Monthly Archives: June 2013

The Kitchen

This week has just been full of defeat for me.  It seems that nothing can go right, from my job search, to my writing, to the kitchen remodel.  We are now dealing with a leaky dishwasher of epic proportions.  The kind of epic where everyone drowns in the sea. 

 I was on the computer, filling out my thousandth job application, when Brian walked into the room.

“Hey, come with me a second,” he said.

So I left the computer and went with him to the kitchen. 

“Just look,” he said.

I looked.  I had put the shelf up two nights ago for our cookbooks, hung my aprons on the wall, and replaced most the utensils.  The glossy cabinets gleamed white, the butcher block countertops gave it a homey air.  Under the window was the vast farmhouse sink, pot of pink flowers tucked next to the rubbed brass faucet. 

“You said you didn’t feel like anything was going right this week,” said Brian, “but isn’t it beautiful? I mean, it’s not perfect, but we’re making headway and it’s looking better than I ever imagined.”

I felt his palms spread lightly over my shoulders, and pressed my back into his chest.  I thought about the leaky dishwasher, the drawer that lost its support mechanism, how we don’t have handles on everything yet.  But he was right.  It looked good.

I felt just a smidgeon better.

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The 4th

It is not quite the Fourth of July, but already the town is gearing up for the annual house decorating contest.  The prize is quite nice: several hundred dollars, your picture in the local paper, and a ride down Indian Hill on the back of a convertible behind a group of baton-twirling teens.  Lots of people enter.  Past winners prove that unless your house looks like Uncle Sam vomited stars and stripes across your entire property, you aren’t getting anything.  Tasteful is not in the vocabulary of the selection committee.  Tasteful guarantees failure. 

There is a real contender on the way to my grandfather’s house.  Swags of bunting hang from the garage and over the doorway.  Full flags swing in the breeze from the rafters of the house, and they have purchased white vinyl banners that proclaim “God Bless America.”  One is pointed north and the other south, so that all directions of traffic can see them gleaming.  Their lawn is lined with flags suck upright in the earth.  These are not the small flags people put on picnic tables or wave in their hand.  These flags are over four feet long, fluttering high in the breeze like some nightmarish fence.

“Oh my God,” said Brian when we drove past.  “I can’t even… there are just no words for it.”

“It’s the contest,” I said, “and that’s hilarious!”

“Hilarious is not the word I would use,” said Brian.

“Ok, how about ‘Murica,” I said. 

But secretly, I sympathize with them.  There is only one time a year that my embarrassing enthusiasm for the Revolutionary War is allowed full flower, and that is July.  I will hang out my reproduction ’76 flag, pull my tricorn hat over my curls, and prepare to spend most of the day singing Stars and Stripes Forever.  The only thing that would make this holiday better is cannons. I stop at full displays in the yard, but I understand the impulse.

I could not find the owner of the quote, but somebody said “Patriotism is love of one’s country, despite one’s leaders.” Isn’t it nice, for just one day, to put aside all feelings about the government and just revel in the well-worn, tacky symbols of our origin?  If there was ever a time for this sort of display, the time is now.   I’ll be searching for shoe buckles next week.

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This should be easier

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Me: Why is writing a novel so hard?  It should be easier.  It should be possible for me to finish this.  I mean, people do it all the time, right?

Brian: Umm… actually no.

Me: Well some people do it all the time, right?

Brian: All the time? Maybe some people, but mostly – no.

Me: *sigh*

Shannon Hale, whose work I love, talks about Forrest Born as being the hardest book she ever had to write.  As difficult as it was, she felt like someone out there needed this book and she had to write it.  That conviction kept her struggling toward completion.

I realized today that, even if the world does not need my book, I need my book.  I’ll keep going, if only to make myself happy.  And that’s the only real reason to do anything to begin with.

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Gaiman

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The signed copy of Neil Gaiman’s book arrived on my doorstep yesterday.  I didn’t get a ghost, scrawled around ink blots on the ivory page, but I wasn’t disappointed after all.  There was just something about the shiny gold-ness of the sticker on the front proclaiming “Signed First Edition.” I opened up the front cover to see Neil’s scribble in blue, and I just felt warm gladness.  It is a slimmer volume than I thought it would be from the pictures online. 

