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MissMelisshttp://www.missmeliss.com

Happiness is a Mint Milkshake

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For the most part, I don’t eat fast food. Oh, I have a special fondness for McDonald’s fries, and I confess, I’m first in line in March when the Shamrock Shakes come out, but these are rare events for me. Normally, my idea of junk food is eating cheese. A lot of cheese. Or Ghirardelli double chocolate chip brownies. Home made. Warm from the oven.

Tonight, I desperately needed junk food, so I asked my husband to stop at Sonic. Now, Sonic’s burgers actually resemble real meat, and they have something like a gazillion flavors of beverages, but what I was after was a holiday blast. It’s a milkshake thing with peppermint ice cream and white chocolate and bits of regular chocolate and candy cane. It is crowned with whipped cream which is sprinkled with green and red sugar crystals, and I got to sip it through a cheery red straw. It was bliss in a cup, and just what I needed.

I know it’s not healthy for food to be used as a mood-altering drug. I know I shouldn’t be drinking milkshakes. But sometimes what you should do and what you need to do are in direct opposition. I was having a suckful day. I was given a chilly concoction of sugar, milk, mint and chocolate. I sipped. I swallowed. I smiled.

Happiness comes in many forms. It can be in the arms of one’s husband, the unconditional affection of a small furry animal, the encouraging words from a friend, the convictions deep inside your own heart and mind…and sometimes, just sometimes, it can be found in a mint milkshake.

You can’t buy love.
But you can buy a smile.

Signal to Noise Ratios

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Sometimes I think I need a cell phone booster for my brain. I’ve been staring at the same paragraph for an hour, trying to focus on the article I’m trying to write. It’s not difficult material. It’s material I’ve already written at least twice, and merely need to rephrase, in essence plagiarizing myself, but the words swim on the page, and nothing resolves into coherence, and I feel lost…

It’s not the writing. It’s that my head is killing me and my mother left a message that a woman, a family friend from our Modesto days, who was very much a surrogate grandmother to my stepbrother and me, who taught me piano, whose husband introduced me to art concepts I never knew existed, who always talked to me like an adult, and encouraged me to keep writing when I was ready to never type another word, is in a nursing home, hooked up to Oxygen, close to death, and she’s in Palm Springs, so it’s not like I can go visit.

I’m having a bit of a personal melt-down today. I literally was in tears on the phone to Fuzzy, begging for a cheeseburger and a holiday blast from Sonic. “It’s the kind of day only junk food can fix,” I said. .

“Can’t I fix it?” he offered sweetly.

“Yes,” I said. “You can bring me the stupid cheeseburger.”

Yeah, it’s been that kind of a day.

Thursday 13: 0712.06

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Thirteen Things about MISS MELISS
Things that are White

1. Snow: Chilly, crystalline goodness. I like it in small doses, and prefer the falling part to the bit where it sits on the ground to be redistributed every so often, until spring comes. We don’t get snows like that in Texas, of course.
2. Paper: There is nothing that quite compares to a ream of crisp, white paper. Paper isn’t just a substance, either, it represents a world of possibilities. The blank page, the future, the imagination.
3. Athletic socks: Ankle length or peds are my favorites. Soft white cotton, thick soles, great for use in sneakers or just padding around the house.
4. Submarine Watch Mugs: Thick white porcelain, no handles. They’re meant for wrapping your hands around, to keep them warm while you drink steaming tea, coffee or cocoa. Or gin.
5. Calla Lilies and Paper Whites: White petals, green stems, slender elegance.
6. The White Crayon: Used primarily for decorating Easter eggs, because what’s the point of using a white crayon on white paper? But important to have, nevertheless.
7. Foamed Milk: The perfect foam capping a cappuccino or mocha, before the cinnamon or chocolate shavings are sprinkled on. Before the first sip is taken.
8. The Classic White Blouse: One thing every woman should own. It can be plain, and just ironed perfectly, or it can sport lace. It’s simple, classic, always appropriate, and can be dressed up, with a jacket and black pants or skirt, or down, worn with jeans.
9. Sharp organic cheddar cheese: Real cheddar isn’t orange – they ADD the dye – it’s white, and a little crumbly. Also wonderful are wedges of parmesan or balls of provolone.
10. White Caps: The tips of the waves when the water is very choppy. Dangerous for swimming in, but so lovely to watch.
11. White, E. B. & Katharine: He was the author of Stuart Little, Charlotte’s Web, and The Trumpet of the Swan. She was his wife, but also an ardent gardener, and author of many garden-related articles, columns, and books.
12. A Rosined Bow: White horsehair stretched taut from tip to frog, dusted lightly with rosin, ready to play the first note.
13. Animal Fur: Rabbit, Lamb, Fox, or even my dog, Miss Cleo. Soft white fur, deep enough to bury your fingers in, best when wrapped around the soothing heartbeat of a warm cuddly animal.

