Merry Christmas!

For today, a little taste of wonderful, courtesy of Charles Dickens. This is Mr. Man’s favorite Christmas story ever.

Yes! and the bedpost was his own. The bed was his own, the room was his own. Best and happiest of all, the Time before him was his own, to make amends in!

"I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future!" Scrooge repeated, as he scrambled out of bed. "The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. Oh Jacob Marley! Heaven, and the Christmas Time be praised for this. I say it on my knees, old Jacob, on my knees!"

He was so fluttered and so glowing with his good intentions, that his broken voice would scarcely answer to his call. He had been sobbing violently in his conflict with the Spirit, and his face was wet with tears.

"They are not torn down!" cried Scrooge, folding one of his bed-curtains in his arms, "they are not torn down, rings and all. They are here -- I am here -- the shadows of the things that would have been, may be dispelled. They will be! I know they will."

His hands were busy with his garments all this time; turning them inside out, putting them on upside down, tearing them, mislaying them, making them parties to every kind of extravagance.

"I don't know what to do!" cried Scrooge, laughing and crying in the same breath; and making a perfect Laocoon of himself with his stockings. "I am as light as a feather, I am as happy as an angel, I am as merry as a schoolboy. I am as giddy as a drunken man. A merry Christmas to everybody! A happy New Year to all the world! Hallo here! Whoop! Hallo!"

God bless us, every one!

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The Bed List

Dear Santa,

mimi has been very good this year. May I please have one of these in my Christmas stocking?

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Happy Hours

One of the more unfortunate clichés brought on by the chick lit wave was that of the Girls’ Night Out--a raucous group of females pounding down the cosmos or lemon drops until one, or several of them, ended up either hooking up with Mr. Right Now or, more likely, throwing up into a bush, on their expensive shoes, or onto Mr. Right. Or some combination thereof. I can’t say I miss those days or plot moments.

I think what chick lit missed was the whole point of happy hour--to be happy. That’s what Chez mimi is going to do this evening. Mr. Man and I, with Frick and Frack, are heading over to our friends’ house for a true happy hour. There will probably be liquor, but not enough to make anyone throw up, and good food and lots of laughter. And that, my friends, is what happy hour is all about.

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Deck the Halls

Alas, mimi is not one of those women who has the holiday decorating gene. You know, the ones who have color-coded boxes of everything for every season: shamrocks for St. Patrick’s Day, Easter egg trees and adorable bunnies and chicks, flag bunting for the Fourth, and a veritable witches’ brew of jack o’lanterns, bats, and spiderwebs for Halloween. Nope, mimi considers it a good year if she can find the Christmas tree skirt and both Frick’s and Frack’s stockings without a meltdown. So expecting a Christmas tree to sprout the day after Thanksgiving is a stretch, if not an outright impossibility.

Lucky for mimi, this is where having all that church background comes in handy. Once the tree is up--and it does make it up--Chez mimi keeps it up until Epiphany. January 6th, for those into calendars. Twelfth Night, if you’ve brushed up on your Shakespeare. What else could you imagine for the court jester’s house?

Now if I can only find that special ornament I bought last year...

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Happy Thanksgiving!

It’s lovely here in the NC mountains despite the clouds and occasional rain. A fresh breeze is blowing off my parents’ deck, and the Blue Valley below is its usual mercurial self, revealing shades of Prussian blue and smoky grey as the sun flirts with the cloud cover. Inside, the hum of voices and laughter blends with the smells of roasting turkey and favorite dishes wafting from the kitchen. Frack has created the folk art turkey from a gourd rescued from the porch display, while Frick and his father are discussing musical tastes and their mutual disdain for classical. I have a cocker spaniel at my feet (borrowed; Buc belongs to my sister) and the promise of a good meal ahead. Best of all, I have a family I love--some of whom are celebrating in Florida, like my Mama, sister, brothers, and their families--and friends who are steady and supportive in good times and bad.

Praise God, from whom all blessings flow.

Norman Rockwell, “Freedom from Want”

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The Dinner List

I’ve been laughing with Steve Martin since I was in junior high school. That would be during the arrow-through-the-head years. Turns out there’s a lot more to the funny man than “King Tut.” He’s a writer with a wry look at the world (if you haven’t read Shopgirl, please do), a playwright, an art collector, and a Grammy-winning banjo player. Steve Martin lines about everything from Googlephonics (“the highest number of speakers next to infinity”) to McDonald’s (“sluuuurp...hamburger...sluuuurp...malt...”) to dentistry (“You’ll be a den-tist! You have a penchant for causing things pain--AAUGH!”) crop up with regularity in household conversations. Plus, he’s not ashamed to dress up in cowboy clothes and plan a stickup with water pistols (the above scene from the Ron Howard movie Parenthood, filmed practically in my back yard). Yep, just about the perfect dinner guest, I’m thinking.