I have nothing more to say about it, because I’m afraid to read it.  It’s been lauded as his best book yet, and I don’t know what will happen to me if I don’t love it too.  Loss of the title ‘Fervent Fan’ is probably one of the things.  The other reason I’m afraid to read it is because I read so terribly fast.  On average, I get through 100 pages an hour.  The book is so slim.  If I finish it, then it will all be over and done.  It’s a terrible catch-22. 

Brian said to me the other night, “you know, I really think I would like Neil Gaiman’s stuff, but I feel like you’re such a fan that it’s spoiled it for me.  What if it turned out I didn’t like a book of his?  You’d be so disappointed.”

Evidently, I’m even spoiling it for myself now.  That’s me: Casey Hamilton, Ruiner of all things Neil Gaiman.  I’m going to read it soon.  Probably.

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Loud Fathers

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Yesterday we were talking about kids, and my father said it always used to take him some time to appreciate us after he had been working long hours.  “Like jet-lag or something,” he said.  “You know, not like I didn’t love you or anything, but you were just so energetic and loud.  It would take me a few days to get used to it again.”  I thought about this, and then I compared it with my actual childhood, and I want to call bullshit.  My father was at least as loud as we ever were, and maybe more so.  I offer this regular mealtime memory as proof:

“Let’s play Oliver,” said my father, as we grabbed our plates so he could dish out the quiche my mother had made for dinner.

“How do you do that?” I asked.

“I’ll dish out your dinner, and then you ask in your best English Accent: ‘Please Sir, may I have some more?’ and then you’ll see what happens.”

“You go first,” my little sister told me.

I grabbed my plate from the table and took it to the stove, where my dad cut a generous piece of quiche and tipped it onto my plate.  “Is that enough?” he whispered.

I nodded

“You can say it now,” he said.

“Please Sir, may I have some more?”

A growl rose in his throat, from under his bushy beard.  “MORE?!  MORE?! You want some MORE?!!!”

I squealed.  The quiche jumped on my plate.  I scurried back to the table with a grin on my face.

“My turn!!  Oh, I want to do it!” said my sister.

“Well, bring your plate up then,” said my dad.

“And then I want to go again!” I said.

I’m sure there were some nights my mother thought we would never eat dinner.

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Of Passports of All Kinds

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It may sound strange, but I am 31 years old and I have never had a passport before.  My first one came in the mail last night.  It looks remarkably like my National Park passport.  It is also dark blue in color, with shinny, foiled lettering.  Inside are also a bunch of blank pages for stamps.  This is where the similarities end.

In my National Park Passport, the pages are separated by region in rainbow hues, and there are colored squares to paste the special postage stamps they sell at each park.  You stamp your own passport with ink stamps they provide at each location.  My book has three separate stamps from Yellowstone alone – one for Old Faithful, one for Mammoth Hot Springs, and the last from Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone.  Be sure the date is correct.  The stamps are often located in stores where kids rotate the dates for fun.  My grandfather had a National Park Passport, and my mother has one.  It seems like such a silly thing, so silly that I almost didn’t buy one, but I am filled with glee when I get to choose my postage stamp and press the ink into the page.  Sometimes it’s hard to believe that I’m 31 at all.

I went to the Orange post office to turn in my paperwork for my real passport.  It is a tan colored building all made out of brick, with rough arches stretching above the doors.  There was a special line for Passports, and I had to take an oath that all my information was correct, right hand raised, staring at the postal worker with his right hand raised.

“I didn’t know you had to take an oath,” I said.

“Yup,” he replied as he stapled my paperwork together.

“They’re not messing around!” I said.  “It’s kinda fun!”

“They are definitely not messing around,” he said.

My actual United States Passport has a spread in the front where a very bad picture of me lies in a network of red and blue anti-fraud lines. Important information is listed about me.  Mostly blank pages follow, but they are also decorated with line drawings.  Ships with sails spread wide cut through the inky sea, a lighthouse in the distance.  Two men on horseback walk with a herd of longhorn cattle on a flat plane.  The head of a bald eagle looks at a scene where buffalo graze in front of snowy mountains.  A circular satellite, its metal arms flung wide, peaks over the round hulk of a planet.  “Let’s go there,” said Brian, pointing to the satellite.  It seemed possible, with that book to permit me.

