Here's a Note that I posted on my Facebook in January

To Paraphrase Diana Ross:

Baby, baby, where did my brain go?
Ooooh, don't you want me, don't you want me no more, baby baby, and etc.

So tonight is the perfect night for me to sit my large a** down and write Christmas and birthday thank you notes. We are watching the football game, which is not necessarily the most compelling thing on television in my opinion, even though I am rooting for those Indiana guys (horseshoes on helmets), in honor of my friends Rod and Dreamer White.

Now, if you gave me a Christmas and/or birthday gift and you do not receive a thank you note from me over the next week or so, please understand that I have probably already forgotten what you gave me -- or that you even gave me something. I tried to keep a list, but that fell apart, even before Christmas.

Nevertheless, I am grateful to you: it was just what I wanted; it was delicious; I haven't read it, nor do I already have one; I know I'll use it often; it fits, smells great, or goes great in my (insert room here); and I thank you so much for thinking of me.

A Christmas thank-you note we received from the always-prompt, southern gentleman Richard shows a cartoon version of the Virgin Mary sitting at a rude writing desk, donkey looking over her shoulder, and she's calling toward an unseen part of the stable, "Honey, who gave us the myrrh?"

I'm just clueless.

Great Business Idea for Quilt Shows -- Let's Brainstorm!

Ok. I heard this story about a late-middle aged {read: old} man who went to one of those "Modeling Studios" in Houston where -- I THINK -- you pay money to sit in a cubicle with a small window and watch a person or persons in another room doing "modeling." Again, I'm not clear on the details of the modeling activity, but I think it's like a peep-show. The upshot of the whole thing was that the man had a heart attack and DIED in the cubicle.

The police were called, learned from his ID that he was from out of town, attempted to contact the hometown and learned that the deceased and his wife were in Houston for Houston's big International Quilt Festival at our famed George R. Brown Convention Center. So the wife was contacted at the show. Guess what? SHE REFUSED TO COME AND CLAIM THE BODY! And do you blame her?

Not sure what happened after that; probably some other family member had to fly in, go to the morgue, and say, "Yes, that's my dad, the dead guy with one hand on his johnson."

Anyhoo, got me to thinking . . . what kind of booth could we set up at the Quilt Show that would appeal to those bored husbands who obviously have no interest in hand-turned applique, tiny stitches, and intricate patterns. Probably a modeling studio would be frowned upon, and if you opened a sports bar,then you'd get surly old midwestern drunks who'd just fall face-first into a $14,000 quilting machine, or barf on the Best in Show winner. Think of the liability issues. And, of course, the George R Brown would have first dibs on all liquor service, thereby cutting into our profits.

I've thought of a mini-Academy sporting goods store, perhaps fly-tying demonstrations, a magazine stand of nothing but magazines men read, along with a comfy place to sit (by the hour of course)with foot massager machines. I'd love to be the one to take someone's $20 bucks, give him three "Field and Streams" from 1997and a couple of dog-eared Orvis catalogs, make him comfortable, and then send him away an hour later. Or take another $20 from him.

Any other ideas? If you go to the quilt show, you see HUNDREDS of these morose men, zombie-walking down those long rows of fabric, thread, needles, patterns, and silver-haired ladies wearing brightly-colored but nonetheless depressing quilted clothing. Maybe we could joint-venture with some therapists to provide suicide counseling by the hour?

I'm open to other ideas. The show is in October. We need to get busy and reserve our booths. With the right mix, we could be IN THE MONEY.

Ideas?

You don't buy a "self-righteous bitch" hat. It just shows up on your head one day. You've earned it.

A young man stole the parking space I was CLEARLY waiting for this morning at Starbucks. I even lowered my window to tell him straightforwardly of his mistake. He shrugged me off with a Hugh Grant-ish accent: "Yes, wot . . . well, then . . ." (ONLY the accent; no way did this cat look like HG), and he sauntered on in. I left my car in the middle of the parking lot, with flashers on, and went inside as well.

I queued up behind our Brit and muttered something about how we in America have respect for our elders, especially in the American south and when the elders are ladies. He tried to worm his way out of it by pointing out that we'd only have had to change places and he'd have been in the middle of the parking lot and that we were actually saving fuel with the current arrangement. At that he gave a weak smile. (Note: Do all Brits have odd teeth?) I glared at him as though he was something I'd stepped in while dog-walking.

But when the barista asked him if he'd like his usual and he replied in the affirmative, I linked my arm in his and said brightly, in MY BEST Emma Thompson, "And he's buying Auntie's grande nonfat chai as well this morning, aren't you, Dear?" The barista rang both up drinks and handed him his card back.

He was simply speechless. Nothing. Not a "wot" nor an "I say" anywhere.

"Thank you SO much," I said. "Have a marvy day! Do say hello to your mummy for me!"

I swear. It's the hat.