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I'm also part of the
group blog, Sisterhood of the Jaunty Quills... drop in at http://jauntyquills.com. You can also find me (and I hope you will!) on Facebook.
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Tradition
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The Bucket List December 11, 2011
1. Learn to dance in some form. Except ballet. I think the window has closed on that particular genre. But tap? Sure, I could learn to tap-dance. I think. I was kicked out of a beginner’s salsa class once for lack of rhythm, but I think I could tap. Why I think this is a mystery, but I’m hoping to get the chance to try. 2. Walk into a really nice hotel or restaurant and be greeted by name. “Ah, Miss Higgins, it’s so nice to see you again!” I think that would be really cool. 3. Deliver a baby. I’ve been prepping for this since I was five years old. No one has ever taken me up on it, for some reason…I did get to watch my nephew come into this world, so that was pretty close, but I’d like to be the one in charge. Bossy of me, I know, but there it is. 4. Ride a horse on a beach. The Black Stallion ruined me (and a million other girls). I’ve ridden horses, and I’ve been to the beach, but never simultaneously. 5. Have a day in Montana that’s spent doing nothing other than gazing at the mountains (and eating, maybe). Just watching nature. I have a Montana fixation. I don’t know if I’ll ever get the chance to do any of these things, but even thinking about them makes me smile. Pop over to the Fun Stuff part of the website and tell me what’s on your bucket list. |
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Will that be credit or debit? December 4, 2011 I went Christmas shopping today. Ended up buying a meat thermometer (who doesn’t want to see one of those under the tree, right?) and a pair of shoes for myself.
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Anything but that |
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And here we go again... November 20, 2011 It’s Thanksgiving. Time for my beloved mother to morph into St. Mom of the Damn Bird, giblet martyr. Two years ago, McIrish and the kids and I went to my brother’s-in-law house. For the first time in my life, and in our marriage, I dared to celebrate the holiday away from Mom. “You can’t do that!” she cried, outraged. “Thanksgiving is MY holiday!” We gently explained that no, in fact it wasn’t, but it was no use. “I own that holiday,” she countered. “Everyone knows that. They can come here. You can’t go to…New Jersey.” We went to New Jersey. I have yet to be forgiven for this hurtful, cruel move. My siblings are allowed to alternate with their in-laws, but I am not, for some reason. Perhaps because my in-laws are Irish, so their Thanskgiving doesn’t really count? I’m not sure. Last year, the elder abuse continued: we hosted Thanksgiving. When that announcement came, I believe my mother’s head rotated 360 degrees, but we insisted. It had been a tough year for Mom, and we wanted her to relax and enjoy, rather than wake up at 2 a.m. to put, as she calls it, “the damn bird” into the oven and start peeling a mountain of potatoes. She came. She endured. She delivered the classic line that her own mother had delivered each year: “I like my stuffing better.” At Christmas, she stated her one wish: to own Thanksgiving once again. “Please,” she said, doing her best little old lady impression. “It’s mine. Please give let me have Thanksgiving again.” So we’re going to her house this year. I can’t wait to hear how she wrestled the giblet package out of the damn bird’s cavity. J (photo by Judy Olausen, from her wonderful and hilarious book, Mother, which really sums it up nicely. That's her mother. Not mine. But it could be.)
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Pa Ingalls Syndrome November 13, 2011 McIrish is afflicted with a not-uncommon condition: Pa Ingalls Syndrome. It consists of A) wearing flannel whenever possible; B) living off the land…meaning planting an enormous, untenable garden that will inevitably be destroyed by deer; and C) using an axe whenever possible. Other symptoms of Pa Ingalls Syndrome include making rock walls (especially if one is Irish, when one’s DNA demands it), digging a lot; and the refusal to hire anyone to do anything that Pa could do himself. Putting on a porch, for example (we all know how that ended…with yours truly in the ER). Cutting down a tree. Building a house. Men afflicted with Pa Ingalls Syndrome also enjoy cooking things over an open fire. Meat, preferably. They like to lash things together with rope…to what purpose, no one knows, but they can really lash things together. They enjoy bursting into the house to tell "Caroline" about their exploits out in the world of nature. Their eyes twinkle appealingly and their faces are flushed with good health. Women married to Pas are recognizable by a good-natured but slightly weary tolerance of their men. The question, “What are we doing this weekend?” is rarely answered with anything other than, “Working outside!” Ma Ingalls-types understand that “Charles” is incapable of running a modern appliance. A selective blindness often affects men with Pa Ingalls Syndrome; items such as vacuum cleaners and baskets of unfolded laundry are invisible. As for doing the dishes, the only thing men with PIS are able to wash by hand are the manly iron griddles that weigh more than a good-sized child, and this is more a show of strength than a household chore. Dusting? Pa never dusted, did he? Of course not! And why would he dust, when he could just build a new piece of furniture with his manly hands? Pa is a good guy to have around in a storm. You will never be cold, married to a Pa, and your neighbors will always have help when needed. And you really can’t rule out the effect of those twinkly eyes.
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What I did for love... November 6, 2011 I love dogs. I know. This is shocking. Only The Next Best Thing is a dog-free book (my cat was making disturbing threats, for one, and for two, I just didn’t see Lucy with a dog). But how much do I love dogs? A lot. Here are some examples: When McIrish is away, the dog sleeps on my bed. With her head on his pillow. Don’t tell him. I wash bits of decay off my dog and tell her she’s a sweet puppy while I do. I squirt water into her mouth from a spray bottle endlessly, getting water all over the floor, furniture and children, just because she thinks it’s fun. I stop dog owners on the street to admire their pooches. I seem unable to stop myself. I pet the dogs, secretly willing them to follow me home. I have a “dog voice.” It’s like baby talk, except much more dignified. All my heroines love their dogs, of course. Posey from Until There Was You lets her Great Dane sit on her lap. He outweighs her by forty or fifty pounds, but she doesn’t mind. He’s worth it. Pop over to the question of the week and tell me about your four-legged pals and the things you do for them that make you occasionally question your sanity.
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Women vs. Nature October 30, 2011 I’m one of those Yankees who tries not to stress about weather. Weather is part of life, after all. I hold a great deal of disdain for the forecasters who whip people into a frenzy, sending them to the market to buy bread and milk for a "weather event." Weather happens. We get a storm, we put on our boots and clean up. No point in fretting; can’t do much about it (can you hear me slipping into my New England accent?). Of course we have a generator! It’s the responsible thing to do. McIrish was a Boy Scout. Always prepared. But yesterday, Connecticut was slammed with a nor’easter that dumped twelve inches of snow on our autumn foliage. I stood on my porch, listening to the pop and crack of breaking branches. We live in the woods; I grew up on the street where I now live; the trees are my old friends. It was awful to hear the crack, then watch a shower of snow, the branch falling with hypnotic slowness. My mother is greatly attached to a Japanese maple my late father planted for her. I went over to check on it; it’s one of the last trees to shed its leaves, and yesterday, it was bent almost double to the ground. Two big branches had already split. I climbed into the tree, shaking the branches as hard as I could, bowing my head as the snow fell in great clumps. Mom came out to help, whacking branches with a broom as I shook and climbed. I told her I felt like an angry gorilla. She said, “I was thinking vengeful goddess.” Relieved of the weight of snow, the branches perked up a bit. Mom and I stood there, looking, hoping. Then we heard the loud pop of another branch breaking. I grabbed my mom’s coat and literally dragged her backward as an oak branch fell, missing her house, missing us. “Better get inside,” I said. “Don’t let the dog out.” This morning showed my efforts had been in vain; the Japanese maple had taken some more hits. I don’t know if it will survive. But if it doesn’t, I’ll buy my mom another, plant it in the same spot, and when she looks at it, she can remember not just the tree my dad gave her, but how we two hardy Yankee women went out in the storm to battle for its life.
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The company I keep October 23, 2011 I was talking to a couple of other authors over the weekend about how we can’t work in public, like at a coffee shop or whatnot, because Writer One readers her stuff back to herself; Writer Two talks her dialogue; Writer Three tends to make weird faces and cry a lot (cough). Writer Three has also been known to make out with her hand, so yes, it’s best that she stays away from the public while writing. My office is a snug little place with sloping ceilings and lots of plants. There are posters of my book covers here and there, as well as the framed copy of the New York Times the first week I hit the bestseller list. There are a few dog toys that Willow ignores in lieu of my shoes. A Keurig. A picture of my dad, who died so long ago but had such faith in his kids. Pictures of my beautiful children and McIrish. But mostly, it’s the place where I go to be with my characters. It has such a different feeling from home. When I’m there, I’m there to write. UNTIL THERE WAS YOU is the first book written entirely in my office, so when I go there, I immediately think of Posey and Liam, Shilo and the cats, Posey’s funky little church, Liam’s motorcycle. And I think about you guys, too! Back in the day, before social media and the Internet, writers just wrote, maybe did an occasional reading and that was that. Now we’re with you daily, courtesy of Facebook and email and all that good stuff. And it’s lovely! Now, instead of the generic masses, I think, “Oh, I hope Brandy will like this, and Elizabeth, and Tami, and Kerry and Michael…” So to all of you who not only read my books, and this blog, but who voluntarily sign up to get my newsletter and chat with me via email and Facebook…thank you so, so much! It means the world to me, our friendship. It really does. Pop over to the Random Question on the Fun Stuff section and tell me about your workspace. And have a great week, gang.
