I love my Jeep. It’s like a Swiss watch; tick tock.

Is Swiss timing still relevant?
I love my Jeep. It’s like a Swiss watch; tick tock.

Is Swiss timing still relevant?
I can’t believe it’s already the second Monday of Advent. The local social scene kicked off this weekend and all over Maine there were parties, tree lightings, festivals, musical extravaganzas, and on and on and on. Today promises to be similarly busy.
As I write this blog post, I’m baking a meat pie and some ginger snaps. Baking and frosting sugar cookies? That was yesterday. I think I’m still wearing makeup from Saturday night’s first party of the season.
I’ve got sing-a-long practice this afternoon; then I’m delivering some holiday cheer to my friends at the local newspaper. Wait, there’s a cookie swap in there somewhere too.
I am not complaining.
My cerebral preoccupation this weekend was a book I saw in a Portland store a few weeks ago. It’s called The Lost Art of Dress: The Women Who Once Made America Stylish by Linda Przbyszewski. When I first saw the book, I thought “why is someone always writing a book (blog post, long form magazine article, tweet) about something lost or dying?” I picked it up, fanned the pages, and put it back down.
When I got home, I researched the book and the author; she’s a Notre Dame History professor and she’s occasionally taught a class called “Nation of Slobs: The Art, Ethics, and Economics of Dress in Modern America.”
I wonder what Professor Przbyszewski would think about the tree skirt I transformed into a holiday capelet?
I wore it to a party Saturday night and I think it worked.
Like Santa, I’ve got miles to go before I sleep tonight, tree skirt or no tree skirt.
I subscribe to my local newspaper, both the paper edition which is hurled against my house daily with great force and the online edition. I read as much of it as I can every day, scanning the headlines for news and also reading the obits. Sometimes, my quest for truth is like sailing in a sea of information, with the waves of half-truths, binary arguments, and emotions splashing over my hull. Facebook, as magical and trusted as it is for many as a news source, is often too heavy on puppies and kittens and too light on economic indicators.
On Monday, November 30, 2015, the front page headline in my local paper was:
“Zumwalt’s Seaworthiness Questioned”.
(This link to the online edition was posted in the Business section of the paper, as you can see.)
It was a provocative headline for the uninformed and I include myself in this category when it comes to naval destroyers. My local blog readers may know that one of the Zumwalts is being built here at Bath Iron Works, or BIW. Bath is a quaint town not far from here, the gateway to our beautiful Midcoast area. What happens at BIW is a concern to a good portion of our local population.
Because of its relevance to my life, I read the article. I read it again and I scratched my head. Was it just a slow news day? Wait, it was Cyber Monday. Why did the paper decide to run an Associated Press story? The lede, the hook that draws the reader in, did its job. I ended up reading all 665 words of the story. Twice. When Handy came over for afternoon coffee, I read it out loud to him. Unfortunately, the article was talking a lot but it wasn’t saying anything.
I thought about the article all week, relative to how news is presented “these days.” I decided to do some internet research about the United States Navy’s Zumwalt program.
Here’s what I learned in 90 minutes:
The Zumwalt-class destroyer is America’s next generation of combat ships. Controversy surrounds the ship because of its hull style and its production costs.
The hull style, called “tumblehome,” is essentially a pear-shape, or more junk in the underwater trunk. During the Russo-Japanese war (1904 – 1905), the hull style was found to be excellent for navigating long distances and narrow waterways. However, large waves pounding on the vessel can upset its stability. Ship losses during this century old war lead to a change in destroyer design; the Zumwalt’s new old design is one not seen in our lifetimes. Everything old is new again.
The cost of building one Zumwalt is difficult to estimate, but according to Wikipedia, the Congressional Budget Office estimated in 2005 that the ship’s acquisition cost would be approximately 4 billion dollars. As of 2009, the cost per ship had risen to 5.9 billion dollars.
Nevertheless, the cost of the ship caused the Navy to end the Zumwalt program and only three ships will be built.
So, looking at all the facts, we know at least three things:
Was there any “news” in the 665 word Associated Press article? Yes, the very last paragraph in the article said “Bath Iron Works will be testing the ship’s performance and making tweaks this winter. The goal is to deliver it to the Navy sometime next year.”
BAM!
There’s my Friday paper. Handy and I love the Friday paper because it includes the Market Basket flyer.
Discovering the truth is a difficult proposition. We have oceans of information and tsunamis of misinformation. Read carefully, read broadly, and listen. I sure hope my ability to parse information isn’t too “tumblehome,” sending me to the bottom of the information ocean.
Fair winds and following seas to you this Friday, my truth-seeking friends! We’ll get back to small fuzzy animals, Chinese super buffets, and blue holiday ribbons next week.
I love the word “exquisite.” And while the plain wreaths at Allen Sterling & Lothrop may not have been more magnificent than those at other garden centers in the area, their use of the word in their advertising sold me.

