LOVE:

Spring Cleaning:

In the spirit of spring cleaning, I have decided to become a minimalist. If I am to be a world traveler and follow summer around the world, I can’t be weighed down by a lifetime of possessions. I was also inspired by a section of Grace Coddington’s memoir where she was dating a Mr. Chow, who was so minimalist that he barely owned a full set of flatware. I don’t think I could ever be that extreme, but the fewer things I have, the calmer I feel. I’ve barely started, but I feel great about my accomplishments so far. Over the weekend, I purged my wardrobe and got rid of maybe a little over a quarter of my clothing. They were things that I never wore anymore and was hanging onto for no good reason. I was very brave and I even donated my vintage Dior suit to charity. It hurt me, yes, and I have had many good times in that suit, but it was taking up space and no amount of tailoring could save it. I kept the vest, though, that still looks smart. I threw half the things out of my drawers, too. I never open them, why should I keep any of that crap? I still have a few thing that I couldn’t bear to toss out, but it’s a start. Today I am going through my CDs. I don’t think I’ll get rid of that many, but there is no point in them anymore, I have everything on the computer. I’m sentimental, though. I needn’t be. This is going to be a learning process, I suppose. It does feel great to be rid of things, though, it’s like losing weight.

“It Might As Well Be Spring”:

I have been meaning to watch State Fair for years. It’s about the Iowa State Fair, which I’ve been to for almost every year of my life. The fair in the film is nothing like the fair we go to anymore. In the movie, they dressed nice and the roller coasters weren’t operated by drug lords and there weren’t gang fights and everybody wasn’t drunk on tap beer, they drank domestic champagne and everything was just much more pleasant. I have no major issues with the process of modernization, but when our civilization becomes so unpleasant, I take issue. Anyway, that has nothing to do with this entry. At the very beginning, the main character sighs and sings this song.

It’s as if it were written for me, as if my very life gave the inspiration. The song could be my biography. I mean let’s look at a sampling of the lyrics…

“The things I used to like, I don’t like any more,

I want a lot of other things I’ve never had before.”

“Pretending that I am so wonderful and knowing I’m adored.”

“I’m as restless as a willow in a windstorm.”

“I’d say that I had spring fever,

But I know it isn’t spring.”

“I’m as starry eyed and gravely discontented.”

“I keep wishing I were somewhere else,

Walking down a strange new street,

Hearing words I have never never heard,

From a man I’ve yet to meet.”

Did I write this song in a past life? How do they know me so well? So, I’ve replayed it a million times while whimsically sighing and staring out my window. My life could easily be a mash up musical of all the broadway songs I love. I’m not sure how we are going to add in “Buenos Aires,” though. I may need to go to Argentina just to have an excuse for my future biographical off broadway show. Speaking of biographical shows, did you know Dawn French is putting together a show where she has a Jennifer Saunders puppet? I know! I die!

Going Home After Work:

You all know that I’m not physically able to work, right? I think it goes against my personal biology. It’s poor for my health to make me wake up before ten or eleven. I need my rest. I’m a night person. I don’t want to miss out on the darkness or the warm sunshine of the afternoon. I’m only twenty-three and I’m already eagerly anticipating retirement and or my marriage to somebody very rich with a very bad heart. (Just kidding, if you’re reading this my future very rich marriage partner! Buy me some new shoes?) I don’t dislike my job, most days, I just dislike working. It’s against my nature. I’m a creative person. It’s hard to be creative when you get home and need to take care of every day business and then take a nap so that you have enough energy to make it until bedtime a few hours later. Le sigh…so, I love quitting time. I love going back home to where I can amuse myself and do the things I like to do.

The Art of Drag:

I have been having a difficult time adjusting to the sale of my grandmother’s house. I grew up there and it’s hard for me to imagine a complete stranger living there, sitting in the dining room, cooking in the kitchen, and walking around that yard enjoying the irises and lily of the valley that I love so very much. It just feels wrong to me, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I can’t afford to buy the house and we can’t afford to keep it and if I were going to spend upwards of fifty thousand dollars, that is not the property it would be on. So, I suppose I should just get over it. Anyway, the other day, Jose and I went over to clean out one of the rooms that haven’t really been touched since she left. As we crossed the road, a car pulled in and I kind of felt like somebody stabbed me. It was a realtor who had arrived to show the house to a client and I couldn’t stand for them to walk around the property and ask unimportant questions about septic tanks. Aren’t the flowers more important? They finally left. I hated them. So, as Jose and I tossed mountain after mountain of old Avon junk into the dumpster, we couldn’t help but apply some of the makeup to ourselves. You all know what one of my favorite shows is, right? RuPauls’s Drag Race!

It’s the greatest thing on television at the moment and I can’t get enough of it. The culture of drag is one of my favorites and I adore the performers in that world. So, I grabbed a bunch of samples, as did my brother, and in my grandmother’s old mirror, we painted our faces. I drew on a Joan Crawford like face with exaggerated lips and eyebrows and I blended my cheekbones to high heaven. I was rather delighted by it all. It was fun to turn into somebody else. After putting our faces on, we rummaged through the clothes, and I’m not going to lie, I look great in a blue polka dotted dress I found from the fifties as seen above. Odd though this may seem to you, it’s kind of a fitting tribute to that house which I soon won’t be able to enjoy. I don’t have many memories of my childhood, but one thing I remember very clearly is all of the makeup samples she would always have and let me play with. I wasn’t applying it correctly back then, it was more just like my face was a canvas and I had a lot of paint and no idea what I was doing. I’m sure there are pictures in a box somewhere. I had a lot of fun. I also had several looks:

This is my sleazy movie premiere ensemble, and Jose is modeling the futuristic whore outfit.

This is my slutty Sophia Loren look and Jose is demonstrating androgyny based on Qui Êtes-Vous Polly Maggoo? 

Lemons:

Me. Or:

I love lemons so much that I might put Giada to shame. She thinks she can take a deep breath of lemon zest and say, “AHHHHHH,” with more conviction than me. She’s wrong. There ain’t nobody that love lemons more than me. I could eat lemon desserts all day long and drink lemonade all day long and if I had enough miracle fruit, I would eat lemon slices like a grapefruit day long. Last night I made gâteau le weekend for the coffee shop and I about orgasmed when I had a piece. It was so freaking amazing. I haven’t had a piece in years and I have no idea why. I would buy the occasional slice when I came across them in the boulangeries of Paris, but that was sadly infrequent. I have the feeling that I’m going to be making a lot of these and then freezing them and then eating them with a glass of lady earl grey tea. I can’t freaking wait! I used the recipe from Le Cordon Bleu and just could not have been happier with the results. I wish I had some more to eat when I get home, but I sold it all. Maybe I’ll stop at the grocery store and get a few more lemons and make another batch while we are throwing more into the dumpster. It might cheer me up a bit.

HATE:

Writing Manuscript Queries: 

I have finally finished what I believe is my fourth draft of my first novel, Terrible Miss Margo, and I am quite stressed over it. I know what I have to do now, but this process is so new to me that I feel awfully inadequate. It’s basically impossible to publish without having a literary agent, so I need to get one of them. Do you know how many there are? I  have spent hours scouring the Internet for names and businesses and felt like drinking a bottle of whiskey and not waking up for a couple weeks. I finally looked through my personal library and picked out my favorite books and found that my favorite author, Elizabeth Kostova, is represented by Amy Williams. So, I’m writing to her first. I may as well start trying at the top, you know? Even if she rejects me, which seems likely (this is a stupid business) it still shows that I was trying. Now that I’ve chosen somebody to write to, I have to write the actual query. Good God! It’s the worst thing I’ve ever done. It’s more tedious than writing a novel. You have to properly address who you’re writing to without simpering, you have to hook their attention, you have to give a synopsis of your plot in the voice of your novel in one paragraph (which seems impossible to me) then you have to give a sale’s pitch. I’m exhausted. Besides all that, it has to fit on a single piece of paper with standard industry formatting. To add to all that annoyance, there is a lot of disparate information available. Some say to write as a business letter while others way to align all your paragraphs to the left margin. Every single word and period and comma and dash is vitally important because you have to convince the agent that your manuscript is not a waste of time, is good, and that you have an idea of what you’re doing. But I haven’t a clue! I’ll be working on this a few weeks. I don’t want to self publish, but I will if it becomes necessary.

People Who Don’t Wrap Vacuum Cords:

Nobody in my family believes in wrapping up the vacuum after they use it. This drives me very nearly to the brink of insanity. Haven’t they ever seen the little clip that is right next to the plug that holds the cords together? Haven’t they ever suffered the painful three minutes it takes to untangle the knotted cords? Do they actually vacuum? Not really, it’s just me. Vacuuming isn’t any fun, admittedly, and carpet is gross, which is why I’ve removed about fifty percent of the carpet here. As I slowly redecorate the remaining rooms, be prepared to say farewell to the remaining nasty carpet. I hate carpet with a passion. So, yesterday when I was in a fanatical mood to get rid of all the box elder bugs swarming around my kitchen windows, I was very upset when I had to waste time getting the cord untangled. People were cursed out in my mind. Then, I took the fifteen seconds it takes to wrap the cord when I was done. It’s easy. It makes the world a better place. Unwrapped vacuum cords are the end of civilization.

No Big Airports Near Me:

We are finally getting more and more super cheap airlines here in America like they’ve had for an eternity over in Europe. Europe is just better with their bullet trains and bakeries and delightful languages and all the seas. I love a good sea. Sadly, though, for me, there aren’t a great number of flights to interesting places from the biggest airport for hundreds and hundreds of miles around here. Des Moines has a nice airport, but there is just not much variety. We do have Allegiant, and you can find some good deals on there, and I do have a $160 credit. I may have to go to Vegas for the weekend soon. That sounds like a really good idea, actually. I just wish that Des Moines would have more carriers like Spirit or something where I could just go jetting off to someplace fun, like Buenos Aires without having to transfer four times and sell a pint of my blood on the black market into pay for it.

Interesting Uglies:

Because I’m truly a mean girl at heart, I enjoy judging people based on their personal appearance, and therefore, it always throws me for a loop when I discover that sometimes, ugly people have interesting lives and decent personalities.

I won’t say who or where, but yesterday, I avoided a gentleman for the longest time because he was balding and had his remaining wisps of hair braided and pulled back into a ponytail. He didn’t dress nice, hadn’t updated his glasses since the eighties, and had hair coming out of his nose. I just assumed he would be dull and creepy. But, since I’m also the nicest guy in the world, I asked him about his day which started a discussion and I learned that he is a practicing archaeologist. I haven’t a clue how he got to where I met him, but I had a great time discussing this with him. You know how archaeology, especially Egyptology, has long been one of my passions. As a youth there were very few things I could picture myself being. I’ll list them: Egyptologist, French teacher, big cat handler, beloved author, and model. Alas, I’m none of those. But I kind of learned a lesson, you shouldn’t judge people because you might miss out on a very interesting conversation about pre-Columbian arrowheads and where you can find the remains of the second Fort Des Moines. But still, even if these people are interesting, don’t go out in public with them! Don’t take this too far!

The Imminent End of the Amelia Peabody Series:

Look, I don’t know what I’m going to do in a month or so when I finish the last book in my favorite series. I’ll probably weep and stay in bed for days not able to do anything but take little sips of tea and sleep. I will be crushed emotionally and spiritually and when I finally find the strength to carry on with my life, I will have to write an impassioned letter to the author begging her to write another, though I know what a huge amount of research and energy goes into writing and she’s rather advanced in years. These books have been the highlight of my day this year. I read a chapter every day and find myself back to where I should have been–in a clever family of archaeologists in Victorian Egypt and England. I’m not meant for these times. I miss the days I was never able to see. I finished one installment yesterday and had to contain myself when Amelia was shot and nearly died. What am I going to do if she does in a future book? About five years ago, Sylvia Browne told me that I needed to move to Hollywood and peruse a career in film production. Maybe my life’s purpose is to guide these magnificent novels onto the screen? My dream is actually to create a very well done miniseries with them. I think it would be incredibly popular. The books are filled with mystery, romance, quick wit, and engaging characters. What’s not to love? This needs to happen. Don’t steal from me, Hollywood! Involve me in future projects. I think I’ll die if I don’t have some kind of Amelia to sustain my cravings for ancient Egypt.

LOVE:

Cheerios:

Since I was very young, I have been madly in love with Cheerios. I don’t like any other cereal. I find them all repugnant. Why do people want to eat sugar glazed flakes every day? I don’t. I want to have something with grains and delicious like Cheerios. A few years back, I had a case of gastritis — a very aristocratic ailment, mind you (Queen Elizabeth suffered from it recently) — and all that I could consume was my favorite cereal. I had a good time and lost a bit of weight. In hopes of repeating that success, I’ve decided to re-adopt the diet this week. I don’t think I could remain sane with just Cheerios and water, though, so I’ve added the following: peanuts, juice, espresso/tea, and Smarties. I’m not going to be happy without chocolate and cheese, but I will make it through. I know it might seem strange, but I’m looking forward to a massive bowl of Cheerios for dinner. I don’t eat them with milk, I shovel them into my gullet quite dry — much like an animal at a trough.

Author! Author! Blog:

I know that I keep going on and on about working on queries and manuscripts and all sorts of tedious things that go into trying to get a novel published, but I find it fascinating in a rather painful way. It isn’t exactly fun to edit a draft. It is fun, though, to learn about all the things I had done wrong. When I first wrote my manuscript, I made it look like an actual book. I found a specific font and a specific page size and thought that I was all kinds of professional, but thank Allah, I found the Author! Author! Blog. It has restructured my brain and shown me how professionals do their work. I like to see what I do and create look proper, so, I have read and read dozens of the surely thousands of lengthy articles on all matters of writing and publishing tips. I’m kind of obsessed and feel much more confident in my writing now after reading it. I can’t believe what a mess I had before.

Colonel Meow:

I, like every other decent humor loving citizen of earth, am obsessed with Grumpy Cat. Who could resist that sad face, piercing eyes, and compact body shape? Nobody, I say!

Well, little did I know that there were other celebrity felines out in the memeosphere (I just made that word up, I like it, it’s the Internet world of memes. Loves it!) Last week, I discovered Colonel Meow and he has quickly skyrocketed to equal Grumpy Cat as the feline of my passionate obsession. Look at him! What is he? Is he a Persian? Is he a hybrid of the fluffiest creatures ever conceived? Where do I adopt his spawn? He’s the most evil cat on the planet and I love him dearly. I want to cuddle with him all day long and do his bidding and be his slave. Taken out of context, that would look a bit crazy. I’m sure my political adversaries will some day be delighted to come across this gem and use it as propaganda against me. I will overcome their cruel libel and with Colonel Meow as my guiding force, I will win whatever it is I’m trying to win — I assume the presidency. The West Wing is going to get one hell of a redesign. Martha Stewart will be my advisor. It will be like Christmas every day.

Vetiver Vert Cologne by Czech & Speake:

In my ongoing quest to find my new signature fragrance, this is the one currently at the top of my list. It’s expensive, but I should be able to pick up a bottle in New York City when I’m there this summer. Still working out the kinks on that one. I don’t want to spend too much money, but, you know, it’s New York. And, if there’s anything I love it’s shopping followed by eating in fancy restaurants followed by another restaurant and then a new pair of shoes. I need a high paying job. How does one become a Kardashian? One of life’s eternal mysteries, I suppose, the injustice of being clever, pretty, and adventurous without having the creative outlet to apply these gifts. Le sigh… What am I writing about…cologne, yes. I’m wearing Dior right now, but I think I applied a smidgen too much in my fatigued primping this morning. It smells lovely, but it has an undertone of lilac muddled with carcass. Not exactly appealing, you know? It lasts a long time, though, and that is the main thing that I’m looking for in my signature scent. My Chanel did not last more than half the day and that was unacceptable. Vetiver Vert, on the other hand, lasts and lasts and I love the way it smells. I don’t really know how to describe the scent to you — it’s rich and masculine and clean and I wish they made scratch and sniff computer screens. I’m going to definitely get a bottle soon, when I’m not destitute after paying off the last bit of my European Thanksgiving. I can’t wait to have to pay for New York and Christmas in Cairo!

Beyoncé’s “Grown Woman:”

My adoration for Beyoncé is known to all and it should come as no shock to you that I am obsessed with her new song. It hasn’t been released, yet; all we have is this low-quality footage from her concert in Paris:

I need to control myself. Can you imagine anything more divine than attending a Beyoncé concert in Paris where she debuted a new song that is sure to be my new treadmill jam? I’d die. I’d just die. I’ve already planned my day. I’d wake, stretch luxuriously and after getting myself into a simple, but elegant outfit, I’d walk down to my favorite boulangerie, Miss Manon. I’d chat with the staff a bit then take a croissant, tart, and coffee out to a table where I’d read my emails while being fully content with life. I’d stroll along the river, picking up trinkets and interesting little things at the Bouquinistes stalls that line the Seine. I’d cut across the Tuileries and head onto the Rue Saint-Honore to do some shopping for the concert. I’m sure I’d find something to wear at the new Karl Lagerfeld shop — perhaps fingerless gloves and a shirt with Karl’s face on it? I’d stop by the Marché aux Fleurs for some postcards, a bouquet, and perhaps a canary on my way back to the apartment and get myself all dolled up. Dinner at Café de Flore, where I’d surely bump into somebody in the fashion industry, and then hit the metro to Bercy. Ah, life would be grand. Beysus Christ, my lord and light, mother of the born again savior, Blue Ivy, please release your new album on the world so that we may sing your praises and worship your holy message to dance.

HATE:

Manuscript Revision: 

I have discovered that there is actually something worse than hearing your own voice, it’s reading your own writing! I’ve grown accustomed to the annoying sound my voice makes on recordings — I’m to the point where it no longer irritates me, yet still causes an occasional grimace. You can’t grow accustomed to writing, though. Some days my prose is quite nice and other days it’s as awkward and uncomfortable as a camel race. I’ve sadly never taken part in a camel race so I’m not sure this simile is accurate, but I can only imagine it would be awkward and uncomfortable. I thought that I had finished my last edit of Terrible Miss Margo, but I realize now that I’m only in the beginning stages. Even after I edit it enough to feel confident enough to send it to agents, I’ve read that they will still expect it to be further tweaked and enhanced before they submit to editors and publishers. Last night I started a really intense edit. I’m trying to read it as if it is not my own work and that’s been quite helpful, but it’s still rather stressful. I’m doing ten pages a day. Hopefully I’m making the right choices and editing correctly and using the right punctuation marks. Do you know how stressful a dash is? (Very.)

Insomnia:

If sleep and I were married, I would file for a divorce and say that he abused me. That was an odd introduction. I have always had trouble sleeping, but had been doing better lately. Annoyingly, my old insomnia is back. I don’t know what causes it. I’m not too much more stressed than normal, I don’t have anything extraordinary on my mind — I just cannot stop thinking. My very active imagination has always plagued me. When I close my eyes I begin fantasizing about a vast array of situations. Last night I was wandering around a souk in Cairo and then delivering an impassioned speech at Congress and then renovating the summer kitchen. I wish I had this much energy when I was up and about. In the day, I’m all:  No! I’m doing nothing. As soon as it’s time for reasonable people to go to bed, I’m finally ready to begin my day and it’s awfully annoying. I need a job where I work at night. It’s surely something chemical, so I could probably take pills, but then I would have to go to a doctor and I rarely go to doctors. Nothing against them, just not something I do.

Exercise:

I tried and I tried and then I tried again, but I’m just not an exercise person. I don’t like flailing my limbs about in the vain hope that a muscle will form there. I have seen the results of exercise — I have three abs, mind you — but getting them has not ever been a pleasant endeavor. Sweating is for peasants! Since I consider myself one of the gentry, I don’t take kindly to push-ups and crunches and all manner of Draconian tortures. Much like my should-be BFF Joan Rivers once said, “If God wanted me to bend over, he would have put diamonds on the ground.” Girl, I feel you. Now, don’t be me wrong, I do enjoy a hearty walk and a jaunt on my bicycle around the countryside, but beyond that it seems far too cruel. People who say they love the gym, for example — really? You love sweating it up on an elliptical? Nobody actually does. People are liars, as we all know to be true. I understand that endorphins are released with exercise that put people in a good mood, but, do you know what else makes me feel good? Chocolate. Cheese. Bread. Tanning. Baking. Eating, in general.

Team Jinkx or Team Alaska:

Let’s take a moment to appreciate the genius of this image. I can’t get over it! Onwards…

I’m really stressed out, guys. In less than two weeks, we will know the winner of this season of RuPaul’s Drag Race, the most important reality competition in the history of television. I live for this show. It brings me such unbridled joy. I have loved it from the moment I laid eyes on it and I have never faltered in my devotion. This season is just as amazing as the rest have been, and I’m thrilled that my two favorites, Jinkx and Alaska, have made it to the final three — odds are in favor of one of them winning, so I’m glad. I’m torn, though, about who I want to win most. All season, I’ve been rooting for Jinkx — I chatted with David Sedaris about this just a few weeks back. We were both hoping she’d get the crown, but, I love Alaska. She is so funny and I love the hooker look she does and I think she’s a confident performer. Jinkx, too, is amazing — I mean, after that Little Eddie bit she pulled — how could she not win? So, if one of these two wins, I’ll be glad. I am already anxious for the next season to begin. I just love drag queens so much!

How do I pick?

Period Spacing:

This conundrum is driving me absolutely mental. I have heard the arguments for both sides and have still to make my decision. I have always inserted one space after a period. To me, it looks fine and makes perfect sense. To others, though, it is absolutely sacrilegious and they look down upon you as if you’re an untrained heathen. Now, for the matters of my website, and anywhere on the Internet, I believe, it doesn’t matter how many spaces you insert, something about the HTML coding readjusts it to one space. Confused? I am. I tried once to understand HTML, but I gave up about ten minutes in, why not just write what you want to appear and have it appear. Whatever happened to copy and paste? I can’t be alone here. Generally, this kind of thing wouldn’t bother me whatsoever, but I’m very determined to look professional when I submit my manuscript to literary agents — if they want to see it at all, that is! This is much more work than I even thought it would be, and I thought it would be next to impossible. Now, I’m all — I don’t want to get into it, it will only depress me — hopeful that I’m good enough to just get a manuscript request. I’ve read that editors like double spaces because it lets them have more room to make notes and I’ve read that editors get pissed at double spaces because they have to reformat later. It’s all stressful. After taking a poll and asking various acquaintances, I have decided to go for a double space in my manuscript. I thought it was going to be a pain, but I remembered my favorite word processing trick — find and replace! You tell it to look for a period followed by one space and replace it with a period followed by two, click go and you’re done. Easy. I still confused about which is proper, but a long as I stick to one, I hope that will be acceptable.

[Advance warning: this is a long one. Also, support my hypothetical gubernatorial campaign!]

I was born at the wrong time. I’ve always known this. I long for the olden days — not too far back, mind you, but the 1930s onwards. It would have been more fun and I think I could have made something of myself in a way that I can’t figure out now.

I heard an expression once that went something like this:  ”I was sixty before I was sixteen.” I loved it then and love it now. I am only now becoming young. For the past two decades I’ve been an old man. Don’t know why, it’s just the way I am. STOP EVERYTHING! MANDATORY DOLLY INTERLUDE!

Lord, don’t you just adore her? If you don’t, you’re wrong, you know? She’s the queen of my heart. Beyoncé the queen of my soul. Can you even imagine what would happen if they did a duet? My mind just orgasmed.

Anyway, I feel that I properly should have been born in 1910 in England to a titled family of rich explorers. In my youth we went all over the Empire — from Egypt to Nepal to a ill-conceived expedition to the Antarctic that left my father mortally ill and left me in charge of the family fortune. In 1930, after finishing my education at Oxford and tired of my existence, I should have embarked on a ship for New York City, where, given my familial name and loads of cash, I would have installed myself as a beloved socialite known the country over for my lavish parties in my penthouse and my good looks. Something like this would take place:

Then I’d probably join in this parade:

Tired again of this existence, I should have taken my own plane and flown out to Hollywood around 1937 where I would have installed myself in the newly flourishing city and found a delightful career in the movie business. A jack of all trades, I suppose. Acting a bit, directing some, writing lots, and being in all the magazines as an obscure and delightful English aristocrat with a lifetime achievement award from the Academy. I’d look something like this:

Yes, I would be William Powell.

Around 1970 when cinema turned to shit, I should have taken myself into retirement in Paris where I remained until my rather recent death of 2011. Over the following decades I didn’t sit idly by, mind you. I travelled the world over during the brutal Parisian winters. I smuggled a lion cub into France from one of my safari expeditions.

More like this, probably, though:

I knew India like the back of my hand. The Japanese would go into a frenzy when I came to Kyoto for the cherry blossom festivals. The Czar of Russia was a dear friend. I had a weekend home in the Czech countryside. I died one day, quite all of a sudden on my daily walk through the Jardin des Tuileries, clutching a poppyseed baguette to my breast. You can now visit my sepulchre in Père Lachaise. I’ll leave the door open. Do come in for tea. I’d like that.

Anyway, that’s what my life should have been. It’s not how it turned out, obviously and that does rather piss me off, but in my mind — that’s all real. I miss the history I never had, and that is why I would love to see these following old habits and customs and things come back to us in our modern times. Please do enjoy. And dress up to read this blog, I don’t want you sitting around in sweatpants, peasant. I don’t even want to think about it!

1. Saying “dahling” in everyday language with a Talluluh Bankhead accent.

Nobody calls each other darling anymore and I think that’s awfully tragic. It’s so chic to call somebody a doll or a dear or a darling or a dearie. It’s even more chic to do it with an affected accent and perhaps with a cigarette smoldering betwixt your fingers. “Dahling,” you purr to the person you want to do something for you, “would you be a doll and bring me a martini? Two olives. Thank you dearie.” We don’t have anything like that anymore. It’s more along the lines of, “BITCH BRING ME SOME BEER! *belch*” I cringe at the modern world. We should all be talking nonsense with the strange accents of 1930s Hollywood.

