Novice Is Writing

Mildred Herman. The first character in the Old Ladies Murder Club.

2009-10-13T07:07:00.000-07:00

Mildred Herman is 77 years old. She's neither tall not short, with large grey eyes and short grey hair. She has kind of a beaky nose, and a wide mouth. She never wears makeup, and the only jewelry she wears are her wedding and engagement rings. She was married for 52 years to Howard Herman. Howard died two years ago at age 86, peacefully, and in his sleep. They had one daughter, Nancy, who lives in Marlboro with her husband (Tom). Nancy has a daughter in college, and two kids in high school (Theresa 20, Christine 17, and Gregory 15).

Mildred is a serious lady. Not humorless, but she's not one to stand nonsense. She's smart, practical and blunt. She got her degree when her daughter started school and worked as an accountant. You do not want to be a neighborhood kid who breaks her window with a baseball, because she'll call your parents, make you clean up the glass, and keep the ball (there are three baseballs displayed on her mantel). You'll do it, too, because you're scared of her. Her father played for the Pawtucket Red Sox from 1925-1930, and her entire family are staunch baseball fans. When the Red Sox won in 2004, her husband claimed it was the only time he every saw her cry, and she SOBBED.

Mildred's best friend is her twin brother, John Abbott. John and his wife, Mary lived next door to Mildred and Howard for 40 years. Five years ago, Mary died of breast cancer. Four years ago, John got a mutt from the shelter named Louis. Louis isn't an unfriendly dog, but he only likes a few people. Namely, John, John's son Donald and Mildred.

Blame my Mother

2009-10-13T07:01:00.000-07:00

Agnes is taking a nap on the fourth of July, and she's going to be napping a while. I'm stalled on her story, and it's kind of my mother's fault.

She got me onto my Old Ladies Murder Club.

It's actually a quilter's circle at the Lancaster St. Congregational Church in Worcester (which does not actually exist*). Five old ladies who meet three times a week to quilt, drink tea...and eventually start bumping off jerks. They're based on the old ladies who used to watch me when my Mother was pastor at her first church and I was a baby. As far as I know, they didn't ever kill anyone.

*the church does not exist. Worcester does.

Primal Tongues

2009-09-20T05:42:00.001-07:00

I have been invited to read some stuff I wrote.

The first Thursday of every month, Adelle's Coffeehouse in Dover, NH hosts Primal Tongues .

I'll be going on between 7 and 8pm. I will be reading about some sassy little old ladies.

Here's the address:

Adelle's Coffee House
3 Hale St.
Dover, NH 03820
(603) 742-1737
http://adellescoffeehouse.com

I kind of hope I'm going on at 7, because the other featured reader is the writer of "The Simplest of Acts". Melanie Haney is one of my favorite authors and it would be pretty dang intimidating to follow her.

Here's a link to Melanie Haney's book at amazon:

http://www.amazon.com/Simplest-Acts-Other-Stories/dp/0557035902

Friday Morning in September.

2009-09-18T09:08:00.000-07:00

Breakfast is coffee and an apple on the porch. I slept badly, and I’m grouchy, but Sam was begging to go outside, and it is a beautiful day. Things change when I smell the air.

I love Autumn. Love it love it love it. I would gladly take a month from each of the other seasons to get an extra three months of this. The sky is so blue and the sun is so bright without being hot, and the breeze...ahhhh.

We’re in jeans and light sweaters, socks and sneakers. We can stay out longer, because we’re not sweaty and worn out, and no biting bugs! Sam wants me to blow bubbles, and since the air isn’t heavy and still anymore, the bubbles race each other up the driveway, then turn and burst on the tree. We draw bunnies in rockets and race cars on the driveway. We ramble around the yard with the red wagon, until Sam wants to pull the handle himself, and it whacks him in the face. He’s okay, but cries some big tears and wants to be petted. Then he sniffs a little and asks for Wallce and Gromit...and grapes. I pick up Arwen, who is contentedly trying to eat the lawn, and Sam takes my hand.

I am excited, though we’re going inside, because my favorite time of year is here again, and it has made me forget how I felt when I woke up.

“So, how is Eddie?” Amanda asks her brother “How long until he’s back?”

2009-09-14T19:25:00.000-07:00

“Ugh. Eight more weeks. You’d think after a year it wouldn’t be so hard, but I swear the days get so much longer the closer it gets. And he’s fine. Misses me more than he can say.”

Literally. Eddie is Mike’s boyfriend of the last four years, the latest of them spent in Afghanistan with the Marines. Some people do not care how many lives you have saved. If the love you left back home is a dude, you could get into trouble. Mike tries not to be bitter about this, but months ago he was denied entry to a support group “for military wives”. He has found support on the internet, and what little his sister can offer him, she does. He does appreciates it.

Daniel and his ex-wife Debbie have tremendous pride in their gorgeous daughter, with her perfect marriage, blossoming career and healthy, bright children. Mike is regarded as the one they loves “despite his being gay”. It is not Amanda’s fault that they do this, but it itches Mike.

His two favorite relations are his Granna Agnes, and his cousin Caroline.

Agnes slowly beings to rise from her chair. Her grandchildren begin to ask her if she needs help with anything.

“I’m fine, dears. I think I’ll just go lie down in my room for a while. Michael can help me in.”

She smells like sunshine and tea leaves. Michael has her on his arm, and he walks her into her house and down the hall to her first floor bedroom. She has a large bed with a plethora of crisp white pillows, ARL embroidered on them. An entire wall is covered with photos, all in black wood frames, spanning over seventy years. They are not in any order, but Agnes can tell you who they all are, and when they all are.

Michael helps her slip off her shoes. She removes her hat, and Michael takes it and places it into the pink hat box that is open on her dresser. Since the age of fourteen, Agnes has never left her house without a hat. She currently has twenty one.

She lies back and sighs. She closes her eyes, and Michael stands.

"Want me to leave you alone, Gran?"

"I think so, Michael. I'll just take a short nap. If I'm not up in half an hour, will you get me?"

"Sure thing, lady."

She is sleeping, with a smile, before he is even down the hallway.

The massive lunch is over.

2009-08-11T11:32:00.000-07:00

Either the veggie burgers were discovered, or Karen didn’t know she wasn’t eating one.

Agnes’s son is sleeping in a lounge chair, his old fishing hat over his face. The baby boomers are in chairs around her, talking about work, politics, their kids. Amanda’s husband has carried their unconscious three year old upstairs to nap in one of the guest rooms. Amanda and Mike, sit a few yards away from the “old” folks, their heads together, their voices low. Sophie is halfway up the tree with a book. Maddison is sleepier than she wants to admit, and has retreated indoors to play with some dolls. When her father comes down the stairs in less than ten minutes, he will find his daughter face down in a small pile of Groovy Girls, out cold.

Agnes turns her head only a little, but she sees all of this. At the moment, no one is directly interacting with her, so she lets her memories of twenty, forty, sixty years occupy her mind.

Her mind doesn't wander much, but has its moments. Moments when she’ll speak to someone as though they were someone else, but catches herself before she gets to far. The other day she told Amanda to put “that pretty yellow dress” on, and realized only when she saw puzzlement that she had been thinking of her daughter Shirley. Shirley died twenty years ago. Not that Agnes had thought Amanda was Shirley, she just saw a pretty female with dark hair in a certain dress, and didn’t realize how old the mental picture really was.

Her name is Agnes Lorrimer.

2009-07-26T20:08:00.000-07:00

She refuses to sit in plastic folding chairs. She does not like the lines they make on her slacks, she says, so the aforementioned great grandson (Michael) and his father (Danny) carry one of the Queen Anne dining chairs out for her to sit on. She sits under the shade of the big cherry tree, with a glass of lemonade in one hand and a paper fan in the other.

The tree is older that all of them, older than the house behind her.

Noise is coming from above. The high pitched squeals of girls whose parents are more permissive than Agnes’s were (little girls did not climb trees when she was one such, regardless of their desire to).

Twelve year old Sophie jumps down from the tree. She hastily plants a kiss on Agnes's cheek. “Did you see that, Granna? Did you see how high I was? That was awesome!” Seven year old Madison starts wailing “Sophieeeeeee” from the branch she is afraid to get down from.

Agnes smiles as the daredevil runs off towards the tree and turns her focus to the other side of the lawn, where a gaggle of men (how many make a gaggle, she thinks it is six) surround a grill (she can't hear this, but they are trying to figure out which burgers are the veggie burgers and why George didn’t mark them when he put them on). Beloved Micheal breaks away from the group and walks toward her, lifting his hands in a gesture of hopelessness.

“I said to just give Karen a regular one and tell her it’s veggie, but Uncle George said she’d know, and he’d be the one to suffer for it.”

He throws himself on the ground and gazes at Anges. “How you doin', you gorgeous old lady?”

Agnes answers him with a tilt of her snowy head and a soft tiny hand under his chin. She raises his face and beams. He looks the most like her son, his grandfather when he was a boy (this boy is twenty-eight).

It is the fourth of July, and it is Agnes’s favorite holiday. Her family does this bigger than Christmas and Thanksgiving combined. As many as can make it travel to this old house in the Berkshires. It has been years since anyone has asked Agnes why she loves this particular holiday so much more than the others, and she wouldn’t tell them the real reason even if they did ask.

"I am wonderful, dear. Wonderful."

This story starts with a hat.

2009-07-17T18:30:00.001-07:00

A red felt beret, with a large silver pin. The pin is in the shape of a star, and studded with blue and white rhinestones.

The woman wearing the hat is 95 years old. Her hair is whiter than white, so white it seems fluorescent. She has a small wrinkled, face with snappy brown eyes in it. Though her lips lost their pout years ago, she wears lipstick in the same patriotic red shade of her hat.

She wears a blue and white striped shirt, the kind French sailors wore when she was a girl, and white pants that have been painstakingly ironed by her devoted great grandson.

Writing On The Wall

2009-03-08T21:51:00.001-07:00

We walked around outside, and were not displeased with what we saw. We’d have to replace the fence, but that’s the kind of thing that can be easily replaced. I am marveling at how cheap it is for a place with 5 bedrooms.

We walked in. The first floor didn’t impress us. The second floor depressed us. The 5 bedrooms were tiny and the wallpaper was hideous. A wall could be broken down to expand the bedrooms, wallpaper can always be taken down.

Then I saw the hole in the paper. On the wall in crayon was a tree and a rainbow and faintly scribbled words.

“I wish I could fly away from here save me someone”

No. Not this house. Something bad happened here.

As we leave, my Mom (who never went upstairs) said “I didn’t like the vibe in that house. That was not a happy house.”

I told her what I saw. She shuddered. "I don't want to know what happened there."

As we looked at more houses, I kept thinking of the girl who wrote it. I prayed that someone saved her.

Explanation of "Writing On The Wall"

2009-03-08T21:36:00.000-07:00

This hasn't exactly been announced, but we've been looking at houses. To buy.

A year ago, we were doing the same thing, only in Worcester. Eleven months ago, unemployment hit and our down payment savings went to keep us fed and sheltered. We figured it would be another seven years before owning a home would be more than a fantasy for us.

About a month ago, my parents came up with an idea. In ten years they want to retire, and they want to retire to the area we're living in. They provide the down payment, and the house is owned by all of us. They put the money down, and we make the payments. When Sam is starting high school, they'll head back this way, and can either take over the house and we buy one by ourselves, or (if we're happy in it) we take over the house completely, and pay them back the down payment. This we actually can afford.

We're doing the things people do now. Looking at towns, judging the schools and the taxes, calculating commutes, and marveling at what certain amounts can get you in certain towns. We are learning that "needs TLC" means way more than paint and carpet and that "bank owned" may be less expensive, but you also won't get any questions answered...such as average heating costs.

So that is what led us to the house I will be talking about.

Something I Haven't Finished

2009-03-04T12:24:00.000-08:00

I have had this story rattling around in my head since I was 12 years old. Clips and notes and bits of fictional conversations.

About a year ago I wrote the bits I keep coming back to. Here it is. I wonder if I'll do anything with it?

------------------------

Bradley is a writer from Manhattan. He's a very popular writer, and he is content in his personal life. He's not the deepest guy you could meet. He's nice enough, but he has potential to be something more, if he tried. Which he doesn't.

He's working on a novel set in rural Maine, and he decides to live with a friend's aunt for a few months to soak up atmosphere.

He meets a family. Skye St. Ange and her daughter Rebekah Two. Skye's father, Tom, and her older brother, Heron have a carpentry business that Skye manages, so they can focus on the woodworking.

Skye was married to Georges. An artist and teacher who died of leukemia a few years ago.

------------------------

“I’m going to ask Skye St. Ange out.” Bradley announces as Mrs. Lorrimer hands him a mug of coffee. She doesn’t blink or change facial expressions.

“Mmm. I don’t think that she’ll say yes.” She puts a bowl of berries , and another of oatmeal on the table and sits across from Bradley.

“Thank you, kind lady.”

“She’s a widow, don’t forget.”

“She’s only thirty-three.”

“She hasn’t gone with anyone since Georges died.”

“How many men are there between the ages of twenty and fifty in this town?”

“Nine. Seven are married. One's a divorced alcoholic, and Danny Parsons is a fruit.”

The blueberries become her punctuation as she drops them in her oatmeal..

“I’m surprised you’re allowed to call him that.”

“Dear, the only one who hasn’t figured it out is his mother (blueberry) I knew it when he was seven years old (blueberry)”

“My point is, that this town isn’t exactly ideal for a young, single woman.”

“Skye St. Ange is not single (blueberry) “

“I know she’s got Rebekah Two. I like her, a lot. She’s the smartest little girl I’ve ever met.”

“Rebekah Two is an old soul (blueberry) Everyone in that family is an old soul (blueberry)”

“I have to go to the shop to talk to Tom today, so I thought I’d just ask Skye if she wanted to see a movie when she’s done. You aren’t so far from civilization that there’s no movie theater nearby.”

“Hmp (blueberry) You don’t understand that family (blueberry) After Rebekah the First died, everyone waited for Tom to remarry (blueberry) Handsome man like that, only in his forties, two teenagers (blueberry) There were some widows and even a couple of younger single women who were pretty hopefull (blueberry) He was always kind, always polite, but always went home to Rebekah (blueberry)”

“That’s sad. He should have moved on.”

“They loved each other so much, he didn’t want to move on, and neither did she (blueberry)”

“Has Skye ever said that she doesn’t want to move on?”

Mrs. Lorrimer sighs impatiently. “Don’t play stupid (blueberry) I don’t mean Skye (blueberry) They love strong in that family (blueberry) Georges felt it when he came here, met Skye (blueberry) You can’t leave a love like that, death or whatever (blueberry)”

“Geez, Betty. It’s just dinner and a movie. I’m not trying to move into her house and adopt the kid.”

Mrs. Lorrimer is out of blueberries.

Bradley swallows the last of his coffee and reaches for his jacket. He is out the door.

“Breakfast and conversation, lovely as always, Betty. You shold be on the tourist maps.”

Betty Lorrimer snorts as the foolish, arrogant young man from another town leaves her house.

In the afternoon Bradley goes by the workshop. The smell of the salt air mingles with the sawdust as he opens the door.

Tom is building a cradle. He is sanding the sides of it until it is as smooth as his high standards want it to be. Bradley sits and watches him for nearly an hour, asks him questions about his business and takes a few photos.

On his way out, he hears Skye’s voice . He knocks on the slightly open office door. She looks up, and smiles when she sees him. She is friendly. but never flirtatious. He cannot explain why he is so drawn to her, save that she is so different from the women he susally dates. Skye is not ambitious, assertive or sophisticated. Later, he will say that she was like lemonade. Simple and unassuming, perfect and refreshing and addictive.

“What are you doing later?”

“Later can mean a lot.”

“What are you doing when you leave here tonight?”

“Going home. Probably helping Rebekah Two with her homework. Dinner. Dishes...ordinary things.”

“Can your Dad help Rebekah Two with her homework?”

“Why?”

“I was hoping you’d have dinner with me at Rose’s. Maybe see a movie after?” It is easy for him, asking women he likes out. He takes his acceptances and rejections with the same pleasant ease. This, however, is met with silence and a blank stare. A new response for him.

“Skye?”

Still silence. She opens her mouth, and her lips start to form something. She doesn’t know what she is trying to say, but an answer comes from the other side of the door.

“Go.” Heron has come from the workshop. He is covered with dust and he looks only at his sister. He is almost stern when he tells her “Go. It’ll be okay. Dad and I will hang out with Rebekah Two. Go. You should.”

Skye thinks, then seems to relax. She looks from her brother to Bradley and smiles.

“Sure. I’d...I’ll...be home around six. After that is fine.”

Heron gives Bradley a small smile as he turns to go back to the shop. Bradley has and embryo of a thought that he has disturbed something. He could feel uncomfortable if he thinks of it more. He doesn’t. He shakes the feeling off to keep his easy demeanor. They set a time. Bradley expresses his gladness, and he leaves.

At the end of the road is a school bus.

Alighting from that school bus is Rebekah Two.

“Hello, Bradley.” The child never seems to blink. It fascinates him.

“Hey, Rebakah Two, How was school?”

She looks at Bradley as thought studying him. “My social studies teacher was pedantic. That’s my new word for today.”

“Pedantic is a pretty good word.”

“Not all the time.”

“It’s an impressive word, I mean.”

“You’re pleased about something.”

“I am.”

“Did you ask Mama out?”

“Rebekah Two, sometimes I think you’re a witch.”

“Sometimes I think you’re a writer.”

“What? I am a writer, silly.”

“I thought writers listened more. You say you’re a writer, but you act like you’re on vacation.”

