Do You Google Yourself?

Who doesn't? Of course when I Google myself I find a bunch of people with names similar to mine and a few of my charitable donations that have managed to find their way into some catalog. Luckily my frequent arrests for counterfeiting haven't made it to the search engines (kidding! really!) Still, I regularly (and slavishly, I might add) Google my web site, and chortle with satisfaction when I see the reference numbers gradually (too gradually, unfortunately) creeping upwards.

Today I Googled FeeFiFoto several times and came upon something I'd never seen before: links to my site from other sites that seem to have found mine appealing. See beautifulshops.com/showcase-feefifoto.html and treasurestoadore.com, which mentions FeeFiFoto.com in links to the previous site.

Wow! Somebody out there likes something having to do with me! This is an extraordinary experience for someone so self-conscious about putting my name out there that I had to be strongarmed -- oops -- persuaded to allow my name to be printed on my business cards.

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Adentures in Home Decor

Here's a photograph of a little touch I recently added to my home. The things hanging from the knobs are some linen and cotton handkerchiefs that belonged to both of my grandmothers back in the days when ladies actually carried handkerchiefs. Of course these were way too pretty to be used -- they were "just for show, not for blow," as one grandma used to say. The glass knobs came from a site called www.bmasseycreative.com, which I found after a way-too-long Google hunt for a knob that could be screwed into drywall without some kind of nut anchoring it on the other side. These knobs were exactly what I wanted; they're intended for hanging the beautifully decorated picture frames that www.bmasseycreative.com manufactures, but they'd be great hanging all kinds of things, like drapery tassels or quilts.

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Don't Bug Me -- I'm Reading Harry Potter

I ordered two copies from Amazon so Robespierre and I wouldn't have to duke it out over who got first dibs. As of four days ago Robey hadn't even touched The Half-Blood Prince, but he raced through it so he could be ready when The Deathly Hallows arrived. He finished Book Six, exclaimed "Ta da!", ran outside to drop a letter in the mailbox, and returned triumphantly with the long-awaited package.

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Here's Why We Love Our Insurers

Before the miracle worker repaired my glasses for free I called my insurer to see if I might have some coverage to ease the pain of what would almost certainly be an extremely costly transaction. She replied that my policy specifically excluded damage caused by pets.

In other words, under the "animal clause" I have no coverage for Acts of Dog.

I wonder if I'm insured for terrierism.

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My Boyfriend's Back!!

Robespierre came home from camp yesterday!! He was gone for a month and Cleo and I were all alone batching it, and now he's home! Our little family is back together. Cleo is in camp all week so Robey and I have a few days of together time before they both start chess camp next week. Today's agenda: "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix".

On another note, we worked with a new dog trainer yesterday, www.doreneolson.com, since our original trainer, Gary-Don't-You-Dare-Call-Me-Dog-Whisperer, is off on an "adventure" for the next few months.

We were talking about how to get the dog to come even when she's interested in something else like, say, air, but I also got a fascinating and hilarious lesson in how to keep her from jumping on people. Here's how it works:

We keep Miss Puppy on a leash all the time because she runs like a cockroach and we can't catch her without something trailing behind for us to stomp on. When she jumps on someone we hustle her outside, holding on to the leash while closing the door in her face. She stays out for about ten seconds and then we invite her back in. If she jumps again we repeat the routine. Soon she's convinced that we're completely deranged, because when she jumps she's asking for attention and instead of giving her the attention she so clearly wants we're dumping her outside, alone, holding the leash so she can't even run into the yard and dig holes.

After a few of these loopy exchanges she resolves that she'd better not encourage us, so she stops jumping and then -- surprise! -- no more jumping equals no more being flung out the door, and lots of cuddling and attention while she sits and waits for hugs.

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Book Reviews

We live not so close to our school and consequently spend more time than we'd like in the car. Now that Robey and Cleo are beyond enjoying playing word games or adding license plate numbers (a good way to practice math facts) our choices are: listening to the radio, listening to books on CD, or arguing. I'm too ADD to stick with any radio station for more than two minutes, and we devote plenty of time to arguing, so we choose door number two: recorded books. Here are some of our favorites:

Charlotte's Web, narrated by E.B. White, the author. His narration is New Englandish, which means it's bland and calming; I read that he got so choked up at the end that he had to record it seventeen times before he could get through it without crying.

