Left Behind

About every ten years or so, some silly fool makes enough ruckus to get himself noticed by declaring a specific date and time for the end of the world. Yeah, we were due, so a Mr. Harold Camping threw up some billboards and made enough noise to attract media attention for his predicted date for The Rapture: May 21, 2011. Mr. Camping is a Christian broadcaster who gives a bad name to both groups, which in this day and time is pretty hard to do.

Now, I think that The Rapture and The End of the World are technically - er, biblically - two different things, but let's give Mr. Camping the benefit of a doubt on this. And he did manage to push Mississippi floods, DSK/IMF/Sofitel NYC, Arnold Schwarzenegger, and Osama Bin Laden out of the prime news spot for the past week.

The thing is, I never pay much attention to these predictions. First, Shorty PJs is secure in the knowledge of what will happen when she metaphorically crosses the River Jordan. Second, the entire thing is out of my control. I might give it a little more thought if, say, I were the President or Mark Zuckerberg, two guys who probably do have the power to bring about the End of Days. Alas, all Shorty will be able to do is sit back and enjoy the show.

Of course we have one more hump to get over next year. That pesky 2012 Mayan calendar thing. But for now, we can relax. My advice: Do be good. Don't be stupid. Those two rules will get you through everyday life and everyday Apocalypse.

Yours until the world ends,

Shorty PJs

The Gift of a Rainy Sunday

I woke up this morning to a steady, soaking rain hitting the fire escape outside my bedroom window. Raising the blinds, I took in the sight of the leaves on a row of very green trees dancing up and down to the beat of the downpour and gave up a silent "Thank you, Lord!"

A rainy Sunday cuts your options. Or. Increases your options. Depends on your outlook. A rainy Sunday gives you permission to slow down, stay inside. Read. Nap. Fold clothes. Call a friend. A rainy Sunday gives you permission to throw on a slicker and rubber boots and take a walk. Visit a museum. Take in a play. Get a new perspective on the street, a park, a river, in the pouring rain.

I love rain. Yes, it can be a pain on a Monday morning getting to work, or if you're going to a picnic or an outdoor wedding. But rain clears the air. It washes away the dust from the trees, the sidewalks, the window ledges. Green grass get greener. Black pavement gets blacker. Yellow/orange taxis get shiny-brighter orangier. I find a delightful peace in that.

So I give thanks for this rainy Sunday. It's a gift of time. A gift of color. A gift of renewal.

Eschew Fascinators

A lot has happened in the last few days, and there are a plethora of events and behaviors which might cause me to climb upon my moral high horse: Donald Trump, Charlie Sheen, Osama bin Laden, out-of-control tornadoes, the NFL draft. But no. None of those are worth pushing out of my easy chair and mounting the steed o' morality.

One thing alone has so offended me that I can no longer remain silent, and that's wearing silly hats or the headgear known as the "fascinator" to formal events, like, say, royal weddings.

Otherwise sane, fashionable women seem to go to extraordinary lengths to call attention to themselves in the most unflattering ways. The odd confections atop Princesses Beatrice and Eugenie have received much-deserved ridicule, so no need to pursue that subject. But they weren't the only ones who chose weird over lovely. The Abbey was chock-a-block with foolish chapeaux.

Now, I'm perfectly joyful at the outrageousness of the hats at Ascot or a good drag show or even a child's birthday party. And Carrie Bradshow is quirkily adorable when she sticks some fluffy confection on the top of her head in an episode of Sex And The City. But, really ladies - weddings? Are there no mirrors around your house? Not one good friend who'll tell you the truth: "Well, that's just ridiculous. What are you really going to wear?" Poor darlings.

I find the fascinator a particularly strange bit of pooh to affix to one's head. It's always worn at ludicrous angles and looks like something created by five-year-old girls at a craft table with plenty of feathers, glitter, markers, and pipe-cleaners on hand. Maybe one reason I don't like Donald Trump is that hair-shaped fascinator he wears.

So I'm calling on women, especially our British sisters, to eschew (because you know how I love the word "eschew") silly hats and fascinators in favor of simple elegance. Save it for Ascot. Or Donald Trump. Or your appearance in Sex And The City III.

Climbing off high horse. Settling back into easy chair. Yes, I feel better with that off my chest. Or head.