While Bradley tries to think of a comeback in his battle of wits with a fourth grader -

“Mama said yes?”

“She did.”

“Right away?”

“Well...your Uncle convinced her that you’d be okay with him and your Grandpop tonight. She said yes eventually.”

“I’m glad. I do like you.” Rebekah walks around him and towards her Grandpop’s shop.

“Well, that’s a relief, I do like you, too.” he calls after her.

Bradley goes back to his room at Mrs. Lorrimer’s house and types up more notes on the quaint life of a seaside carpenter. He uploads his photos and sends a few text messages to his agent. Mrs. Lorrimer does not have an internet connection in her house, so he can’t send e-mail until he drives to the internet café in Wells tomorrow morning. He showers, and as the hot water runs out, he feels the disturbance again. Slightly stronger than before. Again he ignores it and by the time he leaves for Skye’s house, he has forgotten it.

Four generations have lived in the Skye's house. Four generations of marriage and children and the ones left behind.

In every marriage, someone always leaves first.

Bradley never thinks of these things. He sees an old house that a pretty woman lives in.

Skye’s daughter is sitting on its front steps. Rebekah Two wears a sweater knitted by Rebekah the First for her daughter. Her mother. The sun is setting.

“Rebekah Two, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at your Grandpop’s house?”

“Mama can’t go out with you.”

“Is she feeling all right?”

“She’s not sick. She can’t go out with you ever.” Rebekah looks serious and sad.

The thought that Bradley has been ignoring is yanked to the front of his mind with the finality of her statement.

The child sighs and shakes her head.

"She does like you a lot, Bradley. I can tell. But Papa loves her very much and he doesn’t want her to go. I’m sorry. I’m kind of mad at him, myself. I think he’s being selfish."

"Rebekah Two...your Papa...he's...er...dead."

"Yes, he is."

"Ooookay. Will you tell your mother to call me at Mrs. Lorrimer's house?"

"I can tell her, but she won’t do it. I know you don’t understand. I'll say sorry from her. She is."

Bradley turns and slowly walks down the steps. As he leaves, he hears Rebekah Two murmur (to herself or to him or to her half ghost parents?).

"I’m never going to get married."

Working Progress

2009-02-17T22:09:00.000-08:00

My absence has been due to a focus on kid's stuff lately. I submitted a story for PEN New England's Susan P. Bloom Discovery Award (more info. on PEN NE here). I've also been taking my illustrations and tweaking them for greeting cards and similar things.

I have started "Kate's Store" (crazy creative name, huh?) on zazzle (check it out) and surprisingly sales have been better than I thought they would be. Oddly enough, I haven't sold any of the greeting cards that were the original products, but I have sold 5 coffee mugs with card illustrations on them and someone ordered a business card design I did.

Some more short story stuff has popped back into my head of late. I think this is because I'm slowing down on the product creation for the zazzle store, and my submission to PEN NE is sent in. I keep coming back to my story about Bertie Wooster.

Of course, I also bought "Life With Jeeves" recently and it's quite the bee's knees, what? Perhaps the bee in my b. is only because of the tip top lit. It's a subconscious whatsit. Jeeves would know the word I mean.

Coming Out

2008-12-06T04:40:00.000-08:00

My name is Katharine Tapley, and I don't feel the need to be anonymous anymore. Thanks to those of you who knew and kept the secret, but I've dealt with what I needed to.

This is my "real" work.

2008-06-27T08:24:00.000-07:00

Wordle is awesome. This is the text for my White Kitchen story.

Below is my favorite poem "Funeral Blues" by W.H.Auden.

While I was at my parents' house, I wrote this.

2008-05-20T15:28:00.000-07:00

I like that when we're home, we can spend a rainy Saturday morning at the art museum less than 5 minutes from our house. If we want to go out to dinner, we have a variety of cuisines, and restaurants within those categories that are excellent. I like that we live in a nice quiet neighborhood that's only a walk away from Husband's office (what used to be his office) and a major highway that can take us wherever we want to go. I like that we can walk to the grocery store, Target, two restaurants and a Starbucks without going more than 2 miles. Sam's doctor is 3 miles away. There's a big grassy park at the upper end of our street.

I really like living in the city.

Yet...

a few days ago I hung wet clothes on a clothesline next to a cherry tree.

My toddler ran around and around on an acre of land and never came too close to anything dangerous.

He smelled flowers and rolled in grass and went in and out of shrubs.

He was free, I had sun on my shoulders, a sweet smelling breeze in my hair and I thought...

okay. Country life is nice.

While I was away, I made this list.

2008-05-16T09:45:00.000-07:00

Pros of living with parents for over a month:

1. No rent.
2. They haven't asked me to cook or clean anything.
3. Three babysitters who cost nothing and are overjoyed with the job.
4. A dog!
5. A huge yard, full of colorful flower gardens and flowering trees.
6. My laundry is hung to dry on a clothes line! Ahhh...that fresh air smell.
7. People have been bringing me flowers to cheer me up during this tough time.
8. Women in my parents church knitted me a prayer shawl. In purple, because they know it's my favorite color.
9. I do love my parents.

Cons of living with my parents:

1. At least three times a week I want to strangle my mother. It passes, but it reminds me why I like her so much more now than I did when I lived with her all the time .
2. Mom, Dad and Sister are all slobs. I don't just mean clothes on the floor, I mean unidentifiable smells coming from somewhere in the kitchen and a half an hour search to discover chinese food that had been left out for a few days.
3. Apparently the lush, fertile ground makes this particular area of the country the worst for seasonal allergy sufferers. For a few days at the beginning of this month, Sam and I couldn't leave the house because our nostrils would seal themselves shut and Sam's tear ducts would start producing "goo".
4. Dog hair is all over everything. Sam thought it was edible for a while. Ew.

The Pros far outweigh the Cons, until we get to this:

I miss my husband.

Thoughts from a Business Partner

2008-05-14T07:00:00.000-07:00

Love and marriage are certainly not wholly rational things, but in order for such a relationship to grow, a certain amount of rationale is needed. I suppose that’s the core of empathy.

The best advice I can give to newly married people are things that I have found make a working environment a much more productive and pleasant place, regardless of industry.

1. Don’t argue angry.

When a client or employee faults on something, you’re frustrated. Obviously. However, it would be unprofessional to call said client immediately to discuss the fault. Anger isn’t rational and you’re liable to say things you don’t mean, things that will hurt your relationship with the client in the future. Also, your reputation.

What you do instead is figure out what it is motivating your anger. Is it a repeated issue, is it the result of deceit, or have you just had a really bad day and a careless mistake has set you off? You take time and figure it out. You write down your thoughts and what you feel the core problem is. When you have calmed down, you state your case clearly, and without damaging outbursts.

Now replace “client” with “spouse”. I know it seems like we shouldn’t need to write things feelings before we talk to each other, and we shouldn’t when we’re just talking about everyday things. However, in an argument, especially about something serious, there’s a greater chance that you’ll hurt someone’s feelings, or confuse them and (in your irrational state of mind) yourself.

Also, to look at it from a selfish point of view, angry people don’t win arguments. Calm people do.

2. Take notes on serious topics.

This ties back to #1, but it works no matter what the tone is. No one’s memory is perfect. When something big is discussed, when a subject that will require information to be saved, when legal matters may necessitate notes...TAKE NOTES! If there’s a risk you may be sued or need to sue, or even if you want to hold something in front of the client’s face and say “Actually, Mister Qwerty, you told us in our October 18th meeting that you thought this was an excellent idea. Remember?” (you show notes, client realizes and hopefully work progresses).

Does it seem lame to take notes when you’re discussing an upcoming vacation with the wife? Yep. Will you be glad you did when she asks you whose job it is to book the hotel room and you have paperwork to prove that you both decided that it was her job while your job was to call the neighbors about feeding and walking Sprockets while you’re gone? You will indeed.

3. After 7 p.m., emergencies only.

A good client does not call at 9 p.m. when some issue pops up that they have decided can’t wait another 11 hours. It’s rude, and you’re going to ruin someone’s relaxing night with their family. You’d hate it if they did that to you.

Don’t decide at 10.30 p.m. as you’re snuggling into bed or in front of the TV with your ice cream and slippers that it’s the time to bring up the fact that you don’t want to spend Christmas with your in-laws. Bad timing. You’re both tired. More likely to be cranky. You wanted to be sleeping in less time than it will take to resolve this.

Save it for another time. Say “Tomorrow over dinner, I’d like to talk about the plans for Christmas” (or write it down and tell them in the morning). If your partner has forgotten this rule and is an emotional mess, say “Vent if you have to, but we will not discuss this right now.”.

Obviously if your lawyer’s office just burned down, or you walk in on the husband shagging his personal trainer...exceptions. You may want to get some information clear immediately.

4. Be sure of your priorities, and their priorities.

When you discuss a project with a client, the words “We want” are used. This is how you know what to do for them. If the specifics are very important, make sure you state “this is very important to our company” and/or “completing project A by November 1st is our primary focus because of B.”

“I know you want us to go to Paris this Spring, but I think we should focus our finances towards saving for a house. Is that something we both want more than the vacation?”

If your client or spouse has different priorities, you need to know that. Knowledge is imperative to conflict resolution, but no one will know anything in your head unless you tell them directly.

5. Ask what’s expected of you.

You wouldn’t take on a project if you aren’t certain you know what you’re supposed to do. If you don’t ask, and you do the wrong thing, someone will get mad at you. You will get mad at you and you will realize that much time, energy, and possibly money will be saved if you suck in your ego and say “I want to be sure we both know that you want us to handle both the print and internet marketing for Superawesomefest.” or “Just making sure...you want me to listen right now, you don’t need solutions?”.

If the person you’re dealing with gets pissy at you for doing it, say calmly “I’d rather be sure now than wrong later.”

6. Tell them what they said. Tell them what you understood.

In a perfect world, everyone would say what they mean, and no one would have to analyze anything. Sadly, our race has been infiltrated with fear of rejection, fear of hurting people’s feelings, fear of failure, and that causes people to water down the power of their messages until they become so diluted you can’t figure out their point.

“You said you don’t want to go to the movie tomorrow. Is it that you don’t want to see that movie, do you want to just stay home, or do you not want to spend time with me?”

Very often, it is not the worst answer.

“You said you want to move the focus of the project from C to D? By that do you mean that you’re not pleased with our work on C, or do you think that D is going to be more profitable?”

Whatever they say, take it. If they’re not being honest, it’s their problem. You were proactive and involved. Expect honesty from them and give it in return. Blunt? Maybe. Hard to swallow? Could be. Better for everyone in the long run? Totally.

Of course, if they whine about it later, you can whip out your notes and calmly say

“But you see, Dearest Love, you told me that you did not want to go to that restaurant because you’d rather stay home. If you were really worried about spending the money, you should have told me so.”

“Miss Qwerty, I asked you if you wanted employee profiles on your site and what you said was “I don’t think Phyllis will like that.”

8. Do not use passive aggression or sarcasm.

All it will do is make you look like an asshole.

If both partners can commit to these, communication is so much easier and relationships are much more enjoyable.

And there’s more time for sex (in marriage).

Immature Giggle

2008-05-12T16:53:00.000-07:00

Whilst buying a massive box of diapers today at BJ's Wholesale Club, I found two products so perfectly placed beside each other.

Trojan Condoms and Depends Adult Undergarments.

Hee hee hee hee.

Happy Mother's Day!

2008-05-11T06:06:00.001-07:00

My gift to myself is letting my son watch two whole Thomas videos as soon as he got up.

While I lay on the couch with a magazine.

Ahhhh.

Very Long Story Short

2008-03-10T08:39:00.000-07:00

My family is moving. We're not sure to where yet, but this weekend, my son and I are going to my parents' house for a while. My husband has to find a new job, and a new place to live. In my pregnant and perpetually sick state, I'd be better taken care of with them.

Our version of "normal" is going on hiatus, so this blog will, too. Let's face it, lately I've been too exhausted and sick to write anything anyway.

We're going to be fine, but it's going to be a difficult few weeks/months (let's pray for weeks).

Oh. Kay.

2008-02-26T21:03:00.000-08:00

I am pregnant. Didn't go to that party because I was feeling too sick.

I'm happy about being pregnant...I think. I mean, we wanted our kids three years apart, and this new little one is going to arrive a few months before Sam turns 3.

No, I know I'm happy about being pregnant, but I really don't feel happy. I feel exhausted and queasy and fat and scared. Very scared. Terrified.

My son is a handful. He's active and demanding and he's very stubborn. He refuses to talk, even though he can, so trying to figure out what he wants is difficult. Seriously, it will take this kid fifteen minutes of him whining and tugging on the door of the fridge to finally yell "JUICE!". Even though we know that may be what he wants, we won't give it to him unless he says it (or if he says "please" or "yes" when we ask him). We're trying to get him to use the words he already knows, and he isn't going to do that if we respond only to his nasal whining.

So, I have a two year old who won't speak and takes up the majority of my energy and I'm careless enough to get pregnant again? What the hell is wrong with me? How the hell am I supposed to do this? How come I forgot how much being pregnant sucked the first time? Did I forget that I was in labor for TWENTY THREE HOURS?

There are so many good things, but I spent all day feeling sleepy and am now wide awake. I can't think of anything.

She doesn't want you to solve her problems, she just wants you to listen.

2008-02-08T11:22:00.000-08:00

He's tired and grumpy and refuses to nap.

My self esteem is really low because I went to McDonalds on the way home from a friend's house and I'm trying to lose ten pounds, so I shouldn't have gone to McDonalds.

My friend is totally non judgemental, but she has an excellently behaved one year old daughter who shares well and talks perfectly and my son whined when she wanted to play with his Thomas train and kept taking her pacifier even though he doesn't like them, and kept trying to turn their TV on and off and finally flopped into my lap and frowned for the last 15 minutes of our visit while the one year old adorably ate all of her peaches and held up her hands in a precious "all done" gesture when she had finished.

My house is messy, yet for the half an hour...fuck it...the hour that I let my son hang out in his crib I just read a magazine and lay on the couch like a hideous beached whale.

My period hasn't arrived, but I am PMSing like a madwoman and I'm afraid that if it doesn't come it means I'm pregnant, and I would like to be pregnant next month not right now because a week from today I am going to a party at a cool Boston club and I want to wear something sexy and drink.

I can't stop yawning.

I haven't worked on the Evie illustrations since Sunday. I know I have until March, but I'm terrified that this is going to be a pattern.

My libido has plummeted. I hate it when that happens. I think it's worse that being horny and frustrated, because as least then I have my vibrator, but nothing is working and WORST of all my husband doesn't feel well so he doesn't seem to care and

I'm going to go watch Backyardigans and snuggle with my son.

He did give the one year old a big grin and a hug when he met her, though. It was pretty cute, especially since, standing up her head barely reaches his shoulder. It was more like a head hug.

Added to the sidebar.

2008-01-31T06:28:00.001-08:00

A few people that I've been reading regularly lately have been added to my sidebar. Also someone I've been reading for a few years and thought he was already there and just realized this morning that he's not. So check out Mike Sterling, Kristina Wright, Jeremy Edwards, Redhead Fangirl and Sam Costello's fantastic webcomic "Split Lip".

What's Done!

2008-01-27T08:35:00.000-08:00

Recycled Paper Greetings - DONE 01.18.08
Text for "Evie Says" - DONE 01.25.08

Wootness.

I shall be productive!

2008-01-20T04:28:00.000-08:00

Recycled Paper Greetings:
finish editing samples, have them printed & shipped out no later than Jan. 18th.

The book I am writing about Evie (my next door neighbor’s 2 year old):
text finished by Jan. 26th.
art finished by Mar. 1st.
gift printing finished by Mar. 15th. (save copy for agent search sample)

Agent Search:
5 new samples by Apr. 19th.
1/2 hour active search (M-F) beginning Apr. 26th.

I am hoping to still post a here from time to time, but I can't promise. I really love the feeling of finishing a project...need to do more of it.

Sam being more and more active has made me realize that I need to be LESS flexible about my writing. I’ve been too flexible, and have rescheduled and rescheduled writing until I have run out of time in the day. That has to change.

Eulogy for a Handbag

2008-01-06T07:17:00.000-08:00

A little over three years ago I was invited to a designer knockoff party by a woman I worked with. I’m not typically a designer junkie, but I saw a purple number that I fell in love with. At $75. I bought it.

I took this bag all over. So many pockets...I could fit a notebook, my wallet, cell phone, plastic bag of first aid stuff, a snack, small bottle of water, and a spare diaper in it. People raved about its style and color. One woman actually said “Wow...you guys must be doing great!”. She thought it was authentic.

Last night, however, I placed the bag on my lap, and a loose wire almost tore my jeans. I sighed, and said I may have to cut around the pleather piping to remove the rest of the wire. My husband pointed out that it was wearing out on the bottom as well, and maybe it was time for a new bag.

So my gorgeous purple friend was replaced my a hot little scarlet number. Not a designer knockoff, but a genuine leather bag bought at Macy’s on sale. At $58 dollars, it was less expensive, but I wasn’t paying for a plagiarized name, and it’s a higher quality.

Still. I felt sad disposing of my knockoff. People recognized me because if it, and it carried my necessities. Only a thing, but it felt like an appendage.

Rest in peace, Purple M*** J***** Handbag.

I haven't fallen off the face of the Earth.

2007-12-19T06:23:00.000-08:00

I have been unbelievably busy this past month plus. I know, I know, you all have, but I have been focusing any writing time (which is next to no time) on my children's books and haven't had any time for the reflections and reviews that both of my readers (ha ha) expect from me.