I can’t imagine I get to stamp my own real passport.  I’ve been to both Mexico and Canada, but this was pre-9/11 when Americans could cross border lines freely.  I’ve never sat in a customs line, explained the contents of my luggage, or received a stamp of any kind.  A cousin of mine is getting married in a few weeks, and her house is just an hour from Montreal.  We’re planning a family caravan, so I will soon be a world traveler who knows these kinds of things.

Mostly what I can’t wait for is sharing a too-full house with relatives I don’t see enough.  I have fourteen cousins on my mother’s side alone, and we all used to spend summers together running across the sand in front of my grandfather’s beach house. An event when we’re all present is miraculous.  I’m excited to see my cousin walk down an aisle in white.  I can’t wait to explore Vermont as an adult, when I’ll remember it.  Getting my first stamp on my very first passport will be only part of the good things I’m hoping for that weekend.  Still, I do hope my first stamp is a nice one.

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Spiders

Our old place...

A rather terrible picture of our old place…

I hate spiders more than anything else in the entire world.  I always used to wonder, when I read the Anne of Green Gables books, what hysterics was.  I now know.  Show me a spider big enough and I can’t control the panic that rises through my throat.  I shudder.  I cry.  I start speaking in a frantic tone of voice that hardly seems my own, begging anyone around to kill it.

I think the true explanation of why spiders are so revolting lies in the unnatural number of eyes they have.  It may also have something to do with the fact that they suck blood and spin sticky rope from their backsides to entrap things for nefarious purposes.  I don’t know what web is truly made of, but in my mind it is so disgusting a substance as to be unmentionable.  Everything about their habits gives me the shivers.

I’ve heard all the statistics.  I know that I’ve probably eaten a few spiders in my sleep.  I know that I’m never more than a few feet from a spider at any time.  I have learned to deal with spiders a little.  Our former apartment was like a house.  It was blue stucco, built in the late 1940’s during the wartime housing boom.  The foundation was a slab of concrete well surrounded by a vast grassy lawn in both front and back.  None of the windows or doors fit tight.  Grassy lawn means bugs, and bugs mean spiders.  The house was infested.  If there was not a black spider sitting in the white bowl of the bathtub in the morning, it was a good day.  They collected in corners in all rooms of the house, and killing one meant three would come and take its place as the bug count multiplied.  I learned to make due, leave the small ones, and make sure they were not within my line of vision.  I didn’t like it, but I could sleep at night.

Part of my aversion probably dated back to the time I studied spiders in third grade.  We did a big unit on their life cycle and how different kinds of spiders lived and trapped prey.  I don’t remember much about it, but I do remember making a Black Widow web out of string.  They look different than other webs.  The strings are all straight, making a cris-crossing jumble where the spider lives near the top. Then, there are long and thin strings that stretch over the ground that are springy.  When something walks along, the strings snap and suck it onto the web.  Remembering these few facts from third grade make me able to spot Black Widows easily.  I have never been wrong.

We have since moved to an upstairs condo.  I have not seen four spiders in year and a half that we’ve lived there.  As the one outside our porch light was the only one, and he was far away from me, I decided to let him live.  Only one?  Much better.

I came out of my house two days ago to see that some kind of spider had made a web on my wheel.  My first thought was that I need to drive my car more.  And then I realized that all the strands of the web were straight, and there were thin strings stretching from the web to the ground.  Yes, I know.  There is probably a Black Widow making its home behind my back tire, and I’m not sure what to do about it.  So far, two trips on the busy California freeways have not convinced it to move.  I know it’s well outside the cab, but I just can’t help feeling that I’ll be bit as I’m driving and cause some horrible accident while the venom takes hold and I perish in a wave of shuddering paralysis.

In reality, I’ll probably just avoid the back of my car until it dies or moves away.  If I never actually see the spider I can pretend this isn’t really happening, right?

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Geneva Allerton

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OK, I’ll admit that I’m one of those crazy people who plays alternative Roll Playing games.  Savage Worlds is my favorite, and so is Rippers.  We’re starting a game today, and this is my character background.  It’s sort of literary-ish, so I thought I would post.

