What is Homestyle?

So, what’s this Homestyle thing you keep yammering about?
Homestyle is a series of 13 monthly vignettes, set in and around the Homestyle Salon and Spa in Bayou La Batre, Alabama. The series focuses on Jolene Harris, the young beautician who first appeared in my second novel Hometown. It's a comedy, so, theoretically, funny.

What's with all of the "Home" titles?
I dunno. Lack of imagination? Sheer laziness? Something like that.

Yeah, no. Really, what gives?
All of my work, including Homestyle, takes place in the same fictional universe. Though all are tied and share characters, the novels and the series each stand alone.

OK, whatever. Where can I get it?
The same place you get socks and cat food – Amazon .com

I'm tardy to the party. Does Homestyle need to be read in order?
Ideally, yes, but you do you. 

Can I buy Homestyle in print?
Not at this time. Homestyle was designed to be a short, fun read and the digital-only platform keeps the cost low. 

I don't have a Kindle. Can I still read Homestyle?
Yeah, buddy! You can read Homestyle on any digital device, including your laptop or desktop, with the Kindle app or Kindle Cloud Reader. Basically, whatever you're reading this on should work.

Say I see you in a bar sometime and want to send you a drink in appreciation of your beauty and genius. Is that cool?
Gin and tonic and yes.

Homeless (Excerpt)

Available now from Amazon.

August 2006
Midwest City, OK

I didn't really know my cousin Laura-Lynn. She was my aunt Louise's only child, but had moved away by the time I was born. She blew through town a few times when I was a kid, but I hadn't seen her in years. She moved back to Oklahoma shortly before she died, but didn't tell anyone in the family. I only went to the funeral because my dad threw out his back loading bags of fertilizer into the truck and Mom wanted me to drive her.

I did notice an unfamiliar man, standing well away from the rest of the assembled at the graveside service. He was older, tall, but slouched, his shoulders hunched. His clothes were rumpled and creased, as was his face, but there was still something about both that said “wealthy.” Maybe it was the deep black Mercedes he was leaning against. His eyes were hidden by equally dark sunglasses, but mine weren't and I had to look away when he noticed me staring. It's amazing how many details your mind can capture in an instant: Charcoal gray sport coat over a black crew neck sweater. Tan slacks. Black belt and shoes, good leather and well made. Hands in pockets, like a guilty school boy. Slim build, but with the soft start of a belly. Hair gone gray, skin sun-dried leather, forehead creased. If he'd been handsome once, there was no sign of it now.

I meant to ask Mom about him after the service, but it slipped my mind in all the family hubbub. Months went by and I would've forgotten about him entirely if it hadn't been for a library book.

I was at work early one morning, getting ready to sort through the pile of stuff that had accumulated on my desk during the previous day. In addition to that mess, there was a stack of “new arrival” books sitting in my chair. Once again surrendering to the chaos that is a public library, I made myself comfortable on the floor, using my creaky wooden desk as a backrest. Hoping for fortification through caffeination, I pulled the top book off the stack to thumb through while I drank my coffee. It was at an angle, set apart from the rest – the clerk's sign that it was something to which she felt I should pay special attention.

Red Sky Mourning (2006, Viking Press) was the latest release from “award-winning author” John Anders Erickson. I'd read all sorts of rave reviews of it. The waiting list of patrons was already two pages long and I considered the ethical implications of sneaking it home for a quick read before putting it out on the shelf. Librarian's prerogative, I figured.

Since it was not yet in circulation, it was one of the few books in the library without nerd-, Groucho-, or cat-eye sunglasses drawn over the author's photo, so it took me a moment to place him – John Anders Erickson.

Posed, lit, and probably Photoshopped, the man on the cover looked healthy and rugged, with bright blue eyes. He leaned in toward the camera seductively, cradling a meerschaum pipe, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to the elbow, exposing the famed mermaid tattoo on his bulging, sailor's forearm. No wonder he'd been so startled when he caught me staring at him. I couldn't believe I hadn't recognized him immediately, but I wasn't exactly expecting to see the world famous author of Vikings and Pirates: Tales of My Fathers and The Mermaid's Dirge at a family funeral in Ada, Oklahoma.

I turned the book over to look at the high-melodrama artwork on the front, but it was covered by a large yellow sticky note with the letters “OMG” underlined and followed by half a dozen exclamation points and a large arrow pointing toward my right hand. Barbara again. Sometimes I worried that the clerk drank too much coffee. She was a very excitable person – a single mom working her way through junior college on caffeine and determination.

I opened the book, quickly closed it, tried to sit down, found I was already sitting, and opened it again. Beneath his standard dedication, “For Stjerne,” was the author's scrawling, blue-ink signature.

Someone somewhere had made a huge mistake. Obviously this wasn't intended for a little branch library in Midwest City, Oklahoma. I'd have to call the publisher on Monday and get it straightened out. Those three handwritten words made this pristine first edition worth a lot of money to a collector. It was far too valuable for circulation in a public library. Now I absolutely had to take it home with me, for safe keeping if nothing else.

