Waste not, want not

Because of a recent trip to the grocery store followed by a patio party in which lots of people left lots of stuff, today I have the following fresh produce in my house:

• black grapes

• red plums

• cantaloupe

• watermelon

• lemons

• limes

• tomatoes

• cucumbers

• onions -- red and white

• zucchini

• summer squash

• leaf lettuce

• carrots

• celery

• bananas

• green peppers

• green onions

• cilantro

• mint

Ugh! All that for just me and Jim!

With Jim not being much of a fruit or veggie eater, looks like I'll be making a visit to Crunchy Betty to come up with ways to use some of the goods on my face and body -- not just in it -- before it all goes to waste.

Today's question:

What fresh produce do you have in your house right now?

The grandma I will never be

Jim and I went to see the Leonardo DiCaprio movie Inception yesterday. The movie looked intriguing (and proved to be that and more!) but the prospect of sitting in an air-conditioned theater during the hottest point of the day was the true lure for us. We needed to escape the heat of our NOT air-conditioned house.

Ironically, things heated up quite a bit inside the air-conditioned theater as we waited for the show to begin. Especially for one grandma who grew unreasonably hot under the collar when two women -- late arrivals seeking seats in the packed house just before the previews started -- dared to ask Grandma to scoot down a seat.

Let me stop right here and say that Jim and I always arrive pretty early to see a movie, just to be sure we get end seats, on the aisle. Jim likes to sit on the end; we plan accordingly. So any time one of the theater staff come into a packed house and ask everyone to scoot toward the middle to create empty seats for late arrivals, we don't budge. We got there early; they got there late. Next time maybe they'll better manage their time.

So yesterday, Jim and I were situated in our end seats, with an empty seat between myself and Grandma's movie-watching partner. There was one more empty seat in the row, about five people beyond Grandma.

"Would you mind scooting down a seat so it would open up two seats for us to sit together?" one of the late women -- a 50-something, clean, well-spoken woman -- very politely asked our row of folks.

"Sure, sure, no problem," pretty much everyone mumbled as they started gathering their goodies and preparing to scoot down one. Everyone, that is, except Grandma.

"I like to sit here so I can put my feet up," Grandma said.

"Pardon?" the polite seat-scoot requester said as the 20-somethings next to Grandma leaned toward her to see if they, too, heard Grandma correctly.

"I like to put my feet up," Grandma reiterated in clipped tones as she white-knuckled her seat and refused to move.

Incredulous, the woman requesting the musical chairs simply said, "Real nice ...." and motioned to her partner that they would need to proceed to the front-row, neck- and eye-straining seats.

Most everyone else in our row clucked a "tsk, tsk" and shook their heads as they resumed their original positions. All while self-righteous Grandma faced forward, ignoring the head shaking.

The sad thing is, if Grandma had simply taken a moment to assess the situation rather than being hell-bent on staying in the seat she'd chosen, she'd have realized that all she and her friend needed to do was scoot down one seat in the other direction, toward me, and she'd still be able to rest her feet on the bar in front of her -- saving face and her tootsies while providing two seats together at the other end of the row, leaving everyone happy and cool and things right with the world.

But no, she refused the consideration, sat strong and firm. She was going to get off her butt for no one, no time, no way. In her own mind, I'm sure, she figured she sure taught that late-arriving woman and her companion a lesson in getting someplace on time in order to get what you want.

What she really did, though, was teach those of us witnessing the rudeness what a real inconsiderate cuss looks like. A real inconsiderate cuss of a grandma, at that. A grandma I will never be. I will never be that rude, never be that cold, never ruin the experience for others simply because I jump the gun and refuse to consider other arrangements and staunchly, indignantly defend my position.

Of course I can say that because Jim and I always choose the aisle seats at the theater, so scooting in just one wouldn't make a difference for a couple or crowd. If anyone were to make such a request, we'd have to refuse ... politely ... and kindly wonder aloud what good one seat would do for two or more needing a spot.

Now if there were an empty seat next to me and one late arrival asked us ever so politely to scoot in and let him or her sit on the end ... well ... I gotta admit that we'd still have to refuse.

But we'd do it politely and -- unlike the Grandma at Inception -- consider other options, offering the lone movie-goer the seat right beside me. No, not on the aisle, but, yes, here is a seat, no scooting required.