Sand Castle Building 101: The Drip Castle

During our stay at Panama City Beach, Son-in-Law and I managed to create two sand castles. The first was sort of a test model, to work out our technique. The second was much more elaborate, complete with moat, outer wall, and multiple turrets. We were using the drip castle technique, rather than the artsy sand sculpture method. Our royal sand abodes came out more Disney-esque instead of Windsor-esque.

Now, I've always considered the drip method sort of ghetto. It doesn't take much skill - just a steady hand, a little patience, and the ability to endure sand and salt water in - ahem - uncomfortable places. It's perfect for those of us who are sculpturally-challenged.

If you're heading to the beach any time soon and want to leave (however briefly) your architectural mark near the surf, here's a Drip Castles For Dummies (though you are certainly no dummy):

1. Choose your property. Take stock of current tides. It's no good staking out something in the deep soft sand or too close to the water. There's a sweet spot near the water where the sand is nice and damp, but not too drippy. You'll know it when you see it.
2. Round? Square? Other? Decide the basic shape of your castle. Our first one was round; the second, square. Hexagon works, too.
3. Scoop out your moat. A moat helps as waves encroach on your turf (is sand turf?) and protects your creation until high tide.
4. Do you want a battlement wall around your castle? If so, start building up a wall, packing the sand as you build (you'll cover it with drips later). Be sure to leave a nice opening on one side so that you can work on the main building.
5. Start building up your castle with packed sand. We use a bucket to load in the sand. Give it the shape you want.
6. Now for the drip part. If you're close enough to the water, you only have to dig down a little way to hit the water you can use to help with the dripping. If not, fill a bucket about 3/4 full with water, then add sand. Yeah, you'll have to make lots of water-totin' trips.
7. Grab a handful of wet sand from your bucket and let it drip over the packed sand. Drip it over the whole thing. Then start creating towers and turrets. The sand has to be really wet to build up delicate spires. It's easy-peasy, once you get the hang of it.
8. If you've built a wall around your castle, cover it with drips, too. And add shells or seaweed to decorate.

That's all there is to it. People were really impressed with the results, and we were pleased with our morning's work. And remember, you'll always knock one tower down as you create another, and/or destroy a wing when you step wrong or spill a bucket of water. But that's the fun. Creating. Re-creating.

A sand castle is a magical thing, indeed. 

Just a day at the beach

It's been years since I've had a week at the beach. Work, family obligations (all good), and non-beach destinations have gotten me out of town over the years, but five full days at the beach hasn't happened since Kate was little. But this week I'm tagging along with daughter, son-in-law, and GrandBoy to Panama City Beach on Florida's panhandle.

The weather's gorgeous. The water's fine (a little cold at first, but it doesn't take long to get used to it). Lovely sea breezes. White sand. No BP oil residue on the beach or in the water. We're staying in a friend's beachfront condo, so we have a beautiful view of the sand, surf, and pools. In short: bliss.

When I was growing up, we used to travel down here and stay at Russell's Court, a quintessential 1950's motor court (an old fashioned word for motel). It was perfect for families: a couple of big rooms, lots of beds and fold-out couches, and a kitchen of course, because folks cooked on vacation. It was right on the beach and had a small pool. I suspect Russell's Court is no more; a condo probably sits on the land that once welcomed my crazy family to the beach.

Another Panama City Beach attraction missing in action is the Miracle Strip, a big amusement part across from the beach. I have many fond MS memories from family vacations, a summer youth trip, and a visit Kate and I made down here when she was 5 or 6 years old. There's a tiny replica of the grander version at Pier Park. A merry-go-round, balloon ride, and butterfly house have kept GrandBoy happy in the late afternoon. A tilt-a-whirl and scrambler have amused the adults.

Days are spent sitting in the sand, listening to the surf, building sand castles, reading a book via Kindle, napping, swimming - well, you get the picture. Not a bad way to spend the last few days of my sixth decade and my first couple of days as a 60-year-old.

Having a great time. Wish you were here?

Wonders of the Week

It's Friday. With the week in my rear-view mirror and a cocktail in hand, I'm pondering all the wonders of the past seven days. Here are my top three, in no particular order:

I wonder when I'll hit the 20-article monthly limit on the New York Times website. I appreciate that newspapers need to find new sources of revenue in this digital age, but I think the NYT price points are too high. I'd be willing to fork over, say, $5.99/month, but not $14-$34/month. Yikes! I also wonder if a 20-article limit is enough to feed my NYT addiction.