The Phantom Tollbooth, a great story full of puns and clever wordplay and so fun to experience with kids.

Johnny Tremain, an outstanding introduction to Robey's fourth grade exploration of the American Revolution. Required a good amount of explanation on my part but the discussions were interesting and productive.

Little House On The Prairie books, which had enough adventure to appeal even to a boy.

The Miraculous Journey Of Edward Tulane, a twenty-first century version of Pinocchio about an arrogant and selfish toy rabbit who learns the meaning of love and kindness.

Right now we're listening to Time Stops For No Mouse, an exciting mystery involving a society of mice for no apparent reason (maybe it's really a "moustery"?) I love this story, if for no other reason than the character names are extraordinary: the main character is Hermux Tantamoq, his love interest is Linka Perflinger, the villain is Tucka Mertslin, and the cast of characters includes Lista Blenwipple, Pup Schoonagliffen and Ortolina Perriflot.

What are some of your favorites?

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Outstanding Customer Service

At the risk of sounding redundant, this time the dog ate my glasses (collective groan). Suffering from a monster headache, I'd fallen asleep on the couch; the puppy jumped her barrier gate (some barrier!) and hopped up to cuddle with me. "How sweet," I thought, and fell back to sleep. Waking an hour later, I couldn't find my glasses because I couldn't see to look for them because I needed my glasses to see. An increasingly frantic and ominous search led to the intricately patterned dining room rug, where I found my poor mangled spectacles in a heap on the floor, moaning in pain and delirium.

In sailing past forty I've begun to understand what my ophthalmologist meant when he said I'd know it was time for bifocals when reading was no longer enjoyable. In the past couple of years as soon as I put in contact lenses I could see clearly at arm's length but not any closer, so I relied on a collection of reading glasses stashed strategically around the house where I could find them but the housekeeper (former, actually, and here's one of the many reasons why) wouldn't find them and borrow them.

Things kept getting worse until I couldn't even see my food clearly, and I began to imagine unknowingly lifting a forkful of bugs to my mouth.

So I visited an upscale optician, www.eyewearhaus.com, and chose a smart-looking pair of dark red metal frames reminiscent of my first cat's eye glasses but a lot less scary and a lot more cool. Once I'd adjusted to them I relied on the contacts less, and two months ago I bought another, funkier pair that I liked even better, and gave up on the contacts entirely.

And boy, did I look cool! Even strangers commented on my nifty glasses, and for the first time since I was ten I felt like I didn't look half bad and fully stupid wearing glasses.

And then the dog cuddled with me.

And ate my glasses.

And here's the point of this story:

In extreme embarrassment I returned to the store where I'd picked up my glasses only weeks earlier, fully expecting to pay close to the purchase price to repair or replace them. Let me just add, by the way, that when I was ten my first pair of glasses cost fifty dollars. I don't think I got even the special coatings on the new glasses for as little as fifty dollars. We're talking thin plastic to accommodate a thick prescription AND graduated bifocals. But I loved those glasses and knew I couldn't hang the damage on anyone but myself, so I bit the bullet and begged the owner to do as much as he could for as little charge as possible.

He fixed the frames for free.

He persuaded the lens manufacturers to replace the lenses for free.

And I saw the monumental power of outstanding customer service.

This man knew that if I really wanted my glasses repaired I'd have to be prepared to pay at least something, if not the full price. Even though I'd asked him to do what he could, there was no way I could reasonably have expected him to do everything for free. But he obviously understands that, unless he hits me in the face with a pie the next time I enter his store, he's cultivated a customer for life who will tell even perfect strangers that his store is the only place to go for eyewear.

Thanks Mike!

Meanwhile, I installed a taller gate.

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Swim Wear That Fits!?

Today I went to one of those parties you attend because your friends invite you to look at whatever wares they're flogging and you listen to the demonstration and make artificial sympathetic noises and try not to make eye contact so you can get out of there without having to buy anything you could get cheaper and easier at the mall if you needed it or wanted it, which you don't anyway. I've seen cookware (I already have what I need), soup and dip mixes (I like to cook from scratch), Tupperware (a charming hostess gave a room full of Jewish women advice on how to freeze pork steaks), Mary Kay (the foundation was green), and jewelry (okay -- I did buy gifts for my sister and mother at this one).