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Family rivalries October 15, 2011 One of the things I love writing about most is families. Family shapes who we are, how we think of ourselves, our goals, our limits, our personalities. And one of the things that’s most fun to write about is rivalry. There’s a huge family rivalry going on in UNTIL THERE WAS YOU: Posey, our unconventional tomboy heroine, vs. Gretchen, the beautiful celebrity chef who’s the epitome of success in the eyes of the Osterhagen family. Makes for a lot of fun between the two women. My brother has a saying: Everything goes back to the sandbox. I have no idea what he’s talking about, of course, since the three of us all get along perfectly (we are very close, actually). But sure, there are those conversations that end up, “Well, Mom always loved you best, as proven when you got the car on July 14, 1985, even though I was supposed to go to the movies with Lisa, so I don’t want to hear it!” Right? Don’t we all have those moments? I think so! Here are a few of my own… * One of the two Higgins girls is admired greatly for having the same hair color as their mother: red. It is widely and loudly expressed that red hair is special and, indeed, amazing. The brown-haired child mutters resentfully under her breath and puts a blonde streak in her own hair. * The three Higlets are taken skiing in Vermont. Two children exhibit natural grace on the ski slopes while one falls in the bunny line, taking down everyone behind her. Awkward Child is sent by teacher to the lodge, where she drinks cocoa and reads Gone With the Wind for the 8th time. Athletic children are praised over dinner; the other child discusses Sherman’s invasion of Atlanta with neighboring table. * Despite dogged daily practicing at piano, Music Teacher expresses sorrow at Middle Child’s lack of innate talent. “You try so hard,” is the best compliment she can come up with. Later, nonpracticing siblings delight Music Teacher with their natural ear while Middle Child does Latin homework in kitchen. Rivalry is natural, I guess…but so is forgiveness, one hopes, and the wonderful discovery that not everyone should be measured with the same stick. So pop over to the Fun Stuff section if you’re in the mood and tell me about your own rival from childhood. You guys friends now? How did it all work out?
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What's for dinner, hon? October 9, 2011 Posey Osterhagen, the heroine of UNTIL THERE WAS YOU, hates to cook. Her parents own a German restaurant, her cousin is a minor celebrity chef, but Posey would rather throw a frozen pizza into the oven or swing by Five Guys than actually cook dinner. I can so relate. Oh, I have a few dishes, mostly my grandmother’s recipes, that are tasty enough. But I don’t like handling raw chicken or meat (does anyone?). The endless peeling, chopping and slicing of vegetables…boring. Dinner prep usually takes me an hour at least. I tend to get panicky at the end, trying to get everything onto the table at the right time. I’m known to bark at the dog, the cat, the children. “Out of the kitchen! Out of the kitchen!” By the time we sit down, I’m tense, tired and already sick of the food in front of me. And then there’s McIrish. Being married to a great cook obviously has its advantages, but it’s got its downside, too. If I’m cooking and McIrish comes home, I inevitably offer to surrender the kitchen to him. “No, no, that’s fine, you can do it,” he might say, sitting at the counter, watching me the way a starving hawk watches a trembling baby mouse. “But you’re going to chop the garlic a little more, right? And you want to add the salt to the water now. Which I’m sure you knew. But you can do it however you want. Except now would be best. You gonna stir those onions?” His hands actually jerk toward the utensils. “Want to take over?” I’ll taunt, knowing that A) he has no faith in my cooking skills whatsoever B) he could do much better himself and C) he’s a control freak about food. “No, no, you’re doing great,” he’ll lie. He smiles. I smile back. His eye starts twitching. It becomes a battle of wills. I know he’s dying to cook. He won’t admit it. He knows that I want him to take over, but if he does, then he becomes an enabler for my claims of being a terrible cook, and I know that he knows that we both know that…okay, I’ve lost my train of thought. Bottom line: I occasionally cook dinner. It’s never terrible. It’s rarely wonderful. Baking—completely different story. J I put a recipe for German almond cookies on the Fun Stuff part of my website in honor of UNTIL THERE WAS YOU…give them a whirl and let me know how it goes! Oh, and make sure you’re signed up for my newsletter and Elizabeth Hoyt’s—we’re doing a great give-away this month. Check it out on the Fun Stuff section of this website, and good luck!
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First class all the way October 1, 2011 Ah, the glamour of travel! The lines, the removal of shoes, the full-body scans! The frantic masses who rarely fly, rifling through their suitcases for their liquids, repeatedly asking why they can’t bring their hairspray on a carry-on. The dead-eyed TSA employees. The endless, droning announcements on the PA. But recently, I was mysteriously upgraded to first class on a flight from Chicago to Hartford. Oh, yeah! All the humbling experiences of the airport would be erased, as I was now First Class Passenger Higgins. My seat was Seat 1A! I felt like my teacher had given me a gold sticker. I’d never been in first class before. Maybe I’d get to watch a movie. Have a glass of wine. A hot towel to refresh myself prior to landing. This is what happens to George Clooney in Up in the Air, at any rate. Maybe my seat would be a leather recliner. Oooh! Well, my seat was a little bigger. Maybe an inch? Maybe two? It was pleather, not leather, though. Still, no complaints, right? Before takeoff, the flight attendant offered me a drink. “Sure!” I said. She handed me a plastic cup of water. But you know, the gang in steerage, they didn’t get pre-flight water. So clearly this was living large, you know? I read my Kindle. Looked out the window (same size as steerage windows, I noted). Was getting pretty excited about the perks of first class. About halfway through the flight, the attendant asked me if I’d like a snack box. “Excuse me?” I said. “Would you like a snack box?” she repeated. “Do you have filet mignon?” I asked. She laughed. My box was delivered. It contained myriad tiny packages of snacks. Pretzels. Olives. Crackers with some dubious “doesn’t need to be refrigerated” cheese-like spread. Two cookies. My cup of water was refilled. The snacks were kind of gross, but I ate a few. You know. I felt like I should, since I doubted I’d be traveling in first class again any time soon. When we landed, the line to get off the plane wasn’t as long as it was in steerage. Had I bought a first class ticket and not gotten it by a fluke, the cost difference would’ve been $460 more than a regular 2-hour flight. $460. For a snack box. I guess I love steerage after all. Pop over to the Fun Stuff part of my website and tell me about your best or worst travel experience. And don't forget to sign up for the newsletter if you haven't done so already...I'll be giving away lots of goodies this month!
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Kitchen Chairs September 18, 2011 We bought new kitchen chairs this week. This may sound rather innocuous, but in our little family, it’s a huge event. McIrish and I have something akin to consumer paralysis when it comes to furniture. The process of buying a new piece usually takes years. Maybe it’s because my Irish mother-in-law raised thrift to a religion; maybe it’s because McIrish himself believes that everything we purchase should last for at least 300 years or is otherwise a complete scam. Regardless, our process goes something like this. Me: “We need new kitchen chairs.” McIrish: “True.” (Years pass.) When Mr. Obama was elected President, our kids wrote to him. It’s family tradition, writing to each new President to let him know our concerns. (Ostensibly, the President works for us, right?) At any rate, our son, then nine, invited the Obamas to a sleep-over at our house, figuring the girls would enjoy our excellent swing. Me: “Imagine if they came. We’d definitely need those new kitchen chairs.” McIrish: “True.” (A year passes.) McIrish and I happen upon a beautiful furniture shop in Vermont. Me: “Check out these chairs. These are some really nice kitchen chairs.” McIrish: “True.” We stand, admire, and leave. Years pass. Well, the Obamas didn’t come to visit (the President did write back, citing a full schedule). However, we are having an illustrious houseguest in a few weeks, so I finally put my foot down. “We need those chairs, honey.” “True,” he said. An exhaustive Google search could not produce the Vermont store we’d visited. With reluctance and a pouty face, McIrish accompanied me to a normal furniture store here in Connecticut, and although the chairs we chose did not pass McIrish’s 300-year test and were not made by some crusty artisan in northern New England, we bought six new chairs. Only took us a decade.
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September 11, 2011 I hate writing about September 11th. Where I was and how I felt is simply a drop in the ocean of our country’s collective memory. I was just one of 300 million Americans whose heart was broken that day. Aside from the fact that I once lived in an apartment with a view of Manhattan’s iconic skyline, I have no true connection to New York…though for me, it has always been the greatest city in the world. I have no personal story to tell about September 11th that shines anything new on that horrible day. I lost no one close to me. However, I post my blog on Sundays, and to write about anything else today seemed wrong. Maybe because I feel the need to see the good in just about everything, I think September 11th as not just the worst day in our country’s history, but a day when the world saw what it meant to be American. Courage beyond measure. Kindness. The immediate instinct to help. We’ve all heard the story of Abe, the man who stayed by the side of Ed, his friend. Ed was a quadriplegic; the elevators weren’t running. Abe stayed with Ed; Ed told him to go. Abe’s mother and brother called his cell, begging him to get out. But Abe stayed. He was an Orthodox Jew; Ed was a Catholic. Their families imagine that they prayed together, there at the end. They both died that day, along with the firefighters who were trying to carry Ed to safety. I think about Abe a lot. I think about the horror of knowing the North Tower had collapsed, of being there in the South Tower. What you might see out your windows. Knowing you could walk out of there. Knowing, perhaps, that your building was next. And I think of the courage, the kindness and the love that kept Abe at Ed’s side, and I hope that if I were ever called in such a way, that I would be as faithful, as brave, as good as Abe Zelmanowitz.
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Little feet September 3, 2011 When my son was born, he weighed one pound, 10 ounces. It’s a long story and not one I’m going to tell right now, but what I’m going to tell you is how tiny were his hands and feet. McIrish would hold his hand; spread out, it would only cover my husband’s fingertip. Our son’s feet were about an inch from heel to toe; even at that minute size, I could see he had McIrish’s toes, the second one slightly longer than the big toe. This morning, my son held his foot up to mine. We are exactly the same size (for now; the boy grows hourly). This also means that his feet are bigger than his sister’s. She has always towered over her brother; she is tall for a girl, he is average for a boy. For now, that is. I’ve told her those days are numbered; Dearest Son is catching up. Good, she says. My turn for piggy-backs. Dearest Son likes to go barefoot, so his feet are often brown. He tans easily, a throwback to my Gypsy ancestors. He takes karate and climbs trees and helps around the house, often without being asked. But those feet…those tiny, innocent feet are burned into my memory along with the fear and helpless love I felt as I measured him daily in his incubator, waiting and hoping for him to grow.
