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MissMelisshttp://www.missmeliss.com

The Best Conversation

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I turned on NPR while I was filling the tub for my bubble back a couple of hours ago, and was delighted to find that tonight’s programming was a celebration of Storytelling. I realize that there are those who think public radio exists only to play infinite hours about business performance management and such, but they do have some really interesting entertainment programs, (mostly on weekends) and they’re not even borrowed from the BBC.

Tonight, while I soaked in hot sudsy water lightly scented with tea and jasmine, I listened to an entrancing Indian stale about frogs, guava trees, courtship and Coca-Cola, and heard the distinctive voice of Sonia Manzano reading micro-fiction written by a prisoner taking part in an adult literacy program called “All Write.” (Sonia plays the part of Maria on Sesame Street, for those who don’t recognize her name.)

I also heard the warmest storytelling voice ever, a woman named Diane Wolkstein, share a Haitian folk tale about a magic orange tree. As a result, I’m now craving oranges, but aside from that, I’m entranced with something she said: that good storytelling, because there is connection, and because there are silences, is like a conversation, “…the best conversation…” she said.

I have a great appreciation for storytellers, who are sometimes writers, and sometimes actors, and generally a bit of both, and I have an even greater appreciation of stories themselves, and not just the epics. I like the small stories. The twists and turns of every-day life.

The best conversations.

Sneakers are Supposed to be Comfortable Shoes

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Note to self: Your pink Converse All-Stars may be cute, but they don’t really have enough arch support or cushion for an entire day of shopping.

Note to self (2): Your parents really need to get you their lists earlier from now on.

If there was ever a day when I wish we’d purchased one of the homes in this neighborhood with hot tubs as well as pools, it’s today. I mean, I love the pool, but it’s not heated, so we can’t use it half the year, and I also love my lovely deep soaking tub, but I’d have killed for jets of water to ease my back and feet after an entire afternoon of shopping, most of which was for my parents.

Now, I don’t mind buying things for them. Certain preferred items are hard to get in La Paz, and when they CAN get them, they’re horrifically expensive, but I was DONE with Christmas shopping, and I’ve been begging them for shopping lists since before Thanksgiving. I finally got the last one yesterday, and so, on my parents’ behalf I spent an hour and a half at Joanne’s, forty minutes at Walgreens, half an hour at Starbucks, and forty minutes at a different Joanne’s because the first one didn’t have everything I needed.

We also did some pre-trip errands, like getting copies of the front door key we never use, and buying dog food, and getting a few needed items for a party we’re attending tomorrow – and that part was fun – but my feet hurt, and I’m PMSsy, and I really just want to sleep for a week.

On the up-side, I canceled my mani/pedi/brow wax appointment that was scheduled for this morning because I’m having the same treatments for free, poolside, at my mother’s house on Thursday, a day on which, other than helping her decorate her Christmas tree, I am not required to do ANYTHING but lie in the sun, read, and drink margaritas.

Vacation cannot come soon enough :)

Dreams

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I went to bed to the sound of thunder and the flicker of lightning, wrapped in flannel sheets and cuddled by my dogs and husband – it was a good way to fall into sleep: warm, loved, safe, and I had happy dreams as a result.

I dreamed I’d finally sold my book, was on tour, and had earned enough to offer a private student loan to the winner of a writing contest.

I dreamed of a night dive with sharks at Guadalupe Island, Baja, where the water is warm. In a cage, out of a cage. The dream had both kinds of diving. I like sharks. I think they’re elegant, in their way. This was a fabulous dream.

I learned something as well, from the various dreams that I had. The pink hair? It’s staying til I sell the book. Then I’m going to change it, but I’ve already decided that in February we’re going to do a mixture of pink highlights and threads of warm gold. Natalie (my stylist) is already working on a plan for this.

I have to go finish Christmas prep today.
But I’m itching to write.

