Riley’s new collar

It’s amazing the power a new article of clothing has to transform someone, even for animals.  A little while ago I wrote about my boy dog, Riley, and his pink collar.  Despite being a guy, everyone who saw his pink collar thought he was a girl, and though they say dogs don’t understand what people are saying, I think this subliminally affected him.  Riley peed like a girl dog.  You know, he was a squatter.  Well, this weekend my husband and I were out shopping and we came across a new, masculine collar.  It’s all teal and navy and orange stripes, so we bought it for Riley.  As soon as we put it on him, he transformed.  We went for a super long walk and he peed like a boy every time!  He had his leg up for every tree we passed!  Holy cow!  (Probably gross, too.  We talk a lot about bodily functions in my house.)  So the moral of the story is your boy dog deserves a boy collar.  It’ll change him.

Cover changes

Last weekend my husband and I hit up the Angels & Demons movie.  Ian’s not much of a book reader (shameful, for having a wife who’s a book writer, though he reads a ton of other things) but he has been loving the book.  The other week I wrote a post about the book verses movie versions of stories, and I have to say that Angels & Demons followed the trend.  The movie was not as cool as the book, though we still had a great time watching, perhaps because we were fueled by a dinner of processed corn foods – nachos and popcorn.  Dinner of Champions.

After the show ended we headed over to the local Barnes and Noble.  Movie and a bookstore, my dream date!  Of course the Angels & Demons book was prominently on display due to the movie release, but they changed the cover! Why do publishers do this?  I mean, I’m sure it’s a well thought out business decision, because these cover changes happen all the time.  I don’t fault the pubishers for doing this, but I’m a purist at heart and it drives me crazy.  I want the original cover art.  What do you think?

Visitor!

My mom’s in town today for a little girl time in the midst of all the craziness, so I don’t have time for a real post.  I hope you enjoy the day with someone you love!

Milk and sugar and all things sweet

This weekend I gathered together with a group of my girlfriends to celebrate one of their birthdays.  Her one birthday wish was for high tea, so we headed over to Jin Patisserie on Abbot Kinney in Venice.  Abbot Kinney is one of my favorite places in LA, but I had never been to the restaurant, which is tucked away behind solid walls.  Apparently, I have been missing out.  The tea bar/pastry shop has all outdoor seating, with a peaceful garden area (think: shade from bamboo and flowery trees, quiet fountain).  We all decided to splurge on the high tea, which comes with more food than you can imagine, including 5 different cake tastings.  My sweet-tooth taste buds were in heaven.  But my biggest revelation comes because I don’t normally like tea, but I couldn’t wuss out and get something else to drink.  Instead I tried some Earl Grey, which has been my classic favorite, and I added milk.  Yum!  I have a new-found respect for tea, after trying it this way.  This means more caffeine to fuel the writing!

In case of a grooming emergency check my house

Remember how I told you my husband likes to buy his toiletries in multiple?  Here’s the proof.  In our new house he gets a whole cabinet devoted just to discontinued products.  This is me shaking my head.

Resource Thursdays: GottaBook

If you’re looking for a fun time (and a sweet rhyme) make your way over to GottaBook. This blog, hosted by writer Greg Pincus, is a magical place where words are king. Greg, who you may remember as a past co-coordinator of the SCBWI Westside Schmooze, staked a claim to fame with a type of poetry called Fibs. The syllable count of this poem is based on the Fibonacci sequence, a mathematical progression that pops up in nature all the time. Greg’s poems have been read by people worldwide, and he also landed a book deal with Arthur A. Levine Books, the imprint that produced the Harry Potter series. GottaBook showcases both Greg’s work and his sense of humor (all that talent and he’s funny too!) Be sure to visit his blog during the month of April, where he’ll have guests contributing poetry for children. Heck, be sure to visit his blog anytime!