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The drudgery of the first draft August 21, 2011 I’m in the home stretch of finishing the first draft of my current work-in-progress, which already has a title, a cover and a release date. This one’s gone smoothly for me. I’ve been keeping a good pace, haven’t come across any major roadblocks, haven’t had that moment when I say to myself, “Well, this is it—the career ending book. You’re through, Higgins.” (Not yet, I should say. There’s always a chance of that.) Once I’m finished with the draft, I’ll probably hack out 25,000 words from my admittedly dull beginning; I’ve repeated myself many times. Characters have become more interesting as I’ve spent more time with them, so I’ll have to go back and infuse them with more personality when they first make an appearance. I don’t like writing first drafts. They’re hard. Not just ideas and scraps of sentences; now I have to spell everything out, describe people, places, things, emotions. Can’t just say, “She loses it.” Have to actually write that scene. And my first drafts are long. I usually cut a good 20,000 words from a first draft. That’s a fifth of the book. But something magical happens during the first draft. As I spend more and more time with my characters, they tell me things that I never consciously thought before. Words leap onto the computer screen without my being fully aware of typing them. What? Doral-Anne had a fling with Jimmy? I had no idea! Yet that makes perfect sense. Keep typing, hurry up, what else have we got in there? So here’s to the drudgery of the first draft. There’s no other way to write a book, after all.
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Je ne sais quois beauty August 14, 2011 A friend of mine sent me a link about what makes someone beautiful. There’s apparently a mathematical formula to determine beauty based on proportion and spacing, size of features, stuff like that. Halle Berry fits this formula, apparently. And yes, she is quite beautiful. Maybe the most beautiful woman ever. But to me, the most appealing faces are not perfect. The ones that I find most attractive are not the sum of a mathematical formula; instead, they have something that sets them apart. You could say that Susan Sarandon’s eyes are too big. James Franco is somewhat chinless. Meryl Streep and Helen Mirren both have long, bony noses. Robert Downey Jr. has pretty eyes; other than that, though, what’s the big deal? I don’t know. It’s that exactly. It’s the je ne sais quoi factor. Can’t put a finger on it, but something stops your eyes when you see this person. I remember the first time I saw Liam Neeson in a movie; he played a mute homeless man, and I couldn’t look away. I loved his face. It was not really a handsome face, certainly not a perfect face, like Robert Pattinson, for example (who does nothing for me...I'm sure he's terribly upset), but I couldn’t stop thinking about Liam Neeson’s face. Who is that guy? I asked my date. I was somewhat obsessed. Why? Je ne sais quoi. But I was. I subscribe to InStyle magazine, and I love it. But there aren't a lot of times when I stop to stare at a face. Those young Hollywood actors today seem too perfect. A dime a dozen. They all have the same nose, body, hair color. Maybe it’s a sign of my advanced years, but I’d rather look at an arresting face rather than one that’s mathematically perfect
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Secret time August 7, 2011 When McIrish is working a night shift at the fire house, I usually stay up late. Very late. Back in the day, when the kiddies were asleep by 7:30, I’d have three or four hours to myself. Now, the little buggers go to bed closer to 10. It’s summer, they’re old enough, etc. Do I often wish they went to bed before sundown? Occasionally! But I do love my alone time. So in order to really relax, I stay up past midnight. One night this week, I went to bed at 2:30 a.m. I didn’t even think that was possible anymore! Still, there I was, watching Shark Week and eating ice cream and wincing over some of the footage (and I thought MY leg looked freaky!). When I was finished scaring myself to death, I then watched an episode of Breaking Bad. I went to bed and lay there, letting my characters talk to each other. Inevitably, they say something that I didn’t know yet. I love when they oblige me this way! I think of those hours as Secret Time. Most of this part of the world is asleep, and it gives me a bit of a thrill, being awake, hearing things out in the woods, listening to the rain, chatting with imaginary friends.
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A family tradition August 1, 2011 Fishing is a great Higgins family tradition. My grandfather, Kyle Higgins, loved to fish; my dad was the same, and my brother and I inherited that. I love the lures (Scum Frog is a favorite), I love deciding which bait to buy. I can even tie a fly. I know who Gadabout Gaddis is. I love the quiet mornings and evenings, the tackle box, the anticipation. However, anticipation is about all we Higginses have going for us. Not catching fish is the true family tradition. I catch a fish about once a decade. This past week while on vacation, the pressure was on. My son was yanking in bass the way he eats popcorn—by the bucket. He handed me the pole for a turn. The fish went away. I gamely tried for half an hour, then gave up in disgust, handed him the pole and walked off the dock. Before I’d made it to the end, he’d caught another one. Well, true fishermen (and women) know that the essence of fishing is not about the catch (or so we failures tell ourselves), so I tried once again on my last night. This time, I had an audience—about six kids under the age of 8 were quite fascinated that the lady with the pretty pink nail polish could also bait a hook. Again, my son had set the bar high (because his last name is not Higgins, I presume). I dropped my line in the water. “Catch one, catch one, catch one!” the little kids chanted. “I’m trying,” I said. “Fishing is all about patience.” “Catch one! Hurry up! Catch one!” Attempt #1 was met with a nibble and a stolen work. Attempt #2…nothing. Attempt #3, another nibble. Attempt #4, however… “Look at your pole! It’s bendy! Your pole is bendy! Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up!” My pole was indeed bendy. “You’re doing it, Mom!” my son crowed. “You’re catching a fish!” This was said with much more excitement than any other of my life achievements has been granted by my boy. I reeled. Whatever I had was putting up a fight, so I imagined it would soon break the line or wriggle off the hook, if history served. But what to my wondering eyes did appear—and to the screaming delight of the kids—was a very respectable large-mouth bass. The kids cheered and jumped up and down. And then, as I am the queen of cool, I grabbed the fish by the lower lip, as I have seen other fishermen do, unhooked it, showed it to the kiddies, and put it gently back in the water. No one had a camera, I’m sorry to say. But my son backed me up and generously told McIrish, “It was even bigger than mine.” Love that kid.
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Deformity confirmed June 17, 2011 I love medical attention. This is fortunate, because last week, I fell through a gap in our porch, which is under reconstruction, and nearly broke my femur. 911 had to be called. I was put in hair traction (a first!). I rode in an ambulance (another first!). There was radio chatter: “On scene, deformity confirmed.” As the EMTs wheeled me into the ER, I said, “Wow, I feel so important!” Gurney travel is definitely the way to go. Broken femur was the initial diagnosis. “It doesn’t hurt enough for that,” I said, “though I am extremely tough and brave.” The EMTs, nurses, paramedics and x-ray techs were fairly certain it was broken, however (it was quite freakish looking) and admired my great courage and high pain tolerance, which I attributed to being female. “It’s true,” said Linda, one of my EMTs. “A man would be screaming about now.” I gave McIrish a smug look. “Tough and brave,” I reiterated, kissing each of my biceps. He rolled his eyes and patted my shoulder. In addition to being very tough, I have another skill—the ability to diagnose physical ailments of myself and my children. Once, when my daughter hurt her ankle, the radiologist proclaimed it a bad sprain. “It’s broken,” I said. “Get me an orthopedist.” Turned out I was right. Another time, I just knew she had pneumonia, even though she’d never had it before. “It’s pneumonia,” I told her doctor, who told me to shush and let him do his job (we’re old friends). Upon listening to her lungs, he sighed. “You’re right,” he said. “I already know that,” I answered. So I wasn’t really concerned that I’d broken my leg. I may be tough and brave, but I’m not that tough and brave. A series of x-rays confirmed that yes, once again, I was right, thank you very much. No break, just severe contusion with nasty swelling. Makes sitting in this chair with a brace and an ice pack just a bit more tolerable. Pop over to the question of the week and tell me about your trips to the ER. I’ll be on vacation next week, so see you in a few!
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To sleep, perchance to dream July 9, 2011 I love to dream. However, in order for me to remember a dream, I have to tell McIrish about it immediately upon awakening, usually in one long blathering, semi-coherent run-on sentence. Yesterday, it went like this: “Oh, hey, I dreamed I was a landscaper and I fell in love with my client and he kissed me and it was really nice so maybe I should write a book about a landscaper what do you think?” McIrish: “Sounds good.” This morning, it was: “I think there’s a tick in my spinal cord, and it’s oozing Lyme disease into me and I’m sure it’s there because I can feel it pulling would you please get it out?” “There’s no tick. You’re fine.” He’s a very tolerant man. Either that, or he doesn’t remember. J
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Cat v. Dog July 5, 2011 The cat is winning. Let there be no doubt. Huck is the master; Willow is his love slave. The puppy loves to play (and play, and play); the cat loves to stare. I own you, dog, he seems to be saying. I know! seems to be Willow’s joyful answer. Want me to chase you? No, I do not. Then I will! Here I come! I love you! The cat, newly adopted from an animal shelter, is clearly the Crypts street-gang type. Sure, around humans, he’s cuddly and adorable. Around Willow, he becomes Don Corleone. It’s nothing personal, kid. Just business. Alas, the nuances are lost on Her Cuteness. She is convinced that Huck is her BFF. And sometimes, when they don’t think we’re looking, they touch noses, and Huck will lie down next to Willow and let her lick his head. Aw.
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The age of disgust June 26, 2011 The age of disgust is upon our household. My children have measured me and found me wanting. For our dear son, it came in the form of his request that we stay home for his graduation from sixth grade. “What?” I gasped. “Of course I’m coming!” “I really don’t want you to,” he replied calmly. “It’s too embarrassing.” Me? Embarrassing? Is it my propensity to blurt out “I love you, honeybun!” or the tears that I immediately begin shedding at any event involving children, applause or singing? Is it that I call all his friends “Sweetness” or “Punkin” and often hug them? Is it because I take a red pen to notes sent home by his teachers and return them, grammar corrected? Honestly, the ingratitude! I resolved not only to go, but to hold up signs and call him by the nickname I gave him when he was in the neonatal ICU—Teeny Little Super Guy. In the end, he won. I didn’t go. Heaven forbid that I embarrass my 12-year-old boy. This, I told him, was proof of my love, and he’d better remember it, because I’d never miss another graduation again so long as we both lived. And next time, yes, there would be signage. Then, my daughter discovered how uncool I am (only took her 15 years!). It was when I was, ah, researching something about my hero’s face. See, it’s not easy to describe just what makes the heroine’s knees weak. So in order to figure it out, I needed to refer to a picture of a certain adorable actor upon whom I’ve developed a crush of Biblical proportion. “How much longer are you going to stare at that?” she muttered. “Not much longer,” I answered. “You don’t mind if I make out with the computer screen, do you?” “Mommy, that is not funny,” she declared. “It’s gross. I’m leaving.” “It was a joke,” I said. “I would never kiss the computer. It makes the screen all smeary.” She was not entertained. I, on the other hand, thought it was pretty dang funny indeed.
