The Dude

Our Wild Car(d) Rental

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‘Scoring an F150 from Thrifty’

Not to sound like a summer deadbeat or anything — though I am kind of a deadbeat, and not just in summer — I was going to skip yet another week of blog-posting. (I was AWOL last week, in case you didn’t notice.)

My AWOL view; perfect for working on a photo book to commemorate the Living Wake

But then I realized that you Faithful Readers (Madeleine and Becca and Ruth, I’m talking to you) would wonder if I’d fallen off the face of the earth.

See, Dude Man and I are going on yet another of our Wacky Birdy Adventures, and we will be out of internet contact for three whole weeks. And gosh, if I didn’t write one of these things till the end of September, I might even lose Madeleine and Becca and Ruth!

Showing off a leech bite on one of our birdy adventures (Borneo). Now I’ve done it; you’re all going to Borneo

So, what’s been keeping me away from my keyboard? Ta-da! Another wedding, that’s what. And boy oh boy do I love weddings. I have said it before, but I’ll say it again: What’s not to love about a wedding? There’s a big gathering of family and friends, toasts and food and more toasts, and everybody’s happy. The only other time I can think of when this kind of thing goes on — well, except for maybe the “happy” part — is a wake. (Though a wake can be happy; read about my Oldest Younger Brother’s genius idea, his Living Wake, right here.)

Scott and me living it up at his wake

But what’s that about a rented F150, you might be asking. (A couple of 70-Somethings don’t exactly seem like the F150 type.) Well, this wedding took place on the Biltmore Estate — Biltmore being the name of the extremely large (more than 250 rooms) and extremely luxurious (an indoor heated pool and a bowling alley) house situated on equally large (some 30,000 acres) and equally luxurious (designed by Frederick Law Olmstead) property near Asheville, North Carolina, that the Biltmores built more than a hundred hears ago.

Dude Man, with the Biltmore mansion a hike away in the background

We booked rooms in the Biltmore Inn, since no one can stay at the mansion itself. (A pity; there are 33 guest rooms.) In the weeks leading up to the wedding, I received several emails from the Inn, inviting me to book events — dining (nah), flowers in the room (also nah), tickets to the mansion (yes!) — in advance. But we were also advised to rent a car. They said the property was way too big and shuttles too infrequent to opt out. (We also discovered that GPS was completely unreliable, but I’ll get to that.)

Dude Man again, with the Biltmore Inn a walk away in the background

So I scrounged around on the internet and found that the best car rental deal was through Thrifty. They have this thing called the “Wild Card.” Which is their cheapest option — even cheaper than those micro-compacts that look and feel like those clown cars they used to have in the circus. (Maybe they still do; I haven’t been to a circus in decades, thank god.) To get this cheaparino rate, you simply agree to take whatever car they might have available at the time. It’s a surprise — hence the “Wild Card” moniker.

Dude happily at the wheel of the F150. There was no way I was going to drive that thing. It made my Dad’s cars seem like Tonka Toys — see “Boats? Dad had yachts of them” for Dad-car stories

Well, I think they should just call it the Wild Car. Because what did we score? This brand-spankin’-new F150 truck, that’s what. It was shiny, it was blindingly white and fragrant with that lovely new-car smell. Wild, indeed. Also, it was huge. Not as huge as The Child’s F350 — which they used to haul their camper shell around the country during the late not-lamented Covid Lockdown — but way bigger than our Honda, that’s for sure.

We could have hauled the whole wedding party in that thing. Plus a cooler and some lawn chairs in the truck bed. (Which is something people did in my home town; we called it a “Clinton County Cadillac.”)

The happy couple. The groom is Dude Man’s cousin’s youngest son. Yes, we’re digging deep, wedding-wise

Oh yes, the GPS Thing. It took us ages to find the Biltmore Inn. When we programmed the address into Apple Maps, we kept getting sent to the employee-only entrance. Turns out everyone gets sent by GPS to the employee entrance — except for the employees. (Or so a very nice employee told us when we finally checked in. I had to get out in town and ask directions, which an antique-store-proprietor helpfully scribbled on the back of an old receipt. He even drew us a map. I felt bad not buying anything, but not after all that downsizing.)

Speaking of downsizing, I don’t want to expand on this story further. If I get too longwinded I might alienate even Madeleine and Becca and Ruth. I will leave you with a few more nice photos of where the Biltmores once roamed. I’ll be back with stories at the end of September — unless we get stampeded by elephants.