2. Elegant train travel.

Travel these days is so demodé. There is no class anymore. Nowadays, I’m the only man in a suit on the planes and get looked at oddly. When did sweatpants and basketball shorts become something acceptable to be seen outside of the gym? I don’t think they ever did and that has made the world a tragic place. Don’t you dare tell me that you enjoy people watching at the airport — you might watch in horror, but you don’t take pleasure in people’s attire. In the olden days you would take the overnight train from Los Angeles — never LA, always the full name — to New York where you would exit into Grand Central dripping in fur and jewels and your porter would carry your luggage to the taxi where your dear friends would be waiting for you shouting, “Dahling! Let’s go and get a martini. My how you look divine!” We don’t even have a passenger train going through Des Moines anymore — not to my knowledge at least. There are talks of getting a high speed train from Chicago to Des Moines. I am in full favor of this. We need so much more public transportation! It’ll be the cornerstone of my eventual gubernatorial campaign. But I haven’t gotten my hopes up because people are lazy and trains aren’t classy anymore. The last train I was on got me all excited for the lounge because there was a martini glass with an arrow leading you there. They didn’t serve martinis. They served frozen hamburgers that they blasted in a microwave. I turned up my nose and left, passing by the piss-covered lavatories. What is wrong with people?

3. A time when sweatpants didn’t exist.

Believe it or not, but people actually used to attempt to look nice. They didn’t parade around in public in the worst attires they could possibly throw together. I think there is an effort going around to look as trashy as possible. I will never join in on this travesty. I think poor dressing is a reason most people are depressed. You feel good when you look good. So, lose weight, buy a suit, or a dress, or both if you’re of a mind to, and pretty yourself up before heading to the shops. I do hope you go to shops plural and make days out of shopping excursions. That helps the economy and you get lots of lovely bags. Anyway, I’m constantly appalled when I see people out in public like this:

An excellent message there. Don’t give up. With a little primping you can be beautiful, too. Take it from me, a man who used to be hideous.

4. Madcap cocktail parties.

First thing’s first, we need to bring back my favorite word, MADCAP. Have you used it within your lifetime? Probably not and I think that’s another global travesty. Do you even know what it means? Say that you do, please!

madcap |ˈmadˌkap| adjective, amusingly eccentric: done or thought up without considering the consequences; crazy or reckless

Good word isn’t it? I thought you’d agree. Anyway, nobody throws cocktail parties anymore and that’s a crime against society. I can’t imagine how much better the world would be if we had regular cocktail parties. I’m going to diverge. I was born with the Internet and I think that was both a blessing and a curse. It opened the world to me in a way that no previous generation could possibly imagine, but also became isolating. The Internet became a friend to everybody I grew up with and we connected to each other through it instead of through each other. As time goes on and technology grows, it becomes worse/better. Now we just text or message each other. People don’t even take the time to email these days. But, if we had regular cocktail parties, we could get together and socialize and drink and laugh about the word cocktail. Maybe that’s just me? I think they’d be a riot. I’m going to bring them back some day.

5. Society pages.

What ever happened to society pages? How do we keep up with socialites? Oh yeah, that’s right, we don’t have them anymore — they became the Kardashians. Le sigh… I think it would be marvelous to gossip about real people that were a part of your life instead of millionaires we’re probably not going to meet. You aren’t, I mean, I have aspirations. I love slander and lies and filthy gossip and I think it would be an incredibly good time to be written about scandalously in the local society page. Don’t you? Maybe not. Probably why we don’t have society pages anymore.

6. Shoe shiners, and the shoes needing shined.

At one point in history, there was a time when people actually wore nice shoes every day. They wouldn’t parade about in Crocs and Vans and those ridiculous excuse of footwear called Toms. I refuse to believe Vans and Toms are anything more than heavy-duty house slippers. What ever happened to house slippers!?!? And Crocs should be banished. They make sense for walking along the beach — but why not go barefoot, so much more romantic — or for working in the garden, but they should not be worn in the restaurants. Have you seen the people that put little decorative bits and bobs on them? They make me ill. SICK TO MY STOMACH. People need to wear nice shoes again to go with the suits and dresses and pantsuits and decent attire they’re going to start donning again after reading this post. This will boost the economy because cobblers and shoeshiners will be back in business. Thank you very much, vote for me for governor. We’re going to have a good time, Iowa.

7. Pomade.

I’m just going to come out and say it:  men today look like shit. Utter and total shit. For some reason it’s gay to look good. You know what is gay, kissing boys. End of story. Looking nice is nice! Grow your hair out, give it some style, give it some class. Take five minutes in the morning and brush it. Groom your facial hair, if you have it. The stubble look is fine if you can pull it off. If you can’t, shave it. Buy some pomade, slick back your hair, feel dapper, enjoy your life.

8. Gorgeous public architecture and stunning private design.

Public buildings and private homes used to be gorgeous. They weren’t identical bores. A week or so ago, I drove past a housing development and wanted to collapse in a heap and weep. There was no soul and no heart and no character and no joy. It was like being stuck in an endless loop, the only variation being the kind of fencing. Some had that prison-like metal link shit and others had plastic meant to look like a white picket fence. It was tragic. In the past, buildings like this one above were normal. Elegant moulding and plastered walls were to be expected. A marble floor would not raise an eyebrow. Now you go into a new home and fear that you’re going to tear the cheap carpet or dent the wall when you jubilantly throw open the hollow-core door. Oh, reader, living in one of those homes must put a person on suicide watch. I couldn’t do it. Let’s bring back stunning buildings that are worth standing up for centuries, not what we can put up on the cheap. It might take some more tax money, but wouldn’t you rather be surrounded by art than sadness? I would.

9. Victory gardens.

People are gardening more these days, but I don’t think it’s as common an endeavor as we are led to believe. When I go on my annual fifty-mile bicycle ride, I pass through a lot of backyards and see the weed patches that are called gardens. Everybody gets excited to plant and grow their own tomatoes, but soon the weather and the bugs and work becomes too much and we go to Walmart for our potatoes. It’s sad really. Many people have backyards and even people who live in cities can have window boxes. It’s not hard to grow a tomato and a bit of basil. It’s not hard to plant a crop of potatoes. I love the idea of a victory garden and I think we should really push to have more of them — not reprints of classic victory garden posters. I’m so sick of vintage. Actually bring vintage back if you love it!

10. Joan Crawford and her ilk.

We don’t have movie stars anymore. We just have sluts on parade. That’s what the old stars were, too, mind you, and I applaud them, but they had publicity. They also had class. You wouldn’t see Joan Crawford going to the gym in sweats and Uggs — I forgot to mention that horror story earlier. You wouldn’t see a tweet from Bette Davis calling Jean Arthur ugly. They would think it of each other, but you wouldn’t see it. Interviews would be charming and thought-provoking, not some poorly told story about that one time so and so got high at the club and got into a fender bender with a paparazzi. When I’m famous, I’m going to be the classiest bitch in town in my custom suit, slicked back hair, hosting my weekly cocktail parties with my fans — whom I shan’t be afraid of and plan on returning every fan letter. Did you know that Meryl Streep, whom I admire, doesn’t respond to fan mail! I was so upset by this. How ungrateful! Bring back classy stars like Joan and Bette and Jean and Cary and Myrna and William and all the rest.

11. Elegant evenings on the town.

People don’t go out and have a nice time anymore. Now it’s all about whoring yourself up and getting drunk at a bar. This applies to both sexes. It’s sad and there’s no fun in sweating in a club when a meth addict starts grinding on you. Trust me on this. People used to put on suits and dresses and go dancing. They’d listen to a lounge singer and make pleasant chitchat. They’d have thoughts and ideas and everybody could rhumba. I don’t have a clue how to rhumba. I can barely waltz. It’s a tragedy, reader, and I think we can all agree on that. Wouldn’t it be nice to go out in your nicest shoes with people you love talking to, drink too much pink champagne, and cha cha until three in the morning? I think so.

12. Cursive penmanship and letter writing.

Nobody can write anymore. Adults write like children and children write like animals. At work, I can rarely decipher the sentences they struggle to scratch out. I was horrified when they stopped teaching cursive. It’s an archaic, yes, but necessary skill! Teach typing and cursive at the same time, why not? I’m so confused with where the world is going. I struggled to write beautifully in cursive, but now I can do it with ease. This is an art that we are close to losing and it needs to return pronto. I love when I get a card from my grandmother because she has the prettiest penmanship. I’m jealous of it. So many loops! If people knew how to write, maybe they’d write letters again. When was the last time you received a letter? Was it in this decade? The last piece of personal correspondence that I received was in January — well-written, too, so I cherish it with almost maniacal pride. I love writing letters, but nobody responds. People don’t even take the time to write proper emails anymore, like I said before. I received a text once that read something like this: “r u there ;))))) itll b gr8″ What is that even supposed to mean? When did these hieroglyphs start passing for English? So, start practicing your cursive, start writing letters — people love getting letters! I don’t know anybody who would be annoyed to receive a letter. Hell, send me one and I’ll write back. I’ll be your pen pal if it helps you write better.

13. Chain gangs.

I honestly don’t know if we have chain gangs anymore. Probably not. Prisoners are so whiny. I don’t know what they’re complaining about, at least they haven’t been gassed, yet. Prisoners are an undervalued resource in this nation. We have the highest incarceration rate in the world! There are 2,266,800 prisoners right now just begging to feel accomplished. Instead of letting them make shivs out of cigarette butts and fight gang wars, make them make things! Think of all the free labor! Think of prisoners as cash (as long as you treat them humanely, of course). You could rent out prisoners and open up safer sweat shops. Think of the economy! Yes, there will be displaced workers when their jobs are replaced by convicts, but as governor, I will find them new jobs. The shoe industry is going to be massive, remember? And I haven’t even brought up my fashion police innovation. We’re going to fine people for sweatpants. Five dollars for each offense. Uggs are ten. Exposed flabby flesh is fifteen. If you’re fit, you can show as much skin as you want. Keep the genitals covered, though, cheers. Anyway, chain gangs need to be reinstated for the good of America.

14. Chivalrous and gallant antebellum South.

Not a lot of you are going to agree with this one, but I adore the old south and wish it hadn’t gone off so badly. Slavery was awful, yes, but with the industrial revolution and all, I say with considerable confidence that it wouldn’t have lasted much longer than it did. As if the Civil War were about slavery, but don’t get me started. I had a relative in yesteryear who had a plantation and I like to think of myself at the ancestral home (I need to find out if it’s still around), sipping a mint julep on the porch, smoking a cigar (which you don’t actually smoke, did you know?), going horseback riding, wearing a top hat which you tip at the ladies, there would be lots of bourbon, wild nights in New Orleans, socializing at a barbecue, having a mammy, daydreaming about Ashley Wilkes, trying to deny your newly discovered passion for Rhett Butler…hold on, I’ve gone all Gone With the Wind on you. I love that book. Let’s bring back the good old days of the South.

15. Zest for life.

This image is a terrible example, but it showed up in my Google search and it made me laugh, and it kind of works, so I’m throwing it in. After chain gangs and an old South revival, I’ve probably lost my campaign chances, so screw it! Back in the olden times, the early 20th century mainly, it seems people had a zest for life and an eagerness for the future. They would find any job they could and work to move up. They weren’t forced into college from the time they were in elementary school, they could work as vacuum salespersons or encyclopedia dealers. They’d move up a chain based on merits not certification. It seems a more honest system where people were given a fair chance. Nothing’s fair anymore and everything’s impossible. Admit it, reader, it’s true. You can’t follow your dreams anymore  because you can’t afford your dreams. You can’t do what you really want because society will judge you. You can’t be yourself because it is not normal to be yourself. It’s normal to be somebody else. It’s normal not to know what you like and what your passions are. It’s normal to be a boring clone. Back then, that didn’t seem to be the case. Farm boys would throw down their shovels and say, “I’m going to Broadway!” Then their grandmothers, who always harbored dreams of a better life, secretly give them fifty dollars for a train ticket and room for a few months (fifty bucks could get you the world) and off they’d go. They would work and work as a stagehand and a ticket taker, but eventually Mr. Ziegfeld would see them and they’d be doing a duet with Fanny Brice before turning into an alcoholic, but they’d recover and have more fame. Yes I just blended Funny Girl and A Star is Born, but so what, who cares? I have dreams, I have aspirations, I have goals, I have plans…but they’re so hard to make come true. Let’s bring back carefree hope.

SO, the world isn’t as awful as I might think it is, we’ve got a lot of good things like:  Beyoncé, equal rights (kind of), iPads, fast airplanes, vaccines, Target, espresso machines, and rare cat breeds — but we could make the world so much better by incorporating the past into the present. Just because we’ve moved forward doesn’t mean we have to forget the past!

LOVE:

Piano Songs I Can Actually Play:

For some reason, people think that I am musical. Yes, I was the best clarinetist at Perry Schools for six years and yes I took piano lessons for longer than that and yes I took all the music classes available and even insisted on having more, but I am not very talented at music. I’m much more talented in convincing people that I’m talented. It’s a gift. Very few people saw through my charade, so I’m rather proud. I always wanted to be good at the piano, but I never had the inclination. I enjoy playing piano, but I don’t enjoy lessons. I don’t like lessons on anything! I loathe being taught. I like learning all by my lonesome. That’s how I’m most successful I’ve discovered. But, I took lessons for a good long time, faking my way through it for over half a decade. My piano teacher always, I think, thought highly of my abilities even though I rarely gave her reason to believe in them. Good of her. I just was never into it. I didn’t want to learn theories. I don’t care about knowing how to transpose music from one key to one with seventeen flats. That’s not real, I’m not that musically illiterate. The most is seven. #boom! I didn’t want to memorize scales and I didn’t want to play Bach. I wanted to play popular music and that’s it. So, I didn’t really put much effort into my piano education. Sad, that. I recently rediscovered my interest in it, though, when I was rummaging around some old sheet music in an antique store. See, I listen to music from yesteryear just as much, if not more, than current popular music. I’m well-versed in popular music, so when I saw old songs that I loved for piano, I bought them. I stockpiled them. Recently, I decided to actually learn how to play the songs in case I am ever asked to tickle the ivories at one of those elegant cocktail parties nobody hosts anymore. As I said in a prior post, LET’S BRING COCKTAIL PARTIES BACK! I have chosen three to learn so far and I think I’m doing a rather excellent job. Oddly, though, I can’t play happy songs, I have a melancholy soul, it seems, so the sad songs are the ones I do best at. Right now I’m learning: “Smoke Gets In Your Eyes,” “I’ll Never Stop Loving You,” and “Miss Otis Regrets.” If you don’t know any of those, shame on you. Maybe I’ll even memorize these ones eventually, Jidjii would be so proud.

Wireless Charger For Cell Phone:

This is only theoretically in my love category for this week, but I’m so charmed by the idea that I can’t help but be passionately enamored over it. I have long loved the idea of wireless energy. No need for cables or chargers or batteries or any of that nonsense — electrical particles would simply be in the air and technological devices that had need of power would simply pick them up the way phones can connect to a cellular network or computers connect to a wireless router. It makes perfect sense and is absolutely genius and it works. It’s been demonstrated several times in my memory and each time I’ve been gobsmacked at the potential usefulness of this technology. For reasons I don’t understand, but surely have something to do with corporate greed, this isn’t yet a commonly used technology, but I’m sure it will be soon. Just imagine never having to charge your laptop! I’m weeping at the thought. The one I use now can allegedly get up to seven hours of life on a single charge — but I’ve never gotten past five, but that’s still better than any computer I’ve ever used. The new MacBook Airs that Apple released yesterday have a twelve hour battery. I broke down sobbing at that point. Can you imagine something so wondrous? I can’t! But back to wireless electricity. Allegedly the cell phone that I have right now is capable of this, there are two little brass sockets next to the battery where you install an adaptor. Then, you lay the phone on its charging pad and the electricity flows from the pad into the phone. It’s not quite the wireless charging of my dreams because it still has to be charged and has to be charged on the pad, but it’s a start. Theoretically, I’ll never have to plug my cell phone into a wall outlet ever again after this device arrives later this week/early next week. I’m excited and wary and thrilled and dubious. It all sounds like witchcraft! [UPDATE: The charger arrived today and it works as described. Two came! I think it was an accident, but whatever!]

Long Walks:

I’m sure that you all recall my burning contempt for exercise. Yes? I just hate it. No fun at all. All that unnecessary movement and pain, but more than that, the unending boredom. It is sooooooo boring to exercise. You can’t check your Twitter while you’re doing pushups and when you get running too fast, you suddenly find yourself unable to keep up with your Beyoncé concert and have to resort to fantastic lipsynching — but you feel like you’re cheating on your good friend, Bey. I know that I’m not alone. I have started doing an exercise that I have always loved: long walks. They are brilliant. I know they work great for keeping you in shape for a multitude of reasons. Whenever I live in big cities, I immediately start losing weight even though I eat a ton of food and consume an unreasonable amount of pastries. Why, I wondered, one day, but then realized that it’s because I walk everywhere. I can power walk from one side of Paris to the next. When I can’t sleep, I’m power walking all through the Marais and the islands and Bastille. It’s good fun to walk. Everybody knows how to walk. You don’t even have to power walk — just walk! So, over the past few days I’ve been catching up on my podcasts (currently the Paranormal Podcast, which I love — check it out) and walking six miles. I’m going to go for eight today right after I finish eating. You got to power your walks, you know! I also read that walking is a great ab exercise because your legs are connected to them or something? I didn’t really follow along. So, the benefits are plenty: fitness, abs, thinking time/podcast time, tanning time. Go for a walk, reader!

Caramelized Onion & Goat Cheese Tarts:

Right after I suffered demoralizing racism and all sorts of other -isms on the the L Train in Chicago whilst trying to understand how the peasantry lives, I hurried back downtown to be amongst the rich and fashionable. Hunger had gripped me after this experience, so I gratefully found a table at the Ralph Lauren Restaurant. You’ve already heard me rhapsodize on and on about this place, so I’m sure I needn’t go on too much. They had the most incredible food. I will forever remember their goat cheese and onion tart. Heaven. It was absolutely heaven! Last night, in the mood to recreate that experience, I picked a salad out of the garden and whipped up a tart. I always have tart dough on hand, and that’s a convenience I’d recommend you all start doing. Mine is a sweet dough, though, so I should probably have a plain dough, too. No matter, it worked out marvelously. I slowly cooked down some onions in butter and oil with a sprig of thyme out of the garden — the herbs are doing magnificently this year! — spread some warm goat cheese in the bottom of my tart shell, put the onion on top, and then I gorged. Oh reader, it was wonderful. It was divine. It was perfect. I’m going to make another one for dinner and have a slice of mint-chocolate tart for dessert. You can never have enough tarts.

Golden Sisters:

I’ve spoken a lot about reality television and you know how much I love it and why I love it. (Refresher: reality television is nothing but enhanced reality that does not exist and I want to live in imagination.) I’ve told you all about my favorite reality shows — and there have been plenty. Honey Boo Boo is coming back this July and I hear there’s an episode where she and Mama June go to the ocean for the first time. Already stockpiling tissues for that episode. There is nothing better than the ocean, peasants; travel, see the world. But back to Golden Sisters. When I first heard of it, I didn’t think anything of it. I thought it was going to be a rip-off of the Golden Girls, but then the beginnings of an episode taped at the end of Life With La Toya (sweet Jesus, my dear readers, you MUST watch that one, too!) and from the moment I saw those three old women, I was hooked. I was more than hooked. I became obsessed. When I’m old, I want to be just like them! Mary, Teresa, and Josie became famous after they taped themselves talking about the Kim Kardashian sex tape while they watched it. Genius. I want to be Terry! She’s my absolute favorite. Her sisters are always calling her fat, but she doesn’t give a crap. She goes to the buffets in Vegas and fills up plastic bags full of food. She has the most amazing 1930s hairstyle. She’s an agent who represents Shia LaBeouf. She’s hilarious. I LOVE HER. The show is genius. It’s on OWN, which has finally come into its…wait for it…oh it’s good…I’m proud of this one…it’s finally come into its OWN! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Oh, laughter! The show follows the sisters around as they carry on with their life — at the talent agency, at the salon, at home, at a vineyard, at Vegas. Each episode is a total delight. It’s the best thing on television. If you aren’t watching, you’re a complete and total fool. Here are some quotes because I love you:

“Eating and making money at the same time? Yes please.”

“My family has a bad history with buffets.”

“I’ve never represented a porn star before, but I’m open to it, if she’s talented. I mean with her acting.”

“That’s Greek…that’s what the Greeks do.”

“Terry stop it! I’m been gambling since I was 15.”

“She’s crazy!”

These are all funnier if you watch the show, mind you, which as I said, you need to start doing. It’s on every Wednesday. Go!

HATE:

Waiting for iOS 7:

I didn’t plan to sit at my elegant table for a few hours this morning watching the live stream of the Apple announcements. I try to ignore them each time because they suck me in, but Apple won again. I love Apple. I won’t use anything else. I don’t even know how to use Windows computers anymore. At work, when the kids have questions about how to do something on their computers (or the laptops they’re all getting next year, Krishna save us!), I give a Parisian shrug and shuffle dramatically away. I’m incredibly helpful. I can’t help it,though, I’m an Apple person. So, this morning, I sat and drooled at all the new information about iOS 7. The new features are fun and stuff, but that’s not as important as how pretty it is. It’s freaking gorgeous! I cannot wait to download it onto my iPad. How long must I wait, though? Bear with…bear with…bear with…I have to wait until the fall! I’m not amused. I’m finally (FINALLY) getting an iPhone this fall, so I suppose my patience will be tested in ways I’ve never before experienced. Well, I suppose I’d better go for my eight-mile walk and get my mind off the injustices of life.

My Absolutely Dreadful Writing Of Years Past:

Ever since I bought my new laptop, I have been transitioning myself off of the old one. This was fairly simple to do aside from the veritable mountain of pictures I have taken over the past years and my old blog. It used to be hosted on an Apple service that they got rid of — one of the few things that Apple has ever done to annoy me. But, now, I’m awfully glad that they did. It forced me to redo my blog with a new system and I started using WordPress, which is what you see now, and I’m madly in love with it. It feels more like my own website than any I’ve ever had in the past. I can customize it however I’d like and should I ever get tired of this perfect (to me, at least) theme, I can easily change it. It just works nicely, so I must thank Apple for suddenly removing my old website from the Internet. All the data was still on my old computer, though, and I decided to slowly copy and paste all my old pictures and posts onto this website and I’m very nearly done! Only a day or two more and then I can delete the old files and say “Auf Wiedersehen!” But, then, to my horror, I recalled that I had yet another blog before that one — my very first blog — when I went to Europe for the very first time in 2007. So, I’ll be transitioning those posts over as well, loathe though I am to do so. Why am I so annoyed with this transition? Well, my dear reader, it forces me to reread all my terrible writings of the past. They were dreadful. My writing was simple and dull and full of errors I would not dream of making today. I have learned so much about good writing from my novel, Terrible Miss Margo. (I do hope that you’ll be able to buy that in the years to come. I’m hard at work on making that a possibility.) So, when I look back on my old prose with the perspective of a much more talented writer, it pains me to read them. They were awful, so if you’ve been reading for the past six years (I’m ancient…), I applaud you and would award you a gold star if I could. Besides the awful writing, I’ve had to see pictures of myself from back when I didn’t know anything about fashion. I was fat, reader! I was more than fat, I’m sure that I was obese. I had forgotten all about that. I mean, I remember that I was fat, but I had forgotten what I looked like and how disgusting I felt and how unattractive I was and how much meat I ate. I read and look at these posts and wonder who that overweight moron was who sat in a stunning apartment in Paris and let the world go by while he moaned and groaned and ate cheese ravioli and did nothing all day. I didn’t socialize. I rarely went exploring. I didn’t attempt to better myself. I just sat around in a funk. I’m not that person anymore, thank Buddha. Maybe I’m still not the most social person, but I’m thin and gorgeous and vegetarian and spontaneous and willing to communicate with people. I’ve completely changed from that person I was and for that I’m immensely grateful. So, I suppose it might have been a good learning experience to transition all these blogs, but even so, I can’t wait until I’ve finished doing it so that I can forget about them and go back to the false memories I have that are much chicer than reality.

My Mail Carrier:

I hate my mail carrier. I always have. We’ve had like three and I have disliked all of them. I don’t remember any more than two, so we might just have had two. The first one was old and grizzled. Good word that, grizzled. Let’s say it together…one…two…three…GRIZZLED! What fun we have! He would ask questions about neighbors and about your life and it was just uncomfortable and rather unprofessional. He seemed kind of like a child molester, but that was probably just the beard. He finally retired, thank you, Allah! But, the new one is even worse! I haven’t met them yet in person, just over the phone, and he is a complete idiot. He has messed up our mail delivery at least three or four times this year. We will get the neighbor’s mail or mail that goes places nowhere near the house. Other neighbors will drive our mail up hoping that their mail will be at our place. Sometimes it is, other times not. It’s awfully annoying. So the other day I bought a grab bag of underwear from my favorite underwear company, Andrew Christian, (email me, yes I will model for you!) and eagerly tracked the package from Los Angeles to my house. When it said delivered, I went to the mailbox to fetch it, but it wasn’t there. Annoyed, I assumed it was just a technical glitch and waited for the next day, but it still hadn’t arrived, so I had to call the post office to inform them of the issue. Then the mail carrier called and told me that he had put it by one of my doors (I only have one door where mail would be delivered). He was very confused and I don’t think he believed me, which annoyed me. Then the neighbors drove up and delivered my mail. Thanks, neighbors! I had to then call the post office to let them know how incompetent their mail carrier was. I hope he gets fired and they rehire the child molester look alike. At least he never screwed up my mail.

