My First Moleskine

Originally uploaded by Ms.Snarky.

Ms. Eclectic and her enthusiasm for these retro-chic notebooks are what finally caused me to succumb, but the word “Moleskine” has been flickering around my head for over a year – I think I have WarriorPoet(2), over at OD, to blame for it really. But I'm not entirely sure.

In any case, the black notebook with the graph-paper pages beckoned to me from the shelves of Barnes and Noble, tonight, and since I was in a writing mood, and my feet hurt, and I'd already picked two books, I decided that the time was ripe to purchase my very first Moleskine. I smiled when I opened it and found that it really did come with a postcard (with a quotation from Italo Calvino)…a notebook with inspiration to write! How clever.

(If you're one of the three people left on the planet who doesn't know why Moleskines are cool, go here, and read all about them.)

The picture in this entry was taken with my camera phone, hence the poor lighting and focus, but I think it captures the spirit of cafe creativity really well.

I have to go now. There's writing to be done.

And yes, this is in addition to the red leather journal.

The brown wrapper and silver foil used to mean somehing special to me. They used to mean a magical few moments with sweet darkness melting on my tongue while a smile spread across my lips. Alas, the silver foil is long gone, replaced many years ago by a plastic mockery of the old wrapping, and to my utter disappointment, more than the wrapping has changed.

Unwrapping a Hershey bar used to be special, even a little mysterious. The slightly stiff outer layer of paper would whisper at me when I peeled it open carefully, or hiss when I went for the more visceral RIP. The foil would uncrinkle with a metallic sigh. The dark chocolate would be revealed, it's sections waiting to be neatly broken and shared among all present, or simply savored one at a time.

Tonight, when I ripped open the slippery plastic painted in classic Hershey silver and brown, it clung to my fingers with staticky insistance, and I had to fight to make it fall to the table top, for later crumpling. And the chocolate? Well, perhaps my palate has been spoiled by too much chocolate noir, tempered with Godiva raspberry bars and Dan's truffles, but my Hershey bar resembled chocolate about as much as my chihuahua resembles a wild wolf – there was a slight relationship, but not much more.

Am I too much a snob because I no longer find pleasure in the simplicity of a Hershey bar, or is it the candy company that is failing to put forth a product worth savoring.

Maybe a little of both.

So, I was watching “Before Sunset” yesterday, while sitting on the couch in a Nyquil-induced altered state,and there was this bit where Ethan “I so need a shower” Hawke's character was talking about the concept of writing an entire novel that takes place in the space of a single song, and I thought, “Now THAT would be really cool,” and I've resolved to play with it at some point.

* * * * *

Earlier this week, the chick who desperately needs hair style help on Surface quoted Albert Einstein on imagination, “Imagination is more important than knowledge,” and I remembered writing that down in one of my “magic notebooks” at some point in my life (probably eons ago in high school AP Chemistry), and liking the notion…this inspired me to set up my digital commonplace, something I've been meaning to do, and have never gotten around to, though friends have started THEIRS. Anyway, if you're curious it's here. It's a work in progress, and not really planned for public consumption as much as my own ease of use, but hey, it's there, so read if you want.

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My new favorite drink is Starbucks' Cinnamon Dolce Latte (though I generally order it with non-fat milk, and foam instead of whipped cream). It's a perfect morning drink, and goes really well with a plain croissant or some fruit, but works well in the afternoon as well.

* * * * *

I still can't shake this cough. I'm not really SICK, as much as dehydrated, and the cough is a reaction to that and to the really bad air we've had lately. There was a grass fire across the street from work the other day, and in my head I can still smell the burnt-popcorn-like stench of flaming grass. I wonder if this feeling of dryness I have is more mental than physical…almost, I think it is, but I bought a humidifier anyway.

* * * * *

My posting will be spotty for the next few weeks, as I rebalance my schedule, my job, all sorts of tiny personal things. I feel sort of stale, and need to recharge the batteries and consult with my muse. She's teasing me with those lovely blue Ty Nant bottles, you see, and that won't do.

I woke up groggy today, thanks to taking antihistamines far too late at night to be anything but annoying, but sleeping in the car, drinking a lot of coffee, and laughing a lot at work have all helped to melt away the benadryl-haze, and now, in the wee hours of Thursday morning, I find myself pleasantly tired, and ready for some kind of change.

It's as if something clicked in the back of my brain, and has tricked me into thinking it's all downhill from here, and I can stop pedalling and just coast for a while. Not that coasting is something to aspire to – it's NOT – but once in a while, I think it's okay to just breathe and…be…without any specific plan.

Except, not having a plan is sort of my plan, at least for a while.

Also, with Holidailies nearly over, I'm thinking of new blog designs, and maybe a new title. We shall see.