My first concern, though, was how to read it without leaving any incriminating bends in the virgin paper. I was trying a technique that involved lying on my back and holding the book over my head when something fluttered out from between the pages and landed on my face.

It was a photograph, one of the old self-developing kind with the broad white border. Faded with age, it showed a young man, impossibly tall and comically lanky, with a bright, open face, and thick, somewhat shaggy blond hair. John Anders Erickson. His clothes were egregiously 1970s and he looked to be somewhere in his late twenties or early thirties. He was hunched forward, just as I'd seen him at the funeral, but in the picture he was smiling widely, with his long arms wrapped tightly around a slim young woman with long, coppery hair – Laura-Lynn Weaver, my dead cousin.
 ____________________________________________________________________________

Read the rest today on Amazon.com

Hometown

Bayou La Batre, Alabama

Chapter One

There are all sorts of unflattering things I could say about my hometown. I know because I've practiced. You might even say it was my major course of study during my high school years.

Eventually I graduated and, finally, had the whole world in front of me and no obligations to hold me back. So, naturally, I immediately married a hometown boy with family ties deep enough to be genetically suspect.

It was not at all unusual to be in the Walmart with Gary only to find that every single person in the store was a relation of some sort or another. With no living family to speak of and only one half of one generation residing below ground, you can imagine how thrilled his family was to add me to their tree. When we got married, Gary's mother, Irene – an aggressively thin woman with hard gray eyes – told me that their family bible had been lost during hurricane Frederick, but I'd always suspected she'd hidden it rather than add my name to that most sacred of genealogies. That was actually fine with me, since I have terrible handwriting and never had developed a satisfactory trademark signature.

Everyone suspected that I was pregnant when we made the announcement (complete with short engagement period) about a week after I graduated, and my size did little to dispel that rumor. It was Mrs. Harris, my friend Jolene's mama, who convinced me to lose weight before the big day. She said that my wedding photos were the most important pictures I would ever have taken so it was important to look as much like the movie stars in the magazines as possible. She's a hairdresser and has been married three times, so has a lot of experience with weddings.

For the six weeks before the wedding I worked my ass literally off and, on the big day, I managed to close the zipper of that size twelve dress. It was the thinnest I had ever been. I thought my improved appearance might help ingratiate me with my stick-thin mother-in-law-to-be, but instead she'd been horrified by each dropped pound. My decreasing waistline could only mean that I was not, as she suspected, knocked up. Gary was not marrying me out of some noble, if misguided, sense of duty or responsibility. He had, as she saw it, simply settled.


Get your copy of Hometown today from Amazon.com

If My Life Were A Reality TV Show

When I was a child, my parents would often find me delivering a monologue to my stuffed animals, the bathroom mirror, a blank wall, etc. When asked what I was doing, I'd explain that I was “addressing my home viewing audience.” This was in the late 70s/early 80s, before the prevalence of both Reality TV and juvenile psychiatric medications. And, yes, my parents are saints for having put up with me.

However, as the years have passed and with “Reality TV” now a reality, I've had to face the fact that I'm much less interesting than when I was five and that my adult life yields few “must see” moments. I rarely walk around my house in full makeup and heels. José Eber has never come over to do my hair. Movie stars and professional athletes don't drop by to drink and dish. I have no secret children/spouses/identities. I'd never waste good (or even bad) wine tossing it in someone's face. I cannot sing and will not eat bugs.

My daily life as Reality TV:

• The Real World: Middle Age
  
• Iron Chef Microwave
  
• The Real Housework of Albany
  
• Survivor: Trader Joe's at 5:30PM on a Friday
  
• Dancing with the Swiffer Mop
  
• The Amazing Race For a Parking Spot on Solano Ave.
  
• American Idle: I Catch Every Yellow Light on Van Ness Avenue
  
• The Biggest Loser: Eyeglasses
  
• American Picker-Upper and Puter-Awayer
  
• Keeping Up With the Cat Hair
  
• Dustbusters
  
• What Not To Wear
  

Today's lesson: I really hope my husband never sets up a “nanny cam.” (Me: Walking around the house singing the theme song to "Goldfinger," substituting the word "snöflinga.")

Next: It Gets Worse: The Power of Positive Pessimism

How About Them 'Niners

According to the New York Times, on this day in 1850 “Henry Clay introduced in the Senate a compromise bill on slavery that included the admission of California into the Union as a free state.” As would eventually become the hallmark of the state's politics, this did not happen quickly, easily, or without controversy.

This new 31st state was separated from the rest of the United States by large swathes of wilderness known as “territories,” one of which had the rather descriptive title of “Unorganized Territory.”* One of the chief reasons lawmakers were so interested in acquiring this stretch of land over 2500 miles away was the 12 million ounces of gold being pulled from its rivers and streams.