Email on my Cell Phone:

I try and try to like my phone, but I constantly fail. It’s through no fault of my own; the phone forces me to loathe it. I cannot honestly understand why Android phones have found a place in the marketplace, I have had three now and all of them have been nothing but trouble. Amusingly enough, the one I currently use is the least problematic of the three. It at least does a few things. My plan is at US Cellular, a good enough company that is foolish enough to not have the iPhone. They’ve resisted since 2007. I just can’t understand why. The fools have finally given in and later on this year they are finally getting them and I’m going to be one of those people lining up for a couple days ahead of time to make sure I get mine. It’ll probably be the happiest day of my life. In all my future successes and joyous moments, I’ve no doubt that this day will forever rank among the best. I just love Apple so! Instead, I’m stuck with the Samsung Galaxy SIII. It’s alright, really it is, except for one thing: no matter what I do, no matter what setting I use, no matter which app I choose, the damned thing refuses to give me my email. Nothing can fix this, and believe you me, I have tried and tried. I spent an hour yesterday downloading new mail apps and trying to make my messages come through, but to no avail. I’ve given up on using the machine to do anything but text with anyway. It will only connect to the Internet when it’s in the mood to, and that’s never when I need it. I will have a full 4G signal and it will tell me that it’s having trouble connecting. I take exceptional issue with this. I hope the iPhone doesn’t end up being a terrible disappointment. I won’t recover. Still, though, whatever it can do will be infinitely better than this crap I’ve got now. I try to love it, I do try, but I just can’t. Le sigh…

Films Over One Hour and Forty Minutes: 

I adore cinema. I do. I really do, but it drives me out of my mind! You remember last year’s absolutely ridiculous resolution to watch a movie every single day? How could you forget? It was beyond stupid. I can’t believe I finished it. I’m awfully proud of myself. I saw lots of great movies, but I saw giant piles of steaming shit. SO MANY BAD FILMS! You would not believe how rarely a good film comes along. It’s next to never. Over the course of the year, I saw twenty that were excellent and maybe ten or fifteen more that were palatable. Rice cakes are palatable, but you don’t want to eat them all the time. Films are the same way. I felt like the screener at a literary agency wanting to scream, “NEXT!” at the screen and move on, but I forced myself to sit through them. I rarely watch movies now and it is wonderful. I’m very selective with what I watch. If it’s not good, I immediately turn it off and send it back to Netflix or delete it from the DVR. I don’t have time to waste. Anyway, I started watching Les Miserables the other day and I’m having a hard time with it. It’s just too damn long. I have a great willingness to appreciate art and beauty, but I am finding the film to be tedious. It’s two hours and forty minutes long! That’s enough time to drive to town, have dinner, do a bit of shopping, and come home. You could drive three-quarters of the way to Minneapolis. You could clean your house four times over. You could read half of a book. You could take a nap. You could have a complete affair. You could do research. You could create a masterpiece. You could get an entire new hairstyle. You could write a dozen letters. You could catch up on Golden Sisters. You could outline a novel. You could write the whole of a short story and edit a bit. You could plant an entire garden. You could go for a long bicycle ride. Or you could sit on your ass for nearly three hours and listen to Russell Crowe sing at you. I refuse to see it in one sitting. I’m going to cut it up into half hour segments. It’s the only way I’ll manage. When I finally break into Hollywood as Sylvia Browne told me I would (that’s true, mind you!), I will make sure all the films I produce/direct/write will clock in under an hour and forty minutes (never over two!). People don’t have to spend their lives in a theater or on their couch, they need to be amused and entertained and then carry on. Are you with me? I can’t be the only on who feels this way.

WHY DON’T YOU?

Monday:

Why don’t you write a letter to your favorite member of a boy band, confessing your undying love before he makes the mistake of his life by wedding some horrible creature he thinks he cares for?

Tuesday:

Why don’t you take a half day off work and go take a nap? Catching up on sleep is just as important, if not more so, than having a checkup. Sleep is a miracle.

Wednesday:

Why don’t you learn a new language? You may never attend Carnival in Rio de Janeiro, but why not know the basics of Portuguese? This could impress potential mates, come in handy on a game show, or save an ailing tourist’s life. Don’t be so unrefined as to simply know English!

Thursday:

Why don’t you design your own stationary, have it printed at some charming shop that still works off antique presses, and send irreverent letters and notes to your loved ones? You could also send sarcastic letters to those you loathe in your life. In fact, this would be much more fun. Besides, who doesn’t like finding a letter in their mailbox?

Friday:

Why don’t you forget all about your to-do list or scheduled appointments and spend the evening lounging on your couch catching up on all the programs you’ve hoarded on your DVR? This kind of gluttonous binge watching is acceptable once in a while. You can go to the gym tomorrow. It’s not like you have fun there anyway.

LOVE:

Oven Roasted Tomatoes:

Roasted tomatoes are a religious experience. Somehow, a few hours in a low oven brings out amazing flavor in those vegetable-like fruits. I don’t know if this works as well with store bought tomatoes, I don’t know if anything can save them. Read Tomatoland if you want to know the entire history of the tomato plant and industry. Might sound dull, but it’s rather fascinating. So much that I never knew! I’ll only buy a tomato in the shop now if I’m desperate. But, at the moment, I have a happy over abundance of fresh garden tomatoes that are bursting with flavor. It’s amazing to eat a garden tomato after being programmed to eat the crap you’re served in restaurants. They don’t taste of anything at all! I have too many tomatoes, though, so desperate to find some use for them, I made vats of soup. Inexplicably fatigued of soup, I found a reference to roasted tomatoes and decided to try it. I thickly sliced a days’s picking and covered them with olive oil, fleur de sel, fresh pepper, and the last of the thyme I’ve been growing. They went into a 250 degree oven for three hours. When I pulled them out, they were shrunken, shriveled, slightly caramelized, and AMAZING. The flavor was deep and rich and unreasonably good. I could eat them just like that! They were like sun-dried tomatoes, only slightly more hydrated. I’ve been putting them in everything. They make an amazing sandwich. I’ve done it so many times this summer that I’ve lost count. Roast your tomatoes.

Having Written A Book:

My novel, Terrible Miss Margo, has not been published, yet, but I believe it’s only a matter of time and perseverance. Getting a book in print is no easy task. Writing the book is actually the easy part. I have been rather overwhelmed with the job of querying and editing and formatting. So much so that I’ve for some time forgotten the joy of actually crafting a story. I’m just getting started with my next book and have loved getting into it again. And even though it will surely be years before I walk into a Barnes & Noble and lovingly caress my printed novel, I still feel a ridiculous amount of pride at the fact that I have written a book that I love. It was incredibly laborious and took ridiculous amounts of time, but it’s done. I’m sure that my future agent, editor, and publisher will want me to change things, but I wouldn’t be ashamed to let somebody read my manuscript as it is. Have you written a novel?

My Tattoo:

I never thought I would be the kind of person to have a tattoo. I do, though, and I love it.  I like catching a glimpse of it every day and thinking about just what a delightfully rebellious person I am. Not really that rebellious, but I like to think so. I know I will get a few more tattoos eventually. I want a silhouette portrait of Joan Crawford on my upper bicep because she’s a classy bitch like me. I want three small 3D pyramids somewhere on my right wrist after I finally get to Egypt and make it out alive. Lastly, for the moment, I want something to do with Paris on me. I haven’t chosen what that will be, yet. Eiffel Towers are so passé, you know? Anyway, I love tattoos. I love people with tattoos. They’re such a friendly lot of people. Get a tattoo.

Tootsie Rolls:

I rarely, if ever, eat candy. I’ll eat chocolate and pastries until the cows come home, until the moon turns pink. MANDATORY JUDY INTERLUDE:

But candy, not so much. It doesn’t interest me. Smarties do, actually, I’m crazy about those wonderfully sour, sugary disks. But, anything else, no thank you! Imagine my alarm, then, when desperate for a nibble, I enjoyed a Tootsie Roll. I was aghast. I couldn’t understand. I still don’t. They’re good. I’ve eaten a dozen today, I need to stop, but I can’t. I’m like Miley Cyrus. I want to go buy one of those gigantic Tootsie Rolls that you get at the gas station and are crazy for as a child. I’m disgusting.

My Miraculous Body:

As I wrote last week on my AB QUEST blog, I don’t understand how my body works. This confusion has continued throughout the week. This morning, I had, what appeared to be, pecs and two abs. I think I have discovered why, but if my theory is true, the world is in for a revolution. Before we get into that, lets talk about my bod. I’d do me. It’s more than ridiculous how much more self-esteem you have when you look good in clothes and good without them. Why is this happening, though? I’m not counting calories or dieting. Last night I had four black and white cookies and a quarter of a boule (round loaf of bread, peasants!). Not exactly health food. I continue to take about four walks a week, occasionally do yoga, squats, and I’ve started doing crunches and push-ups. These haven’t been hard, the crunches I mean. Push-ups are hellish. I don’t even have baby muscles in my arms, so that’s something of a struggle. I’m not exercising intensely at all, but I am doing it regularly and I think this may be the fitness key, or I could have a miracle body, or I might not have a clue what I’m talking about.

HATE:

The Amount of Garbage I Produce:

I try to be as green as possible. I’m not militant about it, though, perhaps I should be. I like to think that I do my part by refusing to own a car, being vegetarian, and recycling when I can. I recently discovered, though, that I still produce masses of waste. It’s unreasonable. So many plastic containers of juice and grapefruit and cottage cheese. I was rather appalled when I saw it all bagged up to take out the other day. I wish that we had refillable containers to get our juice in and the same for cottage cheese. We should go to dairies and farm stands. I’m horrified at the pollution I’ve caused. I’m going to try cutting back where I can. My first action is buying juice concentrate instead of actual juice. I don’t know if this is any friendlier to the environment, but it seems less wasteful.

Death of Victorian Fashion:

I’m all for the advancement of the human race, but once in a while, our civilization has reached perfection and eschewed it in favor of less lovely things. I’m talking about capes and top hats. There is nothing more elegant than a cape. Just imagine it swishing behind you dramatically, billowing in the breeze, flapping morosely on a chilly evening. I’d pass out with glee. Top hats, too, are the epitome of good taste. I love a good top hat perched jauntily on a gentleman’s head. Sadly, I’ve never actually seen this out in the wild. Hold up, that was a lie. When I was in London on a Jack the Ripper tour, a guy walked creepily by with a top hat on. He wasn’t part of the tour, so that was certainly intriguing. He rocked a top hat. I would have to get mine specially made — as any gentleman would — since I have a monstrous sized head. I don’t understand it. It doesn’t look extra large, but hats do not fit on me. I saw a top hat in an antique shop a year or so ago, and I could have passed out, but it didn’t begin to fit. Sad. Lets bring these wonderful things back for good of fashion and the sake of the world. AHHAHHAHHAHAHAHAAAHAH DOLCE & GABBANA had a cape in their menswear collection last year!

Quick! Fetch the credit cards…and the smelling salts.

Lazy Evenings:

I returned home late from work last evening and felt rather unmotivated. So, I decided to do what all the peasants do — sit on the couch and watch television all night long. I’ve long been meaning to attempt this, curious how a person could enjoy themselves this way, so I settled eagerly on the couch with Identity Thief. That movie was kind of awful. Cheap gags for an hour and then it’s suddenly sentimental? No. Besides, what was that whole nonsense in Saint Louis (Sorry, I refuse to abbreviate.) where they both steal somebody’s identity? It goes completely against Sandy’s earlier convictions and annoyed me. Anyway, after the movie, I watched some television and then read a book. I felt disgusting. I felt like my life had been completely wasted. What is the point of accomplishing nothing? It has made me seriously reevaluate and appreciate my daily list. It motivates me to accomplish something, and even if I only get a few things done — at least I have gotten a few things done. People who go to work and sit on their ass all day long must be so depressed. There’s a better way to be, people!

Birds in my Vineyard:

For years, reader, YEARS, I have slaved away to create a small vineyard. It’s beautiful out there (this picture isn’t it) and I spend about an hour each day tending to the vines and tanning on a gorgeous chaise lounge. I told you all about this, though, last week. Quick refresher: beautiful vines, perfectly relaxing, highlight of my yard, bunches of grapes finally developing after years, concords attacked by birds. Now that you’re up to speed, let us carry on. Though the concord grapes were barely salvaged into jam, I was still eager for the crop of Catawba grapes. They were far from ripe. Must have been ripe enough for the birds, though. Yesterday, when I went to check on their development, the vines had been stripped clean of any fruit. There is not one grape left on any of them. Not even a hard, tiny unripe grape. The only clue that they ever set fruit is the naked cluster and hundreds if grape skins the effing birds left behind. I hope they all get sick and die, I hate them. Next year I’m getting netting and not caring about the moral issue. Dumb birds.

Wanderlust:

It’s taken me years and years to figure out what I want to do with my life. I have had a hard time discerning what should be a hobby and what should be a career. I love redesigning kitchens, but couldn’t imagine doing it for a living. I love writing, but doubt it will be able to sustain my lifestyle for long, until I’m well-established, of course. I love Egyptology, but the area surrounding the University of Chicago terrified me. I suppose I wouldn’t have to leave the campus, but of course I would. I don’t like being scared. Chicago is the only city in the world I’ve ever been uncomfortable about my safety in and I’ve walked around Los Angeles late at night. Something though, that I’m actually good at, and can picture myself doing, is traveling. I want to write chatty travel guides. I want to be the next Rick Steves, sans the fanny pack. I can think of nothing more wonderful than exploring the world and showing it to people who will never leave their cities or states or countries. I’d like to give those among us who are less inclined to travel experiences they won’t get and perhaps enrich their lives by introducing them to new cultures and places they’ve never heard of. Because of this, I have a dull ache that never leaves me. Constantly, I want to be going or moving to seeing something new and writing about it on my blog, photographing it, discussing it. My top five destinations right now are: New Orleans, Luxor, Berlin, London and Melbourne. The fact that I’m stuck here in Perry until at least Thanksgiving is killing me. I’m not meant to be in one place, and that’s why I worry about ever buying a home. I don’t really intend to stop seeing the world until I’m physically unable, and by then, science will have advanced enough that I’ll continue on my way until I die, likely some kind of military hostage.

LOVE:

“The Last Time I Saw Paris”:

The first time I heard this song, it was one o’clock in the morning and I was walking down Melrose in West Hollywood to a FedEx shop. I had a collection of Eartha Kitt music on Spotify that was completely new to me. This was thrilling, of course, for there is nobody quite as divine as Miss Eartha. When the song came on, I was enchanted at once. It was the perfect melody that recalled my beloved Paris. I got all misty eyed and I laughed and I smiled and I was a sentimental fool. “I dodged the same old taxi cabs, that I had dodged before; the chorus of their squeaky horns was music to my ears.” Then, the ending. “No matter how they change her, I’ll remember her that way.” Well, reader, I kind of broke down emotionally. Eartha’s voice and the feeling and the situation of disliking Hollywood so all combined to make me deliriously happy and morose. I love Paris so much and I want to be there all the time. I listen to this song every day.

Dame Edna Lazarus, Zombie Princess:

I recently learned that people in the countryside don’t always have exotic animal restrictions. I nearly passed out. You know one of my life dreams is to have a big cat, yes? I’d do everything for it. I’m now rethinking ever moving into the city to lose this opportunity to finally have my tiger, Budapest. What fun we’ll have! In the meantime, though, until I can afford such a wonderful pet, I’ll remain content with the big cat’s equally wonderful smaller version — the house cat! Cats are my very favorite animal and I don’t think there’s ever too many. If I could afford to, I would take in every unwanted cat and raise them and love them and give all my time to them. I would be endlessly happy. There is no greater creature than a cat. People who don’t agree are stupid. Are you stupid, reader? I have my Tiger and Clea, both of whom I’d die for, but I always have it in the back of my mind that they are sadly mortal creatures. Neither of them are on death’s door, thank Allah, but they will be in time. I will probably kill myself when they die. There won’t be a reason to breathe or eat or live. I don’t really want to die, though, so I need to avoid that void. The other day, I found the most charming kitten alone in a weed patch — there are too many of those on the farm. I immediately named her Edna and decided she was my soulmate. I don’t know why I felt this way, we have hundreds of kittens, it seems over the year that vanish and die and grow old or live forever like Penny, who is surely fifteen years old by now. But Edna was different. Precious. Sweet and grey and white and with the most piercing blue eyes. I fell for her at once. She had to go back outside, though, of course. AND THEN SHE DIED! It was over a hundred degrees and she had been taking a nap under the tin cellar door. Buddha only knows how warm it got in there. She baked herself to death, guys. I was inconsolable for days, but tried to get over it, sadly only a handful of kittens from each season are lucky enough to make it to adulthood, what with cars and illnesses and the chupacabras that linger — they’re real. A few days ago, I was outside eating breakfast on my little boardwalk when Edna walked up to me. I screamed! She wasn’t dead. She was reborn or a zombie or resuscitated. I don’t understand! I can only assume that she had suffered some kind of exceptional heatstroke and seemed dead. She must have come to later where we put her sad little body and said, “What the hell?” I wept a bit. She was so beautiful and so kind and I took her in my arms and told her that she never had to worry about accidentally dying again. I would take care of her. I’ve put her upstairs until she can get her shots. I don’t care what it costs, I owe Edna more than most cats, after I pronounced her dead. Oh my sweet Krishna guys, she was in my Reverend Benjamin post last week — do I have the power to wake the dead? Just thought up this week’s sermon. So, back to Edna. I christened her fully: Dame Edna Lazarus, Zombie Princess. Something simple, you know? She’s the sweetest thing in the world and loves to bounce all over and lick your fingers and purrs louder than a plane roars. I love her. I can’t wait to see how fluffy and sweet and naughty and gorgeous she turns out to be — I might even do cat shows! Also, it turns out she’s a boy. Oh well.

“I was sat”:

British slang is great fun, as we all know. I have loads of favorite expressions, but one of my very favorites is this. Instead of saying “I’m sitting here,” or “she was sitting in front of me,” they say “I’m sat here,” and “she was sat in front of me.” I don’t known why this delights me so much, but I’m starting to use it in my everyday language. I already speak oddly enough. I think it’s because I speak too many languages. My mind is a confusion of different grammar and construction rules and phrases of foreign languages. Though I’m delighted to have learned French, it has ruined my ability to speak English properly. I slur my words a bit more and sometimes put them in the wrong order. Then, I have this weird accent that has developed from years of being American but watching mainly British programming. I don’t say so many words like you people do. Tissue, brochure, aluminum, and more.

Ratatouille:

Traditional French food is sadly very heavy on the meat and so there are many dishes that I no longer eat or can imagine finding palatable even if I was a carnivore — pressed duck? No thank you. I still get to eat a variation of boeuf bourguignon when I make it with portobello mushrooms, which is honestly, a thousand times better than with chopped up dead cows. Google yourself a recipe for dinner tonight. It’s fantastic. There are a few vegetarian French classics, though, and one of my favorites meals of all is ratatouille. It can be prepared in multiple ways — like a thick stew, gorgeously sliced and arranged, or a combination of the two. The one I make is more of a stew since I don’t often have the patience to layer hundreds of thin slice of eggplant, onion, zucchini, bell pepper, and tomatoes. Though, I suppose, sometime I will. None of these vegetables is exactly thrilling on its own, but when brought together and slowly cooked down, they transform into something spiritual. Truly, it’s a vegetarian miracle. I made some the other night and the leftovers just keep getting better. Some people serve it over rice or pasta, but I like it spread over a piece of good toasted bread. The trick, though, to elevating this dish, is to spread that toast with goat cheese. You’ll pass out! Aside from the goat cheese, it’s a totally vegan dish, so if you’re of that persuasion, and congratulations if you are, I’m not there, yet, leave that out. There is one tragedy involved with my ratatouille of two nights ago: I used the last of my herbs that I bought in the tiny, mountainous village of Eze, picturesquely located high above the deep turquoise Mediterranean. If I ever had a reason to go back, it’s for more herbs. The ones you can buy here just aren’t that good. Only buy your herbs at charming Provençal spice markets, peasants.

Anne Rice’s Writing:

Anne Rice is easily one of my favorite authors ever. The way she crafts a story and the elegant language she uses is perfect. Of all the authors I’ve ever read, her novels are the ones that inspire me the most in my own writing. Her prose is unrelentingly romantic and heavily descriptive and that is something I love so much. Too many writers these day seem to annoyingly believe that they are Hemingway and that the less they write, the more terse and sparse their phrases are, the better they’ve been crafted, which is a bunch of crap. I’m a firm believer that there is nothing more wonderful than lyrical sentences dripping with descriptors. My own writing is that way, so is Anne’s. She is a literary goddess! I love everything she writes, no matter the subject material; she has a way of totally engrossing you in a story. Yesterday, I was reading Blackwood Farm, and I could not put it away, could not pull myself from the story — it’s about a gorgeous mansion in a swamp with vampires and murder and beautiful people and I love every sentence. Read everything Anne Rice has ever written.

HATE:

Abbreviations:

Aside from our school’s inexplicable decision to end cursive instruction, something I’ll never get over, the greatest threat to our language today is abbreviations. I loathe them. I can’t stand them. When we speak, I don’t care, have all the gonnas and wannas that you crave, but not in writing! Never written down. If I see “cuz” or “bein” or anything like that, or god forbid “u,” I feel like killing the person to save the world from their linguistic perversions that are polluting our society. It’s maddening. We have a perfectly fine language with nonsense spellings and rules — use it! On Twitter, I can almost understand, the space is limited, but anywhere else it is not forgivable. You wouldn’t believe the things that I’ve seen on Facebook, even from educated people. Now, I know that I didn’t dash off to college and instead went to pastry school, so if I can grasp the mechanics of English, I expect them to do the same. Perhaps I’m just an old-fashioned bitch, and if I am, and I hope that I am, I’m not apologetic about it. Write properly, you vermin.

Having Ambition:

If there is one thing I could change about myself mentally, it would be to tone down my ambitions. They make life miserable sometimes. I know quite a few people who are content to have a job and a bit of a social life. I can’t fathom it. Each day I wonder how much more divine life would be if I were somewhere else with other people doing something different. I like my job and people in my life and my home and all, but I get an overwhelming urge to make sure that this isn’t it. I know I’m only twenty-four, but I’ll be lucky to make it to a hundred, let’s be honest. I don’t ever want to regret my existence. And even if I die without anybody remembering me, I still want to have accomplished something. This blog, wonderfully, will live on in perpetuity, I’m sure. Nothing on the Internet ever goes away. I love that. Hundreds of years from now, some form of my writing will live on for my potential offspring and biographers. It won’t be like the creaky journals we have now of our grandparents in their tiny, hard to read scrawl. I’m off topic. I sometimes wish that I could just be happy with life as it is given to me, but I can’t and I never will. I crave the exceptional and unique. There is nothing that fills the void but seeking it out.

Rapid Evenings:

I know that there is scientific evidence that time is not going at a constant speed. Sometimes it goes by slower and other times faster, but not noticeably. I’m not so sure, though, because last night time went by in two minutes. I went for a walk that normally lasts an hour and it took an hour and half for some reason. My usual tasks seemed to go on and on and on even though I was doing them at the same pace as always. It was awful. I didn’t have an over abundance of things to do and yet I got hardly anything done. I hope that this evening isn’t like that because I need to finish painting the trim in my bedroom. My Chateau Marmont bedroom renovation is taking ages! It should be done by this weekend, though! I can’t wait to luxuriate.

Kitten Claws:

Edna has just discovered her claws. It’s horrifying. They never go back into her sweet little paw, they’re always hanging out like devilish little knives. She sees me and her eyes seem to say, “OH MY GOD, BEN, YOU’RE BACK! LET’S PLAY SOME MORE! IM GOING TO CLIMB UP YOUR LEG BECAUSE I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!!!!!!!!!” This results in me screaming quite loudly in pain. I’m not used to cats with claws, all of mine are declawed, and I will have her little claws taken care of when I can. I know that there are loads of people that have an issue with this, and I can well understand, but my Edna is never going to go back outside. She’s going to have a life of luxury in well appointed and elegant rooms. She’ll never have to suffer the wild. The greatest danger to her is taking too many naps. My arm is in tatters right now from her affectionate paws. I hurt.

Painting Trim:

Yesterday, I finally finished touching up the white paint that I painted my bedroom trim. When I first painted it a few years ago, I intended to leave the trim white, but I was inexperienced with painting and I got too many spots of paint on the trim, so I just painted everything in the room the same color. It was not the most elegant solution, but it worked. Now that I’m an old pro with a paintbrush, I easily redid the trim with white and it really pops against the Sharkey Grey walls — my favorite color for walls. Unfortunately, this relatively easy task was muddled because the walls in that old room are not flush. The house was built in the 1800s and has the obvious issues that come along with that. There were gaps between the wall and trim, so I filled that in with caulk (GIGGLE!), which was a fine solution for the most part, but in some areas, the gap was so massive that it looks a bit sloppy. The paint has masked the horror a bit, but it still is driving me a bit mental. I can’t wait to get everything done. My goal is this weekend, or next at the latest. It’ll probably be next, I didn’t have a lot of time to work up there this week.

LOVE:

Fasting:

When I first started losing weight, I did it all by counting calories. That’s the only way to lose weight, I think. You can go on all kinds of diets, but I don’t think they’re worth doing if you don’t understand the science behind it. You only lose weight by losing excess water or burning more calories than you consume. Simple pimple. Once I figured this out, it was much simpler to lose fifty pounds. Took me a year. Good times. It was hard, though, to be on a calorie restrictive diet, so sometimes I’d go over. To make up for this, I’d fast on Saturdays. This wasn’t all that easy, but it really helped. This weekend, I decided to start that again and it was great. I felt much healthier by eating much less. Plus, it made me look gorgeous for my weekly picture. Definitely doing this more regularly.

Growing My Hair Out:

[That's not me, #obvi. Bit more handsome over here. #holla.]

Ever since I grew my hair out long in high school and proceeded to chop it off, I’ve been meaning to grow it out again. I’ve finally decided to go for it. I’m really quite excited, but I takes so effing long. Growing your hair out is dreadful because the length can become rather awkward to deal with in the in-between stages. If you trim it or style it too much, you will cut out too much of your hard work. Thankfully, mine’s in a good place right now and I’m having a fun time. I could pass for Matt Bomer’s brother, I think. I’ve even started a folder of pictures of long hairstyles that I like so that I can emulate them later on. When I was in high school, with my massive hair, I wasn’t really sure how to deal with it, so it wasn’t all that pretty. This time, though, I think I’ll do a much better job of keeping it maintained. And then, when I tire of it — though I may not, I’ll just donate it. I’m also going to start using dry shampoo when it gets longer so that I can be like Karl Lagerfeld. That’s supposedly why he has white hair. I suppose this could be true. I would love having white hair. We’ll see.

