Favorite Person: Vive, Of COURSE!

Her name is Vive.

Rhymes with today. Sashay. Hooray.

Recovering cheerleader and honor student who was the epicenter of the cool crowd.

Breathtakingly honest writer.

Has a vegetable garden, compost pile, and the breasts of a sixteen year old.

Feet firmly planted in reality, eyes toward the sky.

Fearlessly following her own path, building a future with a man who is clearly her soulmate.

A person I would choose for a friend, again and again.

The Iceberg Cometh

ICEBERG: mass of ice that has become detached, or calved, from the edge of an ice sheet or glacier and is floating on the ocean.




Last night was one of those nights where I was thinking so much, writing so much in my head, that by 3:30am I was marking time until I could get up and make the words real. Permanent.

Much of what I was thinking about will go directly into the book. I need to write them like I feel them now - raw, bare, bold. Those words are not for my blog, sorry.
But the inspiration? It was real.
As real as these words you are saying along with me, wherever you are.

My inspiration was journey I took last night, a boat ride south. Past the Caribbean, around Venezuela, Brazil, still heading south.
Drifting aimfully to find an iceberg.

It was a journey I could not explain, even to myself, and one to which I was both ridiculously and expectantly attatched.
When I finally found the iceberg that I hoped -- knew? -- would be waiting, it woke me with a bump.
I was not startled. Just grateful. I did not anchor, for fear of scarring the giant.
It was a work of art, entirely. Magnificent, beyond what I could have hoped for. At least the part I could see.

For hours I sat in my boat, chin resting on my left knee.
It was a quiet, reflective position, one that felt like the warmth I was seeking.
I should have felt much colder, but it felt like home. Safe, strong, familiar.
Icebergs are not silent. They crack and pop, like someone tapping their pen on a desk to punctuate points. I listened, listened so carefully for a word - a sign - an answer.
It mocked me, gently, because there was no question needing an answer.
So I spent hours admiring it. Combing every bit of it with my eyes, memorizing the beauty of every groove.
The smile from that dream is still bright on my face.
Maybe, just maybe, that was what the pilgrimage had been all about.

Flashing Gorillas, stuff like that ---

I talked to my brother for a minute yesterday. I was at work -- sorta -- laying outside on a bench, sunning my stomach, having happy time.

After commenting on the raspiness of my voice, he turned the conversation to an admission that he can't sleep, either.

That always throws me. I don't know who reads these words, althought I have an idea of the quantity of traffic. My brother's conversational curveball was the third in a week.

At a picnic on Saturday, Aron's mom started talking about book.

I was kinda dazed. I can't carry a smart conversation with small children around. Or cake. Or trees. I was in a daydreaming mood, and talking was work.

I write because I can't talk.

Because sometimes I have things to say, and there is absolutely no one to say them to.
So I just scribble them down on the blog and leave them, like a note on the table, and walk away.

Lots of times I forget what I've written, so it's weird when people bring up things I've done, like

• flashing a gorilla
• bouncing quarters off my ass,
• crying
• Texas Toast
• being kinda rude to idiots but looking cute while doing it
• being traumatized by a CCD teacher
• discovering a stapler burial grounds
• choking
• another (YAWN) tv interview

But anyway, today is another day.

With lots to say.

Like my sudden realization that the best way to teach a kid to use a spoon is by giving them a bowl of M&M's and a very very long DVD.

Or the fact that I honestly hide from my kids. They think it's a game, but it isn't.

Yes. I have a lot to say. I'm just wondering who I'm going to say it to...

But back to my brother. What's keeping him up at night is his 3 month old twins (not identical).

Now, I'm not being competitive, but I think that what's keeping me up is a bit more interesting. Melancholy, creativity, wistfulness, and writing. Quadruplets (non-identical).

So, um, again - I WIN.

Not that anyone's counting, right?

Practicing Hiding Eggs

Right.

So yesterday -- at Zoe's command -- we started the ceremonial "practice run" of hiding cheap plastic eggs and making the kids find them.

This is ridiculously fun, because I follow the kids and take the eggs back out of their baskets, pass them behind my back to Chuck to re-hide.

The kids think we have a gazillion eggs and after about an hour, they get tired.

Serves them right.

Because finding eggs before Easter is like putting candles on lasagne and singing Happy Birthday.

It just isn't done.

Not even by Cubans.
At least not this one.

Turning On the Gorilla

Valentines Day evening, 2006.

Long-suffering husband says "did you leave this note?"

Huh? I take a minute to respond, because if it's GOOD, I'm taking credit. I come from a family like that (Hi Dad!!).

It's a note written in crayon, taped to one of the columns between our kitchen and living room.