Me, making like a Biltmore

Dude, ditto

Dude, admiring the indoor pool. Nope, no water. It leaks

The two of us, plotting how to marry Biltmores. Except we’re already married, darn it

Amagansett, New York. August 2023

 

Hangin’ with Gouda, Jook and The Dude

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‘Those Dartmouth Boys do love their nicknames’

Many of you Faithful Readers think that I’m the one who dubbed The Dude “his Dudeness.” An honor I would love to claim, were it the truth.

But no. Wayne was The Dude way before I clapped eyes on him in the late lamented Shabu Shabu on our first date. (You can, of course, read about this sacred event in “The Time I Had A Blind Date with an Eye Doctor.”)

What The Dude looked like on our first date. Well, except he wasn’t wearing that white doctor coat at the time

He was christened “The Dude” because he showed up at the freshman mixer at Dartmouth College wearing a tie. This was in 1970, when Dartmouth Men were sporting fringed suede vests and/or leather hats instead of ties. (I have this on good faith from the suede-leather-vest guy, a perfectly lovely man nicknamed “Crud,” for some reason I’d really rather not know about. The Dude was the one with the leather hat.)

That’s Crud, seated left, with Dude and me. That’s Eleanor, Lady Shearing (“Ellie” to us) standing in back. Her husband was knighted by the Queen. Which is a great story: “She’d Better Put a Bell on It”

Like I say, those Dartmouth Boys do love their nicknames. It’s been ages since The Dude last sported a leather hat, but he and his bros still call each other by their college monikers.

Earlier this summer, one of Dude Man’s roommates, a man with the perfectly good name of Ken, contacted us to say he’d be in town — he and his lovely wife Ellen (no nickname that I know of) live in LA — and would we like to get together to have lunch?

“I’ll make a reservation, but it won’t be under “Jookbock,” was how he ended the conversation. See, Ken was quickly renamed “Bookjock” at Dartmouth because all he did was study. He studied all the time because he didn’t like Dartmouth (He really really wanted to go to Harvard) and wanted to get out of there as fast as he could. So he hit the books — “Bookjock” — and graduated early. Well, for some reason, “Bookjock” morphed into “Jookbock” (more fun to say, maybe? Dude Man can’t remember) and was eventually shortened to “Jook.” Which is pronounced like “book,” only with a “j.”

That’s “Oooo Come On,” or even more familiarly “Oooo” with The Dude and The Child as an actual child. He was called “Oooo Come On” because he was always urging himself on while playing squash. At D’mouth, of course

Also at this lunch was a guy named Gouda, whose mother named him Scott — a perfectly lovely name. I know because I have a brother named Scott. My Scott owes his Actual Name to a nickname — something I found out about at his Living Wake last week. (A thoroughly enjoyable event you can read about here.) Turns out Scott was named “Scott” in honor of our Dad’s nickname: “Scottie.” Dad got called this because when he was little his mother used him as kind of a dress dummy so she could pin up the hem of a skirt she was making for one of his sisters. Dad loved wearing the skirt and didn’t want to take it off. It was plaid — so, “Scottie.”

Two Younger Brothers at the Living Wake event last week. That’s Doug on the left and Scott-named-after-our-dad’s-nickname on the right

But back to the Dartmouth Scott. It was his mother who was responsible for the name “Gouda,” since she used to send him care packages of cheese. (At this point I have to wonder what kind of mother sends cheese care packages. My mom sent brownies, or sometimes Rice Krispy Treats.)

(Before I forget, I must point out, in the spirit of full disclosure, that the three Dartmouth guys in the photo at the top of this post are not, alas, Jook and Gouda. If they didn’t have nicknames, they certainly compensated with what appears to be a very nice marijuana crop.)

I’ll close by mentioning that The Dude and I did in fact have a most marvelous lunch with Gouda and Jook. Their wives too, though as far as I know, they don’t have nicknames. At least not nicknames they get called in public.

A gaggle of Dartmouth guys — all with nicknames

Amagansett, New York. August 2023

Don’t leave home without it.

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‘The one travel essential that never appears on a list’

A couple of weeks ago Dude Man and I had dinner with the kind of couple I love to do things with in the City. They’re up for just about anything and, if weeks — or even months — go by between dinners or whatever, it doesn’t matter one whit. We just take up where we left off and have a jolly good time.