Welcome to California's first cycle of Boom-and-Bust: The Gold Rush

In 1848, gold was discovered at Sutter's Mill near Placerville, CA. The land's owner, John Sutter, planned to keep this information secret in order to preserve his dream of an agricultural empire known as “Little Switzerland.” Local merchant Samuel Brannan, who, as it happened, had just gotten into the mining supplies game, put the kibosh on that by running up and down the streets of San Francisco with a vial of nuggets shouting “Gold! Gold! Gold from the California River.”**

The California Gold Rush led to the largest mass migration in U.S. history, bringing over 300,000 people from all over the world. In 1849 alone, approximately 90,000 people arrived in California.

One in twelve 49ers perished, due to mining accidents, disease, or homicide. The native California tribes fared much worse, falling from an estimated population of 150,000 in 1845 to fewer than 30,000 by 1870. According to the state government, 4500 of those deaths were due to violence.

On average, half of gold seekers made a profit, occasionally spectacular, but mostly modest. Many, especially those who arrived in later years, were less fortunate. Merchants and other businessmen made far more money than the majority of miners. Companies like Levi's, Armour Meats, Studebaker, and Wells Fargo all grew out of California's Gold Rush. At the time, the wealthiest man in California was merchant, publisher, and local loudmouth Samuel Brannan, who is considered the first millionaire of the Gold Rush.

Gold was sent from California to points around the globe. A sidewheel steamer, the S.S. Central America, sank off the coast of the Carolinas while carrying 10 tons of California gold, valued at over $2 million. The gold was retrieved in 1987 using a remotely operated vehicle and now has an estimated value between $100 - $150 million.

California has long had a high cost of living. In 1849, an egg could cost the equivalent of $25 in today's terms, a pound of coffee $100, and a pair of boots $2500. According to my informal research, today a single egg costs roughly $0.28, a pound of Starbucks is $13.95, a pair of boots is $2500.***

Today's lesson: I've been hearing a lot about the 49ers this week.

Next: Maybe something about lip syncing... or wardrobe malfunctions... or beer commercials...

__________________________________________________

*Much of this area would later be known as “The Big 12.” Make of that what you will.

**Thus making prostitution California's fourth oldest profession, after farming, mining, and marketing.

***A girl can dream, right?

Going Viral

We are 22 days into the new year and I've been sick for most of them. Never fear! It's not been a total loss. The countless hours of sniffling and couch surfing have afforded me the opportunity to make the following observations:

• Soaking in the bathtub is far more boring than advertised.
• Constant coughing has allowed me to fully explore the acoustic possibilities of the apartment.
• Sneezing is much more satisfying if you cuss loudly while doing so.
• Mexican Sprite has magic healing properties its U.S.-born counterpart lacks.
• Saltines are possessed of a subtle and addictive deliciousness.
• Chocolate tastes funny, yet I keep eating it.
• Everything smells weird, which seems unfair, since I can't actually breath through my nose.
• Watching an entire season of 30 Rock straight through can put you in a meditative trance. (A couple of shots of Robitussin also helps.)
• “You may experience drowsiness.” Translation: You will hibernate until Spring.
• Cats can sense your weakness and will take advantage.
• Lying down on the bed is an invitation for the phone to ring.
• Lying down on the couch is an invitation for the cat to walk across your face.
• Lying down is a temporary state at best, as oxygen soon becomes an issue.
• Without NyQuil, the entirety of human civilization would crumble.
• The ultimate achievement of human civilization: Luden's Cherry Cough Drops.

Update: Another week of fun brings us the following:

• Thanks to my fever, I've saved a fortune in blusher usage.
• Contamination issues make cooking dinner unsanitary and unwise.
• Continual coughing gives my abs a good work out...
• And has left me with a deep, sexy “Kathleen Turner” voice.
• I'm learning to honk out simple tunes when I blow my nose.
• I have an unassailable excuse for the way my hair looks...
• And for wearing sweatpants all day...
• And eating my weight in Popsicles.

Today's lesson: Wash often with soap and hot water. Cover your mouth when you sneeze or cough. Use lots of hand sanitizer. Tis the season to be germy.

Next: A treatise on the nature of art or beauty or something like that. I made some notes somewhere while in the depths of a cough syrup binge...

12/12/12

The more things change, the more they... well... become different, actually.

Below is a chart comparing and contrasting some random facts and events from 1912 and 2012.

