Squirrel Dreams

My daughter’s family brought me a gift bag, a thank you for all I’ve done lately. And what was in the lovely gift bag with fresh, crisp tissue paper? A squirrel figurine.

Some background: I have dreams. I have strange, awful, threatening, embarrassing dreams. There are the recurring public toilet dreams, the driving-a-train-that-has-jumped-its-track dream, and the squirrel dream. I dreamed I woke up only to find my double cheerfully making breakfast, none of the family realizing the Stepford Wife wasn’t me. Then, still dreaming, I glanced outside and saw a half-dozen squirrels staring in the windows. I knew immediately the evil, nasty rodents had plotted this to phase me out for nefarious reasons of their own.

Finally I woke up for real, and later that morning sat down with coffee. On the picnic table not six feet away sat a squirrel, staring at me with his beady little eyes. It was true! The dream was true! The squirrels were evil, cunning little rodents plotting my takeover!

Okay, so it wasn’t true. But for a moment I freaked out and the feeling hasn’t gone away. I hate squirrels. I tell people squirrels are wicked, cunning and not trustworthy. I will proclaim the truth!

So when I opened the gift bag (still with me after the dream/flashback sequence?) and found a squirrel figurine, my first reaction was horror. My second was caution—don’t want to hurt feelings, you know. I said to my granddaughter, “Did you pick this out, Ella?” Behind her, her parents were cracking up. “We saw it and thought of you! We couldn’t resist! And we thought it would stimulate ideas for your writing.”

Yeah. That or more freaking dreams.

So. Now I have a squirrel added to my small collection of writing totems, which includes a miniature typewriter/pencil sharpener, a computer/tape holder, an ugly ceramic frog, a fireplace candleholder, rocks and angels. Any weird little items in your possession? Or, any weird dreams you want to admit to?

Kitchen Disasters

Okay, the "indoor electric turkey fryer" may not have been my best buy.

I love to cook, to chop, dice, simmer, stew and all that fussy stuff, but I also love small appliances and the convenience and versatility they add to cooking. So when a local store put the formerly $130 indoor electric turkey fryer on sale for under $35, I caved. Lugged the thing home, filled it with $20 of peanut oil and proceeded to fry chicken for the family. Except fry isn’t quite accurate—how about petrify?

The coating was ugly—dark, crusty and nothing like the heavenly stuff the Colonel turns out daily in his restaurants. Once we tore off the skin and coating, the meat was tasty, but the experiment was not a huge success. And the house smelled like a fast food joint, not the “grandma’s cooking” ambiance I was going for. One wonderful thing happened, though—my husband, Mr. “She Cooks and I Eat,” helped me with the frying. Yes, his willingness to help cook was fueled by the fear that I would burn down the house, but still, we cooked together. In 37 years of marriage, that may be a first.

But back to the fryer. I don’t give up easily. I remain hopeful that a turkey—no batter coating, just a bird, maybe some injected flavor—will showcase the fryer’s true greatness. And next time, despite its being called an indoor fryer, I’m cooking outside. It’s harder to stink up a whole neighborhood. Although I’ve had neighbors who tried.

What about you? Are you a small-appliance junkie? Are your cabinets filled with bread makers, food processors, hand-held blenders? Which do you like best? Least? Are there any appliance “turkeys” in your house?

I Loved This Book!

Just finished a book, “Velva Jean Learns to Drive,” by Jennifer Niven. I loved this book! At first I thought it was a humorous novel—the title is the reason I picked it up. A glance at the back cover dispelled that notion but didn’t put me off; I’m always up for a good 1930s Appalachian Mountains story that begins, “I was ten years old when I was saved for the first time. Even though Jesus himself never had much to do with religion before he was twelve, I had prayed and prayed to be saved so that I wouldn’t go to hell.”

Some books are very put-downable. Not this one. The author creates a wonderful main character, an entire town, a world, and I was wrapped up in it. When the book ended I looked up the author to see what else she’s written. Sadly, no other fiction, although she is writing a sequel—but she’s written a few non-fiction books about female adventurers. I’ll try those even though I’m not a fan of true stories. (Reading them or telling them, right?)

I don’t know how to categorize the novel; it’s not a thriller, not a murder mystery, not a romance, not literary genius of the sort I find incomprehensible. It doesn’t fit in any category I can define. For those of you who’ve asked me what kind of book I like best, this is it—a great story.

So, what’s your favorite story? What book grabbed you and didn’t let you go, kept you thinking about that world long after you put the book away and started another? Do you have a “Velva Jean” in your fave list?

Ladle It On!

You know the romance is gone when your sweetheart asks you to postpone vacuuming so he can clip his toenails first. Eeyew!

I’m not a big romance reader. I had a brief affair with “bodice rippers” in the late 70s/early 80s, when my days were spent diapering and wiping slobber, but that can be understood, right? I kind of wanted a hero to come and drag me off to his love nest. But as a rule, I don’t read romances. I wish I could write them, as they’re the biggest market share of novels being published these days. But I just can’t write those scenes. I’m afraid my eye-rolling would be evident in the writing.