I wonder why public buildings with double doors often keep one locked. Shouldn't all doors be unlocked and accessible during business, church, and banking hours? This is not only a wonder, but a frustration as well, since I invariably try to pull or push open the one that's locked. Well, 50-50 chance on that, right?

I wonder if it's the end of the daytime soap opera as we know it. I haven't watched them in years since I'm not home during the day, but with the demise of All My Children and One Life To Live, I suspect the remaining few are not long for this world. It's all talk shows and reality TV now. You'll have to tune in to telenovelas on Univision if you want good stories from here on out.

If you figure those out, do let me know. Of course, I have a week at the beach ahead of me to sort things out. Unless something else wonder-ful comes along.

Not the New 30

Someone on the Today Show commented that "60 is the new 30." Oh, really? Tell that to my left shoulder, my right elbow, and both of my knees. Unless something magical happens at 12:00:00 next Thursday morning, I suspect that 60 is - at best - the new 45.

While I do think 40-50-60 looks a lot younger today than when my grandparents were hitting those milestones, at some point you just have to acknowledge the ravages of time on your joints, hair, face, and upper arms. And some ravages happen earlier than others. Factor in whether or not you've inherited good genes, lived a healthy lifestyle, and are blessed with plain dumb luck, and, well, there you have what things will be like for your slide down the big hill of life.

Would I want to be 30 again? Mmm, I don't think so. As fabulous as I was way back then, I've always felt that life gets a little better every day - more fun, additional insights, new relationships. So, yeah, it's a trade-off: young, skinny, supple joints vs. new ways to laugh, experience, and love. Not that I have a choice, but I'll cast my lot with choice #2.

So keep your Botox, collagen, and butt lifts. Sixty is not the new 30. But it is the new 60. Creaky joints and saggy skin notwithstanding, I'm hanging on for all the adventures, laughs, stories, and love ahead.

And I'll let you know if the Birthday Fairy turns me into a 30-year-old next week.

Footprints on the sands of cement

My conference hotel in California shared the block with Grauman's Chinese Theatre in Hollywood. Yesterday afternoon I managed to elbow my way through a herd of distressingly dressed tourists to capture a few images of the footprints of the famous.

Most are just footprints, hand prints, autographs, and date, but a few show the personality of the star - like Jimmy Durante's nose or a few musical notes written out by Bing Crosby.

For my little pictorial diary, I avoided the nouveau stars and stuck with the ones who have some longevity of reputation. Funny thing, though. I think most of the folks skipping over the stones didn't recognize the majority of names etched into the cement squares. (They're obviously not fans of Turner Classic Movies.)

Now, there seems to be some dispute on exactly how the custom of playing in cement got started. Was it Norma Talmadge? A forecourt workman? Sid Grauman himself? Well, whatever ignited the tradition, it's been popular thing to do over the past 80+ years. And quite the honor. Helen Mirren is the latest to leave her mani-pedi in front of the pagoda-esque establishment (March 2011).

I assume the shoes are ruined after leaving their impressions at Grauman's. What do you think?

The Milestone Year

Everyone born in a year ending in 1 has a milestone birthday this year. Heading into April - my milestone month - I'm trying not to dwell on the great cosmic meaning, if there is one, of hitting 60.

Past milestone birthdays have never really bothered me. I turned 30 in England, and it was great fun. I had a fun 40th party and never thought twice about hitting the big 4-0. My 50th was relatively uneventful, but I didn't feel impacted at all by the march of time; it was just another day. But I have to admit that facing my 60th is starting to get under my skin a little.

Wrapping up six decades is a big deal. Still, I contend that being a 1951 early Baby Boom child landed me in exactly the right time and place for taking advantage of all that the second half of the 20th century and beyond has had to offer. I don't remember a time before television; it was brand new when I came along, so we grew together. Sociologists and marketers realized the potential of all these new babies around the time I burst on the scene, so we early 50's babies became guinea pigs and targets for toys, toothpastes, education theories, medical breakthroughs, and political/economic movements.

We rode - and are still riding - the crest of the wave. We've been just the right age for Howdy Doody, Captain Kangaroo, Slinky, Etch-a-Sketch, Play-Doh, Barbie (though I never had one, thank you very much), Cheerios, Look Ma no cavities Crest toothpaste, the Flintstones and the Jetsons, transistor radios, fishnets and mini-skirts, Motown, the Beatles, Shindig and Hullabaloo, Clairol hot rollers, bell bottoms, campus anti-war protests, Texas Instruments hand-held calculators, Disco (sorry), The Official Preppy Handbook, YUPPYs, minivans, 401Ks, and hyperventilation about impending (if ever) retirement.