1912	2012
A first class stamp cost $0.02.	A first class stamp costs $.45.
There were 95,335,000 people living in the U.S., 1,650,000,000 worldwide.	There are 314,923,000 people living in the U.S., 7,057,950,000 worldwide.
The average life expectancy for a male in the U.S. was 47.	The average life expectancy for a male in the U.S. is 75.6.
Best selling car in the U.S.: Ford Model T.	Best selling car in the U.S.: Ford F-Series trucks.
The tallest structure in the world was the Eiffel Tower in Paris, France. (1,063 ft)	The tallest structure in the world is the Burj Khalifa, in Dubai, UAE. (2,717 ft)
The Titanic sank, killing over 1500 people.	The Titanic movie was re-released, grossing over $57 million.
New Mexico and Arizona became the 47th and 48th States, respectively.	New Mexico and Arizona each file petitions for secession from the United States.
U.S. athletes brought home 25 gold medals from the Stockholm Olympics. 28 nations competed.	U.S athletes brought home 46 gold medals from the London Olympics. 204 nations/regions competed.
The first Bay to Breakers race was run in San Francisco. American runner Bobby Vlught won with a time of 44:10.	The 101st Bay to Breakers race was run in San Francisco. Kenyan runner Sammy Kitwara won with a time of 34:41.
Edgar Rice Burrows' character Tarzan first appears in the pulp magazine, The All-Story, delighting audiences and inspiring two dozen sequels.	Edgar Rice Burrow's character John Carter first appeared on the big screen, disappointing audiences and inspiring countless yawns.
Lucy Maud Montgomery publishes Chronicles of Avonlea, a fictionalized account of life in a small town in Canada.	Michele Feltman Strider publishes Hometown, a fictionalized account of life in a small town in the United States.
The Girl Scouts organization was founded by Juliette Gordon Low.	I finally come to terms with my Thin Mint Thighs and Shortbread Bum.

Today's lesson: I spend far too much time on Wikipedia.

Next: Something about King Tides. Maybe.

The Yummish Holiday Letter

Greetings!

I can't believe this year has come and gone so slowly. That extra day back in February really threw off my finely tuned system. It will be such a relief to return to the normal 365-day-per-year rhythm at the first of the year, assuming we survive the end of the Mayan calendar.

On the subject of harmonic convergences, my graduating class will celebrate our 100-year high school reunion next Spring... or summer... or whenever they schedule such things. Due to my advanced age, I don't precisely recall. I'm sure someone will send me an invitation or notice or business reply envelope with suggested donation amounts printed on the back.

Speaking of awkwardly strong-arming acquaintances into writing checks, my second book came out last March. Titled Hometown, it is currently available on Amazon.com in exchange for any number of cash equivalents.

The cats continue their reign of feline terror unabated and have established dominion over 75% of our living space, with the remaining 25% under the constant threat of invasion. All of our clothes, shoes, furniture, and electronics have suffered damage in the onslaught, with the cats often attacking our supplies of food and water as well. However, given sufficient tributes of furry toy mice, Whisker Lickin's treats, and cardboard boxes, we have found them to be benevolent, even affectionate, overlords.

In an effort to improve our understanding of the social and technological challenges humanity will face in the future, Jim and I undertook a revolutionary course of online study. After months of dedicated effort, we are both very proud to say that we have watched EVERY SINGLE EPISODE of both the original Star Trek television series and The Next Generation. We expect a certificate of completion from Netflix University to arrive in the next 6-8 weeks. 

We've also done a bit of traveling in the past year. In fact, we've been going essentially nonstop for the last 12 months and we are pleased to announce that we have (again!) circumnavigated the sun in a mere 52 weeks. We hope to continue our journeys in the new year.

As the year draws to a close, I leave you with this wish for 2013 – a prayer of sorts: Illegitimi non carborundum. 

Wishing you and yours the happiest and yummiest of holidays!

Sincerely,
Michele Strider
& The Yummish Council

Today's lesson: There might have been something in that eggnog...

Next: Dunno... Got any more of that 'nog?

The Second Epistle to St. Nick

Dear Santa Claus,

I take my pen in hand to write a few lines that let you know I have conducted myself very well over the past twelvemonth and to say how much I look forward to your upcoming visit on the evening of December 24.

Your annual call is truly a highlight of my year. In preparation therefor, I have acquired fresh, whole cow's milk (currently stored in a cold, humidity-controlled environment), added a collection of brightly colored hosiery to my home's feng shui, and gathered together the ingredients for several varieties of home-baked treats. I expect it to be a very enjoyable evening all around and hope you do as well.

In response to your anticipated query “what can I bring,” the answer is, of course, only your own dear self. However, should you feel irresistibly compelled, any or all of the following would be a most welcome addition to the holiday celebration:

• A bottle of scotch from the year my husband was born
• A pair of flares from the year I was born
• Three vertical inches (the repurposing of horizontal inches is highly encouraged)
• A hockey season (and/or a new commissioner for the NHL)
• Mjölnir
• An improved Netflix interface on the Xbox
• A “Noah's Ark”-style collection of two each of all of the world's motorcycles
• The instant and effortless knowledge of Mandarin
• Another Firefly movie
• A revised pricing structure for online subscriptions to The New York Times
• Six weeks in Taos, all expenses paid
• Deborah Ann Woll's complexion
• Carl Kasell's voice on my home answering machine or voice mail system
• Omnipotent omniscience
• Rainbow toe socks

As you may recall from years previous, our current abode is warmed by gas heat, making the front door, as opposed to your standard means of entrance, the more comfortable option.

Again, I look forward to your visit with eager anticipation and wish you safe and pleasant travels.

Sincerely yours,
Michele Feltman Strider


Today's lesson: Santa is real. I'm imaginary.

Next: The Yummish Holiday Letter

The End of the World As We Know It...

Have you heard? The world is going to end on December 21, 2012*.