And no snottiness necessary. Unlike yesterday's cuss of a grandma, the grandma I swear I will never, ever be. Unless ...

... unless a fellow movie-goer talks or texts during a movie. If that's your thing, I'm warning you now: You better simply shut 'er off and slink away. I still swear to not act like the non-scooting grandma. I'll be worse. Way worse.

For sometimes a grandma's just gotta teach folks a lesson or two. Politeness be cussed.

Today's question:

Where is your favorite spot to sit in the movie theater?

Dear Southwest Airlines

Dear John Southwest,

You've been so good to me all these years that this is really difficult for me to write. To make it a little less painful for us both, I'm just going to say it up front: I believe it's time to cool our jets, for I've met someone new.

I hoped to keep my new dalliance secret, to not have to admit my loyalty no longer lies with you, but Thursday's press conference announcing $29 introductory flights and more made it impossible for me to pretend any longer. I've found a new love, a new best friend, a new way to fly to see my beloved grandson Bubby.

Yes, dear Southwest, you probably guessed it. It's Allegiant Air. They're back in town and I can no longer go on seeing you when it's Allegiant who has my heart, my bags, my flight to an airport near Bubby.

Me love you long time, Southwest, and you were oh-so good to me during that time. You carried my bags for free, offered up peanuts and pretzels at the same time, provided the most interesting airline publication of all, and even introduced Jim to Sky Mall ... and we have the replica of Mount Rushmore at the top of our backyard waterfall to forever prove Jim's appreciation for that serendipitous introduction.

Most importantly, though, you were my first, Southwest. You were the one to carry me relatively turbulence free to visit my brand-new grandbaby for the very first time, just days after his birth. And for that I will always love you.

But sometimes even the strongest of loves can't make a relationship work. Unfortunately, this is one of those times.

Please don't take it hard, as it's not you -- or your treatment of Kevin Smith -- it's me. I just need less. Less time driving to the airport; Allegiant will pick me up 10 minutes from my house whereas you required me to drive a minimum of 90 minutes to reach you. I need less time riding the parking lot shuttle, less time standing in the security line at the international airport where you're located, less time lining up in my designated slot to board. Oh, and less time scrambling to check in exactly 24 hours before flight time in order to make the A group.

(Which reminds me: I've always wondered who it was you were playing favorites with, who made it so that even though I checked in at the exact millisecond I was allowed, you granted me an A36 -- or worse! -- boarding pass. So maybe it is you, just a teensy eensy bit.)

But I won't hold that -- or the comment from the pilot on my last flight about how "gooood looooooking" the flight attendants were -- against you. Because despite a few questionable practices here and there, I hope we can still be friends, hope to still get together occassionally. For as wonderfully appealing as Allegiant is, they can't offer me everything: For one thing, they provide service from my town to Bubby's only twice a week and sometimes a long-distance grandma needs a little more flexibility than that. Those are the times, sweet Southwest, that I'll most treasure our long history and book some time aboard your wings.

Thank you, Southwest. I've been honored to be your passenger, to be part of your Rapid Rewards Club. And I hope you will, in return, honor the idea that the skies are indeed friendly, that you won't turn the other direction and pretend you don't see me when we pass one another as Allegiant carries me back and forth between the mountains and the desert, between my home and Bubby's.

You'll always hold a special place in my heart, Southwest. Don't ever forget that.

Friends forever,

Bubby's grandma, aka Rapid Rewards #248817951

Today's question:

What's your favorite airline and why?

Grandma's creepy wallpaper

I live in an unusual house. It was built in 1974 by a husband and wife who immigrated from Poland. They built the house around many features they collected from prominent local buildings and homes of the late 1800s that had been demolished for a variety of reasons. We have fireplaces, windows, staircases and more from the bank, the opera house, a doctor's home and other long-gone structures.

Overall, it's a pretty cool and interesting place to live. But there are some bizarre touches here and there, things I've gotten used to for the most part and usually no longer think too hard about them. On most days.

Yesterday was not one of those days. For some reason the wallpaper lining the hallway to the laundry room caught my interest once again and I thought you all might be able to help me solve the mystery surrounding my creepy wallpaper.