I have been BANNED from using tape on the walls by the "treat our new home with respect" Nazi, so I shake my head ADAMANTLY.

OH. It's a note from his step-mother, my mother-in-law directing us to look in the fridge, apologizing for missing us.

I don't read it to Chuck - I just head to the fridge.

THREE BOXES OF CHOCOLATE *and* a $50 bill.

Clearly  the $50 bill is a traditional aphrodesiac, yes?

So I liberate the cash from fridge, put it in my bra, and shove the chocolate behind the milk and OJ.

 ZOE SHRIEKS.

There is a life-sized stuffed animal in her room.

A life sized SHEEP DOG in her room, on top of a laundry-basket.
Guess what's in the laundry basket?


Enough chocolate to fuel a class of 5-year olds pushing a minivan up Mt. Everest.

I try NOT to curse.

I want to be happy for her. But my kids on chocolate are... miserably wound-up. Loud, aggressive, tearful. High, low, everything in between.

Chocolate brings out the latent teenager in them.

I get husband's attention, and direct him to grab a few bags and he shovels chocolate into them by the HANDFUL while I distract the kids who are now trying to pull each other around on the above-mentioned sheep dog.

Then Zack goes to HIS room.

You guessed it.

A life-sized GORILLA, sitting on a laundry basket full of chocolate.

He doesn't notice any of it, except for the fact that the GORILLA is holding a sheet of Dora the Explorer stickers.

I'm trying to figure out how to distract my son while rooting around for the 10 pounds of chocolate nestled under the gorilla.

Then Zack sees the gorilla, pokes it a few times, and says "Mommy, turn it on."

I wink at it.

Flip my hair.

Lean over to tell it a joke.

NOTHING.

So I slipped it the $50, wished it a Happy Valentine's day, and watched American Idol.

The High Heeled Blues

I hate wearing comfortable shoes.
I love wearing heels.
I wear them with suits, with jeans, with skirts.
They just make me feel happy. Powerful. Womanly. Rita Hayworth-y.

This high-heel habit is rather new.

I think it emerged forcefully during my sabbatical from academia, when I was in the corporate/non-profit world, and figured I should dress like Ally McBeal's (fictional) sister, the one who got the GOOD hair and big boobs.

But I see that I am still twenty pounds heavier than I was when I got pregnant with Zack, my son who just turned 2.

In my defense, I was extra-skinny and on diet pills when I got pregnant.

know, from years and years of reading trashy girl magazines, that one of the ways people stay skinny is by being active not just by working out but by marching around all day at work, talking instead of emailing, carrying paper to another building instead of sending it by inter-campus mail.

I know that. I get it. I need to do more walking. Fine. Fine. Whatever.

Like spending 12 hours a week pacing, gesticulating, performing -- in high heels -- while teaching history isn't exercise???
Maybe.
((( I guess it depends on how many donuts you eat afterwards.)))

It's HARD to be exceptionally active and walk very far most "as part of my routine" in cute high heeled shoes. I don't care WHAT you saw on Sex in the City. HIGH HEELS AREN'T COMFORTABLE.

There are many days I act like a person on crutches, planning every step, going nowhere I absolutely don't have to go -- because even the best high heeled shoes get 1) painful 2) ruined.

I'm not giving up my heels!!
I wear suits to work, and I don't know if I'm ready to be one of THOSE people who toss comfy shoes (and SOCKS! GAG!) on and go for a walk during lunchtime.

Just wearing tennis shoes with a suit officially ages a person 10 years.

Even if they're wearing J.Lo. oversized sunglasses and bopping to an ipod.

It*simply*isn't*done.

Lights, Camera, Lipstick

No Carmen today, slipping into my office, putting his feet up on my desk, tapping his pen, asking penetrating questions that leave me banging my head against my desk. In a good way. But still.

Today's person-who-came-racing in is Peggy.

She just appeared in my doorway, announcing that the TV people are coming.

Great! I have lots of friends in TV and film.

I'm all about appearing for a shot here and there, a minor character, a cameo.

A quick quip about the state of the union, Alan Greenspan, the need for government subsidized charm schools. Whatever today's topic is.

Peggy sees my mind race.
She realizes I think she wants advice, not makeup.
The woman is a natural beauty.

Melissa!!! I need LIPSTICK. I NEED Bobbi Brown.

Hmmm. I stand up, point at my chair. I had NO idea today would suddenly become so fun!

Peggy got a full coat of of Brown Lipstick (yes, there is a Bobby Brown lipcolor called Brown. And NO it isn't Brown. It's a nice peachy brownie shade with a hint of shimmer).
Then a dabbling of Sugar lip gloss, a sheer glossy that lightens everything up.

