Blush and Bashful.

Dear Benjamin Moore Paints:

This is what I want listed on the back of your paint swatches: "SIMPLE COLOR NAME: Cool undertones, will clash horrendously with yellows, etc."

This is what I get listed on the back of your paint swatches: "PEACEFUL FLUTTERING DOVE TAIL: OC-117"

So. Re-painting the guest bedroom and bathroom is officially on the list of to-do projects-- mostly because my mom is visiting in two weeks. In my mind's eye, I envision a light, bright -and yet warm- paint palette, flowing effortlessly from the 1940s cottage to the modern extension. [For the record: PB has given official stamp of approval of said vision]

We decided on a clean, white bathroom and neutral bedroom. Simple enough, yes? NO.

I spent an hour at Benjamin Moore, staring at a wall of colors. Oh, and don't be fooled: the "Color Preview" colors are almost entirely the "Classic" colors, but with fancier names. This is a fact, relayed to me by Jeremy, an actual employee of Benjamin Moore Paints. Anyway, what did I leave with? No less than 44 swatches of varying shades of white. White. Based on the fact that apparently, many of them are the same but with different names, I may have only picked up 6 different colors. Who knows....

All I do know is that I spent the rest of my afternoon with swatches taped to the bathroom wall. I would stare at the wall. Turn the lights on. Turn the lights off. Open the window blinds. Close the window blinds. Each time expecting one color to jump out at me. I believe in psychotherapy, repeating the same behavior with the expectation of a different result is a symptom of insanity...

And to make the process more enjoyable, the colors I was scrutinizing carried infuriating names like, "Palace White," "Simply White," "Snowfall White," "Glacier White," and "Atrium White." I feel "Simply White" was positively taunting me. Benjamin Moore, do you have a paint color called, "Blood-Splattering-Head-Wound Red"? Because that's what color the walls will be after the anxiety of choosing between 44 whites forces me to take my own life. Honestly.

All I could do was replay the Steel Magnolia pre-wedding scene in my head: "My colors are blush and bashful." "...Your colors are pink and pink."

Yup. Because when I look at "Vapor" and "Steam" taped to the bathroom wall I can't help but think, "White" and "White."

No.

GAAAAAAAAAAH. Let me paint a picture for you of a less-than-ideal situation:

• Writer completes assignment, 3 days under deadline. Coming in under deadline means life is good: Writer smiles. Believes again in the magicalness of it all, that fantasies can be real-- Santa, Tooth Fairy, an actually funny episode of Glee.
• 72 hours later, 4:00 pm on a holiday weekend Friday, Writer receives email from editor to this effect: "really liked your piece, but the lead felt contrived and doesn't get to the heart of your story. We really need to hook the readers...do you have a colorful anecdote from your source that you could inject into the story? I'll need the rewrite by Tuesday."
  
• Writer then has desire to morph into killer kitty, complete with machine gun and wall of flames. Just kidding. Not really...

Now of course, I'll have the rewrite completed by 5:00 this afternoon (over achiever for life) and I'll send it along with a cheery note of how pleased I am to be of help! When really, I want to explain that no, I do not have a "colorful" anecdote from my source. Because in fact, I'm pretty sure the person I talked to was actually the color gray. Seriously, put me on the phone with a ding-dang-ol' Crayola and I would have gotten more lively material [SEE: post on 'How Not to Phone Interview] And because I would rather read a Dan Brown book [SEE: scraping out my eyeballs and brain cells with a shrimp fork] before calling the nincompoop non-conversationalist again, I will spin a magical tale of greatness from absolutely no new pieces of information.

In other words, I will employ my personal mission statement:

If you can't dazzle them with brilliance, baffle them with bullshit.

What's in a name?

Today, I started instructing another writing class in partnership with Badgerdog Literary Publishing. I'm no longer with my Alzheimer's group in Westlake. Instead, I'm working on the East side at a Housing Authority complex, with a group of older adults. They're a completely different demographic: low-income, low education level and facing mental/physical challenges.

I only had two people in this first workshop. Amazing the ability of two strangers to humble me.

The two women I taught today reminded me so much of the Women's Adult Literacy Class I taught while in Ghana. The same bashfulness, the same eagerness, the same pride at picking up a pen and writing.