I knew the woman from a zillion years ago at Ogilvy, but our friendship got rekindled when she and her husband were on a plane to Bonaire and happened to sit next to Dr. Dude. One thing led to another and, next thing you know, we were sharing a pizza on the island and cracking each other up.

Anyway, that was years ago, and we still get together every once in a while to share a pizza on an island (Manhattan now) — and, yes, crack each other up. This last time they were telling us an air travel horror story. Trust me, even air travel horror stories can be pretty darned funny well after the fact. (You know the famous saying, right? “Comedy equals Tragedy plus Time.” True, so true. For anecdotal evidence, try out “The Gate Nazi at JFK.” Horrible and hilarious.)

On the same trip (of Gate Nazi fame) our flights were delayed for so long we went back to the hotel for more birding. (See “Birders Gotta Bird”)

This particular air travel horror story did not involve authoritarian gate agents demanding the singing of Christmas carols. No, this time the horror involved a delay — the kind of dreadful delay that drags on and on and on, and, adding to the drag, no food or water or refreshments of any kind.

Me, warily contemplating my fate at a gate at JFK

Were our friends daunted by this delay? Well, they weren’t pleased, but they weren’t starving either. Because, with tremendous foresight, my friend had packed a peanut butter sandwich. (Well, actually, two peanut butter sandwiches. One for each of them.)

This, O Reader, is the Travel Trick that I never see on even the most comprehensive lists. I see packing cubes, I see headphones, I see phone chargers, I see collapsible pillows. But do I see “peanut butter sandwich?”

Oh, once in a while, I see a suggestion to bring “snacks.” But what do they mean? Fruit gets mushy. Cheese gets rubbery. And god forbid you bring something aromatic. I once was on a flight where my seatmate whipped out a carton of chinese food. And don’t get me started on the guy who brought some McDonald’s (!)

Yes, this was The Child’s travel snack. No, she did not try to bring it on the plane

True, a peanut-butter sandwich can exude a somewhat nutty aroma. But, other than that, and the fact that it might get a bit smooshed — a problem that can be mitigated by making it foldover style — a PB&J is portable, palatable and non-confrontational.

If you find yourself saying, right about now, “Oh, but I’m going to be on an international flight and they have to serve me food” or “But I’m going to be in first class and the food will be terrific” — listen up. Your Emergency PB&J won’t take up a lot of room, and, like a spare phone charger, you might be awfully glad you’ve got it with you. (See my friend’s photo of her international-flight dinner — cup of water plus weird cracker/cookie thingie — at the top of this post. That sandwich on the left? That’s her presciently provided-by-herself PB&J.)

Dude enjoying First Class on our flight to Ecuador. (The food was good)

And if you end up not needing your PB&J after all? Eat it when you get where you’re going. Then you won’t need to go out for pizza. Though you’re going to want to go out for pizza if you’re with friends like ours.

Amagansett, New York. June 2023

Grad School

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‘What I learned by going to reunions’

Last weekend The Child wasn’t here to help celebrate The Dude’s birthday. Which wasn’t too big a deal, because A) it wasn’t a Big Birthday (just one of those annoying all-too-frequently occurring regular ones) and B) she’s here now, so we’re celebrating the birthday this weekend instead.

Celebrating not one but two birthdays last weekend. With not one but two cakes!

So, where was Her Childness last weekend? Celebrating her ten-year college reunion, that’s where. And if you think all-too-frequent birthdays give one pause, chew on that.

The Child and I at her college graduation ten years ago. Neither one of us looks one iota different. Well, not to me, anyway

I know, I know. You’ve heard me whine enough already about how quickly time passes. But seriously? Little Sammie Jane has been out of college for ten years?

Dude Man takes the measure of The Child. Then puts a brick on her head

Oddly enough, she did not invite me to go to her reunion with her. Though there is precedent for Mom-As-Reunion Date. My mother attended my ten-year high-school reunion with me. And, yes, she was a splendid date indeed.

Gosh, I don’t know why The Child didn’t invite me to her reunion. I got to go to this graduation party, didn’t I?

I also went to my 20-year and 40-year high-school reunions, though sans Mom. And I went to Dude Man’s 15-year and his 50th reunion, too. It was supposed to be in 2020, Dude having graduated in 1970. But, thanks to Mr. Virus, 2020 was not a year for reunions–or any gatherings, for that matter. And whomever was in charge of rescheduling sort of dropped the ball.

