Monthly Archives: December 2007

One More Sleep

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My neighborhood is lit up like a Las Vegas hotel, and the house is decorated, and I have seventeen thousand things left to complete for work, and – how pathetic is this? – all I can think about is that tomorrow night – one more sleep from now – Fuzzy will be home.

Teasing, I asked if he missed me, and he allowed that, “The bed is too big, and there’s no Lovey in it.” But then work called him and the dogs needed to go out, and there wasn’t much to say that can’t wait til tomorrow anyway.

Most times, I don’t mind it when he has to travel on business. Most times, I use the time to indulge in endless bubble baths and eat froufrou foods he doesn’t like and write all hours of the night, but so close to Christmas, I resent this trip. We should have been spending this week wrapping presents and curling up by the fire, and watching cheesy Christmas movies, and instead, I’ve been alternately hot and freezing, and completely unfocused and stressed about our upcoming trip.

But one more sleep will bring him home, and one more sleep will find me refreshed and ready to face all the tasks as yet undone.

Thursday 13: 0712.13

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Thirteen Things about MISS MELISS
Things that are Red

1. Cranberries. I love them as decorations, but I like them as food, as well. Tart. Sweet.
2. Tulips. Among my favorite flowers. Classic elegance.
3. Chianti Sunflowers. Bold, more red than orange. Vibrant.
4. Syrah. I like it so much more than any merlot.
5. Tea Kettles. My current one is blue, but red is my preferred color.
6. Keds. The first pair of sneakers I remember wearing were basic red canvas Keds.
7. OPI Big Apple Red: One of my favorite nail colors. I also like “I’m Not Really a Waitress” and “Dutch Tulips” but the latter really straddles the pink/red line.
8. Bing Cherries: I eat them as if they were candy in the summer. Equally delicious chilled or warm.
9. Brick walls. Our house, like most in this region, is wood with a brick veneer. I love the brick. I love it with ivy trailing over it, sun warmed, rain dampened. I just…love brick.
10. Grandma’s Living Room: For most of my life, the carpet in my grandmother’s living room was deep red. She changed it when I was about 17. I liked the retro look with the red carpet and the black and white couch better than the beige and Berber she changed it to. I’m sure it’s just me, but I think she lost some of her zest for life when that carpet was changed.
11. Red Hats. I have a red beret that I wear a lot, but I also have a rounder red hat with a beaded ribbon. It’s from the 50’s but I love it.
12. Classic Red Blazer. With jeans or black pants, and a perfectly pressed shirt.
13. Kicky Red Shoes. To add a touch of color to any outfit (almost). Flats or heels, it doesn’t matter. Every woman needs red shoes.

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The purpose of the meme is to get to know everyone who participates a little bit better every Thursday. Visiting fellow Thirteeners is encouraged! If you participate, leave the link to your Thirteen in others comments. It’s easy, and fun! Be sure to update your Thirteen with links that are left for you, as well! I will link to everyone who participates and leaves a link to their 13 things. Trackbacks, pings, comment links accepted!

A Clam Chowder Kind of Day

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I woke this morning to the soft murmur of thunder high overhead, and the answering sizzle of cold rain falling into the pool. My dogs were huddled against my back for warmth and comfort (they hate thunder, and I lower the heat at night).

In the gray light of a cloudy morning I can never judge the time, so I turned around, craning my neck to see the clock. 7:30. Two hours before my late alarm, ninety minutes before the optimistic one. I could have lazed about in bed longer, but no, I got up, I got dressed (or as dressed as I was willing to get, which, today, is ratty sweats and an ancient red t-shirt), made coffee and oatmeal, and then started writing.

An hour later, a paragraph away from the end of the article in question, my laptop went “pffft” and I lost the text. I rebooted, recovered, hated what I wrote, and then rewrote it.

I had a virtual meeting with the guy who pays me.
I chatted with my aunt.

And then, because it’s still cold, icky, and gray, I made clam chowder. Oh, it’s from a can, but it’s Progresso, not Campbells, and it’s so tasty.

I poured it into a lighthouse mug, and carried it back to my computer.
It was delicious, but I knew it would be.

Because it’s a clam chowder kind of day.

Steam

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I am in love the night sky, in all its different guises. Starry, foggy, cloudy, brightened by moonlight, clarified by cold weather, made rosy at sunset and dawn.

I am in love with the scent of rain, the sound of water falling on the leaves of trees and then tumbling further down to the ground. The moist loamy smell of damp earth, the soft cooing of birds nestled in the deepest, innermost branches, and the streetlights making the rain-soaked world glisten as brightly as the Christmas lights strung up on almost every house and tree in the neighborhood.

I left my bubble bath tonight, and wrapped myself in a blue bath sheet the color of the blue between the ocean and the sky, and padded, barefoot, across the living room which was lit only by a small Christmas tree on the table by the window, through the dining room, and out to the deck.

My hair and skin were still damp, still so warm that steam rose when I stepped outside.

Standing on the wet redwood boards, I breathed in the cool night air and watched the duck-float glide across the pool. I stood there for the duration of the lull between raindrops, then came inside, put on a soft cotton t-shirt and ancient, ripped leggings, and sat down to a lovely dinner of roasted chicken breast, vegetables and a glass of chardonnay.