As of 2008, my hours at work will be going down, and my domestic obligations (that sounds like sex for Victorians, but it's not) will be decreasing, so I will be fully able to devote 20-30 minutes at LEAST to writing every single day.

That's the plan, anyway.

Until January, have a Merry Christmas, or a Happy Hanukkah, or a Blessed Yule. I celebrate the first one, myself, but whatever you believe, I hope it is a season filled with love and peace.

Sister Rage

2007-11-13T05:27:00.000-08:00

I have a friend.
My friend is lovely, graceful, amusing,
and one of the most intelligent people I have ever met
(and I have met some very intelligent people).

My friend has a sister.
A sister that she has frequently not seen eye to eye on.
A sister that she spent most of her childhood
and adolescence squabbling with.

A sister who is pregnant.

A sister that she loves very, very much.

This sister has a husband.
A husband who knocked her down,
dragged her through their house,
threw her against a door jam,
sat on her,
and called her a nigger loving cunt.

My friend is in a Sister Rage.
The earth shakes with her anger
at what this sick man has done to her family,
to the child,
to her sister.

My friend prays for him.
She prays that he will get help,
she prays that he will learn the extent of his illness.

My friend is incredible.

I have a sister,
and if I had Sister Rage,
I would make the man bloody and broken.
I would gladly go to jail for it.
My Sister Rage would tear a hole in the world.

My friend's Sister Rage is fixing a hole.
She's putting her Rage into prayer.
She's using the energy that I would use to break fingers,
and praying prayers that burn a lovely, graceful fire.

My friend is so utterly admirable.

God, help my heart to be that strong,
and please don't ever let me know that Rage.

------

My Friend

My Sister

Writer's Gridlock?

2007-10-07T23:40:00.000-07:00

It's funny how once I set goals for myself, other things come along that refuse to be ignored.

I have wanted to focus on New Frontier and get my review of that up. Mostly because it's an assignment I set for myself, and I want to be disciplined. Also, I really really really love this comic. It’s the best super-hero literature I have ever read. I would like to explain why, but a new story idea popped into my head, and will not shut the hell up. I've thought about it for at least a few minutes every waking hour. Damn English couple in 1910 who ran into the woods and were eaten by trees.

Yeah, you read that right. The trees ate them. The leaves rained down on them, sliced them up like razor blades and absorbed their flesh. This is a story that popped into my head when I was at the park on a gorgeous day with my toddler. After half an hour I had three generations of this cursed family. Do I want it to be a short story, or a novel, or...graphic novel? Not sure. I have a lot of detail sifting to go through, to find out what’s important and what’s not and where I want it to go.

Another thing on my mind is an idea for a writer's round. Someone starts a story, then another person does the following chapter...you get the picture. I sent out an offer to wicked smart writers who have various styles. The feedback I got from most of them was "Cool idea, but I barely have time to eat, sleep and pee. Let me know how it goes."

Maybe I'll revisit that, because I think it would be lots of fun.

So it is not lack of imagination, lack of material, it's all the plots and thoughts and good old fashioned projects bumping up against each other in the dark of my psyche. Is this the opposite of writer's block? What does one call this?

Meme-ing kills the time!

2007-09-27T07:21:00.000-07:00

Yo Mella Honey.

Three things that scare me:

1. Small, dark, enclosed spaces.
2. The big evil space bug that crawled out of our tub drain.
3. Extremism.

Three people that make me laugh (brought to you by the letter "S"):

1. My son.
2. My sister.
3. Steven Colbert.

Three things I hate:

1. That our government will allow a man and a woman with no prior relationship, no true intention for commitment, no understanding or appreciation for a lifelong love to get married, but will not allow another couple who have been together for 15 years (and adopted and raised 2 children to be loving, moral individuals) to get married because they're both guys.

2. That my husband still has health problems that fight us to be the center of our lives. They're not winning, but I hate that they're still there.

3. Onions. Blech.

Three things I don’t understand:

1. Financial Management.
2. Obsession with celebrities.
3. Yo Gabba Gabba.

Three things I’m doing right now:

1. Listening to Corinne Bailey Rae
2. Watching my son play with his "new" trains.
3. Wishing it wasn't so freakishly hot. It's almost October! I want my 60 degrees!

Three things I want to do before I die:

1. Go to France.
2. Live near the ocean.
3. Be a grandmother.

Three things I can do:

1. Imitate the voices of other people to the point where I can fool my family and friends over the phone.
2. Make an amazing grilled cheese sandwich.
3. Read bizarrely fast.

Three ways to describe my personality:

1. Extroverted
2. Instinctive
3. Odd

Three things I can’t do:

1. Make another person's life happy all by myself.
2. Protect my children from everything bad.
3. Pull my legs behind my head (anymore).

Three things I’d like to learn:

1. How to balance my checkbook.
2. How to do anything with my hair. (I repeat Mella)
3. How to play the drums like Meg White.

Three favorite foods:

1. Salmon.
2. French Bread.
3. Peanut Butter.

Three beverages I drink regularly:

1. Frappuccino
2. Water
3. Milk

Three shows I watched as a kid:

1. The Cosby Show
2. Cheers (NBC Thursday nights were big at my house)
3. Happy Days

I walked out of the mall at 10pm

2007-09-18T19:30:00.000-07:00

to what I can only describe as a perfect Autumn night. I wore a long sleeved shirt, but no jacket was needed. A breeze lifted my hair and cooled my tired skin. I breathed in, and a smell both sharp and damp, filled my head, rolled behind my eyes, and cleaned out my lungs of stale mall air. Purification.

Though we associate this season with decay, don't we?

Is that why some people think Autumn is a sad? I understand that, I guess. I have felt it as well. It's the kind of feeling you have before a gentle, satisfying cry or when you remember a loved one who died a long time ago.

I suppose it's because humans connect the seasons to life cycles. Autumn comes before everything dies in Winter.

I'd rather think of it as a long day, than a short life. Autumn is the time when we're snuggled into bed, the worries of the day done with, covered by colorful leaves. Before we drift of to hibernation.

The Stuff I Read: Comics: True Story Swear To God: Chances Are

2007-09-11T10:47:00.000-07:00

Life is not comedy or tragedy. It’s a little of both, and a whole lot of stuff in the middle. The best writers get that, and whether or not the story they write is true, it rings true.

In case you didn’t guess by the title...this one's true. Tom Beland (read his bio here) went to Florida, and met Lily Garcia on his way to a Stevie Wonder concert. “Chances Are” tells the story of how their relationship began and developed into love. It’s also about Tom and his large, loving family. It’s romantic, sad, uplifting, and the when Tom’s brother gets married it is oh so funny. It’s a very realistic portrayal of a long distance love, and individuals who have experienced pain and healed wounds.

Tom Beland isn’t really a writer of graphic novels. He’s a cartoonist, his strips are autobiographical. “Chances Are” began as a gift for Lily, that she urged him to publish.

The art plays second to the narrative. Best in true stories, I think, because the words are more important. Beland does a lot with his clean, simple cartooning, The single lines that serve as smiles seem happier and more authentic than they would if he had someone else give it a “realistic” style.

I would suggest this to so many people who would never think to enter a comic shop, or read a comic book. People who think they're all tights, fights, and improbable bosoms. Also people who think that all Romance comcis are cliché and saccharin...and bad.

A friend of mine let me borrow this book over 2 years ago. Then I accidentally left my car windows open and it got water damage. I bought him a new one and kept the slightly damaged copy for myself.

Doesn’t really have anything to do with why I like it so much, but just in case my friend stops by, I want him to know I credit him with my discovering this story.

It's as sweet and satisfying as homemade flan de leche.

The Stuff I Read: Comics

2007-09-01T09:00:00.000-07:00

My top 5. Next week I'll tell you why.

1. True Story Swear To God: Chances Are Tom Beland
2. The New Frontier, Darwyn Cooke
3. The Plain Janes, Cecil Castellucci/Jim Rugg
4. Watchmen, Alan Moore
5. Dark Victory, Jeph Loeb/Tim Sale (the comic bloggers roll their eyes)

Up to:

2007-09-01T06:25:00.000-07:00

Been a bit stressed out. I've been working a lot more. 4 hours a night, 6 nights a week. It's left little time for anything else, so I had myself a nice meltdown and Beloved Husband and I rebuilt our priorities. Still going to be working a lot, but I am going to sit down to write for fifteen minutes at least every single day. It will be held at greater importance that every household duty that doesn't directly involve my son.

So this week you will start to see content that has a point other than my brain vomit. Important, yes, but not why I have this blog.

A list this week. Next week, elaboration.

I wish I could say that I have only one true love...

2007-08-15T07:53:00.000-07:00

but that would be a lie. There is another. Boston Creme Donut.

Oh, how I love its glazed chocolate goodness, its custard filling. My tongue extends, my eyes close, I taste, I savor, I adore.
It is not good for me, though, and if I want to fit into my leather pants again, I have to end this affair.

This morning, I was running errands with my son, and I realized that I had almost a dollar in dimes, pennies, and a few quarters in the cup holder of my car. I felt the pull. Suddenly I was hungry, and the Dunkin Donuts, my motel of choice, was calling to me. I turned right, heading towards it's parking lot. When I was stopped at a stoplight, the only stoplight between me and momentary sensual bliss, the fifth song on Toby Lightman's cd came on.

"Looks like the choice is mine,
So where do I want to be?"

Is this really what I want? Fleeting pleasure, feeding an unhealthy desire that will only ruin my relationship with my leather pants?

It's just this one time.

How many times in the last seven days? Two? Three?

I eat so healthy most of the time, I can allow myself this.

It's adding up, how long before you go every day, and no longer eat your healthy breakfast?

But...but...I loooooooooooove it!

If it's worth it to you, Thunder Thighs, go ahead. Don't cry when you have diabetes.

Sigh.

The light turned green, and instead of going straight ahead, I made a U turn. Headed home. No Boston Creme. Not today. A step in the right direction.

WHAT Mommy Wars? ( a rant)

2007-08-09T11:40:00.000-07:00

Newsweek ran a piece this week that I liked a lot.

Go read it, then come back to me.

Hi.

So here's my opinion. I think the "Mommy Wars" were fabricated by marketing guys to sell books about the "Mommy Wars". Of the mothers that I know, none of them...not a single one cares if I wear a dress and lipstick when I take my son to the library or if I go in sweats and a baseball cap. All of the mothers I know who have careers think it's cool that I'm home during the day. I think it's great that they have a career that fulfills them, and can support their family. I know mothers who let their kids watch more TV than mine, and mothers who don't let their kids watch TV at all. I buy organic milk for my son. I like the way it tastes, and it's cheaper because we live near a dairy farm. The lady next door who does not buy organic milk and lets her kids drink juice that probably contains sugar has perfectly healthy kids and she's a fantastic mom. Guess what, folks...she thinks I'm great, too!

This thinking that there are factions of us who label someone with a Cole Haan diaper bag as snobby, or don't like the woman who wears "Mom" jeans from Wal-Mart is total bullshit.

The idea that every Work Out Of The House mother is jealous of the Stay At Homes' time with her kids, and the Stay At Homes are jealous of the Work Out Of The House's increased income and different sense of identity is ridiculous.

Love your kids. Mind your own damn business and for God's sake, don't buy stupid books.

Random 8

2007-08-02T05:39:00.000-07:00

Mella said it best. It is a perfect way for a writer who feels like procrastinating. Also, it makes you feel better as a blogger: Hey, I posted today!

1. I am allergic to cilantro and I love Mexican food.

2. My sixth wedding anniversary is Saturday!

3. I am seriously freaked out by the Precious Moments children.

4. I cannot walk by crooked vertical blinds without straightening them. If I am in a room with crooked vertical blinds, I can't concentrate on anything else. I have tried to solve this by removing them in my apartment, except in rooms where they are drawn almost all the time (bedroom).

5. I have been in 4 weddings. I was in my cousin's when I was 4. My own. I was matron of honor when my best girlfriend got married, and I was a brides matron in my ex-boyfriend's wedding. His girlfriend (now wife) caught the bouquet at my wedding.

6. I would rather scrub a bathroom from top to bottom than wash a sink full of dishes.

7. It pisses me off that people are calling Britney Spears fat. There's so much material for tabloid fodder there...the two "marriages", the rehab, the clubbing, the fact that her two kids may actually be better off living with Kevin Federline. Why call her fat because, what is she, a size 12 now? So she's the average size of an American woman, and thinner than average for a woman who's had 2 kids. For crying out loud, people, she attacked a car with an umbrella and "she's fat" is all you can say? That's such a lack of creativity (as well as being untrue and mean)!

8. I have a desperate crush on Alan Rickman. Also Kenneth Branagh, which made that second Harry Potter movie like porn for me.

Uh...I just looked it up and Alan Rickman is seven years older than my father...

WHY HASN'T THAT CHANGED HOW SEXY HE IS?

Sad is Heavy

2007-07-20T08:28:00.000-07:00

Sadness is heavy. It's insanely heavy for an emotion.

The thing I have the most trouble with when it comes to my faith is this: I know God is going to take care of us, but I don't know that God is going to make things better.

Sometimes there are struggles that we have to go through for some reason that we can't understand. Sometimes we struggle because we just got the shit end of the stick this time. I believe that God is with us to comfort us in our pain, but to be honest, I am not a person who necessarily wants comfort. I want to scream "Make it better!".

My life is pretty good right now. My husband's business is on the upswing, I am having a blast at my new job (despite my rants over here). Sam is teething and he's pretty cranky, but if that's the worst I've got, then I've got it good.

I wish I could say the same for my friends. Not just friends, best friends. The friends that can live hundreds or thousands of miles away, but you feel like you could jump through cyberspace or the phone lines in an instant to watch Leno read Headlines with them, just like you could a decade ago.

One has Cancer.
One has high blood pressure, is pregnant, and her husband is having a hard time finding work.
One has a husband in Pakistan, that she misses horribly.

This morning I got the e-mail from a friend who intended to tell us good news...that she was pregnant. Only she isn't anymore. She miscarried last night.

I want to look at the sky and scream "What the HELL are You doing?"

I'm not going to.

I can't remember where I heard this...it was back in college when I was very worried about a bulimic friend. Someone made a suggestion for when the pain of others gets to heavy, and the idea of giving it up to God is too hard. An object lesson.

Write down the sadness, the worry, the anger, the pain of your loved ones on a piece of paper. Go outside. Burn the paper. Watching the ashes float away as the worries burn helps give it to God. It worked then. I hope it will work today. It's going to be a longer paper this time, but fire spreads.

Like Grace.

It's Finished.

2007-07-10T18:46:00.000-07:00

The story that came out of my milk white kitchen is done. There's a sort of epilogue. I don't know if I'll keep it. I welcome and beg your comments, criticism, and the like.

I have posted it altogether here.

"Where have you been?"

2007-07-09T13:43:00.000-07:00

Iris asks as her sister enters the house. Iris is in the milk white kitchen, rinsing a china teapot acquired at the bake and tag sale.

"Where's Heather?"

"After the church sale, she went to a movie with Nancy's daughter."

"Oh, that's nice. Allison or Jessica?"

"The one who just got married."

"Jessica."

"Sure. Answer my question."

"What did they go see?"

Iris puts the teapot down.

"I don't know. Why aren't you answering me?"

Althea is quiet. She puts her bag on the table and removes her hat.

"You were supposed to be back from Dr. Van Austen's at one. I was worried."

"I'm sorry you were concerned. See, though? I'm fine." Althea smiles at the teapot. "This is very pretty. Did you pick this out?"

"Heather found it. Althea!" Iris has her hands on her hips and she stands in front of her sister.

When Iris is trying to hide something from her sister, she huffs and puffs and pretends offense. When Althea is trying to hide something from her sister, she changes the subject and is extra sweet. The tactics work on other people. They do not work on each other.

Iris's unfounded concern changed to irritation and now it is anger. She does something not done in this house. She curses.

"Althea Elizabeth Wight, where the hell were you?"

Not one of the greater swear words, but strong in a house where none are said at all.

Althea sighs. "I took the car to Heather's house and killed her husband."

Looking at Iris, it seems time has stopped. She does not blink, and even her breathing seems to pause.

She speaks a full minute later.

"You...you did?"

"Yes." Althea delicately removes her driving gloves and puts them in her bag.

"Oh." says Iris. "Well." She pulls up another chair and sits. She still does not blink.

Althea reaches out and gently takes her sister's hand. Her voice never changes in tone or urgency.

"She can come and stay with us now. Mrs. Herman's son said Calais Regional is hiring. She can live in Corydalis' room and leave that awful, smelly place and that awful parasite of a man and be really happy."

She might have been discussing the pretty teapot.

"Something had to be done, Iris. I think it's a service, don't you?"

Iris stares at her sister.

Then she blinks.

"They have neighbors..."

"There were no cars in the next driveway, and all of the shades were drawn. The other house is empty. It's a little, dead end dirt road, far from the main highway. You remember? Heather told us that when they moved there."

"I remember. Are you sure no one saw you?"

"No one, dear. Don't worry about that. It's Heather that matters. When do you think she'll be back? Not for a while?"

I have a kitchen in my head. There's an old woman standing in it.

2007-07-07T16:42:00.000-07:00

It's hard to tell what color it is, as everything is covered with a layer of gold film. "Gold" does not mean shiny and expensive. It means the sort of yellow, sort of orange, sort of brownish color that makes everything look as if it's sticky. Every cabinet, every wood veneer panel, every appliance has this...this grime that has long ago smothered the original colors.

It smells of cigarettes and warm plastic, and something else that she does not recognize.