A couple of weeks ago Dude Man and I were happily ensconced in Amagansett with a major rainstorm of the deluge variety raging outside, when he plays a message left on his phone. Something about a 50th Reunion Bash being held that very night. “Did I want to go?” I motioned out the window. “Are you kidding?”

Well, one look at his little classmate-craving face and I caved. Soon we were hydroplaning our way on the Long Island Expressway back to Manhasset. Where 25 or so of his almost-200-strong Class of ’70 were gathered, damp but happy, clutching cocktails and peering intently at each other’s nametags.

The nametags, helpfully, were emblazoned with each attendee’s high-school yearbook photo. Although, sadly, this was not the one on The Dude’s. (hubba hubba)

So here’s where I go out on a limb and share what I’ve learned after going to so many high-school reunions. At the ten-year reunion, the men look better than the women. That’s because the women have tenaciously clung to the look they had in high school. Same hair style, same makeup techniques. But ten years have passed; maybe that flip needs to flop. They’ve also gained a few pounds. The men are still rocking high-school style too, but somehow it doesn’t matter, men’s styles not being quite so, well, changeable.

That’s Stanley rocking men’s style circa 1968. Still works, doesn’t it?

At the 20-year reunion, it’s the opposite. The women have figured it out. They’ve ditched the bouffants and (mostly) the pounds and look pretty darned terrific. Bonus discovery: the wallflowers have blossomed. So much so that (at my own 20-year bash) I heard more than one man exclaim to a formerly-invisible girl, “Sally (not her real name, of course) is that you?!?”

Meanwhile, the men have lost their hair and gained some paunch. Oh well. It pretty much all evens out at the (gasp) 50.

Oh. Before I forget — and before you ask. What about my college reunions? Didn’t I go to any of them? Well, actually, no. And not because I didn’t want to. No, as far as I know, good ole University of Missouri isn’t big on reunions. At least I’ve never heard tell of one. Gosh, maybe the rest of my class has been having incredible bashes every ten years since 1973 — and I just haven’t been asked.

Me, in college. Wouldn’t you want to get together with such a fun-looking girl at a reunion? One would think so.

I’ve been to Dude Man’s college reunions, though. The ten and the twenty. Here’s what I learned. The men at the ten (this was an all-guy’s school) were handsome and successful and showed off their wives and cars. At the twenty, they were (mostly) still handsome, and they were in the same cars — but they had new wives. I can hardly wait to see what they’re all up to at the 50th next year.

Dude and a bunch of Dartmouth Dudes at a reunion. Not sure which one, since The Dude, darn him, never ever changes

Oh, if, unlike me (I’m talking to you, Kim!) you’ve been to a Mizzou reunion, please keep it to yourself. Meanwhile, I’ll just keep going to any ole random reunion that’ll have me. Oh, and birthday parties.

Amagansett, New York. June 2023

 

 

“This old thing?”

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‘How to respond to a compliment’

Perhaps you’ve noticed this: women are funny about compliments. Approach one with “Wow, what a pretty dress!” or “Gee, I love that coat” or — as I exclaimed at a recent party — “I seriously want to bonk you over the head and steal that bag!” and she is apt to reply with an abashed “This? I’ve had this for years.”

Or, if you live in New York, like I do, she may very well reply with “This? It was an absolute steal at a sample sale.” Or “My brother-in-law is a furrier.” Or, simply, “I got it at Loehmann’s.”

Yup. I got that dress at Loehman’s. Wore it to so many parties that, at one, a woman said, “Oh, we’ve met; I remember that dress“

Whether a dress, a coat, earrings (“They were my grandmother’s”) or even a haircut (“I know a guy in Chinatown”) — whatever draws your compliment, it seems to be a feminine gambit to deflect it.

Sporting the fur that a blog fan sent me (seriously!)

Guys don’t do this. Or at least not many of them do. At The Child’s wedding (which was amazing, and which you can read about here), when I complimented a man on his dinner jacket (It was also amazing; white silk), I got, “It was my father’s.”

Amazing white jacket at the amazing wedding

But that’s pretty rare. Usually you just get a “whah?” look, like they completely forgot what they have on. Which, if we’re talking about The Dude, is probably the case.