Waiting in line is the true test of a person’s personality

This Friday Ian and I headed down to the Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica for some food and window shopping.  At some point we needed to use the restroom and happened to be in front of a Starbucks.  We went in and discovered that the Starbucks bureaucracy required you to buy something to get access to the door code to open the restroom door.  Considering we were a little thirsty and the nearest free restroom was a few blocks away, we decided to purchase a beverage.  We got in line behind the two slowest customers in the world – one told the barista her life story and then asked about his and the other customer carefully studied each of the sixteen different tea flavors before selecting one.  This was annoying since we still had to use the restroom, but manageable.  At last we were able to purchase our drink and get the door code.  And then…the bathroom was out of toilet paper.  Argh.

We then went back to the sales line to ask the cashier for some toilet paper. We followed the cashier to the bathroom and a very large, very obnoxious lady cut us off and slipped in the door.  This royally bugged me, because she would not have been able to actually use the facilities if not for Ian and me securing the crucial t.p.  Then she proceeded to take then minutes in there.  Ten!  I don’t care what you need to do in there, but in a public restroom you need to be in and out, especially when there is a line forming.  Obviously this was very frustrating, as Ian and I still needed to go.

As we waited, a very large, very obnoxious man came and planted himself by the restroom door.  “Someone’s in there,” Ian said, as a way of claiming our spot in line.

“I know, she’s my wife” he said, with full-on jerk scowl.  Another man came and stood behind Ian and I and asked us, “Is someone in there?”  Very large, very obnoxious man (VLVOM) turned and said snidely, “Yes.  She’ll be coming right out.”

Oh, I didn’t know that he was her personal mind reader and could predict his wife’s every movement.  I was unimpressed.  After five minutes (which is a long time of waiting when you really, really have to go), the man behind us started shuffling his feet.  He stomped and stamped and bent his knees and started breathing heavy.  His dance resembled that of a two year old, and he obviously needed to go very badly.  “Um, are you sure someone is in there?” he asked.

VLVOM turned around again and said, “Yes.  She’s coming out right now.”  Once again, he said it very condescendingly.  Five minutes later the door cracked and the woman came out.  And then VLVOM cut us off and went into the restroom!  Holy cow was I steamed.  The old guy behind us was pacing now, bouncing up and down and looking pale.

“You can go ahead of us,” Ian said.

“Really?”  He looked like we had just told him he won the lottery.

“Sure.”

“Okay, great.  I promise I’ll be quick.  I won’t even wash my hands.”

I am a giant germaphobe, so I started panicking.  “Oh no, that’s okay.  Wash your hands.”

“Nah,” he said.  “It’s not like I’m touching anything but myself.”

Ick.  Way too much information.  I suppressed a frown, Ian suppressed a laugh.  VLVOM exited the restroom with a grunt.  Nervous, jumpy man entered.

Ian and I waited.  Eventually the jumpy man walked out, wiping his hands on his pants (shudder) and we were able to use the restroom.  All’s well that end’s well, but I now have a new personality test for people – how you react when waiting in line is the new gauge of a person’s character.

Daylight Savings: A Poem

Yesterday I went to have my taxes done (joy of joys) and though Ian, the receptionist, and I were there on time, my accountant was an hour late, thanks to the time change.  So in honor of daylight savings, a poem:

You are on tequila

and I am on love.

I watch the pinstripes of your sheets

crumple and twist

as we lay

with a relentless sun

pushing through the cracks

of the blinds

to join us.

An extra hour

and I am trying to listen to you breathe,

but the stupid clock

that I bought you

is ticking just loudly enough

to remind me

that I am on borrowed time.

Printer repair man, March 4th

My office is big and empty at lunch time, and it’s just me and the printer repair man.  He stands across the room, tall with a kind, unworn face.  “So they left you all alone?” he says.

“Yep.”  I answer.  “But everyone’s sick anyway, so I’d rather not be with them.”  Also, they are loud, and I’d rather have a moment of silence.

He ducks his head.  “Yeah.  It’s like, ‘go on, get out.’”