Geneva Allerton:

It was a vast sum of money; so vast that it seemed incomprehensible to Ginny that such an amount of money could really belong to one person.  Although when she thought about it, she supposed that much money was in an account of father’s somewhere.  She was opening letters at the breakfast table when she read the figure and sloshed hot tea across her hand, down her white dress.   Her skin prickled.  She picked up a napkin, scrubbing at the stain while staring at the spidery black figures still clutched in one hand.  In the dark paneled hall all those months ago, Ginny had gazed down at grandmother’s waxy face in the mahogany coffin, listened to the girl paid to wail in sorrow, and this thought had never crossed her mind.

She was an heiress.  The mansion in Chicago and all.

At that moment, two other thoughts crossed her mind.  She would not have to marry poor, boring Wesley like her mother wanted.  In fact, she probably wouldn’t have to listen to mother about anything ever again.  A smile pulled at the corners of her mouth.  Ginny set the teacup down with a porcelain clink, then flew up the stairs in a whirl of tea stained organdy.  This letter needed answering immediately.

“An unmarried woman, living alone!” her mother said.

“Yes,” said Ginny.  “Besides, I’ll have servants.  It’s not like I’ll actually be alone.”

“This is what comes of letting you read suffragette trash.  I should have known better.  Your father warned me.”

“They’re just pamphlets,” Ginny sighed, “and they have nothing to do with this.”

“My foot they have nothing to do with this!” her mother shouted.

Still, she was only in Chicago a few weeks before she was horribly bored in a way shopping could not cure.   She joined up with the suffragists in Chicago almost immediately, but that only occupied a few days of the week.  It was not enough.  Her first thought was to start a settlement house like they were doing in England, but grandmother’s mansion was most decidedly not in the slums.  That stood on Grand Boulevard among a sea of other mansions.  The living room had a view of the fountain in Washington Park.  The drapes were velvet.

Ginny was standing in the middle of a rally in the Chicago sunshine, a pole in her hand with a banner proclaiming Give Mother The Vote! when she heard about Hull House.

“It’s a settlement house like in those articles,” said the lady next to her.  The feathers on the woman’s wide hat bobbed in the breeze as she talked.

“Right here in Chicago?” asked Ginny

“Right here in Chicago.  They do classes and health care, and help the poor immigrants with just about anything you can think of.  If I had time, I’d go help out in a heartbeat.  Six children at home, though, and a husband none too pleased that I’m out here with a banner and not in the kitchen cooking dinner…”

“I have plenty of time to spare,” Ginny said.  “I think I’ll see if they need anything.”

“I envy you young ones sometimes,” the woman said.

Ginny went in person.  As she walked up to the front door, three ladies clutching a black bag rushed from the house, hands on their hats.  Ginny watched them fly up the walk and into the slums, skirts swirling about their legs.  People on the sidewalks parted to let them past.  She smoothed her dress and stepped into the large entry way.

“Hello, can I help you with anything?” a slight, well-dressed woman asked Ginny from a desk at the end of the hall.

“Yes, I’m Geneva Allerton, and I’m here to volunteer.  I don’t have many skills, but I’m willing to learn anything, and I’d like to help.”

“Oh,” the woman said.  “Miss Addams isn’t here right now.  Octavia Vicino is having her baby and no one else will go because she isn’t married.  It could be hours before she’s back.  I’ll tell you confidentially, though, they don’t need a lot of help right now.  Not unless you can do something about the ghosts.”

Ginny laughed.  “The ghosts?”

“We’ve had to shut down the whole west wing of the house.  It’s getting impossible.”

“Well, I did say I’m willing to learn, didn’t I?” said Ginny.  “What do I need to do?”

“Come back tomorrow and speak to Miss Addams.  She’ll let you know what’s next from there.”

What was next was a series of magic classes, and a permanent position with Hull House removing anything that wasn’t supposed to be there, including drunk husbands.

Sometimes, as she pulled the power into her fingertips, she thought of the sprawling, staggering amount of money on the letter all those months ago.  It was really remarkable how quickly things change.

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Red Head

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I had been talking about dying my hair red.  I’ve been wanting  a change, and envying all the ginger tresses in my life, bottle-got or not.  “I’m really going to make the appointment,” I told Brian.  But then I didn’t do it.  I thought about the myriad of Graduation pictures I would be taking in a few weeks and thought, even if I like it, I won’t look like myself.  I decided to dye it the day after graduation.