The Ancient Mayans said so.

That or they ran out of rock on which to carve their very groovy and ornate calendar.

Since what remained of their once-great civilization was ultimately destroyed in the 1600s, it's sort of hard to ask them.

Still, it's a good excuse for radio stations to throw that R.E.M. song into the lineup this month, which is a nice break from all of the Christmas music.

Plus, it makes those extra holiday pounds seem inconsequential.

And gives procrastinators a better-than-usual excuse for putting off their holiday shopping.

However, since the Ancient Mayans failed to predict the invasion by the Spanish, the chances probably aren't great that they nailed this one.

Nevertheless, let's pretend they're right and that we have only 21 days of existence left.

How would you spend them?

As this is only a drill, I don't advocate emptying out your savings account, running up your credit cards, and eating sticks of raw butter for every meal. It is, however, a good opportunity to practice, not merely surviving, but living each day – if not to its fullest, at least more fully.

For the next three weeks, treat every day as if it might be your last. Not as if it were definitely your last, but with a simple acknowledgment that it could be. 

Below is a suggested sample week:

Day	Apocalyptic Indulgence
Sunday	Spend 24 hours straight in sweatpants.
Monday	Make a long, detailed To-Do list... then wad it up, chuck it uncompleted into the recycle bin, and couchsurf in front of MNF** all evening.
Tuesday	Twos Day! Double down on dessert – because two cookies are better than one.
Wednesday	Order in. Eat directly out of the delivery containers.
Thursday	Thor's Day! Watch a mindless, fun, culturally insignificant popcorn movie.***
Friday	Fried Day! If anyone asks, yes, you do want fries with that.
Saturday	Vacation time! Sleep in until 7AM – Hawiian Standard Time.

Today's lesson: ...And I Feel Fine.

Next: Sorry, but “not planning blog posts” is also one of my Apocalyptic Indulgences.
______________________________________________________________________

*Unless, of course, it doesn't. In which case, Happy Solstice!

**Or the mind-numbing show of your choice.

***Though Apocalypse Now may initially seem an appropriate choice, while it is one of my all time favorite films, it is also neither mindless nor insignificant. Instead, for Post-Apocalyptic fun, I recommend Tank Girl. 

BONUS:

President Bartlet and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

Thank You Notes

Dear Dad,
    Thank you for always encouraging me to go where the water was a little deeper and the waves a little bigger... and for being right behind me as I did so.


Dear Mom,
    Thank you for finding it humorous and whimsical that occasionally I went out in public “in character,” (complete with fake accent) and for driving me to auditions and rehearsals rather than to the funny farm.    


Dear Brother,
    Thank you for (mis)spending countless hours of your youth hanging out with me on piers, eating tacos, and listening to rock albums older than we were.


Dear Husband,
    Thank you for being the type of man who will, without complaint, stand in the ladies' lingerie department and hold my purse while I shop for bras. (And then take me out to lunch to boot.)

Dear Cats,
    Thank you for allowing me to achieve my ultimate purpose as a human being by serving your every need/whim.


Dear Birds in the Tree Across the Street,
    Thank you for keeping the cats entertained long enough for me to write goofy blog posts.


Dear Internet,
    Thank you for providing me with all of the wonderful cat videos to watch when I can't come up with ideas for blog posts.


Dear Tomato Plants,
    Thank you for producing so many delicious tomatoes this year, in spite of my total incompetence as a gardener.


Dear Fermentation,
    Thank you for transforming good foods into great foods.


Dear Readers,
    Thank you from the bottom of my heart. 

Sincerely,
Michele Feltman Strider



Today's lesson: I have a lot to be grateful for.

Next: Something far less appreciative.

Flixgiving

Below are 10 suggestions for movies to watch over the Thanksgiving weekend along with my brilliantly compelling reasons for doing so.

Adjust your Netflix queue accordingly.

Movie	Why
Groundhog Day	Because you are not a slave to the calendar.
The Shining	Psychosis and homicide aside, it's nice to see a family spending time together.
The Blues Brothers	After fighting the holiday travel traffic, the car chases* are quite cathartic.
Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory	Give the kids a reason to fear sweets = more pie for you.
Close Encounters of the Third Kind	Watch Richard Dreyfuss demonstrate proper mashed potato sculpting technique.
Waterworld	It wouldn't be Thanksgiving without a turkey.
Tom Jones	You'll feel significantly less awkward about your own family dinner.
The Matrix	Watching Keanu chow down on a big bowl of “single-celled protein combined with synthetic aminos, vitamins, and minerals” will make you feel a lot better about yet another day of leftovers.
It's a Mad Mad Mad Mad World	It works equally well as either preparation for or justification against participating in the Black Friday sales.
A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving	It simply wouldn't be Thanksgiving otherwise.

 

Today's lesson: Making lists is fun.

Next: Probably not another list. Probably.
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*Not enough? Check out Ronin. Thirty minutes of plot, an hour and a half of car chases. Bless you Mr. Mamet. Bless you, sir.