The entire team working in the store and outside in the garden center are pleasant and helpful. Did I mention they have a wide variety of floral ribbon in many colors?
That’s more like it.
The Sports Authority store flyer in Sunday’s paper announced “CYBER WEEK IS HERE!”
Last November, an article in Forbes.com said retailers were “expected to extend Cyber Monday throughout the week.” The online shopping trend continued in 2015. It might be the first Monday of Advent for some, but for most Americans, it’s time to fill their online shopping carts with stuff.
Buying and selling is nothing new. It’s been going on throughout human history.
Judging by the volume of virtual and physical ads, mailers, and flyers, I conclude there has never been a better time to buy stuff and have it delivered on my doorstep or in my post office box. I’m not opposed to this, although as Handy skimmed through the flyers today I thought “those flyers are full of needless stuff.”
Technology brings an avalanche of stuff, including words. All day long, we have words to sift, parse, and interpret. There are binary words, fighting words, trending words, texting words, and silly words. Some words are more popular than others. Everyone has a voice in the new democracy of words. How could I be opposed to this? I love words.
Nevertheless, today I’m thinking about William Strunk, Jr. and The Elements of Style. Rule 17, “Omit needless words.”
Last week, I got a letter from my friend Samantha. Our recent correspondence has included a discussion of texting and whether or not it is edifying. We’ve had similar correspondence about Facebook. She then sent me one of her favorite sayings of King Solomon, from the Book of Ecclesiastes. “A fool’s voice is known by multitude of words.” (No, it’s not “a multitude of words.” King James omitted needless words way before The Elements of Style.)
This window once featured an avalanche of live diners.
Maybe they ate cake. Now it’s a hair salon and spa.
Omit needless words.
I had two blog posts spinning around in my head for today. One was an indignant post based on a tiny advertisement on the front page of yesterday’s local newspaper. It was less than 2 inches square and it said:
Balsam Wreaths
Decorated with your color choice of velvet bow
From the same florist who had nothing for me last week, remember?
The other blog post I thought about writing was how I made peace with my inner Martha. Remember Martha? From Bethany, sister of Lazarus and Mary. She was the one who was busy cooking and cleaning. The Bible says “but Martha was distracted with much serving.” I contemplated how I could weave Martha Stewart into the post and make some meaningful modern parable.
But I just couldn’t muster up the strength to be snarky today.
Instead, I’m righting the ship of house, somberly putting things in place while loving yesterday’s leftovers. I’m laughing a little too, thinking about my humble and beautiful Thanksgiving. There were rich things like an early morning text from Jaxon, saying “I’m going to be buying a buffet soon” as we discussed how to best curate our dinner and dessert tables. A golden nugget arrived in Wednesday’s mail with a letter from my old friend Samantha, reminding me that every day is Thanksgiving, “is it not, girl?”
Things don’t get much more “Martha” than falling asleep in your apron on Thanksgiving Day night, though, and because of this and so much more, there will be no snark today. I do encourage silent contemplation on this grocery item I spotted in my travels.

We’ll reconvene here on Monday, the first Monday of Advent, and we can discuss the merits and abominations of packaged cake mix.
As dear Martha Stewart might say “It’s a good thing.”
I am thankful for so many things today, not the least of which is the last bag of cranberries I snagged at the farmers market.