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So refreshing June 19, 2011 My mom has a pool. Not many people can bear to swim in it. Oh, it’s beautiful, sure. Clean, well kept, lovely. But it’s frigid, and my mother likes it that way. Let’s just say the polar bears are going to have a place to swim, should they need a second home. My mom loves to be cold. Every time we go over there, I tell the kids to bring a sweatshirt. Summertime, she has the AC jacked. Wintertime, the heat is turned off. And that pool…you can only stay in it for 5 or 10 minutes because any longer than that, as is true in the Bering Sea, you’ll simply die. Mom is absolutely baffled by the purple lips and shuddering children. “What?” she demands as she bobs along…she can’t swim underwater, so she just paddles back and forth like a Labrador retriever). “It’s so refreshing.” “It’s torture, Grammy!” my kids (and other mammals) will protest. Mom just laughs and splashes them. “I love it!” she exclaims. “I don’t know why more people don’t come over for a swim.” Maybe we’ll buy her a Newfoundland to keep her company.
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Fathers and Sons June 12, 2011 Yesterday on the train to Yankee Stadium, we sat across from an older man—maybe 70 or 75—and his two grown sons. One son had his arm around his dad; the other had his hand on Dad’s knee. They talked about cars and the Yanks. At one point, one of the sons said, “Dad, if you’re tired, just close your eyes and rest.” The father did that, then woke up a little while later and resumed talking. One of the sons, the one who kept his arm around his father’s shoulders, was quieter; the other son was lively, clearly the storyteller of the small group. To me, there was a very poignant sorrow mixed in with the tenderness between the three men. I wanted to say something… “You’re so lucky to have such lovely boys,” or “It’s so nice to see such a close family.” But I didn’t want to intrude on this gentle affection, and to be honest, I was a little afraid to hear them say what I feared—that the dad was not long for this world, and perhaps this trip to Yankee Stadium was his last stand, his final wish—to take his boys to a baseball game, that most American and masculine tradition. It’s a wonderful, uplifting thing to see your team win a well-played game at home. At the Stadium, they play Frank Sinatra’s “New York, New York” over the PA, and the crowd sings along. There are banners of the many great players who have worn the pinstripes, monuments to Gehrig and Ruth, Mantle and Maris, Munson and Martin. But I was looking for the father and his sons, all through the walk back to the train home and on the platform. I didn’t see them. I hope the dad felt well enough to stay to the end, to the final strike, and cheered our boys as they came off the field. I hope it was the best day they’d ever spent together. Yesterday, I saw my favorite players do their thing and do it well: Jeter and Cano, Jorge and Swish. But what stuck with me the most yesterday was the palpable love between that father and his two boys.
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Toast Master June 5, 2011 We all have our talents, right? One of mine is making toast. Wow, Higgins, how special, I imagine you’re saying. How long did it take to master that one? Please. Save your sarcasm until you’ve had a piece of toast buttered by this half-Hungarian hand. See, butter is one of the main food groups for my people. We like our food simple and perfect. Standing by the toaster is the only way to make toast, a fact that drives McIrish up the wall. “There’s a setting, you know. You don’t have to stand there on guard.” He’s so naïve. Of course I do! I have to flip the toast midway through to ensure perfect toasting symmetry. I have to make sure it doesn’t get too dark or come out too early, a pale, floppy imitation of true toast. And then, the very second it’s done, I have to slather it with perfectly softened butter, from corner to corner, end to end. No molecule of bread is left unattended. When I was in Ireland, the family I stayed with made me toast. It was cold. The butter on top was rock solid and icy. I took this as a sign that my host family hated me and couldn’t wait for me to go back to America, because really, what other reason could there have been to give your guest…that? It bore no resemblance to the carefully prepared, infused-with-love toast that my family made. Waffles, pancakes and French toast all get the same attention that a pediatric surgeon might pay to a particularly difficult operation. It’s worth it. My children have grown up spoiled in the toast respect. Most mornings, I make them breakfast, but once in a while, McIrish has to. When I ask how breakfast was, I get a resigned look. “You know…Daddy. The butter.” My poor angels.
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Ode to my grandfathers May 28, 2011 I have three grandfathers. My father’s biological father, his adoptive father, and my mother’s father. All three men are gone now, my beloved Poppy having died last May at the age of 92. I never met my father’s biological father; he died before I was born, and my dad’s adoptive father died when I was in high school). All three men served in the military in World War II. Poppy, my mother’s father, was in the Merchant Marines, though he never did tell me what he did, no matter how many times I asked. He was not one to talk about his accomplishments; in fact, I was well into my twenties when I learned he had a master’s degree from Yale. He’d just wave off his service and say how much he missed his wife and kids during that time. Pop-Pop, who adopted my dad on the same day he married my grandmother, was in the Navy. He served as as decoder in the South Pacific. Never once did he mention his service; I only learned he was a veteran at his funeral, believe it or not. I don’t know his rank or the ship on which he served, and all military records from that era were lost in a fire, apparently, so I’ll never know. He always loved puzzles, though, and one of the things we liked to do together were his word games. He was a lovely, gentle man…he called me Cricket, which I always thought was so cute. My other grandfather, Eddie, died when my father was 21. My knowledge of what he did is spotty at best. I believe he was at Normandy on D-Day. He was a sharpshooter; it was his job to cover the medics while they retrieved wounded soldiers on the field. I know he was captured at some point. He escaped from a German prisoner-of-war camp and rejoined his unit. He went on leave in Paris and had quite a good time, according to a soldier who served with him whom my brother was able to track down. And his unit liberated a concentration camp, which I imagine changed him irrevocably. My grandmother divorced him shortly after his return, and my father never saw him again, though he was told many years later that his dad would show up to watch him play soccer once in a while. We have one picture of my grandfather holding my dad; they looked very much alike, those two. I like to think they reunited in heaven, along with my father’s other father, who never in his life used the word “stepson” when describing my dad. How lucky I am to have had three grandfathers from the Greatest Generation, who served our country during modern history’s darkest time. Two of them returned to live happy, normal lives; one carried his experiences more heavily, but it is the flag that draped his casket that hangs from my porch this weekend, and on every American holiday.
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Entertain me! May 22, 2011 I think because I write for a living, I often analyze what I’m reading or watching. It’s when I forget to analyze that I know something was really good. Recently, I saw the movie Bridesmaids, and I just loved it. It was funny, sure—it starred Kristin Wiig from Saturday Night Live, so I was pretty sure I’d laugh. But I wasn’t expecting it to be so touching, too. Themes of friendship and self-worth, the fear of change and failure and reinvention…all handled beautifully. I also didn’t expect to have that tugging feeling for the somewhat unlikely hero. He was so likeable! The language was foul (which doesn’t bother me personally), and there were a couple of uncomfortable scenes, but I haven’t enjoyed a ro-co movie this much since Bridget Jones’s Diary. The other thing that’s engrossed me this week is Claimed by the Highlander Warrior by Michelle Willingham, a gritty historical with an unusual set-up. You know a book is great when you read it as you’re making breakfast for four children. Pop over to my question of the week section on Fun Stuff and let me know which book or movie has really grabbed you lately. I appreciate the recommendations!
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Pack mule May 15, 2011 I’m a terrible packer. Whenever I go away with McIrish and the kids, or just McIrish, I forget something essential. Shoes, maybe, or anything vaguely warm to wear. Most family vacations see us at some store, buying whatever it is I forgot, or having me wear a dress and those grubby sneakers I wore on the drive up. The opposite is true when I go away for work. I’m still a terrible packer, but in these situations, I have too much of everything. Going away for three days will have me packing eight pairs of shoes (I’m an admitted shoe whore), four daytime outfits, three dresses, and maybe a gown. Just in case. My daughter has taken pity on me and will write down the outfits I’m supposed to wear for every given day/event, along with bagging my jewelry for those outfits, but inevitably, I suffer some last minute clothing panic and am ripping off one thing in favor of another. I guess that’s because I lack confidence with clothes. I usually look pretty together when I’m out there as an author (I think), but the inner me is still wearing those ancient Gap boyfriend jeans that are held together with whitish threads and hope, an old sweater that won’t mind if I spill a little coffee on it. When I see someone who is truly well-dressed—not just in the “bought nice colors/clothes fit appropriately” way, but in the stylish way—a red belt instead of black, or a conversation piece necklace—I always try to take a mental note. Mental note flutters off in the first breeze that comes along, but I do try. Then, the second I get home, I get back into those jeans as soon as I can. |
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Here’s to you, Mom May 8, 2011 My mother bribed the Virgin Mary into saving my life at birth. I was a preemie. You’d never know that to look at me—I’m 5’8 ½ ” and, should you need a Volkswagen lifted off you, I’m your girl. But I was born early, and the doctor told my mom I only had a 50-50 chance at survival. I had to go to the special nursery for sick babies, and Mom couldn’t see me. Now, Mom already had my name picked out, but, being a devout Catholic, and as there are no atheists in the neonatal unit, she prayed to the Virgin Mary. “Please let my baby live,” she said. “I’ll name her after you if you do.” My mom likes to bargain with higher powers. She has it down to an art form. You should hear her when Mariano Rivera takes the mound in the 9th inning—but I digress. The hours ticked by. My dad went home to take care of my brother, and Mom had to face all that worry alone in her hospital room. Late that night, or somewhere in the wee hours of the next day, she went down to the special care nursery, and I was gone. Poor Mom fell apart, assuming I’d died and they just hadn’t told her yet. But I didn’t die (surprise!). I’d been such a strapping little preemie that they moved me to the regular nursery, and someone led my mom over to see me. She called me her little gorilla baby for reasons I’m not going to share J, and by the time my first birthday rolled around, I was the fattest, happiest baby you ever saw. Now, you may have noticed that my name is not Mary. See, Mom liked Kristan so much—it’s her maiden name—and she liked my middle name a lot, too. So Mary got stuck after my middle name, third place, if you will. But technically—and my mom is big on technically—yes, I’m still named after the Virgin Mary. So here’s to you, Mom! The prayers seemed to work, and you sure have taken good care of me ever since. Happy Mother’s Day!