Twinkle

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It was a cold and misty day here today, of the sort that makes me extremely glad that a) I work from home and b) my work can be done from bed, without ever changing out of pajamas. I wasn’t feeling well in the first place, so the fact that I could be productive and cozy at the same time was the only thing that kept me remotely sane. I’m not sick, I don’t think, as much as just a little tired, a little cranky, and getting overly excited about Christmas. I love Christmas. I celebrate it largely secularly, but I totally buy into the magic.

I like misty days for the same reason. There’s something magic in mist as well, in the way it lets you see the world through a soft filter, blurring sharp edges and gentling colors, and giving even the steadiest of lights a bit of twinkle.

I like that twinkle. I like coming home in the mist-wrapped darkness and seeing the reflection of lights in the rain-slicked pavement, and witnessing the way our neighborhood, especially on the streets around the park, turns from a normal suburban environment into a veritable fairyland at this time of year.

Speaking of twinkles. I like the twinkle in the eyes of the neighborhood kids as they race around on their bikes and scooters and skateboards in the afternoons, and I like the way they stop and wave when I’m walking the dogs, and ask how they are, and know their names. I like seeing even the “coolest” of them let out their personal bubble of delight when they enter the park and the lights are on. I love that even though we don’t have kids, we live in the kind of neighborhood where it’s safe for them to play basketball in their driveways, and even in the streets, because cars don’t speed here.

Wednesday night, there’s a concert in the park. It’s the annual Christmas fete thrown by the HOA, and it’s free to anyone who lives there. “Bring cookies to share,” they ask. And so tonight on the way home from playing elf for a friend of my parents, we stopped so I could stock up on chocolate chips and red and green sprinkles.

As we drove back home, I stopped talking, and watched the lights. This weekend will see the peak of the neighborhood decorations, but when we get home they’ll have started to take them down – some of them.

Fuzzy pulled me back from the door as I was about to open it, and smiled at me, and kissed me.

I think he could see me twinkle.

Happiness is a Mint Milkshake

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For the most part, I don’t eat fast food. Oh, I have a special fondness for McDonald’s fries, and I confess, I’m first in line in March when the Shamrock Shakes come out, but these are rare events for me. Normally, my idea of junk food is eating cheese. A lot of cheese. Or Ghirardelli double chocolate chip brownies. Home made. Warm from the oven.

Tonight, I desperately needed junk food, so I asked my husband to stop at Sonic. Now, Sonic’s burgers actually resemble real meat, and they have something like a gazillion flavors of beverages, but what I was after was a holiday blast. It’s a milkshake thing with peppermint ice cream and white chocolate and bits of regular chocolate and candy cane. It is crowned with whipped cream which is sprinkled with green and red sugar crystals, and I got to sip it through a cheery red straw. It was bliss in a cup, and just what I needed.

I know it’s not healthy for food to be used as a mood-altering drug. I know I shouldn’t be drinking milkshakes. But sometimes what you should do and what you need to do are in direct opposition. I was having a suckful day. I was given a chilly concoction of sugar, milk, mint and chocolate. I sipped. I swallowed. I smiled.

Happiness comes in many forms. It can be in the arms of one’s husband, the unconditional affection of a small furry animal, the encouraging words from a friend, the convictions deep inside your own heart and mind…and sometimes, just sometimes, it can be found in a mint milkshake.

You can’t buy love.
But you can buy a smile.

Signal to Noise Ratios

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Sometimes I think I need a cell phone booster for my brain. I’ve been staring at the same paragraph for an hour, trying to focus on the article I’m trying to write. It’s not difficult material. It’s material I’ve already written at least twice, and merely need to rephrase, in essence plagiarizing myself, but the words swim on the page, and nothing resolves into coherence, and I feel lost…

It’s not the writing. It’s that my head is killing me and my mother left a message that a woman, a family friend from our Modesto days, who was very much a surrogate grandmother to my stepbrother and me, who taught me piano, whose husband introduced me to art concepts I never knew existed, who always talked to me like an adult, and encouraged me to keep writing when I was ready to never type another word, is in a nursing home, hooked up to Oxygen, close to death, and she’s in Palm Springs, so it’s not like I can go visit.

I’m having a bit of a personal melt-down today. I literally was in tears on the phone to Fuzzy, begging for a cheeseburger and a holiday blast from Sonic. “It’s the kind of day only junk food can fix,” I said. .

“Can’t I fix it?” he offered sweetly.

“Yes,” I said. “You can bring me the stupid cheeseburger.”

Yeah, it’s been that kind of a day.