Lauren Weisburger

Everyone Worth Knowing was exactly what I needed to read in during December. I'd been on a book hiatus, not reading much of anything new for a couple of weeks, and then I'd started a new job, and needed light reading to pass the time during lunch (I'm determined NOT to get in the habit of expensive restaurant lunches), so when I saw that Lauren Weisberger (author of The Devil Wears Prada) had a new book out, I HAD to have it.

I was not disappointed. Targetting the PR industry instead of the publishing this industry, this time, Weisberger gives us quirky characters who could be people we actually know, too much coffee, and just enough trendy brand- and name- dropping to make even a soccer mom feel like she's in the know.

I'm sending my copy off to a friend, and I can't wait to hear what he thinks of it.

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And we will sing, we will sing at the turning of the year
Knowing, knowing … We are a short time here
And so we’ll sing, yes we’ll sing at the turning of the year
At the dancing, spinning, turning of the year
from “At the Turning of the Year,” words and music by Anne Hill

Two days into 2006, and I feel like I'm getting back into tune, despite the disturbing weather we've been having. As I emailed to a friend earlier this evening, I feel like even though I'm still out of balance, I'm approaching center, and things are clicking into place.

While I've never been one to make resolutions – the only one I've ever kept is to do one productive thing every day – I am willing to make adjustments and refinements. My schedule no longer meshes with the hobby-business nature of the local Curves, for example, but there will be a gym in the new office building, and I intend to use it. I'm also slowly convincing myself to become a morning person, both because it will give me time to take the dogs out before getting ready for work (and they're antsy from the unseasonably warm weather, and unsettled from my sudden disappearance as the universal constant of their day), and because the cool of the morning has always been a good writing time for me. So, while I'm not resolving to do anything specific, I am fine-tuning my days, and trying not to give in to sleeping late on weekends, as it just makes Monday mornings that much more dreadful.

I've noticed that being back in corporate America has boosted my energy, a little. I'm tired at the end of the day, but not to the point where I can't function, and I find that I'm singing more, around the house, in the shower, in the car. I'm sure it's driving Fuzzy nuts, though, because, largely thanks to the fact that the Cinemarks are playing the soundtrack to Wicked before all their movies, the song “Popular” is stuck in my head.

Tonight, we came home to a new episode of Surface, and had a pleasant hour on the couch with the dogs while we ate dinner and indulged in bad television. (I'm still mourning the cancellation of Threshold, so I was a little bitter about this episode even existing, but it wasn't a rerun, and therefore worth watching.)

Tomorrow? I'm hoping to get to work a little early to do some follow up calls, and then do four new files instead of merely three. I'm more comfortable with the software now, at least.

As to the rest of the year, well, I have plans that involve new furniture, new floors, a gardener, treos for both of us, and a new laptop each…we'll see how the order gets rearranged. We're going to Mexico in March, and I'm hoping to host Christmas for at least SOME of the family this year. Whatever happens, though, there will be a soundtrack in my head, keeping me in tune.

Last night, despite my tendency to be extremely shy around large groups of strangers, we went to a New Year's Eve party hosted by friends we met through Ms. Eclectic, and there was much laughter, and some really nice merlot, and these mini pecan-pie tart things that were seriously addictive. I'm glad I went, even though I had a bad reaction to the eyebrow waxing earlier yesterday, and my eyelids felt raw and puffy.

Today, we slept through church, and beyond, finally waking around 12:30, at which point Fuzzy went upstairs to kill scary animated creatures, and I began a marathon of laundry, not that we were horribly behind on it, but for some reason towels never seem to get washed til we're completely out of washcloths. Also, I used Dryel for the first time on my three angora sweaters that have been a staple of my winter wardrobe, and it seemed to work just fine. It's not cheap, but it's still half the price of actual trips to the dry-cleaner, and since it seems the black angora sweater is going to be one of those garments that gets stained every time I wear it, this is a good thing.

I've spent the time NOT spent folding laundry indulging in the Monk marathon on USA, because, really, what's a holiday weekend without vast amounts of mindless television. I hadn't seen the Christmas episode, or the Jason Alexander episode before, and I'm usually multitasking while watching this, so even the episodes I HAVE seen are somewhat entertaining. Chalk it up to the talents of Tony Shalhoub I guess.

It's nearing eleven at night, now, and the laundry's almost done, and we've just had a dinner of meatloaf and cranberry sauce (I had defrosted an emergency bag of cranberries for a Christmas party I ended up being too sick too attend, and HAD to use them.), and I'm almost done with my first novel of the year, a V.I. Warshawski novel called Fire Sale. Sara Paretsky's been a favorite author of mine for longer than I've been married, and it's nice to revisit her version of Chicago.

The commercial break has ended, and I'm about to watch Mr. Monk solve the crime now, so I'll end this with a wish that your new year be peaceful and prosperous, and full of pleasant surprises.