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Sacrifice May 2, 2011 I spent a lot of time with military families this past weekend when I was in Virginia at the Washington Romance Writers Retreat. What a lovely bunch! Many of the members are or have been involved with the military; I met a former CIA agent-turned romance writer (Kieran Kramer, absolutely delightful regencies); and I met a pilot's wife...they'd moved 14 times as their three children grew up. On the flight down, I sat next to a Marine (hoo-rah!) named Brandon who'd finished three tours; he was so cheerful, polite and friendly (and yes, adorable). One of my best friends is a Navy veteran (and the mother of six, and yes, she makes it look easy). I have a lot of readers in the service, and when I get a letter from one of them, I can't tell you how moved and proud I am. So after being around so many who have served or are serving, and after hearing last night's extraordinary news, I guess I just wanted to say publicly, whether you have served yourself or held down (or are holding down) the fort at home...thank you from a grateful citizen.
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Inside the Lair of Despair April 24, 2011 I’m about to start the first draft of a new book. For the past month and a half, I’ve been outlining. I’m a big fan of outlines, and this book seems to have come together nicely. Some books do, some books don’t (such are my words of wisdom on the art of writing…sorry I don’t have anything better). But now comes the first draft, something I love and hate. I hate it because I have about 400 pages to go. Thirty or so chapters. My outline will have to take on flesh and blood, if you will. It’s the hardest part for me…I recently noted to a fellow writer that I only start to know my characters around page 262. This is the reason I used to call my cellar office the Pit of Despair—all that heavy lifting, all that shlocky stuff that will improve on revision or be mercilessly deleted. But I love the first draft too, because it’s here that those writerly moments of grace are granted…the times when your fingers type something that was so deep in your subconscious that it seems almost magical, those surprising words on the screen. Sometimes, it just takes 262 pages to uncover that. So it’s up to the Lair of Despair I will go, starting tomorrow. Wish me luck. J
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From away April 17, 2011 This weekend, McIrish and I were off in Portland, Maine for some R&R and a little research, because my 9th book will be set once again in the Pine Tree state. “I wish I could be single again,” I said to my sainted husband (at least twice, maybe five times over the weekend). Just for research, I told him. Just so I could live in a condo on the water and see who came a’knocking with a welcome to the neighborhood. It’s the same reason I register on Match.com once in a while. The same reason I ask young, single people all sorts of prying, personal questions under the guise of petting their dog. “So, what do you guys do for fun down here?” That sort of thing. Once in a while, I’ll tell McIrish, “I would go out with him if I were single.” McIrish understands. It’s my job to wonder about relationships, to imagine what it’s like to yearn for something that seems out of reach, yet so wonderfully normal. And I love Maine, that’s no secret. If I were just out of college and looking for work, I’d definitely put Portland on my list. The cobbled streets, the beautiful brick buildings, the wicked nice movie theater, the smell of bait fish and tide…So my question of the week is, if you had the chance to move, no strings (or kids, or husbands or parents to consider), where would you go? What would you imagine doing there? Pop over to the Fun Stuff part of my website and leave your answer. Can’t wait to hear what you say!
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Men vs. Women April 10, 2011 McIrish and I differ on our views of certain household items. Take, for example, our griddle. I wanted a griddle like my grandmother had. You plugged it in, adjusted the heat…you could make pancakes in it, or fry up some pork chops, or make a couple of grilled cheese sandwiches at the same time. It was very handy, and I wanted one just like it. “No,” said my husband. “It won’t last.” “Gram’s lasted for 52 years,” I pointed out. “It’s not well made,” he said. “That cord could start a fire.” “It didn’t for 52 years.” I lost that battle, since McIrish is, after all, a firefighter. Now we’re stuck with a massive hunk of cast iron. It looks like something Pa Ingalls made at his forge out back. Weighs in around 15 pounds, I’d guess. I have to heave it up onto the stove, where it really doesn’t fit. According to McIrish, the whole thing will heat evenly. It doesn’t. The middle pancakes always take twice as long as the top and bottom pancakes. It takes hours to cool, so it sits there, smeared in canola oil and smears of pancake batter, until well into the afternoon. The kids still can’t lift it. I hate the dang thing. He loves it, of course. It’s manly. It’s cast iron. He rarely cooks on it, I want it noted for the record—pancakes are my field of expertise. Still, he has this inexplicable bond with the thing. “It’ll outlive us both,” he says fondly. “The kids can inherit it. “No,” I answer. “When you die, I’m using it as your headstone. Then I’m going to the store and buying myself something electric. And you’ll have to watch from heaven and just suck it up.” Do you have an appliance or household tool you hate but have to use once in a while? Leave a comment on the Fun Stuff page under Question of the Week, and I'll give away a copy of The Next Best Thing to one of you, in honor of Lucy, who I'm sure would get whatever kind of griddle she wanted.
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Ah, paranoia April 2, 2011 A couple months ago, I went to see my neurologist. “Hi,” she said. “Here for your Lou Gehrig’s check?” “Yup,” I said, hopping up on the table. I often think I have Lou Gehrig’s disease. I don’t. But I think I do. I only bother my neurologist once a decade, so she tolerates me. What I do have is commonly called Medical Student’s Disease. Basically, you read about some horrible, rare condition and immediately start feeling your glands. I do have one tiny symptom of Lou Gehrig’s—I twitch. Not a lot, but enough to have me hurtling to the Mayo Clinic website. “Oh, no,” I mutter as I scroll. “Twitching, check. Yes, I do cry easily…especially during Pixar movies and awards ceremonies. Yep, I can be moody. Muscle weakness? Oh, no! I couldn’t get that jar of pickles open the other day…” (Neither could McIrish, for the record—that mother was on to stay!). And then there’s the fact that I am, of course, a Yankees fan, and Lou Gehrig is the Yankees best player ever (tied with Jeter). I love Lou Gehrig. I have the Luckiest Man speech memorized. I love dimples, and Lou had the best dimples. If I’m going to have a disease, it seems clear that I’m going to have his. My neurologist checked my reflexes, made me squeeze her hands and pretend to step on the gas pedal. “I shaved my legs for you,” I told her. “And I appreciate it,” she said. “You look great, and you don’t have Lou Gehrig’s. See you in ten years.” Peace of mind. Priceless. When I write a hypochondriac heroine, and you’ll all know exactly where she came from. |
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The art of solitude March 26, 2011 Sometimes when I’m either starting or finishing a book, I head up to the family house on Cape Cod. No one has the phone number up there; we have no WiFi service, and it’s a great place to work, just the dog and me. I usually bring coffee, whole wheat bread, some peanut butter and seltzer water. I work furiously, all day, hour after hour, sometimes not even realizing how much time has passed until I look up and wonder why it’s dark. I reward myself for all that work by going out to dinner. I like Mahoney’s in Orleans, or Joe’s in East Orleans, or the Mews in Provincetown. But what I like most is eating alone, with only a book for company. I go into the restaurant, ask for a table for one with decent lighting, and then order a drink. I often get some strange looks, because I guess eating alone (and so happily) is somewhat rare. I always get dessert. Sometimes I stop at the bar on my way out and trash-talk with the Sox fans. On the drive back to the house, I talk to my characters (they’re usually fighting). I write down some more ideas or lines I don’t want to forget, pet the dog, go for a walk in our dark neighborhood and look up as the beam from Nauset Light sweeps across the sky. The surf roars in the distance, the air is heavy with salt and pine, the dog is wary at the rustling of the night animals. We go back, the house looking so sweet and cozy, the warm lights within, the quiet hum of the fridge. I love to be alone. I love to be with my family too, of course, and I rarely turn down the chance to go out with my friends, but solitude seems to be a lost art in these days of smart phones and texting and all that. But give me a good meal and a better book, a walk in the dark and a quiet house, and I’ll give you a restored soul and a better person. J Go to the Fun Stuff part of this website and answer the question of the week, if you're so inclined...
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The horror, the horror March 19, 2011 I hate going to the dentist. I have very healthy teeth, I floss like some people pray, and I have good tooth genes. Still, I hate going. A lot. Everyone there is quite nice, but I feel rather murderous around them. It starts with the phone call. “Hi!” sings out the seemingly lovely receptionist. “It’s Liz! Time for your cleaning!” and I think, Dang it! Why did I pick up the phone? Why? Liz bullies me (while pretending to be so nice) into picking a date, and the day of, I trudge into the office. They never make me wait, having learned that I’ll bolt. It’s not that it’s horribly painful—I gave birth to my daughter without any kind of painkillers and had a wonderful time. I’m not lying about this. I had a blast in labor and delivery. When I see someone on TV yowling and punching her husband, I just mutter “Weenie,” and click on. (My son was a different situation, but I was very brave then, too). But there’s something about dentistry that has me screaming inside. This past time, the hygienist was new. “You sure you need nitrous, darling?” she said. “Ask around,” I grumbled. “I always get nitrous.” Don’t mess with me, lady, I was thinking. I floss every day, okay? I’m only here as a courtesy to you people. Which is complete and utter idiocy, but such is my mindset at these times. I sucked on the nitrous, Bono’s voice in my earbuds, but even so, I was as clenched as clenched can be. “We doing okay, sweetheart?” the hygienist asked, and I thought, I don’t know, lady! Do you have some stranger’s hands jammed in your mouth? “Ah gway,” I said, which, as all dental hygienists know, translates to “I’m great.” She continued blithely scraping away. And that’s another thing. What about those tools? Come on! Who invented those? They’re metal! Surely we shouldn’t put sharp metal scraping things in our mouths! I’m thinking only the Holy Roman Inquisitor could’ve dreamed those up; then, the field of dentistry fell on the idea and ran with it. Plastic just won’t do? Really? I don’t believe you. Finally, in comes the dentist himself. He looks so nice, but I’ve decided that he’s actually the face of evil. “Open. Close. Bite,” he’ll say, and I’ll be thinking Don’t push it, Dr. C. I can bite your finger clean off. “Everything looks great!” he’ll announce, handing me a new toothbrush and some floss. “See you in six months.” Sigh. Pop over to the Fun Stuff part of this website and answer the question of the week: Anything you particularly dread doing?