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Fence Sitting

This year, baby sister has been brave enough to take the NaNoWriMo plunge, and I am happily cheering her on. From the sidelines, it seems. Although I have ideas in abundance, I have revising to do. I have no business trying to write my own headlong draft when I have other responsibilities. No reason to start playing around with the YA story ideas. No...dammit, I have plenty of reasons, but perhaps I lack the will. We’ll see. At any rate, I’m already in the hole a week with no production. Madness to start? Perhaps. Then again, I did win NaNo my first year with an orgy of words on the last day--more than 12k of them, to be exact. Never say never...

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Trick or Treat!

All Hallow’s Eve--or, in other words, a built in excuse to eat too much candy without guilt. This year, Chez mimi will be disgorging a slightly (only very slightly) naughty Alice in Wonderland and a Rastafarian to ply the neighbors for free goodies. Wonder who’s showing up at the door?

In the witch’s kettle: fun size Twix, Milky Way, and Three Musketeers. I probably should have bought Snickers because I have no problem resisting them. Oh, well. Live and learn. That, and lie in wait to steal Reese’s Cups from my kids.

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The Bed List

Gerard Butler...(release long sigh). Scottish. Handsome. Muscles. Wicked twinkle in his eye. Plus, he had the good sense not to take up with Jennifer Aniston despite clamoring urge from tabloid media to do so. (Really, what is it about her? I just don’t get it.) You just know he’d be a rollicking good time. And I do mean rollicking.

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To Autumn

In honor of my favorite season and this week’s lovely cool snap, enjoy this classic ode from John Keats:

SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness!

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;

To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;

Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,

Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook

Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers;

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

Steady thy laden head across a brook;

Or by a cider-press, with patient look,

Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—

While barrèd clouds bloom the soft-dying day,

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

Among the river sallows, borne aloft

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft

The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

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Natal Days

My grandfather, accomplished raconteur and all-around gentleman that he was, used to refer to birthdays with the quaint term “natal day” when writing birthday letters and the like. Daddy has picked it up, usually wishing me a happy natal day on one of the cards he sends (one’s always funny, one’s always “a serious card” in honor and mockery of a long-ago Hallmark TV commercial).

Well, today is, in fact, my Natal Day. Since I am no longer a child, I don’t expect it to be an orgy of wow. It’ll probably be a regular day, full of work and taxi-driving for Frick and Frack and the usual Wednesday night activities at church. And perhaps a present or two from Mr. Man.

Considering I have a lovely (though messy) home, a wonderful (though forgetful at times) husband, two beautiful (though frustrating) children, and a rewarding (though exhausting) job, I really have nothing more to wish for, do I? Except perhaps a massage and some really good chocolate. Mr. Man, are you listening?

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Journal Ho

I am a bad writer.

I don't mean bad writer in the sense of my writing is bad (at least, I hope that's not the case), but that I am bad. I do bad things. I do not have an appropriately writerly persona.

Take journaling, for instance. I have lots of journals. Lovely journals. Journals with just the right kind of paper, the creamy velvety kind that calls to you in a sultry voice, "Get your fountain pen and touch me, darling, the sensation will be eeeeeeeeeeexquisite."

And what do I do? The equivalent of the one-night stand. I curl up with the journal, make passionate love to it for the span of say, about, ten days, then abandon it. Harshly. As in, don't write, don't call, purge the number from the cell phone, have we met?

