The weather has been unseasonably warm these days, up in the 70s for the high temperature. I decided that I should put away my scarves, as they are for colder weather.

I gathered the bulky, knitted scarves and put them in a basket. The fabric, smoother scarves, I arranged on a hanger. In picking up the last scarf, I did a double take and discovered a hidden treasure underneath the scarf pile: a wingback chair.

After securing the scarves in their new home in the closet (novel idea!), I stole an hour or so from my chores and sat down in the chair and read. Sweet!

I sat in my wingback chair, my dog Dusty was asleep on the dog bed near my feet, I had a hot cup of tea and a good book. Norman Rockwell would be proud.

(I’m probably the last to know that the wing chair design is hundreds of years old, from the late 17th century. The wings are actually functional, keeping the draft away from the seated person and keeping in the warmth of the fire. Somehow this chair from the 1700s looks in better shape than mine. Maybe it was protected, buried beneath a scarf pile for a long time.)

A wingback chair from the early 1700s at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

This is a rerun, but still applicable. Why don’t any commercials have women buying gifts for their men? And if you have any ideas about what to buy men for Valentine’s Day, you’ll let me know, right?
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Men get the short straw when it comes to a lot of “special” days, don’t you think?

Take Valentine’s Day. Pretty much everyone knows the stereotype gift of what the man is supposed to buy for the woman: chocolate candy and flowers. And what is the woman supposed to buy for the man, stereotypically speaking, that is?

Right. No one knows.

Then there are birthdays, anniversaries and Christmas. A man can’t hardly turn around before it’s time to figure out the next perfect present. And they are all supposed to be perfect, right? I can’t say that I have the answers to these questions. In fact, I don’t have the answer to all these questions. I can say that couples should look to their common interests for gift ideas. Hubby and I both like baseball.

You know the stereotype anniversary gift story: the man buys a woman what he wants to receive: golf clubs, new tools, a wax job (for the car!), sports magazines. I thought, “What a great idea!” Here’s how I’ve applied that structure. And it’s not a stereotype if I’m the only woman doing it. (Just how many of something does it take for a stereotype to get started?)

Anyway, the traditional gift for the 5th wedding anniversay is wood. The modern gift is silverware (if I can believe everything — or anything — I read on the Internet). I gave my lucky hubby a baseball book that I wanted to read: Wait Until Next Year by Doris Kearns Goodwin.

The traditional gift for the 10th wedding anniversay is tin or aluminum and the modern gift is diamond jewelry. I gave my lucky hubby a baseball book that I wanted to read: Luckiest Man: The Life and Death of Lou Gehrig by Jonathan Eig.

The traditional gift for the 15th wedding anniversay is crystal; the modern gift is watches. I gave my lucky hubby a baseball book that I wanted to read: Baseball in the Garden of Eden: The Secret History of the Early Game by John Thorn.

Of course, I let him read them first. After all, they are his gifts. I’m still trying to figure out perfect gifts to get him for his birthday, Valentine’s and Christmas. Hey! We both like football. Now that gives me an idea ….

When I return to my desk from a meeting, the sun has been shining through the window onto my chair. I sit down and immediately get back up. Whoa! Hot seat! Hot seat!

You are my sunshine . . .

This only happens in the winter, when the sun is low in the sky. In the summer, the sun is at a higher angle and its rays don’t reach my chair.

I never learn to turn my chair around when I get up to leave so that it doesn’t face the window. I could lower the blinds, but I don’t usually remember to do that. When I do, I decide that I just have to look out the window and I end up raising the blinds after only a few minutes.

It’s always something . . .