I spent most of the day holed up in the Word Lounge watching documentary specials newly released for the 100th anniversary of RMS Titanic‘s sailing and subsequent sinking. At one point whatever I was watching had a music track with a sustained note that was the same pitch as my town’s tornado sirens…again, we weren’t under a watch, but that eerie keening tone still made my spine go all a-tingle.

I was also doing our income taxes, which I’ve put off doing until this weekend even though I could have done them months ago, because I just wasn’t in the mood. I finally e-filed at 4:27 this afternoon, and I got the text alert at 7:56 (while I was sipping some post-sashimi green tea at Simply Asia), that my return was accepted. We’re getting money back this year, and while normally my goal is to break even, for once I don’t mind that I gave the feds an interest-free loan, because when you’re self-employed and your income fluctuates wildly it’s difficult to gauge things. Also? On paper my freelance gigs have me in the black. Last year I wasn’t. I love the color red, but not when it shows up in Excel spreadsheets, you know?

I’ve been sipping tea all weekend because tea goes well with stories about ships and the sea, and because I still have this allergy/sinus thing in my throat that makes my voice all husky and raw, and sometimes non-existent. NUMI organic Earl Grey has been by go-to brew at home for a week or so now (I need to order the loose Earl Grey from Teaism – it’s so good I almost want to BATHE in it), and right now I’m sipping my comfort drink: a venti, soy, no-water chai with a pack of honey in the bottom, courtesy of Starbucks.

All in all, it’s been a quiet, but quietly productive Saturday, and now I’m watching documentaries about sharks, which makes me happy.

Still, I’m in a musical mood (despite the inability to hit any identifiable notes just now) so I’m sharing a vintage Harry Chapin song in honor of the Titanic centennial, and my friend SMG, who mentioned it at dinner last night.

NY Times Front Page | 16 April 1912

I confess, I’m as interested in/fascinated by/obsessed with the history of the RMS Titanic as anyone else. Not the movie. I mean, I’ve seen it (and probably have a copy of the DVD floating around), and part of me would like to see the 3D version (except I’m not a fan of 3d), and I’ve read Futility (and have a copy of THAT floating around, as well), etc. I’ve even seen the musical. (They sing. They dance. They die. They come back and sing some more.)

But my favorite Titanic centennial activity has nothing to do with retracing the journey, or seeing a movie that’s over ten years old, or dressing in period costumes. No. My chosen activity over the next four days is much more passive: I’m following @TitanicRealTime, which is taking a leaf from what NASA did a few years ago with the moon landing, and tweeting a “timeline” of the voyage from passengers, officers, etc.

The latest tweet, as of 4:07 AM CDT:

#firstclass First morning of waking up aboard Titanic. I wonder what I will discover and who I will meet today?

If you’re interested in watching the familiar story unfold in “real” time, I suggest you follow them, as well.

Alternatively, if you prefer to read your history, I recommend Gareth Russell’s blog post on the subject (which links to others).

Calla Lilies | Credit: ivstiv @ iStockPhoto | Click to embiggen

“Flowers seem intended for the solace of ordinary humanity.”
~John Ruskin

One of the things I miss most about California is that I could grow my own Calla Lilies. Whether they’re represented in a Mapplethorpe photograph, or simply growing by the wayside, they’re so cool and elegant, and they always make my soul feel just a little more centered, a little more at peace.

Here in Texas, it’s too warm, and not wet in the right ways for Calla Lilies to grow in my backyard, and we rarely see them in the grocery store, so I fill my need for fresh flowers with irises, gerberas, sunflowers, tulips, and techni-colored carnations, as seasonal availability allows. On rare occasions, I even buy roses, but I’m really not a rose fan. In fact, I only buy them when they’re the really big, yellow and peach blooms that remind me of the bushes my grandmother used to tend so carefully. (We will conveniently ignore the number of times my tender, bare feet were pierced with wicked thorns.)

