, and why he didn’t love me enough to stick around and see me through childhood. I hated and longed for him simultaneously, petrified at the thought of how dangerous it was to be too angry. What if there was a good reason? What if something had happened to him? No, it wasn’t ok to hate him. At 6, I knew that too.

I fantasized about him knocking on my door and scooping me up with a big smile, clamping me with strong arms and assuring me he never ever would have stayed away so long if he hadn’t been lost at sea, his pockets full of the letters he couldn’t send. I strain over the photos in the album, some fading, trying to piece together who this man was, my father, trying to remember his voice, his smell, his laugh. I remember nothing of those things, though I paint my own picture of him in my mind, glued together from the photos on the page.

image: http://www.garderisettes.fr/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=15&Itemid=57

Dear Shirty McShirty,

Was it only yesterday that I met you? Is it a dream that I once fancied fantasies of becoming the perfect, serene and infinitely organized counterpart to your beautiful madness? No. It wasn’t just yesterday. It was more than a year ago. Funny thing, time.

It was, however, just yesterday morning lying next to your blanketed warm body that I had a dream of a man with a handsome face and a gentle light in his eyes. I was at a garden party, chatting with an old friend who I meet only in dreams now. The handsome, gentle-eyed man smiled at me and I was hopeful, in a dreamy way, that such a man could exist. I read into his face integrity, honesty, loyalty, a capacity for love.

Seeing that I was engaged in conversation, he turned away, not wanting to interrupt. It was then that I saw he was not what he seemed. On the back of his neck was etched a serial number. That neck was old, weathered, and destroyed by time and something else I could not name. The hair was thinned and tired. The clothes were not so polished and unassuming as they were from the front. They were worn, careless, and dirty.

I was just pointing this man out to my friend when I stopped, realizing his face did not reveal the truth. I stared, wondering how this was possible, that his front was so very different from his retreating back. My friend turned to look and I said, “Never mind. It’s not who I thought it was.”

When I woke you asked me with a smile if I slept well, and I told you about the dream but I didn’t have the heart to tell you that you were that guy. I think you knew anyway, and didn’t have the heart to tell me you knew. So now we both know and neither of us are telling. The trajectory of lives can shift and veer significantly in the passage of a year. Truths are often revealed in the soft light of morning.

I hope your day is as flawed and beautiful as you are,
Velvet Verbosity

Image from http://www.jetcityorange.com/barcodes/tattoos/tattoo_31.html

Every year it’s the same thing. November comes to New England, bringing with it a bitter, gray cold. No snow yet to cover the dinginess, the dead grass, the naked trees. A low slate sky rests its belly on the rooftops and turns to darkness much too early at the end of each day.

My Mother would tell you that every year around this time I call her to tell her I HAVE TO MOVE SOUTH. I call it the November Itch. My version of the 7-year itch only unrelated to any relationship or person. It’s the itch to find a younger, more vibrant and exciting climate to live in. The itch to run when things get ugly. The itch to trade in browned lawns for white sand beaches and sallow skin for golden.

November in New England is to me like a lover’s morning breath, or unclipped toenails, or grey, sagging long underwear. Every year at this time I have to either ignore it, or embrace it because I know that I will fall in love again when the first real snowfall settles in and I breathe the crisp air that follows. My heart will thaw and swell when I hear the first running water of Spring and smell the wet earth. And summer is never sweeter than when you know it is fleeting.

Image from http://moblog.co.uk/view.php?id=45558

Dear God,

It’s me again. I know I can be a pest but I’m confused about some things. I’m hoping you’ll write back, just this once, to clear these things up.

I’m not happy and you and I both know it, yet you’ve seen fit to hand me a situation I would like to change, but shouldn’t for some time. You’re asking me to make sacrifices for others. Is this a test? Because if it is, I’m just wondering how many I have to take in one lifetime?

That leads me to the next question. As far as I can tell, you approve of decent people. You know, people who try to be honest, loyal, and hardworking. People who stop at the red light even when it’s the middle of the night and NO ONE ELSE IS AROUND. Yet, I’ve noticed this tendency for you to throw more tests at those who are really, really trying. I don’t want to make a case for the devil here, but I can’t help but notice how those who have made a pact with the flaming red dude seem to smile a lot more these days than those of us taking test after test. By the way, I’ve never gotten an official score, but I’m quite sure I’ve passed every test you’ve given me. Do you think you could send the results with your reply?