Just read a book called “The Beach House” by Mary Alice Monroe (Jackie Swanson, thank you so much for sending it to me!). Various plot lines ran through it, including a romance. That’s the kind of romance I like. The hero wasn’t a brooding, misunderstood man, the heroine wasn’t the most beautiful girl in the world, and the romance wasn’t central to the plot. Actually, the romance was a little too understated even for me—at one point she’s throwing herself at him, and then the story skips over weeks when they spend time together, and doesn’t mention anything about the relationship. Hello, isn’t the main character even wondering why he thwarted her moves? And what’s she doing, throwing herself at him like that? Have some dignity, girl!

What’s your romance meter? Ladle it on like marinara on meatballs? A little splash, like white wine in a lemon-butter sauce? (Why do my analogies involve food, hmm?) Let me know your thoughts. Name names (titles, authors) if you wish. And by the way, my sweetheart brought home a dozen roses last night, so I guess I’ll forgive the toenail thing. Again.

Secret Confessions

I’m a pen freak. There, I’ve said it out loud. Yes, I like pens, and have an assortment of colors and styles in a pencil cup on top of my desk. I have my favorites, mostly Pilot G-2 Extra Fine gel ink pens in assorted colors. When I used to write all my stories in longhand (as recently as last year), the gel pens gave me fewer hand cramps than ballpoint pens.

Over the years I’ve dallied with an array of pens. I remember a stick pen called a Lindy, a long, no frills, no curves ballpoint pen in the 70s, I guess. I’d probably still have some—I’m a loyal sort—but they went the way of Ipana toothpaste and 45 records. If fountain pens didn’t dry out so quickly I’d use them—and for awhile, I did. But I spent more time scribbling warm-up loops or running water over dried-out pen nibs than writing.

Upon borrowing an unusual pen from a man, I oohed and aahed and mentioned that I was a pen freak. Quickly I learned that my affection for pens was of the puppy-love variety, while his was full-blown crazy love. Did you know there were pen shows (think boat shows for pen enthusiasts) in LA, Philadelphia, Atlanta, Chicago? Even Arkansas has a pen show. You can get custom made pens, replicas of “famous” pens, special pen holders, etc.

You won’t see me at a pen show. I love pens, but I love to pay my mortgage more.

What are some of your little joys, your little puppy loves in life? Or are you more like the pen freak, with huge love for something most people don’t think twice about? Let me know. I won’t think you’re weird. Unless it’s something really out there, and then all bets are off.

What Makes Us Crazy

Recently stumbled on a “rant” about the font used for the titles for the movie “AVATAR.” Apparently the font Papyrus (check your MS Word fonts—it’s there) is held in low esteem by many people. My first reaction was, come on, this is what you’re upset about? This is what you get passionate enough about to devote a blog to it? With all the real issues in the world, this is what you’ve decided makes you crazy? On a scale of one to ten, my concern about the font was zero; it does not affect my life/happiness/comfort level at all.

Okay, I must admit, I hate Courier. When people in my writer’s group bring stories printed in that nearly-unreadable font, I cringe. But there’s a difference between a fleeting, private cringe and a public flogging.

I find it interesting to notice what drives others over the edge. Maybe it’s because I’ve developed a Zen-like calm about most things. Traffic? It’ll clear up. Someone stole my parking space? Oh, well, I need the walk anyway. Someone in the 10-or-fewer grocery line with 15 items? So what? My husband’s company keeps letting people go and restructuring? All right, that one worries me a little.

Do you “go off” about stuff? What drives you crazy? What drives others crazy but doesn’t bother you? If you hate the font I’m using, sorry. It’s automatic with the blog and I can’t change it. And it doesn’t bother me.

January (A)Musings

Writing fiction for publication is like throwing pennies in a fountain for wishes. Either one is a long shot. Often, beginning writers think that all they have to do is write it and then sell it. That’s like saying all you have to do to become a major league baseball player is to hit a ball in the backyard and boom—there you’ll be. (Should I be snide here and say you’ve forgotten a necessary component—performance-enhancing drugs? Sorry—cheap shot.)

Even knowing it’s a long shot, I still remain hopeful that I’ll be one of the lucky few, the princess whose fairy godmother shows up and restores her rightful place in the kingdom and ensures her “happily ever after.” I’m not optimistic about winning the lottery or waking up thin or a Nigerian prince giving me a large share of his wealth, but I do hold a spark of hope that someday I will see my novels on the bookshelves of Barnes and Noble and Borders.

I like January. It’s a time of establishing goals, making resolutions, mentally cleaning house. If I were ever going to quit writing, I would probably do it in January, swearing it off like chocolate milkshakes or cigarettes or a joy-sucking relationship, But this year I’m diving headfirst again, wallowing, giving myself permission to be giddily hopeful that this, this might be the year!

So, what about you? Do you feel the need to do some mental housecleaning, to throw out the junk that weighs you down or holds you back? Is it a time of re-defining yourself? Does January fill you with hope?