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Old flames March 12, 2011 I often dream that I’m about to marry someone other than my sainted husband. McIrish, being a peach, is always conveniently nonexistent during these dreams (thanks, hon!), so there’s no guilt. Derek Jeter and I have wed three times in the Land of Nod (we were very, very happy, let me tell you!). Once it was Russell Crowe as the captain in Master and Commander. Hello! He’d been at sea for some time and was just coming home to the docks to greet his beloved wife (moi) and our beautiful daughter. Another time, I was in love with Robert Downey Jr. But that tends to be the case whether I’m asleep or awake, so… But once in a great while, I dream about an old boyfriend. Usually, it’s a pleasant enough dream—we’re happy to see each other. We get back together. We might even get engaged. Then, the old feelings of dread emerge…we broke up for a reason, after all. When my daughter was reading her advance copy of My One & Only, she barked out, “Mommy! Why are you so cruel! My toes are clenched!” I was thrilled. Those feelings of discomfort and tension…those are the best, aren’t they? Well, not in real life, but certainly in fiction. Imagine if you had to do what Harper and Nick did—spend a little time, all alone, with the one who broke your heart. The one you never got over. Maybe you’d get closure. Maybe you’d reunite. Maybe you’d try to smother him with a pillow, who knows? Look at this guy. "I'm not lost, hon...I know exactly where we are!" If you’re so inclined, pop over to the Fun Stuff part of this website and take a quiz on being stuck with someone on a long trip (under Question of the Week). And watch for the newsletter on March 15th—I’m giving away advance copies of My One & Only! Just click on Mailing List on the home page of this website, and you’ll be entered to win.
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Sweaty palms March 5, 2011 The weeks before a book release is a sweaty time for an author, I won’t lie. As you may know, we spend months and months on these books of ours, examining every character and plot point, every detail from every possible angle, talking to the characters (begging them, in some cases), falling in love, breaking our hearts…all in the hope that you’ll like the book. No pressure, of course. J One of the things I do when I get my advance copies is immediately hand one to my daughter and one to my husband. Then, every time they laugh or snort, I leap, barking, “What? What?” I’m sure they both hate this, but I can’t help it! I’m dying to know what they liked. I wish I could do that with all of you, too…hear what you liked, where you laughed, where you cried a little. Once, when I got on an airplane, I saw a woman reading one of my books. Very casually, I approached. “How’s your book?” I asked, oh-so-nonchalant. “It’s really funny,” she said, smiling, and shazam! “I wrote it!” I crowed, loudly enough for the captain to hear. “That’s my book! Seriously, look at the author photo…well, okay, my hair was better that day, and I wasn’t wearing my glasses, but really, that’s me…” Poor woman. She was quite nice about my, er, zeal, and after a while, I managed to sit down and tried not to stare at her for the rest of the flight. But that’s my hope, and the hope of all authors—that you—that’s right, missy, you—will love this book. In honor of all your lovely folks who tune in regularly and comment on my Facebook page and blogs, who write to me and, in some cases, send me goodies, I’m giving away a bunch of stuff this month—signed copies of my backlist, wicked good chocolate (Ghiradelli, baby!), some early copies of My One & Only, even. Make sure you’ve signed up on the mailing list (the link is on the home page of this website), join my Facebook page at www.facebook.com/KristanHigginsBooks, and you might win. Let’s not call it a bribe. Let’s call it what it really is. My gratitude. Because that’s what it is, and more than I can put into words. |
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How to spot a writer February 27, 2010 I was with a great bunch of writers this weekend…really generous, wonderful people. I noticed a few things about us. We all seem to share certain qualities (or flaws)…for example… We can listen to three conversations at once. We multi-task. We get choked up a lot, especially about happy things.…all that tapping into emotion or something. Or maybe that’s just me. We break off midsentence, because the answer to the problem has just occurred to us. We eavesdrop. Such an under-rated life skill… We notice people (they’re all fodder for future books, after all!). We’re happy to share—books, advice, time, wisdom, water bottles. We have many devices that enable us to read books (and take notes) with us at all times. We remember things that were said decades ago. We ask deeply personal questions, then backpedal, apologize profusely, and hope they’ll answer anyway. We love to laugh. Well, my writer friends do. I feel very lucky!
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My new man February 19, 2011 So I’m in love. Again! I have great difficulty finding a new man, let me tell you. Sometimes it takes hours of trawling the internet, looking for men. Sounds so dirty, doesn’t it? But I must. I need a hero’s face in my mind, and to do this, I pick a celeb and go to town. Many, many pictures are downloaded. I am the forty-something equivalent of a Bieber-smitten teenage girl. Now, I tend not to like pretty boys. George, Brad, Ryan Reynolds, I know this is going to break your hearts, but you’re not my type. On the other hand, if you’re a guy who looks like he could handle himself in a street fight, you’re probably my kind of hottie. My new guy is not shown here. This is just for your enjoyment. No, my guy is a little younger than some of my heroes have been. He has a beautiful smile. A transformative smile, in that he’s just okay…until he smiles. But no, I’m not going to tell you who he is (unless you take me out for a martini or ply me with chocolate, or both). I’ll tell you this. I love him! I do! I think we’re going to be very happy together. |
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Be careful what you wish for February 13, 2011 In the book I just finished writing, there’s a scene that seems like it could be quite smokin’ hot. Hero and heroine trapped in an elevator, alone. The stuff of many torrid imaginings, no doubt. It doesn’t play out quite that way in my book, though. It reminded me of something that happened to me once, something that seemed, at first, really quite hot. I was flying across country, and you know how it is in coach…we’re all packed in there like cattle being led to the slaughter. I was in my twenties, single…and what to my wondering eyes should appear but a really, really, really gorgeous man. He’s blond. His eyes are blue. He’s lean and beautiful and manly. And he sits down right next to me! Thrilling stuff, right? He says hi, I say hi (suppressing a squeal), and we get cozy, because how can you not? We’re in coach. Our shoulders are touching, our thighs are touching, I’m naming our children …and then he falls asleep. On my shoulder. Oh! His hair smelled so good! He was so warm, so manly, so…so…damp. Because he was drooling. On me. So I pushed him away, gently, trying to still find him attractive, but maybe he’d taken a valium or something, because he was out. His head lolled back, his mouth slackly open, this string of drool from his mouth to his shoulder, at which point I begin my church laugh—uncontrollable wheezing, tears streaming down my face, can’t stop…I tried not to look at him and wheezed away until we were over the Rockies, when I finally settled down a little. As long as I kept my hand up so I couldn’t see his face, that is. So Gorgeous here slept the whole way. When we landed, he groggily woke up, licked his lips a little, stretched…then sees that about half his shirt is soaked in his own saliva. I couldn’t help it…started wheezing again, just held my hand over my face and laughed till I hurt, waiting for our turn to shuffle off the plane. The guy smiled—at first—but as we stood there, hunched under the luggage bins, his amusement wore thin, whereas mine only grew. By the time we finally passed the crew on our way out, I was staggering. “Are you okay?” one of them asked. I could only manage one word. “Drool.” So the next time you hope to meet a handsome stranger on a plane…think of me, my dears. Think of me.
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In praise of winter February 6, 2011 I think we can all agree that this has been a hard winter, at least where I live. Lots of snow, very little melting, huge drifts, ice, snow days, delayed openings, cancellations, early dismissal, frigid temps, yadda yadda ding dong. I don’t care. I love winter. I love the coziness of it. I love seeing the footprints of wild animals in the snow—deer, bunnies, raccoons, squirrels, coyotes, turkeys. I love watching Willow, our puppy, gallumph through the snow, trying to catch snowballs in her mouth. I love the clicking of the ice-covered branches, and the magical beauty as the sun rises across our valley, making hundreds of trees gleam and glitter. I love the sound of snow falling, the soft hiss, the pinkish hue of the clouds at night, the tapping of sleet against the window. I love watching my kids slide around on their bellies and backs like otters, I love their pink cheeks and bright scarves, I love making them cocoa in their special mugs. So there, Punxatawny Phil. Early spring…sure, spring is glorious. But this winter has been breathtakingly beautiful. Harsh, yes, but so beautiful, too.
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I think I need one of those... January 30, 2011 I’m finding that I love infomercials. I don’t know why…I have yet to buy anything this way (yet, I said). But I occasionally suffer from insomnia, and at 3:00 a.m., there’s really nothing on other than infomercials. So there I am, fascinated, as I watch a miracle eye cream take away a woman’s wrinkles in just 90 seconds! Too good to be true? Probably! But still, so cool! Then there are those weight loss/body makeover things. Oh, I love those. I find myself tearing up as the formerly heavy people say how they have a new lease on life. Even cleaning products fascinate me. Shamwow! It's fun to say! But my favorites, as you’ll see in My One & Only, are the slightly odd products. The hair sander. You sand off your hair. Yep, that’s right. And it doesn’t even hurt, though I swear I can see tears in the male model’s eyes as they attack his chest with the rough grit pad. The kitty claw trimmer (my view on trimming kitty claws is let go and let God, you know?). Or the mat that looks like grass where your dog can pee while you’re at work. The tool that lets you cut an onion into a blossom shape, which you can then deep fry (my mom owns that one). Where do these people come up with this stuff? What company actually produces them? Which bank gave out the loan to produce them? I have no idea. But I do know that at 3 a.m., those products look like genius at work.