I’m not complaining. Honest. I know you could have given me much harder tests. Like when you gave that woman cancer who was just about to realize her lifelong dream of finishing her college degree. She died one semester too early. Yeah, that was harsh. I’m glad you didn’t give me that test.

My friend tells me I just have to get more humble before grace will come into my life. Funny. He’s far from humble much of the time yet you don’t test him too much. He’s plenty graced.

I’m just wondering God, what is the point of it all? I wonder how you sit up there, wherever there is, and can watch while some children are born into poverty while others are born into privilege? How you can stand to see some children abused while others are spoiled? Doesn’t it pain your benevolent heart to see some of your children endlessly struggle while others start out ahead?

Maybe I’m just not being faithful enough. That is what my friend, born into privilege, would tell me. Is that what you would tell me too? I don’t know, because I haven’t heard from you yet.

Pardon my boldness. I’m sure on a better day I would see a blessing in every day my roof doesn’t cave in. I hope you understand, God, why this would all be so confusing to a mere mortal. It’s a big world and I need some answers down here.

Sincerely,
Velvet Verbosity

I was out of town for Thanksgiving, and I thought I would surely find time to post, but it just didn’t happen folks. I’m re-acclimating to home and work. I’ll write soon.

I asked this question of some fellow bloggers over on the NaBloPoMo forum. Like, should I tell you, dear readers, that I blog in a bowtie and striped socks…only? Or that this morning I ate a double whopper from three days ago for breakfast? Or that I live in MaryMark Pennsylvania at 204 Iron Rod Lane? Or that my boyfriend likes to wear my bowtie and striped socks on Wednesdays at 7:32 P.M.?

Just how much should I tell a bunch of strangers, any of whom could be my next great stalker?

The truth is, I think I already have some answers to this question. And the answer depends largely on what you want to accomplish by blogging.

If you want to have an audience, a real audience, there are three known formulas that seem to work. 1. Have a topic or theme, and be an authority on it. 2. Get personal. 3. Be scathingly funny. It goes without saying that all three require good writing. And good writing combined with all three of the above is bound to be a hit.

Think about it. From a reader’s perspective, you might catch them once, but what will keep them coming back is either a desire to know more about your topic, or a desire to know more about the writer. Funny is just funny and people always come back for funny.

Blogs are a form of media and it stands to reason that what has always worked through history will work for blogs. Take television. The general categories of choice are news (informational television), drama (including the bane of our century, Reality TV), and comedy. You could break it down further, like into cartoons and music television, but these really still fall into the three larger categories.

Anyone can blog, and everyone seems to. However, not everyone is being read. (Whether everyone should be blogging is a topic for another post.) Gaining an audience requires emerging, through strong writing, into one of the general media categories. Establish yourself as an authority on something, reveal the drama of your own life, or take comedy lessons from Citizen of the Month. He’s even mastered how to harness all three here. (Look, it’s about his ex, her bra, and how he mastered the art of unhooking said bra so just go read it. You’ll learn, you’ll love, you’ll laugh.)

Myself? I don’t care if I have an audience. But if you do happen to be reading, perhaps you could say hello? You know, just a little comment so that I can see you’ve been here? Not that I care or anything.

This week’s Etsy treasure comes from the Lady L Lovelies Victorian Etsy shop. At first glance you might think this is a breach from my normal style, and you would be right. It’s true, my name, Velvet Verbosity, might hint at a slant toward Victorian sensibilities and if this is at all true, I owe that to my mother. In fact, I can’t put a disclaimer at the end of this week’s Etsy pick because the truth is, these Victorian style lavender sachets are made by (drumroll…..) Velvet Verbosity’s very own Mother! (Hi Mom!)

I owe her a review after I cajoled her into putting herself out there on Etsy. She’s been selling on Ebay for years, and these shabby chic handmade sachets (otherwise known as the “strawberry sachets”) have been the most popular item. Each sachet is unique and made with exquisite care. You need look no further for an old world charmed gift for your dear, sweet (fill in the blank) who prefers handmade roses to sleek lines, the sweet scents of real lavender to new age Patchouli, and the richness of Victorian details over sparse modern design.