The Big Deal About Small Talk

If you've been anywhere near anything with a speaker or screen during the past year, you've probably been subject to a lot of Big Talk – speechifying, bloviation, and politicking.

Exhausting though it may be, it's also not inappropriate. A presidential election is about big issues and big ideas and it has a big effect on all of us. It's a big deal and it's right to treat it as such.

In the midst of all of this Big Talk, though, let's not lose sight of the value of small talk.

From Merriam Webster: small talk: n. light or casual conversation, chitchat

Like a troop of baboons grooming each other on an outcropping of rocks, the idle chatter of small talk is important to our survival. We learn about dangers (The cookies from the bakery on the corner tend to be dry), food supplies (The ones from two blocks over are better. They use real butter.), new developments in the group (Barbara found a great recipe for peanut butter cookies.), and sexual availability (Hey baby, what's cookin'?). It brings us together, helps foster understanding, and gives us an excuse to have cocktail parties.

After being bombarded for so many months with so much Big Talk, you may have fallen out of the habit of making small talk.

You begin by asking another person about themselves – what they do, think, or feel – then actually listening to the response. The advantages are: 1) you might learn something interesting, funny, or important, 2) while the other person is busy talking, you have more time to enjoy your beverage or hors d'oeuvre.

In the end, a meandering twenty minute diatribe about German potato salad, Game of Thrones, and Gary Bettman's suspect IQ is more about the conversation itself than the specific topics discussed. It's not about convincing the other that the Red Wings are genius and that capers are not acceptable as food. It's about the laugh shared, the connection made. It's not about creating a conclusion or consensus, but a communion. 

Today's lesson: I'm fine. How are you?

Next: More picayune trivialities

The Curse of the Black Cat

Looks innocent enough...

It all started three and a half years ago when a black cat crossed my path.

Technically, he was a kitten and we drove 30 minutes north to adopt him. The curse part, though, remains accurate.

His name is Sushi and, as his name implies, he is full of vinegar.

He is sleek and shiny and perfectly black, with bright, glowing yellow eyes. His claws are extraordinarily long and sharp and his fangs protrude ever so slightly. Beneath his chin there is a small cluster of longer fur shaped like a pointed goatee, making his resemblance to a demon complete.

The first night he spent with us, he climbed out of the little bed we'd arranged for him and on to ours, snuggling himself down to sleep... on my husband's face. Since then, he's never missed an opportunity to remind us that he is the black cat at the center of the universe.

Whatever you are doing, Sushi is also doing.

Like all bad boys, he has a thing for leather. To date he has destroyed: three pairs of boots (two fashion, one motorcycle), two pairs of shoes, two bags, a jacket, three ottomans, and a sofa – all leather. That's in addition to two bedspreads, a pair of window blinds, four floor lamps, countless printed headshots, and my sanity. Yesterday I caught him trying to eat the dresser.

He can jump over six and a half feet vertically, closer to ten horizontally, and can climb straight up anything. His favorite places to play are: 1) the tangle of cords behind the easily broken TV, 2) the tangle of cords behind the easily broken synthesizer keyboards, 3) wherever you have momentarily set something breakable. He chatters at me nonstop while I'm trying to cook, gets underfoot every time I carry anything heavy up or down the stairs, filches things out of my purse, and has even been known to chase Jim around the apartment.

Sushi and Sashimi (aka Sasha)

I've tried various methods of exorcising his demonic tendencies: smothering him with punitive affection, distracting him from evildoing with toys, stuffing him so full of treats he can't move, and even getting a second cat – Sasha, a long haired female whom he adores. Still, this morning, I found him playing hallway hockey with three heirloom tomatoes he'd taken from my shopping bag. 

At this very moment, Sushi is in the kitchen, rooting through the cabinet in which I keep the cat accoutrement, helping himself to a new toy. He's learned to pry the door open with his claws. I've learned to give up.


Today's lesson: Beware of black cats crossing your path.

Next: The Cocktail Party Official 2012 Election Statement... or maybe I'll just have a cocktail...

Something About Aimee

FYI, proper beach attire is actually an ankle-length skirt.

We were full, you see. Almost too full to breathe.* Certainly too full for the long drive back from Gulf Shores. We needed salt air to stimulate digestion – so we went to the beach.

We placed our chairs just beyond the reach of the breaking waves. Dusk was creeping in from the corner of the clear western sky. The breeze picked up, churning the water into a stormy greyish-green. The moist sand made a happy, squeaky sound between our toes and the beer cooler was within easy reach. Spring evenings on the Gulf Coast are dangerous. It's too easy to find yourself considering life in a hammock to be a legitimate career option.

While watching the waves and coming close to a zen-like mindlessness, I was distracted by a sudden flurry of activity out of the corner of my left eye. I tried to ignore it, as further investigation required the effort of turning my head. Yet, the flurry continued to flurry and my left eye continued to not quite ignore it, and eventually I was forced to put my neck muscles in play.

“Mom,” I asked quietly of the dark-haired woman sitting next to me. “Is that girl over there in her underwear?”