I was reminded today of how guilty I am (we all are) of judging people. Had I seen these two women at a bus stop or grocery store, I would have thought they were less than me. That's the truth.

But everyone has a story and no one is more important than the other. I was also reminded of that today.

We read My Name by Sandra Cisneros. We also read this poem by Eartha, a previous workshop participant:

My name looks like a globe.
My name is the world.
There is so much in it--
the flowers, the trees, the birds,
the fragrance,
the beauty that's within it.
The cry of a newborn baby,
the sound of my mother's voice.
My name smells like clay or dirt.
Soil, sod. It feels squishy and cool.
It's grainy and gritty.
My name smells like my Aunt Dora's house--
the smell of flowers and leaves and trees.
My name tastes like honeysuckle
and watermelon and fresh peaches.
My name is the color of red brown
dirt of West Texas.
My name means terra.

After reading this, Rosemary told me about how she could remember the smell of West Texas dirt. She and her twin sister were separated as infants; every six years, Rosemary would trek out to West Texas with her family to visit her. I never would have guessed....

Let me also mention that the woman who wrote that piece is completely blind. How often have I seen people walking with white canes and burdened them with my pity? When inside, they are carrying their own poetry, songs, ideas, experience, talents, life, love.

I have so much to learn.

An odd couple.

+ =I love summer. It includes my birthday. And while --this year, anyway-- it does not include rain, it does include two of the best things to come off the vine: tomatoes and yes, hatch chiles. The hatch season is barely a flash in the pan and by the 4th of July, whispers of the coming harvest are buzzing around. While many hoard the peppers and freeze them, I choose instead to wait patiently every year. I think this makes me appreciate the arrival of hatch season better, plus it's a good excuse to put them in every dish I can imagine while it's possible. And being as how I've also never met a chocolate I didn't like, I decided to try my hand at combining these two loves (with inspiration from a spicy brownie recipe from Serious Eats). I gotta to say, the result is a delicious treat, better than the hatch brownies at Central Market. You can thank me later:

• 5 oz. good quality dark chocolate (I used 100% cocoa baking bar from Ghiradelli), broken into pieces (also, you can substitute 1 oz. chocolate bar with 3 tablespoons cocoa powder+1 tbsp. oil, although I'm not sure you'll get the same fudgy consistency)
• 10 tbsp butter, plus a lil more for greasing
• 2 tbsp hatch chile, raw, seeded and ground (I used the hot variety. If the batter tastes a bit too spicy, that's fine, some of the heat bakes off)
• 1 tsp ground cinnamon (this will set a nice background flavor profile for your hatch to take stage)
• 1 tsp salt
• 1 3/4 cup sugar
• 3 eggs
• 1 cup flour

1) Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
2) In a saucepan over low heat, melt the butter and chocolate with chiles, cinnamon and salt. Stir regularly and be careful not to burn your chocolate!
3) Grease a 9"x9" pan.
4) In mixing bowl, combined melted chocolate mix with sugar. Add eggs. When it's smooth, fold in the flour.
5) Transfer to pan and bake approx. 40 minutes.
6) For the best result, let your brownies "rest" at room temperature for several hours/overnight, before cutting. And devouring.

How not to phone interview.

Goodness me, you're on a flip-phone! That's even more appalling than your terrible interview answers!

The month is closing, which means my deadlines are looming. Usually, I walk around the corner and set-up shop at Flightpath Coffee (they make a mean Americano) in the mornings. But today, I had a phone interview and because I a) try to be professional and b) refuse to be that person talking loudly into a cell phone while in a public space, I'm working from home.

To accomplish said phone interview, I had to barricade myself into the office. The door doesn't properly close and it took all of 3 seconds for a couple of noses to appear, wedging themselves in the doorway and breathing loudly. My dogs will stop at nothing to be in a room with people. Their emotional dependency is truly astounding.

Mom? MOM?! I know you're in there! MOM! Wait..green carpet. Really??

At any rate, after I piled up a bin of Christmas ornaments and a couple boxes of spare kitchen tiles (where did these come from?) I settled in. While I prefer in-person interviews (conversation flows more naturally and you get all the great nuances in tone and body language) they're not always time-efficient and they don't work when your subject is 200+ miles away. Even so, phone interviews don't have to be all that bad....

Unless you do any of these things:

• Pick your nose: Okay, okay, I'm not sure anyone has actually done it but I think it's happened before. I can just feel the nose picking through the phone.
  
