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Posts Tagged ‘toggle button’


The train portier is softly whistling a Peggy Lee tune as he tip-toes by my cabin, the full moonlight is shining through the half-covered window, and tall fir trees are zooming by. It is the wonderful night; Francy and Lulu have finally settled down, worn out by gambling and caviar. I have changed into my grey lawn pajamas printed in a subtle herringbone pattern and fastened with striped mother of pearl shell buttons, am sipping the last of my cooling chai, and eating a delicate midnight snack of flaky roasted chestnut cookies.
Well alright, okay, you win
I’m in love with you
Well alright, okay, you win
Baby, what can I do?
I’ll do anything you say
It’s just got to be that way”

(By S. Wyche and M. Watts)

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My mantra for this week is “no more cake!”…repeated as needed. I am willing to concede to pumpkin cheesecake with a gingersnap pecan crust, as it is packed that most delicate of proteins, cream cheese. I have decided to visit the park, and sprinkle slices of cheesecake along the pathway from the fall mums to the fading roses. Channeling a persona somewhere between the Pied Piper and Hansel and Gretel, I take off with my wicker hamper of creamy cheesecake. Who can resist a sly seducer in a black suede cloak with black horn toggle buttons, Kelly green elfin shoes, and an armful of goodies?
We’re off to see the Wizard
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
We hear he is a Whiz of a Wiz
If ever a Wiz there was
If ever, oh ever, a Wiz there was
The Wizard of Oz is one because
Because, because, because, because, because
Because of the wonderful things he does
We’re off to see the wizard
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz!”

(By H. Arlen)

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I’m hurrying to meet you, running in hopes of avoiding too much of the coming rain. There is something about the approaching silvery drizzle that reminds me of rushing home after school, with my canvass book-bag filled with tattered notebooks, class textbooks, lunch remains, and my recorder thumping against my back. If I arrived home drenched from an icy autumn downpour, my mother would serve me steamy hot chocolate with miniature marshmallows dissolving on top, and buttery, crunchy cinnamon toast. I make it to the café just as the storm hits, and duck in gratefully, unbuttoning my tan leather jacket with two-toned quadrilateral vintage buttons. I order luscious sweet potato gnocchi with brown butter thyme sauce from the black-haired waitress with the embroidery scissors tattooed upon her wrist, and she brings it to me in a turquoise blue rough pottery bowl. She whistles as she walks away.
“When I was young, I fell in love
I asked my sweetheart what lies ahead
Will we have rainbows, day after day
Here’s what my sweetheart said.
Que Sera, Sera,
Whatever will be, will be
The future’s not ours, to see
Que Sera, Sera
What will be, will be.”

(By J. Livingston, Jay and R. Evans)

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Later on tonight, I am having guests over for snacks and board games. I stack the games on top of my Limbert oval library table, and survey the bounty; I want to cover all bases, so have Chutes and Ladders and Candyland for the young at heart, Monopoly for the blood-thirsty, and Scrabble for the intellectuals. I am making Asian chilled sesame squares, baked brie with sweet caramelized onions, cornmeal-coated fried smelts, and chewy rice crispie treats. Francy and Lulu find the smelts inveigling, invigorating, and intensely interesting, so for everyone’s good have been temporarily shunted into the bathroom. I turn up the music and dress, clipping my doggie-print brocade bow tie to the collar of my cream cotton lawn shirt, and fastening the striped mother of pearl shell buttons on my butterscotch-colored leather vest.
“Les escaliers de la butte sont durs aux misereux
Les ailes du moulin protegent les amoureux
Petite mandigotte je sens ta menotte qui cherche ma main
Je sens ta poitrine et ta taille fine
J’oublie mon chagrin
Je sens sur tes levres une odeur de fievre de gosse mal nourri
Et sous ta caresse je sens une ivresse qui m’aneantit”

(By G. Van Parys and J. Renoir)

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Where and what is home? Is home the collected sweet memories of childhood; the smell of celery salt as I help my grandmother season potato salad, or the feeling of icy creek water as I dive in naked to swim to the rock in the middle. Is home contained in the soothing, warm space formed by the love of my family and friends? Is home my apartment, my past and my present signified by mementos, the walls painted with my favorite colors, the spicy scent of Luxo Banho sandalwood soap in my shower….my home a beautiful cave which shelters and comforts me. The nature of home is what I contemplate as I ponder whether to travel east or west. As I walk down the dark alleys of Istanbul, I wrap my black full-length leather cloak tighter and fasten its black conical horn buttons to ward of the chill of indecision. I see a pale yellow light spilling from a pink painted doorway, and enter into a tiny full teahouse. Soon I have a cup of steaming mint tea, a plate of rolls, and a pot of cornalian cherry marmalade to spread upon the bread.
“They call it stormy Monday,
But Tuesday’s just as bad
They call it stormy Monday,
But Tuesday’s just as bad
Lord and Wednesday’s worse,
Thursday’s oh so sad.”

(By the legendary T-Bone Walker)

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Francy and I pull into Sägmühle, located in the “Tal der Liebe” in the Palatinate Forest. She has played herself out, and is curled up on the dashboard like a pair of snoring fuzzy dice. I’m tired, grumpy, and have eaten too much cake. The sun is starting to set, and the cool forest night air is blowing in over the lake. I put Francy on her leash, cook myself a leek and goat cheese frittata, eat, make up my bed with air-dried cotton sheets, and then settle down to relax with a little Marlene Dietrich on my accordion. I do not eat any more cake. I’m wearing worn denim overalls with antler horn buttons, a long sleeved black waffle knit shirt with holes in the elbows, sienna home-knit socks, and orange high-tops. Tomorrow, the plan is to play on the outdoor ping-pong tables. Yeah, ping-pong!
“You do something to me
Something that simply mystifies me
Tell me, why should it be?
You have the power to hypnotize me
Let me live ‘neath your spell
Do do that ‘voodoo’ that you do so well
Oh, you do something to me
That nobody else could do.”

(By Cole Porter)

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I am a passenger on the ricketiest bus imaginable. We are queasily bumping along on a dusty, rocky road traveling through some nameless county; I have passed through so many border stations that now I’m only aware of the continent. I am restless, traveling to fill my eyes and heart. I lean back on my ratty, cracked lime green vinyl seat, and poke at the spring that is half undone directly under my left hip. Night is coming quickly, along with a chill. I button my black herringbone wool duffle coat with grey half barrel toggle buttons, and wrap my stripped wool Breton scarf more tightly around my neck. The woman next to me offers me a salted hard-boiled egg, which I accept gratefully.
“I tramp a perpetual journey, (come listen all!)
My signs are a rain-proof coat, good shoes, and a staff cut from the woods,
No friend of mine takes his ease in my chair,
I have no chair, no church, no philosophy,
I lead no man to a dinner-table, library, exchange,
But each man and each woman of you I lead upon a knoll,
My left hand hooking you round the waist,
My right hand pointing to landscapes of continents and the public road.
Not I, not anyone else can travel that road for you,
You must travel it for yourself.”

(By Walt Whitman. Song of Myself, Part 46)

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