Then, I thought about it a little more.  I’m no hairdresser.  My cousin just tried drugstore red to disastrous consequences.  I would have to go to a salon and pay vast sums of money to have it done.  Spending vast sums of money the first time would mean I had a commitment to uphold – a salon appointment every six weeks or so to get my roots done, investment in fancy shampoo.

It was too late.  I had over thought.  I was officially not dying my hair, although the yen for red had not faded.

“What do you want for your birthday?” Brian asked me.

“I want a Brian adventure,” I said.  This is when he plans something fabulous, tells me nothing about it, and I find out when we get there.

“Dress casual,” he told me.  “We’ll have lunch somewhere, and then we’ll go.  It starts at 4:30.”

I stuffed myself with tapas at Tu Tu Tango, and tried to guess where he was taking me.

“We’re going dancing, in the late afternoon, and I’m just dressing uber-casual for some reason.”

“We’re attending a comedy show that just happens to start really early in the day.”

“There’s some sort of class at the Botanic Gardens.”

“You’re taking me mud wrestling.”

“We’re cross country skiing, um… in the summer, so without the skis.”

“That’s exactly what we’re doing,” he said.  “Except that most people just call that hiking.”

“Fair enough,” I said.

I was not at all expecting what I got.  We pulled up downtown to my hair salon.  He booked me an appointment to become a red head.  He’s so good at giving me the kind of day I didn’t know I wanted more than anything else.

It’s been a strange change.  I have always been a blonde.  Any hair dye I’ve used has been to make myself more golden.  The first day, I loved it more than anything and couldn’t stop looking at myself in the mirror.  I washed it, re-styled it, and decided on the second day that I didn’t like it after all.  It was too much of a change, and who did I think I was anyway?  I’m not fun enough to be a red-head.

Today I love it again, more than I ever have.

On another note, Brian was hilarious in the Salon.  They have a little vacuum set in the wall where they can sweep the hair and it sucks it up.

“Oh my God, COOL!” said Brian, very loudly.  He was impressed that they had wine, too.  Before long he had helped pick a shade of red for my hair, and was getting the stylist to regale us with stories of hair color gone bad through customer idiocy.  We played Settlers of Catan on his tablet while we waited for the color to set.

“This is way better than my $12 a cut barber shop,” he said.  “And there are a lot of guys here too.”

“Male haircuts are $35,” said the stylist.

Brian coughed.

I laughed.  There’s a reason I used to only do this once or twice a year.  But now I’m a ginger, with a six week commitment.

Today, I’m loving it.

Categories: Life | Tags: , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Make Good Art

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It’s summer now, and I have less to occupy my time.  This means that the annual book devouring is in full force.  I’ve read seven books in two and a half weeks.  I have four waiting on my shelves for their turn.  Keeping me in books is a problem that I have only found one solution to, and yet my library card at Chapman expires on July 6th.

“I hope someone gives me Neil Gaiman’s Make Good Art,” I told Brian a few days before I graduated.

“Did you ask anyone for it?” Brian said.

“No.”

Brian laughed, “Then why do you think someone will give it to you?”

“I don’t really expect it,” I said.  “My love of Neil Gaiman is well known, though.  I’m more just hoping.  It’s a graduation speech, it’s about life and stuff.  It’s really the perfect present.  Someone should think of it.”

No one thought of it.  Instead people gave me money, so I bought the book for myself.  (Not that I’m knocking money.  Money is really great.)  The book is really more of an art book than an actual book book.  The remarkable thing about it is the way the artist did the typesetting.  It reads like Neil Gaiman’s vocal inflections while he was giving the speech.  Inside the back flap, the book told me, “This is really great.  You should enjoy it.”  Well, I did.  Your command is my command.  (Wait, that’s not right…)

I may be biased.  I’m a vehement Neil Gaiman fan almost to the point of obsession.  (“Almost?” Brian would say.  “It’s gone far beyond almost.”  It’s really his wife I’m twitter stalking, though, I promise!)

I’ve ordered my copy of Ocean At The End Of The Lane, and those other books will all just have to wait their turn once it arrives.  I can hardly wait until mid-June when my signed copy gets here.  I’m hoping for a ghost.

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