by Christine | Life, Observations
It skulked in a high cupboard for decades, in a cream and black-striped box that used to hold a nice women’s coat, from back in the day when women’s coats used to come in nice big boxes. Mom had first brought it out to show me when I was six or seven, then reverently packed it away again. I forgot about it – marriage was in the far mists of my future.
I saw it again after I got engaged, and Mom and I talked about my wedding dress. I tried hers on, to make her feel useful (I was such a brat). It was pretty, but at the time a bit too old fashioned for me – stiff satin with a square neck and 3/4 length sleeves. In my defense, I was a very young bride-to-be – only 19, and with no concept of fashion outside of my pointe shoes and tights. In retrospect, I’d have looked killer in that dress after a fitting or two.
Time marched on. I had my wedding (during that awkward year, 1980 – slap between the hippy beach weddings of the 70’s and just prior to the huge, lavish, DYNASTY-type affairs of the mid-80’s) and a lovely brief honeymoon, but I didn’t wear Mom’s dress. Instead, it languished in its cupboard. The delicate headdress for the veil slowly turned yellow with age, and the heavy linen underskirt grew just a tiny bit brittle. They were in their own box, one that used to hold a blanket. The dress, like the boxes, was from the early 1950’s.
Decades passed. I had two children and many different careers, and only thought of Mom’s wedding dress when I saw my parents’ wedding picture. Then Mom died in 2007. After some time, we boxed up her clothes, divided up her jewelry, tossed out her makeup. But the wedding dress still waited in the high cupboard in the hallway, forgotten and much too high up for an old man and woman to worry about what was actually in that cupboard.
I didn’t think about my Mom’s dress again until one day this spring, when I visited my Dad. His roommate and caregiver had been doing an unusually thorough spring cleaning, and had found the boxes in their place in the hallway cupboard. Dad proudly gave them to me. I was at a loss. I had two young men at home, and not a daughter (or prospective daughter-in-law) in sight. But it was important for him to give them to me.
So I took the boxes home, thinking perhaps a successful costumer I know would like the dress. But somehow, the boxes stayed with me. First in the back of my car for weeks. Then they moved into the house, and in the heat of summer took up residence in front of my cold fireplace. Magazines and guitar picks and sheet music eventually got piled up on the boxes, and they were obscured – we became unsure about what was sitting there on the hearth.
Time passed and autumn approached. This past week, a fire was asked for, which meant the dress was unearthed from its resting place on the hearth – this time, to be moved to the end of the couch. As the hubby prepped the fireplace, I took the dress out, admired the length of the train, the stiffness of the satin, the cut of the neckline. I didn’t bother to hold it against me, as the waist was impossibly tiny for my now-middle-aged figure; and I knew finally a deep reluctance to part with it.
“Perhaps my niece Sara would appreciate it. She has two girls,” I offered. My husband gave a noncommittal grunt. Perhaps Sara would want it. It would at least stay in the family that way.
But I didn’t contact her. I know the dress deserves better. I know there are places that will clean and then preserve the dress in a vacuum-sealed bag (which is how my wedding dress is packed – it hides under my bed). I know some costumer would probably drool over this dress.
As the last bit of my mother’s youth, though, and as I look at my own long-gone youth in the rear-view mirror, my mother’s wedding dress has become a symbol of all her love, hopes, dreams, wishes and desires.
I am never sentimental about my mother; but I find I just can’t part with it. So for now, and my guess is until it becomes imperative at Christmas, the boxes containing my mother’s wedding dress, underskirt and veil will remain on the edge of my couch, making her once again a part of my life.
Love you, Mom. Always.
by Christine | Life, Observations
I never thought I’d be going to rehab, but I’ve got my orders. And while I haven’t yet made the phone call, I will…right after I get back to the office. Just wait until I tell my new boss…
Three months. Relearning how to see, walk, balance. The rehab has a name, too – Vestibular Rehabilitation. Since in one eleven-hour surgery I lost all the “stuff” that helps me hear in my right ear, I need to relearn a bunch of stuff that most people do without thinking about it.
When I first talked to the Surgical Ontologist about it yesterday, I didn’t know how to feel. Last night I didn’t quite process it, either, and today I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s one of those things that I won’t know how I feel about it until I’m doing it. But when I told my Doc that I’d been taking yoga, practicing balancing, walking out doors, walking on a treadmill, lifting weights and doing my best to retrain my brain, he said simply that it had been too soon. And of course since I broke my leg, I haven’t done any of those things.
Being dizzy is annoying. To look drunk when I’m not drunk is even more annoying. If it takes rehab to get my eyes in better working order (because your eyes and your ears work together to give you your balance), then that’s what I’ll do. If it stops the dizziness, the sudden and inexplicable loss of balance, and as a byproduct if it helps me shed this excess broken-leg weight, then I’m all for it.
You won’t catch me saying “no, no no!” Not to MY rehab. (Love the song, though…)
~~~
~~Have you read DEMON SOUL yet? What are you waiting for?