From what I understand, the wallpaper is one of the touches from the homeland of the original owners. It appears to be illustrations of cautionary tales, much like Grimm's Fairy Tales, but of a Polish bent. The illustrations are fine and good and understandable when considered as part of an old-time nursery book. We all know fairy tales and such can be, unfortunately, weird ... and violent. Which is exactly what the illustrations on my wall are. But why would such images be taken from the page and placed upon the wall?

Take a look:

Creepy, huh? That is what I see every time I do laundry, every time I use the ironing board, every time I change the litter box.

And every time I show people around my house, I have to explain the creepy wallpaper and why I don't remove it.

I don't remove the paper because it's antique. I think. If nothing else, it's unusual. And like all the other unusual features in my house, there's a story attached to this wallpaper; I just don't know what it is. I'm pretty sure it was put there by the couple from Poland, but that's it.

My biggest question about the wallpaper, though, the real mystery to me, isn't why the builders of our home put it there, but why anyone -- no matter where they lived in the world, no matter what period of time -- would think these pictures might look great on a wall, why they should qualify as print for wallpaper, why that wallpaper was ever manufactured in the first place. Did people in Poland line nursery walls with these images? Were resident children better behaved when they had these constant reminders of a horrible fate that might befall them if they misbehaved? Was such wallpaper used in places other than nurseries? Did anyone and everyone who ever saw it have nightmares?

It's a mystery I'll likely never solve.

Unless, of course, one of my dear readers has knowledge of Polish fairytales, the ones featuring drunks who fall in the lake or drag kids through the forest by their hair. If so, please enlighten me. Give me the "rest of the story" to regale the next group of visitors to my home and provide me with details on why these wacky illustrations figured so prominently in a culture that people adorned their walls with them.

Then maybe -- just maybe -- I can move on to seeking assistance with yet another mystery of my home: the one involving a discoverer of sunken treasure who has seemingly gone missing and I think just might be buried in my front yard.

Like I said, I live in a very unusual house.

Today's question: (If you read this early, yes, it was a different question. I like this one better.)

What's the creepiest feature of your house?

White rabbits

Long, long ago -- okay, about 25 years ago -- I read writing advice from a popular writer about capturing fleeting thoughts that may possibly be the spark of something intriguing, an idea worth writing about or adding to a story or article. Paraphrasing (because I don't really remember the exact quote), the writer advised all novice writers to immediately write down random thoughts, wherever you may be and whatever you may be doing, as those random thoughts are like wild white rabbits that hop away, never to come 'round again, gone in the blink of an eye.

So long, long ago I started writing down all those fleeting "white rabbit" thoughts I had, jotting them on Post-It notes, the backs of old business cards (a great use for the hundreds that remain once you move on to a new position), wacky notepaper, whatever was handy. For the longest time, I filed those thoughts away in a decorative tin I kept on my desk, just in case I was ever in need of inspiration or ideas.

My snippets of white rabbit thoughts eventually filled the tin to overflowing. So I purchased a nifty decorative wooden box that looks rather old-fashioned and unique (even though it came from Hobby Lobby), moved all my thoughts into it and placed it atop my desk. Other than stashing a note here or there at the front of the box -- never having the time to place it correctly into the index-card-divided categories of the type of writing that may come from the idea: picture book, greeting card, general interest, etc. -- I've not looked at my notes in several years.

Until yesterday.

As I sat doing my very important computing for the day, I looked up, saw the box, and decided to peruse those snippets of paper to see how deep those years-old white rabbit thoughts may run. Here are a few examples of what I found within my nifty box o' thoughts:

"People naturally steer clear of others with obvious yet harmless psychological problems (ie Bruce Harper and his inability to be himself and his Elvis impersonations)."

What? I have no idea what that meant. Worse yet, I have absolutely no recollection of anyone named Bruce Harper ... who does Elvis impersonations.

"I've never seen an animal talk with its mouth full until Sadie just did tonight."

Sadie was the coolest cat ever and has been gone now for nearly 10 years. But did it really matter that my prim and proper Siamese once talked with her mouth full?

"I used to be a mountain goat when I was younger, grandma said."                                      

Did I overhear this? Did I imagine this? What is this?

I get what that well-published author was trying to get across to newbies all those years ago, but has she ever gone back and read some of the snippets she so carefully jotted down and honestly found a nugget of a novel, a smidgen of a spark of a successful story or article?