My Chandelier:

My bedroom is turning out more elegantly than I had ever dreamed! It’s luxurious and relaxing and comforting and welcoming and I don’t even have the headboard in, yet. It will then be ever more opulent. There are gilded, antique mirrors on all of the walls and the sunlight reflects so beautifully as it bounces around and make the room glow. Even more delightful than all these luxuries that would not be out of place at a five-star hotel, is my chandelier. I had searched and searched for antique ones on eBay. I had scoured the aisles at IKEA. Nothing was meeting my exacting standards. Then I remembered that we already had two chandeliers in the family! One is ten-feet tall, worth thousands of dollars, and came when Ethan Allen was closing down. Gorgeous thing, and I’m trying to find a spot for it. I have hope to install it over my stairs eventually. Much too large for a bedroom, obviously. The other one was at my sister’s house. It’s brass and moderately sized and would be perfection in the room. Jessica is very lazy and wouldn’t ever get around to installing it, so I took it. I put it up with a dimmer and swooned. No easy task, that, since there are no switches in the upper level of my house. I’m working on fixing that. Once night fell and the light in the chandelier was gently illuminating the room, throwing geometric shadows on the cozy grey walls, I was completely in love. With that chandelier, I’m not in an outdated farmhouse in the middle of rural America, but rather a sumptuous Southern plantation, a chic Haussmanian apartment in Paris, and on a transatlantic cruise steaming toward Southampton. It’s utter perfection and worth all the frustration its installation caused. Every room should have wonderful lighting.

Electric Timers:

I don’t know why I have waited so long to use electric timers. I don’t know if that’s the actual technical term for them. It’s one of those massive boxes you plug into the wall and then plug a lamp into it and then every night at six, it turns on. Genius. I love that you never have to do anything with your lights. I’m going to get about a dozen more. My favorite use for one right now is the lamp beside my bed. Every morning at about 4:30, on it pops and slowly makes my mind think the sun is shining in on me. It’s not, obviously, it’s 4:30. I really enjoy this and the fact that it turns off again at 8:00 and then back on again in the evening time when it’s too dim to see. It’s like a psychic lamp. I want to put all of my numerous lamps on timers so that they are totally independent. How chic!

Pink Eye:

Pink eye is my new favorite disease, not that I ever had a favorite disease to begin with. Well, I’ve always been fond of gout — a very aristocratic ailment, you know? (Holla at the Keeping Up Appearances reference!) The other day, my eye was red, itchy, and swollen. A far cry from my usual beauty. Turns out I I had mild pink eye, so I stayed home with a bottle of eye drops and a bottle of gin. The best thing about pink eye is that you don’t feel ill, your eyes just hurt a bit and some gunk comes out. You can still do your normal things. So I had a lovely time. Breakfast in bed, cuddles with Edna, organized my closet, rearranged some furniture, I made apple cider and polenta fries, napped, read, wrote. Marvelous time. By mid afternoon, the drops seemed to take effect and the swelling and color went back to normal. They’re still a bit itchy, but much better. I recommend you all get pink eye. I also recommend you drink gin.

Polenta Fries:

I’ve often been afraid of polenta. I have seen it used in so many cooking programs, but the way it looks has always rather disturbed me. It’s corn and yet it’s gelatinous. Creepy. I think we can all agree on that. Months ago, I bought a copy of Martha’s glorious cookbook, Meatless, and saw a recipe for artichoke hearts and polenta that looked rather appetizing, so I picked up a bag. I promptly shoved it into a cupboard and forgot about it. Recently, I have been hearing people talk and talk about polenta fires. They’re popping up on menus at restaurants I frequent. It was finally time for me to try them. So, I made a batch of the stuff — which was strange, the ground corn is amazingly expansive. Three to four cups of water per cup of polenta. I don’t think I did it correctly because mine was still a bit coarse. I read later that I’m supposed to cook it for a bit longer and some people even toss it into a blender. I’ll try that next time. I chopped the chilled polenta into fry shapes and tossed them into a hot oven with a bunch of tomatoes and garlic to turn into a dipping sauce. Both turned out divinely. It was a triumph. They’re really quite good and taste like a steak fry. Strange. I assume it’s healthier. More experimentation will be needed, of course, but I foresee good things.

HATE:

The Incredibly Difficult Job of Getting Published:

I always thought that writing a book would be the hardest part of writing a book, but Buddha was I wrong! After you write the story, you have to go through multiple edits which are soul sucking. You have to format things in certain ways that make your mind numb. Then, once you have a manuscript that you’re comfortable with, you need to query agents. This has proven to be the hardest part of all. You have to find an agent that is a fan of your kind of work, which is not easy at all. Then, you have to research them and send a letter, which they might respond to, probably not, though. If they’re interested, they may request a bit of your manuscript. Then they probably won’t respond. Eventually, you may get a contract with an editor. It’s miraculous if you do. I’m researching agents right now, and I’m trying not to be discouraged by it. I shan’t be. I’ll persevere. I shall succeed.

Not Being a Supermodel:

Don’t you just hate it when you discover your calling, but can’t seem to make it work as a career? I should be a model. There’s little doubt of that in my mind. I’m not being vain or anything, I know that I’m not hideous and that I wear clothes well. What else do you need? I love being photographed and I enjoy posing. I think I’d have a great time as a model. Jetting from location to location, walking in Fashion Weeks all around the world, being a guest judge on a modeling show, having a well respected podcast, releasing a book, an auto-tuned album. Oh, the possibilities are endless once you’re a supermodel. I was taking some pictures for my ab blog last week (ok, is ab not a word? It is constantly being underlined. #annoying.) and I was really rather delighted with my appearance. I still need to do more work, I’m not an idiot. But I think that I might actually find success with that if I tried. I should probably work on that.

Washing the Dishes:

There is no household chore that I hate more than washing dishes. Don’t get me wrong, I hate lots of chores. I don’t like lawn mowing, so I don’t do it. I thought there were more, but that’s it, it turns out. I’m rather a domestic god, tu sais? But, amazing though I am, I still passionately loathe washing the dishes. It’s so time consuming and vile and common. Why can’t I have a dishwasher? I must buy one. I’m owed one for a birthday gift, but I have doubt of ever receiving it. (I’m looking at you, Lady.) It would be amazing to just toss some dishes in with a bit of soap and pull out clean, dry dishes. I’ll weep on that day. My first apartment in Paris was rather high-tech as it had it’s own narrow dishwasher. It was life changing. I just hate washing dishes so much. I hate seeing them dry on the he counter. I hate everything about them. I got up early to wash a load because I couldn’t bear to do it last night. It’s horrible.

Credit Card Not Accepted:

I love my credit cards. We’re besties. I’m looking into getting another one for my upcoming European holiday. One of those wonderful ones with the little microchip that you can deal with at the table when the charming waiter brings you your addition. (French for bill, you know?) Yesterday, I got online to order a new suit for my friend’s wedding and to parade around Paris in. I put in all the customizations I wanted — a gentleman always need a boutonniere — and went to pay, but the site didn’t accept Discover. I’ve been discovering (see what I did there?) that quite a number of places don’t accept it. I don’t care for this. Love that card, though I do, I am thinking we may have to part ways. I have my eye on something by American Express. It has a chic feeling to it. “Here, Pierre, take my AmEx, charge the latest Burberry trench. Thank you, darling.” Then again, I’ve been told that you can get steep discounts at high end stores if you pay in cash. We will certainly see.

LOVE:

archive.org

I’m fast developing an obsession with this website. It’s a remarkable treasure trove of material. You can find so many old gems if you dig a little. It’s an archive, obviously, of media from the past. You can download old radio shows, which I love. I haven’t heard The Bickersons in years and was beyond thrilled when I found that you could download a number of episodes. Even more amazing to me was that you can download out-of-copyright films. Last night, I downloaded a copy of The Uninvited, a wonderful film that some credit with beginning the ghost story genre as it was one of the first to tackle the paranormal as a serious matter. I was completely charmed with it. A quality story and well done. Besides that, the set design was extraordinary. It’s really helping to inspire my woodland chateau that I want to build in my forest someday. (Do you have a private forest, reader?) To top off the wonder of this, I figured out that you can stick these downloaded films onto a USB drive and pop it right into my BluRay disk player. What a wonderful world we live in today! Go to archive.com, reader, and download to your heart’s content.

Tofu:

I don’t know why everybody’s always so down on tofu. Tofu is amazing. I guess it may have ill health effects, but what doesn’t? Can’t be any worse than slaughtering a cow and feasting on its bloody flesh like a primitive, can it? I don’t think so. When I first became a vegetarian, I tended to live off meat substitutes for a while, which can be important for some people; it was for me. I finally transitioned away from them and rarely use them today. I still like this ground beef substitute that I get once in a while. It’s so yummy. I used to make walking tacos with it, but now I just use lentils. Lentils are everything. Anyway, back to tofu. It’s delicious and so versatile. I like it marinated and broiled. I like it cubed and fried. I like it sliced into steak-like things. I like it all the ways. The other day, I had some sesame tofu from Whole Foods that’s rather remarkable. I like it cooked. I like it raw. I just really like sesame. I broiled a few slices and put it with some spinach pasta. Delicious. I recommend tofu.

Relaxing:

[This is me relaxing by the private and exclusive pool at celebrity hotspot, the famed Chateau Marmont. Have you spent a night at the Chateau Marmont, reader? No? Sad.]

I’m sure I’ve told you in some post or another about my goal to turn my home into a vacation home. I’ll just brief you:  I want my house to be clutter free and as lovely and relaxing as a vacation rental. I always love going to them with their cheap dinnerware and garish floral bedspreads. My home will be a bit more high end obviously. I’m doing a fairly good job with my lounge and my bedroom, which I call the Suite. When I’m in them, I don’t really want to go out. I could stay in them all day long. Last weekend, I did, and it was beyond marvelous. It was really like a vacation at home, which is something I’ve never had before. The kitchen is getting finished up — I just need to get rid of bunches of plates and cups and bowls that I hate and never use. I’ve done this once before, but I need to do it again. Anyway, relaxing is amazing. I need to do it all the time. It’s good for a person.

Gâteau Le Week-End:

I’m sure I’ve written about this before, but I don’t want to go trolling through my archives looking for mention of this cake. So, let’s do it again! When I was a student in Paris at Le Cordon Bleu (Have you ever been a student at a famed French school, reader?), one of the first things that Chef Cotte, a strange man who moonlit as a DJ, prepared for us was this cake. “Lemon in a cake?!?” I exclaimed in disgust, no thank you! I was not an adventurous eater back in those halcyon days. I was fat and dull. Barely had a fashion sense. I recall that I once wear a hoodie from the GAP to go shopping. I disgust myself. Still, they were halcyon days. Good word that, halcyon. Let’s say it together, shall we? One…two…three…HALCYON! Oh how I wish I could go back now in my slender, fashionable body. So, I didn’t partake of the cake. A year or so ago in Paris, Jessica and I went to a bakery that allegedly sold one of the finest croissants in the city. It was good, but I’m still partial to my Miss Manon. There is no finer bakery in the city — Pierre Hermé is exempt, of course, since I consider that a church of pastry. (I’m a reverend, you know? Maybe that can be my chosen church?) Anyway, at this bakery, there was a week-end cake and it looked divine. I’d never seen something more tasty. I didn’t buy one, though. When I came home to America, I started to make them, and sweet Allah! They’re so wonderful. Poundcake with a thick lemon glaze. Heavenly. I’ve eaten half the cake already by myself. I’m going to eat the entire thing without shame. Oh, this last one I made, I substituted some of the butter for olive oil and that was a great idea — you can subtly taste the oil and it makes the crumb of the cake even richer.

Latest Pages Update on iOS:

[Please note my enthusiasm.]

Last night when I went to bed, all my devices were downloading the latest updates. My laptop was downloading the new OSX, which I’m excited for — mainly for the new Maps app — and my iPad was updating all the iWork and iLife apps. I was excited for this because Pages has been driving me insane, it hasn’t been working properly and I ain’t got time for that. When I got up this morning, it was a bit like Christmas, so many new shiny things to look at! I opened up Pages first thing and actually began to weep. I wept, reader. I’ve always thought of it as one of the best word processors, only beaten by the desktop version, but now for the first time it makes sense! Sorry, Steve Jobs. The most important part, the singular triumph of this update is that there is now a tab key. THERE’S A TAB KEY, READER! Rejoicing was heard throughout the land. I’m considering writing a thank you note to Cupertino. It’s the most amazing thing that has ever happened to my iPad. When I’m working on a novel or short story or whatever, I can indent like always without going through ridiculous menus. I’m so happy. I’m crying again.

HATE:

Clutter:

[This is an image from Google, thank ALLAH!]

I’ve recently been gifted with the remaining rooms on the upper level of my house, which is utterly thrilling. Annoyingly, though, these rooms are literally filled to the brim with junk. I don’t understand how my parents lived that way. Everybody loves neatness and order, I’m not saying that they loved their messes, I just think they were unable to de-hoard themselves. I think hoarding is worse than cancer. No offense. It’s absolutely ridiculous what I’m going to have to go through. Yesterday, I began to work on clearing out the first room, and yet it seems I’ve made no dent, like I haven’t scratched the surface, in fact, it looks worse than ever. The floor is carpeted in pink, the walls are a hideous green, and the ceiling is covered in yellowed popcorn texture. I want to vomit. It’s probably going to take me a month, minimum, to get the room to the point where I’m not absolutely repulsed by it. In the meantime, though, I need to clear out some space for my treadmill. I got it out of storage the other day, it’s finally getting too cold to go on my afternoon walks, I want to die. Winter is here and I couldn’t be less enthused. It might snow on Tuesday, but I refuse to listen to that nonsense.

My Laziness:

I love nearly everything about myself. The only things I really take issue with is the bit of fat I can’t get rid of — where are my abs? — and my propensity for laziness. It’s utterly ridiculous the way that I can do nothing and not realize it. This is different from relaxation, mind you, relaxation is a chosen state of mind. I’m always amazed at how quickly I can actually accomplish things when I do them. Procrastination takes more determined effort than actually doing a task. Remarkable, truly. My treadmill is sitting on its side in my upstairs middle room (I have no idea what it’s called. It’s never had a purpose. Just a catch all room, really. I’m wanting to turn it into more of a cozy sitting room with a fireplace and a painting of a stormy sea and a little cocktail bar, but that’s for later, in the depths of winter.) I’ve had it on my schedule to do since Monday, but I’m still not getting around to it. I just can’t be bothered. Tonight’s the night, though, I can feel it in me waters! (Holla at the Kath & Kim reference!) Do you want to hear another instance of my remarkable laziness? Of course you do. I woke up today at 3:30 in the morning, determined to do a bit of something. I thought yoga maybe and a bit of reading. Well, that did not happen, reader! I said aloud to my kitten, “Great idea, Little Eddie (or Ed, Edna, Edwina, Edina, or Dame Edna, depending on my mood, I’m really into Little Eddie right now), we should take a nap!” And so I got up at 6:50. But, you’ll be so proud of me, I had enough time this morning to eat a piece of cake. Maybe that’s why I don’t have abs?

Seasonal Affective Disorder:

I talk about this regularly and even devoted this week’s Reverend posting to this subject, but I hate it so very much that I feel obligated to carry on and write some here. Even though I’m lazy, I’m still a rather productive person. Each day I churn out some writing and some exercise and often some household chores, though I’m still loathe to do the dishes. But now, I can’t. I can’t make myself do anything. All that I can do is: eat, eat more, watch television, read a bit, type a bit, and sleep. My naps last for hours. It’s so sad.

[Sweet Jesus, I'm going to gain weight, too? Does my sorrow never end?]

Since Monday, all I’ve done is sit in my excellently decorated and tastefully appointed lounge. I’ve worked a bit on my novel and stories and blogs, and I’ve read a lot, and I’ve eaten a ridiculous sum of cake. I don’t even eat solid meals, just cake. I freaking love cake. But it’s not my fault, guys. It’s the weather’s fault. There’s no sunshine, just constant gloom — and not the lovely gloomy days like in the English summer. When I don’t get sun, I am just pathetic. I don’t want to be this way. I want to have enough energy to fold my clothes, but I don’t. When I get home tonight, I’m really hoping I can get my treadmill put up. I have a vain hope that if I’m doing a bit of exercise, somehow that will revitalize me. I have doubt. Yet, I have hope.

The Lair of the White Worm:

I’ve often thought that if I could be one of those experts they consult on History Channel documentaries, I’d either like to be an expert on ancient Egyptian religious practices or an expert on Gothic Victorian literature. Both of them are great loves of my life. There’s nothing better than a creepy English novel. When I read Dracula for the first time in high school, I tore through it, loving the atmosphere and the way the characters spoke. I even loved the way that the story was built, with each chapter being a different document that helped to further the plot. So, because I loved Bram Stoker’s masterpiece so much, I downloaded all of his other work at this charming website that makes high quality ebooks of out-of-print and out-of-copyright work, www.manybooks.net. Fill your iPads up with free books! I’ve been doing a lot of research on short stories currently since I’m writing one — it’s getting kind of long, though, are there limits on short stories? This wasn’t exactly a short story, but it was a quick read, so I included it. God, it was awful. It began so promisingly with interesting and engaging characters, but then all of a sudden, one of the characters is a giant snake and another is sending ancient Egyptian figurines up the string of a kite and another is trying to open up some impermeable chest. The point of view changed constantly which made the plot so very difficult to follow. I was glad when I finished reading it yesterday. There’s a movie version, so I’ll put that on my Netflix queue to see if it’s any more engaging when acted out. But, it’ll be an 80s film from England, and I’ve never been a fan of that time of movie making. English horror is so decidedly blah. Skip this novel, reader.

Incomprehension of Credit:

One of my more recent goals is to understand how credit cards work. I have two of them, which I use regularly and pay off religiously, but that doesn’t exactly give knowledge. I’m always reading about people who book travel with their credit card points or who can use airport lounges because of their card. This baffles me. So, I started reading and doing research, but that only further confused me. Most of these people pay an annual fee for a card — which I didn’t even know was a thing. Seems peculiar to pay a company to be able to spend money, but I guess there are benefits that are worth the price. The airport lounge honestly would be worth it for me! I don’t care how pathetic the chamber would be, I’d love sitting there feeling elegant and secluded away from the riffraff and peasantry. I remember last year when I went to Florida, I paid like ten dollars for priority boarding. Well worth it! I loved sauntering in front of all those losers as I took my seat first. I was already sipping a margarita by the time they all got on. That was class. But back to credit cards. I was tired of my Discover card not working on the European websites I shop on — I don’t understand why they aren’t more accepted, I’ve even had places that wouldn’t take it here in America — so I applied for a new one, one of those wonderful ones with microchips in it. I think I told you about this last week or the week before, but remember how those bastards denied me? Harrumph! So, in a rage, I went on the Discover Card website and decided to change the picture on my card. No more beach, now I have a classy Seurat painting, Un dimanche après-midi à l’Île de la Grande Jatte. Am I not the classiest bitch you know? Curious though about why I was denied, I investigated my credit report, which was good, and my credit score, which was also good. So, I don’t know. It’s a mystery to me. I need books and podcast to explain. Suggestions?

LOVE:

Tea In Chicago:

Ever since I went to Chicago last year for a day trip to the Oriental Institute, I’ve been obsessed by the idea of going to tea at the Drake. The Drake is, I believe, one of the finest hotels in The Windy City. It’s so very classy that Queen Elizabeth stayed there on one of her tours of America. She even took tea there! Princess Diana did, too, later on. Could anything be chicer than taking tea where the queen once did? No. When I toured the hotel, under the guise of a wealthy tourist, I was very impressed with the amenities. So, I am craving a visit again just for tea. My new custom made suit is going to arrive early next week and I have the day off on Friday…perhaps a trip is in order? I want to revel in finger sandwiches and hot tea, fresh scones and Devonshire cream! sweet pastries and a glass of champagne. All this while gentle harpists play and I wear my suit and smile contentedly at my surroundings. The more I think on this, the more I know it needs to happen. I’m looking at Hotwire right now. [UPDATE: Probably happening early next year!]

Also, Eartha interlude:

Pumpkin Seeds:

I don’t really remember much about my past, you know? Well, of all the memories I have left of elementary school, my most vivid is a Halloween party we had in second grade. This was back in those carefree times where we could actually carve pumpkins and dress up and have a good time. Le sigh… My teacher took the seeds from the pumpkins and roasted them and I don’t think I’ve ever had anything tastier. Back then, I was easily impressed by table salt and vegetable oil, I guess. Ever since then, I’ve thought of those pumpkin seeds, but never did I make them myself. I don’t know why. The other day, though, for our little Halloween gathering, I roasted the seeds from a couple pumpkins with olive oil and a Greek seasoning blend (by Cavender’s, put it on EVERYTHING) and broiled them for a few minutes. Then, I gorged. Sweet Allah! They were so good. I can’t get over it. They were crispy and chewy and oh so delicious. I literally shoveled them into my mouth. I can’t wait to get home so that I can finish the ones I have left. I’ve been hungrily eyeing the one remaining pumpkin that hasn’t been carved, yet. I can’t wait to devour all of its delicious innards.

The Conjuring:

I’ve long been intrigued by the Warrens, those famed demonologists that are so beloved in paranormal circles. My first interaction with them was years ago when I was watching …what was it? A Haunting? Paranormal Witness? It was one of those well done supernatural shows that don’t have a bunch of idiots screaming through a castle in the middle of the night, but focus instead on the story of a past haunting. I much prefer that. Well, this episode was the pilot of the show and before then and for the longest time after, I’d never seen anything quite so scary as that. The demon in the basement with completely black eyes was easily the most terrifying thing I’d ever seen and it has remained forever with me, in fact it’s inspired me in some of my writings. The Warrens were the investigators in that episode, and ever since then, I’ve been happy to read things about them and always enjoy when they’re on a podcast. Last night, for our annual Halloween Spectacular, the scary movie for the evening was The Conjuring, which was honestly quite terrifying! The movie was rather perfect in the way it developed suspense and all the characters were engaging. It was supposedly based on a true story, and that might be the case, I don’t know, but even if not, I was thrilled. Jessica and I were screaming like schoolchildren when the demon was atop the armoire. Magnificent film, really. I can’t applaud it enough. Rent it, reader, pee your pants.

Baked Potatoes:

I always forget how much I love them, but baked potatoes are one of the best meals in creation. I could have them for breakfast, for lunch, for dinner, and for snacks in between. I think they’re marvelous. Prick a potato, rub it in oil, and toss it into a 400-degree oven for an hour. Nothing better. I hadn’t had one in ages, so the other night I had a craving and had it (along with cottage cheese, rice chips, pumpkin seeds, leftover pizza, grapefruit, and boiled eggs…it was a strange, delicious meal) for dinner and I was in foodgasm heaven. If only I had some cheese to put on it, that would have made it even better. Alas, I only had butter and fleur de sel, but that was good enough. I still haven’t gotten into eating the skins, but I think I’ll try it next time, there’s supposedly loads of good things in the skins of fruits and vegetables. I’m wary of that. Seems gross, but I guess I do eat apple skins. You should go have a baked potato.

Pilot Precise V5 Pens:

I go through weird patterns with writing utensils. I use them all the time, I wear them out, in fact. Every day, I try to write at least five pages of my stories and I have a hard time typing out these thoughts. When it comes to blogging, I have no trouble being creative with a keyboard, but in fiction, I have to handwrite. Last year, I was all about these red checking pencils by Ticonderoga that I discovered on clearance that I fell madly in love with. I sharpened them down to stubs. I wrote hundreds of pages with them and sketched and whatnot. I couldn’t find any for this school year, which was a bit devastating. I’m sure I could order them on Amazon, I never looked. Bear with…bear with…you can. But, I don’t want them anymore, I’ve moved on. I’ve always thought that I didn’t like writing with pens. I think it’s because of the pen. I like the tip to glide over the surface, and those Ticonderoga pencils did that phenomenally well. But, somehow, by some miracle, in my possession is a Precise V5 pen by Pilot. I refused to use it for ages because I felt it was one of those pens that would just leak ink all over my pages. Out of desperation one afternoon, I had to use it and had a little attack. It was wonderful. The ink does not run, but is very solid and slightly wet — reminds me of writing with a fountain pen, which is a pain in the ass, but not this one. It’s perfection. I’ve written so much with it and love the way my cursive flows from it. I can’t stand to write in print, everything must be cursive. Buy yourself some of these pens and practice your penmanship, reader!

HATE:

Things Stuck in Nose:

This is serious, reader. Have you ever been eating something and then laughed and then suddenly a bit of what you were eating is now lodged in your sinus cavity? It can’t just be me. I’m not saying that this happens often, of course, but it has happened a few times in my memory and it’s disgusting. I feel like I should be shipped off to some lovely island so that the rest of civilization needn’t be around me. Last night, I was eating the most delicious pumpkin seems, remember how I love them? Well, I was eating one after another and then Jessica did something or the other and then there were bits of pumpkin seed in my nose? In my nose! It was awful. Then I had to blow them out and disgusting chunks of seed and spices flew out of me into a tissue. It was beyond repulsive, guys. I spent the rest of the night ejecting little bits of it out of me. I should have been put down right there.

Cable Television:

I love the great number of things you can watch on cable. Personally, I wouldn’t want to live without:  Ancient Aliens, Fashion Police, The Colbert Report, Honey Boo Boo, Life With LaToya, and The Golden Sisters. But cable is also very stupid. We have to pay a ridiculous sum of money for a million channels that we never ever tune into. Sure, I might flip through them once in the vain hope that something might actually be worth watching, but if it’s not on the…maybe six?…channels I watch, than it was a vain attempt. Why can’t we just order the channels we want and have them streamed over the Internet? I don’t want to drill holes in my walls and have to pay some exorbitant fee to have a technician come out and retrofit my lounge and kitchen with cable outlets. Can’t we just get Apple TV-like boxes and hook them up through that? I think that’s the future of television, but I’m not sure if anybody is headed that way, yet. Won’t it be amazing to order the ten channels you watch for maybe $1.99 per month and then watch them on the computer or TV or your iPad? That’s the day I’m living for.