Last weekend, my grocery store had, among their usual assortment of bouquets, arrangements, and simple flower bunches, a collection of irises, calla lilies, branches and pine, that reminded me strongly of the butterfly walk (not it’s proper name, but locals will know what I mean) at Natural Bridges in Santa Cruz. I could almost smell the faint trace of eucalyptus, almost taste the tang of salty air.

Flowers that come delivered in long boxes with lovely notes are wonderful surprises, but I’ve found that I look forward to weekly shopping trips because it means I can bring home another bunch of grocery store flowers.

CBTL Americano | Click to embiggen

T.S. Eliot wrote, “I have measured out my life with coffee spoons,” but it seems I’ve become one of those people who measures their lives in coffee pods.

It started a year ago last October. An unexpected bonus and a sale at Target led me to the purchase of my first Keurig. Since I’m the only coffee drinker in the house (unless we have guests), I bought the smallest model, the kind without a reservoir, and for nearly 18 months I’ve loved it. No longer did I brew an entire pot of coffee in the morning, only to drink one cup and forget about the rest until it had burned to tar or gone cold. No more was I skipping my morning coffee because brewing a whole pot for one person seemed silly.

You might be thinking, “But, you could brew a smaller pot.” Well, yes, but invariably when you brew a smaller pot you really want about half a cup more than you actually made. Or the taste just isn’t right.

“What about a French Press?” you might wonder. I have one, but I rarely use it, partly because I never know what to do with the leftover grounds, and partly because I generally use coffee so quickly that even though I SHOULD grind my own beans, I usually have it ground for me, to espresso fineness.

In any case, yesterday, as an anniversary present, Fuzzy blessed my purchase of a new single-serve coffee machine. This one is a CBTL Americano. It has several different pre-programmed cup sizes, a 48 oz reservoir, and – and this is the best part – has special settings to brew ACTUAL espresso with 15 bar pressure.

Like the Keurig, it uses pre-measured capsules, but the design of them is more like the Nespresso machine. There aren’t as many flavors, but they make regular and decaf espresso, and CBTL coffee has always been a good brand.

A spiffy new coffee maker, which I’ve begun thinking of as “Luciano,” is pretty cool, but there’s more!

You see, CBTL also makes a frothing pitcher. Now, I’ve worked in a coffee bar. In fact, I worked in one when “pulling shots” of espresso meant literally pulling the lever on the machine, not just pressing the button for a long or short pull. I know how to froth milk (the notion, btw, that you can’t froth skim milk is bogus. As long as the pressure is good, and the milk is fresh, you can froth anything from nonfat to half-and-half), and I don’t need a thermometer to tell if it’s done. I know how it’s supposed to sound.

However, unless you have a commercial machine with really good pressure, home-frothed milk is more trouble than it’s worth. Which is why I was willing to pay $50 for the CBTL pitcher, because – and this is really cool – it makes lovely, lovely foam at the touch of a button, and I don’t have to deal with holding the pitcher, or cleaning the nozzle. Instead, it uses a combination of a built in nozzle and a wire whip at the bottom of the pitcher.

Yesterday, I made a perfect cappuccino. This morning, I had a breve.

I may have to learn how to make latte art.

Couple Holding Hands | Source: Clumpner @ iStockPhoto | Click to embiggen

This weekend marks the seventeenth anniversary of our wedding, but instead of a glorious dinner and a trip to the theater, we’re celebrating a little at a time, between work crises, exhaustion, migraines, and various other little things that have conspired to keep us from going out and doing something special.

But the thing is, we don’t need to do something amazing to celebrate, because even when we bicker, even when I’m bitchy and demanding and he’s stoic and doesn’t voice his opinion, even when what we really want to do is go to opposite ends of the house and sulk, each with a dog (or two, or three) to give us unconditional sympathy, we’ve learned to work through it, and laugh.

And so we do.

And while our lovely dinner may have to wait until after his next business trip, and until after I’ve finished my Big Writing Project, in the meantime we have moments, real moments, that mean more than any special dinner ever could.