• Surf The Interwebs, check your email, Twat (Twit? What the hell is it anyway?), check-in on Four Square (again I ask, what the hell is it anyway?) etc. I should not hear clicking from your end of the phone. It is not allowed. Unless you live in a magical typewriter factory where the machines operate themselves, the only typing sound should come from me, and that's only because I'm taking down (word for word) the drivel coming out of your mouth.
• Pace around incessantly. I'm guilty of pacing while on the phone. I get it, really I do. But if you're walking around your house/office/local high school track at such a brisk clip, you become difficult to understand and worse, I become uncomfortable at your heavy breathing.
• If we agree on a 10:00 a.m. interview time and I call you at 10:00 a.m. sharp, at least try to muffle the sound of your sheets as you answer the phone. I know you are still in bed. Oh, and I also know that "can you call me back in ten minutes?" Is really code for, "sorry, although your magazine is profiling me, I didn't feel it necessary to set my alarm clock for 9:55. Why do that when I have a writer to call and wake me?! hah! But now that I am awake, I've really gotta pee and have a quick glass of water to hide my gross-morning-voice, k?"
• When I do call you back ten minutes later, don't be outside or in the car with your windows rolled down. I shouldn't have to point out that you sound like you're in a wind tunnel.
• Finally, don't be wildly unprepared. Please? I always give a generous 48-hour+ notice and the specific topic of the feature/interview. Perhaps I should start giving detailed lists of every single softball question that's coming your way. Honestly, when I tell you the interview will be about how you spent your summer raising champion golden unicorns, I shouldn't have to sit through you 'umming' and 'ahhhing' when I ask you to tell me about a typical day raising champion golden unicorns. Just sayin. Yes, I know that while I know how to talk in copy/sound bites and enjoy public speaking, not everyone does...still, try to help a sister out, will ya? Because what should be a breezy 250-word article is now like pulling teeth for me.

Why, yes! I did spend my summer raising champion golden unicorns! Let me tell you all about it...

Please take these 6 lessons and learn from them... Because every time a phone interview goes well, a journalist gets it's wings.

A crazed love letter.

Dear Rain,

What happened to you? What happened to us? I was pretty excited last Friday. I mean, you were supposed to show up on Saturday evening and stay through Sunday. Okay, okay, you were only going to be one inch at most, but I'll take what I can get. You'd feel so good, I know it. I even made a list of all the super-special things I would do while you were around: sort laundry, mop the floors, finally watch Highlander III on Netflix PlayInstantly. To seal the deal, I even washed my car.

I told everyone you were coming for the weekend and I'd probably be holed up. Well, now you've just embarrassed me. Not only did you not show up in Austin, I actually read that the Texas air is so hot and dry, your tropical storm actually evaporated when you hit land. So. It's true then. You never really intended on being here in the first place. LIES.

I thought we had something special. I thought it might be the beginning of a beautiful relationship. I don't understand what I did wrong. I guess you were too busy giving 7 inches to Chicago the weekend before. CHEATER.

The truth is, I'm desperate. It's been so long and I just can't remember what it feels like to have you on my skin. Never again will I curse you for ruining my hair, forcing me to walk groceries to my car without an umbrella, or making my dogs smell like they rolled in the moldy, decomposing intestines of a very large rodent. I take it all back! You know how it is, sometimes in the moment we all say things we don't mean. Right?

Anyway, you know where to find me. It's 108º out there today so if you could please, please find it in your heart to take me back, I promise I'll never take you for granted ever again.

Love,
P.

The State Fair Rule

I just spent 72-hours at the Writers' League of Texas Agents Conference here in Austin. My first one and I left motivated, educated, and perhaps a bit stunned at the not-dying-anytime-soon popularity of all things Vampire....

I also found that, like children, writer alone is crazy. Writer(s) in large groups are insufferable. All jokes aside, I learned and learned and learned all weekend. I made a couple wonderful connections and had a promising agent meeting (will not reveal details for superstitious fear of jinxing my good fortune). Here's what people in Literary Land taught me:

• Don't try to hand an agent your self-published book in the continental breakfast line. Painful (yet polite) public rejection will ensue. When said agent asks you to send it to his office in NYC, do not persist. This will only lead to strangers yelling, "he doesn't want to pack it on the airplane!" while giving you the look The Benevolent Agent is probably suppressing. This is painful for all to witness.
  