Antsy

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“I need a treadmill,” I informed Fuzzy the other night, when I called him in Utah. “All this cold and rain make walking outside almost impossibly uncomfortable. Zorro won’t go beyond the garage door, and we’re all antsy.”

He agreed that it would be a good idea, then teased, “But we’ll have to get two small ones for the dogs.”

I have this image of the three of us on our little treadmills, walking and watching Animal Planet (Miss Cleo likes the bird shows; Zorro prefers Meerkat Manor), nice and cozy and dry. But it’s just an image, at the moment. A fantasy.

Fuzzy agreed that I could go shopping for a treadmill when we get back from vacation, but in the meanwhile, having been cooped up inside for the better part of a week, the dogs and I are all antsy. The lightning and thunder outside aren’t helping them, but I rather like it, because as long as it’s stormy I can blame my restlessness on the weather and not the fact that I haven’t come close to being ready for this trip. Not close.

So maybe I am antsy, after all.

One More Sleep

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My neighborhood is lit up like a Las Vegas hotel, and the house is decorated, and I have seventeen thousand things left to complete for work, and – how pathetic is this? – all I can think about is that tomorrow night – one more sleep from now – Fuzzy will be home.

Teasing, I asked if he missed me, and he allowed that, “The bed is too big, and there’s no Lovey in it.” But then work called him and the dogs needed to go out, and there wasn’t much to say that can’t wait til tomorrow anyway.

Most times, I don’t mind it when he has to travel on business. Most times, I use the time to indulge in endless bubble baths and eat froufrou foods he doesn’t like and write all hours of the night, but so close to Christmas, I resent this trip. We should have been spending this week wrapping presents and curling up by the fire, and watching cheesy Christmas movies, and instead, I’ve been alternately hot and freezing, and completely unfocused and stressed about our upcoming trip.

But one more sleep will bring him home, and one more sleep will find me refreshed and ready to face all the tasks as yet undone.

Thursday 13: 0712.13

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Thirteen Things about MISS MELISS
Things that are Red

1. Cranberries. I love them as decorations, but I like them as food, as well. Tart. Sweet.
2. Tulips. Among my favorite flowers. Classic elegance.
3. Chianti Sunflowers. Bold, more red than orange. Vibrant.
4. Syrah. I like it so much more than any merlot.
5. Tea Kettles. My current one is blue, but red is my preferred color.
6. Keds. The first pair of sneakers I remember wearing were basic red canvas Keds.
7. OPI Big Apple Red: One of my favorite nail colors. I also like “I’m Not Really a Waitress” and “Dutch Tulips” but the latter really straddles the pink/red line.
8. Bing Cherries: I eat them as if they were candy in the summer. Equally delicious chilled or warm.
9. Brick walls. Our house, like most in this region, is wood with a brick veneer. I love the brick. I love it with ivy trailing over it, sun warmed, rain dampened. I just…love brick.
10. Grandma’s Living Room: For most of my life, the carpet in my grandmother’s living room was deep red. She changed it when I was about 17. I liked the retro look with the red carpet and the black and white couch better than the beige and Berber she changed it to. I’m sure it’s just me, but I think she lost some of her zest for life when that carpet was changed.
11. Red Hats. I have a red beret that I wear a lot, but I also have a rounder red hat with a beaded ribbon. It’s from the 50’s but I love it.
12. Classic Red Blazer. With jeans or black pants, and a perfectly pressed shirt.
13. Kicky Red Shoes. To add a touch of color to any outfit (almost). Flats or heels, it doesn’t matter. Every woman needs red shoes.

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A Clam Chowder Kind of Day

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I woke this morning to the soft murmur of thunder high overhead, and the answering sizzle of cold rain falling into the pool. My dogs were huddled against my back for warmth and comfort (they hate thunder, and I lower the heat at night).