Things like weekend trips to the comic book store, followed by lunch at our favorite Mediterranean restaurant, or eating oranges in bed, or getting flowers every time we go to the grocery store, or sharing a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup on a rainy day.

So, happy anniversary, Fuzzy.
I love you, always.

RIN: Daughters of Mnemosyne | Source: Funimation.com

Generally speaking, I’m not a fan of any kind of animation. I stopped watching morning cartoons before I turned ten. I’m not a fan of Disney princesses (as much as certain friends have tried to change my mind). While I have, in the past, enjoyed bits of Daria, Gargoyles, and The Simpsons, I could never manage more than an episode here or there. I have zero interest in or appreciation for South Park.

It’s somewhat ironic, then, that I’ve spent the last few days watching – actually watching – various anime offerings from Netflix. Why, you ask, am I watching anime? Well, it began with the invitation to participate in an audio drama a friend is producing, that is basically “audio anime.” She mentioned that she wanted anime-style acting. I decided it would be a good idea to spend some time watching anime in order to prep. Besides, I live near Dallas, which is one of the English voice-over capitals of the world. It would be a good skill to acquire.

I asked friends for recommendations. Now, I don’t have a problem with violence, as long as it serves the plot, or with sexual situations (as long as they’re not completely gratuitous, but I have an aversion to zombies. I mean, I don’t understand the continuing zombie craze. Especially since most zombies, as depicted in the media, are not actually zombies, but ghouls. Zombies are living people under the control of a voodoo priest. Ghouls, on the other hand, are undead automaton-like former-people with a lust for tasty, tasty human flesh.

But I digress.

I asked friends for recommendations, and then went searching for anime with female lead characters and a dearth of zombies. I settled on RIN: Daughters of Mnemosyne, partly because it fulfilled those two criteria and partly because it’s only six episodes, which I figured I could tolerate.

I’ve watched the first three episodes so far, and we’ve had detective work, mysteries dating back to WWII, immortality, ancient legends, cloning, torture, explosions, bondage, consensual and dubiously-consensual lesbian and heterosexual sex, and “angels.”

Can we say sensory overload?

And yet, I’m not HATING it. I mean, the voice acting is pretty good (I’m watching the English language version, obviously) and the dialogue is far less cheesy than I expected, and while I don’t understand why there needs to be an opening and closing musical number, the music is decent.

Interestingly, since beginning this exploration, I’ve also been in a better-than-it-has-been lately writing flow, waking at five, writing for an hour or two, then going back to bed for a couple of hours. It’s been really productive.

But don’t expect me to become an addict, because given the choice, I’ll ALWAYS pick live actors over virtual ones, and in most cases will turn off the television if animation (in any form) is the only option.

Oh, and while I’m at it: I also hate Dr. Seuss.

Breakfast in Bed | Source: Elenathewise@iStockPhoto.com | Click to embiggen

I’m a bit off-kilter today, so I’m drinking my morning coffee in bed at 10 AM, instead of at the kitchen table at 9:00. Fuzzy was up all night handling a work crisis and that meant the dogs were restless, which in turn made my sleep fitful. I tossed and turned a lot and my dreams were fragmented.

This morning, the sky is the gentle shade of silvery blue-gray that reminds me of the way it looks when you stroke the side of a pencil-point (soft-lead) across slightly textured paper. Other people might find the gray morning depressing or flat, but the color makes me feel as if the world is in soft-focus, and my landlocked house has been suddenly transported to someplace coastal.

The water in the pool outside my window is choppy from the wind. There are no crane flies in evidence. I could really use another hour of sleep, but will probably force myself to stay awake now that I’ve been out of bed and into the kitchen.

But first, I will sit here, surrounded by nautical blue and white bedding, back supported by plush cotton-wrapped pillows, and drink my mug of Starbucks Sumatra, made with a splash of non-fat milk and no sweetener, in bed.

When Fuzzy was in Boca for work last week, he went to a French bistro run by three generations of the same French family. He had two different kinds of crepes (one savory, one sweet) and made sure to tell me about them in excruciating detail.