• Be careful making friends with the registration desk ladies. They will bring over the media guy with the video camera and peer pressure you into filming a sound-bite for the website. You will not be given prompts or talking points, making you appear extra ridiculous on camera. The Ladies will say this is, "what you get for being gregarious and normal" in a group of people who, apparently, are not.
  
• Begin branding. Now. Gone are the days of the reclusive, brilliant writer pounding away on a typewriter, cigarette dangling from mouth, in the woods, Paris, or New Jersey. In fact, those days probably never really existed. Either way, it's all about creating a platform and marketing yourself to within an inch of your life.
  
• When the Gods of Making Books Happen smile upon you and you are granted a 10-minute session with a literary agent, for pete's sake, dress the part. Yes, we writers are creative artists, probably a little bit tortured, but publishing is a business. When you get the chance to pitch face-to-face with an agent, do not wear anything that you would wear to the State Fair. No exceptions. Your outfit shouldn't make anyone inexplicably crave funnel cake or want to guess your weight.
• Finally, when The Agent utters those three little words that positively send your heart aflutter –"send me more"– offer a firm handshake, smile, try not to pee your pants, and absolutely do not forget to send a hand-written thank you note.

A hot disaster.

Today, the Littler One and I went on an "adwentcha" to the Zoo. We met up with the Older One and her summer day camp group. Yes, these summer months will see me only caring for one child that is not my own, rather than two. Accordingly, my happiness level has recently and notably increased two-fold...

That is until I found myself amongst 14 children under the age of six, all wearing neon yellow t-shirts. Other than the three teachers, I was one of two "parents" that chose to come. Now I see why: child alone is crazy, child(ren) in large groups are insufferable. However, they had their moments of cuteness (I think there was one) and, perhaps most surprisingly, their moments of astute wisdom. Here is what humans who will not legally drink until 2027, taught me this morning:

• When the big peacock poops on the deck of the Reptile & Amphibian house, it's called a Poop Deck. No relation to naval architecture and superstructures of ships.
• If you're very hot and sweaty, you should "take a little dip in ice cold water."
  
• If you're the kid who shouts at everyone for mispronouncing "jaguar," you're destined to be an endlessly irritating grown-up. Fact.
• If you're the kid who calls the small boy with a gap in his teeth "Mister Annoying Pants," you're destined to be an enormous asshole. You will also get lots and lots of girls.
  
• Roosters will eat American cheese. So will peacocks.
  
• When a lemur raises his tail, backs his butt up to you, and makes a (misleadingly) cute snorting noise, walk away. Better yet, run.
• At the Axis Deer, it's okay to pick up the light brown pellets from the ground and feed them to the deer. Don't touch the dark brown pellets.
• Pushing friends is never okay. We do not push!
• And, if you can't keep your hands on your own body, you have to move away. *can we make this a sign to post in bars?*
• Tigers in enclosures are not scary. But in a hypothetical situation, a tiger right next to you is very scary.
• Also, Murphy has sunglasses, Chap-Stic, and sunblock in her monkey purse. Just so you know.

Murphy also told me that she was sweaty, thirsty, and "a hot disaster." And in this 100-degree heat, sister, I couldn't agree more.

Tree of life.

A couple weekends ago, I went back home. Not North Texas where most of my family now lives, but the place where –after an exhausting labor for my mom– I came into the world. McLean, Virginia. I've not been back since we left in December, 1992.

I took PB with me and we walked around old Chesterbrook Park. I remember the sound of slapping sticks on bark, the trees where we built our world. The woods don't look quite the same, but that's ok. The smell hasn't changed. Wet leaves and damp dirt. Next time you cut into a raw potato, hold your nose up to the flesh and that's the smell of my childhood.

*A disclaimer here: I'm about to break blog rule #1 of brevity and #2 of emotional detachment. But some things are worth telling in long-form. And any writer (or journalist, dare I say it!) will tell you everything is subjective, everything is touched by our experience...

When I was a little thing in Virginia, I watched some black and white movie with my mom – Jimmy Stewart or Carey Grant, can't remember– in which the protagonist lives with his mother well into adulthood. I had recently learned I had an older sister, whom died as a baby, and I struggled to understand how that could be. Only old people died. So I told my mom I would be young forever just like the movie and would never move away. I would live with her and dad forever.