I don't know about her, but from the looks of things deep inside my box o' thoughts and all the inspirational good it's done me, the majority of my white rabbits would have been far better off remaining wild, left to hippity-hop away, never to be seen again.

Today's question:

What is the most important thing you'll do today?

My answer: Refill my dog's estrogen prescription.

Do-nothing days

I get a daily dose of awesomeness from the 1000 Awesome Things website. It's an upbeat, positive site and an upbeat, positive way to start my day. Check it out; I don't know how anyone could not like it.

One of the "awesome things" this past week was Do Nothing Days. I do think Do Nothing Days are quite awesome -- in theory. Thing is, I have trouble doing nothing. I feel guilty when I do nothing.

It's not like I'm an incredibly productive person, especially since I have virtually no one to account to but myself. (Well, there's Jim, but he's pretty much okay with anything I do or don't do; for some odd reason he continually thinks I am awesome.) So I could easily take advantage of do-nothing days, those days when there's nothing pressing on the schedule, no meetings, no deadlines, no demands other than those I place on myself.

But that's the problem: I place plenty of demands on myself, things that absolutely must be done, even on do-nothing days.

For one, I must write a blog post every day. Yeah, I know that not everyone who has a blog posts daily, but I told myself from the outset of this venture that I would post every single day, and I'm determined to not let myself down. And believe it or not, sometimes posting is a real chore. Those of you with blogs understand. I love Grandma's Briefs, but sometimes it sure would be nice to not have to post ... or do all the other things that go along with maintaining a blog. Yet I feel obligated to do it, even on do-nothing days.

Then, of course, I really should walk the dogs every day. That should be considered a "do-nothing" activity because it's supposed to be soothing, relaxing, enjoyable. It is, to a certain degree. Kind of. On days when I don't have to worry about rabid fox roaming the neighborhood -- which isn't really all that crazy since there have been reports this past week of rabid fox charging dogs. Which scares the cuss out of me because we have lots of fox in our neighborhood ... and my dogs have lots of power behind them and it would be LOTS of ugly if the two were to tango or tangle or tussle or interact in any way whatsoever. So walking the dogs is a chore, one I feel obligated to do, even on do-nothing days.

When there's nothing major on the schedule, I see those open hours as hours of opportunity, hours that could be filled with writing and editing and cleaning out closets or organizing drawers or practicing piano or sewing up something summery or catching up on all the books I need to review or weeding the entire yard again ... and watering it extra heavily since I have the time and it's been so dry. So many chores, so many things I'd feel obligated to do, especially if I faced a do-nothing day.

Ultimately, I say cuss it! Do-nothing days are not really all that awesome after all. At least not to me. They just make me feel guilty ... and unproductive ... and insane for being so conflicted about something so inane, something most folks would relish.

I'm thinking maybe I should just unsubscribe from 1000 Awesome Things. That, or learn to simply -- and silently -- appreciate the awesome.

Today's question:

What's your most awesome thing from the past week?

Jumping for joy

It was thirty-six years ago this month that my parents, six siblings and I arrived in Colorado by station wagon from Minnesota in search of a new life, one that might keep my parents' rocky marriage together. I was a preteen and pretty excited -- and scared -- about the new venture. The house my parents purchased in advance wasn't yet ready, so we stayed a week or so in one of the log cabin motels dotting the highway of the tiny mountain town we'd call home.

Across the highway from our cabin was the motel office, and outside the office was the motel's coin-operated trampoline. The trampoline itself wasn't operated by coin; it was the length of the jumper's turn that was dictated by quarter. For 25 cents, a kid could jump to his or her heart's content ... for about three minutes. Then the timer would ding and the next one up would plop in his or her quarter and jump for joy. Bouncing past the bell would result in jeers from the others in line; when there were no other kids in line, the motel owner or his progeny (not much older than my siblings and me) would come outside and menacingly enforce the rules.

Despite the limited access to quarters for a family with seven kids -- and a fear of the crabby motel owner and his kids -- it was the beginning of my love affair with the "tramp," as the trampoline became affectionately called by those lucky enough to become well acquainted with it. When our time at the cabin was up, we reluctantly bid farewell to the motel tramp ... and rejoiced upon seeing the tramp nestled in the ground in the backyard of our new neighbor.

