Oliver Edward Odell

One of Oak Groves' most beloved octogenarians was found dead on his kitchen floor. Oliver Edward Odell, a long time sufferer of OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder), was cleaning his oven when he was overtaken by the lemony odor of oven cleaner. Oliver, born right here in Oak Grove, Ohio October 1, 1929, was the only child of Oscar and Odette (Oppenheimer) Odell. He married Olivia Orin on February 14, 1948. She preceded him in death. There were no offspring. Mr. Odell was a lifetime member of the Grand Order of the Ogling Owls and served four five-year terms as president. He also loved reading, walking and obsessive house cleaning. Calling hours was Tuesday evening at the Orlando Mortuary. Burial service was at Out of the Way Cemetery in Oak Grove, Ohio.

Danger Days

Since I “came out” to myself as having a mental illness, societal stigmas be damned, I realized that I would have to take responsibility for, among other things of course, monitoring my state of mind and then taking appropriate action when necessary. I believe that I am currently experiencing an “alert status: red” day, in which I could potentially say or do things that would have destructive results for me. For instance, I am having recurring ideations and impulses to post statements on this blog that could literally get me hauled off with a bag over my head. And that’s just not okay. If it should arise that I am ever prosecuted for intemperate comments - and mind you, I can guarantee that they will never devolve into intemperate acts - then you should perhaps mention on my behalf that I am not at all times possessing my full faculties. So, I’m going to practice some self-care regimen items - I’m going to get up and drink some water and take a 3 minute walk. See you later :)

Vintage Avon Beauty

Are you on for seeing make up from 1975 or 1976? Fasten your seatbelt, I'm taking you on a time travel. I'm always late on new collections (don't blame me, I live beyond the pond and polishes must swim to come to me) but that time, I'm literally going beyond myself: 35 years late no more no less. When I found 3 old Avon catalogues belonging to my mother in a cardboard box also belonging to my mother (from the time she was a Avon ambassador), I was super excited. Like a little girl who found a penny. Like a flea. I'm not a nostalgic person, quite the contrary, but for some reason I love to see how things were long ago, the kind of colors that were being released at that time, the packaging. Oldies, especially in beauty, amuse me. No big deal if I like stuff I can't get, it's fun! I couldn't not share this and did some scan for your viewing pleasure. I hope you enjoyed the time travel! On a side note, I've been amazed to find a glitter emerald nail polish in this catalogue. I expected to find only pinks, corals and red (and reality didn't contradicted me in some ways). But those catalogues are clearly telling me that green was in trend even before blue. I would have though that it was the opposite, that blue, and even purple appeared before green. Not you?


Harry Potter and The Chamber of Secrets

When I read it, I feel as if there is a new element in the world. What I mean is, it puts that childlike hope back into everyday life. Rowling captures magic in her tale. Somehow she manages to tap into that place when elves were real, and quests were possible, and that’s why this story works. Because Rowling is a story-teller. She digs past reason and touches hope and ignites the imagination so that Harry Potter is not a character, he is real. My favorite scenes are always the ones in the Great Hall: The Great Hall looked magnificent. Not only were there a dozen frost-covered Christmas trees and thick streamers of holly and mistletoe crisscrossing the ceiling, but enchanted snow was falling, warm and dry, from the ceiling. Dumbledore led them in a few of his favorite carols, Hagrid booming more and more loudly with every goblet of eggnog he consumed. I want to be in that Great Hall. I was getting ready for work earlier this week, and just thinking about the idea that Harry Potter is pretend. That he doesn’t really exist. That there is no Hogwarts. That none of it ever happened. Don’t you just want to laugh when you imagine that? Just two books in, and of course it happened! If we can imagine Harry Potter, then he is real. Because even though we cannot actually see Hogwarts because we are Muggles, it is there. That’s why I should reread this one day in 20 when I’m remembering it and wondering if I should bother. Somehow, with nothing but a twenty-six letter alphabet and her imagination, Rowling makes me laugh when I imagine a world without Harry Potter.