National Geographic Page Layouts:

I am regularly driven crazy by National Geographic magazine. Now, don’t get me wrong, I adore the magazine, but I feel that they could do a better job actually designing the magazine — they should hire me temporarily or long term…pay me big dollars to make your magazine better! The major issue is that National Geographic is so picture heavy, which is great, but they put the pictures in the most random places. There will be spreads of images that go on and on for ten or more pages that start in the middle of a paragraph. That drives me insane! I want to finish the sentence I’m reading, at least, before I look at all the pictures and admire the excellent photography. It’s just a little thing, but you know, I never have this issue with Martha Stewart Living. I know Martha wouldn’t stand for an awkward layout such as that. Maybe this is just something that only bothers me, but I imagine that others are annoyed. Also, I’m still annoyed they didn’t publish my beautiful missive on Queen Tiye. SLUTS!

Darjeeling Tea:

I’ve been trying to like Darjeeling tea, but I just can’t get into it. I’ve brought my massive collection of teabags (TEABAG! GIGGLE!) to work so that I can sip it throughout the day. This is great because it keeps me warm, and it also keeps me full of tea, which I guess is a good thing. I’ve read all about the health benefits of tea, but I think it might be a bunch of hocus pocus. I’ve had a lovely cup of green tea every morning for months because it’s supposed to make you skinny. Lies! All it did was make me need green tea in the morning. I love green tea. I’ve been contemplating green tea cake — is that a thing? I had green tea éclairs in Paris at this lovely Japanese bakery. I’m off topic. I’ve been brewing Darjeeling in the mornings as it’s the only teabag I have with caffeine. Even though caffeine doesn’t wake me up, it does cheer me a bit. Well, Darjeeling is not my favorite. It’s kind of bitter and gross. I only have one bag left, thank Allah. I need to buy me some more Earl Grey and some more LADY EARL GREY. Lady Earl Grey is the best tea in the world.

Not Hating Anything:

I’m well known and celebrated for my charmingly sarcastic and hateful attitude. I used to be like the human Grumpy Cat. I thought everything was awful. I hated the prospect of anything and everything. But now, in my old age (I consider myself ancient) I’m not bothered really by anything. I don’t love everything, mind you, but I’m not terribly bothered by anything either. People still do things that upset me, which is annoying, but I don’t really let it get to me. I hate this passive attitude when I have to write this blog. What fun is there in reading ten things I loved each week? Nobody wants that. Reading negativity is much more amusing than somebody who’s always pleasant. I promise that I’m going to work on hating more things. It used to come so easily. Now, it’s a struggle, and I really do hate that.

LOVE:

Beyoncé, Obviously:

I’m still not over Bey’s surprise album. None of us are. It was so unexpected and so glorious and so wondrous and so magnificent and so perfect. She’s divine and flawless and I have listened to the album a million times. Yes, a million times. That is really not an exaggeration. I can’t wait to get home tonight to power walk to it on the treadmill. I am Sasha Fierce, guys. (I’ll proudly name my first child that.) Now that I’ve seen her with my own eyes and witnessed the spiritual ecstasy of her presence, I’m even more obsessed than I was in the past, and that was pretty crazy already. Now I’m out of my mind in adoration of this iconic diva. And can we just talk about how amazing that surprise album was? That was perfection. She forced us all to download the entirety of her album in one swoop. By not allowing us to purchase singles or stream on Spotify, we all had to cough up fifteen dollars, and for that, I bow down to Queen Bey. Genius marketing by not marketing at all. That’s flawless. She woke up this way. See what I did there? If you didn’t get it, we’re not going to be friends. If you don’t have the album on your iPhones already, you’re dumb. This is the best album of her career and I’m not saying this because of the massive hype. This is a deeply artistic, personal, and triumphant oeuvre. The music wasn’t something made to delight the masses. There’s not really a song that screams modern pop — Beyoncé redefined a genre and it’s overwhelming and eye opening and makes me prouder than ever to support her.

Target:

I think Target is one of the happiest places in the world. Without fail, I need something out of every single aisle. Even the aisles I don’t need anything out of…I need something out of. I was a bit upset, though, when I went to Target last night. The men’s clothing section is really hit or miss. It’s been missing painfully for a while now, with a selection of outfits that are no nicer than those a peasant could pick up at Walmart. The women’s clothing, as always, is adorable, but not for the men. I just wanted this ugly kitten holiday sweater I had seen a month ago. It was nowhere to be found. I wanted to weep. I’m still devastated. Aside from that, though, I still had a glorious time as ever perusing the entirety of the shop and picking up everything I never knew I needed. Hooray for Target! I saw these bluetooth speakers that I needed for my continued happiness, but I can’t afford to charge them at the moment. Going back for them soon. I LOVE TARGET.

Tomato Soup:

I think I’ve written about how much I love soup for the past few weeks, but I’m still not over my love affair with the liquid delight. Last night, I made an unreasonably good tomato soup based off a recipe I found in Wine & Food. It had much more oil than I’m used to, but that turned out to be even more delicious, which was no surprise. A bit of oil is amazing in a soup. It also had a fennel bulb in it, something I’ve never cooked with in all my life. I don’t hate fennel, but it’s not an ingredient that I’m incredibly keen about. The flavor mellowed tremendously when it simmered with the onion and tomatoes and I’m a big fan. I added a cup of cream that was not called for, reduced the water in the recipe, and blended the whole thing — heavenly! I’m also crazy about these tomatoes I bought. I will not buy tomatoes that aren’t in season, so I’m stuck with packaged one at the moment. These ones came from Italy and were in a cardboard box and were unbelievably good. I will be stocking up on those the next time I’m in town. They actually have flavor! It’s a complete shock to the tastebuds in the middle of winter. Tomato soup is perfect.

Tumblr:

I held out for an admirable length of time, but finally felt the time was right to sign up for the Tumblr. LOOK AT MINE! I don’t regret it nearly as much as I thought I would. It’s kind of fun. It’s like a secret world hidden inside of the Internet. There’s an unlimited supply of everything you could dream of. I scrolled through hundreds of images of Villefranche that I’d never seen before, saw wonderful picture of Joan Fontaine, watched the GIFs of everything. It’s wonderful and I don’t really know how to explain it to you if you don’t already understand. Sign up! It’s even more fun to get followers on there than it is on Twitter. I have well over a hundred followers on Twitter but they don’t begin to compare to the outright ecstasy of getting a new one on the Tumblr. I have twelve now! TWELVE! I stay up late at night just scrolling through, completely oblivious to the late hour. It’s fabulous.

Winter Break:

Don’t get me wrong, I love my job. For reasons, I don’t fully understand, I often enjoy working with children. That said, I LOVE BREAK! I love all of the breaks: Thanksgiving Break, Winter Break, Spring Break, Inservice days, and best of all is Summer Break. Today is the last day before break and I am counting down the seconds until I’m free. This is the great luxury of working in public education — you get to have a job where you sometimes feel as if you are making a difference and still get to have ample opportunities to be by yourself. I honestly don’t think I could do anything else with my work life. Sure, there are a million things I could do and would excel at, but would I enjoy them so much if I never had a little time for myself? Surely not. The simple fact that I can jet off to Europe for months in the summer or take a guilt-free jaunt to Chicago or Florida is dear to me and something that I will never not feel blessed by. During this break I hope to accomplish a few things: 1. publish my short story on Amazon, 2. paint my gym, and 3. work on my trip planning for Paris this summer. You see, I may not get paid well (honestly, what I make is a pittance) but I get to enjoy some rather remarkable experiences that even wealthier people never get to know.

My Beautiful Bedroom:

I’ve been meaning to do a blog post about my bedroom and lounge ever since I finished them. Well, to me, a room is never finished. It’s either livable or in demolition mode. I still need to add an electric fireplace to my bedroom and put in a couple new outlets, but that’s not awfully important at the moment. I finally have a room where I can go feel completely and utterly relaxed. My bedroom, also known by its monicker, the Executive Suite, is the definition of luxury. Gilded mirrors hang on the walls, a plush king sized bed eats up the floorspace, there is an exceptionally comfortable chair where I can sit and read or write or just happily daydream, a bronze chandelier hangs above everything with its crystals reflecting on every surface. Life is but a dream in here. Occasionally my lemon tree that stands before the window will flower and the room is perfumed by gentle citrus and I weep a bit because it’s just perfect. The only thing that could make it even better is if when I looked out the window, I saw a Parisian street and not my country garden, a mess in the middle of winter. I shouldn’t mind too much because that day will happen, I’ll make it happen even if it bankrupts me. I’m a Parisian gentleman through and through.

HATE:

Death of Joan Fontaine:

I’m rather devastated. Joan Fontaine just died and I’m terribly upset. She was one of the last links that were still amongst us of Old Hollywood glamour, one of the few people who were still alive that were a part of my favorite time in relatively recent history. Last year, I made a resolution to watch a film each day and for the majority, I watched films from the so-called “Golden Era” of Hollywood. Watching these, I discovered that most films were atrocious (like now), but there were some gems and there were a few actors that transcended common acting and were truly great. Joan was certainly amongst them. When I watched her in Rebecca, or in my absolute favorite picture she made, Suspicion, I was transported and transfixed by her talent. Many have forgotten her and as time continues its steady march, many more will, but I know that she will forever hold a place in the hearts and minds of those of us who love her and the likes of her. Remember when I sent her an autograph request and she sent back a request for five dollars? Wonderful woman! She was not working at her stage in life, but I always had a little daydream of her appearing in a cinematic version of my novel, Terrible Miss Margo. Toward the end, there is a scene where friends of Margo gather together and I fantasized of living legends gathering there. Joan and her sister, Olivia, maybe even holograms of Joan Crawford and Bette Davis. She won’t be in the film of my unpublished novel, of course, but it hurts my heart a little to know that she isn’t amongst us. I kind of thought of her as immortal. She wasn’t, of course, she was only human. Rest peacefully, Joan. I will always adore you.

Wearing Contacts:

I look good in glasses, I won’t deny it and I can’t deny it. But as a person who likes to constantly evolve with my fashion sense, I like to have the opportunity to go without glasses to change my look. In recent years, it has become difficult for me to wear contacts and I can’t really figure it out. I get good ones and I use expensive solution, but still they are not the most comfortable things in the world. They don’t hurt, but from the second I put them in, my eyes just feel exhausted. It’s miserable. I love to wear them with sunglasses. For some reason, when I do this, my eyes feel absolutely fine. I wonder if on the happy day when I finally get laser correction, if they will still be as sensitive as they are now? I don’t think so, since my eyes feel perfectly at their leisure whilst I’m wearing glasses. So perhaps when I don’t have a foreign object in my eye, it’ll be better. I hope so.

Writer’s Block:

In the past, when I’ve read about writers being unable to write, I’d say, “HA!” But now, I understand. I was working rather prolifically on my next novel for months; then suddenly all my inspiration dried up and I’m left staring at the screen wondering what to do with myself. It’s endlessly frustrating. I try to write at least a page every day, but for the past few weeks, those pages have been utter crap. I’ve deleted most of them. They weren’t going anywhere or saying anything, they were dry and dull. I look back then on things that I’ve written in the past and wonder how my brain came up with interesting situations and pleasant phrasings and then I feel bad about my current state of imagination. I started a little side project called Haskell & Eudora right when this current state of affairs began, so I’m blaming it for sucking my creativity dry. I’m not too upset, though, I’m really rather proud of that short story. Look for it soon on the Kindle store! (That’s an absolutely fascinating world that I’ve been researching lately.) I hope my old passion for the story I was working on comes back soon, though. I don’t know what I need to jump start my brain, but I hope it comes soon. I’m going a little crazy. My characters are just stranded, just standing around, just looking at each other and the beautiful French village they’re in…bored out of their minds. Quite irritating.

The Immeasurable Passing of Time:  

Einstein told us that time is in constant flux. This is hard for me to understand since we have things like atomic time, but I can sense that it’s true. Somedays, time flies by, and at other times, it lingers on like an unpleasant memory. This week is one of them. For some inexplicable reason, the hours are dragging and dragging and each day they drag a bit slower. It’s inconceivable to my mind, but it’s still Thursday. How is this possible when it has felt like Friday since I returned from the weekend? Absolute madness. Then, when I return back to my home, time simply flies and it’s eleven o’clock again somehow. This one baffles me even more. The passage of time really can’t be quantified can it, even though it can?

Over the past year, I have learned tremendous amounts about the publishing industry. Little did I know the struggle and strife that goes on in that world! I still have hopes to publish my novel, Terrible Miss Margo, in the traditional manner, but I didn’t want to miss out on the rather fascinating world of eBooks.

Instead of finding an agent, rewriting manuscripts, finding an editor, rewriting manuscripts, finding a publisher, rewriting manuscripts, and then finally falling into almost assured obscurity, the eBook world lets you take charge of the entire process and then fall into obscurity. Obviously, this could be an unmitigated disaster. Just think of all the people in the world with a novel in their drawer that they wrote one winter, knowing they had a New York Times Bestseller in them. Truly frightening. I’ve read some of these pieces and found myself gaping in horror. To the horror of most consumers, some of them were even published, travesties like Twilight and Fifty Shades of Grey.

I don’t begrudge those authors an iota, though, I applaud and respect them. They cleverly tapped into a market and took it over. For that, I give them this GIF:

Now, even though I may humbly go on about myself being the reincarnated Oscar Wilde or one of the most important icons in American literature since Mark Twain, I only say this with sarcasm. Still, I like to think that my writing is decent. I put a lot of care and thought into what I do, and there are very few sex toys in my work, even less glitter. Thought you should know. And, with that in mind, perhaps you’ll be willing to give my novella, Haskell and Eudora, a try?

This story had a very interesting genesis, and since I’m long-winded on this blog, I’ll detail it for you. You are most welcome!

St. Croix River

This October, as my family drove through Stillwater, Minnesota, on our way back to Iowa, I was flabbergasted as always by that beautiful village on the St. Croix. It’s honestly one of the most perfect places in America. I’m saying this with full awareness of how much I love Sarasota, Florida, and San Francisco, California. To me, it ranks right up there. The place has a magical feeling to it, the way it climbs up the valley walls, the trees ablaze with autumnal color, and the easygoing commingling of modern life and historic Americana. I love it so much. I would happily live there; the only thing stopping me is the frigid weather and the nearness of my arch nemesis, Michele Bachmann. I hate that woman. I hate her for all she stands for. I also hate her for elbowing me and not apologizing.

Anyway, I knew that I had to write a story about this place. I write all the time, so it was only natural to add it to my list of projects. But for some reason, the idea of this piece wouldn’t leave my mind. I knew it was going to be a short story or novella and I knew that it would involve supernatural elements.

That night, while waiting in line to meet one of my heroes, Anne Rice, the story fell into place with such ease that it alarmed me. I furiously typed out a synopsis on my phone and then gushed to Anne about how much I loved her.

Meeting Anne Rice

As I was talking to her, this was basically me:

And afterwards I was stunned by her perfection:

I am a changed man after being so near to her.

Over the next week, the story poured out of my brain onto paper — I always write on paper, I can’t type a story — and I was very happy with how it turned out. I’ve never had such fun writing in my entire life. It delighted me the way it flowed right out without the complications and confusion of some of my earlier works. Only recently have I stopped procrastinating long enough to put the thing together, though. (It’s a real problem.)

After a few stressful days of figuring out how the hell you’re supposed to format an ebook — not as complicated as I first thought, but still irksome — it was all done. I proofread it a few times and designed the cover:It’s not quite my original vision, which was more spartan and haunting, but I think this is still evocative of the story I’m telling. Besides that, this picture of my grandmother was free to use…so, how could I resist?

I submitted it last night and it’s for sale now for $2.99! I’m a published author!

I think this is a fun and interesting foray into the publishing world whilst I wait for an agent and an editor and a publisher for my first novel. I had a good time and I think I may do it again. I fell so in love with some of the characters in this story that I’m sure you’ll hear from them soon. They’ve amazing stories to tell and they won’t shut up in my head, so I may have to exorcise them.

Also: HOLLYWOOD, PLEASE BUY THE RIGHTS TO MY STORY. NO, YOU’RE NOT CRAZY, I SMELL AN OSCAR, TOO.

Here’s the opening for your perusal (and I’m no heathen, I just can’t indent on here because of HTML…I don’t know what that means, but my apologies to you.)

* * * *

Every afternoon after closing the shop, I go to Fairview Cemetery. I love graveyards; they’re always desolate and peaceful and I enjoy the solitude they provide. Of all the burial grounds I’ve seen, which is not many, this will always be my favorite. There is nothing spectacular about it. The headstones offer nothing exceptional. I suppose the one from the late eighteenth century is curious enough, but I don’t come here for any historical purposes. I come for the magnificent view of the St. Croix River and to spend a moment with my parents. I never had the chance to have dinner with them––I have almost no memories of them at all, and the ones I do have are surely of my own creation––so I dine with my family in this consecrated ground. It’s pleasant, especially now with the leaves so ridiculously colorful.

I took another bite of my sandwich, always egg salad with lots of chive, and turned back to one of my mother’s books that I had brought along, The Secret Doctrine by Helena Blavatsky. She had owned a vast library that lined the walls of several rooms. All those tomes were in a storage unit now on the outskirts of town. I couldn’t bear to get rid of them and was glad that Gran Josephine had been thoughtful enough to save them in case I turned out to be an avid reader, too.

“I wasn’t aware that people still studied Theosophy.”

I turned quickly to the voice. Never before had I been disturbed here. It was my sanctuary and though it was patently untrue, I consider myself to be a guardian and protector of the graves and large mausoleum stuffed with ashes of long–forgotten members of this wonderfully vital river town.

“Blavatsky is an intriguing woman, though, I freely admit,” the man said. He had a deep, melodic voice touched by a British accent.

I flipped back to the cover. “It’s all over my head, really.”

Smiling, he squatted next to me. He had long, wavy hair pulled back into a loose ponytail; dark brown tendrils from his bangs had escaped and framed his face, drawing attention to his high cheekbones and clear, blue eyes. His skin was ruddy and his cheeks showed only the slightest trace of stubble.

“Salons that she hosted were memorable by those lucky enough to be invited.” His eyes wandered. “Allegedly, of course.” He flashed another smile, dazzling white teeth.

“I imagine so,” I replied lamely, unsure of what I should say. I have always been timid and rarely, if ever, seek out conversation with a stranger.

“I’ve not introduced myself, just leapt straight into the middle of a conversation. Bad habit.” He extended a long–fingered hand. “I’m Haskell Desmarais.”

“Desmarais?” I parroted, questioningly. I knew that name. Anybody who lived in Stillwater for any length of time was familiar with it.

“They always say our name like that,” he laughed, “rather nasty history, isn’t it?”

“You could call it that,” I replied. “We’ve all grown up with the story of Loretta high up in the tower of that mansion where she hung her entire family and fled, never to be found. Then that wonderful house was left all alone, never occupied, never entered, just standing eerily quiet until it falls to the ground.”

“She must have been deranged. I can’t think of any other reason to act as she did.”

“No,” I responded quietly. This was an awfully strange conversation, but not so uncomfortable as I had feared at the onset. “I wonder what became of her?”

“I’ve been told she went to live with the native people, the Ojibwa, and became something of a shaman in their tribe. That’s the family folklore, anyway.”

“I didn’t realize that there were any of you left.”

“We aren’t a large family, but there are a small number of us. My sister and I are recently arrived from London. That house has been waiting for a new crew of Desmarais for nearly a century now––has it been a century, yet?––but none of the family wants to associate with that tragic chapter of our story.”

“You don’t mind the infamy?”

“No,” he sighed, “quite frankly, I relish in it. I suppose you could say my sister and I are something of an eccentric duo.”

I smiled shyly at him. “Your namesake is buried over there.” I pointed across the lawn to a worn limestone grouping of headstones.

“Is he?” Haskell looked eagerly over. “Would you accompany me?”

I nodded, putting the old book and the remains of my meal into the canvas rucksack I always have about me.

He walked with unusual elegance, his posture perfectly straight; his tall body striding effortlessly over the long, dying grass. He wore dark khaki pants and a thick, navy blue cable knit cardigan that hung open, revealing a perfectly white shirt. A scarf was wrapped casually, but elegantly around his neck. I rarely thought about appearances, but he had an air about him that commanded attention. I suddenly felt rather ashamed of my worn Mickey Mouse sweater and comfortable jeans.

“I’m glad to have found you,” he said as we approached the cluster, “I’d have been searching all day.”

“I like to think I know all the names and where they are.” I replied. “It’ll begin to snow soon and I’ll have to stay inside. I hate the winter. I miss the graves.”

He nodded. “Perfectly reasonable. They’re your friends.”

“Don’t you find that peculiar?”

“Heavens no!” He exclaimed with a laugh. “They don’t argue with you, they let you think, they’re kindly, and are always here when needed. I envy the dead, though I have no interest in joining their troupe.”

“I’ve never heard that sentiment expressed quite so elegantly. Do all Englishmen speak like you?”

“Hardly. We have our uneducated masses, too, and the educated that inconceivably choose illiteracy.”

“Same the world over.”

He turned to me with a look of amazement, “You’ve totally charmed me, yet you’ve said so little, and, I don’t even know your name.”

“Julia Lloyd.”

“Julia,” he repeated slowly. “It doesn’t suit you.”

I laughed, “What should I be called?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I say many things I don’t think through.”

I smirked. He amused me. “Here he is, Haskell Lucas Desmarais.”

He ran his fingers over the rough, white stone, marred with lichen, the delicate scrollwork and engraving nearly impossible to make out. “Ici, il y a une vie,” he read in beautifully accented French. “Toujours vivant.”

“Always alive?” I tried to remember my high school French, which I had learned only a few years ago.

“Indeed,” Haskell sighed, and a melancholy expression muddled his charming features. “They had a very curious sense of humor.”

“What do you mean?”

“Never mind. Like I said before, talking without thinking.”

He studied the group of gravestones: Eudora, Haskell, Rosamond, and Mortimer. “If you aren’t in the cemetery, where can I find you?”

“You’re peculiar.” I laughed, then thought better of what I’d said, “Don’t take offense.”

“One should never be bothered by the truth, though it is often more unpleasant than a lie.”

I looked at him for a moment, he had charmed me as well. Nobody spoke that way. “I work at the Christmas shop, Noel, on the main street. It’s impossible to miss. If ever you need ornaments or a crèche or a strand of lights, well, there’s no finer place.”

“Tinsel, too? I’m mad for tinsel.”

“All the tinsel you’d like.”

“May I call on you there?” He looked down at me quite seriously.

I nodded my consent. How could I not? He intrigued me utterly.

“Thank you, Miss Julia. And forgive me, your name is quite beautiful, it sounds very much like a jewel.” With a warm smile, he left my side, leaving me rather astonished and incomprehensibly flustered.

* * * *

I do hope you enjoyed that. If you’re biting your nails, desperate to know what happens next, click this link and buy your very own copy. My goal is to make enough money to buy a pair of pink shoes, so, I’m not asking for the moon here. Thanks in advance for my shoes and I really do hope you liked it. Leave comments. Leave reviews. I adore you.

Perhaps it’s because the memories are fresher in my brain, but the second half of 2013 seemed a bit more momentous. Let’s carry on, shall we?