So I reckon with all that cool stuff I got to test-drive, I don't regret hitting this milestone. I'm healthy (knock wood), gainfully employed, surrounded by a loving, crazy family and wonderful friends - what more could I want, besides knees, elbows, and shoulders that worked like they did 10 years ago? And I'll be pulling up to the milestone on a beach in Florida, enjoying the sun with my daughter, son-in-law, and GrandBoy. What better way to kick a little sand in the face of old Father Time, eh?

So to all you year-ending-in-1 babies, I say, embrace your milestone, whatever it may be. In ten years you'll look back on this one and smile.

A wish for a stranger

A man boarded my #6 uptown train this afternoon after work. I don't know why I happened to look up as he got on at 68th Street, but I did. The first thing I noticed was that he had a swollen, misshapen lip. He sat down on the bench across from me and looked down. I glanced at him again and saw that a dark birthmark covered most of the right side of his face. He continued looking down.

Though I was wrapped up in a story pouring from my iPod into my head, I found myself looking across the aisle at the man every once in a while. It wasn't the lip or the birthmark that kept pricking my interest; neither were ghastly horrible, just, well, I don't know. I wasn't staring at the guy, just glancing over occasionally, trying to read what was in his face. He looked, hmm, stoic. Resigned. Still, it was the end of a work day, and who looks buoyant after that, eh? Anyway, he never raised his eyes, stared at the floor the whole trip.

But for some unexplained reason, I found myself hoping he was happy.

I see all sorts and conditions of folks every day. Why this particular man touched my heart, I do not know. It wasn't pity, not at all. But there was something in the look on his face that made me wonder about him. And by the trip's end - we both got off at 116th Street - I was deeply wanting this fellow to be headed home to a big loving family (or at least a sweet old dog) who thought he hung the moon. I was wishing that he had a job he loved (or at least one that paid the bills). And I want to think that his lip and birthmark make absolutely no difference in his life, that after forty-something years, those things are just a small part of who he is.

As we got off the train, I caught his eye and smiled. He looked down and ducked out of the subway car, headed in the opposite direction from me. I'm sure he was tired. But I do hope he's happy.

Making a sad song better: Happy St. Patrick's Day!

And don't we miss the Muppet Show? Hm? Chef, Beeker, and Animal - what a trio! Grab a hankie and enjoy. "Oh Danny Boy, oh boy, oh boy . . ."

Roses on Park

Fake, artistic ones, that is. There was a story on the news about this installation a couple of weeks ago, but I came upon them for the first time as I was trotting up to 59th/Fifth over lunch hour to pick up an Elegant Scribbles job. I bet they looked fabulous covered with snow last month. Though the day is rather gray, here are the snowless versions. No need to stop and smell them.

Just Listen

Once in a while you just have to stop and hear the roses.

I don't know about you, but day in, day out, I suffer from sensory overload. Mostly, it's a constant assault on the eyes and ears. Everything seems to be flying at me non-stop, from nonsense on a computer or television screen, to angry and/or loud junk cutting the air or bleeding through earbuds. A lot of it can't be avoided, but much of it I bring on myself just by feeling the need to stay connected, to know what's going on. I'm beginning to see the brilliance in "Ignorance is bliss."

Sometimes I have to pull off to the side of the road (figuratively speaking, of course, since I no longer own a car), regulate my breathing, and just listen. Yes, noise is one of the culprits in this overload business, but taking time to sort it out helps make it bearable for me.

Right now, for instance, what do I hear? A breeze is gently rattling my window blinds. Not an irritating sound - kind of nice, as is the breeze. A car or two swooshing by under my window. A truck's gears changing to turn the corner. A tink-tink-tink caused by who-knows-what a block or two away. Car horn in the distance. Whoa - Metro North train incoming, so that wipes out everything else. OK. It's passed. The refrigerator fan just kicked on. A different car horn even farther away. Helicopter in the distance. Mmm. Everything's pretty quiet for a New York Sunday afternoon. Except for the trains and occasional car horn (no car alarms, thank goodness), all is gentle on the ears.