It took us a while in our new digs to feel comfortable enough with our neighbor -- a family of five that included three awesomely hip teens that made me shrink in their presence -- to knock on their sliding door and ask for permission to jump. It was okay to do so, our new friends living near the tramp house assured us, as long as the resident teens weren't jumping themselves. For several months, my siblings and I encouraged our friends to do the asking, as we were the new kids in town and figured we were less likely to get a "yes" from the tramp owners.

We soon learned that regardless of who initiated the request, permission flowed freely and the neighboring tramp was ours to enjoy for hours on end. My new friend and I bonded as we bounced, competing against one another in seat wars, back wars, games of add-on. We'd acquiesce to the older siblings when they showed up -- including our older sisters who had become best buds as well -- as they were much more fluent in trampe-eze. Even my older sister, just as new to the sport as I was, had quickly become a pro, flying through the air with the greatest of ease, performing front flips, back flips, swan dives and one-and-a-halfs.

I longed to be as good as the older kids. I'd peek out the window and watch the resident teens expertly enjoy their trampoline, then put some of their moves into play when it was my turn. Little by little I mastered the front flip, back flip, swan dive and, finally, after a few terrifying turns, the satisfying slam of my stomach on the mat when I successfully managed the derring-do of a one-and-a-half. Double flips soon followed. Never before had I felt so in command of graceful moves, a graceful body.

In hopes of maintaining neighborly relations, my dad eventually purchased a trampoline for our own yard. No longer would seven rug rats be knocking on the neighbor's sliding door, begging to jump. We were thrilled to have our own tramp, but it wasn't the same. It was new and stiff and didn't bounce as easily and as high as the in-ground beauty next door. But we and our friends jumped ferociously, purposefully in hopes of breaking it in, all the while doing our best to ignore the screaming and crying and fighting we could hear through the windows, evidence that it was Mom and Dad's marriage that had been broken, irreparably.

After the divorce, my dad got custody of the tramp. Custody of the kids was a far less desirable affair for him, so with few kids in residence and even fewer visiting, the tramp was never fully broken in. It was eventually sold, and we kids moved on, grew up, never dared to look back.

Except that the lure of the tramp couldn't be forgotten. Luckily Jim -- who also had frequented the coin-operated trampoline in town, long before I ever knew him -- fondly recalled the joy of jumping as much as I did. So together we purchased a trampoline for our daughters.

The girls and their friends spent many a summer day bouncing away and several summer nights attempting sleepovers on the tramp, usually ending in mid-night scrambles into the house because of scary neighborhood noises or dampness from the dew soaking their sleeping bags.

My daughters had their own versions of bouncing bliss that included front flips, seat wars, add-on and a game I never really understood dubbed the Uncle David Game, concocted during an extended visit from my brother. The girls never mastered the swan dive or the one-and-a-half -- at least not that I ever saw. Not because they weren't capable but because I had become an overprotective mom and although I wanted them to experience the incomparable joy of jumping, I worried endlessly that one poorly executed flip would break their neck resulting in certain death or at least paralysis, so I limited the tricks they were allowed.

I myself wasn't allowed to do much jumping on the new tramp either, not out of fear of a broken neck but out of fear of how my bladder may perform, battered and bruised as it had become by three pregnancies in rapid succession. So I'd jump carefully only now and then, do a few knees, seats, backs, a stomach here and there. Sometimes I'd even engage in a seat war with the girls.

But never again did I do a flip -- front, back or otherwise. Never again have I felt as in command of graceful moves, a graceful body as I did thirty-six summers ago when I very first mastered the tramp.

Today's question:

When have you felt the most graceful?

Wanted: Crazy, quirky confessions

The cover of the May 2010 Reader's Digest beckoned me: "Normal or Nuts?" it screamed. "Your habits, quirks, and fears explained." I immediately had to read the article because I think I have a lot of weird habits, quirks and fears and I hoped the article would prove there are folks with far weirder habits, quirks and fears than mine.

Unfortunately, it didn't. Despite the intro comment that "... it's a sure bet that your nutty quirk -- the one you think is freakishly unusual -- is shared by plenty of other people ...", the habits highlighted by the readers were pretty darn normal, if you ask me. There was fear of speaking in public, flying in an airplane, loving one child more than another, talking to oneself, being depressed about layoffs at work, blah, blah, boring blah.