Thursday 13: 0712.06

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Thirteen Things about MISS MELISS
Things that are White

1. Snow: Chilly, crystalline goodness. I like it in small doses, and prefer the falling part to the bit where it sits on the ground to be redistributed every so often, until spring comes. We don’t get snows like that in Texas, of course.
2. Paper: There is nothing that quite compares to a ream of crisp, white paper. Paper isn’t just a substance, either, it represents a world of possibilities. The blank page, the future, the imagination.
3. Athletic socks: Ankle length or peds are my favorites. Soft white cotton, thick soles, great for use in sneakers or just padding around the house.
4. Submarine Watch Mugs: Thick white porcelain, no handles. They’re meant for wrapping your hands around, to keep them warm while you drink steaming tea, coffee or cocoa. Or gin.
5. Calla Lilies and Paper Whites: White petals, green stems, slender elegance.
6. The White Crayon: Used primarily for decorating Easter eggs, because what’s the point of using a white crayon on white paper? But important to have, nevertheless.
7. Foamed Milk: The perfect foam capping a cappuccino or mocha, before the cinnamon or chocolate shavings are sprinkled on. Before the first sip is taken.
8. The Classic White Blouse: One thing every woman should own. It can be plain, and just ironed perfectly, or it can sport lace. It’s simple, classic, always appropriate, and can be dressed up, with a jacket and black pants or skirt, or down, worn with jeans.
9. Sharp organic cheddar cheese: Real cheddar isn’t orange – they ADD the dye – it’s white, and a little crumbly. Also wonderful are wedges of parmesan or balls of provolone.
10. White Caps: The tips of the waves when the water is very choppy. Dangerous for swimming in, but so lovely to watch.
11. White, E. B. & Katharine: He was the author of Stuart Little, Charlotte’s Web, and The Trumpet of the Swan. She was his wife, but also an ardent gardener, and author of many garden-related articles, columns, and books.
12. A Rosined Bow: White horsehair stretched taut from tip to frog, dusted lightly with rosin, ready to play the first note.
13. Animal Fur: Rabbit, Lamb, Fox, or even my dog, Miss Cleo. Soft white fur, deep enough to bury your fingers in, best when wrapped around the soothing heartbeat of a warm cuddly animal.

Get the Thursday Thirteen code here!

The purpose of the meme is to get to know everyone who participates a little bit better every Thursday. Visiting fellow Thirteeners is encouraged! If you participate, leave the link to your Thirteen in others comments. It’s easy, and fun! Be sure to update your Thirteen with links that are left for you, as well! I will link to everyone who participates and leaves a link to their 13 things. Trackbacks, pings, comment links accepted!

Tastes Like Cedar

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I have never been a particular fan of pencils, and when I did have to use them in my early school years, I was particular about them. Those fat training pencils they give to very young children were never my style. My hands are small, for one thing – the average sixth grader has larger hands than I do – so I don’t like thick pens either, and they were never sharp enough. When I write, I like the words to come out in definitive black, not non-committal gray.

My pencils, then, were always sharpened to a needle-fine point, and while they were the No. 2’s that make ScanTrons happy in all corners of the universe, they were also brilliantly yellow, and smelled of cedar.

Actually they tasted like cedar, too. I know this because, I admit, I used to be a pencil chewer. Most of us had some kind of oral fixation in grade school, I think. For many it was gum. I’m not a gum chewer. I don’t see the point in food you’re not supposed to swallow, and frankly, I think gum is too much work for too little payoff. So, there were pencils. Not that they were a snack food, because of course, they weren’t. But when you’re thinking hard about something having a pencil between your teeth helps a bit. It’s the schoolgirl equivalent of being given a bullet to bite in order to distract yourself from pain.

I mention all this because I’ve bought pencils twice in the last two years. In October, 2006, I bought pencils to put in the survival kits I made for my WriMos. They were pencils in fashion colors – blue, maroon, mauve – points not included.

I bought pencils again, yesterday. Ten boxes. Presumably these are the yellow kind, but the color really doesn’t matter. I bought them because yesterday was Day 30 of the WGA strike, and there’s a campaign to flood the offices of the six corporate entities that represent the “bosses” in the strike. I support the WGA as a fan, because without writers there are no words for actors to speak. I support them as a writer, even though I’m in no way connected with the industry, because I know how much working writers really earn. I mean, I am one. Also, I like creative protests. I mean, picketing is all very well and good – it makes your point very visible, and all that, but sending mountains of pencils has an element of the absurd that really appeals to me.

So I bought pencils. (I also bought a tent-sized t-shirt to use as a night gown, because I’m the kind of girl who prefers big t-shirts to lacy lingerie, really. Cotton rocks my world, and all that.)

If you’re a fan, or a writer, you can buy pencils, too, for a buck a box.

Pencils 2 Media Moguls
[Image links to Pencils2MediaMoguls]

This isn’t meant as a rah-rah support the WGA post. It’s really just me sharing part of my day yesterday. If, however, you are inclined to read more about the strike, I suggest the following links:

  • Speechless – a series of video spots featuring prominent actors.
  • Fans4Writers – Fan support site. A bunch of folks from Whedonesque started it.
  • United Hollywood – exactly what it sounds like
  • To Live by the Pen, by Doris Egan, one of the writer-producers of House, as well as a novelist. It’s a fascinating piece of Hollywood history, as well as being a concise explanation of why these people are striking.
  • Ethical Bloggyness, by Tanya Huff, Canadian author of the wonderful Blood Ties books, which Lifetime TV turned into a series.