It helps me squeeze out a week's worth of sensory bombardments to stop and concentrate on every little sound. Yes, some times are noisier than others, but separating out each sound - and really listening for the ones that get lost (like the refrigerator) - has the effect of hitting the reset button for me.

Add a cup of tea to that little exercise, and there you have bliss - and ignorance, I suppose. A peaceful Sunday afternoon to you all.

Around the Jackie O.

It was a beautiful, breezy Saturday afternoon in New York City. Instead of sticking to my end of the park, with Harlem Meer and Conservatory Gardens, I moseyed down to my old stomping grounds in the 80's and walked around the reservoir (the Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir, officially). Since you couldn't walk with me, I offer up this little digital camera tour.

Tri-Polar Week

Welcome to Shrove-Gras Ash Lent week. Hang on, because it takes you from pancakes, Mardi Gras beads, and wild celebration to the depths of death and ashes, then pushes you out into a desert for forty days. A tri-polar experience, if you will. It seems kinda dangerous for even the healthiest - mentally and emotionally - among us.

Today was all about indulgence. My pancakes were slathered in butter and soaked in syrup. And yours? I had a slice of King Cake so whisky-soaked that I was breathing fire. And I mean that in a good way.

Tomorrow, everything goes very solemn. It's all about being constantly and uncomfortably reminded that, yes, you are human. You started as dust, and - guess what? - that's where you're ending up. Sounds like a marketing dream for funeral homes and crematoriums, but that doesn't seem to be the case. You never see them outside churches handing out flyers after Ash Wednesday services. Still, it is the one day of the year, other than update-your-will day, where you're confronted with your ultimate demise. Here are some ashes on your forehead to prove that you are, indeed, terminal.

And then, the long stretch of endless heat and sand known as Lent. Ah, me. What to give up? What to take on? Can I maintain forty days of discipline (and does God really care whether I do or don't)? Well, it's enough to make you want to stay in bed and pull the covers over your head. Until Easter. What if I decide to give up Lent? Or just give up giving up?

I'm not feeling particularly desert-y Lent-y this year. Yes, I've thought of a couple of straight-jacket disciplines to squeeze myself into for six weeks, but we'll see what develops. While I think I'll survive the bi-polarity of pancakes and ashes, I'm not sure I'm ready for a tri-polar experience.

Party on for a few more hours, friends. And then get the doctor to write you a prescription for tri-polar meds. Good for six weeks.

Where to begin . . .

Work. Travel for work. Travel for fun. GrandBoy's first birthday hoopla. Elegant Scribbles projects. Weird weather. Shootings in Arizona. Upheaval in the Middle East. Charlie Sheen.

I know that many people anxiously await the brilliant dribblings of Shorty PJs, so I'm sorry for going such a long time between posts. Too many things have kept me busy over the last few weeks. Only now am I able to emerge into the light and write a little something.

Just for the record, I had nothing to do with the shootings, Middle East upheaval, and - most definitely - Charlie Sheen. I just threw those on the list for the helluvit. But the rest of the stuff has soaked up all of my time. Add in a little time to eat, a little time to sleep, and - poof! - three or four weeks are gone before you know it.

Is everyone else this busy? Well, of course you are. So you understand. Now, let me look at my To-Do List again. Where to begin?

Show Some Love

Happy Valentine's Day, y'all!

Back in the olden days we used to decorate a shoe box, cut a slit in the top, and bring it to school to collect our valentines. At some point in the day, the teacher would give us time to visit the boxes to put in our little cards (I always liked the flocked ones that I punched out of a booklet). Everybody pretty much got a valentine from everyone else - no hurt feelings, you know.

It's a good day to think about the folks we love, even if we no longer indulge in elementary school Valentine's Day parties. For those of you who have already decorated your Valentine Box, go forth and collect. For those of us who no longer break out the red and pink construction paper and glue, here's a little Valentine's day assignment for you.

• Pretend you have a stack of corny little valentines and that everyone you know has a glitzed-out shoebox. Your cards are for the people you really care about. (These are virtual cards, so you can't hurt anyone's feelings by not giving them a card.)
• Make a list of all the people in your life that you love. How many valentines do you need?
• Give thanks for all those loved ones.
• How big do you think your own Valentine Box will need to be if the folks who love you do the same assignment?

Wishing you all a day of love and chocolate!

"Della, get Paul Drake on the phone."