Okay, yeah, there were two truly weird obsessions highlighted in the article: One in which the person didn't like to have his or her feet touch the ground ... except for when they're in motion; and another in which the person pulls out stray arm hairs to ensure all the arm hair is the same length. Yep, those two are weird.

But I was hoping for some enlightenment, actually, hoping for some companionship when it comes to the quirks that make me feel like I'm crazy. Comments from my daughters such as as "You're so weird, Mom" are a regular occurrence, and after years of trying to fit in, I've come to accept that I don't really fit in much of anywhere in any way. I follow the beat of a different drummer, a lone drummer, one that plays a song not many understand. Or so I think. But maybe I'm wrong.

Which is why I'm coming to you all. Because Reader's Digest couldn't help me out, I'm hoping you can. I'd like to propose that today we all fess up to one or two of our quirkiest quirks, our craziest thoughts, words and deeds that we think we're alone in conducting. Then we'll see what the consensus is. Are we all weird? Are we all crazy? Or are we just quirky enough to be charming ... and interesting.

So I'll go first. Then I'd like you all to comment with something that similarly worrisome to you, that you think you may be the only one in the world doing. Nothing too dark, nothing too revealing, nothing so bat-crap crazy that I block you from commenting ever again ... just something that you wonder if others do as well -- or if others think that's just too far outside the spectrum of normal human behavior.

We'll comment back and forth and together we'll see what happens. Who knows? Could be crazy, could be quirky, could be an utterly idiotic thing to ask of my readers. We'll see ...

So here I go with mine:

I absolutely must cover my neck with the covers in bed each night, regardless of how hot the weather may be. If my neck is exposed, I fear a vampire will claim the fleshy space between my head and my body. It has nothing to do with Twilight or True Blood; it goes farther back than that. I've done it since I was a kid ... a kid who grew up unable to take my eyes off the TV when Barnabas Collins had his way with the women and more in the original serial called Dark Shadows. The show was kind of sexy (to a kid, at least), definitely scary ... and obviously quite scarring, as you can tell by my neck-covering obsession more than 40 years later!

Now you tell me: crazy or quirky? And, what crazy or quirky confession do you have to share so we can all weigh in on your obsession?

Today's question:

See above ...!

**Oh my! In researching to verify what year Dark Shadows ran on ABC, I found on Wikipedia that Johnny Depp will play Barnabas Collins in the 2011 movie from Tim Burton. Aack! The neck-covering continues!

Wheat, chaff and baby teeth

As I mentioned yesterday, Jim and I spent Saturday with three of Jim's five siblings plus a couple nieces and nephews clearing out the storage shed that held everything from the last apartment Jim's mom lived in, her last home and the place she resided when a stroke unexpectedly ripped her from her life and plopped her down in a hospital bed to wait out her days.

My mother-in-law was always a fastidious housekeeper, a truly tidy grandma. But the unexpectedness of the emergency medical situation meant she never had the chance to tie up her life belongings into beribboned bundles or to even discard such things as drawers full of hair-color conditioner tubes and expired grocery coupons. Which meant her kids had a lot of stuff to go through, a lot of work to do paring her possessions into piles to pass along to her children and grandchildren, honoring her by not pitching it all into the charity bin.

To be honest, it was a relatively quick task as Jim's mom lived a spare and simple life. And, as Granny prided herself on being ever the educator, the task indeed taught me a few lessons about getting my own things and my own life in order so my kids and grandkids have an easier time separating the wheat from the chaff once I'm gone.

Here are a few of those lessons:

Keep a notebook or journal -- placed in a prominent spot -- detailing which possessions you'd like to go to whom. There were thankfully no arguments over my mother-in-law's goods, but we all could only guess what her desire may be ... and I'm pretty sure we missed the mark on at least a few. A will may be the answer, but how many wills go so far as to say which kid gets the red afghan versus the white or the flowered teapot versus the striped?

Always label photos with the names of those in the pictures and the date. As we perused the hundreds of photos, we were at a loss again and again without Granny around to let us know which baby belonged to whom and why one wacky woman wore the getup featuring what appeared appeared to be a bikini-clad sumo wrestler.

Minimize the mementos from your children's early years. Mother's Day gifts made in preschool, unidentifiable art-class and woodshop projects and every scrap of sentimentality have their place, but it's a very limited place. Save only those that really tug at the heart strings, not every crayon-scribbled, glitter-pocked piece of paper.