It's a shame. I have generous writer friends who are far more faithful than I who are constantly introducing me to yet another journal ("It's cute! I think you two would make a great couple!"). So I smile, accept the gift, and then proceed to toy with its affections. I use purple ink, so my journal will think it is unique and special ("It's not black!"). I use a fountain pen, so it will imagine itself in an upper echelon from other journals of its type ("Anyone can fish a ballpoint out of the sofa--my writer uses a fine writing instrument!"). Sometimes, I even sketch in it, the writer equivalent of kinky sex. (*shudders with abandon*) If I'm feeling particularly cruel, I'll toy with its affections by launching into an ambitious creativity exploration, like Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way or The Right to Write, and start Morning Pages ("She tells me everything! We have such a bond!") and creativity exercises (“I'm essential to developing her craft!"). Those are the cruelest breakups of all, because one morning I'll get up and find that getting DH and the kids dressed and in the car far supersedes myménage-a-deux with the Journal of the Week, and Morning Pages bite the dust. Or the creativity exercises just stop at, say, number eleven out of a series of twelve. Yes, I toy with my journals and toss them aside until I start eyeing another with the enthusiasm of a writer on the make in a seedy literature bar ("Hey, handsome, may I ply you with ink?").

And all for naught. I am doomed to repeat the cycle, furled pages in my wake. I am a journal flirt. I want nothing more from my journal than cheap entertainment. A hookup. A scribble call, if you will.

And yet, I want to be better. I want to settle down. I want to develop a long-lasting, passionate relationship with a journal, something that will say to the world that I Am A Real Writer--I Keep A Journal, Of Course! Alas, I fear that will never happen. I know me. I am too attracted by a fresh set of pages to remain devoted to just one volume.

Don't even get me started on "write every day." It'll take something along the line of the Anthony Trollope Dedicated Writer Development Bootcamp to cultivate that habit. (You did know that he wrote five thousand words every day, in longhand, before he went to his "real" job at the post office, didn't you?)

Bad writer. No office supplies.

Originally published at mimidish.blogspot.com on February 15, 2005

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The Bed List

It’s election season, and whenever politics gets stupid and creepy (okay, stupider and creepier than usual), that’s the time to tune in more regularly to Jon Stewart on The Daily Show.

One thing about getting older (coming soon!) is the realization that hot means nothing unless you have a brain to go with. Luckily, Mr. Stewart racks up the points in both areas. Early-grey semi-distinguished-looking sparkly-eyed? Check. Smart enough to make you snort your Dr Pepper up your nose laughing at what he just said? Check. He has a crack team of writers and researchers working for him, but you have to admit that all that info is just so much more noise until that deadly eyebrow lift and blank “You have got to be kidding me” look skewer the day’s ridiculousness.

So, dinner a deux with plenty to laugh about (or cry, given the state of American politics), then dessert. And you know what I’m talkin’ about when I say dessert.

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Deva Diva

Ladies, can we just admit that our longest, most frustrating relationship in the world isn’t with a man, but with our hair? If you’re a curly like me who grew up in the stick-straight Marsha Brady ’70s, you know what I’m talking about. So it was with relief and joy that I discovered the Bible for hair like mine, Lorraine Massey’s amazing Curly Girl.

Ms. Massey, who underwent curly trauma growing up in England, hit on two things that will forever change your relationship with your curls: throwing out the shampoo bottle (conditioner and friction, baby!) and a specialized haircut. Since stylists who cut this way--cutting it dry, paying attention to each individual curl instead of giant swaths and layers of hair--are rare, I was delighted to find an angel to go along with the Bible. Her name is Janelle.

Janelle is a traveling stylist since she does so many updos for weddings. She showed up at my house yesterday, all legs and gorgeous blonde hair (you know, the kind of woman you hate on sight just out of principle), but was so nice and engaging you just couldn’t help adoring her. It took her an hour and a half between the first clip and snip and the big reveal, but I was one happy camper when she was done. Lift at the roots! Curls with movement and dimension instead of bulk and droop! Bliss!

Never underestimate the power of a great haircut.

Cross Girl (Proud Maisie) by Frederick Sandys

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Perspective

It’s so tempting to spend time dwelling--well, carping really--on all of your issues. Why your life is screwed up. Why things never seem to go right. Why there’s never enough time to get all those tasks around the house finished so you have time to do what you want. As we used to say in college, BBATTB. (Bitch, bitch, all the time bitch)

Thankfully, we also have opportunities for a little perspective. Mine came today in the form of a phone call from a lost student. This is a girl who had it all--slim, gorgeous hair, smart, witty, the works--and also had nothing--screwed up family life, custody issues, parent on drugs, too much responsibility at an early age. Mr. Man and I both adored her, so we were wrecked when, at the end of her senior year, she just disappeared. No graduation day, no celebrations, no fanfare. Just gone.