Like Joe Cool's cooler cousin, my mother sneaked a quick glimpse of the person to our left and nodded “Yes,” then giggled, “Isn't that Aimee?”

The “Aimee” she referred to is a character from my first book Homecoming: A Novella, whom I describe as: “...a big girl. She was not especially tall, nor was she truly fat. She was just too much. She was a caricature of femininity, all breasts and hips and flesh. Her skin was taut and tanned, her body a combination of baby fat and budding sexuality.”

The skivvies-clad young woman, in glorious display of obliviousness for a person her age, began bounding up and down the beach in her rather large, practical beige brassiere and ill-fitting, lime green cotton underpants. She twirled, and strutted, and danced near the waterline, while I fervently prayed that no waves would splash her and further stress test the elastic of her undergarments. Sensing that people were watching her, but not for the reason she seemed to think, she increased her flirting, jiggling, and preening by an order of magnitude. I wanted to throw a tarp or something over her, but instead of smothering her with beach towels, I thought back to what I'd written about Aimee and her trip to the beach on Dauphin Island.

"Aimee had flung off her clothes the second we hit the sand, in spite of the breeze. Her suit was decidedly too small and bit into her young flesh, emphasizing the softness of her curves. Her breasts were about to burst from the small triangles of fabric wholly inadequate to contain them. Her buttocks and thighs jiggled with every move, as, to be honest, did the flesh on her belly and arms. Her hair blew wildly, first entangling her body, then flying freely behind her. She moved without grace, but with an energy and self confidence that I found myself envying."

The panties-girl at first struck me as embarrassing and I'd pitied her for failing to conform to social norms. Was my sense of self-superiority actually disguised envy? Was I jealous of, if not her choice of beach attire, her carefree disregard for common custom and public sentiment – a freedom I'm not easily able to allow myself? No matter how many (hilarious!) snarky comments I thought (or whispered) about her, or how foolish she may have looked in the eyes of any number of people on the beach that day, she was happy, having fun, content in her own skin... and underwear.

Today's lesson: A) Judge not, that ye be not judged. For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again. (often by your very own self!)  B) I miss Underoos.

Next: Something else!

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*LuLu's at Homeport... crab melts and margaritas... tasty little gut bomb, that...

A Gift of the Heart

Picture it: That special day, sliding the ribbon from the box, savoring the anticipation before peeking inside to find... Jumper cables.

Sigh... Pure romance!

Don't laugh. That ugly mess of red and black cables connected to King Kong's nipple clamps is one of the most heartfelt gifts a person can receive, along with first aid kits, road flares, and tire slime. 

Diamonds may be forever, but nothing says “I want you in my life for a long time to come” like safety equipment.

More important than the gift itself is the thought process behind it, and the most loving sentiments can inspire some of the most pragmatic presents. Behind each “Christmas seat-belt cutter” and every “Anniversary fire-extinguisher” is an imagined tale of such peril and woe that the Bronte sisters are kicking themselves post-mortem for not having written it. Getting snow tires for your birthday doesn't mean your significant other didn't listen when you mentioned many multiple times how much you like black pearls. It means that the image of you, stranded, helpless, in a ditch by the side of the highway in the middle of the night (always in the middle of the night!) in a blizzard, was more immediately compelling than that of you wearing pretty, sparkly things.

There's nothing wrong with enjoying pretty, sparkly things or wanting to receive them as gifts. Just don't miss the significance behind the seemingly insignificant. In other words, “he went to Jared's” because he wanted you to be happy. He went to Kragen Auto Parts because he wanted you to be alive.

Today's lesson: It's the thought that counts... Sort of like coming up with interesting ideas for blog posts...

Next: Something!

The Peril of the Unexamined Life

The proliferation of pretty pink ribbons on posters, produce, products, and people is a sure sign that it's once again “Breast Cancer Awareness Month.”

Did You Know?

• Excluding cancers of the skin, breast cancer is the most common cancer among women, accounting for nearly 1 in 3 cancers diagnosed in US women. (Only lung cancer accounts for more cancer deaths in women.) (American Cancer Society)
• One in 8 women will be diagnosed with breast cancer in her lifetime (National Breast Cancer Foundation)
• Estimated new cases and deaths from breast cancer in the United States in 2012: New cases: 226,870 (female); 2,190 (male), Deaths: 39,510 (female); 410 (male) (National Cancer Institute)
• Breast cancer incidence and death rates generally increase with age. Ninety-five percent of new cases and 97% of breast cancer deaths occurred in women 40 years of age and older. (American Cancer Society)
• Breast cancer incidence rates are higher in non-Hispanic white women compared to African American women for most age groups. However, African American women have a higher incidence rate before 40 years of age and are more likely to die from breast cancer at every age. (American Cancer Society)
• In the U.S., the 5-year survival rate for all women diagnosed with breast cancer is 90 percent. When breast cancer is found early and confined to the breast, the 5-year relative survival rate today is 99 percent. Most survivors will live a full life and never have a recurrence. (Susan G. Komen For the Cure)

Today's lesson: Socrates said that the unexamined life is not worth living. So give your girls a little squeeze to show them that you care... and see your doctor regularly. (Do the BSE with the ACS!)