Go and buy it now, lol!~~
by Christine | Life, Observations
thanks to mortonqlanglinaiss.blogspot.com
There are some people who are always seeking joy. For the optimists, and I definitely include myself in that group, everything will always work out. The money will be there, the vacation will happen, the book will sell. If it doesn’t work out in the way they hope, then something better will come along and take care of things.
Then there are those who go through life guarded against disappointment. They worry a lot. It’s more of, this is what I’ll have to do because the money isn’t there. We’ll be lucky to take a vacation next year. Selling a book is a crapshoot.
I understand the pessimist’s viewpoint – or as a friend of mine would say, the “realist’s” viewpoint. They’ve been burned. Life’s hit them over the head a time or two, and they’re just hoping that nothing jumps out at them and swings the bat one more time. I get it. I sympathize.
But I can’t live that way. I HAVE to generate positivity. It’s hard-wired in me, like my green eyes and slender ankles. As I get older, I’m getting more mellow about it, too. I love surprising people – holding the door open for someone younger than me with their hands full, and giving them a warm smile. Waving folks into traffic ahead of me. Chatting in an upbeat manner to complete strangers. 
I find that I like positivity in my online life, too. I’ve actually un-followed people on Twitter because of the language they’d use, and the negativity they sprayed on my day. I’m no prude – I can fling epithets around with the best of them, but I don’t want to see them on Twitter from people I barely know, ranting about their personal life. (That’s what a blog is for, lol!)
Cheerful people, on line and in person, uplift my day. Make me more able to go about with a smile on my face. Cheerful people generate a feeling of well-being in others. I am gung-ho about cheer, and positivity, and making my little corner of the world a sunnier place.
Which are you? A “realist” or an “optimist”?
by Christine | Life, Observations, Writing
Sometimes, a girl just needs a place to put some random and stray thoughts down, you know? So here goes.
~ No one should bomb Norway. No way, no how. Too, too sad. I wish I could hug everyone there.
~ No one should go past the barriers at Niagra Falls. No way, no how. Too, too sad that they died.
~ Amy Winehouse. Too, too sad. Finally bought her Back to Black cd…but that’s me, all over it – but only when it’s all over.
~ Google + Well, from everything I’m hearing – I’m glad I didn’t jump on that bandwagon. I still may, but they’ve got a lot of ‘splaining to do.
~ Hey Mambo Red – Just bought another 3 bottles of it. 2 for camping. Truly. No joke. Stop it! (sipping on the 3rd bottle as we speak…)
~ Speaking of wine – hubby picked up two more bottles of the Ironstone Symphony. One’s in the fridge. We don’t go camping for two more weeks. May just have to pick up another bottle.
~ even though she spelled my hero’s name wrong, Eva’s Sanctuary gave DEMON SOUL a 4.5 stars out of 5. Can’t complain!
~ Didn’t see Deathly Hallows part 1. But LOVED part 2. Alan Rickman is the man. THE MAN! Best of luck to the three main kids. Whatever they do, they’re set for life – monetarily. I hope.
~ Don’t understand folks putting their first – or subsequent – chapters of their works in progress up online. If it’s bad, um, oops? And if it’s good – same go. As someone else’s gramma used to say about premarital sex – why should I buy the cow when I get the milk for free? (Even if the milk (book) is bad.)
~ Love the supportive writer community. I don’t know – is it just the folks I’m connected with on Twitter/Facebook/email? Or is it all writers? Don’t care. Love it!
~ Why is it you replenish a drink, but you never plenish it?
~ Borders closing. My heart breaking. School kids everywhere losing a place to be tutored. Writers everywhere losing a place to write. Readers everywhere losing a place to get lost in a book. Lose/lose proposition. Damn you, Amazon.
~ Yay for young people willing to join the Peace Corps after college. Shannon D, I’m so proud of you.
~ Hate politics. Doesn’t matter which party at this point. It seems it’s “party above country” – and that’s just WRONG. #governmentfail
~ Still love Joss Whedon. How can I not? Buffy 4-Ever.
~ Having a broken leg sucks. Going on vacation with a broken leg is better than not going on vacation – even if it’s camping.
MASHUP OF AWESOMENESS:
Below are some of the wonderful places I’ve been in the last week or so. Hope you enjoy.
Visit a different side of Paris with John Sealander. I’ve been there in the snow. It’s another world, totally.
If you haven’t discovered Eden Bradley/Eve Berlin yet, you should. She writes fantastic, sexy, intelligent books.
Susan McMartin suffers for beauty, after an enforced absence. Truly funny.
Les Floyd discusses the weekend’s news in this heartfelt and inspiring post. He’s my new hero.
If you haven’t heard of Savvy Authors yet, and you’re a writer, then you need to go there. Now. Tons of helpful information no matter how long you’ve been writing.
Don’t forget to pick up your copy of DEMON SOUL. Just got a 4 star review in September’s Romantic Times Book Reviews, and a 4.5 star review at Eva’s Sanctuary. Try it – you’ll like it!