Looking into the room from the front door, there is a large plastic trash bin on the left, with an aged pair of sneakers kicked nest to it, and a plastic grocery bag with a box of light bulbs. The bag and the box are covered in dust. A much stained counter (it was light blue at one time, but now it looks a swampy green) leads to a sink full of dirty dishes, a stove with blackened clumps of mystery stuck to it, and an old refrigerator. The refrigerator has three magnets. One is in the shape of a toilet, (holding a scrap of paper with a phone number), one of a beer can (holding a photo of Heather with her arm around another young woman. They are at a beach, slightly sun burnt, but smiling broadly.), one of a duck (holding a piece of paper that reads "Jolene Friday 4").

Past that is a little more counter space, and then a wall of "wood" paneling. There is a poster of a busty woman holding a beer stein. Below the poster is a table. There is several days of mail on the table, grocery store circulars, and two styrofoam food containers. There is a dead daisy in a jelly glass. On the floor there is an empty paper container that once housed a dozen cans of cheap beer.

The old woman looks as if she is in a foreign land. She wears crisp white pants and a short sleeved blouse with small pink flowers. She has a white hat that shades her face. She wears pale fawn colored driving gloves and soft white shoes.

She is subtly upset by this room. She moves through it without touching anything, she doesn't even want to touch the floor. She clears her throat delicately. She passes into the next room, where she believed she hears snoring.

He is on the couch, lying on his back. He is shirtless and wearing gray sweatpants. The enormous television is on to the weather channel, but the sound is off. The room has stacks of things. Stacks of folded clothes, stacks of magazines, stacks of DVD’s. This room is less messy than the kitchen, but it is darker. The unfamiliar smell is much stronger here. The carpet and couch are worn dark blue, and the dirty curtains are drawn. Between his knees is one empty beer can. On the floor, at the end near his feet are five more.

His right arm has dropped off the end of the couch, and his hand rests between an ashtray (full of stubs of paper, that she assumes are hand rolled cigarettes) and an open pizza box. She can see that there are slices of pizza, loaded with meat and onions, and a cheap steak knife. Used to cut the pizza slices apart. It will suffice.

She bends to the box. She picks up the knife and positions herself so she is standing directly above him.

She calmly sticks the knife into his chest, where his heart is. Sideways, so it goes between his ribs and makes less mess. She pushes it into the hilt. His eyes flutter when she does this, but he is inebriated on beer and lazy from marijuana. They close again.

Althea leaves as quietly as she came.

The Stuff I Read: Comics

2007-06-20T19:57:00.000-07:00

"What is it you like about comics?" my husband asked me one night.
He'd just finished watching Heroes...his new favorite show.
I was flopped across our bed reading, and he popped in to ask me that question.

I really do like comics. Graphic novels.

I hadn't had to think of a real explanation of "why" though.

The first layer of it has to do with pictures.
I like pictures.
I like books that have pictures that reflect the story well.

By that I don't mean art that's pretty. The art in Watchmen isn't pretty, but it's perfect, and it's one of the best graphic novels I have ever read.

I mean art that works with the narration, the mood, the person of the protagonist. When the art and the words blend well, it's a fantastic reading experience.

I think another aspect of it has to do with my love of theater and film.

I was talking to Sam Costello about the difference between film and graphic novel script, and he told me there is almost no difference. It makes sense. When you compose both, you need to have the image, the frame in mind as well as the words. This is why comics and movies are frequently written by two people. Most of us are only good at the frame or the words.

The biggest part of it for me, though, is the history I have with comics. There's a nostalgia there, and I think it's great that it's a medium that I was fascinated by as a child and can love as an adult.

So in the weeks ahead, I'll tell you about my top 5 comics/graphic novels.

Probably the people who know far, far, far more about it than I do will stop by and tell me why I'm so totally wrong.

Meme, so I feel like I'm doing something.

2007-06-20T10:41:00.000-07:00

Objects Within One Metre Of You.

Husband's Fancy Shmancy camera that I can't figure out, single toddler sandal, my backpack from college.

TV Programmes You Won’t Watch 

Age of Love, America's Next Top Model, Survivor, Lost, 24, Law & Order SVU.

Favourite Trivial Pursuit Categories

Arts & Entertainment, Literature.

Superpowers You’d Like To Have.
 
Invisibility, weapon impervious skin, exact change for anything I want to buy always in my wallet.
 
Newspapers, Magazines or Periodicals Read Regularly

Real Simple, Cookie, House Beautiful, Newsweek, Men's Health (I circle things I want my husband to pay attention to).

Songs You Dislike

Don't You Wish Your Girlfriend Was Hot Like Me, She's Like The Wind, any love song done by a hard rock band.

Blog Posts of Your Own That You’d Recommend.

On Fucking
Corydalis's Room
Waking Up

 People You’d Like To See Answer These Same Stupid Questions

Strong Bad
The Incredible Hulk
Tina Fey

Sorry,

2007-06-18T22:06:00.001-07:00

I've been away for a while. Sad information has been coming into my life via e-mails, phone calls, and end of the day conversations with my Beloved. It's just been difficult to write without getting distracted.

Notes have been jotted this whole time, though. Thoughts on a new story, ways to tie up loose ends.

Next week there will be actual content. If not sooner.

My friend has cancer. She is thirty.

2007-06-07T21:18:00.001-07:00

She has been my friend for almost 9 years. Her husband is one of my oldest college friends, and he visited me this afternoon.

He told me he had some "not great" news. Then he clarified "It's bad news".

She has breast cancer.

But...but...

She told me to tell you not to worry about her.

DON'T WORRY ABOUT HER? IF MY HUSBAND TOLD HER THAT I HAD CANCER SHE WOULD WORRY ABOUT ME!

I know.

Early stages, right? They can just remove it? Right?

No. It's spread very quickly. They can't just take it out.

What...what...what...

The doctors were very surprised, because there's no history in her family.

But...she didn't grow up in one of those...cluster...places.

No. The cancer rates where she grew up aren't any higher than in the rest of the country.

THIS SUCKS! THIS ROYALLY SUCKS! What...okay. Okay. What are we doing? What are we going to do?

I tried to keep from crying. I didn't succeed. My son was playing on the floor in front of us, and he came over and smiled at me, then rested his soft little head on my knee.

It spread so very fast, because she saw the doctor and had the mammogram immediately after she found the lump. Then she had a biopsy. The doctors have to find out exactly how far the cancer has spread and she will probably have to have chemo, and a mastectomy.

My friends learned this a week ago today.

Even in my head I am afraid to say "what if..."

What if she dies?

You would think, with everything my husband and I have been through, illness in someone my age wouldn't terrify me, but it does. I suppose I thought my husband was the one. I figured it doesn't happen often in people under thirty, some hideous illness that could kill you, so if it happened to us, then our friends will be fine.

My husband didn't die, though.

What if she dies?

It's so strange that I prepared myself for my husband's death to the point where, if it happened, I knew that I would be prostrate with grief, but my life could go on. It was hard to get to that point, and my husband wanted to know that I could be at that point.

I never prepared myself for one of my friends dying.

What will we do if she dies?

What will her husband do if she dies?

I missed their wedding because the friend who was driving me there got lost.

She's so tiny, and her wedding dress had a very full skirt. She looked beautiful, but she had trouble getting out of the door.

She took the photos at my wedding.

I have a photo of her from seven years ago, putting her cousin in a headlock with silly expressions on their faces.

Her cousin looks very much like her younger sister.

Her younger sister got married this past winter.

Her younger sister was in a play I directed, and on the closing night, my friend and her fiancé (my friend) gave me a spinning tin top...because everyone gives flowers.

Oh, God, please please please please don't let her die.

Vacation!

2007-05-30T20:18:00.000-07:00

I'm not going to be posting for a few days!

I'm going to Chicago!

I'm going with Beloved Husband,
while Baby stays with Mum-Mum and Auntie!

I'm going to wear dangly earrings!

I'm going to wear the top that with the really low back
that I haven't worn in two years!

I'm going to wear my leather pants
(I don't care how hot it is)!

I'm going to wear sexy strappy heels!

I'm going to have lots of wild hotel sex!

Uh...too much information?

The Stuff I Read: Agatha Christie: Just Plain Entertaining

2007-05-29T20:35:00.000-07:00

Or: The Lists Of "You Should"s.

If you want to get started on Christie

1. The Mysterious Affair at Styles
2. The Murder at The Vicarage
3. The Secret Adversary
4. The Mysterious Mr. Quinn
5. Parker Pyne Investigates

These five books are the first for each of her detectives. Hercule Poirot, Jane Marple, Tommy and Tuppence Beresford, Harley Quin (no relation at all to this person), and Parker Pyne. Christie's detectives are so fine, that if you really want to experience them fully, you should start where they start, and follow them.

If you want to read Christie's personal favourites

1. Crooked House
2. Ordeal by Innocence
3. And Then There Were None (play version...because of combination of complex story and the romantic ending. The original story doesn't have a romantic ending).
4. The Complete Quin and Satterthwaite (Mr.Quinn was her favourite character)
5. Death on The Nile

If you want to know what my favourites are

1. The Murder of Roger Ackroyd: Because I haven't mentioned this book enough. The execution of the murder is done well...not brilliantly, but well. It's just the Oh Holy Crap moment in the parlour scene. I was reading Christie for a decade before I got to Ackroyd and it threw me for such a loop. Whenever I feel like Christie, I pick it up, and even though I know what's coming, it never loses its fun for me at that moment. Also, Caroline Sheppard is so neat!

2. The A.B.C. Murders: This was the first one I read, when I was eleven. I still have the same copy. I don't think it's the sentimentality that keeps me coming back, though. It's very much a story where we see Poirot's brain at the best of his ability, and I like that it's a story that spans several months with periods of inactivity between crimes. It's one of the few stories with a deliberate serial killer who calls attention to his work. In that, it's more like a lot of mainstream detective fiction, but the characters keep what could have been a tired cliché anything but. It's engaging, it's fun, and it makes you say "Ahhhhh...yesssss." at the end.

3. Death on The Nile: For the cleverly executed murder, but also for the diversity of the female characters. Rosalie Otterbourne, who is so, so unhappy, who has had such a hard life that she has "forgotten how to be nice". Mrs. Allerton, who is bright and sweet and practical and has such a great sense of humor. Cornelia Robson, ugly, uneducated, unaffected and quite possibly the most emotionally healthy person in literature. Jacqueline DeBelefort; passionate, tragic, intense and fascinating. "Tall, Golden" Linnet Ridgeway,"Linnet La Blonde!" who is so beautiful, rich, smart and admired that she is completely removed from reality. I have imagined myself playing each of these roles at one time...every time I read it, I choose a different woman and read her lines aloud in the voice I think she would use. Huh. Typed out, that sounds...a little nuts.

4. Hickory Dickory Dock: I read this in high school for the first time, and I think it resonated because several of the characters were only a little older than myself. It was also pretty cool to see that Felicity Lemon (first of all, this is where the reader learns she has a first name...and it's Felicity, of all things) is human after all. That she has a family and affections. It throws the brilliant Poirot for such a loop in the first page, and it takes the audience a minute to recover, as well. Oh, and Colin McNabb and Len Bateson are really sexy.

5. The Murder at The Vicarage: Miss Marple is so wonderful, but for me, it just doesn't get better with her than in her debut. The photographs you get in your mind of St. Mary Mead and this delicate, elderly, overlooked lady are never more vivid than the first time you see them.

Thus ends my Christie Breakdowns. I think I may do more of these "Stuff I Read" posts. I'm thinking of Conan Doyle, Dorothy L. Sayers, and Graphic Novels (the genre, not one specific writer) for the future.

The Stuff I Read: Agatha Christie: The Top Five Monsters (Spoilers Ahead)

2007-05-24T17:56:00.000-07:00

My intention was to do the Top 5 Lists of Agatha Christie Books (Just Plain Entertaining), but it seemed to me that it would be better put next week, which will be my last week of Christie.

Top Five Agatha Christie Monsters, In My Humble Opinion.

Simeon Lee Hercule Poirot’s Christmas

He made his fortune in South African diamonds. When he came back to England, he married a women he was never faithful, or even kind to. He enjoyed flaunting his mistresses before her and the four children he had with her (there were more, by other women). When his sons were grown, he took his delight in pitting them against each other, baiting them as to who may or may not get his money. His old son uncomplainingly stayed home to care for his father once he became an invalid, and he treated him the worst. He’s not actually the murderer in this story. He’s the victim

Mr. Ratchett Murder on The Orient Express

Many years ago in New York City there was a wealthy and admired family who loved each other, their community, even loved their servants. The Armstrong Family consisted of Toby, his wife Sonya, and their daughter, Daisy.

When Daisy was 3 years old Mr. Ratchett kidnapped her. When her parents paid the very high ransom, he took it, and brutally murdered her. Sonya was pregnant at the time, and when she learned her daughter had been killed, she fainted and went into premature labor. She died at the hospital, as did the unborn baby. Having lost his wife and two children in 24 hours, Toby went home and blew his brains out. That’s only four of the people Mr. Ratchett destroyed. In this book, he’s is murdered.

Mrs. Boynton Appointment With Death

Mrs. Boynton was a prison wardess before her marriage. She grew bored torturing prisoners, so she married and began to torture her very young stepchildren. By the time Lennox, Raymond and Jinny were adults, they were mentally and emotionally stunted to a spectacular degree...Jinny almost to the point of insanity. Mrs. Boynton loved it. She loved the power she had over them.

She loved it so much that when she learned she was going to die from heart disease, she committed suicide in a way that implicated each of her children just enough for them to be suspected by the police for her murder, but not enough for it to be clearly proved which of them did it. So the shadow of murder would stay on them for the rest of their lives.

Michael Garfield Hallowe’en Party

He was a gardener. More than that, he was an artist. He created beauty, he was obsessed with beauty. He was beautiful, he was vain. He murdered for his art. Michael Garfield was Agamemnon and Narcissus in one completely inhumane person. Remember what Agamemnon did?

Franklin Clarke The A.B.C. Murders

You don’t notice a particular pin when it’s in a pincushion surrounded by other pins. Franklin Clarke knew that people wouldn’t notice a personal, family murder if it was surrounded by other murders. Murders committed by a made up psychopath. So he planned multiple murders. He murdered people who had loving families, all to cover the one murder that benefitted him. He implicated a man with epilepsy, a kind, lonely mad who had blackouts from time to time, who wouldn’t know that he hadn’t done these horrible things. He did all of this for his brother’s money. That’s all. Four dead people, and one man almost hung, so Franklin Clarke could get his brother’s money.

The Stuff I Read: Agatha Christie: Holy Crap, That's Creepy!

2007-05-16T18:08:00.000-07:00

This is about Agatha Christie. She whose pen spouts the clever capers. Her very genteel detectives will make sure that everything is cleared up and everyone gets their cup of tea.

Right?

Yeah, not so much.

In The Last Séance, a parent begs a medium to call up the spirit of a dead child. The medium does this. Really, really well.

In A Glass Darkly has the protagonist seeing a crime reflected in a mirror...or does he? He tells the woman he thought he saw, and she changes the path of her life because of it. Years later the vision comes true anyway...or does it?

As for The House of Dreams...I won't tell you the plot. It's freaky and tragic.

What really kills me, is that these stories are in collections with her regular mysteries. Her horror stories (I'd classify them as that, anyway, though the Cool Kids may disagree) are woven in to what a typical reader expects, packing a greater "...the hell?" reaction than if they were put in a volume with "The Horror Stories of Agatha Christie" on the cover.

The first of these that I read remains my favorite. It got the best reaction (an inability to fall asleep).

When I saw the title The Dressmaker’s Doll, I expected a jewel thief would steal a large diamond from Lady Honoria Flotherling-West and hide it in the stuffing of a doll. Something like that.

Way off. Waaaaaay off.

The Doll sits in the fitting room of a dress shop. She matches the walls. She matches the drapes. She must always have been there. She clearly belongs there. Only...no one who works at the shop can remember seeing her before.

Alicia (the owner) starts finding The Doll at her desk every morning. It must be a junior employee being silly, surely. Then, things start to disappear, and are found under wherever The Doll is sitting. Customers complain that she gives them the creeps. They actually stop coming to the store because they don't want to see her. Whenever The Doll is moved to the sofa from where she seemed to begin, she is back at the desk the next time the employees enter the office.

Weeks pass, and the cleaning woman won’t go into The Doll’s room. The women become convinced that The Doll is evil. She consumes their thoughts: What does she want? How can they get rid of her? Can they, will she just come back? Can they destroy her? Why are they so afraid of a her in the first place?

They surrender. They lock her in the room she seems to want, keep the only key, and vow never to go in there again.

Locks don’t matter to The Doll.

I read this story late at night, six months ago.

When I finished, I looked up. Paige was staring at me.

Paige has a sweet rag doll face and purple streaks in her yarn hair. She wears a denim miniskirt and a T-shirt that says “Girls Rock”. My son loves Paige. When he was 9 months old he crawled around with her hand between his teeth. He tugs her hair and bites her feet and hugs her and she smiles all the while.

Before reading The Dressmaker’s Doll, I believed Paige to be precious.

After reading it, I believed Paige to be planning a subtle takeover of my house.

Ridiculous! It’s a story about a doll, for crying out loud. Remember what Costello said about Chucky?

"So, I don’t get it again. It’s a little talking doll. It tries to kill you. Kick it. Hit it with a broom. Whatever - it’s stupid." (Little Terrors, November 2004)

That was three years ago? Okay, maybe no one remembers that but me.

Anyway, he's right! It is stupid! Punt it out a window, you're fine.