This afternoon, when we finally surfaced from the depths of a bed with brand new bedding, and the celebration of his return home on Saturday morning, I dragged him to La Madeleine, because his crepe-chat had me craving my favorite sandwich: croque monsieur. It’s one of those things I never make, but just have to have once in a while.

Before we left the restaurant, I went to the restroom, where I learned that they pipe in French vocabulary lessons. I found this hilarious, but it makes sense. I mean, captive audience, right?

We went grocery shopping, then came home to hang out with the dogs before a dinner party at a friends house. She has a cat of her own, and often provides sanctuary to neighborhood strays, so I ate some yogurt and took an antihistamine before we left, and then we also stopped at Starbucks en route, so that I could get a very big espresso to counter act the soporific effect of the allergy meds.

In Starbucks one of the baristas, a young Mexican-American man, was giving the other barista – a tall, gangly, Anglo-American with buzz-cut red hair – a lesson in “Retail Spanish,” teaching him how to say things like, “Would you like your receipt?”

I love language, and both French and Spanish are languages where I get the gist of what’s said, but don’t have the vocabulary to really converse. I’m feeling like today’s experience was a sign from the Universe to start studying both.

I’ve been busy not-writing here because I’m working on a big writing project offline, although, I confess, I’ve had some moments of not-writing that as well. It’s amazing the things I can think of to do in order to feel like I’ve accomplished something even though I haven’t written a word. Last week, I not only arranged all the containers of yogurt in my fridge first by expiration date, and then in alphabetical order by flavor, but I also steam-cleaned the bedroom carpets.

I strained my back lifting the steamer up the single step from the garage into the main house, and had to spend much of the weekend in bed resting, which would normally mean ‘in bed with my laptop’ but actually meant ‘in bed sleeping’ and ‘in bed watching bad television.’ I mean, I actually watched the Oscars last week. I never watch the Oscars. Ever.

I also read a lot. But really, I always read a lot. Lately, my obsession has been with books that take place on boats. I’ve read three books in a row that are first-person accounts of young women (girls, really) circumnavigating the Earth single-handed, although their routes, methods, and technology differed as much as their personality. The book I finished just this morning was about a newly married couple taking to the sea for a three-year honeymoon cruise around the globe. You can read my thoughts about all of them over on my book blog, Bibliotica.

I have also developed an addiction to the Showtime series “Inside Comedy” in which David Steinberg interviews various comedians and other funny folks. It’s really interesting, and I find I’m learning a lot. I mean, I’m not stand-up comic, nor do I plan to become one, but I learn a lot about why things are funny, and about the rhythm of language.

Addictions and Obsessions keep me entertained.
It could be worse. At least mine are just ways to not-write, and not ways to chemically alter my perceptions of reality.

When I went outside to check the mail earlier this afternoon (there was none), I noticed that our peach tree was already beginning to blossom. The weather has alternated between cool, damp, warm, and breezy, in varying combinations, and it is nearly March, but somehow it seems wrong for a fruit tree to be in bloom quite so often. I’m concerned we might still have a few cold nights in our future, and the blossoms will die before fruit can really start.

Actual peaches or not, however, the pale pink blossoms against the gray sky always catch my attention. I know that the best camera for any snapshot is the one you have with you, and I did have my phone handy to snap the long skinny picture in this post (click on it to see it full-sized), but I wish that I had a better eye, or about eight inches more height, for a better angle.

But that was earlier. And now it’s too dark to see, and I’m sitting on my bed with the windows wide open, listening to the wind in the trees, gusting in harmony with the gentle, sleeping breathing of my dogs. Max is the bass note, with his breath deep and a little rumbly. Cleo is our mezzo-soprano, and her breath is more rapid. And Perry, tiny Perry, is our boy treble in sleep just as he is when awake (he is the only dog I’ve ever owned who YIPS instead of BARKS).

And the wind ties it all together.

The beautiful, balmy, comforting wind.

If I concentrate, my imagination adds in the soft scent of peaches.