Speaking of paper, get rid of (most of) it. There's no need to save every single greeting card, every single receipt, every single recipe that one may have intended to try but never did. A paper shredder -- of which we found an unused one in Granny's possession -- comes in handy for such things.

Same goes for toiletry samples and hotel freebies. As Jim and his siblings chuckled about the blue tube after blue tube of the Clairol conditioning cream that comes with the hair color but is far too much for any normal woman to use as directed on the tube, I had to fess up that I have a handful, okay a basketful, of the very same conditioning cream tubes in my own bathroom cabinet. I'll be pitching those ... soon.

Thank you for these lessons and more, Granny. I'll do my best to soon institute them in my life, my home, my piles of stuff. I'll do it in honor of you -- and to nip in the bud the giggles, grins and guffaws sure to come from my daughters if they were to one day discover the Ziploc baggie I have filled with baby teeth individually wrapped in tissues, all deftly pulled from under pillows by this grandma formerly known as the Tooth Fairy.

Today's question:

Which of the "lessons" from above are you most in need of instituting in your life?

Common scents

Seems that White Castle fast-food restaurant chain, the king of mini burgers, has created a steam-grilled-on-a-bed-of-onions-scented candle in honor of its self-proclaimed National Hamburger Month. Crazy, I say. What's even crazier is that the candles sold out in 48 hours -- although the chain thought it had created enough for a two-month supply.

The candles were for a good cause -- to raise money for Autism Speaks -- but I just can't imagine having the scent of fast-food burgers wafting through my house.

I can, though, think of a few other non-traditional candle scents I'd be more than happy to light up.

For example, where some folks may get off on smelling burgers, I would definitely savor a candle that perfectly replicated the scent of garlic sauteeing to savory goodness in preparation for a scrumptious Italian dish. I would enjoy that smell any time, but it would come in particularly handy on those soup-and-sandwich nights, those oh-so-boring meals that stretch the budget but tax the taste buds.

Another food flavor I could savor the scent of would be onions ... yep, just plain ol' freshly cut onions. I love that smell as it brings back memories of young love. Weird, I know. But when Jim and I first started dating, we worked at Sonic -- the OLD Sonic Drive-Ins, not the new ones that sprouted up in the past 10-15 years (often on the same sites of the old Sonics that were torn down decades ago!). He was the manager, I was the car hop. Back in the day, Sonic offered freshly made onion rings, which meant one of the duties of the staff was to slice fresh onions then run the rings through a four-bucket process: water, then flour, then milk, then cornmeal. The battered up rings were then placed on racks for drying a bit while waiting for hungry customers to order them. I can't even count the number of nights Jim and I spent getting to know one another better, conversing as we dipped, dunked and dusted onions. Thirty years later, I still feel the flush of young love each time I slice an onion.

The ultimate food-flavored candle would be one of strong coffee brewing. I love, love, love highly-caffeinated coffee but usually don't touch the stuff after noon or it wreaks havoc on my brain and body come bedtime. But wouldn't it be truly wonderful to light up a coffee-scented candle come mid-afternoon? I think so.

Why stop there, though? No need to focus only on food scents. Already on the market are floral and spice and rain and forest candles, but the one scent I would relish on a regular basis is that of books! I have lots and lots of books, but it's definitely not enough to make me feel like I'm sitting between the shelves at the library, or even the bookstore. A calming sensation comes over me just by writing of such things; imagine the peace I'd find with one of those lit in this room and that. Plus, it'd give a whole new -- positive! -- meaning to burning books.

Last but not least, my candle collection would be made complete with a New Baby-scented candle. You know the smell I'm talking about. The one that envelops little rosy-cheeked bundles of joy, wrapped tightly in their receiving blankets and smelling like pure, unadulterated love, a scent that makes you want to nestle him under your chin, close your eyes and inhale his goodness. That is a candle I can see selling out in 48 hours. That is a candle that would surely help me on the days I really, really, really want to give my Bubby a big ol' grandma bear hug.

Of course, a baby-scented candle would need to be sold in a set, the second candle being that oh-so familiar Poopy Diaper scent. Just to bring me -- and other rapturous grandmas -- back to reality.

No photo needed for that one, right?

Today's question:

What scent would you love to have in a candle?