Get the Thursday Thirteen code here!

The purpose of the meme is to get to know everyone who participates a little bit better every Thursday. Visiting fellow Thirteeners is encouraged! If you participate, leave the link to your Thirteen in others comments. It’s easy, and fun! Be sure to update your Thirteen with links that are left for you, as well! I will link to everyone who participates and leaves a link to their 13 things. Trackbacks, pings, comment links accepted!

Tastes Like Cedar

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I have never been a particular fan of pencils, and when I did have to use them in my early school years, I was particular about them. Those fat training pencils they give to very young children were never my style. My hands are small, for one thing – the average sixth grader has larger hands than I do – so I don’t like thick pens either, and they were never sharp enough. When I write, I like the words to come out in definitive black, not non-committal gray.

My pencils, then, were always sharpened to a needle-fine point, and while they were the No. 2’s that make ScanTrons happy in all corners of the universe, they were also brilliantly yellow, and smelled of cedar.

Actually they tasted like cedar, too. I know this because, I admit, I used to be a pencil chewer. Most of us had some kind of oral fixation in grade school, I think. For many it was gum. I’m not a gum chewer. I don’t see the point in food you’re not supposed to swallow, and frankly, I think gum is too much work for too little payoff. So, there were pencils. Not that they were a snack food, because of course, they weren’t. But when you’re thinking hard about something having a pencil between your teeth helps a bit. It’s the schoolgirl equivalent of being given a bullet to bite in order to distract yourself from pain.

I mention all this because I’ve bought pencils twice in the last two years. In October, 2006, I bought pencils to put in the survival kits I made for my WriMos. They were pencils in fashion colors – blue, maroon, mauve – points not included.

I bought pencils again, yesterday. Ten boxes. Presumably these are the yellow kind, but the color really doesn’t matter. I bought them because yesterday was Day 30 of the WGA strike, and there’s a campaign to flood the offices of the six corporate entities that represent the “bosses” in the strike. I support the WGA as a fan, because without writers there are no words for actors to speak. I support them as a writer, even though I’m in no way connected with the industry, because I know how much working writers really earn. I mean, I am one. Also, I like creative protests. I mean, picketing is all very well and good – it makes your point very visible, and all that, but sending mountains of pencils has an element of the absurd that really appeals to me.

So I bought pencils. (I also bought a tent-sized t-shirt to use as a night gown, because I’m the kind of girl who prefers big t-shirts to lacy lingerie, really. Cotton rocks my world, and all that.)

If you’re a fan, or a writer, you can buy pencils, too, for a buck a box.

Pencils 2 Media Moguls
[Image links to Pencils2MediaMoguls]

This isn’t meant as a rah-rah support the WGA post. It’s really just me sharing part of my day yesterday. If, however, you are inclined to read more about the strike, I suggest the following links:

  • Speechless – a series of video spots featuring prominent actors.
  • Fans4Writers – Fan support site. A bunch of folks from Whedonesque started it.
  • United Hollywood – exactly what it sounds like
  • To Live by the Pen, by Doris Egan, one of the writer-producers of House, as well as a novelist. It’s a fascinating piece of Hollywood history, as well as being a concise explanation of why these people are striking.
  • Ethical Bloggyness, by Tanya Huff, Canadian author of the wonderful Blood Ties books, which Lifetime TV turned into a series.

    • It’s All About Me!

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    The EasyWriter from Writer’s Blog tagged me with a meme, the purpose of which is to list seven things about myself and then tag a few others to participate. Since EW is always supportive, how can I say no?