I spent hours that night trying to get anything other than possessed dolls out of my head. Calvin and Hobbes, porn, Cartoon Network, yoga...nothing worked.

Damn you, Agatha Christie and your unpredicted creativity!

Elm Park. Wednesday.

2007-05-11T09:59:00.000-07:00

My son has taken to hanging about the big window in our living room and saying "Go? Go? GO! GO!" when it's good weather.

Hot with a cool breeze, sun blazing overhead.
We paint ourselves with SPF 50 and set out for the Park.

He squeals and giggles on the swings.
Somehow his hat stays on as he goes higher and higher.

I sip an iced coffee and revel in the sun on my bare arms and legs.
The air smells of sun block and the new flowers on the trees.

Then the buses arrive.
A hundred (that's a fair estimate, not an exaggeration) school children
- with giant stickers "Park Ave. Elementary" stuck to their shirts -
pour out and descended upon the few parents
and grandparents with babies.
Amusing at first, but when Sam wants to run around
he keeps getting in someone's way,
and I fear he's going to get plowed.

So into the stroller. We meander around the rest of the park.
To the bridges, the shady, flowering trees.
We run into Belle
(named for the Al Green song, her daddy has told me)
and her daddy.
We see them most times we're here.
She's 2, and I think Sam is in love with her.
She runs to him "Shammy! Hi Shammy!" and he hugs her head.
He gets out, and toddles around after Belle.

A woman and a dog are paddling in a carnation pink kayak.

They approach the ever present geese,

and the geese take flight, relatively low.
They go right over our heads.
I tell Sam to look, but he's sitting in the grass,
munching a dandelion.

The schoolchildren are on the march,
and the playground is deserted.
Sam and I bid goodbye to Belle,
who wants to climb a cherry tree,
and he swings until he gets tired.

Home for snack and a nap.

And a chronicling of our morning.

The Stuff I Read: Agatha Christie: Homosexuality

2007-05-09T10:52:00.000-07:00

I know it's not part of the original list, but in researching some of the other subjects, I kept making notes on it, so I decided to add it in.

If you read Christie's books, you're going to come across characters who are most likely homosexual. She never actually says it, but you can see that it's there. I started reading Christie in elementary school, and I've always found her handling of said characters interesting.

In Five Little Pigs there is Philip Blake, who despised his best friend's wife to a desperate degree. Another character in the story suggests that he was actually in love with her. That suggestion (when I first read it at age 12) seemed way off base. Still does today. In Three Blind Mice, Christopher Wren is a walking stereotype. He's a 1930's Jack McFarland.

Hinch & Murgatroyd in A Murder is Announced are women who have been living together for years, and have developed that comfortable similarity that middle aged married people have. The rather masculine Katherine Casewell in the play version of Three Blind Mice has secret correspondence with "Jessie" (a cop reads her letter and sneers "Friend of yours?"). Suggestions have also been made about Jane Plenderleith of Murder In The Mews and her passionate devotion to her friend Barbara Allen. Also of Mrs. Macatta in The Incredible Theft.*

In the 50’s, Miss Marple’s nephew Raymond mentions one of his friends, a writer, and refers to him as “a queer”, asking his aunt if she has heard of them (gay men, as I assume he would know she had heard of writers). It wasn’t until the 1960’s...Hallowe’en Party that the word “lesbian” is said out loud...by teenage boys trying to sound sophisticated.

The women, likable (except for Mrs. Macatta), smart, naturally straightforward have cause speculation that Christie herself was bisexual. Some people believe that a relationship with a woman was the reason for her mysterious 11 day disappearance in the 20's.

Many of Christie's works have been put to television and film, and certain characters have been adapted to be most definitely homosexuals. With Five Little Pigs, it seems to make the story fit her intention much better. In some, it's different, but it works (Tim Allerton Death on The Nile) His gentle delivery of "Em...barking up the wrong tree, I'm afraid." after Rosalie kisses him is cute). The lesbian and the gay man in Cards on The Table are the murderers, and there it seems a little defamatory. Though...their reasons for keeping were (for the woman) to keep the girl she was in love with from being sent away and (for the man) to keep his lover's wife from exposing them. I'm not saying they were justified, but you could say that their actions were a result of society's insistence that there's something shameful about being gay (and I am not going to get on my soapbox about that here, because it's been a good day so far and I don't feel like getting worked into tears).

I will say that I'm not a fan of people adapting characters (or writing original ones) and then saying "Hey, we need someone gay in this book/show/movie/comic, let's pick this supporting character who can be comic relief/a scapegoat/used to titillate the straight guys". That comes from my attitude that you need to treat the characters you create as multi dimensional beings, and to write gay people off as a plot quirk (in my mind) exploits them and diminishes homosexuality as a trend instead of something genuine and natural (I realize I'm getting close to the soapbox now).

Then again, my view of this, the interpretations of Agatha Christie the individual writer and the media at large, are from a distance, because I'm heterosexual.

He's sleeping through the night.

2007-05-07T20:26:00.000-07:00

This past week, he has slept all through the night. Or, he's woken up to whine a bit, and go right back to sleep.

This is great.

This is freeing.

This means I can finally pack up the nursing bras and in a few months the size of my breasts will be consistent from day to day.

I can buy new bras.

Pretty new bras.

Lacy, pretty, new bras.

It hurts.

Not physically (well, yes...they are the size, shape and hardness of beer kegs and they're killing me, but that isn't what I mean to talk about).

It's the feeling of flesh being torn off slowly.

It's the feeling of warmth leaving my skin.

It's the feeling that comes when your child grows up.

I really loved to nurse.

I loved looking down at his big blue eyes, loved the doped little smile he would get when he was done, loved the way he would curl up and fall asleep with his soft peachy cheek next to my heartbeat.

I loved the knowledge that my body was still taking care of my baby.

I wish I'd paid more attention the last time I nursed him. I really didn't think when he finally got it, it would happen that fast. We went from screaming to be picked up every few hours click out cold for 12 and a half.

I didn't know the last time would be the last time.

I just have to tell people about this!

2007-05-07T10:51:00.000-07:00

I have found the coolest web site for anyone who reads.

Paperback Swap! You take your used books (soft cover, hardcover, audio tapes and more) and list them on the site. Someone, somewhere orders one of your books, you mail it out to them (mailing costs about $1.75). For every book you send out, you get a credit for a book to receive.

This site is free and it's so fun. I had a ton of books that I knew I was never going to read again. Now I have more shelf space and a stack of books yet to read.

This was especially good when my *adorable* son found my copy of "The Voyage Of The Dawn Treader" and destroyed it. My "new" copy arrived this afternoon!

I'm going to use it for books for him, as well. "Are You My Mother?" is on the way.

The Stuff I Read: Agatha Christie: Times Change: Sex

2007-05-03T10:48:00.000-07:00

There is a line in a Marple book (damned if I can find which one*) where she is talking about the attitude of sex, and how it has changed since she was a girl. She says that she believes people “enjoyed it more”, though they discussed it less.

Christie had an interesting reaction to the looming Sexual Revolution. It’s thoughtful, but not judgmental. It doesn't condemn promiscuity (or any fornication) as a sin, but asks if something very nice is lost when restraint is.

Lots of people believe that it is the sacred aspect of sex that makes it so very good...I’m one of them. I could never have sex with someone I did not love, though I know that many of my friends can and do. I do believe (and something tells me Christie, or at least Miss Marple would agree) that the negative shameful aspect of sex needs to be removed, as that only makes people feel bad about themselves. Shame of sex leads to shame of our genders and bodies. Shame of our genders and bodies leads to a whole mess of emotional crap that could fill volumes (pornography addictions, eating disorders). Also, it encourages rebellion in an arena that should be used for joy.

I went to a Christian college, and so many girls arrived there without having ever been felt up, because they were told that sex before marriage was flat out bad. You know what happened to those girls? They left parental supervision and their panties exploded! They went really far, really soon, and felt bad about it later. Or (and I think this is far worse) they got themselves engaged and then married to the first guy they desperately wanted to bone (yeah, I'm channeling a teenage boy) and ended up unfulfilled and in some cases, divorced, in their early twenties.

Back to Christie: throughout her books she dealt with The Act Of sex in socially appropriate ways, being demure in the 20's through 40's, and more conversational in the 50's and sixties. Whether it was a marriage that sadly lost, than gladly regained its passion (The Mysterious Affair at Styles, They Do it With Mirrors ) or the affect a really really hot person can have on raging hormones (Lord Edgeware Dies, Triangle at Rhodes, They Do It With Mirrors again) she seemed to be saying subtly that sex was important. Tread lightly.

The Stuff I Read: Agatha Christie: Times Change: Politics: ARGH!

2007-04-25T18:39:00.000-07:00

My draft on Christie's Politics sucks. It's all over the place and I hate it and I'm tired.

Ah, the hell with it. I'll stick it up, and over the next week I'll tweak it until it has a semblance of cohesion.

Agatha Christie wrote in her present. Considering her career spanned more than 50 years, that's no mean feat.

People will always suffer jealousy and greed. People wronged will desire revenge until the end of time. If a crime writer writes merely about the passionate crimes, changing with the times isn't that difficult. Just alter the language and throw in some new technology.

Christie, however, wrote some crimes that were very political.

Now, Christiephiles everywhere know about her espionage stories. Tommy and Tuppence Beresford did a whole heap of those (N or M? being a particularly good one). This is about the murder mysteries Christie's detective solved that churned up motives (for murder or otherwise) of a much grander scale.

It's interesting that when the first Poirot book came out, The Great War was just ending. The Ottoman Empire was destroyed. When was the last time before then that an Empire had gone down? Has there been one since? A war like no one alive had seen before. For first time, people were recognizing the damaging effect immense violence can have on individuals and countries.

She reflected it. In Captain Hastings, invalided out of the service, in tragic characters such as Alexander Bonaparte Cust, who suffered from severe PTSD. In Poirot himself, who began life in England as a refugee, aided by an elderly Englishwoman's generosity towards the small, brave country of Belgium.

Not long before World War Two kicked off, Christie's characters were discussing the rise of fascism and the fear of socialism. In The Labours of Hercules, and American mentions a new political party taking Germany by storm and mentions casually that those people "are just crazy". "Just crazy" dropped bombs on England not long after.

In “One Two Buckle My Shoe” the murderer’s motive is the protection of England, of the World. He sees the threat of the two extremes (personified in the two young Arrogant Jerks) and kills for survival. For his own survival, and for the survival of the Financially Conservative political standard he knows and understands.

“Hickory Dickory Dock” takes place in 1955. It’s about a bunch of grad students living in a hostel. Subversive stuff happens. It’s drug dealing and murder, but since one of the young women is American, people worry she’s going to go McCarthy on them.

When the sixties rolled around, the Cold War was going on. Poirot shakes his head at the thought of nuclear war in “The Clocks”. He does not want to discuss the bomb. Christie’s detective was very old, and very tired.

Kind of like the chick writing this post.

The Stuff I Read: Agatha Christie: Same Story, Different Title

2007-04-18T16:37:00.001-07:00

Many people have said that there are no more original ideas. All writers are just rehashing the same stuff. Could be true. It depends on how broad you’re willing to be. Are going to break it into Man v. Man, Man v. Nature, Man v. Self? If you are, then...yeah. Nothing is original.

Some of my favorite pieces of literature aren’t that original in concept or execution, but they are great examples on how to do things well. Christie had several examples of how to do something well all over again.

The Mysterious Affair at Styles, Towards Zero: kind, elderly Spitfire brutally murdered while her house is full of guests. Two of the guests are a couple struggling with a dissatisfying marriage.

Appointment with Death, Hercule Poirot’s Christmas: controlling, sadistic parent murdered and there’s a plethora of suspects because all of the kids are elated to finally be free from said parent’s tyranny.

The Case of The Perfect Maid, The Mystery of Hunter’s Lodge: One woman plays two characters so a crime can be committed, and the superfluous person (the criminal) can disappear.

The best and most obvious example are the short stories The Mystery of the Spanish Chest and The Mystery of the Baghdad Chest. Baghdad was published first, then she tweaked a few things (Hastings in in one version, absent in the other) years later. But it’s the same story, and it's good both ways.

Jane Marple herself began as a supporting character from The Murder of Roger Ackroyd (favourite favourite favourite). Christie liked the character of Caroline Sheppard so much that she tweaked her a bit and made a whole series around her.

She also nods to Arthur Conan Doyle (I might do a “Stuff I Read" on him sometime). In The Big Four (don’t confuse it with ACD’s The Sign of Four) Poirot brings in his more intelligent “brother”, Achille to help. One needn’t look far to find the influence - Sherlock’s uber genius brother Mycroft Holmes.

Poirot speaks of having admiration for Arthur Conan Doyle, though not particularly his creation of Holmes in The Clocks. Poirot claimed that Holmes’ genius was merely attuned observational skills, such as he himself possessed.

In Christie’s autobiography, she said of the Poirot stories "I was still writing in the Sherlock Holmes tradition - eccentric detective, stooge assistant, with a Lestrade-type Scotland Yard detective.” It’s formula. One that works.

Agatha Christie never claimed she was a font of originality. She admitted (through Aridne Oliver, in Cards on The Table) that she recycled all the time. We can see in her characters that she gave the same person different names and settings more than once. No apologies. She made characters that entertained and plots that made you think, but not think too much and she gave you a sense of satisfaction at the end.

Demand more from other writers and other genres, but from Christie, be happy with pretty damn good.

Molly and Poppy

2007-04-13T10:08:00.000-07:00

It seems like yesterday that I got the phone call from my Mom telling me about Molly.

The first visit to their house without her was surreal. I kept looking around the floor (corgis are low to the ground), kept listening for the click click click of her nails on the linoleum. It was very difficult.

This past Easter we went to my parents’ house and met another dog. Another corgi who bears a strong physical resemblance to Molly. She’s the same color, through she’s smaller and her ears are longer and more on the side of her head than up on top.

Her name is Poppy.

I regarded her skeptically. She’s adorable, and if she hadn’t been in Molly’s house, I am sure I would have been snuggling and cooing all over her. There she was, though. Sitting on Molly’s couch with Molly’s family, looking just enough like Molly for something to feel wrong. It would be different had they chosen another breed.

My mother began extolling Poppy’s virtues. Poppy almost never barks (Molly barked a lot and she was loud). Poppy doesn’t freak out when the phone rings (Molly thought it was some kind of terrorist). Poppy is very low key and mellow (Molly was bouncy and playful...which I loved about her). I started to get pissed off at my mother for talking as if Poppy was some sort of New Improved Molly.

I am not ready for Poppy.

Then again...she’s not my dog. She never will be. I don’t live there. I can learn to look at her as my sister’s dog, my parent’s dog.

Shortly after my sister arrived from China, we snapped a shot of her and Molly, staring into each other’s eyes. Calm, nose to nose. That photo has a place of honor among the family photos on the den wall. In the living room there is a photo of Molly, sitting up straight in our old backyard, surrounded by bright green grass and Indian Paintbrush.

My son is enthusiastic with animals, and he ran after Poppy, squawking with joy, arms outstretched. I think she was afraid of him.

I studied her for a while and then patted her head. “I do like you, Poppy.” I said.

I leaned in and she kissed me on the nose.

I’ll get used to her.

No #4.

2007-04-09T20:42:00.000-07:00

So there was a typo I did not catch when I posted the Christie List. Oops.

Anyway, I'm going to take advantage of that error. I'm nursing a foul headache/sore throat/sinus hell thing.

Next week I'll post again. For now I am on the couch with tea. Let the toddler destroy the house if he wants to!

The Stuff I Read: Agatha Christie: The Genius & The Sidekick

2007-04-04T07:30:00.000-07:00

or: The Hastings

To be brilliant is a gift. It can also be a great handicap. Talk to a person of immense mental capability and they will tell you that they have trouble relating to average people.

I know a guy. We’ll call him Marzipan. He’s a functional genius. The people he works with are of slightly lower intelligence (in that they are bright, not brilliant). He can work with us, but he’s definitely separated from our perspective. Marzipan's brain has a greater capacity for memory. He can get irritated when someone forgets a prior statement, or piece of an argument. Also, when it takes someone a lot longer to figure something out than it took him. To work with him is admittedly frustrating at times (as likable and great at his job as he is), because he just doesn’t understand what it’s like to be one of the many.

Marzipan has always had this effortless intelligence. That’s his normal. It’s a great gift, but it’s not without drawbacks.

------

Throughout literature, especially the mystery, there have been Sidekicks. Sherlock Holmes had Watson, Batman had (and has) Robin. One could dismiss these characters as mere plot devices, a tired tradition of the genre. One would be wrong. The best and most clever detectives must have someone less clever at their side.

In Death in The Clouds, Fictional mystery writer Daniel Clancy refers to the concept of “The Idiot Friend”, but that’s not really accurate. Captain Arthur Hastings, Hercule Poirot’s best friend, is brave, patriotic and loyal. He is fair, honest, chivalrous and has a thing for redheads. Hastings is normal. He is not brilliant, but he’s not stupid. An ordinarily smart person who sees exactly what the criminal wants them to see. He's a thoroughly admirable personality and he’s necessary.

So much so that, even when he wasn’t present in a story, Poirot sought out someone to fill the role. In The Murder of Roger Ackroyd (my favourite!) Poirot meets Dr. Sheppard. Poirot compares the doctor’s way of thinking to Hastings, and decided to use him as such.