Permalink at MissMeliss.com

I like trying new restaurants, even when they serve food I'm familiar with, and I really like it when, in doing so, I'm introduced to a new flavor combination, or a dramatic presentation. Last night on the way home from work, we stopped at a Japanese place in Las Colinas called The Blue Fish Sushi which called itself a sushi and sake bar. The bar section is ultra modern, and, alas, not smoke free, but the sushi bar IS, and that's where we went. Fuzzy had a “petit” portion of a steak dish that was still enough for two or three people, and I had something called a “super dragon roll” which was described as “an entire baked eel served atop California roll”.

As you can see in the very bad picture above (it was taken with my phone, as I'm not in the habit of bringing the good camera to work with me), it was dressed up to LOOK like a dragon, with eyes, and a snout, and different colored caviar to represent scales on each “section” (the tail section was tail-like as well) and fingerbones for wings sketched onto the plate with fiery red chilli sauce (which, I confess, I avoided). As I told the server, it was too cute to take apart, and I had to just look at it for a long while before I could eat it.

Of course, we also had miso (which was decent), and I had a “pink samurai” which is essentially a cosmo made with sake instead of vodka, and we shared a dessert of a mousse brownie, cinnamon ice cream, and fresh berries.

But the memory of of that dragon is still making me smile.

So, on day thirteen of my time at BigFinancialCompany, yesterday, I finally got access to the inter- and intranet and to the loan processing system. After watching people type for two weeks, as well as reading the underwriting manual cover to cover (twice) I thought I was ready, but this piece of software is so dated and clunky that it makes the first generation of Contour (which I thought, until now, was the ugliest piece of mortgage-related software ever) look sleek and impressive.

One of my teammates, the only one who is NOT on vacation this year, helped me when I got myself stuck a couple times, but the end result was one approval, one decline, and one file I suspended because I didn't have enough information to calculate income. (Hello? If you've been on a job for five months, and are paid semi-monthly, you should be able to provide two consecutive paystubs, not two that are a month apart. And if you've owned a rental property for nine years, I'm pretty sure you have some kind of documentation of rental income that goes beyond a handwritten rental agreement that (coincidentally) is also five months old. ) At least, when these things come up, I just have to tell the broker to do their job, not fight with the client. Yay wholesale.

What's really cool is that everyone is helpful and supportive of each other. Yes, on the night before Christmas Eve there was some complaining about workload, but everyone – even the division manager – pitched in to get things closed and finished, and today, even the managers were processing files. Yesterday, when underwriting handed me my first approved loan, I was congratulated for a successful first submission, not just by my own team, but also by the underwriter who'd done the file, who took the time to explain to me how his income came out $0.25 more/month than mine. I love being able to just walk twenty feet over to ask the underwriters a question. And I love that they're willing to answer, explain, and offer advice, just as my teammate gave me a different file-flow structure to make things go faster.

I can't explain more without going way into mortgagese, but, if I had to dive back into corporate America, I'm pretty confident I chose the right waters.

Permalink at MissMeliss.com

Like the quality of my sleep last night (I kept waking up at 47-minute intervals, for no discernable reason), everything around me feels brittle right now. The holidays aren't over, technically, and yet the veneer of lights and garlands seems pushy and fake all of a sudden, as if the warm temperatures and dry, dry air have evaporated the good spirits with which they were hung.

The trees that usually stay green all year, or reddish green in the case of the red ears that encircle our back yard, seem to think this weather is a redux of autumn, for they are dropping leaves the way a frightened tarantula flings hair, with much abandon, and after, the fallen greenery withers to papery husks to skitter along the ground like senile wrinkled insects.

I've been moisturizing with a vengeance, but even my skin feels brittle, fragile, and my feet are horribly cracked, though the latter is mainly because of my tendency to wander barefoot around the house, and I've broken three nails in two days despite the using hand lotion with almost religious zeal. (Note to self: buy vaseline intensive care foot formula.)

The dogs, still unused to me being at work, trail me restlessly from room to room, and their quiet stages are too-easily interrupted. Where once, Cleo would sit on the back of the couch for hours, now, she leaps up if I even think about leaving the room, as if she's terrified I won't return. I keep assuring them that we will ALWAYS come home, but apparently the English-to-canine universal translator still needs work. I gave them each half a slice of roast beef last night though, in the hopes it would help. When in doubt, treat, treat, treat.

I feel like there isn't enough water in the world to quench my thirst, and I know that I'm reacting to the fires in the area, and the dry, warm Santa Ana-like winds (or rather, their Texas approximation.) I keep imagining us all crumbling to dust like a Whedonesque vampire, except that the cause wouldn't be a stake, but a brittle blade of dried grass.

Permalink at MissMeliss.com