Out of curiosity, I hunted her up on Facebook. It took a while for us to connect, but when she did, I found out what hardship really looks like. Take all of those issues above and add a mystery illness that turns out to be Guillian-Barré Syndrome. What began as tingling and numbness in her feet ended with her in the hospital for three months, intubated because she lacked the muscle tone to breathe on her own. This lovely girl, tall and beautiful enough to model, has to use a walker to get across the room and is a veritable shut-in. She’s one of the lucky ones who will regain most of her mobility, but it’ll take months of physical therapy appointments--painful, frustrating appointments three times a week--before she can walk at a pace that would, frankly, annoy most of us with too much to do and a tendency toward irritability (my hand’s up with yours there, honey).

And yet somehow, I could hear her smiling. She sees her blessings for what they are. And although she gets upset about what happened and wishes things were different, she’s taking her small victories where she can. It’ll be a long journey back to something resembling normal, but I have no doubt she’ll get there.

After that, my messy house and my family’s inability to pick up their dirty socks just seemed like a petty thing to be worried about. It’s all in your perspective, darlings.

Artwork by the amazing M. C. Escher.

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Cirque du Maman

It’s quiet in my house this Saturday morning, but I know that won’t last. Frick is at a friend’s, Frack has a friend over, Mr. Man has completed his crack o’dawn coffee meeting and is now about to go bike riding with a friend, and mimi has squirrels.

Every mother on the planet knows about the squirrels--the ones who camp out in your brain, jumping about and chatteringchatteringchattering about everything you need to do or haven’t done or have in process or are trying to stick into a dank corner and let rot. Since school started, the squirrel chorus has just gotten louder. Now it includes forms to sign and papers to grade and kids who need sleep and lunches that “need made” (as my Western PA-raised MIL would say). Every. Freaking. Day.

It’s a wonder mothers get anything done--more of a wonder that tasks do, indeed, get done, and that no one goes to school starving or naked. Although mimi will admit to taping a couple of fives to the microwave in lieu of a lovingly-packed lunch this week, because the ham vs. peanut butter decision was just too much of a stretch at 6:20 am.

I look at the other moms in the grocery store sometimes, the ones who are slim and self-possessed, who wear lovely clothes and enviable shoes, and wonder how they manage to hold it all together so neatly while the leaves of my squirrel nest get disarrayed and reorganized as more and more relatives join the party. Or appear to, at least. In my darker moments, I have to remind myself to lean closer when my cart passes one of theirs, and listen. My tree isn’t the only one with squirrels.

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New Pencil Smell

Here we are--the end of the first week back at school for teachers. The kids come in Monday. I’ve been working and scrubbing all week, thanks to a last-minute classroom move. I still have plenty to do today, what with meetings and copies and lesson plans and all, but the excitement is in the air!

I’ve always been an office supply girl. I get far more excited over a luxurious fountain pen, a fistful of freshly-sharpened pencils, or finding the perfect journal than I ever do about shoes or clothes. The aroma and ambience of a high-quality paperie has always been more seductive than the lingerie department. That’s part of the reason I love the beginning of a new school year: a built-in reason to buy markers and construction paper! And composition books in pretty colors! And folders with horses on them!

Okay, now I’m getting silly, but you get the idea. I love the start of a new school year. The first day of school is like peering into the Plato’s Cave of education--the year still lies before you, pristine, unsullied, full of possibility. You can see it for everything it can be (at least until the people show up and start chunking spanners in the works).

Kind of like a new book idea, come to think of it.

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Blather, Rinse, Reboot

One of the great things about attending an RWA National Conference in your own back yard is that you can get right down to work on the energy surge. That’s a good thing, too; I got my marching orders from Dream Agent. The short version: polish and send Little League, two chapters and a treatment for both the Hell’s Belles and Arden Grove series, and one completely new idea. Oh, and nuke The Five Step Plan and start over. Le sigh.

So I have homework, and lots of it, added to the assignment I’d already given myself: Graduate to a big girl writer website. A full day’s pondering and playing with iWeb later--okay, and much of the night, since I got in flow state and didn’t stop working until 3 am--and here you have it.

I’ve been maintaining a blog for five years now, but now it’s time to shift focus to the books. The archives for the dish will live on in Blogger’s servers. I’ll be lifting some solid posts from the dish to re-use here. And yes, the Bed/Dinner boys will be coming with me.

I’m excited. Feels like I’ve washed that stasis out of my hair and sent it on its way.

(Dontcha love this image? It’s nipped from a JWT Frankfurt ad for Priorin “extra strong” shampoo. Many thanks to its creative genius!)

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