Later characters are less directly put in their place, but they are clear to a reader. The English Man or Woman. (excepting Murder On The Orient Express, which takes place in Europe...L’Associé is M. Bouc of the Sureté.) Katherine Grey in The Mystery of The Blue Train, Peter Lord in Sad Cypress, Mrs. Hubbard in Hickory Dickory Dock, Colin Lamb in The Clocks. Several members of the police in some form (Death on The Nile, Hercule Poirot’s Christmas).

Later, when author Ariadne Oliver enters his life, she fills the role (Cards On The Table, Hallowe’en Party). She’s a little more unique than Arthur Hastings. She has an intuition that Poirot greatly admires, but she is still the slightly lesser intelligence and the example of British thinking.

Like several people with exceptional cerebral abilities Poirot has an ego. A big one. He is extraordinarily conceited. Hastings often feels like he is around simply to ooh and ahh at the detective’s brilliance. I’m sure that’s a perk for Poirot (and a sure irritant to The Sidekick). Poirot did know their value to him, though. In Lord Edgeware Dies, Poirot does something rare and touching when he tells Hastings

“You are beautifully and perfectly balanced. In you sanity is personified. As in a mirror I see reflected in your mind exactly what the criminal wishes me to believe. This is terrifically helpful and suggestive...you have an insight into the criminal mind which I myself lack. Ca cher Hastings, I have indeed much affection for you.”

As do we, the readers. Think of Sherlock Holmes. The stories narrated by Watson are by far the gems of the collection. Who keeps Batman from being a total prick and an emotional train wreck? Robin*!

I'm not saying the Geniuses are not utterly awesome with all their good...brain...stuff. They need us, though. To ground them without weighing them down.

Yeah, that's a crappy closing statement. If Marizapan is reading this he's probably making a scrunchy face. Big if. I don't know if this blog is smaht enough for him.

*I know a solid case can be made that it's also Alfred, but this is not the All About Batman post. For my thoughts on Alfred, go here.

The Stuff I Read: Agatha Christie: Cast of Character Types: Men

2007-03-28T00:00:00.000-07:00

The Poor Chap/The Hero: He’s flawed in some way. Wimpy, works too much, has a gambling problem. The men in Christie books are not ever a typical Hero. This character is not the handsome, rugged yet sensitive cliché that crappy romances spit out.

A fact he is very aware of.

He’s either pathetically anxious (Mr. Cust The A.B.C. Murders), not overly intelligent (Ralph Paton The Murder of Roger Ackroyd) or bitter and jaded (Jerry Burton The Moving Finger) . He wants personal freedom, peace of mind, love, the courage to keep living. He stands in his own way. The Poor Chap is a classic Man v. Himself example.

Note: just because I title him “The Hero” does not mean that he can never be the murderer. We’re just really bummed out when he is (Norman Gale Death in the Clouds)

The Arrogant Jerk: Often handsome, though doesn’t have to be. He does have to have “something” that appeals to women. If not physical appearance (Michael Shane After The Funeral), it’s his radical political ideologies (Howard Raikes One Two Buckle My Shoe) or talent (Amyas Crale Five Little Pigs ).

The Curmudgeon: “Bah, kids these days...Bah, women don’t understand how hard finance is...Bah these foreigners with their Socialism...Bah these police are bothering me...Bah stop touching my ancient artifacts/medical equipment/mysterious letters."

He’s middle aged or older. He’s either portly or very thin. His nationality doesn’t matter, he appears as French (Georges Death in the Clouds) German (Dr. Bessner Death on the Nile) American (Rufus Van Aldin The Mystery of the Blue Train) and English (Lord Caterham The Seven Dials Mystery).

When Christie doesn’t want him to be two dimensional, she gives him someone he loves very much. Usually, a daughter.

The Butler: Of course. Wherever English nobility are, there is an ancient, white haired old man to wait on them. He's loyal, never impolite, never shocked, though he can be unnerved. My favourite, Gudgeon (The Hollow)...cool as a cucumber when he found a handgun in a basket of eggs. He cleaned it and put it away. Of course. As a good servant should.

The Very English Man: He gets uncomfortable around emotional displays (Leonard Clement Murder at the Vicarage), flamboyance (Dr. James Sheppard The Murder of Roger Ackroyd), foreigners (Col. Melrose The Love Detectives). He can’t imagine that anyone would want to live anywhere other than England. He’s “modest”, be that a natural part of his personality (Douglas Gold Triangle at Rhodes) or because it’s improper to boast (Lord Mayfield The Incredible Theft. Very much about playing by the rules of society and country.

Arthur Hastings is the favourite example of this character, and it’s his inherent sweetness that allows the reader to forgive his priggishness.

A very specific Very English Man is The Very English Soldier: eminently respectable, full of stories about shooting, India, and a whole lot of people that no one else in the cast has ever heard about or cares about.

The Copper: Tenacious. Unimaginative. Suspicious of psychology. Truly believe that people have nothing to fear if they’re innocent by law. If there’s a private detective (amateur or otherwise) involved in the case, the Copper is usually patronizing in attitude. That is, they are patronizing until the p.d. proves their ability beyond reproach.

Many of Agatha Christie’s Coppers return for a few more stories (Superintendents Spence & Battle, Sir Henry Clitherling), and the shared history is pleasing to long time readers. Certainly in the case of Chief Inspector James Japp, who was not only a collaborator of Hercule Poirot’s, he became a very close friend.

The Foreigner: The Foreigner varies depending on the situation. Sometimes he’s comic relief (Akibombo Hickory Dickory Dock), sometimes he’s a serious character used as the scapegoat (Jacob Tanios Dumb Witness).

Agatha Christie was a well traveled woman, and she didn’t seem to have the mistrust of foreigners that many of her characters did. The unifying trait her Immigrants and Visitors seem to have is that they are not what the British meant or expect them to be.

Sometimes, of course, The Foreigner is a brilliant, witty, dapper little Belgian. A man with fantastic mustaches and particular tastes in food, who does "not approve of murder".

There's going to be a #10!

2007-03-24T19:04:00.002-07:00

Thanks to Colin (commented on this post) I am adding

10. Top 5 Agatha Christie "Monsters"

Tag, I'm It.

2007-03-22T08:36:00.000-07:00

I have to stop meme-ing.

Historical things that happened on my birthday that I think are kind of interesting:

1709 - Peter the Great defeats Charles XII of Sweden at the Battle of Poltava. (I'm Swedish)

1893 - Crash of the New York Stock Exchange. (Sucks)

1950-The United States decides to send troops to fight in the Korean War. (Sucks)

1953 - Joseph Laniel becomes Prime Minister of France. (I heart France)

1957 - Hurricane Audrey kills 500 people in Louisiana and Texas.
(Wow...Not a good day in History for the USA)

1967 - The world's first ATM is installed in Enfield, London.
(I would not have survived my month in London without them)

1969 - Stonewall riots begin in New York city.
(Give us our jams and jellies NOW!)

2007- Air date for First Annual Library of Congress Gershwin Prize for Popular Song, awarded to Paul Simon
(Uh. Seriously?)

These people got born:

1462 - King Louis XII of France (d. 1515)

1550 - King Charles IX of France (d. 1574)

1880 - Helen Keller, American spokeswoman for the deaf and blind (d. 1968) (Oh, now THAT is cool!)

1927 - Bob Keeshan, American actor (d. 2004) (CAPTAIN KANGAROO! AWESOME!)

1930 - Ross Perot, American billionaire and politician

1932 - Eddie Kasko, baseball player (Played for my Sox!)

1949 - Vera Wang, American fashion designer

1959 - Dan Jurgens, American comic book writer and artist ("Death of Superman" guy)

These people died:

1988 - Hillel Slovak, Israeli born guitarist for the Red Hot Chili Peppers (b. 1962) (Love that band)

1996 - Cubby Broccoli, American film producer (b. 1909)
(I have no idea who he is, but that cannot be his real name!)

2001 - Jack Lemmon, American actor (b. 1925)
( I remember feeling awful about that.)

2002 - John Entwistle, English bassist (The Who) (b. 1944)
(Another band I totally love. Felt bad about that, too.)

2005 - Shelby Foote, American author and historian (b. 1917)
(I remember when he died, but I didn't know that it was actually on my birthday...I think I heard about it a few days after.)

Holidays:

National HIV Testing Day in United States
(I didn't know we had this, and I think it's awesome! They need to promote it more.)

National Veterans' Day in the United Kingdom (I'll wager that's a Balderdash question...)

And finally:

In Shirley Jackson's Novel The Lottery, the annual lottery is held on this date each year.

(What? I don't remember that! That's the story where everyone stones a woman to death, even her own family!
Dammit, Shirley Jackson, why did you have to pick that day?)

I tag no one.

The Stuff I Read: Agatha Christie: Cast of Character Types: Women

2007-03-21T11:40:00.000-07:00

The Earnest Girl: always plain and dowdy and unhappy. Often in denial of that final trait. Can be either very clever or very stupid, but is always one of the two. She’s either pathetically in love (Patricia Lane Hickory Dickory Dock)with the Arrogant Jerk, the relation that everyone feels sorry for (Mildred Strete Murder With Mirrors), or some kid with a rotten job (Edna Brent The Clocks). When she’s the victim (Pamela Reeves The Body in The Library) you feel really sorry for her. When she’s the murderer, everyone’s shocked (Gerda Cristow The Hollow) because they all thought she was the very stupid kind.

Notable Exception: Cornelia Robson Death on The Nile. She’s ugly, poor and doesn’t care. She has an infectiously cheerful outlook that makes the Arrogant Jerk and the Curmudgeon (I’ll describe them later when I tackle the men) fall in love with her.

The Spitfire: Never beautiful, but described as attractive or interesting. Often a redhead (Sally Finch Hickory Dickory Dock, Susan Cardwell Dead Man’s Mirror, Jenny Driver Lord Edgeware Dies)! If she’s not, attention is usually called to one unique physical feature (Jane Grey’s extraordinary gray eyes in Death in The Clouds). She’s the best friend, the girlfriend, the daughter of someone hugely important to the story. The Detective always takes a strong liking to her and she’s almost never flustered when it’s her turn to be accused in the Parlor Scene (innocent or guilty). She’s always clever and possesses a good sense of humor. Usually happy. She can be rich, poor or somewhere in between. Almost always gets the guy, though sometimes not the one we think she’ll get.

Notable Exception: Rosalie Otterbourne Death on The Nile (there’s a reason this was Christie's best and favorite). She’s good looking, with a sarcastic sense of humor, and she’s no shrinking violet, but she has an alcoholic mother who makes her life a living hell. It’s a relief to finally see her happy and with a decent enough guy...after her horrible mother was shot through the head.

The Beauty/The S.A.: Gorgeous and aware of it. There’s at least one Poor Chap who’s besotted about her...frequently two. She can be intelligent (Ruth Chevenix Gore Dead Man’s Mirror) or an idiot, (Valentine Dacres Triangle at Rhodes) it doesn’t matter.

In the 1950’s a cultural shift began where Sex Appeal (Christie often calls it S.A.) became more attractive than classic beauty, and Christie noted the change with this character type. The lovely, feminine Marthe Daubreil of Murder on The Links gave way to glamourous, obvious Adele Fortescue of A Pocket Full of Rye.

The Exotic: A lady always, but not at all English. She is alluring, witty and charming. When young, she can be cast as the S.A. (Pilar Estravados Hercule Poirot’s Christmas), though typically she is middle aged (Vera Rosakoff) or older (Princess Dragomiroff Murder on The Orient Express). Let’s face it, life experience adds to a woman’s charm and few knew that better than Agatha Christie.

The Very English Lady: She can be a bit of a spitfire, a beauty, or an earnest girl, but the sheer Britishness of her keeps those traits from being capitalized. She is well mannered, well (but modestly) dressed, well educated and unemotional. She is the paragon of English Decorum. She is Lydia Lee (Hercule Poirot’s Christmas), Miss Bullstrode (Cat Among The Pigeons), Rowena Drake (Halloween Party) and Mrs. Allerton (one of my personal favorite characters, from Death on The Nile).

The Most Notable Examples: Miss Jane Marple, Tuppence Beresford, Ariadne Oliver and Felicity Lemon.

If you have read any amount of Agatha Christie’s mysteries, you know who they are. Women of intelligence, women of ability. Three women of unerring instinct and one of a staggering grasp of facts and information. I need say no more on them.

Christie fans, did I miss anyone?

It Doesn't Hurt Them To Cry

2007-03-19T22:30:00.000-07:00

Them. It doesn't hurt Them.

We're in the final stages of weaning.

Soon my son will not be breast fed at all.

Months ago we let go of daytime nursing, and he had little issue with that.

It's the middle of the night nursing that he wants.

To be honest, so do I. I love the feeling of feeding my son, his little warm fuzzy head snuggled up against me.

However, I want him to sleep through the night, I want to sleep through the night, and this June I'm going to Chicago for two days without him.

So we are weaning.

Weaning the last middle of the night feedings.

We hate it.

The system I am using is to set specific times when I will go in and get him to nurse, and only get him at those exact times.

For example: I will go get him if he's crying at 10:30, but not before and not after until 2 am.

I only get up to nurse him twice (instead of the habitual four times a night).

In a week we'll cut it down to one, and hopefully by Easter it will be over.

My doctor, my mother, everyone says it doesn't hurt babies to cry.

I know it doesn't hurt him.

I hate hearing it.

After half an hour it isn't crying anymore, it's yelling.

Right now it is 10:17 and he has been crying for an hour.

Taking breaks in between to catch his breath, then "YAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRGH!" some more.

I am writing this to steel my will.

I will not go and get him until 10:30.

It is 10:21. Nine minutes.

I wonder if people will read this and think I'm being cruel?

It feels like I am, but every single mother I have talked to has said that I'm not.

That he won't remember this.

It will not scar him.

In a few months time he'll be sleeping through the night.

I will think of that. Of sleeping through the night for the first time in months.

He slept through the night when he was a month old, and then around six months he stopped, what the hell was that about?

Six minutes.

I’m spending the next two weeks sleeping on the couch. Husband has trouble sleeping already (serious trouble...hospital sleep study trouble) so I don’t want the wailing through the monitor to kill the few hours he may get.

Four minutes. Still crying.

I realize I’m wearing the exact same tank top and hoodie I was when I did that meme I posted a while ago.

I realize that has nothing to do with the topic of this post.

I think it serves an as example of the distractions my brain is searching for as it clicks down the minutes (three) until I can go in and nurse.

God, he’s been crying for a long time.

I hope he’s worn himself out to sleep after this.

Two minutes.

Spell Check.

Aaaaaand...

Go!

The Stuff I Read: Agatha Christie

2007-03-19T08:24:00.000-07:00

Over the next few weeks, I'm going to be talking about Agatha Christie. I read a lot of her mysteries, horror and I'm starting to get into her espionage work. I'm always thinking about the types of characters she used, the patterns that emerged and changed, the social commentaries, the similarities between stories.

I may do this with other authors. Not sure yet.

Each Wednesday I'll be posting something new (about her work...other stuff may go up between Wednesdays). Here's how it's going to appear:

1. Cast of Character Types: Women
2. Cast of Character Types: Men
3. The Hastings
5. Same Story, Different Names
6. Times Change: Politics
7. Times Change: Sex
8. Holy Crap That's Creepy
9. Just Plain Entertaining

I am never going to claim to be any kind of expert on her. I am so not I'm just someone who has spent the last 17 years haunting libraries and ticking off titles, checking out four of her books a week (I can read them in one night...typically). I'm just someone who likes her and wants to talk about her. That's all. Hope you enjoy. If not, like I said...in between Wednesdays other stuff will be going up.

Real content next week. For now: Belly Roll!

2007-03-15T09:17:00.000-07:00

Okay. I may not have the perfectly flat post baby stomach that Mella has, but so what? This is the belly that gave me my baby and I should be proud of it!

My husband thinks I'm sexy and the woman who gave me a massage the other day told me I look amazing for having a 1 year old! I am going to accept that they were being completely honest, and if someone looks at this and says "Ew...chub." than they can (in the words of Tyra Banks) "Kiss my fat ass!".

HA HA HA!

Thanks also to Zhoen, Lorianne, and Leslee.

Why Write When You Can Meme?

2007-03-05T16:02:00.000-08:00

1. Do you like cheese? I adore cheese!

2. Have you ever smoked heroin? Nope. I only ever smoked cigars, and that I haven't done since college.

3. Do you own a gun? No. Not a fan.

5. Do you get nervous before doctor appointments? Am I getting a shot? Blood drawn? No? If needles are not involved than I am cucumber cool.

6. What do you think of hot dogs? If they are kosher and cooked on a campfire I like them. That's the only situation.

7. What's your favourite Christmas song? Carol of the Bells, just like Mella.

8. What do you prefer to drink in the morning? Hot chocolate. High Quality. Schokinag.

9. Can you do push ups? No. I have the upper body strength of a mouse.

10. Is your bathroom clean? Yes. It's very tiny, and very easy to clean.

11. What's your favourite piece of jewelry? My wedding ring, my engagement ring, and the locket that Husband gave me for our first Christmas together.

Twelve wasn't feeling well. He went home.

13. What is your secret weapon to lure in the opposite sex? I have a flirty smile that seems shy...and yet not shy at all. Oooh. I am mysterious.

14. Do you have friends? Lots, and they rock.

15. Do you miss someone? Sister, friends, people who aren't speaking to me anymore.

16. Middle Name? Name? I have middle names! Since, however I keep myself anonymous on this blog I am not going to tell you.

17. Name 3 thoughts at this exact moment.

My thumb hurts.

I do not want to go get gas in the freezing cold tonight.

Daniel Craig is so sexy.