No one complimented Dude Man on his “raincoat.” Though it would have been fun to hear his reply

I won’t try to analyze or explain why it is that some women have such a hard time with compliments. I say “some women” because my mother has it down. You say, “Omigoodness, those earrings are gorgeous!” and she’ll smile and say, “thank you.” That’s it. “Thank you.”

Mom showing off the earrings Favorite Only Sister Laura brought her from Mexico

I wrote a piece called “How Much is Too Much to Pay for a Party Dress?” that proved pretty popular. (Thank you!) It was about my CPW Theory, “CPW” standing for “cost per wearing.” Basically, it means that you divide the cost of an item by how many times you wear it. That 20-buck purple H&M top costs a full $20 if you wear it once; whereas that Burberry coat I’ve worn hundreds of times? It’s practically free by now.

And the compliments I get? Priceless. In fact, another way to interpret “CPW” is “compliments per wearing.” Which, thanks to my mother, I’m learning to accept with a smile — and a modestly murmured “thank you.”

Or maybe not-so-murmured (!)

Amagansett, New York. May 2023

 

 

 

 

Mr. Malaprop

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‘”But that’s what I’ve always called it,” and other Dudeisms.’

I flew home from my Mom’s yesterday, and boy are my arms tired. Almost too tired to peck away at my keyboard. But I already missed last week’s missive — because I was at Mom’s — and I daren’t let too many postless weeks go by or I will lose my thousands of subscribers. Kidding.

Three Mom Amigos at a lilac garden

So. Mom’s visit. It was super satisfying, what with outings to lilac gardens and riverfront eating establishments and such, plus plenty of Sister Sightings, which are always my favorite part. Sigh.

Hanging out at Laura’s. Even more fun than a lilac garden

But back to the topic of today: Dude Man’s somewhat trying and definitely hilarious habit of peppering conversations with words or phrases that are, well, somewhat off. Not quite wrong, like insisting that “night” is called “day” or “black” is called “white.” But pretty close. And, what’s even more Dudelike, insisting, when gently corrected, that his usage is correct.

For example (speaking of “night” and “day”). The Dude and I have been trying to incorporate morning walks into our daily routine. Since his office hours start around 7:30 — he is a doctor, as you may recall — these walks have to start early. Like around 5:30. AM.

Which means we get to see the sun rise over Central Park. (Gorgeous, BTW.) Invariably, His Dudeness will look out over the Lake as we’re crossing Bow Bridge and say, “Ah, look at the lovely twilight.” Then, when I point out that the appearance of first light is called “dawn,” and that “twilight” refers to the fading of light in the evening, he insists that “twilight” works just fine — because “that’s what I’ve always called it.”

I don’t have a photo of us in Central Park at dawn (er, “twilight”) but I do have this one (and the one at the top of this post), showing twilight in Brazil

Another example. As you may recall, I’m sort of never not knitting something. Baby sweaters, usually. Because they’re little and fun and fast, but mainly because I’m hoping somebody out there will take the hint, already. The last one I did was a cardigan.

One of my latest sweaters. Definitely not Dude-sized. And definitely not a “button-down.” It’s called a “cardigan”

Dude Man duly admired it, then asked if I could knit him one too. (Larger, for sure. And probably not pink.) Since he never wears the many sweaters I have already knit for him — which have lived in a lonely stack in his closet ever since he discovered Polarfleece — I asked what would qualify this hypothetical sweater for actual wearing.

Oh, it would be a vest. So it would fit under jackets. (He has vests, I point out. Vests he never wears. Under jackets or anything else.) Oh, I’d like one that buttons down the front. You know, a button-down.

One of the many vests I have knit him. It does have buttons, but only part way down the front

A “button-down?” I say. “A button-down” is a shirt. A shirt with buttons that hold the collar down.

No it’s not. A “button-down” is anything that buttons down the front. Like a shirt. Or a sweater, he insists.

A cardigan is a sweater that buttons down the front, I insist right back. If you go in a store and ask for a “button-down,” they’re going to bring you a shirt with those little buttons on the collar. They are most definitely not going to bring you a sweater that buttons down the front.

Well, he huffs. That’s what I’ve always called sweaters like that.

Another sweater that Dude would call a button-down. And that everyone else calls a cardigan. This one wasn’t for him either

Okay. I give up. (Big sigh goes here.)