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New year, new book, new look. January 24, 2011 My new website! What do you think, gang? I love it, of course, and my webgoddess did such a great job. There are still a few kinks here and there, so bear with us, but today is the official first day. It's nice to freshen things up in general...rearrange furniture, maybe, or get a haircut. There's something psychologically healthy about change here and there, though, and so voila! A new look here, too. Hope you like it, gang! And just in case you're looking for some web services yourself, you might want to contact Beth Robinson at macbeth_productions@yahoo.com. She's the bomb!
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You must allow me to tell you how much I admire and love you. January 16, 2011 There are certain actors and actresses who will always be remembered for that one role. Colin Firth, no matter how good he is in everything, will always be Mr. Darcy, for example. It was the role that launched him to cult hero and gained him international attention. He reinforced that role as Mark Darcy—a little nod and a wink from the makers of Bridget Jones’s Diary. Jennifer Anniston will always be Rachel, in some form or another. Sir Ian McClellan—that voice, those twinkly eyes. Despite an illustrious career playing hundreds of characters, he will always be Gandalf… “You shall not pass!” Those kids from Harry Potter are doomed to always be those kids from Harry Potter. But then there are the actors who disappear into their roles, who are chameleons, actor-eels who can’t be pinned down. Gary Oldman—he was Sid Vicious, Dracula, the bad guy in The Fifth Element, Harry Potter’s gentle godfather. Heath Ledger, my goodness! He was Ennis Del Mar in Brokeback Mountain, a cutie-pie wannabe in A Knight’s Tale, terrifying and darkly funny as the Joker. The mighty Meryl—Sophie, Miranda, Sister Aloysius. “That dingo’s got my baby!” There is nothing she can’t do, no one she can’t become. Heck, I bet she could play Jabba the Hutt and win an Oscar. I plan to watch the Golden Globes, as I love awards ceremonies. My money’s on Mr. Darcy…er, make that Colin Firth.
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Mad skills January 9, 2011 Recently, I was asked to teach a group to whistle. Because I am a great whistler! Yes! It’s one of those life skills that I can’t imagine doing without. Children, dogs, horses, taxicabs, husband—they all come when they hear the mighty trill. My other undersung talents include…er…well, I make a very neat bed. Very, very tidy. Pillows placed with military precision. Um…I can whip up a batch of chocolate chip cookies in six minutes. Children like me. I’m bizarrely good at mini-golf and memorizing phone numbers. I can fake almost any accent reasonably well. I excel at vacuuming. Things I can’t do but wish I could—dance. Cook. Do a cartwheel. Put together an outfit (but at least I have a daughter who can do that, so I’m set till she ditches me for college). I wish I could remember jokes and move things with my mind, like Obi-Wan Kenobe. Ah, well. At least I can whistle. J |
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Best of 2010 January 2, 2011 I love lists, as you may know. I was going to do a best and worst list, but then I figured I’d start the year off on a completely positive note and purge those “worsts” from my brain. So…my own personal faves of the year, in no particular order. Best meal—Max’s Downtown, a steakhouse in Hartford, CT. McIrish took me there after I hit the USA Today bestseller list, and we had the most delicious meal of my life! And the staff treated us like royalty. It was quite a thrill. Best romantic movie—Adam. A young man with Asperger’s syndrome struggles to find a place in the world after his father dies. So, so touching. Best TV shows— Friday Night Lights, Dexter, Breaking Bad. I didn't think I was going to love stories about Texas high school football, a serial killer and a chemistry teacher turned drug dealer. I was wrong. All lessons in how to keep and build tension, hold a viewer’s interest and make this year better than last year. Best movie—True Grit. So dang funny. And it stars Jeff Bridges, and I love that guy. Best vacation moment—swimming in the frigid Atlantic with my family. I was not devoured by sharks or anything, and the exhilaration and shrieky fun was well worth overcoming my paranoia. Best book I read this year—The Help. Sure, I’m a year late to the party, but man, that was a fantastic story! Here’s to a bunch of new favorites in 2011! Hope your year is wonderful.
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You’ll shoot your eye out, kid. December 19, 2010 I love Christmas movies. But not all. Here are my faves and not-so-faves of the season. I have a million faves: Elf, A Christmas Story, a bunch of others, but they can't all make the list. Best… 3. A Christmas Vacation. I can so relate to Clark Griswold’s desire to recreate a magical, loving holiday with the entire family…and so relate to its abysmal failure. The RV, the dog, the squirrel, the neighbors…it’s a classic. 2. A Christmas Carol starring George C. Scott. No one does curmudgeon better. The one with Jean Luc Picard…er, I mean, Patrick Stewart…is pretty good too, but Patrick Stewart seems just too nice to pull of the miserly Scrooge. 1. How the Grinch Stole Christmas. The Grinch’s teeth…Max…the music…the dramatic change in eye color when the true meaning of Christmas shines through…and of course, the Whos down in Who-ville. Nothing’s better than this one, in my opinion. And the worst… 3. Frosty the Snowman. He frightens me. And the song is like the whine of a dentist’s drill. 2. Nestor the Long-Eared Donkey. Do NOT see this movie. You have been warned. It will scar you emotionally for life! Too sad. Tragic. Heartbreaking. And it’s in stop-action filming, so you think it’s all innocent and happy and child-appropriate. It’s not. 1. A Charlie Brown Christmas. Those kids are just plain nasty (except you, Sally…and Linus, you’re okay, too). Charlie Brown’s parents should talk to their pediatrician about some counseling, maybe an antidepressant. The music is the best since Handel’s Messiah, and Snoopy is always adorable, but otherwise, the movie leaves me morose, which isn’t a very Christmasy at all. Then again…the kids transforming the tree, and singing hymns at the end…and wishing Charlie Brown Merry Christmas…maybe it’s not so bad after all. I’ll be taking next week off, gang. Hope your holiday is lovely and magical and fun. Merry merry!
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Food, glorious food! December 11, 2010 Most of my favorite movies involve food. I think it’s unfair that most movie theaters only serve popcorn and stale candy—if I ruled the world, you could get easy-to-eat yet really good food at the theater. I’ve been to theaters where they serve dinner, but wasn’t impressed…it’s a nice idea, but I like sitting in a regular movie seat to watch a big screen movie. Sitting at a table just doesn’t have the same appeal. Warm brie and crackers, for example…each cracker would already have the brie spread on it, so your attention wouldn’t be diverted from the film. Wine. Good stuff, too. And of course, dessert. Movies always make me hungry, even if I’m wolfing down popcorn (which I am). Julia and Julie? Come on. I was starving the whole time. Chocolat made my Milk Duds seem so pedestrian! But to me, the movie that makes food look the most delicious is Big Night. Two brothers trying to save their restaurant prepare a feast for a visiting celebrity. And oh, what a feast! So much beautiful food, such meticulous preparation! The final course of the night is a mysterious dish called timpano, a giant casserole of meat, eggs and ziti. It takes hours to prepare, as well as what looked like a significant amount of divine intervention. But the end result…oh, lordy! That looked so good that I started speaking with an Italian accent. It looked so good that McIrish and I are going to try to make this year for Christmas Eve dinner. But even better would be to make it, rent the movie, watch and enjoy.
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The allure of away December 5, 2010 This weekend, McIrish and I went to visit and old friend of his…his Boy Scout camp. It was on a beautiful lake…stone-bottomed and wide, choppy this day in the wind. The woods surrounding the lake were thick with evergreens and oak, and the paths were largely overgrown. We tromped around in the woods for quite a few hours along with a several other Boy Scout alumni, and I listened as they swapped stories about their time in the Adirondacks. Then he and I went back into town. It was cold and dark—not an optimum time of year to visit anywhere, but the lights of the shops and restaurants were so welcoming. We had an excellent dinner at a Thai restaurant and returned to our stately and uncomfortable hotel, where we fell asleep early, tired from all that wind and fresh air. I love to imagine living somewhere other than where I do, though my house is quite snug and pretty, and we overlook a small wooded valley with a stream. Even so, I so often dream of living elsewhere—in an apartment in the Empire Theater Building in Glens Falls, NY, or on a mountainside in Montana. There are so many places I’d love to visit…and not just visit, but stay. I’d learn what it’s like to eat breakfast at that diner, shop in that market. I imagine the view I’d have—a mountain or the sea, a lake or a plaza. Life will be less busy in that place, I think. I’ll have more time to read and write letters to my friends. My house will require less cleaning, and hey…maybe I’ll even learn to love cooking, and McIrish and I will chop and dice together, sipping wine and laughing, and the everyday worries will somehow be less in this other place. It’s probably not true, but even imagining it is wonderful.
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Lights, camera, tissues November 28, 2010 I’m a movie crier. I love crying at movies. This weekend, we saw Tangled, all four of us, and there was a moment that had me just wrecked. Not just teary-eyed. No. Tears streaming down my face, dripping down my neck, hitching breaths, squeaky noises…I had to use my scarf to mop my face. My daughter patted my leg, my son held my hand. I tried not to make noise. Ate some popcorn to console myself. But at the happy ending, there I was again, trying to be discreet so as not to embarrass the children, happily snuffling away, getting myself under control as the lights came up, pretending I wanted to read the credits and not just to stop sobbing. For some reason, sports movies make me cry the most. Rocky? Oh, lordy. Seabiscuit and Dreamer? Two boxes of tissues. Rudy, Cinderella Man, The Natural, even goofball movies like Major League and Mr. 3000…there’s Higgins, boo-hooing it up. But the most tears ever produced in a movie, for me, anyway, was at The Black Stallion. The race scene is so beautifully done, so poignant and triumphant and full of love…well, heck, I need a tissue just thinking about it. Oh, happy day, when I cry that much!