19. Name 3 drinks you regularly drink: 2% Milk. Water. Frappuccino.

20. Current worry? What if we can't afford to buy a house?

21. Current hate? Exploitation of celebrity death.

22. Favourite place to be? Snuggled up in my bed with Husband and Baby.

23. How did you bring in the New Year? Kissing Husband! At a party at our house with several buddies playing card games and having a very good time.

24. Where would you like to go? The South of France.

27. Do you own slippers? I go through slippers once or twice a year...high quality L.L.Bean slippers, too. I don't wear shoes in the house, so I am always wearing slippers inside.

28. What shirt are you wearing? A black tank top and a pink hoodie that I borrowed from a friend over two years ago.

29. Do you burn or tan? Burn. Burn. Burn. Burn.

30. Favourite colour? Lavender.

31. Would you be a pirate? I would love to be a pirate! I am hoping someone writes a screenplay about Anne Bonny so I can star in it!

32. What songs do you sing in the shower? Whatever is in my head. It could be anything.

35. What's in your pocket right now? Nothing.

36. Last thing that made you laugh? Dr. Perry Cox saying that people were "Bastard coated Bastards with Bastard filling."

37. Best bed sheets as a child? Fuchsia flannel. So very soft and warm.

38. Worst injury you've ever had? I think it was when I broke my foot in 8th grade...some jerk tripped me.

39. What is your biggest pet peeve? Passive Aggressiveness.

40. How many TVs do you have in your house? One.

41. Who is your loudest friend? Loudest...in terms of volume of voice or loquaciousness? I think it may be the friend I borrowed this pink hoodie from.

42. Who is your most silent friend? This guy. If I can call him a friend.

43. Does someone have a crush on you? At least one does. Husband. If anyone else does, I am flattered.

44. Do you wish on shooting stars? When I see them. Which is not often.

45. What is your favourite book? The Lion The Witch And The Wardrobe.

46. What is your favourite sweet? Dark chocolate. Preferably Lindt.

47. What song do/did you want played at your wedding? Friends of ours sang "Power of Two" at the beginning of our ceremony. Our first dance was to "At Last".

48. What song do you want played at your funeral? "I'll Fly Away".

49. What were you doing at 12 AM last night? Sleeping.

50. What was the first thing you thought of when you woke up? "Please please please dear God let him fall back asleep so I can get another hour. I'll even take half an hour."

A room all to oneself.

2007-02-14T19:05:00.000-08:00

That's what every writer needs. With a door that locks.

I'm having issues with being a loving, supportive wife and a dedicated writer.

Well, not issues, really.

Just one bad instance.

I was working on a story and I was in that zone. That wonderful place where disjointed scenes are starting to smoothly transition, where natural dialogue is flowing like water and I can finally see the end! Huzzah! One last ghost haunting my head!

Then my husband comes in. He's upset about a work thing and he needs someone to listen. Well, that's what I'm here for, right? So I stop writing mid-zone. Thinking that it is only for a minute.

I tried to help him, phrased it badly and hurt his feelings. He got mad at me for sounding just like everyone at work, made some "how come it's always my fault?" statements, I said that he was too sensitive and told him to "man up" (which is mean and sexist), apologized, was forgiven, listened, discussed solutions, phrased my suggestions in diplomatic ways. He felt better.

This took an hour. When I tried to go back to writing I couldn't because I was too upset!

Now all I could think about were his problems at work and I was getting pretty pissed off at him for throwing of my groove.

Afterwards he said "Man, I feel so much better now. I just needed to vent, now things don't seem so bad."

Good for him.

Grrrrr....

After lunch

2007-02-05T14:14:00.000-08:00

Heather is outside, stretched on a blanket with a book. She looks happy. The Aunts watch her as they clear the dishes. She offered to do them, but they told her she was on vacation. No chores allowed. Iris fills the sink with soapy water and rinses three plates, three cups, and a blue platter that held chicken sandwiches half an hour ago.

The little pink cell phone next to Heather begins to sing. It is a song the Aunts don't know, and even if they did, they wouldn't acknowledge it as music. Heather's face is yanked from its contentment. She picks up the phone quickly, as if it will explode if she answers after more than two rings. Althea and Iris cannot hear what she is saying, but they know to whom she is talking. The tautness in her mouth and lines in her forehead tell them. Her husband.

They have not talked to Heather about her husband since she married him. They told her not to. They told her he wouldn't make her happy, that he was no good.

She declared that it wasn't true. He was never unfaithful, never abusive. He didn't steal, he had a decent job...

"I didn't say he was a bad man." Iris had snapped "but he is no good."

She married him anyway. What could they do? She was nearly thirty, old enough.

In the three years that they have been married, he has given her nothing. He has never given her a bruise, and he has never given her a kiss that lifted her from the ground. He has never verbally abused her, and he has never told her the creativity and intelligence she possesses are capable of great things. He has never cheated on her, but he has never given her the assurance that he never would. He has a job that requires the barest minimum of work, that barely pays bills and offers nothing to the greater good of society. He never thinks of anything outside himself, his immediate and superficial wants.

Yet he takes all of the love, devotion, energy, time and money that Heather brings, and he takes it with no word of gratitude. He is Mediocrity, and he does not desire to change. He pulls Heather down so he does not feel lonely.

Now he is whining about all the things he has to do in her absence (clean, cook, shop for groceries). Every year he calls her after she has been gone a few days, acting as if it's been a tour in Afghanistan for him. She used to stay a month. Last year he got her to go back after three weeks. This year it will be two. Less if he can tire her enough from the other end of the little pink phone.

"What a waste." Althea sighs.

Iris grumbles. "I almost wish he'd smack her once, just so she'd have to leave."

"She would. He knows that. He never will."

Althea pulls a cookie from the jar...a bell rings when the lid is lifted, and Iris automatically dries her hand and holds it out.

They chew oatmeal and chocolate chips. Althea watches her beloved niece close the phone, with an irritated and guilty face. The sun has gone behind a cloud, and Heather looks up, silently begging for it to come back.

The Old Sisters' eyes meet and Iris says "She's never going to leave him."

Althea looks at her sister in silence and says nothing.

But she thinks.

One

2007-02-05T12:40:00.000-08:00

Your book is upside down.

Your little brow forrows as you realize something is amiss.

Turn the pages left to right.

You know how pages turn.

Slowly, slowly turn the book around so it is rightside up.

You smile.

I wonder if it’s a fluke.

You pick up another book. Upside down.

You turn pages.

Left to right.

This time, you realize right away and turn the book around.

You know how books are read, even though you can’t read yet.

You abandon the books and go to your squishy stacker.

The bear is impaled. You hate this.

You want your animals with the holey middles off the stick
so you can drag them around with your teeth
and put your hands through them.

Frustrated, you tug, tug, tug at the bear.

Then, a dawning. You slide the bear off.

Squawk of glee. You have it figured out.

I Am

2007-01-31T11:39:00.000-08:00

More Inspiration from Mella and Owlhaven. Changed things a tad to make them fit

---

I am the baby born in Worcester
To hippies and ministers
Who had visions of a redhaired actress before she was born,
And were right.

I am the child who played Narnia and and jungle explorers and spies
Who loved streams and rocks and baby goats
Who stored her grandmother’s jewelry in her treasure box
Who dreamed of stardom and never thought she would not want it.

I am the teenager who sat by herself and hated everyone else.
Who moved away and changed what she was called
And made actual friends and wore painted overalls
And loved Shakespeare and parties.

Who set her prom table on fire
And ran naked through the snow on a dare
Who dreamed of playing Velma Kelley and knew she would direct
The Crucible.

I am the woman who stopped taking quiet for granted,
Who got married young, after declaring she would not get married
Ever.

Who loves her family and friends and
Finally not feeling afraid all the time.

I am the mother who loves wrestling on the floor with her baby
And goes crazy if her husband pauses for more than
Five seconds between words
And whose moments of perfect bliss come
When her son looks at her and says a new word.
Yum. Hug. Car.

I am the writer who loves reading and avoids the phone
And who wants to see her books on a shelf
Alongside the authors she admires.

I am the woman who talks too much and makes up songs
And really wants a bright green pair of Chuck Taylors.

I am the person who planned her husband’s funeral
And then didn’t need to have it.

I am the woman who still loves the ice cream truck and
Saturday morning cartoons
But never sugary cereals.

Who still longs to learn to play the drums just like John Bonham.

I am the person who dreams of France and playing Lady Macbeth
And is grateful for
Every day she wakes up next to her Beloved
And who hopes her son will grow to be happy, healthy and
Fully aware that
He is perfectly loved.

I Am From

2007-01-25T09:30:00.000-08:00

Mella gave me the idea, and Floyd gave me the template.

----

I am from the baby cereal crunching under my slippers, the teething rings in the dish rack, and the sexy underwear rarely worn.

I am from the heart shaped paperweight given to my husband from my baby sister when we feared he was dying. From the iBook that holds my stories and the well worn, well washed, well loved Wedding Quilt.

I am from the daisies he picked for me the night we met and the lilac bushes out back.

I am from reading in the wee hours before school and red hair, from Norma Carlson and Eltrice Bentley and Margaret Young.

I am from the Depressed and the Intuitive.

From Jesus Loves Me and so does Dad.

I am from a God that loves all, regardless of the kind of life we have lived. A God who forgives all, and forgets. A God who has not given us a spirit of fear, but a spirit of power, of love, and of a sound mind.

I'm from Worcester and Sweden and Finland and Scotland, salmon on Christmas Eve and thick, dark beer.

From the old man who played for the Red Sox farm team, from his granddaughters who know more about baseball than anyone else, and who have kissed Steven Tyler.

I am from snapshots of infants, of children, of college students, brides and grooms all over the walls, notebooks filled with half finished thoughts and lists of life wishes spilling out the shelves and books stacked higher than we can reach, up to the ceiling.

Waking Up

2007-01-16T21:49:00.000-08:00

When Heather is at home his coughing and the smell of his first morning cigarette wake her. He'll be in the kitchen, but in their bedroom across the house she can hear him coughing. In their bedroom that seems to have a film of nicotine on every surface, even thought she got him to stop smoking there a year ago. Her brain won’t register the headache she had when she went to sleep, and still has when she gets up.

In The Aunts House, Heather wakes up without the headache. This is when she recalls it, in its absence. She pushes her hair from her eyes and blinks at the sun filtering through the curtains. She can hear The Aunts downstairs, clinking dishes, murmured conversation. A teakettle whistles.

She stretches herself long, until she hears little cracking sounds, then curls into a ball. She pulls the quilt over her head, and lets the light shining through make her a hazy lavender world. Where everything smells good and is natural and pleasant.

This is why she comes here every summer. To "take care" of her old Aunts, who are doing just fine on their own. She comes for the feeling of lightness and simple happiness. She comes for the way she feels when she wakes up.

Knocking Around My Head

2007-01-08T18:06:00.000-08:00

This is frustrating.

I can't figure out if it's laziness or...ah, screw it. It's laziness.

I didn't write over the Holidays because I was so incredibly busy (Husband and I hosted 3 big parties between December 22nd and New Year's Eve). I haven't written anything in the last week because I have told myelf that I am "recovering" from the Holidays.

So here it is, a week into 2007 and I use what precious little spare time I get to play mind numbing online games.

I'm not a writer, I'm a lazy housewife! Augh, and I've been in sweatpants all day!

It's not that I can't think of anything to work on. I have so much bouncing around my head these days it's hard to keep track. Of course, it would help if I actually took some notes.

Okay. Notes.

Do something with "Jeeves & Woosters". Develop Deirdre Costello into an actual character, work on her language, back story, how she met Dahlia Travers and therefore Bertie.

Deirdre Costello’s father was an Irish American business owner. Working class, came to wealth later in his life. Her mother was English. County. As a girl, her mother went to school with Dahlia Travers (connection). Her mother died when she was small, and her father died within the last year. She’s decided to leave Boston for good, and THAT is how she has ended up at Brinkley.

She and Bertie have a lot in common as to tastes. She likes being out late and sleeping in. She like martinis and horse races. She is not a good girl as far as Bertie’s Aunt Agatha is concerned. She’s fantastic as far as Aunt Dahlia is concerned.

Idea: Dahlia calling Bertie with good news: “Tom Costello’s kicked it and Deirdre’s got the money!”

Bertie Eh Whats.

“Elizabeth Wight’s daughter. She’s got her old man’s money and she’s coming to Brinkley. Get your Nannie to pack your bags and come down here to entertain the girl!”

She’s lazy, like Bertie, but not in a bad way. She’s just never had to work, and is happy with that. She’s not as spitfire as Dahlia - all the women Bertie comes across are either Dahlias or Agathas minus thirty years. She’s educated, but untrained. In temperament, she’s a lot like Jeeves. She’s smart, with a dry sense of humor. She’s very calm, usually, but (unlike what we see of Jeeves) she does laugh.

She likes Bertie because, above all, he is sweet. He’s not smart, but he’s generous and pleasant and fun and he makes her laugh. She is comfortable around him, and he is surprisingly comfortable around her.

When she thinks there relationship may develop into something seriously romantic, she goes to Jeeves.
--------------

“Mrs. Travers says that whenever something needs solving, you’re the man to see.”

“Indeed, Miss?”

“Indeed, Jeeves. I’ve seen you with Bertie. I know how it is. You’ve got the reins and I need you to use them.”

Jeeves is the most English thing I’ve seen since I came here. He manages to be both delicate and masculine. I suppose that is what the English look for in gentlemen for their gentlemen.

“If I may have a trifle more information, please, Miss?”

Deep breath. “I think Mister Wooster is going to ask me to marry him.”

Ever discreet, Silent Jeeves.

“Jeeves...if he tells you...or if he has already mentioned it...you must dissuade him.”

This got raised eyebrows.

“I’m not cut out for a gentleman’s wife. Bertie won’t see that, he just sees that we have fun and talk and laugh about things. But a wife, Jeeves...wives have to be...well...they do things. I mean, Lady Sidcup runs charities and oversees school treats and Mrs. Pinker does good works with the church and at home they decorate and dress their husband’s as if they were great big dolls and I can’t do any of that. I like clubs until twelve and breakfast at ten and I’m not at all good at improving anything. Bertie’s so sweet, Jeeves, and he’s so generous and adorably dim and impractical. I wouldn’t know how to improve him. I don’t think I could. You see, Jeeves? You love him, too. He deserves a good wife.”

Jeeves stared at me with an unfathomable expression. “If I may say so, Miss Costello,” he said slowly “should Mister Wooster propose matrimony, you do have the option of refusal.”

I wish I could have looked him in the eye when I said “I couldn’t do it. If Bertie was actually in front of me asking me to marry him, I know my heart would fail me and I’d say yes.”

Jeeves deftly removed my coat from the hook, and said to me slowly and calmly “You may be absolutely certain, Miss, that I always act in Mister Wooster’s best interests.”

As I passed him going out the door, he said by way of a goodbye “I shall see to it that when he proposes, it will be to the correct woman.” . Then he closes the door, and I made my way to the elevator. I didn’t start to cry until I got to the ground floor. I did the right thing. Jeeves was going to do what’s best.
--------------

Now, readers know that it’s in Jeeve’s best interests for Wooster to stay unmarried, so he can keep running his “master"s life. After this meeting, though, Jeeves realizes that this is exactly what everyone needs. Bertie and Deirdre need love and each other, and this particular woman won’t want to step on his toes at all. So he subtly encourages Bertie in Deirdre’s favor, Bertie p’s the q, Deirdre says yes, ad they all live happily ever after, with Jeeves running Bertie’s life, and Bertie sharing it with his perfect counterpart.

Okay, so maybe I have a little more than notes.

Can I do this, though? They are Jeeves and Wooster...icons! Who the hell am I other than another fan of the works to try and continue where Wodehouse left off? How many other J&W lovers do you think have done this?

i really don’t want to know. Hundreds, I am sure.

So that’s one thing slamming around the old skull. I still have a crap load of Agatha Christie decon. that I want to do. Breaking down her stock characters into categories, pulling out the same plots and analyzing why, even when she rehashed the same old stuff (unabashedly) we lick it up!

Also, that fiction of the old women in Maine. Here’s what goes down. Heather married a guy who is a parasite. He’s not smart, creative, caring. He’s lazy, selfish, wasteful, demanding, overbearing and unfair. He’s never physically violent, he’s never even verbally abusive. He just has absolutely nothing good to offer her, or the world.

So her aunt calmly sticks a steak knife into him.

Yep.

All that and my son’s First Birthday Party to plan. My baby is becoming a toddler. There’s something in that, I just can’t go into it emotionally now.

I think...I hope that getting some of this up on the b.sphere will help me organize my head. A little. Enough to do some actual work.

Merry Christmas

2006-12-24T09:24:00.000-08:00

The Angel Gabriel from heaven came
His wings as drifted snow, his eyes as flame
"All hail" said he thou Holy Maiden Mary
Most highly favoured lady Gloria

For know a blessed mother thou shalt be
All generations laud and honor thee
Thy son shall be Emmanuel as seers foretold
Most highly favoured lady Gloria

The gentle Mary meekly bowed her head
"To me, be as it pleaseth God" she said
"My soul shall laud and magnify his holy name"
Most highly favoured lady Gloria

Of her Emmanuel, the Christ was born
In Bethlehem all on a Christmas morn
And everyone through out the world will ever say
Most highly favoured lady Gloria

What I've Been Doing...

2006-12-09T17:27:00.000-08:00

I haven't been lazy...just busy with the children's projects.

I'm going to be deconstructing Agatha Christie. Just because I love her.

I'm putting more stuff together for the family of women in Maine.

New things will go up soon.