"Of course you'll move away. That's part of growing up," she said.

Well. If that was growing up, I didn't want any part of it. The thought of moving away from my parents, and my siblings growing old and all of us one day dying sank my little heart like a stone in the ocean. I decided that 4 years old was plenty for me thankyouverymuch and I would stop right there. It was a simple enough solution and I was astonished at how easy it was to outwit my mom and the rest of humanity! My goodness, hadn't anyone thought of stopping time before? So for the next year, my family had to keep up the charade that I was 4 years old, long after my 5th birthday.

More than twenty years later and I still question how can this be? How can it be that some of us live and some of us die too soon? Do we ever really die?

I called my parents to ask where I could find my sister. My mom said, "Fairfax Memorial Park. That's where Michelle lives." Of course, of course, of course. Lives. I felt embarrassed for asking where she was buried. Do parents ever bury a child and leave them entirely there? Do any of us? Graves are for the living, a place marker. But no grave can hold a spirit. I believe in reincarnation but even if you don't, we never really die.

I think when we left Virginia, the Memorial Park was our last stop on our way out of town. Or was it? Did I make that up? The Alzheimer's people I work with sometimes fabricate memories to fill in missing holes in their past; it helps them make sense of things. Did we really stop to say goodbye or was I a second grader trying to make sense of my world and death and family and leaving?

Now I found her headstone and did the first thing my hands commanded: I cleaned her off. On my knees in the grass, I swept away the dirt and leaves. Instinct. Then I sat back in wonder at how connected I could feel to someone I never knew.

And then I struggled. What conversation do you have with someone you've never spoken to? I did my best and left her a note:

The family loves you. I bet you would have been beautiful. Mom and Dad still miss you everyday, especially in pictures.
Your sister,
Phyllis

I was sad to leave her there with none of our family around. But that is where she lives and –like my Mom and Dad– I will have to take her with me, even if I still don't know why some of us live and some of us go too soon.

PB said, "I'm happy she has a tree. If you think about it, she's part of it now as it grows, she's in the ground and part of the roots."

And I think that is how my sister would be. Strong, able to weather the storm. Blooming, healthy, changing, growing. Reaching and striving for more.

Sister, I'm so happy you have a tree.

The magic of Three.

Some things are so disheartening, so awfully frightening, you just have to laugh– Alzheimer's disease, global warfare, reality television, Ann Coulter.

But the reality is, more than 5 million Americans suffer from Alzheimer's disease today. 14% of all people over the age of 71 have some form of dementia. Alzheimer's could steal the minds of 1 out of 8 baby boomers, and by 2050, 959,000 people could be diagnosed each year.

Still laughing?

But things like Alzheimer's, MCI, and dementia inspire me. They inspire in me a sense of urgency, an immediate need to take down people's stories, before the memories disappear with time. I've always been a storyteller, and there is no greater joy for me...a well told story transports us, challenges us, and stirs our soul.

Last week, we talked about nostalgia. Mostly, I just sat and listened to the random memories but I also heard from participants that life was simpler years ago:

There were 3 makes of car. Ford, Chevy, Buick.
There were 3 television stations. ABC, CBS, NBC.
There were 3 churches in town. Methodist, Baptist, Church of Christ.

Before television, people sat on the porch and talked to each other. Or kids listened to the radio and used their imagination. You could try and pull pranks in the neighborhood, but someone would always say, "Eugene Smith, I'll tell your father so you better think twice!"

Today, I learned that my mother cannot whistle. I was astonished. Not because she can't do it, but because I had no idea. What else do I not know about this lovely, complex person with whom I shared a body for nine months? Who cut my sandwiches into triangles?

Here's a challenge: get with someone dear to you (phone, email, or face-to-face) and ask them to tell you something most people wouldn't know about them. Or ask them what their morning routine is. How do they take their coffee? Ask them anything. The important thing is to write it down. And do it over and over again with other people.

There is disappointingly little resources for this sort of thing (I smell a personal project in the air!) but here are a couple sites to get you started:
Bicentennial Family History Project
Grub Street Memoir Project
GaGa Sisterhood
StoryCorps

Because if we don't tell each others stories, who will?