“Exactly.”

He fiddles with something technical looking, the printer’s plastic entrails spooled across the table.  “You know, I heard this whole thing about herbs being able to fix the common cold.  Some guy’s on the radio trying to sell his natural herbs.”  He cocks his head to the side.  “You know it really makes sense.  I mean, people are made of herbs and stuff.  Well, not herbs.  But, you know.  We’re natural.  So it makes sense that it’s not the chemicals that are going to make us better.”

“I agree,” I say.

“But you know what it is?  It’s the pharmaceutical companies.  They’re trying to make money, so they don’t want us to know if there’s something as simple as herbs that will make us better.”

“That’s true,” I say.  “I heard that they found a cure for cancer, or close to it.  But it was so easy that they couldn’t make a profit, so no one knows about it.”  I don’t actually know if this is true.  But I did hear it.

“Yeah.  That’s why I don’t trust them. Like, if my grandmother is sick she’ll go to the doctors and come back with a prescription.  Only they never take her off it.  It’s just for the head.  So you feel okay mentally.  But it doesn’t do anything but make them money.  I trust the animals.  You know, in the tsunami, or whatever…”

“The animals knew before the people did.”

“Exactly.  And I mean, you go out on a perfectly clear day to a field of cows.  Sunny day around twelve o’clock.  And then, even if it’s not going to rain for two hours, they are already heading for a grove of trees for cover.”  He has taken something apart, lifted a whole panel of the printer.  He uses a yellow rag to wipe grease from the surfaces, and he does this expertly but he never takes his eyes off me.  “That’s why I like dogs too.  Because if a dog is sick, it eats grass.  Back to the herbs.”

“Yep.  And think about how little dogs are sick.  Not much.  It’s because they’re not eating all those chemicals.  That’s why I try to eat things in as close to their natural state as I can.”

“Me too,” he says.  “Growing up, my grandmother had a whole garden, and we’d eat from it.  We’d have green beans and black-eyed peas.  She’d steam the beans and them can them.  And it was just like what you get in the grocery store, only without all the chemicals.  She – my grandparents – raised five of us, and I can tell you, between the kids and the garden it’s a lot of work.  Like, I don’t know if you and your husband – if you’re married, do that.”  Somehow, when it comes to men, they seem to like to find out your marital status real quick.  It always comes to that, but I don’t feel like this guy cares either way.

“Yes.  My husband and I are trying to grow some foods we can eat.  We’ve got tomatoes and peppers and basil.  I even have a little lemon tree.  It’s just a little container garden. We’ll see if it grows though.”

“Yeah.  I wish I had space to grow something.  Even a little thing.  But I don’t right now.”

“Mmm.”

My coworker comes in then, to work on a project we’ve planned.  He sits next to me, and then the printer repair man comes to fiddle with the printer that’s even closer to me.

“Do you know,” he asks, as my coworker lays out our data, “my grandmother’s garden was huge.  As big as your whole shop area.  And we’d have six rows of corn as long as your parking lot.”  The parking lot at my work is actually a city street.  It’s very long.

“That’s awesome,” I say and he nods.

“Yeah,” he says, and looks really wistful.  “Yeah.”

My coworker starts talking then, so I turn back to my work.  I like that people like to talk to me.  I would rather talk than do headachy projects.  Later, as he leaves, the repair man interrupts again to say, “Goodbye dear.”

And then, quietly, regretfully, he’s gone.

Writing?

The past two weeks have been super hectic for me on the photography side of things (multiple engagement sessions, client meetings, etc.) and also on the school side of things.  While I haven’t been able to do any writing for my stories, I have been doing lots and lots of paper writing.  The paper writing is at least some form of writing, which I guess is a step in the right direction, but it’s all on depressing topics.  Just ask me about the Holocaust, the Vietnam War, the politics of representation, and the manipulation of reality TV images.  Come on, I dare you.

Yeah, the children’s book writing is way more fun.