    1. Fashion: At the age of thirty-seven I am finally at the point where, while I appreciate fashion, I’m fine with my own tastes dictating what I wear. And yes, sometimes that means pink sneakers, black jeans, and rock star graphic tee-shirts.
    2. Eyes: Mine are brown. I’ve never wanted them to be another color, never really fantasized about wearing colored lenses. I like my eyes. I’ve always liked my eyes. Most days, I like my eyebrows as well.
    3. Musical Crushes: I’m totally in love with my husband, but I still have crushes on people, generally musicians. I’ve blogged about my giddy love of Jason Robert Brown’s work, before, but what’s truly disturbing is that I had James Marsters’ “A Civilized Man” pumping through my iPod shuffle (pink, of course) on walkies today, and I just ordered his newest cd.
    4. Violets and Roses: Neither is among my favorite flowers, but lately I’ve been really intrigued by perfumes that have violet and rose elements. I’m also shifting my love of BPAL a little, because Possets is speaking to me more just now.
    5. Cheese: I like chocolate, but cheese is my favorite thing in life. It’s the hardest thing for me to limit, too. My grandfather used to call me a cheese fiend. He was not wrong.
    6. Brick and Tile: I love the way brick feels when it’s sun-warmed or rain-slicked. I love the way ceramic tile feels cold under my bare feet even on the hottest day. Brick and tile are two of my favorite construction/decor elements.
    7. Coffee: It’s not just a drink for me, it’s a lifestyle. Even on days when I don’t actually drink any. (This actually happens more often than you might think.)

    I am now required to tag people. Most of my friends are anti-tag, but there are a few people who might be willing to play along, so , I tag:
    Janet
    Rana
    Becca
    CajunVegan

    And anyone else who cares to participate.

    Oh, and if you’re here for Wordless Wednesday, scroll down to the next post.

    Gold Medal Wine Club: Delicious

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    Gold Medal Wines

    While I publicize my great fondness for froufou cocktails and microbrews, I also enjoy wine a great deal, even if lately it’s only been to have a glass while soaking in a bubble bath. Fuzzy doesn’t touch alcohol, but when I was offered the chance to review a couple of different wines offered by the Gold Medal Wines wine of the month club, I jumped at the chance.

    My pair of wines, a bottle of Belvedere Russian River Valley Chardonnay (Sonoma County 2005) and bottle of Bradford Mountain Grist Vineyard Zinfandel (Dry Creek Valley 2004) arrived packed in a tight-fitting styrofoam bottle case fit snugly in a sturdy brown box. I’ve received wine before that wasn’t packed anywhere near as securely, and while we don’t really need boxes, I insisted we save this packing material. Inside the foam, each bottle was wrapped in tissue and tied with a colorful bow. The box was marked “gift card inside,” and I had been told to expect one, as well as a newsletter, but both items were accidentally omitted from my box. No matter , pictures of both are available at the Gold Medal Wine website (the gift cards are a rich wine-y purple), and I enjoyed reading the pdf version of the newsletter, so I could read the tasting notes, which were informative and interesting, as well as being neither pandering nor pompous in tone.

    The wine itself, of course, is of real interest here. I tried the Zinfandel first, because I generally like Zin, and this one, rather typically of California wines, was oaky, but while the oak was present it wasn’t overpowering at all. In the bottle, this was a smokey Zin, in the glass it opened up a bit, and the spicier textures were evident, and on the tongue a little more oak than I’d originally expected but not bad, though I thought it tasted a little young.

    The Chardonnay, on first taste, was sweeter than I’m used to chard being, and sweeter than I’d expected, since Gold Medal Wine’s website stresses that they feature very dry selections, but not a bad sweet, and after the first taste, the sweetness dissipated a bit, and more flavor came through – almond, especially – and the overall impression was exactly what chardonnay should be.

    Both these selections come from the Gold Series of the wine of the month program, which costs about $32 / month (for two bottles). This series is an excellent first step for wine aficionados who want to educate their palates with some lovely wines from small-production California vineyards, or those who don’t have huge amounts of money to spend on their passion. As a former Californian who used to have a winery on her street, and made frequent forays to Bonny Doon (their framboise and cassis were favorites of mine for a long time), the Gold Medal Wine club also gives me a taste of home.

    I’m buying a subscription on the strength of these sample bottles.

    Sea, Snow, and Tea

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    In a box of family pictures, one always makes me smile. It’s a rare picture of me that I like. I’m about four, bundled in a lavender snowsuit with gray and white faux fur trim, and I’m lying on my back on a field of snow, making a snow angel. It’s a scene re-enacted on lawns around the world, whenever the snow is clean enough, deep enough, fresh and white and compelling. On the surface, there is nothing exceptional about this picture.