This post is reminding me of one of my father’s favorite jokes — one that he taught The Child to tell at family gatherings. Here goes:

A woman is walking down a country lane carrying a duck. A man walks by and asks, “What are you doing with that pig?” The woman replies, “That’s not a pig — that’s a duck.” Man: “I was talking to the duck.”

New York City. May 2023

Let them eat Bunny Cake

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‘An Easter treat that’s hard to beat’

I just realized that I really should have posted this story before Easter. That way you all could have whipped out your cake pans and created a bunny to dig into after your ham or lamb. (Note: we never had lamb at Easter; my mother swears it smells like “hot wet sweaters.”)

Speaking of sweaters, here’s my latest. I haven’t gotten it hot or wet, so I don’t know if it smells like lamb

Oh well, you still could “do” a bunny cake. They’re awfully fun to make, and, what with the coconut frosting and the jellybean whiskers, tasty too.

Besides, bunnies don’t really have anything to do with Easter. Not really. Bunnies and eggs were pagan fertility symbols that the early Christians appropriated; they decided they were symbols of the resurrection of Jesus. Though I have a suspicion that the real reason for “stealing” those heathen bunnies and eggs was to cheer up an inherently downer holiday. (Crown of thorns? Dying on a cross? I mean, even rising from the dead isn’t exactly cheerful.)

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“Watch the birdie!”

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‘And watch out for water balloons!’

Not only did I promise to pry some bird photos out of Dude Man’s camera and share them with you this week, I forgot to tell you about a pretty important part of our trip.

Here’s a Green-Backed Trogon. Nice, huh?

And that’s the fact that our birding expedition to the wilds of SE Ecuador happened to coincide with Carnival. Now, we do celebrate Mardi Gras, sort of, in some parts of the good ole U S of A. Once, in fact, I almost had a heart attack when The Child traveled to New Orleans with a group of college buds to participate in the revelry there.

Her Childness and Friend meet a shark on the streets of New Orleans

But trust me when I tell you that no one celebrates the days leading up to Lent (AKA “Carnival”) like our neighbors to the South.

But first — even before Carnival — there was The Wedding. We arrived on a Thursday and went to our very nice hotel near the airport to rest up for our trip further south the next morning. (This is the place featuring Sylvester, the Hotel Cat. Last week’s story has a photo.) Little did we know that the hotel was hosting a wedding. (We did see the white tents, and had our suspicions.) Soon enough, we were assaulted by the sound of happy wedding guests dancing the night away. And it wasn’t even the wedding yet. This was just pre-party stuff. Thank heaven for ear plugs.

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How much is too much to pay for a party dress?

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‘Read this before handing over your credit card’

Apologies for being (sort of) late with this week’s post. Unless you’ve been living under an undecorated rock, you too have been attending party after holiday party and don’t have a lot of time for relaxing pursuits like blog writing.

Part of the fun of these parties, for me anyway, is dressing up. What’s the fun of going to a party if you can go “casual?” Since I retired, “casual” is how I dress pretty much 24/7. I like a little duding up.

Speaking of “duding up,” here’s his Dudeness looking extremely spiffy in black tie. Dressing up is so easy for guys

I was at a party last week where I admired a woman’s earrings. (Hi, Elizabeth!)  Coincidentally, we were both talking to another woman who was also wearing stunning sparkly earrings. (Hi, Kim!) Turns out they both got them at the same time, from the same jeweler. And they both spent outrageous sums on them. (No, I did not ask how much.)

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“I want to see what I’m eating”

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‘Let there be light. Very bright light.’

We were about to introduce “Tell No One,” a really great multi-watchable movie (I’ve seen it at least a dozen times) to our multi-Thanksgivingable pals Jim and Phyllis (they’ve been Turkey Guests at least 20 times) when Jim says, “I think we could dim those lights, can’t we?”

Jim, bless his dimmer-loving heart, just secured a Thanksgiving invitation for at least the next 20 years. Or as long as I can lift a 20-pound turkey. (Probably not 20 years, but one can hope.)

That’s Jim (in red shirt) describing a cheese. (Note turned-off ceiling lights) Of course, it is still daytime. Barely

See, I hate bright lights. Especially bright ceiling lights. In fact, if it were up to me, there would be no ceiling lights. Just discreetly placed table lamps. Maybe a standing lamp here and there.

I am particularly fond of cabinet lighting, like this in the Ken & Barbie House *sigh*

But guess who loves lights, the brighter the better? Three guesses, and the first two don’t count.

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