Start subliminal message…”Christmas is just around the corner…doesn’t this just smack of a Victorian Christmas? And doesn’t that make you feel nostalgic for simpler times? For warm pies, and Christmas Carols, and fur muffs, and red noses, and horse drawn sleighs complete with sleigh bells jingling through the silence of a starlit snowy night?”…End subliminal message.

Currently, there is only this one-of-a-kind Lady L sachet creation in stock.

I can’t tell you what the creative force who made me will come up with next, but I assure you, it will be beautiful. Here’s a sampling of previous handmade lavendar sachets that sold like hotcakes on Ebay.

One of my personal favorites.

I ask you, “Does it get any more Victorian?”

I’ve heard tell that the creative Lady L does not take custom orders, but she has been known to tuck away requests for colors in the back of her mind for the next time she’s feeling all “purple”, or “mauve”, or “rose”, or whatever.

I have but one favor to ask. If you visit the Lady L Lovelies shop, please drop my Mom a line and tell her Velvet Verbosity sent you. It took some convincing to get her to venture out of Ebay and into Etsy (and the new world of social networking). I want to let her know that this whole social networking thing? It’s kind of fun. And it works.

I just realized that even though I posted twice yesterday that it doesn’t excuse me from not posting today, and now I only have 37 MINUTES before the clock strikes midnight! I’m a little behind the ball since I spent SIX HOURS in the ER this afternoon-evening. My son, henceforth referred to as Evil Knievel, got into an accident on a friend’s dirt-bike.

“This is why I didn’t have boys!”, my mother would say.

I think it’s a little late for that.

I learned some things about emergency rooms. What else was I going to do for six hours? My laptop died after two and Evil Knievel fell asleep after three. But first, a question. Why do they call it the Emergency Room? It is not a rooooom. It is a maze of hallways, and desks, and yes, rooms. ROOMssssssss. Plural.

Now for what I’ve observed.

Our small town ER was pretty busy this afternoon. Since Evil Knievel only had three broken bones he was not a priority for a room, so we were given a nice hallway bed. Actually, he got the bed, I got the wall to lean on, until I accosted a housekeeper and asked where the nearest chair was so I could get it myself.

As I stood/sat there in the hallway I saw several nurses walk by. The same nurses, over and over. Nurses who had taken Evil Knievel’s vital signs, asked questions, examined all his sore places, and set up his paperwork. They knew us, and as the hours ticked on, they knew just how long we had been there. They were all well-seasoned, experienced nurses. Then, there was the new guy. The new guy made eye contact when he walked by. The experienced nurses did not make eye contact. They knew, when you work in the ER where no one really knows how long you’ll be waiting? DO NOT MAKE EYE CONTACT! It will only slow you down to have to answer questions that you do not have answers to. Poor new guy. He’ll learn.

I also learned that the old adage that the squeaky wheel gets the oil is true. I saw it in action. It was the most annoying patients that got out of there in under three hours. Yeah. Like the guy in the room next to our hallway? He had been waiting an hour and a half (we were well on three at that point) when I overheard this.

Nurse: I know you’ve been waiting a while but you’re next in line.
Cranky McCranky Pants: No I’m not. Don’t lie to me.
Nurse: No, you are. I don’t know how long it will be but you are next.
“I’m miserable and so shall you be”: Whatever.
Nurse: Can I get you a blanket?
What a Jerk: No. Don’t worry about me. I’m just in pain. I’m not important.

He was outta there within the next 30 minutes. Him and the little old lady who kept moaning like a scorned sea demoness, and the 20-something who wanted narcotics and cursed at the doctor when he wouldn’t deliver.

The final thing I learned is that when you sit in the hallway for six hours, not uttering a single complaint, but inquiring kindly now and then as to when you might expect a doctor, you get the best treatment they can give you. You get a free cup of coffee with four sugars and lots of cream. You get people wishing you well when you leave. You get a little bit of extra attention when they can give it because they’re just so grateful that you’re not screaming obscenities or having the gall to almost die on them. And you don’t turn them into serial nurse killers like Kristen Gilbert. And that’s a good thing.

We all know that the images we see in movies, television and magazines are distorted. We all know that hot beauty on the billboard is airbrushed. Right? RIGHT? Still, reminders never hurt. And showing this video to our daughters and sons wouldn’t hurt either.