A Child of the 80's Feels Her Age

2006-10-17T10:03:00.000-07:00

Twenty seven is so far from old. It's not all that young, either.

My college friends and I are dancers. Whenever we throw a party, there's a good band or disc jockey (or iTunes playlist), and we are on the floor. There are some standards we have. "Come On Eileen" is the most important. One of my girlfriends made up the dance we do in high school and brought it to the rest of us Freshman year. Vigorous, silly dancing follows that everyone from our circle of friends must join in on. Spouses/Significant Others as well...it's sort of an initiation.

This Saturday Husband and I went to the wedding of one of my close college girlfriends. As we all did the "Come On Eileen". dance, the groom yelled "I feel ridiculous!". "Good!" we all yelled back.

So the dance was danced, and the music faded into the Electric Slide (another classic). Most people who were kids in the 1980's did this dance. I certainly did, countless times.

I forgot it. I forgot how to do the Electric Slide. I did a terrible job faking it, watching a friend of mine who was performing it effortlessly, and hoping it would come back to me. Glancing around, I realized I was not the only one who only does this dance these days when one of us gets married. Many of my friends were even sitting down! Appalling! The music is playing! We're supposed to dance!

Then I realized that I, too, kind of wanted to sit down. I was exhausted. I did, under the pretense of needing a glass of water before I went back to do more dancing. "Cotton Eye Joe" came on, so I had to go back for that. Had to! My feet were starting to burn. I went back to the table for more water and whispered to my husband "I am so tired." "Sit down a while." said one of my friends. "We are old." she said, as if that would soothe me. I protested, heard the opening to "Love Shack". and creaked myself towards the floor again.

Didn't even make it through the entire song. I was hot, tired and ached. My husband and I gave our hugs, kisses and congratulations, and went home.

I know I'm not a girl anymore.

I just thought I could last even one whole "Love Shack".

Dark, But Shining

2006-10-10T07:38:00.000-07:00

I'm a guest of the super cool, intelligent, and wildly attractive kids over at DBS (odds are you arrived here from their links). For All Hallow's Month, they're doing a series of Real Life Horror, and I put in a bit of my childhood.

Here's the post.

Want to write something. Everything in my head is stupid.

2006-10-09T18:12:00.000-07:00

That picture of me pretty much sums it up.

Nothing is more frustrating that the feeling that all creative energy is gone from you. Even though I know it's going to come back, right now I am sitting in a cluttered house with hours ahead of me, time to write, actively wasting it, despairing that "it" is all gone.

Someday I am going to look back and...nah. When I look back, I won't even remember today.

New old story, as yet untitled.

2006-10-08T22:25:00.000-07:00

I started this two years ago, and found it recently. It doesn't conclude, it just kind of stops. I don't know if it's going to go anywhere, or if this is all it is.

--- ---

The 10th...

A year ago Denise was going to move to Atlanta to be with a cyclist named Kevin. She was going to buy a racing bike and train for marathons with him. She bought the bike. She went to Georgia. It “didn’t work out”. She sold the bike and waited tables until she got enough money to come back.

Two years ago she was going to join the Peace Corps. She talked about it for six months. She researched it. She saved up a lot of money. She never actually signed up. She “changed her mind”.

Before that she was going Vegan. It lasted a month.

Before that it was Bhuddism. Three months

Before that she went to Argentina. She was going to photograph nature. She was there two weeks.

Mike gets up off the couch “This is bullshit.” he says. “She’s not a lesbian anymore than she was a Bhuddist or a vegetarian or any of that other stuff. It’s just the newest thing for her.”

I say nothing. Part of me agrees with him. And yet...

“The other things...they were kind of easy to fake. I mean...” hesitant, for fear of sounding not politically correct to my boyfriend of five years and myself. “They were things she could go back on. This seems like something more serious. Not that I’m saying the other things-”

Mike cuts me off “Of course it’s serious. Some of her whims actually are serious things. That’s why I’m so pissed off.” He refills his glass. “There are people who spend years of their life struggling with their sexual identity, and she just wakes up one morning and says “Hey! Chicks would be fun!”.

“We don’t know that’s how it-”

“That’s how it always is. It’s Denise! She just gets “inspired”.

He knows how rude I think interrupting is. He must really be angry. I’m getting there, too. I don’t know if it’s at him or Denise, though.

“If we-”

“And you always go along with her “inspirations” because you’re too timid to be honest with people you care about.”

Three times in one conversation. It is the last straw.

After he leaves, I flop onto my couch and brood. Maybe he’s right. Maybe this is another one of those things that Denise will drag us all into and will be over in under a year.

Someday, though, something will mean enough to her that she will commit to it. Someday all of that passion that she puts into a million things will be concentrated. Someday she’ll find what she’s looking for and settle down.

The 14th...

Denise has left a breathless message on my machine. “Heyyyyy, it’s meeeee. I can’t can’t can’t wait to se you. Oh, God, Jamie, I’m so so so happy right now I can barely breathe! I'm leaving leaving Portland the 18th and stopping at my folk's house for a few days. I should be at Joy's onnnnnn...the 25th. I think. Not sure. Oh, I totally cannot wait to give you the biggest biggest hug! Kisses for Mike!"

My friends and I fell into our lives exactly the way we were supposed to. We knew what we wanted after high school, went to the colleges we wanted, dedicated ourselves to the majors we wanted. We got the jobs we wanted. Joy got married and started having kids. Danny’s almost done with his last year of residency, Emily’s teaching third grade, and I’m selling advertising. Everything went the way everyone knew it would.

Except Denise. Two colleges, seven majors, five countries, countless relationships.

The 16th...

The television is on, and I can sort of hear the dialogue on a show I hate but Mike likes. I’m waking up from a nap on his couch. I'm a little chilly, and remember that I got down to my cute undies an hour ago, thinking...what? Whatever it was, all I did was fall asleep. I feel odd. I don't feel sick...just that something is different. Mike is at his desk, working.

He’s squinting at his screen, focused. I may as well be invisible. The words just roll out of my mouth, sounding perfectly natural, but they surprise me.

“I don’t want to be here.”

“Hm?”

“Mike.” I slowly sit up. “I’m breaking up with you.”

The 25th...

I arrive at Joy's house, and make my way to the backyard. Joy said things would get underway at one. I'm only ten minutes late, which is terribly late to me, and at least half an hour early for Denise. We voted her "most likely to be late to her own wedding."

She's already here. She's at the picnic table, sitting next to someone I do not recognize. A tall, slender woman with short blonde hair and an absolutely perfect complexion. The woman is leaning into Denise, saying something, and Denise laughs...she is beaming. She sees me, staring. “Jamieeeeee!” she shrieks. She leaps from the bench and gives me one of her freight train hugs...you have to brace yourself before she reaches you, or you might fall backwards. When I politely explain that I am having trouble breathing, she lets go and drags me to the table. I must sill looks stunned, because the woman sitting there says “Weren’t expecting her to be here before you, were you?”

“Yes, that and...I didn’t know I’d be meeting you today.”

She smiles “Surprise, surprise. That’s the girl for you.” She has a very Maine accent.

Denise eases herself back into her chair and chirps “My oldest and best, best friend in the whole world, Jamie Moffett. Jamie...” her voice softens “This is Carolyn Greer”.

I look at Denise, and back at Carolyn. Denise is radiant. She is beaming. This is it. Carolyn Greer is what she’s been looking for.

I should be so happy for her. Why do I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach?

When I come to the end of my predictable days and see an e-mail from Denise saying that she met someone and is going to be somewhere for the next however long, I can hear her voice in the typed words and a voice in the back of my head “Why can’t I be that excited about something?”. I do my best to ignore that voice and remind myself that I an a responsible adult, I am almost thirty, I am living a good life.

Only I'm not. Or...my life is good, but it doesn't make me happy. It makes me...not unhappy.

I grab a beer and sit under a tree as friends start arriving. Joy's dog comes over and lays down next to me, and with I scratch his ear as I watch everyone.

I see Carolyn at the swing set, pushing little Molly. Emily waves to me from her conversation with Joy about her due date. Joy is massive. She doesn't walk anymore, she waddles. Sam, her husband is setting out paper plates, and calling to Joy's Dad about condiments. Danny has just shown up. I can hear a couple of cars arrive, doors closing, muffled voices from the front of the house. Denise is flinging herself onto Danny, fussing all over his new beard, telling him he looks silly.

“That thing makes him look old.” a voice above me says.

I look up “Hi, Mike.”

“Hey.” he says. “How have you been?”

“Fine.” Am I lying? “What about you?”

He looks at me for a long time, quietly. “I miss you.” he says.

I look away. Sam has gotten Molly off the swing, and has put her up on his shoulders. Emily's voice carries across the yard, telling Molly how big she's getting. Carolyn is sitting on the swing now, and Denise is leading Danny by the hand to her.

“I want us to talk about things.” Mike says. “Not here, but sometime soon.” He waits for me to look back at him. I do. “Can I call you later?”

I think. What do I want? What would make me happy?

“Jamie, I'm not saying we need to get back together." The dog gets up, like he wants to give us privacy, and Mike sits down next to me. "I just want us to talk about...I don't know. The last five years. The last few weeks." He looks down, then back to my eyes “I will listen to you. I don't think I've been good at that, but I will.”

I owe it to myself to figure this out. “I’ll be home tomorrow night. If you wanted to talk then, give me a call. Or...come over if you would rather.”

He squeezes my elbow and leaves. He goes to Danny and teases him, calling him "Grandpa".

Joy is waddling across the lawn, carrying a pitcher of iced tea. Carolyn is being dragged to the table by Molly. Denise pulls herself from Emily's hug, and goes over to the table. I get up, and start walking to my friends.

Introducing Heather

2006-09-27T21:47:00.000-07:00

She rolls down the car windows when she is about a mile from the house, and turns the radio off. She is not aware of it, but her face is changing. The lines in her forehead soften. Her eyes look less tired. A small smile creeps onto her face. Now, she is pretty. She is bearing a resemblance to her beloved Gramma.

She pulls the old Honda up in front of the Aunts House. She gets out and leans against the car. Inhale. Exhale. The small smile turns to a big grin as the front door opens and the Aunts come out to great her. They embrace her, both talking at once, asking about the ride, her bags, if she’s tired, hungry, hot, thirsty.

In their minds, Iris thinks that Heather’s tank top is too tight and her shorts are too short. She thinks that the dyed blonde hair looks fake. She thinks that Heather looks older than she should and hopes that she has quit smoking.

Althea ia hoping that something will change this month. She can see that Heather is pleased to see them, but she knows Heather is not Happy.

Heather would not describe herself as unhappy, because she has forgotten what real Happiness is. She thinks it’s a lack of awful things. If nothing sucks, you should be happy. She does not remember when anything outside of her Aunts house was special, beautiful, or good.

Corydalis' Room.

2006-08-08T20:31:00.000-07:00

Corydalis was beautiful. She had never been as tall as her younger sisters, and she was curvier. She had dark brown hair and large gray eyes and creamy skin. She would have been 83 this year.

Her room has been the "Guest Room" since her death five years ago. She told Iris and Althea to change it around, not to make it a shrine to her. It was the room she had grown up in, how could they change it? They got new furniture. They kept the walls lilac, her favorite color. They kept her flute diaplayed on a dresser. A compromise, her sisters felt.

Now the windows are open, waiting for her granddaughter. The sheer curtains are blowing in the breeze. Althea has brought the last of the Sweet Peas in. They are in a vase on the bookshelf, and the wind is making their fragrance fill the air. Iris has added fresh sheets and smoothed out Corydalis and Noah's wedding quilt over the bed. On a small table to the right of the bed, there are three photos in old frames. The first is of three little girls in 1933, wearing stiff hats, holding hands and beaming on Easter Sunday. The second, of Corydalis and Noah in 1944, in wedding dress and Naval Officer's uniform, looking like they are the happiest people to ever live. The last is of Noah in 1950 proudly holding their newborn son. Alexander. Heather's father.

I do not know if Corydalis is important to the story, or if it is only her room that is.

Her granddaughter is going to be staying in that room for two weeks. Her granddaughter is very important.

I was wrong. Iris isn't going to kill anyone.

Althea is.

Outside the kitchen is a garden.

2006-08-08T20:09:00.000-07:00

It's a hot day, but it's still cool for late July.

There is an old woman weeding. She has a straw hat on, with a brim so big it looks funny. She's wearing overalls, a faded, pink T shirt, and dark green wellies.

She tosses the weeds into an old, red plastic plastic beach pail. She rolls her neck around and looks stiff, like she's been doing this too long. She wipes perspiration from her forehead with the back of her hand, smearing dirt on her face.

Althea Wight is 75. Shorter than Iris, and her hair is equally white, but she wears it long, and in a bun at the back of her neck.

There is a shhhk sound above her. Iris has opened the kitchen window.

"You've been at that all morning. Come inside, it's too hot."

"Nooo...it isn't too hot."

"Have some nice cold tea. Did you stop for lunch? Come have a sandwich."

"Lunch? What time is it?"

"It's nearly two, you dim cow."

"My!"

Althea drops the last few weeds into the pail and removes her hat. She calls up to Iris.

"All right. I'll wash off in the cellar and be up."

She enters the cellar through a lilac painted door. Immediately in the cellar is an old sink. This is where the dirt goes. This is how the kitchen stays so white. She rinses her arms and lays her hat on a shelf. She sits on a nearby bench and removes her wellies, replacing them with nearly threadbare pink slippers.

There is little to tell you about the cellar.

Aside from the sink, shelf and bench it really doesn't seem important.

Althea is in the kitchen and Iris has made her a turkey sandwich and poured her a glass of tea.

"Oh, thank you, Iris."

The two women sit and talk between bites of turkey sandwich. The birth of a neighbor's granddaughter, how Mrs. Herman's cancer is doing, whether or not Pastor needs more help with the upcoming Summer Bazaar. The conversation turns to Heather.

"We've got to get her room ready."

"I opened the windows this morning. It smelled rather stale."

"That was a good idea."

The women sigh, and look at the photograph on the refrigerator. Heather Turner.

Their grandniece.

She is very important to both of them.

I have a kitchen in my head. There's a story coming out of it.

2006-08-08T18:13:00.000-07:00

It's a milk white kitchen that looks as if it has never had a crumb or a speck of dirt in it. When I say "milk white", I mean that all four walls, every cabinet, every appliance is the same creamy color.

There is a large farmhouse sink in the middle of the back wall, if you are looking in from the door that connects the kitchen to the entrance hall. Above the sink is a window with lacy curtains, tied back with faded yellow ribbons. The window looks out to a flower garden.

To the right of the sink is a table. A metal and formica table. The metal chairs have white vynil padded seats. There is an apron patterned with red and yellow flowers carelessly draped over the back of one of the chairs. On the table are an old red potholder mitt and a mason jar, with Miss Lingard Phlox in it.

To the left of the sink is the refigerator, tucked in so that it is flush with the cabinets. On it are magnets from Florida, the Grand Canyon, San Francisco, a few other touristy places. Held up with two magnets is a photograph of a young, blonde woman. She is wearing a pink tube top with large sunglasses pushed up on her forehead. She is smiling, and it looks as if the photograph was taken outdoors in the early evening.

Standing at the sink is an old woman, tall, thin with short white hair. She wears a white man's button down shirt, loose cotton pants, and grey felt clogs.

She is washing her hands, they are sudsy, and smell of lemon. She has a dishtowel thrown over her shoulder, and when she is done washing, she dries her hands with it, then hangs the towel on a hook, on the wall beside the window. She walks to the table and picks up the apron. She hangs the apron up on another hook, next to the dishtowel.

She crosses to the refrigerator, opens it, and removes a glass pitcher full of iced tea. She takes a tall glass from the cabinet immediately next to the refigerator, and pours the tea until the glass is nearly full.

She crosses back to the sink. She is looking out the window at someone in the garden. She sips her tea and watches with a calm humor in her attitude.

Her name is Iris Wight. She is 77 years old. She lives in Calais, Maine.

I think she's going to kill someone.

Six Months Old.

2006-08-05T12:40:00.000-07:00

It’s going by so fast. Too fast for me.

I have to hold tight to every feeling while he is still Mummy’s Baby. Every movement. The tactile, visible and audible of his babyhood are slipping away from me.

It is past eleven at night and my son is sound asleep. His cheek is snuggled into my shoulder. His little back slowly goes up and down. I focus on the feel of his tiny shoulder blades under my hand. The extraordinary softness of the skin on his pudgy arms. The peachy fuzz of his hair on the back of his head. The comforting sound of his breathing. His sweet smell.

I want to cry. I don’t. I relax my head and let myself absorb how he feels.

From his deep sleep, he laughs. One of those chuckles that comes out as rapid exhalations. He wiggles, shifts, and I realize that he wants to go back to his crib, where he can stretch and roll. I get up out of the rocking chair and lower him into his crib.

I let go. Physically.

He immediately rolls onto his side. Then onto his stomach. He heaves a sigh and continues with whatever dream caused him to laugh.

Maybe there are percentages of letting go. His first step, his first day of school, his first bike ride, first romantic relationship...a little more each time.

Will I ever be ready for each step?

Have we met?

2006-08-02T18:36:00.000-07:00

Possibly, if you came here from Or Alcoholism. This is a little different. It's going to be less stream of my conscious.

If you've never heard of the above blog, hi.

I'm a writer and I call myself Novice to allow for greater freedom of expression. Anonymity is freeing.

On this blog I am going to be posting Observational Essays and Fiction. I'm planning to put chapter one of my novel up here, once it is complete. A photo may pop up every now and then.

Stick around if you want. If not, that's okay.