My friend was showing "QUENCHwear," swim wear and leisure clothing designed by her cousin to flatter the seventy-five percent of us who aren't shaped the way ninety percent of swim wear designers think we are. The tanks were a little longer, the skirts were just short enough, she had several long sleeved tops that would go well with pants, jeans or shorts, and everything was good looking and comfortable. One of the tops resembled a sweat shirt with a low scoop neck gathered with a drawstring; probably one third of the women there bought that top in black or white. I bought my first two piece suit ever, to replace the tank suit from Land's End in an unfortunate shade of turquoise that made me look and feel like a dumpy woman trying to come off as a young chick and only looking more dumpy.

And that was the key. To be able to buy a swim suit without having to try on and despair over dozens of rejects is a distinct pleasure: I felt like I got away with something!

Bring on the jeans!

Check it out: QUENCHwear.

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The Passport Catastrophe Travels to Chicago

My flight left at 6.30 a.m. I'm not a morning person under the best of circumstances, but having to be on the road so early to follow up on my self-imposed humiliation amplified the agitation about tenfold.

I arrived in Chicago by 7.30 and had so much time before my 11.00 appointment that I decided to take the train instead of a taxi. I arrived at 8.30 and found -- surprise! -- hundreds of people waiting for passports. So much for a leisurely breakfast and newspaper before my appointment: I got in line.

I won't belabor the story. I won't tell about the hour and a half to get through security, unsure whether I was in the right line or even the right building and unable to ask anyone because when I left the line I was shooed back by security guards. I won't describe the senior citizens, families with small children, and parents with infants standing for hours because we were warned not to block the lobby sitting on the floor. I won't relate the story of the lady who was kicked out after three hours for using her cell phone. I won't talk about all the appointments that came and went without acknowledgement. I won't recount how after nearly four hours the line came to a standstill when most of the staff went to lunch. I won't speak of the guard who told me I could eat half a bagel but not sit on the floor while I ate it. I won't mention the EIGHT HOURS I stood in line because what would be the point?

All day I muttered that while I deserved to be punished for carelessness, I didn't deserve to be beaten up and left for dead. By noon my hands were shaking and I was having a tough time stringing together coherent sentences.

On the other hand, I will take note of the people who shared snacks or held your place while you got a drink or went to the bathroom. I will remember the small amount of amusement we felt when a reporter and cameraman showed up outside the building to commemorate our day in Purgatory. I will mention the appreciative chuckles greeting my observation that we seemed to be reliving the waiting room scene from Beetlejuice.

All in all it wasn't such a bad day. Okay -- who am I kidding? It was one of the most fatiguing, preposterous, humiliating, stressful and annoying days of my life. By the end of the day I flew home with a shiny new passport and, admittedly, a unique story to entertain family and friends.


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The Passport Catastrophe Continues

After hyperventilating briefly I switched into crisis mode. Luckily, when you come from a family where everyone wants to be boss and nobody settles for peon ranking, your DNA contains a recipe for expedited disaster management, with amplified recriminations for dessert.

I researched emergency passport renewal online and began calling the State Department's toll free line. Strangely, the recording complained about the high volume of calls, ordered me to call back later, and hung up.

About seven times. Thank goodness for automatic redial.

I finally made contact with a recording instructing me to wait, wait, wait, wait, promising someone would be along sooner or later. During my forty-five minute telephonic endurance test (lucky me -- my cordless headphone lets me wander freely while on hold) I snatched luggage and clothes and flung one inside the other in case I managed to secure a fresh passport in time for our trip.

Meanwhile I hurtled from web page to web page, debating the merits of using one of those passport expediting companies versus flying to Chicago for the day. When I ultimately discovered that the private companies weren't open on the weekends so I'd lose an entire day before I could even get in touch with them, I abandoned them and focused exclusively on traveling to the Federal Building in Chicago and handling it myself. So, while on my second forty-five minute telephone marathon to confirm exactly what documents I'd need to bring, I arranged quickie reservations on Southwest for the next day (I love Southwest Airlines: they're respectful, helpful and easy to work with. Every time I fly Southwest I wonder why I don't fly Southwest every time).

Then I sat and twitched the rest of the day and most of the night, anticipating the continuation of my unfortunate adventure.

Visit my web site, FeeFiFoto.com, for personalized photo gifts. We will put your photos on almost anything. Look for personalized photo mugs, calendars and jewelry.