That’s all for now, folks. Remember, summer is about half over. Have fun, love much, and drink responsibly!
by Christine | Life, Observations
The solstices have always been magical for me, even before I knew what they were. “The longest day of the year.” “The longest night of the year.” Both were magical times in my young mind, spurred on with many, many viewings of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. (Plus actually dancing in the full length ballet, years ago, with California Ballet Company down in San Diego, way before acting in two different productions of it. But that’s another story.)
Not only are the days themselves somewhat magical, but I also believe its a good time to enact change. Whether in your self, your routine, your environment, it’s the perfect time to shake things up, make things better. Some people use the calendar New Year to do so; others use back-to-school time to make changes. I’ve used those dates, too, but this year the Solstice seems right.
The biggest change for me? I’m going to really, truly believe in myself and go for what I want, which means there’s a story here for you. I’m on Twitter – not a lot, but often enough – and whenever Angela James (Carina Press) finds something awesome, I tend to check it out. Today, she found Tara and Tara’s Story. This so moved me that I sent the link to my closest writing group, the Los Angeles Romance Authors.
But Tara’s story basically built on stuff I’d been processing internally, via a video shared with LARA by Lynne Marshall, a lovely writer and neighbor of mine. And while this video took time to watch, it is definitely stirring and I sent it to my husband and sons, the most important people in my life.
It’s a TED video (I don’t know anything about them, but you might?) and the woman who speaks is funny, passionate, and wonderful.
So, here’s to change, scary as it may be. Here’s to being the most authentic you that you can be. And here’s to living a wonderful, helpful, serving life.
Happy Summer Solstice, everyone!
by Christine | Cooking, Observations
Artichokes are silly. What I really want to know is who was the first brave soul to try to eat one? And did they use melted butter, or ranch dressing, or hollandaise sauce for dipping, or did they just start munching away without bothering to even cook it?
I caught a TV show today as I flopped on the couch, exhausted from the gym. It was some famous Italian cookbook author showing what to do with artichokes. I finally got up, got my notebook and a pen and took notes, since I have a forest of artichokes in my back yard – no kidding.
Now, I’m a good cook, but I often look for shortcuts that mostly involve the microwave. Not the pressure cooker, because the damn thing scares the bees knees out of me if you get my drift. (I think fear of the pressure cooker was passed down to me from my mother’s very DNA. Her mother apparently had a traumatic experience with one…) My best friend swore by her pressure cooker for artichokes, but it’s so totally against my grain that I found a shorter short cut in the microwave.
Normally I trim the stem so it’s flat, I cut the tops off so I don’t poke myself, then I wash them and, still dripping, pop them into a ziplock bag without closing it all the way. Then I put them in the microwave, hit the “fresh vegetables” button, and away they go.
(By the way, before I had a fresh vegetables button, I’d cook them for six minutes, twist them around so the inside was to the outside, burning my hands in the process, and put them in for another 4 to 5 minutes depending on size. )
But the lovely Italian chef wanted me to peel the fairly long (2″) stem until bright green showed. Then, after trimming as above, she suggested cutting them in half and putting them in a large pan. Add chicken stock, water, fresh chopped mint and parsley, and garlic and then cook away until they’re done. (I didn’t ever hear a time. Just “until they’re tender and cooked”. Um, okay.)
The theory went that, after you cooked them that way, the tough hairy choke would just pop out with the slightest pressure from a spoon. I’m sure it would; I’m also sure a lot of the nutrients of the artichoke would get left behind in the water it’s cooked in. But of course she had a suggestion for that as well – use that liquid as a kind of sauce over the artichoke.
And that’s where I kind of lost my patience with her. I mean, come on. Artichokes are a delivery system, pure and simple. They deliver either melted butter to your tongue, or freshly made hollandaise sauce (I’ve got an easy-peasy recipe, if anyone wants it). Maybe a ranch dressing. The nub of the artichoke is a bonus bit of tastiness.
Yes, the way I make artichokes means you have to physically cut out the choke; but really, it’s not so bad; just be careful with that sharp knife, especially if you’ve been drinking wine. And then you have more yummy artichoke to dunk in whatever butter may be left. (Not that I favor salty, yummy, melted butter with artichokes. Not at all. Excuse me while I wipe the drool from my chin.)
Artichokes, if you live in a temperate climate, grow like weeds. I planted a couple of plants several years ago. If you knew me, you’d know that often things die in my garden because I forget to water. Hey, it gets hot here in summer, and when it’s over 100, I don’t go outside except to slip into an air-conditioned car. But these babies, once they’re established, don’t need any kind of regular watering. My garden is proof of that; if they did, I wouldn’t have a single artichoke plant out there by now.
The biggest of my plants is a globe artichoke, and it’s threatening my Bearss lime tree. It’s also spawned smaller plants. Those smaller plants are quickly growing big. We’ve taken eight artichokes off the plant this year so far and there are still four left. And that’s from one plant – we’ve now got six that produce, which makes my friends very happy.
So that’s my wisdom for today. Artichokes are silly. Hard to kill once established. And very good with hollandaise sauce! (Or butter. Seriously.)
~ ~ ~
Have you read DEMON SOUL yet? You can find it at Crescent Moon Press or Amazon.com. Happy Reading!