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A gift from the past November 21, 2010 A couple of weeks ago, my neighbor brought me a rock. She has a thing for rocks…several solid and lovely stone walls grace her property, which looks like it should be featured in a magazine (which actually has been featured in a magazine, now that I think of it). But this rock was special. You see, recently, McIrish made a stone cairn at the bottom of our long driveway to mark our place, and Diane had dropped by a few times to admire the work in progress. She told us she wanted to give us a rock for the cairn, which, coming from this rock-lover, wasn’t such an odd statement. But the rock really was special. You see, my father, who died in 1988, brought it all the way from Ireland. Diane said she’d asked him to bring her back a rock, and she expected a little pebble from the beach. But my dad, being a guy who loved excess, brought her a rock the size and shape of an ostrich egg. I love picturing him snagging that rock from one of the ragged and beautiful walls that define Ireland. Maybe it was near a field dotted with white sheep. My mom would’ve made friends with the farmer and his dog, chatting as Dad shambled along, waiting for inspiration to strike, because Diane was a special friend, and not just any rock would do. I can only imagine what the airport officials thought of that thing sitting in Dad’s suitcase as he came through Customs. For all those years, Diane kept the rock, and when she saw our cairn, she thought it would make an excellent addition. And so, twenty-three years after his death, thanks to our neighbor’s thoughtfulness, I have an indirect gift from my father. Which is a very wonderful gift indeed.
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A happy, happy day November 13, 2010 This past week, I went into the city to meet a friend. I got off the train, did my usual worship of the beauty of Grand Central Station (to me, the most beautiful building in New York), and then walked over to Penn Station to find Dee. The sun was shining, the wind brisk but not painful, and the city full of tourists, as it was Veteran’s Day. I wandered through Bryant Park, admired the little shops there, then walked over to the fashion district. Rather hoped to bump into Tim Gunn, but no, not this time. In Hell’s Kitchen, a very ebullient woman mocked my shoes… “White Lady, don’t kick me with those mean-looking shoes!” I assured her they weren’t mean at all…they’re Doc Martens, known to be a very friendly brand. The lady laughed, then said, “I just needed to crack a smile, White Lady. Give me a hug.” So I did, and it kept a smile on my own face for the whole day. By the end of my time in the city, it was dark, but in that city, it never really is, of course. The Empire State Building was lit up in red, white and blue for our veterans, among them, my friend. I said, “Look, Dee. For you.” And we laughed, then helped a young woman try to track down her purse, which she’d left on a bus. I went into the subway to get to my train, had to ask for help from the guy in the booth, who thanked me for visiting the greatest city on earth. I do so love New York.
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Never underestimate power of a smile November 8, 2010 One of my teenage readers told me a little story the other day. She was watching TV and saw a commercial featuring a very beautiful, smiling young man. “He’s only on for a few seconds,” she wrote, “but it’s enough. I want to find him and marry him someday.” I knew exactly what she meant. Back when I was in college, I came out of my Shakespeare class, and there was a boy leaning in the doorway across the hall. Our eyes met. He smiled. I fell in love, just like that. We never spoke, though our paths crossed here and there. I never wanted to talk to him, though I thought about kissing him quite a bit. But if we got to know each other, the Charlie in my mind would be replaced with the Charlie who actually was, and I didn’t want to surrender my imaginary version. All I knew was his name, and he had a beautiful smile, and he wasn’t afraid to use it. “That’s so romantic,” my friend wrote when I told her this little vignette. And in a way, it really is, isn’t it?
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Goodbye, old friend October 30, 2010 In six of the seven books I’ve written—and in the current work in progress, too—the heroine owns a dog, loves that dog, and is loved in return. Digger is every one of those dogs. Millie’s Digger is mine, of course…half black lab, half border collie. When I wrote that scene (you know the one) in Catch of the Day, I had Digger to love and comfort me. Buttercup’s joy upon Chastity’s every homecoming was Digger’s upon every one of mine. Angus’s fierce protectiveness toward Grace in Too Good To Be True—Digger’s toward me. In All I Ever Wanted, Bowie’s joy and energy echoed Digger’s, even though he was slowing down a little, not quite as fast as he once was. In My One & Only, Coco makes Harper feel needed, the same way Digger needed me. Digger was with me before I ever dreamed of being published. He was the dog of my kids’ golden age of childhood, the one who waited at the bus stop every afternoon and morning. When McIrish was at the firehouse, Digger would sleep on my bed, making me feel safe and protected. He’s been with me since the first chapter I ever wrote. Every day—every hour—he graced my life with the kind of enthusiastic, unflagging, completely selfless love that only a dog can give. How lucky we were, McIrish and the kids and especially me, to have had such a great friend.
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Things that go bump in the night October 24, 2010 I love Halloween. I love being scared by things that aren’t real. Love scary movies, though not slasher movies…I think those are kind of boring. All that hacking and bleeding makes me sleepy. I’m also fairly hard to scare—The Ring, for example, had me wheezing with laughter. Don’t know exactly why, but it just missed the mark. The Exorcist, on the other hand, made me afraid for decades. On Halloween night, we like to scare children. Not many come to our house—we live in the boonies, and our driveway is 600 feet long. But we get a few faithful trick or treaters. We have a bonfire and offer cider and donuts. The kids have to take a walk around our field or through our barn, past the not-quite-empty graves or the operating table or the hanging tree, before they earn any candy. But, since we only have about 12 kids come up, they do get a lot of candy, so hopefully it’s worth it. In the past, I’ve been a corpse who rises from the grave. My daughter has been a dead bride, my son has been an eviscerated-but-not-quite-dead patient. My sainted mother played a woman whose arm had been cut off by a homicidal lumberjack (McIrish)—oh, how the kids screamed that year! If we don’t make someone cry, we figure we haven’t done our job. Wish you could come. J
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What’s cooking, good-looking? October 18, 2010 Well, it’s been a while since I poked fun at my sainted mother, so here goes. My dear mother lives very close to me. And I love her. I do. But she does have this odd relationship with dinner. Breakfast and lunch are fairly normal, but dinner…kind of weird Why? I don’t know. Here’s how our conversations tend to go. Me: “Hi, Mom! Would you like to come over for dinner?” Her: “Oh, no, sweetie. I have some chicken here that’s just about to go bad, so I better eat that.” Or alternatively, “Oh, no, honey, that’s okay. I had dinner with Jill a few weeks ago, and if I don’t eat this swordfish tonight, it’ll go bad.” Me, after a pause: “You want to take a chance on that?” Her: “I’m sure it’ll be fine.” If it’s not fine, Mom takes great delight in detailing the difficult hours that ensued. You know that saying, live and learn? We don’t believe in that. Visit Part II of the Bad Fish Diaries. Mom: “Hi, honey! Do you and the kids want to come over for dinner? I bought all this chicken on sale last week and I can’t possibly eat it all…oh. Hang on a minute. I wonder…you know I can’t smell anything anymore. Would you come over and sniff this? Actually, never mind. I’m sure it’s fine.” The freakish thing is, I go. And it is fine. Nine times out of ten, that is. J
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A hard goodbye October 10, 2010 This evening, I’ll be saying goodbye to my grandparents’ house. Both of them have passed away, and a young couple bought their house. The closing is in a few days. So tonight, my mom, several of my many aunts and uncles, my children and I will go over and bid farewell to the house we all called 115, its street number. I can’t count the number of times I visited…the sleepovers when I was a kid, the times I’d stop in during my lunch hour when I worked in New Haven, or later when my kids were little so their great-grandparents could admire and fuss over them. We had a lot of parties there, ate so much good food. The house was humble but cheery; it smelled like Dove soap and cake. And my grandparents never failed to be utterly thrilled to see me walk through the door. Their living room rug is now in our family room; Gram’s canisters are on my counter. I was so lucky to have had my grandparents, those lovely, happy people, for so long, and yet I’m so sad to say goodbye to their house. Never again will I go up those creaky stairs past the small stained-glass window that seemed like the height of elegance when I was a kid. Never again will I sit at the kitchen table or hear one of my uncles playing the piano in the dining room. I’m glad a young couple bought the house—I hope they’ll be happy there, have children, sit on the porch and enjoy the roses in the backyard. But it’s the end of a very long—and very wonderful—era for me. One night, many years ago, my girlfriends and I had a night out. While we were in the restaurant, it started to snow. As I drove home, the roads became more treacherous. The snow got heavier. My car fishtailed on the highway; the car in front of me slid and slithered. Rather than try to make it all the way back, I decided it would be smarter to go to 115. It was past ten and the shades were pulled, but the lights were on inside, and nothing ever looked as welcoming as that sweet yellow house. At my knock, the porch light came on, and my grandmother, clad in a thick bathrobe, opened the door. Poppy got to his feet, grinning. “Can I sleep over?” I asked. “I was down in New Haven, and the roads are pretty bad.” They weren’t just happy—they were delighted, not just at my brilliance in getting off the roads, but because I needed them. Gram loaned me a flannel nightgown and found a ‘new’ toothbrush (it had probably been purchased in 1972). Then they both tucked me in, their twenty-something granddaughter, and kissed me goodnight, as if I was a little kid. I fell asleep to the sounds of my grandparents talking down the hall, the floor creaking under their feet, the train whistle in the distance and the smell of line-dried sheets and Dove soap. Goodbye, 115. Thank you, Gram and Poppy. The love you gave me will glow in my heart for the rest of my life.
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In pursuit of marriage October 4, 2010 In pursuit of writing romantic comedies, I confess that I’ve bought a few of those books. You know. How to Manipulate the Man You Want kind of thing. You’d be shocked at how many there are…and how many are written by men who show a side of themselves that perhaps they shouldn’t. These books tell us, in essence, to play dumb and look pretty if we want to end up married. What kind of marriage you’d end up with is another question altogether, I guess. I can only imagine… Him: Um…hon, your eyes look a little…weird. Her: I’m not wearing any makeup. Him: Oh. So your lips aren’t always shiny, I guess? Her: Not unless I’m drooling. Him: Got it. Um…is it me, or are you looking a little…is it gravity, or…? Her: It’s six-thirty in the morning. I generally don’t wear a pushup bra under my jammies. Him: Yeah, that’s another thing. What happened to that silky little black thing you had? Her: You have a problem with this sweatshirt? Do we have to talk about this right now? I’m trying to proof my dissertation. Him: You’re writing a dissertation? But I thought…you seemed so… Her: No, hon. It was just to trick you into this very moment. Be a good lad and get me some more coffee, okay? I don't know. I like to think most men aren't that easy. One would hope, anyway.
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If you're interested in reading my old blogs (though surely you have something better to do!), click here. And thanks for spending your time with me! |
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