Next: The most romantic gift ever.

Micheleancholia

Dürer understands.

I'm currently enjoying a spell of Melancholy. 

Blog posts, you've probably noticed, have been sporadic. My novel, originally slated for publication next Spring, is proving to be more challenging than anticipated and won't be out until Autumn 2013 at the earliest. My cooking has been uninspired and my housekeeping sketchy. Even my hair is as limp and lifeless as the “before” picture in a shampoo ad.

Having read that melancholy was “the condition of having too much black bile," I've been treating it with homeopathic doses of dark chocolate and black coffee. As “black bile” was believed to be secreted by the spleen, I'm also taking care to keep mine well vented by yelling at pundits on talk radio. Mostly, though, I sit in front of a blank page on a screen, waiting for inspiration to again grace me with her presence.

I have no idea how long it will last, but I trust that, as in the past, it will pass. Eventually my humors will balance and realign themselves and the creative impulse will return.

In the meantime, it can be a challenge to “drive the dark of doubt away.” Looking back, all you can see are your mistakes, and it's easy for “It's not there today” to become “Maybe I never had it at all.”
 
Don't give the weird sisters Melancholy, Chagrin, and Regret control of your fate. Screw your courage to the sticking place and tell self-doubt to screw off. Critique the outcome, but don't criticize the effort. Revise your tactics rather than give up your goals. Success isn't guaranteed, but it's a possibility. The path may be paved with rejection, but hearing “No” is better than never hearing anything.  

Display your talents so they can be recognized, remember that vulnerability is a normal byproduct of exposure, and try to keep a good sense of humor.

Today's lesson: I have writer's block.

Next: I have writer's block

Give Peas a Chance

In honor of World Peace Day:

Whirled Peas Soup 

Stock Ingredients:
6 cups water
4 – 6 smoked ham hocks, (depending on size & meatiness)
2 large carrots
3 stalks of celery
3 bay leaves
1 dash of cumin (whole, not ground)
1 dash red pepper flakes
1 dash thyme
Salt and black pepper to taste

In a large pot, add all ingredients and bring to a boil.
Cover and simmer on low for at least 2 hours (vegetables should be squishy and the gelatin mostly cooked out of the hocks).

With a slotted spoon, remove ham hocks and set aside to cool.
Using a large bowl and colander, strain out vegetables, etc. from broth.
Poor stock into large measuring cup, straining a second time with a mesh strainer.
Add water to make 6 cups of liquid.
Rinse out stock pot and return stock.
When cool, shred meat from ham hocks.

Pea Soup 
Ingredients:
6 cups prepared stock
1 pound dried split peas (green or yellow)
Shredded meat from prepared ham hocks

Rinse and sort peas.
Add to stock and bring to a boil.
Reduce heat and add shredded pork.
Cover and simmer, stirring occasionally, until peas have fully dissolved.

Serving suggestions: Goes great with beer bread and sharp cheddar cheese.


Today's lesson: Writer's block... When I can't write, I cook!

Next: See above mention of writer's block...

Vampires vs Superheroes

According to Pop Culture, the two most important and rewarding career paths open to young people today are “Comic Book Superhero” and “Vampire.”

During this Back-to-School period, when so many of our young people are thinking about their futures and weighing the options open to them, I felt it would be appropriate to compare and contrast the these popular choices.

You're welcome.

Comic Book Superheroes	Vampires
“Do-gooder”	“Blood-sucker”
Wardrobe palette: primary colors	Wardrobe palette: black
Flies around helping people	Flies around eating people
Limited to two dimensions	Limited to nighttime
Motivation: early childhood trauma leading to a life of vigilantism	Motivation: hunger
Known associates: police, elderly servants and/or relatives, sexually confused youth	Known associates: other vampires, werewolves, Anna Paquin
Main antagonist: brilliant-but-insane super-villain bent on world domination/destruction	Main antagonist: the sun
Primary Assistant: sidekick	Primary Assistant: minion
Common Habitats: secret lairs, telephone booths, Halls of Justice	Common Habitats: graveyards, mausoleums, sexy goth night clubs
Affinity for long, dramatic capes: Yes	Affinity for long, dramatic capes: Yes
Ability to wear spandex in public without embarrassment	Year-round leather
Potential sex appeal as a Halloween costume: 7	Potential sex appeal as a Halloween costume: 10
View from the Whedonverse: The Avengers	View from the Whedonverse:   Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Best Genre Flick Featuring Rutger Hauer: Batman Begins	Best Genre Flick Featuring Rutger Hauer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
MPAA warning: Violence, Language	MPAA warning: Violence, Language, Nudity, Sexual Situations

Today's lesson: Netflix owns my brain.

Next: Posting will be sketchy for the next week or so, as I'll be in ABQ, NM attempting to eat my weight in green chile. (Any Blake's fans out there?)