JULY:

*my motto for the month*

• In the wee hours of the first hour of the month, I found myself en route to Chicago aboard the Mega Bus — a mode of transportation that’s become a dear friend of mine. My mother and brother were with me to send me off in style. We dined at my beloved Ralph Lauren Restaurant, leisurely strolled along the lake, and openly wept at my departure for HOLLYWOOD. 
• After getting over my disappointment that trains were no longer filled with elegant socialites in formalwear nor filled with lounge cars lined in mahogany, I become deeply enamored of train travel and was delighted by seeing America’s wild west for the first time. We passed through crumbling villages, cut through canyons, through hinterlands, through a mountain, and more. I was enraptured by the changing scenery and the gin and tonics. There were many, many Amish people, and that made me anxious. I also befriended a woman who looked just like Ina Garten and another elderly woman, whom I will adore until my dying day. She was in the midst of an unpleasant relationship with a hippy and his clingy girlfriend who though she was a reincarnated Aztec princess.
• I was taken in for a week by the Waldens — childhood friends of my mother — and was completely delighted by them and their friends. I had a marvelous time getting to know them and climbing canyons where I looked like this: We went to delightful shops, ate delicious meals, I saw Sylvia Browne at the California Pizza Kitchen, and celebrated one of the more memorable July 4ths I’ve ever had that included: being part of a sideshow act at Venice Beach, gorging on bean/rice tacos, and watching a million fireworks go off atop a monstrously tall hill. It was a marvelous time.
• After my stay with the Waldens, who I now consider lifelong friends and my LA family, I relocated to a charming apartment in West Hollywood. It was perfect for me, looked like it hadn’t been touched since the fifties and was located right next to CBS studios, the Grove, and the Farmers Market.
• I was constantly bumping into my friends, like Nicole Richie:Giggy the Pom and Ken Vanderpump:Giuliana and Bill Rancic:and others, like: Perez Hilton, Mario Lopez, Kris Jenner, Queen Latifah, Craig Ferguson, Jane Lynch, several underwear models, and Jeffrey Tambor amongst others, like Tyra Banks, who insisted we dance together:
• I was regularly featured on the television, such as this appearance on The Late Late Show With Craig Ferguson:
• I dined at the Ivy and the amazing Veggie Grill, where I had the most delicious vegan food. It changed my life: 
• I was interviewed for the Style Network.
• I was mistaken for Mario Lopez.
• Nicole Richie kept posting pictures of me on her Instagram.
• I walked all up and down Hollywood Boulevard, smiling down at the names of stars and icons so many have forgotten:
• I went to the beach: 
• I went to Brentwood and drooled at the homes. I ran by Joan Crawford’s house, reenacting an iconic scene from Mommie Dearest, then, at the gates of the house, I shouted, “CHRISTOPHER! CHRISTINA! DAMN IT!” Highlight of my life, that.
• I befriended an elderly Jewish woman, who gave me Hebrew lessons when I came in for her delicious black and white cookies.
• I found a pair of brown pants that made my backside look like sex and the most beautiful shoes in the world:
• I tracked down historic locations such as the house where the exteriors for What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? were shot:
• I went to Paramount Studios and to Hollywood Forever to look at the graves of so many of the famous dead:
• I had the absolute thrill of a lifetime when I spent a night at the Chateau Marmont, beloved Hollywood hotspot. I reveled in my elegance at the pool where I was sat next to Anna Kendrick: I was treated like an absolute king by the staff and I reveled in it. They pampered me and I pampered myself, like when I took 2013′s most iconic selfie:I dined at their legendary bar and joyously discovered that I was in the room next to the one where Lindsay Lohan had recently had been evicted from.
• I left Hollywood then for Disneyland, where I had an alright time. It was no Disney World.
• I left Disney via the world’s most expensive taxi ride ever and checked into a stateroom on the Queen Mary:I had a ridiculously good time dressing up in a suit, drinking mock-pink champagne and pretending I was a mix of Cary Grant and Leonardo DiCaprio whilst I looked for ghosts in the bowels of the legendary liner.
• I returned to Los Angeles to catch a train to my cousin’s place on the Central Coast. We had a marvelous time wandering through the towns, looking at the coast, visiting Hearst Castle where I looked like this:We ate fresh pesto, went to the fair, watched inept athletes play volleyball under a pier, I rode on a scooter(!), and I had a great time getting to know my California family better. Can’t wait to go and visit again.
• From there, I caught yet another train (I LOVE TRAINS) to San Francisco. Now, I had no intention of caring much about this city, but from the moment I saw it, I fell madly in love. San Francisco is perhaps the most perfect place I’ve been in America. It did something strange to me. I think of it constantly. Every day I want to be back there. I had a great time drinking Irish coffee, hanging off a cable car, being barked at in the Castro by hairy men, having a delicious picnic on top of my hotel: dining at the world-renowned restaurant, Greens, nibbling at French bistros and bakeries, staring happily at the bay, wearing a scarf in July, and being flirted with at the Nespresso boutique which resulted in free cake. San Francisco has my heart.
• I sent out these Tweets:

You could easily have sex with a half dozen people in a train bathroom…not that I would, just an observation.—
Ben Phillips (@bdphillips) July 01, 2013

I'm alone in the observation car with about 20 young Amish people that keep eyeing me. I'VE NEVER BEEN SO SCARED!—
Ben Phillips (@bdphillips) July 02, 2013

Guys, I'm already lunching with an actress. She voiced one of the children in "Despicable Me 2." She's six. I LOVE HOLLYWOOD!—
Ben Phillips (@bdphillips) July 03, 2013

I shall be putting on impromptu performances of "Party in the USA" all day to celebrate America. You're welcome. #iloveyoumiley—
Ben Phillips (@bdphillips) July 04, 2013

Going hiking in Runyon Canyon. (ATTN: Zac Efron, this will be a great place to propose.)—
Ben Phillips (@bdphillips) July 05, 2013

A twelve-year-old just tried to sell me cocaïne on Robertson Boulevard.—
Ben Phillips (@bdphillips) July 09, 2013

Met a friendly go-go dancer yesterday. I admire him. I wouldn't have the energy. It seems like exercise, which I'm not fond of.—
Ben Phillips (@bdphillips) July 13, 2013

Sometimes I have deep thoughts, but I'm usually thinking about tacos.—
Ben Phillips (@bdphillips) July 20, 2013

Earlier today, I looked to my right and I saw the Hollywood Sign. For real. Singing ensued.—
Ben Phillips (@bdphillips) July 21, 2013

How much more do I have to drink before I get to go to rehab and hang out with Lindsay? I'm guessing I'm close.—
Ben Phillips (@bdphillips) July 22, 2013

I'm in a robe, drinking overpriced coffee, and dancing to the new One Direction song. I love my life.—
Ben Phillips (@bdphillips) July 22, 2013

AUGUST:

Well, July was rather jam-packed, wasn’t it? What on earth does jam-packed even mean? Let’s not think of it now, this post is already dangerously long.

• The first of the month was my very last day in San Francisco, so I melancholiliy sang this song ALL DAY:

• I caught the plane (I know!) to Las Vegas, which routed me through the absolutely awful Phoenix airport.
• Las Vegas was a strange place…I didn’t care much for it, but it was amusing to see my sister twerk with strippers.
• Jessica and I attended a One Direction concert, which caused us to lose our collective shit. THE BOYS ARE PERFECT:Our lives were changed. I was also told I have the right facial structure for suspenders.
• We drank a lot and ate A LOT. There are a remarkable number of good bakeries. I won nothing at the casinos:I didn’t care much for Vegas.
• Then, I was back home. BLAH. I didn’t miss Iowa at all.
• It was my birthday and I mused upon my old age and good looks.
• I attended the Iowa State Fair once again and found it as dull as ever.
• I began watching the new cycle of America’s Next Top Model, you know…the one where I wasn’t cast? It was an absolute train wreck.
• I thought it would be a  good idea to bicycle ten miles out to see a canyon at Ledges State Park. This was a very, very, very bad idea. Bicycles + highways + hills = terrifying fun. I’m alarmed I survived the trip.
• I had to go back to work, which was sad…but I’m alright with it. I’m very thankful I’m able to take my month-long breaks as I did in July.
• I renewed my license and I looked like a stunning eastern European model. Not kidding. It’s amazing.
• I fell asleep tanning and discovered the dangers of tanning nude.
• I was involved in a Twitter feud with chef, Tyler Florence:
• I began a crusade to save Miley Cyrus from all the negative comments she received after her genius twerk and grind on the VMAs.
• I discovered an abandoned kitten that I named Edna. She promptly died by roasting herself under a tin panel. (This is not a finished story, don’t weep.)
• I fangirled hard over the premiere of the One Direction movie. No shame.
• I made grape jam with grapes I picked from my own vineyard and made the most curiously delicious macarons with it.
• I looked like this:I think this is the best my hair has ever looked.
• I sent out these Tweets:

I'm in the back of the plane, but it's fine since I make first class wherever I am.—
Ben Phillips (@bdphillips) August 02, 2013

I hate everybody in Las Vegas. Take me back to San Francisco. #drunkpeasants #poorlydressedpeasants—
Ben Phillips (@bdphillips) August 04, 2013

I'd rather eat cyanide than be in a wheelchair at the fair. Stay home, invalids!—
Ben Phillips (@bdphillips) August 09, 2013

Someday I will be a morning person who likes to exercise and finish to-do lists. Today is not that day.—
Ben Phillips (@bdphillips) August 11, 2013

People who name their cats Kitty disgust me.—
Ben Phillips (@bdphillips) August 12, 2013

I wasn't being chased by a bear! It was just a fat guy sitting in the middle of the woods choking on his own phlegm. Easy mistake.—
Ben Phillips (@bdphillips) August 16, 2013

After ANOTHER half hour of exhausting twerking practice, I give up.—
Ben Phillips (@bdphillips) September 01, 2013

SEPTEMBER:

• I continued a difficult readjustment to working life. I suffered tragically knowing that I’m not a sedentary person — I’m supposed to see the world.
• I pondered modern fashion and wondered why capes weren’t in vogue.
• In an effort to distract myself, I ordered a ridiculous number of holiday brochures about transatlantic cruises.
• I obsessively researched hummingbird moths.
• Edna, the kitten that roasted herself to death, returned from the dead. I immediately adopted her, christened her DAME EDNA LAZARUS #ZOMBIEPRINCESS, then discovered she was a boy. The name hasn’t changed.
• I lost my shit over the new gold iPhone.
• I taught myself how to install drywall and began a rather remarkable transformation of my bedroom. It went from rather common, to boutique hotel class.
• I began a serious quest to get a weave, which I’ve still not gone through with.
• I went to Minnesota/Wisconsin for what appears to be the hundredth time this year.
• I read one of the best books I’ve ever read, Blackwood Farm, by Anne Rice.
• A child asked me, “You’re a French model, right, Mr. Phillips.” I blessed that child.
• I ate more chocolate mousse than real food.
• I delighted in Miley Cyrus’ new album, which is perfection.
• I looked absolutely fabulous:
• I sent out these Tweets:

I'd quite like to go to Transylvania.—
Ben Phillips (@bdphillips) September 08, 2013

"I saw you dancing through the aisles." –World Market cashier—
Ben Phillips (@bdphillips) September 09, 2013

The second I bite into a kettle chip, I know I'm not going to stop until the bag is gone.—
Ben Phillips (@bdphillips) September 14, 2013

Brisk weather is really stressful because I have to pick which of my many sweaters is cutest each day.—
Ben Phillips (@bdphillips) September 17, 2013

I look ravishing in yellow.—
Ben Phillips (@bdphillips) September 20, 2013

Somebody wrap me in Burberry please.—
Ben Phillips (@bdphillips) September 23, 2013

I want to be governor so that I can host a Halloween costume ball at Terrace Hill. #voteforme—
Ben Phillips (@bdphillips) September 30, 2013

OCTOBER:

• The government shut down and cruelly, I still had to go to work.
• I was mistaken for a Bill Phillips and started receiving his emails about planning a corporate luncheon. I may have approved a couple chocolate fountains and an ice sculpture. I hope they had a good party.
• Finally saw The Bling Ring and strongly identified with the characters.
• I saw House of Versace and Donatella immediately became my everything.
• I had pink eye and it was great! I GOT TO STAY HOME WITH A LEGITIMATE ILLNESS FOR THE FIRST TIME EVER! I’m never sick.
• I again went to Wisconsin. What is that now? 15? While there, I discovered that I liked broccoli and I went four-wheeling. Obviously I was suffering from some kind of malady.
• I MET ANNE RICE.
• I wrote a short story — more info on that later.
• I bought a new custom-made suit.
• I remembered a lesson I had learned earlier and should never have forgotten: boys are dumb and they don’t care about your feelings.
• Attempted to dress Edna as a vampire bat. It was not a simple process.
• We threw our annual SHITTY PHILLIPS HALLOWEEN SPECTACULAR SPECTACULAR and it wasn’t as shitty as usual. My table setting was particularly nice:
• I LOOKED LIKE THIS:and THIS:You’re welcome.
• I sent out these Tweets:

Laborers at work were complimenting the bow tie I wore yesterday. People in construction have excellent taste.—
Ben Phillips (@bdphillips) October 03, 2013

I want to be famous enough that disgusting fan fiction is written about me.—
Ben Phillips (@bdphillips) October 05, 2013

Why wasn't I born an Italian heiress?—
Ben Phillips (@bdphillips) October 07, 2013

In a hotel where people are obviously routinely murdered. #Help—
Ben Phillips (@bdphillips) October 12, 2013

"There are lemons in this; it's health food!" I shout to nobody as I eat another slice of cake.—
Ben Phillips (@bdphillips) October 24, 2013

Did you know that you can sell your hair online? New career path!—
Ben Phillips (@bdphillips) October 31, 2013

NOVEMBER:

• I felt very British as I went to pubs, watched my favorite British sitcoms over again, and read autobiographies of my favorite British icons.
• The time change did awful things to my mind and I began to lapse into depression more strongly than I ever have in the past.
• I bought studded shoes and it was a big deal.
• It began to snow and I just wanted to die. It was so cold and so unpleasant. Here’s my reaction to seeing the first horrid flakes fall:
• I wrote in-depth restaurant reviews.
• I decided I’d rather like to work in a Chanel boutique.
• I listened to the new One Direction album and found them to be even more charming and talented than ever.
• I discovered that you can online shop at H&M, which was a sad day for my wallet, but a glad day for my wardrobe.
• Sylvia Browne died and I was absolutely devastated.
• I reveled in my Twitter infamy as I live-tweeted Food Networks disastrous Thanksgiving Live.
• I went painting with coworkers and drank a lot of gin.
• I FINALLY BECAME THE OWNER OF AN IPHONE. My life was instantly changed for the better.
• Jessica and I sang at an opera house in Greenfield, Iowa, to the delight of our fans.
• I looked like this:
• I sent out these Tweets:

I'm always delighted when I actually understand seventh grade math.—
Ben Phillips (@bdphillips) November 01, 2013

Really proud right now for not spending four million dollars on all the things at Target.—
Ben Phillips (@bdphillips) November 02, 2013

Feeling blah, so I've spritzed myself with Chanel cologne and eaten too much chocolate whilst elegantly sprawled on the couch.—
Ben Phillips (@bdphillips) November 04, 2013

Please deliver a pizza, some cake, a massive bowl of pasta, and a bucket of white wine to my face, please. LOL SEASONAL DEPRESSION!—
Ben Phillips (@bdphillips) November 09, 2013

I've always wanted to write children's books, but whenever I attempt it, they become inappropriate so quickly.—
Ben Phillips (@bdphillips) November 09, 2013

I still need to learn to play the accordion I got from that dead lady.—
Ben Phillips (@bdphillips) November 17, 2013

A student told me he was saving up for a J. Crew suit and I got a bit weepy. Little fashionistas are so adorable.—
Ben Phillips (@bdphillips) November 26, 2013

DECEMBER:

• The first miracle of the Christmas season was Tom Daley’s video where he reveals he’s dating a man. I, of course, was overjoyed and no longer had to feel an iota of shame for my 2014 Tom Daley Calendar. Not that I did to begin with.
• I read The Bell Jar, devoured it really. It was incredible. One of my favorite books of all time.
• I dressed completely in purple and oxblood to work — even my hair was purple — for a field trip to the cinema.
• I was sat on my couch for a morning, wondering about what modern culture would be like if Germany had won the war.
• I decided to join Tumblr. I’m still confused why I’m not Tumblr famous.
• I struggled to find a turtleneck. It seems that they are no longer in fashion, and yet all the fashionable people are wearing them.
• I spontaneously bought a ticket to see Beyoncé in Chicago. One of the better decisions of my life.
• I had a great time in Chicago, dining at the Ralph Lauren restaurant, shopping at Chanel: staying in a gorgeous room at The Drake, seeing Beyoncé, being involved in a bus chase, riding in limousines, listening to Bey’s new album, and just reveling in my existence.
• I went to my best friend’s wedding, and it was absolutely beautiful.
• I wept over the death of my friend, Joan Fontaine.
• I began a campaign to bring back the Concord, but no luck yet.
• I wore short shorts and tank tops a lot because I’m in denial of the season and because I’m genetically built for tropical climes.
• I made a glorious Christmas brunch of Julia Child’s onion quiche, Dorie Greenspan’s cheddar and chive loaf, and Martha Stewart’s chocolate cake.
• I published a novella on the Kindle store, which was a rather proud accomplishment for me. Currently waiting for the royalties to come crashing down upon me.
• I looked like this:
• I sent out these Tweets:

I'm in the mood to run away to some Mediterranean village near the water and work at a grocery store.—
Ben Phillips (@bdphillips) December 02, 2013

I wonder what Tom Daley's boyfriend is doing right now. Probably smiling.—
Ben Phillips (@bdphillips) December 06, 2013

I was under the mistaken impression that global warming meant I could harvest tomatoes in February and have a picnic on Christmas.—
Ben Phillips (@bdphillips) December 07, 2013

LOL to waiters telling me, "You sure? It's a big portion."—
Ben Phillips (@bdphillips) December 13, 2013

Me: "You have great hair today."
Student: "Thanks. I was inspired by you."
Me: *choked sob*—
Ben Phillips (@bdphillips) December 16, 2013

My space heater is set on "Hellish Inferno," but it's still frigid. I need the Caribbean, please.—
Ben Phillips (@bdphillips) December 24, 2013

And so, it appears that 2013 was a rather decent year. Not everything went my way, but then again, it never seems to. In spite of that, I still had an awfully good time and saw so many new places! I think it’s important to remember that this is the year that I sang with Beyoncé, danced with Tyra Banks, made eye contact with my future husband, Zayn Malik, got into a fight with Tyler Florence, and looked really cute the whole time.

Next year should be just as fun — we’re going to Europe, reader. Is your body ready?

LOVE:

A Thousand Miles up the Nile:

I’ve always felt that I was born in the wrong age. Each era of the past is deeply fascinating for me. Everything but the sixties through the eighties — no thanks, hippies and crimped hair are not for me. I adore the modern world, but my era was the time from Victorian England through the early fifties. That, I think, is the loveliest time in the history of the world. I would have been an aristocratic adventurer, going off to Egypt and digging through the desert sands for ancient treasures. Alas, I’m a gentleman of the twenty-first century. One nice part of this is the fact that I can still explore this past time with amazing ease. For example, all the great literature and art of yesteryear is being digitized for our modern consumption. Imagine my delight yesterday when I read about a travelogue titled A Thousand Miles up the Nile, which was written by Amelia Edwards, who inspired the creation of my favorite fictional heroine, Amelia Peabody! In just a few minutes, I had a digital copy on my iPad. It was a first edition scan from a public library and had all the old world charm of cracking open an antique volume. And it is phenomenal. The prose is delicious and when I read the line, “Here are…the usual surplus of idlers who travel for the mere love of travel or the satisfaction of a purposeless curiosity.” I just couldn’t stop smiling, the book is perfect. Next weekend, I’m going to sit myself on the couch and gorge myself on it.

Rosemary & Thyme:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k4O7Ulvfzvw

I don’t think there is a British show from the 1990s to the mid 2000s that I won’t watch. I love them all. I don’t feel this way about American television, they just go on and on and on and on. When it’s a good program like Will & Grace, I wish they’d go on forever, but twenty-two episodes becomes tiring. No, I much prefer the British concept of ten episodes or less. You get right to the main part of the show. After I finished Keeping Up Appearances, I’ve been going through serious British withdrawals, so I scanned Netflix for my next obsession. I found it. It’s Rosemary & Thyme. I knew nothing about the show from the onset, other than it was about murder solving gardeners and that French and Saunders did a delightful parody of it. I love it. It’s not a comedy, but it still makes me chuckle, which makes it perfect for me. It’s nice to turn on and watch for fifty minutes as the two woman go to fancy estates and talk about tree diseases and rare orchids and then dig up human remains and go to the pub and get rudely treated by the police for their friendship. I think I’ll binge watch the whole thing this weekend.

French Fries:

I have developed a great fondness for French fries. I suppose it’s nothing new, I’ve always been a fan. When I was still in school, I think it was high school, there was a restaurant right across the street that made the most unbelievably good cheese fries in the entire world. They had globs of Colby Jack cheese on top and were doused heavily in Cavandar’s, which has ever since been one of my favorite spice blends. The place was awesome. They even had delicious cottage cheese and I would always eat my mother’s fried chicken, I used to eat meat back in those days. Anytime my sister and I could convince her to take us there was a great success and the secret to a happy day. They closed years ago, but it was easy enough to recreate the cheese fries at home, which I have done. But, I’ve never actually made my own fries. It couldn’t be too hard, obviously, they’re just a potato. I had no interest in chopping and frying, though, so it was something that I’ve never done. The other day, as I was reorganizing my cupboards, I came across my grandmother’s old potato chopper. It’s a miracle. You stick a potato in it, press down, and French fries pop out. It probably explains why I’ve gained a few pounds. I’ve been making French fries every damn day. I love baking them soft and then broiling them to get brown and crunch; they’re divine. I made roasted tomato sauce, my lazy delicious sauce — throw some sliced tomatoes, garlic cloves, oil, salt, pepper, and whatever fresh herbs you have on a baking sheet and cook with the fries in the oven, whizz up in the food processor — and it’s heaven. It’s absolutely heaven. French fries are a gift from heaven.

Joanna Lumley:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=xr9yKNeX8Os

For the majority of my adult life, I’ve been deeply in love with Joanna. Not sexually or anything, I’m gay, but just with her personality and her spirit and her life. I want to be her, actually. I think she’s wonderful. I’ve surely written about this before, I have a clear recollection of gushing about how much I admire her in the past, but it’s time to do it again. The other day, I spent the entirety of the day watching interviews she’s given, watching the phenomenal documentaries she’s hosted, and flipping through her photographic memoir, Absolutely. I find it remarkable that people can have lives such as the one she has. She grew up in British controlled India and then moved to London to become a model. She had great success in television and eventually became the national treasure that she is now. She’s Patsy from Absolutely Fabulous, a dear icon to me and to so many others. But, my very favorite role that she ever played is herself. She’s so caring and passionate and intrigued by the world around her. I get the sense that she’s baffled that she’s lucky enough to have such a marvelous time with her life, and for that I adore her all the more. When I watch her dancing with drunken Greek distillers, surviving on a deserted island, sailing up the Nile like some embodiment of every dream I have ever had, searching for the Northern Lights, or trying to understand the human obsession with feline companionship — I can’t help but just watch her, mouth slightly agape at her perfection and poise and dignity. She is a flawless creation and I worship the ground she walks on. If I ever am lucky enough to meet her (and I’ve had elaborate fantasies of how this would play out since I was in high school — they usually involve a bottle of champagne at Sardis) I think I would just die. I wouldn’t be able to form coherent phrases. I’d be a babbling fool, but I would be so happy. Joanna Lumley is truly one of my greatest role models and I look up to her so much.

Full Sized Baguettes:

When I bought my new oven at IKEA, I was thrilled and delighted, thinking that I finally had one that was capable of holding a full size sheet pan. WRONG. It’s this strange size that can hold the width of a full size sheet pan, but not the depth. I don’t understand why such a horrible creation was ever built. It will hold a half sheet and a quarter sheet pan side by side just fine and I often do this. The best part of this oven, now that I’ve finally accepted its shortcomings, is the fact that I can bake a full-sized baguette in there! It’s marvelous. For years, I’ve been baking delicious bâtards, which are short baguettes, or using baguette pans. These are fine, but they just aren’t as fun as a massive baguette, you know? Maybe you don’t, maybe this is my own personal struggle. It’s a triumph for me, though. I made some the other night and they are just phenomenally good. I had a piece for breakfast with a wedge of cheese and I felt just like I was back home in Paris. It was heaven.

HATE:

Coriander:

I don’t know why, but this spice is gross in all of its forms. It tastes like soap and acid and I’m no fan. I made a big pot of Sudanese lentil soup this afternoon and I added a couple teaspoons as was suggested by the recipe. I knew that I was not a fan, but I don’t believe in modifying recipes until you’ve at least tried preparing them the proper way. It wasn’t awful, but there was just this awful sour flavor in the soup now from the coriander. It’s probably because coriander is just the seed that propagates cilantro, which I also dislike. It’s awful in everything but salsa. I can handle it in salsa. I managed to fix the soup to my liking by adding a bit of sugar and tossing in the juice of a lemon. Now the sour flavor comes mainly from the lemon, which I’m fine with. Coriander is gross.

Unable to Work Wonderful Museum Job:

I have a nice job and I feel very happy to call many of the people I work with my friends. On the other hand, I realize that this isn’t really the right thing to do for the rest of my life. Don’t get me wrong, I honestly enjoy working with teenagers way more than I ever expected. But, I want to do other things while I have the ability. I would love to work in Europe, it’s always been a dream of mine. I know that I probably sound ungrateful because my ancestors surely went to a lot of trouble to settle here in the middle of nowhere, but I’d much rather go back to where they began and live in a village. Even more, I would love to work in one of the great cities of the world. So, yesterday when one of the archaeologists from the British Museum posted a job listing for a museum assistant, I eagerly read through it. I was perfectly qualified for the job. I would have loved it. It included photographing artifacts, setting up exhibits, and answering questions that guests might have. I would have had the time of my life! Sadly, though, I have no right to work in the UK and the time listing of the job was so short that there was not adequate time to request a work visa from the government. And so, this didn’t work out which really rather depressed me. Even if I was poor in London, I’d still be in London where I could go exploring every day. It’s not like here where all I have is a massive estate that I have to manage every afternoon and all night long, there’s no time to enjoy it since it’s constantly in need of work. I whine a lot, but I just don’t belong here. I need to seriously work on something.

Dispassionate Writing:

Writing is currently the bane of my daily existence. To keep myself motivated to write, I force myself to type out a page each day. Most days this isn’t a worry or a bother, it often doesn’t take me more than five minutes to propel the characters of my story in interesting directions. When I was working on Haskell & Eudora (available now for instant download on Amazon at a low price! PLEASE BUY A COPY! YOU’RE BEAUTIFUL, READER!), I was having the most phenomenal time. Words would simply come pouring out of my mind. I had to struggle to contain them. But whenever I go to work on my next novel, Hôtel-Ker-Maria, I have the absolute worst time. I feel that if I can get it right, the book will be a triumph. Maybe not to anybody else to me, but it’s a story I’ve been meaning to tell for so many years. It’s the story of my grandmother’s life in the south of France and it’s fascinating with engaging characters and plots, but whenever I go to actually write it down, it just falls flat. It is boring. It’s not interesting at all. I’m sure there is some key to making it work that I’m missing, but until then, I will carry on writing poetic phrases on the beauty of the Mediterranean and the hearty deliciousness of soupe au pistou, and love affairs with handsome Frenchman. I just can’t understand why I don’t have more fun. I understand the characters. I understand the setting. I know where I’m going. I’ve written the damn thing twice before, but it’s just never right. It’s always stale. It’s always dreadful. I have gone through those drafts with a highlighter to lift out the good bits and it’s loaded with good bits, they just don’t fit in with the rest of the narrative. Before I die, I’m going to get this book right.

Polar Vortex:

Now, I’m being told that all the nonsense going on outside is not a polar vortex, but I am far from convinced. Iowa is almost always unbearably cold in the winter, but I don’t recall it ever being this way so continuoulsy. I’m sadly accustomed to piles of snow, which I hate, and I honestly prefer this polar vortex, but that does not make it pleasant. It’s horrifically frigid outside and inside too. Life is a constant struggle to stay warm. I’ve taken to hiding out in my lounge or bedroom with my space heater on full blast. Even with it constantly puffing out heat, the room is only just livable. I can’t stand to be in my preferred room, the kitchen, since it’s basically made of windows and is far too chilly for me to be sat in working. We really need to do something about this climate change business. Save the oceans, too, whilst we’re at it. In fact, why don’t we use the energy plan Paris Hilton espoused in her sadly mocked presidential campaign?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1riiDGBdZWg

I would have voted for her had she been on the ballot. She also wanted a fashion police and to paint the White House pink! I’m in favor. Anyway, it’s cold and school was delayed this morning. Winning. A polar vortex is dreadful, but it’s so much nicer than a blizzard!

Monday:

Why don’t you adopt a rare, tropical animal or a not rare, not tropical animal? Pets are the greatest thing in the entire world. Get a kitten or a gecko or a parrot or a dog or a horse. Adopt all the animals!

Tuesday:

Why don’t you purchase yourself a lovely new water bottle made of glass? It’s much more elegant than a refillable plastic one and it will enable you to show off how superior you are based on your water intake.