For the past couple of weeks, I've been lost in Perry Mason-land, thanks to Netflix. It's a world light-years away from our own Law & Order universe, which is what makes the trip so interesting. The stories and styles of the black-and-white 1950s are highly entertaining. No blood, no guts, and everybody's covered up, except for the occasional show-girl. And though things get a little racy once in a while and innuendo abounds, there's no embarrassing sex.

Episode titles like The Case of the Crimson Kiss and The Case of the Half-Wakened Wife (catching the innuendo, hm?) are cleverly corny, and the writers must've had a ball creating them. The iconic theme music, the men's hats and women's shirtwaist dresses, and the whopping great boat-cars nail the series' place in time. I think you can learn more about mid-1950s life and culture from shows like Perry Mason than from history books or newsreels.

The characters of modern day lawyer-cop shows must be green with envy. Perry, Della, and Paul get away with stuff that Jack, Olivia, and Lennie could never slide by the DA or Police Chief. Perry does some pretty outrageous things, like man-handling evidence, breaking and entering, and tricking witnesses. (Objection! Sustained.) Lt. Tragg and DA Burger don't stand a chance, because they're always two steps behind.

My mother loved Perry Mason, but as a kid I found it kind of boring. Now, I find the show interesting, entertaining. All sorts of soon-to-be-famous actors troop through. The stories are solid, albeit the legal angles are often laughable (which adds to the entertainment value). Plus, I can never quite figure out what's up between Della and Paul. As I said, much more interesting now.

I'll let you know if I come to any firm conclusion about Miss Street and Mr. Drake. But now it's time for The Case of the Black-eyed Blonde. No objection.

Just call me Mary Peach Cobbler

One of the great things about living in New York City is the regular stream of mobster stories. You just don't get much of that in Atlanta, Georgia.

Anyway, the one that caught my eye recently was "Joey Cupcakes is Taken Down, from Rao's Wall."  OK, well two things caught my eye: "Joey Cupcakes" and "Rao's." See, I live right down the street from the infamous Rao's, the restaurant impossible to get into unless you know somebody, meaning the owner. It's famous for gangsters (not gangstas) and the likes of Woody Allen.

But the real story here is how some wise guy gets the name "Cupcakes" pinned on him. Gangsters are way ahead of gangstas in tagging their own. Websites abound that will generate a mob nickname - or a gangsta nickname, for that matter, but nothing comes up as brilliant as the real thing. Alas, the NYT article doesn't explain how Joey Cupcakes got his moniker. Sigh. But I like it. What's not to like about cupcakes? Kinda makes you underestimate him, which might be the point.

I'm trying to figure out what my own appropriate mobster nickname should be. I mean, I live right down the street from Rao's, and who knows?  I might need a gangster-name handy sometime soon. I don't really see myself attached to the animal kingdom (The Snake, The Ant, Bugsy). Scarface doesn't really work. But I really like the food-nickname option. Too bad Joey already has Cupcakes. I hear Lollipops is taken, too. Hmm. I'm leaning toward something connected to my Southern roots. Fried Chicken? Grits? Greens? I'll work on it.

In the meantime, I wonder where Joey actually buys his cupcakes? (And I hope this post won't get me taken down, and I don't mean from Rao's wall.)

Finally. The Hat.

A couple of years ago, I posted about my need to find a hat that 1) kept my ears and head warm, and 2) didn't give me hat-head. And, yeah, #2 was the more important to me. No matter how the wind howls or the snow blows - and, Zeus knows, there's been a lot of that around here lately - I brave the elements hatless because I just haven't found anything that meets my hat requirements.

Until now.

A few weeks ago childhood buddy Debbi offered to knit me a hat. Guaranteed warm. Guaranteed hat-headless. It arrived last week while I was in Atlanta, but when I got to work yesterday, there it was. In all its glory. A lovely blue, soft confection of a hat, with long scarf-ties, just waiting to be donned and walked around a New York block a time or two.

It is most definitely warm, covering my head and ears. It's thick and soft, not scratchy. The long ties wrap around to keep my neck warm. I can slip the hat off like a hood while I'm inside or riding the subway. And, believe it or not, you ruthless sceptics - no hat-head! It's genius! It's a miracle! It is the coolest - er, warmest - hat ever! And it was hand-made by a friend who has known me since the fifth grade.

In this most blizzardy year ever, my dear friend has knit with her own hands a hat that keeps me protected from the elements and doesn't flatten my hair. Whew. Just in time! A chapeau for the snow that keeps my hair status quo.