Happy Thanksgiving!
I make a big deal here on the blog about not being a pedestrian shopper, in the modern sense. I grow a little bit of my own food in the summer, I have a farm share, and I buy most of my groceries from local farmers. I’m a big consignment shopper for clothes, always on the lookout for another Pendleton 49er or a new old apron. Yard sales? Every once in a while, of course! And that doesn’t even scratch the surface of the finds Handy hauls in. Why, just tonight I made a delicious ham salad in a Cuisinart Pro Classic food processor destined for a landfill.
Handy saved it.
But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like a bright shiny new something every once in a while. And occasionally, I do go to a traditional grocery or drug store. I dread it, but I do it.
There are certain retail chains that make me a little dizzy and I try to avoid them completely because they attract large mobs of frenzied shoppers. I’m talking about “craft” stores. Just driving into the parking lot of a “Jo-Ann” makes my palms sweat; same story at A.C. Moore and Hobby Lobby.
But the worst of them all is the Christmas Tree Shops, or CTS for short. Look, if you like to go there, fine, but for me, it all seems a little too much like the running of the bulls in Pamplona. Merchandise is absolutely everywhere and the approach to the registers is tiny and crowded; all the shoppers funnel into this small space. What if I lose my footing and fall? I’ll be trampled or gored to death by a shopper’s heel.
I know what my readers are thinking:
“CTS are a specialty chain. They sell nothing required for life and living. Why is she complaining about them?”
Reader, you are so right. It’s a first world problem of the greatest magnitude, meaning it matters to no one but me. There is no reason whatsoever that I should ever be compelled to darken the doorway of a CTS. I’m not planning a boycott or an embargo. But the most wonderful time of the year is bearing down upon us like a steaming locomotive and I don’t want red or cranberry ribbons on my holiday wreaths, ok?
Come again?
This year, I’ve decided on a silver, blue, and gold holiday color scheme for my wreaths and apparently, no florist in the Lewiston/Auburn area carries floral ribbon in those colors. Oh, I tried to shop local and I was willing to pay a slightly outrageous price to have the nimble fingers of a floral arranger create bows for me because weaving ribbon is just not my bag.
But my requests for silver, blue, or gold bows were met with that “we have nothing for you here, please leave” look that really brings me down. One overworked floral associate was kind enough to whisper “try the Christmas Tree Shops” under her breath as she shooed me away from the store.
And so that’s where I found myself during a drive with Handy, sticking my arm into this Jenga-like ribbon display to find what I “needed” for my decorating vision.

Of course, the display was near the register, jammed into a tiny space. As I stuck my arm into the display for the last time, to grab a roll of blue ribbon on the bottom of the pile, I heard the sound of someone nearby cutting a loud and low fart.
There you have it. My confession. Justice has been meted out.
See what happens when you break your own shopping rules?
I don’t talk about work much on this blog, other than to mention the wonderful friends I’ve made in the time I’ve been employed at my company. My job involves customer service, in part, and as a result, I spend a good deal of time observing how businesses interact with customers. I don’t mind waiting in line behind an irate customer at a department store because it gives me an opportunity to see how someone else delivers under pressure.
Over the years, I’ve learned a lot from watching and listening to others. One of the most powerful tools I’ve observed is silence. It eases tension when things aren’t going perfectly and it balances the energy.
You know the old saw about having two ears and only one mouth? Yes, silence is golden.
This week, I stopped by my friend’s office to talk about some personal business. She works in the “financial services industry” and while I waited, she finished a conversation with a customer who didn’t understand what she was trying to explain. I could tell the call wasn’t going well, but my friend was patient and used the “uncomfortable moments of silence” to defuse the tension. Then, my friend gently placed the phone back in its cradle.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Oh, she said I was a terd and hung up on me. She’ll call back in a few hours. How can I help you?”
Wow! I am so glad none of my customers ever called me a terd!
My friend and I talked about the personal business; she provided advice and a few recommendations. Then she told me a sweet story.
My friend (we’ll call her Jane) had been shopping in a large department store in the suburbs of Boston over the weekend. She and her sister were trying on winter jackets and Jane put her purse down on a counter near the cash register. She and her sister were laughing and having a good time; she got distracted. Then, they left the store. They got in Jane’s car and were driving out of the parking lot before Jane realized she’d left her purse inside the store.
There were moments of panic.
Jane parked the car again and they went back into the store, retracing their steps.
Jane told me that as she and her sister walked towards the outerwear department, a woman approached her and said “you look like you’ve just lost something.” Jane told her she had misplaced her purse. The woman said “I think you’ll find it over in cosmetics” and signaled towards that area. Jane and her sister raced towards that department; three sales associates at the Clinique counter were chatting and in front of them on the glass was Jane’s purse.
There was a “lost and found” conversation and Jane recouped her purse. Not a penny, a mint, or a lipstick was missing. Jane and her sister walked around the store, looking for the woman who’d directed them to the Clinique counter, suspecting she’d found the purse. Jane and her sister tried to recall what the woman looked like, but nothing about her countenance was memorable. They couldn’t even remember the color of her hair. They stood outside the store for twenty minutes, hoping they’d see the woman so they could thank her.
Jane ended the story by telling me “I think this woman was an angel.”

(Image from Child of God, A Picture Prayer Book for Boys and Girls by Rev. J.M. Lelen, Ph.D., copyright 1964-1958-1951. My first prayer-book and my favorite picture of angels.)
I don’t know what I believe about angels. They’re described in many ways in the Bible and other religious texts, sometimes fierce and sometimes cherubic. It’s comforting to think there might be guardian angels looking over us, protecting us in the midst of so much darkness.
Today, given the choice of being a terd or an angel, I’m going to opt for the latter.
Someone’s always throwing something over the transom.

Sometimes, the throwers throw the same old stuff.
Yawn…