In the gray light of a cloudy morning I can never judge the time, so I turned around, craning my neck to see the clock. 7:30. Two hours before my late alarm, ninety minutes before the optimistic one. I could have lazed about in bed longer, but no, I got up, I got dressed (or as dressed as I was willing to get, which, today, is ratty sweats and an ancient red t-shirt), made coffee and oatmeal, and then started writing.

An hour later, a paragraph away from the end of the article in question, my laptop went “pffft” and I lost the text. I rebooted, recovered, hated what I wrote, and then rewrote it.

I had a virtual meeting with the guy who pays me.
I chatted with my aunt.

And then, because it’s still cold, icky, and gray, I made clam chowder. Oh, it’s from a can, but it’s Progresso, not Campbells, and it’s so tasty.

I poured it into a lighthouse mug, and carried it back to my computer.
It was delicious, but I knew it would be.

Because it’s a clam chowder kind of day.

Steam

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I am in love the night sky, in all its different guises. Starry, foggy, cloudy, brightened by moonlight, clarified by cold weather, made rosy at sunset and dawn.

I am in love with the scent of rain, the sound of water falling on the leaves of trees and then tumbling further down to the ground. The moist loamy smell of damp earth, the soft cooing of birds nestled in the deepest, innermost branches, and the streetlights making the rain-soaked world glisten as brightly as the Christmas lights strung up on almost every house and tree in the neighborhood.

I left my bubble bath tonight, and wrapped myself in a blue bath sheet the color of the blue between the ocean and the sky, and padded, barefoot, across the living room which was lit only by a small Christmas tree on the table by the window, through the dining room, and out to the deck.

My hair and skin were still damp, still so warm that steam rose when I stepped outside.

Standing on the wet redwood boards, I breathed in the cool night air and watched the duck-float glide across the pool. I stood there for the duration of the lull between raindrops, then came inside, put on a soft cotton t-shirt and ancient, ripped leggings, and sat down to a lovely dinner of roasted chicken breast, vegetables and a glass of chardonnay.

Twinkle

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It was a cold and misty day here today, of the sort that makes me extremely glad that a) I work from home and b) my work can be done from bed, without ever changing out of pajamas. I wasn’t feeling well in the first place, so the fact that I could be productive and cozy at the same time was the only thing that kept me remotely sane. I’m not sick, I don’t think, as much as just a little tired, a little cranky, and getting overly excited about Christmas. I love Christmas. I celebrate it largely secularly, but I totally buy into the magic.

I like misty days for the same reason. There’s something magic in mist as well, in the way it lets you see the world through a soft filter, blurring sharp edges and gentling colors, and giving even the steadiest of lights a bit of twinkle.

I like that twinkle. I like coming home in the mist-wrapped darkness and seeing the reflection of lights in the rain-slicked pavement, and witnessing the way our neighborhood, especially on the streets around the park, turns from a normal suburban environment into a veritable fairyland at this time of year.

Speaking of twinkles. I like the twinkle in the eyes of the neighborhood kids as they race around on their bikes and scooters and skateboards in the afternoons, and I like the way they stop and wave when I’m walking the dogs, and ask how they are, and know their names. I like seeing even the “coolest” of them let out their personal bubble of delight when they enter the park and the lights are on. I love that even though we don’t have kids, we live in the kind of neighborhood where it’s safe for them to play basketball in their driveways, and even in the streets, because cars don’t speed here.

Wednesday night, there’s a concert in the park. It’s the annual Christmas fete thrown by the HOA, and it’s free to anyone who lives there. “Bring cookies to share,” they ask. And so tonight on the way home from playing elf for a friend of my parents, we stopped so I could stock up on chocolate chips and red and green sprinkles.

As we drove back home, I stopped talking, and watched the lights. This weekend will see the peak of the neighborhood decorations, but when we get home they’ll have started to take them down – some of them.

Fuzzy pulled me back from the door as I was about to open it, and smiled at me, and kissed me.

I think he could see me twinkle.