    Except for the blue at the edge. Blue-gray, really. It’s the Atlantic Ocean, winter cold, colored that slate color that means instant heart-attack should you go in, and it’s lapping at the shore of my snow field, because I’m a beach baby from a long line of beach babies, and even in winter the sea draws us to it’s edge, calling our names with the foghorns and the sound of wind and surf, wooing us with the thought of a steaming mug of cocoa or hot tea afterwards.

    It has to be tea if it isn’t cocoa, you see. The basic black Lipton stuff, with the word BRISK on the label, or G. I. tea (when I was that age my grandparents still did all their shopping at the commissary at Fort Monmouth), is actually welcome after a day at the snowy beach, but Earl Grey is acceptable as well. (Irish Breakfast and English Breakfast are not, they are too soft – Earl Grey is a sturdier blend.)

    I’m not a particular fan of Norman Rockwell, but I remember a painting in his style, if not from his hand, of an old sea-captain type with his weathered, thick fingers wrapped around a mug of tea. My grandfather was Army, not Navy, but he loved the sea, as did my mother, as do I, so even though he wasn’t a sea captain in life, in my head, he fills that role. He snapped the picture I mentioned, and my mother stood by, and watched me. She’s in the picture too. There’s a second one, from the same day, with me, walking hand in hand with my grandfather. I’m tiny, still sporting snow on my pants, and he’s wearing his fisherman hat an a great pea-coat that looked like the word “warm.”

    In my heart, he’s still sheltering my hand in his.

    Egg-cited?

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    Last night, Fuzzy went grocery shopping without me, because he is a kind soul, and because I was tired and cranky and would not have been very good company. I called him just as he was loading the bags into the car and said, “Remember that I said I knew I was forgetting something? It’s eggs. I only have four left.”

    He sweetly volunteered to go back inside the store, and get eggs. I asked for 18. He brought me twice that. “They were two for one,” he said. “The manager said, ‘tell your wife to bake a lot of cookies’.” I’ve just baked eight dozen, mind you.

    So here’s my question today: I can’t possibly use 36 eggs in 16 days, even if I do another batch or two of snickerdoodles. Got any egg-heavy recipes to share? I mean, I’m all for quiche, but it’s awfully fattening, and I’m not the best at making meringue. Why 16 days? Because we leave for Mexico on the 19th, and I really don’t want eggs sitting in my fridge for the two weeks we’re gone. .

    Help?

    Everyday Rituals

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    Chess Pieces by Carmi Levy
    Image by Carmi Levy of Written Inc.. Used with permission.

    Chess is loaded with ritual, I said to a friend over IM the other night. I didn’t elaborate, ended up riffing on the subject of old men in Greek Navy caps, playing chess in parks, their thick overcoats keeping them warm, their gnarled fingers moving each piece. I’m not a chess player myself. Or rather, I’m a bad chess player, on the rare occasions when I play, but I used to love watching the little kids playing with the giant pieces on the board on the ground at Santana Row.

    There’s a ritual in that too, in being a kid. Lots of rituals. Little rituals like making a plaster hand print, posing for school pictures without having front teeth, writing a letter to Santa Claus, and bigger ones: first dates, first cars – events, yes, but rituals as well – though the ritual is in the planning, the saving, the practicing until you know how to kiss, know how to park, get your license, get the guy of your dreams.

    I stand out on the deck each morning, each evening, and just let the outside air sink into my skin. I listen to the birds and small animals, hear the neighborhood sounds. This grounds me, but it also lets me know the way the neighborhood should sound. For the dogs, my practice of strapping on my pink digital watch is the beginning of their Going Out ritual. First the watch, then the jacket, then their leashes. They know which jackets and shoes are for walkies, and which are not. They’re that attuned to me.

    But back to chess.

    There’s structure in chess, and order. And yet there’s passion, too. Of those three things (passion, structure, order) Ritual is born. Watch the chess players caress the pieces as they set up their boards, some time. They have such reverence as they go about their stylized war games, plotting strategies and planning defeats while the chessmen slide and click against the board.

    Magic in numbers, magic in squares, magic in two small dogs knowing that the Reeboks mean walkies and the pink Converse All-Stars do not.

    Everyday rituals.

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    Written for the December Project at CafeWriting, Option Two: Can You Picture That?