Wednesday:

Why don’t you dye your hair lavender and go on a spontaneous trip to Hollywood? This is mainly just for me, I think. I will be headed out to California in a couple of weeks to bask in the resplendent Los Angeles sun and see all my celebrity friends. What fun I have!

Thursday:

Why don’t you send postcards to random strangers you find in that book full of telephone numbers and addresses? Phone book? Is that it? It will be fun to either write as a friend, a mistress, a stranger, or a beloved celebrity. Think of the delightful confusion that will ensue!

Friday:

Why don’t you do one of those DNA tests where you swab your mouth with cotton and some scientist will tell you where your family came from historically? Somebody on my father’s side did this; we’re from a very charming area of England quite near St. Ives. This completely explains my adoration of the sea. Find your roots, reader!

LOVE:

Calorie Counting:

My love for this comes and goes on a daily basis. This weekend I decided to start counting calories again when I stepped on the scale and squinted in disbelief. Over the course of this endless winter, I somehow managed to gain ten pounds. TEN! That’s like a baby suddenly hanging off of me. No thank you! Over these interminable months, I forgot how to be reasonable with my appetite and gave into every whim and fancy, but no more! I’m doing fairly well so far, even though this is only the third day back on it. One side effect that I wasn’t expecting, though, was a rather bizarre increase in energy. I don’t want to nap or sleep or ever feel tired. I slept for four hours last night and woke up this morning with all the beauty and grace of an actress in a scripted television series. I put my glasses on, looked around in confusion, and went downstairs for breakfast. I never eat breakfast; this is awfully strange. Hopefully I’ll get rid of this winter fat soon and will have my beautiful body back. I’m not trying to brag myself up right now, but I was looking resplendent at the end of 2013. A refresher for you:

Soon it’ll be back, I’ll be back with a terrifyingly thin vengeance.

Vacation Planning:

If I had been born twenty years earlier, I probably would have become the world’s greatest travel agent. I live for finding bargains and going to exciting places on the cheap. Making reservations is better than a hit of cocaine — I assume, I really haven’t a clue. Recently I found a charming apartment for this summer in Paris. It’s cheap and it’s cute and it’s in a new area and I couldn’t be more thrilled to explore! Exploring is what I love, since I’m truly an adventurer at heart. Why isn’t that a career? Is it a career? Like Indiana Jones, you know, but with actual consideration for the archaeological practices that he constantly ignored. He was fighting Nazis on a regular basis, so this behavior can be forgiven. I’ve been thrilled to hunt down the perfect places for my summer holidays — now I’m starting to work on the week I’m in England. I really, really, really, really want to go to St. Ives. Excitingly, I’m leaving for a quick trip to Los Angeles next week (EEK!) so, I have to get that whole thing figured out. It’s been such fun! I’ve gone over what I loved in LA and the things I didn’t and figured out a nice three day itinerary. Over my lunch break, I made reservations for dinner at the Ivy and the Chateau Marmont. I love me some Chateau time. I’m traveling with my mother, I hope she enjoys the overpriced opulence of it as much as I do. It’s going to be such fun.

Return of Creativity:

All winter long, I’ve been in a funk that I’ve told you all about. My mind has been clouded over and I haven’t had much concern for my creative writings. This is an important part of who I am, so this has been an issue. Now that the weather is finally nicer, at least a bit, I find myself outside more often and thoughts are running through my head. I’ve read that other authors seem to hear their characters in their mind, desperately wanting to escape. I understood this for the very first time when I wrote Haskell & Eudora (available now for Kindle!). When I had finished with that, my brain went silent and everything I tried to create was rather dull. Finally, though, I’m beginning to hear them again — they’re telling me little stories. They’re not fully formed, but there’s a murmuring in the back of my mind. Sentences will appear fully formed from the depths of my subconscious. I have a feeling that Eudora is coming back and it has something to do with the Middle East. I don’t know, yet, but I think this might be something good.

British Museum Lecture:

I’m getting so excited for my vacation this simmer. It’s a bit in the back of my mind, though, as I’m going to LA in a week. What is my life? I travel so much you’d think I did it for work. My dream job requires loads of travel. I’m a great traveler — I can get through security in two ticks and pack a week’s worth of clothing in a backpack. Back to the European vacation, though. I’m not planning too much for Paris, because we will be there for such a long time. I am getting our week in London organized because there is just so much to miss that I don’t want to miss. I’ve got tickets to Dawn French! I’ve got a reservation for afternoon tea at THE RITZ! Now, I’ve got tickets to a lecture at the British Museum. I’m exceedingly excited about this. My sister even seems to be, but I don’t know why she would be quite so enthused about a lecture on ancient Egyptian art. You know why I am, I’m sure. My goal in life is to work in the Egyptian galleries at the British Museum. It’s basically the only goal I’ve ever set for myself. I even applied for a job there once, but that didn’t work out since I don’t actually live in England. Curses! Can I write the Queen a nice note for honorary citizenship?

Prepping the Garden:

In the autumn of last year, I fell into the deepest depression of my life. I hope that I never go through something like that ever again. And, if I do, you make sure that I seek professional assistance. There is no way in hell that I’m going to be miserable for five months of my life again. That was a stupid thing to do. Now that the weather is warming up, I’m able to stay outside comfortably and the sun is setting later and later, so I have the time to accomplish great things. Anyway, because of my crippling depression, I left the gardens and the vineyard and the patio and most of the yard in a state of disaster. I’ve decided to start by cleaning out the gardens so that they will be ready to plant with all kinds of delicious salad greens just as soon as the ground is friable. It’s been wonderful to pull out all the dead weeds and plants and dig out the growing whatnot that shouldn’t be there. There are tulip bulbs all over and the irises are joyfully shooting through the debris. I only have one of the four gardens cleared out at this point, but spring has only just sprung. There’s plenty of time.

HATE:

Late Spring:

I am delighted that the snow has finally melted and it’s becoming nice enough to go out for walks again. It was a bit chilly yesterday, but I still went out in shorts; my legs were in desperate need of some Vitamin D. It was absolutely glorious to be outside and reveling in nature. Annoyingly though, I know that this is far from how it should be. I have an app on my iPhone called TimeHop that shows my previous statuses and updates from years past. Already I’ve seen gorgeous crocuses and tulips that I’ve cut a year ago that aren’t anywhere near to ready right now. I went out to my tulip bed yesterday and there’s nary a sign of life. I’ll have to replant all the herbs, too, I discovered. Hopefully the mint was hardy enough to survive another year. It’s an indestructible herb, I believe, so I have hope that it will revive itself soon enough. Anyway, the garden is dead and mossy at the moment; I need to start cleaning out two of the four patches. (My father and I are competing again for most spectacular and productive garden this year — I’ve never lost.) To add to my annoyance, I keep seeing the glorious springtime they’re having in England. Tom Daley’s boyfriend keeps posting pictures of flowers and even one of Tom wearing a daisy chain crown.

I can’t deal with that. It’s too adorable. Do come springtime, come quickly!

Spotify Organization:

I love Spotify, don’t get me wrong. I think it’s the greatest thing that has ever happened in the history of the Internet. It’s an amazing resource where you can find almost any song — though I’m often foiled in my attempts since I have rather obscure curiosities. Where is Maurice Chavalier’s Avril Prochain — Je Reviens? I can’t find it anywhere! It’s nowhere! Not even on the YouTube, and the YouTube never fails me. Even though it has these faults, I still adore it and would never stop paying for it. Still, I wish that it had a better system of organization. It needs to be something more like iTunes where you can scroll through an attractive display of the albums you’ve saved. Instead, Spotify just let’s you scroll through a list of playlists. This isn’t dreadful, obviously, but it’s not the most straightforward thing to navigate. Yesterday, I discovered that you can organize albums into folders, so if you have a bunch by one artist, you can put them all into a folder and clean up the list a bit. I spent a bit of time doing this, but it’s still not what I want. They should hire some talented design people. An overhaul is very much in need.

Fasting:

I know that I shouldn’t complain about something too much until I’ve experienced it a few times, but I can tell in one going that this is too much for me. I’m trying out that 5:2 diet that they’re crazy about in England in the hope that I will look gorgeous and beautiful in Hollywood — I mentioned all of this above, I think. Yesterday, was my first fast day, where you eat a heavily restricted diet of only 600 calories. In the end I ate about 900 and wanted to reign terror down on the world around me. It wasn’t that I was hungry, because I honestly wasn’t that bad off, it was just that I was so exceptionally bored and unsure of what to do with myself. I didn’t have a nice break for dinner time because I consumed my allotted number of calories over luncheon. I couldn’t make popcorn to eat while I watched Veep, so I just had to sit there for two hours actually staying focused on the story. This nearly did me in, reader. I am not a person who can simply sit in front of a screen. I can’t bear it. I need to be doing a hundred other things. Without having the normal comforts of nibbling all evening, I was simply plagued by ennui. Thank Beysus that this is only something I’m doing for two weeks and the fasting days are only on two days per week. Otherwise I’d lose my shit.

“Terrible Miss Margo” Realizations:

The first novel I wrote that I was proud of is called Terrible Miss Margo. I worked and slaved over it for two years. It is my child. I adore it and I always will. I’ve tried to interest literary agents in it, but none have responded with any desire for it. That’s rather soul crushing, but it’s normal in the publishing industry. I became fed up with failure after a while, so I put the manuscript out of sight and promised myself to return to it with fresh eyes. After several months of ignoring it, I’ve opened it back up and now I can see that it is riddled with problems. It’s too long, the writing is far too florid, the pacing is slow, and the character developments don’t always feel consistent or authentic. It has become apparent that the novel needs a complete reworking — perhaps into the first person instead of the third. The story is still good, I feel, but the way I presented it was not fresh. This frustrates me, of course, but I’m not terribly bitter. Writing that novel taught me so much about the writing process. Editing it taught me more than I ever dreamed I needed to learn about proper grammar and the publishing industry. If I hadn’t created this world of characters and figured out how they all went together, I never would be able to write like I can today. My novella, Haskell & Eudora, which I feel I’m rightfully proud of would not exist without all that I labored through with Terrible Miss Margo. If ever I am published, I don’t know if this will be the one to make it to your local bookseller. Something will, I know, in time. Maybe I’ll self publish it in time — just to get rid of it. I’m sick of the weight of those four-hundred pages on my conscious.

BAHAHA:

I think the most annoying thing in all of the Internet is written laughter. I can deal with the occasional lol and I won’t punch my laptop over a haha. Even though I can tolerate these things, I cannot deal with bahahahahahaha. Mainly because nobody actually says this in real life. People don’t talk like animated Disney villains. If they did, I would prefer they speak like Yzma from The Emperor’s New Groove and constantly shout things out like:

They don’t, though, so that’s sad. Bahahahahahaha is just the worst thing in the history of the Internet. Maybe I don’t understand the purpose of this slang, but then again, I don’t want to. Desist, desist my dear readers from using this horrific mangling of the English language.

LOVE:

Uber:

I’ve been hearing a lot about Uber lately on the Twitter, mainly because my dear Tyler Oakley has been lauding their services. I wondered why he was gushing about a private taxi, but I was intrigued, so I downloaded the Uber app for my trip to Los Angeles. Reader, this was the best thing I’ve ever done! If I had known about Uber last year when I was there, I think perhaps I would have enjoyed the city more. It’s like having a car, but not having to drive. Los Angeles is all about driving and I hate driving. I do like being treated like a celebrity, which is part of the Uber experience. Anyway, instead of taking the bus, riding in a creepy and empty Metro train, catching a cab, or walking, you simply get out your phone and request an Uber. It arrives a few minutes later at your feet and quickly whisks you away to your destination. The fares are cheaper than traditional taxis. The cars are discreet and clean and oftentimes very nice. It’s the greatest service in the world. The drivers are kindly, helpful, and regularly attractive. You never have to exchange cash or credit cards — the transaction is taken care of entirely through the app. This, more than anything else, is what makes me adore Uber. It’s the future of city transportation.

Discover Card Customer Service:

I have a love/hate relationship with my Discover Card. Of the different credit cards I have, it’s easily my favorite. It has a beautiful app, the website is designed well, I love the reward program, and I appreciate being able to change the look of my card at a whim. Even though I adore it, I become easily frustrated when it isn’t accepted. This happens more frequently than I want it to. I don’t understand the reasons, surely it’s something economical, but it’s so frustrating when I have to use a different card that I don’t want to use. It happens at coffee shops and restaurants and online shops and it drives me insane. I still grow angry at the remembrance of having to use a different card to pay for my custom suit. Irksome as all that is, I must commend their customer service. My credit card was compromised right after my trip to Hollywood, not sure how, but somebody charged their cable bill with my card — the fools! I contacted them and they immediately righted the situation. My account was transferred to a new number and a new card was issued to me. They didn’t treat me like a lying criminal or a poor victim, and I appreciated that. I was so happy that the charges were immediately dropped and I was free to go on with my life without the burden of somebody else’s debt. I love credit cards.

Prince George Meme:

I love the Internet. I especially love memes. Everybody loves memes and everybody loves the Internet, though. How could you not adore such a delightful thing? The meme that we prefer says a lot about us, though. I’ve never that baby with the raised fist. I do love all the cats, though, especially my sadly departed Colonel Meow. He was perfection. There are still other cats to ogle online, though, but nobody had the pizzazz and sass of the Colonel. There’s a new meme all over the Tumblr now and I’m just obsessed with it. It’s all about our Prince George. Superimposed over images of the little prince are captions. I can’t do them justice without a few pictures. Enjoy your newest obsession:

“My Paris Kitchen” by David Lebovitz:

I don’t remember how I first came across David Lebovitz’s website, but from the very moment I started to read his articles, it became one of my favorites, and I check it every single day. He’s an American baker who packed up and moved to France where, still a decade later, he is writing about how he is adapting to this new life of his in Paris. His recipes are always excellent and always turn out, which is something rather remarkable in this era. Everybody has a food blog, it seems, but so many of them are pretty pictures with absolutely awful recipes. I would recommend any of the recipes on David’s website. He’s also funny and responsive on Twitter, and we’ve communicated several times, which is always a thrill. He liked my madeleines! Recently, he released a new cookbook, My Paris Kitchen. It is honestly one of the most beautiful cookbooks I’ve ever seen. The photographs are stunning, the recipes are varied, and the book is interspersed with really nice vignettes and stories of Paris. I’m reading it like a novel and there are already sticky notes filling the thing up reminding myself of all the recipes I want to try. Merveilleux are coming up soon and then disappearing into my mouth. Get a copy of this excellent book, readers!

Cocoa Powder Brownie Recipe:

I rarely cook things out of a box, well, I suppose there are a few exceptions — those amazing frozen Indian meals you get at Trader Joe’s are one. I also won’t turn down anything Ghirardelli makes. But, I’ve never understood why people make cake with a box mix when it’s so simple. I kind of understood when it came to brownies, though I never do it, since you have to melt chocolate, which has always annoyed me. I don’t know why, really, it just seems tedious. Ina Garten doesn’t care for it either. We’re soulmates. Last night I was about ready to lose my mind. I needed chocolate or I was going to do something drastic. I ransacked my cupboards, but I only had really old chocolate covered espresso beans and cocoa powder. I threw the beans out, but I knew I could do something with the cocoa powder. I looked up recipes online and finally found one that intrigued me here. I baked it in a foil lined pan, which I never do, and hoped for the best. The foil stuck. That annoyed me to no end, so I shoved the whole thing in the refrigerator for an hour. I’ve never done that either, but I will do nothing else in the future. It made the brownies denser and the foil peeled right off. They also cut beautifully once they were chilled. They looked lovely and all, but did they taste lovely? Yes, reader, yes they did. These might be my favorite brownies ever. I’ll never go back to my old melted chocolate recipe. I am changed.

HATE:

Craig Ferguson Leaving Late Night:

I’m still having issues processing Craig Ferguson’s announcement that he’s leaving his late night show. I don’t know what to think and I hardly know what to feel. I will admit that I haven’t been watching it regularly the past few months — with my seasonal depression and all that, I’ve found myself in bed ever earlier without time to enjoy the television. I still remember the first time I watched his show. I think I was still in high school…maybe I’d just graduated? I don’t recall now, but I know that what I witnessed was the most ridiculous and funny thing I’d ever seen in my life. There were nights when I was squealing with laughter, but now I don’t have the vaguest ideas of what the jokes were about. Every episode was deeply irreverent and was just the kind of comedy I like. Then, there were robot skeletons, crazy songs, dancing horses, harmonicas, kittens with laser eyes, dancing, and general madness. When I went to Hollywood last year, I was lucky enough to attend two tapings of the show and I had the best time. It was just so much fun. I don’t think that television will ever be the same after December when the show finishes. I worry about the replacement, of course, since I think there is only one person on the face of the earth that could perfectly replace Craig and keep the show interesting and fun – AMY SEDARIS. You know that she’d be perfection. If you’ve never watched The Late Late Show With Craig Ferguson, I highly recommend you start watching now. It’s legendary.

Continually Delayed Warm Weather:

With the arrival of spring, my seasonal depression fled as if it had never existed. I was thrilled about this. I had an appointment set up with a mental health professional that I cancelled because I was feeling so much better. This, I have come to realize, was a foolish thing to do. For the past week, it’s been raining nonstop. I haven’t seen the sun in ages. And, surprise surprise, I’m miserable again. I sleep. I don’t accomplish anything. I eat everything. I can’t be bothered to be productive whatsoever. My already legendary procrastination has reached new levels. All the sunshine I absorbed in California is long gone now. This weekend is supposed to be nicer, so I hope my mood changes and I can get back to myself. I just want to work in the garden and tidy the grounds and prepare some new landscaping for this year. Last year I was already bringing in three-foot tall irises from the garden. This year, they’ve barely poked through the soil. Now, I’m stuck inside, usually unconscious in an extended nap. I really need to find a place to live where it’s always summer and never rains…oh wait…that’s LA. Should I move to LA? They do have Uber and the Veggie Grill.

Posthumous Michael Jackson Albums:

Last night, Justin Timberlake tweeted something about a new song. I don’t mind Justin’s work, so I brought it up and found that it was a song from the upcoming Michael Jackson album. This kind of thing has never bothered me before, but I as actually very disturbed by this one. Michael Jackson was a known perfectionist. If these songs hadn’t been released in his life, I’m not sure we should be releasing them as new albums that have been tweaked and modified by new producers and turned into duets with artists that were never a part of his intention. It creeps me out considerably. I don’t think that we should let the music sit around and rot either, and I’m all for sharing it, but I think that it should be shared in its original form — rough and interesting to show what Michael was thinking of. The song with Justin is fine, truly it was, but it just did not feel authentic at all and I don’t know what to think about this new album on its way out. I’m sure I’ll give it a listen, but I can’t consider these part of his collective oeuvre.

The Art Deco Dishes I Didn’t Buy In Europe:

[These aren't the dishes; these don't even do them justice.]

For the most part, I’m very smart with my money. I have debt, but it’s no obscene amount. That statement is sure to change soon since I’ve decided I had better do something about education before I’m too old for it to matter. Why is higher education so unreasonably expensive? I don’t know if its worth all those hundreds of thousands of dollars when there are very few jobs available. And then, when jobs are available, they don’t really pay all that well. Is it a wise investment? These things are the ones that keep me bothered during the day. But, the ones that keep me awake some nights are the little things I regret not buying. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about these gorgeous hexagonal Art Deco dessert plates that I fell in love with on Portobello Road. Street of the ages, where anything is sold! See what I did there? If not, you need an education — get ready!

I can hardly recall what they looked like now, but they had the loveliest pattern on them and cost ten pounds apiece. There were three and for some reason, some horrible reason that I can’t understand, I found this to be exorbitant. I let them go. I wake up in a cold sweat with memories of the tarts I could eat off those plates. To make it worse, there was a shop on the Rue Saint-Paul in Paris called Les Neiges d’Anton, which was an antique shop that seemed to be closed all the time. In the dusty window display was a collection of dishes that looked wonderfully similar to those London dishes. I was too timid to go in to ask the price. My French is good, but I’m always so worried I’ll look like a fool. And, so, I don’t have any lovely hexagonal plates with an Art Deco pattern. I need to remedy that.

Difficulties of Publishing a Paperback Novella:

Any idiot that was to self-publish a book can do so in a few hours — I’ve done it. If I can do it, so can you. I wouldn’t self-publish just anything, though, I wouldn’t do it with the novels I write until I’m sure they aren’t ever getting published traditionally. But, when a novella falls out of my brain, I know that there is no better way of getting it into the hands of my readers than to take care of it all myself. I had an excellent time formatting and designing Haskell & Eudora which is for sale right now on the Amazon Kindle shop. I know that lots of people, though, don’t like to read on their phones or tablets or ebooks, so I decided last week to self-publish a slim paperback version. I didn’t realize that this was going to be a Herculean task, though. If I had a novel length version of something to print, it would be on your shelf right now. Instead, I have a novella, and to have it printed is expensive. I don’t want to charge a lot of money for something that will only provide a few hours of entertainment. I want to save that for the novel length versions. I have the cover all designed and I think it would be a charming thing to have. Sadly, I’m going to have to do more research into getting this project completed. Hopefully, I’ll be able to sell copies through Amazon like I do with the digital versions. If not, I hope you won’t mind buying a copy through whatever service I end up with. Being a writer is such hard work when you have to be a publisher and a marketer, too. Le sigh…

LOVE:

Eurovision:

There is a very special place in my heart for Eurovision. Not many people here in America have any reason to know about it, but there is a select group of us who are enlightened and aware of this miracle. This usually comes from having lived in Europe for some time and watching the show with complete bewilderment that quickly transforms into a fiery passion. For those of you not in the know, I’ll break it down: the Eurovision Song Contest was created after World War II so that the European countries could find peace through a song and dance contest every year. If the premise sounds ridiculous, well, it is, and each year the countries that make it through to the final round perform their song in the host country. These songs range from weepy ballads that nobody likes to insane hard rock or pop, which is really what the show is all about. It’s not about quality, but rather madness and message. Here are some snaps of the lyrics:

I’ve watched for the past four years, ever since my glorious introduction to it in Paris. For the joy of citizens around the world, the show is streamed over the Internet and I can sit on my couch in my lounge and partake even though I’m on the other side of the world. This year was absolutely phenomenal and the winner, Conchita Wurst, in the gif above, stole my heart as well as the majority of Europe. She is now the Queen of Europe and is a beautiful drag queen with an enviable beard. Here’s her song:

As I said, the show is madness. This year there was bipolar rock from Armenia, a rather good boy band from Finland, suggestive butter churning in Poland, and so much more. It’s the greatest three hours of early spring. After the contestants have performed, the real show begins, which is the judging. Each country can award points in various allotments and then representatives from the country announce the major points. It takes ages, it’s awkward, and it is brilliant. Whenever Russia would get a point, the stadium would boo with reckless abandon. Whenever our beloved Conchita from Austria earned more points, I felt so happy and tearful. She couldn’t believe she was winning and her reactions were flawless and absolute perfection. Before all the countries could give their points, Conchita had already had enough to sweep the contest and all of Europe was gleefully weeping. It was more political than ever because of Russia and the victory of a drag queen was seen as the perfect insult to Putin — which it was, but Conchita was also a divine being who gave a perfect speech as she claimed her trophy. It was very Hunger Games, actually, but it was one of my favorite Eurovision broadcasts of all time. Long live Conchita!

My Writing Is ALIVE Again:

I have always believed that each person has a novel in them. Some of us have a few, but we all have at least one. In the back of our mind is a story just waiting to be told. Unfortunately, people don’t often write these out, and if they did, Beysus only knows that less than 1% would be published. The traditional world of publishing has something of a tall gate around it – it’s nearly impossible to get in. So, loads of people try out independent presses and self publishing, which I approve of, but sadly this opens the Pandora’s box of crap. So, since there is now an abundance of garbage available to buy, it’s difficult to wade through and find quality pieces. I’m off topic. I was talking about the great novel in us all. I have one that I know will be grand entitled Hôtel-Ker-Maria, which I’ve been actively trying to write for six years. I’ve travelled all over the south of France looking at locations and I’ve spent hours and hours going over the documents I’ve amassed for research. I know the story like the back of my own hand. The characters are all there and the plot is figured out, but when I go to write it, I just can’t. It immediately becomes dry and uninteresting. In the meantime, I’ve been writing a completely different series, which has been one of the most contenting things I’ve ever done. Perhaps you’ve bought a copy of my novella, Haskell & Eudora, where I introduce my new characters? If not, you really should! I finished that at the end of last year and the characters have been dormant for a while, but last week they started talking to me again. Plots began to weave themselves together in my mind. I can’t begin to understand the creative process, so I have no idea where these ideas come from. They fall out of my brain onto paper — or a word processor — and come alive of their own volition. I’m having the best time each day with Eudora in Victorian London as she is about to set out on a new adventure. I think this might be my problem with Hotel Ker Maria. That story is too planned — when I write in this new world of characters, it’s all very spontaneous and comes from someplace I don’t know. Someday the book will be done.

MY RANGE IS INSTALLED:

I am so happy that a gas line was finally run to my kitchen and I’m finally able to use the expensive professional oven I bought a few years ago in my own home! For the longest time, it was in my other house, but that’s a sore subject that I’m not going to extrapolate on at this point. It sat in my current kitchen for some time — the oven is run off of electricity, so that works fine — but the range is gas, which my house did not have. In the meantime, I’ve been using an awful hot plate, which never gets hot enough to boil water. That’s upsetting. So, I’ve gotten used to doing all my cooking in the oven or on that stupid hot plate or just having cold foods. It’s been kind of awful. I’ve never had a gas oven, so I look forward to learning how to cook using this kind of heat. I plan on cooking my way through Martha Stewart’s book, Meatless, so that I can teach myself all about it. I’m excited for that. I’m not excited, though, that I no longer have an excuse to not finish remodeling my kitchen. I haven’t been painting and wallpapering the last section of the room since I didn’t know where they would run the gas line. Now that it’s all done, I suppose I’d better get the room finished up. Le sigh…it’ll be my goal before school gets out. That gives me a few weeks. I’m sure I won’t. I’m an amazing procrastinator.