Next is The Prisoner of Azkaban! I’ve heard a few of you say recently that The Chamber of Secrets is your least favorite in the series. So I’m pretty excited that it’s all uphill from here! I love that the series apparently gets better and better, finishing with an explosive Book 7, according to many of you! I asked a girl at work the other day what her favorite book is. I work at a bookstore, so I assume we are all readers there and find “What is your favorite book?” a good ice-breaker. She looked embarrassed and squirmed a bit and finally listed a lot of high-brow literature as among her favorites before finally conceding that Book #7 in the Harry Potter coloring pages series is her favorite book of all time. “I know it’s not great literature, but it’s my favorite,” she said, blushing. “Why would you be embarrassed by that?” I asked. “Who cares about high-brow literature? Literature gets into us and comes to life. That’s what literature should do. Sometimes that’s through an intellectual awakening, and sometimes it’s because it sweeps us away. It doesn’t matter how it gets to us, just that it does.” Then I told her that one of my favorite books is the children’s book Charlotte’s Web by E.B. White. And that I am currently reading Harry Potter for the first time, which inspired an eye-firing conversation which included her expressing complete jealousy that I am experiencing it for the first time. She can’t wait for me to get to Book #7. This is a magical book. I felt transported to a world under London that I believe “could” exist, while reading. I seriously smiled for the whole second half of this book.

Harrison Bergeron as The Feminist Ideal

The year was 2081, and everybody was finally equal. They weren’t only equal before God and the law. They were equal every which way. Nobody was smarter than anybody else. Nobody was better looking than anybody else. Nobody was stronger or quicker than anybody else. All this equality was due to the 211th, 212th, and 213th Amendments to the Constitution, and to the unceasing vigilance of agents of the United States Handicapper General. Some things about living still weren’t quite right, though. April for instance, still drove people crazy by not being springtime. And it was in that clammy month that the H-G men took George and Hazel Bergeron’s fourteen-year-old son, Harrison, away. It was tragic, all right, but George and Hazel couldn’t think about it very hard. Hazel had a perfectly average intelligence, which meant she couldn’t think about anything except in short bursts. And George, while his intelligence was way above normal, had a little mental handicap radio in his ear. He was required by law to wear it at all times. It was tuned to a government transmitter. Every twenty seconds or so, the transmitter would send out some sharp noise to keep people like George from taking unfair advantage of their brains. George and Hazel were watching television. There were tears on Hazel’s cheeks, but she’d forgotten for the moment what they were about. On the television screen were ballerinas. The television program was suddenly interrupted for a news bulletin. It wasn’t clear at first as to what the bulletin was about, since the announcer, like all announcers, had a serious speech impediment. For about half a minute, and in a state of high excitement, the announcer tried to say, “Ladies and Gentlemen”. He finally gave up, handed the bulletin to a ballerina to read. And she had to apologize at once for her voice, which was a very unfair voice for a woman to use. Her voice was a warm, luminous, timeless melody. “Excuse me-” she said, and she began again, making her voice absolutely uncompetitive. Harrison Bergeron is a short story written by Kurt Vonnegut.

The Perfect Love

"We waste time looking for the perfect lover, instead of creating the perfect love", Tom Robbins once said. I couldn't agree more. Somewhere on the road, we've all stopped looking for the perfect bond and chose instead to look for this ideal "other one", our better half, the part missing, etc. When only concentrating on this other person, we take ourselves out of the equation, and, most importantly, we forget to think about the bond that ties two human beings almost without explanation. Some call it chemistry. I for one consider it to be more than a feeling, although totally depending on the awkward tingling. Well, as pretty and smart as she can be, no woman can help you create a perfect love without being entirely connected to you. Don't get me wrong. I’m a man, and like all men I get easily attracted to beautiful women. Still, that has nothing to do with the vibe you get from that one woman who can share everything with you: your joys, your disappointments, your beliefs and your fears. I had the chance of meeting the person for whom I try every day to create the perfect love.

Ok, she doesn't share my fear of aliens, and she might not be perfect (please God, don't let her read this blog) but our relationship is perfect, with ups and downs, but still perfect. Most of my friends are either single and disappointed or looking for very beautiful women with whom they often have nothing in common. If you are in neither of these situations, you already found yourself a keeper and you just want to know how perfect love feels like, this is my advice: don't let a day go by without showing her how much you care about her. I'm talking presents on pay day, flowers when you are running out of money and, most of all, words. Yes gentlemen, if you can feel it, you can spell it. Desperate times call for desperate measures so when trying to win her back after a fight, click here for some beautiful love poems for her. We were not all born Shakespeare but your best weapon when fighting not to lose her are love poems for her. While at it, throw some chocolates or flowers, it can't hurt.