The World Market:

I adore the World Market. I am glad that I don’t live next to one, though, because they would have every single dollar I have ever had. The shop is flawless. I don’t even know how I found out about it the first time. I think I was given a frame for my birthday one year that was shaped like a martini glass and covered in rhinestones. Of course I approved or this and wanted to know more about the shop it came from. I fell immediately in love with the crazy selection of food and household goods and regularly spent too much money there. The spontaneous tea party that cost two hundred dollars is a particularly happy memory. I went again last night and had the best time getting oddities, like organic tonic water and a necklace for my iPhone. That will actually come in handy, I have shorts without pockets, which are the stupidest things in all the world. Go to the World Market, reader.

Wendy Williams:

I’ve written before about The Wendy Williams Show and how deeply I want to be best friends with Wendy. Remember when I walked past her studio audience in New York City and we all said, “How you doin’?” to each other. Good day, that. I’ve always enjoyed gossipy talk shows, but this one is the epitome of everything I’ve ever wanted out of an hour of television. It’s glorious when she goes hard on celebrity gossip, which is really why I started watching. When news broke of the now infamous elevator bashing that went down betwixt Solange Knowles, Jay-Z, and my dear friend Beyoncé, I knew that Wendy would cover the story with aplomb. I was not wrong. It was glorious! It was intense. We were all exhausted after she finished dishing all the dirt. I never knew about Bey’s tattoo that said “JZ.” Did you? It’s gone now, it’s being removed somehow! We know now, as our beloved Wendy said, “There’s something rotten in Denmark.” What a perfect quote. Then, she compared herself to Angela Lansbury in Murder She Wrote and it was basically the most flawless eleven minutes of television I’ve ever had the extreme pleasure to witness. If you aren’t watching or taping this show every damn day, you are doing yourself an extreme disservice. Correct your faults, reader.

HATE:

Two Day Weekends:

Two day weekends are sad. I have long been a proponent that each weekend should consist of at least three days. With three days, you have time to work, time to luxuriate, and time to recover from the week and weekend. Not on a two day weekend. Naturally you want to rest and recover, so you don’t really get around to accomplishing anything. I don’t anyway, which is why I don’t really get terribly enthused about the weekends. Sure, it’s absolutely nice to get a couple days off, but I’ve long felt that any time spent away from work should be celebrated as a vacation. That’s why I’m turning my house into a vacation home. That was one of the greatest ideas I ever had. I can’t wait for memorial Day!

Mushroom Hunting:

I adore morel mushrooms and if I had a much bigger bank account, I would simply buy them instead of looking for them. I love nature and all that jazz, but I don’t have the patience to scrounge about in the undergrowth of our familial forest to hunt down the little devils. It’s always rewarding to find them, but I hate the constant thoughts that run through my head as I dart through the fallen brush. “Will I find any? Am I going to be bitten by a tick? Is there a headless horseman here someplace? [Genuine concern, reader.] Is there any point in looking? I want to go home. Can’t somebody else do this for me?” Yesterday, I was out for about an hour and found four. FOUR. I was slightly miffed that mother nature was being so cruel to me, I’m sure I’ll forgive as soon as I cook them up into delicious coddled eggs tonight for dinner. Of course, I’ll keep dragging myself about later this week as the yellow morels start popping up. I like the yellow ones better anyway.

CITIBANK:

OH I HATE YOU WITH PASSION! LET ME IN! I’ve been whining and complaining for ages about not having a card with a pin and chip. I’ve written companies the most pathetic missives about getting my cards updated, but they have so far refused. It’s stupidity in the extreme. Credit cards with chips are incredibly more secure than the ones we have here with magnetic strips. Anyway, since I’m going to Europe in a little over a month, I want to have a card for the situations where I need one — mainly to get tickets out of automated machines and to rent bicycles. You simply cannot with a magnetic strip and there aren’t always attendants available to help you. This drives me insane. So, I applied for a Citibank card since they have microchips. THEY DENIED ME! Why? WHY!?!? I have excellent credit and a great history with the other cards I’ve used. This is madness. I thought companies wanted to give us as much credit as possible so that we would drown in debt? Is this not the case anymore? In irritation, I’ve applied for a different card with Chase, a company that I prefer anyway, and we’ll soon see if I get my microchip card. If I don’t, I’ll lose my shit.

To-Do Lists:

A few years ago, to counteract the boredom of my life I decided to make charts and lists of the things I wanted to accomplish, so that I wouldn’t waste my time doing nothing at all. At first, these were helpful, but now they’re oppressive. I work more when I get home than I do at work and when I decide to ignore the list, I feel a terrible guilt. This isn’t how I want to live! I am going to have to do some kind of reforms with my lists. I can’t do twenty-five lengthy tasks each night. It’s getting ridiculous and is completely counterintuitive to my plans to make my home a vacation home. I’m going to start trying to keep the list down to a few important and necessary things — not every moment of my life from dawn until I go to sleep needs to be scheduled.

Impatience For The School Year’s End:

If you had asked me when I graduated high school what I was planning on doing with my life, I would have immediately curled up into a ball and sobbed. I hated being asked that by every single person in the building. I don’t know why we have to know what we want to do with the other sixty years we have on earth when we are so young. It’s a nonsensical system that I’ve long fought. Anyway, off topic, that just really pisses me off. I don’t think kids should ever be corralled into a university a few months after graduating from high school. They should be given opportunities to see the world and all that it has to offer; they should see a spectrum of careers available in the world. College is all fine and good when you’re ready and you want it, not when it’s an expectation. But back to my original introduction; if you told me I’d be working in the middle school where I went to middle school, I would have glared at you. I didn’t care much for school. I just liked my friends and French class. That was about it. So, the fact that I’m working here is still a confusing thing to me. I really don’t mind it, though. I have come to enjoy working with the teams I’m with and with the students in the classes I’m in. It’s kind of silly, isn’t it? But, as much as I really do appreciate and enjoy this job…for the most part…I simply cannot wait for summer vacation. I’m more anxious for it than the kids. I NEED TO BE OFF NOW. It’s time.

LOVE:

Annabelle:

I’m not one for slasher flicks. I don’t care for blood and gore to be splashed on my screen. I don’t want a mutilated body or a serial killer or some deranged psychopath. I want ghosts and demons and things of that sort. I want the kind of horror that seems possible when you’re trying to get to sleep. Last year, for our “Annual Phillips Shitty Halloween Spectacular Spectacular” (it’s a thing, reader), we watched The Conjuring and had a delightful time jumping and squealing and finding our basement terrifying. Good time. I enjoyed that film particularly because the set design was beautiful, the acting wasn’t atrocious, the plot wasn’t implausible, and there was a good sense of fun. So, I was delighted when the director of that triumph announced his next horror film, an adaptation of the story of Annabelle, the possessed Raggedy Ann doll. As a passionate lover of all things creepy, I’ve long been aware of this horrible doll and the stories surrounding it. I had no idea how they’d make a movie out of it, though. I don’t like moving dolls, you know, it’s just not authentic. Well, reader, let me tell you that they did an exceptional job. The doll never moved a bit. You were completely horrified of the doll for what it was — an inanimate toy. I’m not going to give any of it away, though, because I want you all to get to your local cineplex and squeal in terror. It’s great fun.

Boiled Eggs:

I have something of a fascination with eggs. They are a very simple thing, but can be done up in an extraordinary amount of ways. I take great delight in going through the list of cooking techniques and perfecting them. I’m now quite confident with my omelettes, scrambled eggs, poached eggs, and baked eggs. I challenge anybody to make a better omelette than me. You’ll lose. Finally, I am satisfied with my boiled eggs. I have read an obscene number of articles on the perfect boiled egg, and I have watched far too many videos. I’ve done more research on eggs than any sane person has reason to. I’m now thrilled and delighted. I place my eggs in a LE CREUSET pan, fill it with cold water, put it on a high flame until the water just begins to boil. Then, I kill the gas, put a lid on, and wait eight minutes. When the eight minutes are up, I prepare an ice bath. Carefully, remove each egg from the hot water and gently crack one of the ends before shocking in the ice bath. When cool, peel under the water in your bowl and they will be alarmingly perfect and rarely marred. An attractive boiled egg is one of the finest things you can have in your repertoire.

Egg Salad:

Because I love boiling eggs so much, I have quite an abundance of them in my refrigerator at the moment. So, I’ve been using them in all sorts of ways, but my favorite way to consume the perfect little nibbles is in an egg salad sandwich. I spent years and years of my life — decades, really — avoiding egg salad sandwiches. I wanted to have absolutely nothing to do with them, and I was successful. But, one day, I don’t have any memory of that fateful day actually, I fell in love with the stuff and have craved it routinely ever since. I think I probably had it for the first time in London at a tea or maybe it was on a picnic I had in London? The readymade meals at Marks & Spencer are absolutely fabulous. I wish I was in London right now…sigh. Egg salad is, quite frankly, rather disgusting here in America. We use far too much mustard. To reclaim this treat, I have been making my own to my own tastes and it is a delight. I don’t have a recipe really, as I tweak it each time, but I know how to whip up a delightful egg salad in minutes now. I love it especially on some good hearty bread with a massive serving of kettle chips on the side. I NEED ONE NOW!

Celebrity Name Game:

I have never wanted to be on a television game show more than I want to be on this triumph hosted by Craig Ferguson. It is so much fun! Jessica and I are clearly champions, and we play the game along with the idiotic contestants every Wednesday night. We scream and shout and our throats bleed, but it’s worth it. If you aren’t watching, you’re making a very foolish decision. In the game, two teams compete for $20,000, but first they have to earn $3,000 by correctly giving clues about different celebrities (and a lot of other things that aren’t celebrities.) The contestants are dreadful but you can’t help but have a wondrous time as they fail. Each team gets a minor celebrity, and I do mean MINOR, to help them on their quest. It’s just delightful and even though Jessica and I would probably lose because we’d be too busy screaming vulgarities at each other and getting arrested to actually play the game, we’d make amazing television. Cast us!

Diet Coke:

My obsession with Diet Coke has returned with a vengeance. It lay dormant for a while, but now if I don’t have one every day, I get a little angry. Then a lot angry. I don’t even know why I like it. It’s probably the artificial sweeteners it’s loaded up with affecting my brain. It’s surely going to kill me, but what does that matter? People are terrified of the silliest things. I mean, why be afraid of dying? We’re all going to do it. We’re all getting Ebola. Nobody has managed to live forever yet. We all need a vice in life, I think, to get us through. People who worry all the time and always do the right thing are real bores. Trust me, reader, I used to be one of them. Back to Diet Coke, though. On Wednesday night, I went to the gas station and bought 52 ounces of it. 52! I was overwhelmed and giddy. The container was larger than my head and it weighed me down and I loved every second of it. EVERY SECOND OF IT, READER! It was terribly amusing, I thought, because when you are in Europe, as I often am, you get tiny little cans of soda. You don’t get GALLONS in a serving like we do. I love America. Bless this land. I’m going to go buy  some delicious Diet Coke right now!

HATE:

Purging My Closet:

My dream closet is like this — all black and white — but with fewer dresses.

I haven’t started this behemoth of a project, yet, but it’ll be happening soon and I’m dreading the thought of going through my clothes. It is enough to make my want to hyperventilate. I just have way too much. I don’t even know what I’ve got in that wardrobe. I do know that I have lots of clothes from when I was obese and a lot of clothes from when I was super small. After I lost weight, I was really overly enthusiastic about buying clothing in a size small. I was never a small, mind you, I simply fit inside of a small. My shoulders are too broad for a small. I’m a medium. And so, I’ve got a lot of clothes to get rid of. I have no intention of looking like a bratwurst in all those small shirts. It’s not good style. It’s in poor taste. Besides that, I really want to cut most of the stuff I have and procure only black clothing. It’s nothing about being depressed or moody or anything, I just really like the color black and I know that I look good in it. Besides, blacks are easy to match and everybody looks chic in black. It’s a project that I’ve been putting off for far too long. I redesigned an entire room to be my walk-in closet, I just need to stop procrastinating. But, you know me, I’m a master procrastinator.

Lack of Museums:

In the summertimes, I often find myself in distant locales in big cities like New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, London, Paris, or Cairo. There, in those wonderful metropolises, it is not difficult to find a quality museum to spend your day in delighted perusal. What a treat it is to saunter through the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I’m giddy when I pass through the front portico of the British Museum. I nearly pass out from sheer joy when entering the courtyard of the Egyptian Museum. And I don’t think there’s anyplace dearer to me in the world than the Louvre. I could wander through the aisles of those museums all day for the rest of my life. I’d never tire of the exhibits. And, so, I’ve always wanted to work in a museum. It’s a life goal of mine, too. Someday. I tried getting a job at the British Museum, but that’s a sad story that I won’t belabor at this current junction. Unfortunately, I do not live in a big city for the majority of the year. I live in the middle of the middle west. Des Moines has culture, to a certain extent, but we don’t really have the greatest museums in the world. We have the Science Center, but that’s a deathly bore. We have the Art Center, but they have an absurd focus on modern art. And we have the Iowa Historical Building, which is really quite interesting, but there aren’t any mummies there and there certainly isn’t a Pissarro in the Des Moines Art Center. When I eventually relocate, close proximity to fine institutions of learning will be terribly important. I just need more museums in my life.

Document Formatting:

I love to write, reader. You know that. It’s evidenced on the over 600 posts that are on this website. I sometimes find it hard to believe that there’s so much here! I haven’t even transferred my old blog over, my ancient travel one from high school. I will surely get around to it someday, but I’m terrified of the images of fat Ben on there and my poorly written and surprisingly whiny narratives. I’ve gotten much better as the years have gone by, and as they say, practice does make perfect. I have written a novel, Terrible Miss Margo, that I hope to have published one day. It’s not ready, yet, and that’s been an annoyance to me for ages. It’s just too long, and I think it could benefit greatly by a switch from third person to the first. Before I start this project, though, I wanted to get a look at how the book looks right now, so I’m going to order a bound copy and use it as reference whilst typing away on the next draft. It is endlessly frustrating, though, because I’m very technologically savvy, but word processing applications are the bane of my existence! I adore Pages for Mac because it is simple and makes it easy to accomplish the vast majority of tasks. Unfortunately, it doesn’t have every necessary feature, like gutter margins. It is also endlessly frustrating to figure out how to hide headers. Like, I might lose my mind. But I’m finally getting it figured out and I think I’ll have a copy of my novel sometime in the month. It’ll be quite a thing to see and I hope it will inspire me to get an even better version completed.

Not Being Able To Afford Surgery:

Like most vain people, I have a bucket list of surgeries to undergo. The first one is pretty common, just getting my eyes lasered so that I can see clearly again. The second is more intensive, but I saw it years ago on The Swan, and  I’ve wanted it ever since. It’s called brow shaving and what they do is open up your forehead and sand down your skull on your brow so that it isn’t so prominent. I’ve always felt like I have something of a Neanderthal head, so I’d enjoy this one tremendously. The third surgery is a Brazilian Butt Lift. In this one, plastic surgeons syphon fat off your middle and stick it in your ass! Isn’t that fabulous? I’m definitely getting that one. The surgery I’m craving the most right now, though, is one where the fat around your abdomen is killed by freezing it. Once it dies, it purges itself from your body and you’re left looking beautifully thin. I’m not a fat person, but I still have fat that I’m not fond of. I’ve tried exercising it off, but that is just not working out (see what I did there?) for me. I’ll walk until my feet fall off, but try to get me to do anything more intensive and I’m instantly bored. Unfortunately for me and all the people that see me, I can’t afford any of these surgeries at the moment. Can you start a Kickstarter for plastic surgery?

Incredibly Detrimental Donut Obsession:

As you may have picked up  by now, I’m obsessed with donuts. I’m passionate about them. They’re all I think of. I wake up craving donuts, and I spend my day waiting for my next one. I need all the donuts in the world. And, so, I’ve been eating a considerable number of those round angels from heaven. It’s been absolutely fabulous, but I’m noticing a very obvious uptick in my obesity. The button popped off one of my skinny jeans the other day — quelle horreur – but I can’t stop. I literally just ate a donut. It’s my third one of the day. I have to end this. I have to retrain my brain. There are images of me on the Internet right double fisting donuts. I’m embarrassed. I need rehab.

LOVE:

Vampire Teeth:

I have long loved vampires. Not the sparkly kind that twinkle in the sun, mind you. I don’t have any time for that Twilight nonsense. I read the first book, and it was a mess. A MESS! I am glad I read it, though. My friends and I made a wonderful parody of it a few years back that was almost popular on the YouTube. It’s one of my prouder accomplishments. Enjoy:

I much prefer the Dracula inspired vampires or the charmingly handsome ones that come from the imagination of Anne Rice. If I had to choose to be an undead creature of the night, I’d absolutely be a vampire. You get to live forever! You get to stay up all night! You get to prey on horrific examples of humanity. The living forever bit is the one that charms me most. I’ve never had any interest in skipping off this mortal coil. That’s some Shakespearean quote I’ve been using a lot. I’m not terribly fond of Shakespeare, but I’m thinking of perhaps reading more of his works. Are you really educated without a background in Shakespeare? A few years back, I tried dressing up as a vampiric version of Karl Lagerfeld, but the fangs that I bought were absolutely shit! The molds didn’t work at all, and I was so pissed. I looked more like a phantom Karl Lagerfeld. This year, though, I was determined to finally have workable fangs for the staff Halloween party and I WAS TRIUMPHANT. I looked up the kind they use for movies and I ordered a set of those. They’re fabulous, reader! You mix up this quick-setting mold and fix them to your teeth and then when it dries, they almost suction on! I’m in heaven. I want to wear my fangs everywhere! I might.

Fresh Salad Greens:

I never intended to have a wild crop of salad greens creeping through my yard. I do, though, and it makes me a very happy man. I’m a big fan of salad. I still feel a little ridiculous saying that, but I really do enjoy them. If I could eat a beet salad for every meal, there would be no force that could stop me. I find them ridiculously delicious. I made one the other night and nearly passed out from the heavenly meal. I then proceeded to devour the entire bowl, which was meant to serve six. My diet is going great, guys… Anyway, I’ve been eating a lot of egg salad sandwiches. They’re just so good, but they can get repetitive, so I thought back on the versions I had from Marks & Spencers in London. They had theirs topped with loads of watercress. I have no watercress, sadly. I’d love to have huge bunches of it growing, but I do have baby arugula! So, I went out to the garden and harvested a huge crop of greens. There are bits of spinach, chard, kale, arugula, and mustard greens out there! It was heavenly. I cleaned them and pressed a big bunch of these zesty greens atop my egg salad. I took a bite and nearly passed out. IT WAS AMAZING. AMAZING! I can’t wait to make one the second I get home tonight. I’m going to gorge.

My Cemetery:

About a mile and a half from my house is the Old People’s Cemetery. I’ve probably written about it a dozen times, but I just adore this place so much. It’s very small and nobody’s been buried in there for years and years. It’s falling apart and it’s crumbling and every year it seems that more and more of the graves are being lost beneath the Iowa soil. They sink every year in the soft ground. It’s really rather sad and I would like to do a kind of archaeological restoration of the place. I’m not sure what goes into getting the appropriate permits for such an endeavor, though. There used to be these wonderfully huge trees that had died years ago. They were almost skeletal. Last year a huge windstorm swept in and one of the trees fell onto one of the ancient gravestones and it shattered. Understandably, the trees were removed. It’s a sad loss for the aesthetics of the graveyard. It’s still lonely and beautiful, though. Often I go there. I walk up the road a few times a week to read or write or listen to a podcast or think or nap. I’m always at that cemetery and I love it dearly. I want to buy the farmland right next to it so that I can build a little cottage beside the cemetery. I wonder if I could? I’d be deliriously happy to have a cemetery next to my house.

Decorating:

I’ve never really liked my sister’s house. There isn’t really anything wrong with her house. I mean this guy did get shot during a poker game. He died, too. But, that was all before she bought it. Several of the rooms have been repainted, but a few of them are still in the process of being painted and decorated. Jessica doesn’t have much, if any, ability to design a room, so it’s just not happening. I tend to stay at her house one night each week when we watch American Horror Story and eat too much food, so I’ve designated one of the rooms as my own. For some reason she doesn’t seem to agree, but whatever. I was tired of it because it’s not a terribly attractive room. The closet doesn’t have a door, there was clutter, and there wasn’t any art on the walls! How is a civilized person supposed to deal with that? Even worse, the light fixture had fallen off the ceiling. When I arrived yesterday, I just couldn’t take any more, so I set to work shaping it up into a habitable space. I reinstalled the light fixture, changed the sheets, made a makeshift door covering that turned out rather nicely, and put a picture on the wall that I found in her basement. Her basement is like a store. There were five unopened space heaters down there on one wall. It was like going to Target. So, I added a space heater to my bedroom, too. It’s delightful now. Redecorating is such fun. It reinvigorates a home. You should all spend the afternoon or the weekend redoing one of your rooms.

Hozier:

This love suddenly appeared. It didn’t begin for the music, reader. I was watching SNL and wondering how it is still being broadcast. I mean, it’s really not very funny at all, but it is an institution. Honestly, though, how many game show skits can you possibly write? It drives me nuts, but I still watch. I wonder why that is? I always fast forward through the musical bits unless it’s somebody I care about. I was a bit late to the remote when the singer came on, so I had the opportunity to see them. I said, “Hold up. Wait a minute. HELLO FUTURE BACKUP HUSBAND IF HARRY STYLES AND I GET MARRIED AND THEN DIVORCED.” That’s an actual quote. Let us take a moment to appreciate this Hozier gentleman.

Now you understand. I’m a sucker for good long hair. The album is actually quite good, too. So there’s that. More importantly, the bun is amazing.

HATE:

My Malfunctioning iPhone:

I made a promise to myself when I first bought my iPhone that I wouldn’t complain about it. EVER. I’ve done very well for over a year. It has treated me well and I have loved it dearly and we’ve been best friends since last October. Over the past week, though, it has been arguing with me and I feel bad. It’s like when your pet bites you. I updated to iOS 8 and everything was peachy for a spell. Then, it stopped charging properly. I can’t figure this one out. I assumed it was the cord, but it still works fine with other devices. So, I’ve had to pull out this ridiculous wireless charger I bought for it and it is actually working through that. Today is a fresh hell. Every time I try and use the silly thing, it freezes up. I’ve restarted it numerous times, but still it fights me. I assume this is a software glitch. I did just update it last night hoping that the latest update would fix the charging issues — it didn’t! I want to love my iPhone with reckless abandon once again. And I’m sure I will. Maybe this is a sign to update to the new one? I want the new one. It’s so pretty.

My Rapidly Ballooning Waistline:

Readers, I’m getting fat. It’s a travesty. It’s probably the donuts and the cookies, but I don’t want to admit it. It’s surely not the Diet Coke. I joked the other day that my bloodstream is probably 50% Diet Coke. It might be true. I drink an awful lot of Diet Coke. There are no calories in it, though, so why should I stop!?!? Anyway, I should probably start a diet. Oh Beysus, I don’t want to, though. I just want to eat all the food in the world, go on long walks, and take naps. Why can’t I have a nice shape by doing that? I used to exercise and watch my caloric intake, but with depression and working every day, it makes it hard to bother being healthy. Besides, that thing they say on the Facebook is true — buying health food costs unreasonably more than buying junk. What is life? Why is so unfair? Why can’t I just go get surgery? Where are my abs? Ugh. Why don’t my pants fit? I stepped on the scale the other morning and jumped back in fright. I honestly don’t understand where these extra fifteen pounds came from. I can’t really see them. I guess they spread out rather evenly over my body. Am I one of those old people now with low metabolisms? GOD I HATE THIS. But, I’m going to have to start the calorie thing again. It works. It’s just awful. UGH.

Struggle Writing With First Person:

I love writing. It’s one of my favorite things in all the world. I could write until my fingertips fall off. When I write my novels, I find myself going naturally into the third person. It’s an easy voice to write in since you can tell exactly what’s happening and what a character is feeling without having to deal so much with their emotions and the things they might miss out on. Writing in the first person is very much more personal and fun to read, though. I find that trying to create in this voice is a bit restrictive, but can be rather fun. I had a really good time last year writing my novella, Haskell & Eudora. It was told in the first person and I think I did a fine job. My novel, Terrible Miss Margo, which has not been published, is written in the third person. I like it a lot, but at certain points it feels rather clunky. I think a rewrite into the first person would be excellent, but there is a major death in the story, so I’m not sure how to kill off a first person character! Several people are giving me suggestions of similarly written stories on Facebook, so I’m going to have to do some research this weekend.

Writer’s Block:

I don’t know if I believe in writer’s block. I certainly know that some days it can be extraordinarily difficult to put pen to paper or to type out even a page of prose. I think writer’s block is more likely to be procrastination with a mixing of low inspiration. It’s awful to be uninspired. I have been working on a new novel and have about a third of it typed up, but all of a sudden my interest seems to have dried up. I love the characters and the setting and I know just where to plot is going, but when I go to actually work on the story, which I do each day, I feel a gaping chasm in my imagination. Nothing comes out. The words don’t spill from my brain as they’ve done in the past. The images and conversations and actions just sit stagnant in my head. I’m really getting annoyed. It’s probably just my mood or the change of season. I need to get back in my groove. My goal is to have this current novel in a rough draft form at the end of the school year. I still have a lot of time to get through it, I know, but I just don’t want to have to cut a bunch of drivel later on. I want it all to be rather good to begin with. LE SIGH.

Honey Boo Boo’s Cancellation:

I have, for many long years, been a vocal and big defender of the Boo Boo’s. I absolutely adore them, and I’ve written extensively about how they make me proud to be an American. (Read this post I did years ago.) I want them to be my actual family and I want to be their friends and I want to go to Redneck Days and jump into a mud pool with Alana. So, when I was told that the show was cancelled, I was understandably devastated. Those sweet, wonderful people. What would become of them? What will become of me? What wholesome family will I have to watch now and laugh with? NOBODY. This is awful. I don’t understand why Mama would be seen around a sexual predator let alone date them. It’s very disturbing. It’s the worst thing that has happened in my life for quite some time. I want there to be at least a finale of sorts so that the legions of fans can get closure. I guess we will just have to wait for one of them to write a tell-all book. Maybe the behind the scene truth is more sad than the charming front they put forward. I’m just so upset.