Next step, a bit of bronzer. She looks a bit afraid.

Will it make me orange?

No. It isn't a bronzer-bronzer, it's a "hey you'll look a tiny bit richer if you wear this but no one will be able to figure out why" bronzer. A bit of shimmer. I swirl the brush, rub it on the back of my hand.

Peggy scrunches her nose, looks at my hand, which is inches from her nose.

I can't see anything.

It's that subtle.

Great.

Peggy stands, up, ready for action.

As she walks out the door she looks me over, points at my neck and says "Hey! The pearls."

OK. OK.

I gave her the pearls, triple-wrapping them around her neck so the lowest point hits ABOVE the breasts.

Very important. It's a rookie mistake to have droopie pearls.

Now I feel so naked!

And that's something to write about.

Hooray.

*M

So, You're Really Done?

Q: I hear you’re done. Is it true?

A: Oh my God! Who told you? Well, nevermind.

Yes, I finished the whole first draft.

Q: Good. I didn’t think you were seriously going to finish. Honestly, I thought you’d get distracted with another project or something like that.

A: Well, aren’t I lucky to have YOU as a friend?

Q: You are! Who convinced you to get that icy teal shirt that brings out the green in your eyes, emphasizes your breasts and makes your stomach look flatter?

A: Good point.

Q: Alright, let’s dig in. Did you come up with a title for the book?

A: Hooked.

Sometimes I call it Hooked: A Love Story.
Or Hooked: An Addictive Love Story.
Once I thought about Hooked: An Addict’s Love Story.

Do I have to commit to that now?

Q: Hello??? This is a book, not lipliner. You HAVE to make a commitment.
A: Then let’s say I’m flexible.

Q: So I hear. But back to the book. What’s it really about?

A: It’s a story about several people, all of them fixated on the one thing that they just can’t have, so they find other things to fill their minds and hearts.

Things they get hooked on.

Q: Like what?

A: Love. Cuba. A perfect body. Family. Money. History.

Q: So what do they get hooked on?
A: Drugs, sex, cheating… and I would be a rotten storyteller if I told you everything, wouldn’t I?

Q: Sounds kinda like Valley of the Dolls.

A: Oh, you’re read it? Good! That’s a GREAT comparison.

But more in the TONE of Marian Keyes' Rachel's Holiday.

But have you read Wally Lamb’s I Know this Much is True?
Q: Please. It’s like a billion pages long.

A: Whatever. If you’d read it, I could compare how it has a book-within-a-book that works brilliantly. He definitely inspired me.

Q: Who’s your favorite character in Hooked?

A: Good question. I like it when you pretend you’re interested.

Q: Thanks. Now answer.

A: I love each and every one in the book because they come from pieces of reality

If I had to name one character that makes me laugh out loud and want to head to Vegas with, it would be Mira.

Q: Mira? Isn’t that Spanish for “Look”?

A: 10 points to Gryffendor!

Mira Maria arrives in the US from Cuba in 1960 and pretty much makes up her own rules in America.

She is sexy, brazen, resourceful, deceitful, and completely fixated on herself.

Oh, and she’s the main focus of the manuscript Annabelle is writing as part of her Ph.D. program in Historical Fiction.

Mira is the perfect foil to Annabelle. You’ll see!

Q: Oh, sounds like a great love story…. Not!

A: Well, my answers can’t be better than your questions. You’re the one leading this!


Q: Whatever. Is it a love story?

A: Definitely.

Q: Hello, make me interested. Make me want to read it.

A: Alright.

So, Annabelle – she’s the narrator, and she’s the one who writes Finding Cuba, the novel-inside-the-novel which unfolds as parallel chapters – meets this really great guy while she’s in college.

Q: Oh, totally original. (yawn)

A: I’m not done!

The book opens in January 1993. Annabelle meets a guy (whose name she never writes) on a plane, and they have this thing (I can’t look you in the eye and say it’s love) for several months.

You can just tell something is wrong with her.

She’s the walking wounded.

Starving herself, living on a cocktail of pills that she takes great pleasure in hiding all over the place.


Q: Wow. The romantic story of the century!

A: Yeah, I guess if that was it, it would be pretty rotten.

But then the book goes backward to March, 1990.

Annabelle, a senior in college, goes on a roadtrip to Arkansas with a friend.

Q: Arkansas? What?

A: Hey, it makes sense. They’re in New Orleans, trust me.

Annabelle isn’t really into Arkansas at first, either.

Q: Does she meet Bill Clinton?
A: That’s another book. Now stop interrupting me!

Annabelle meets an amazing guy, (whose name she never writes) who chips away at this huge wall she has around herself.

He becomes her family, her guide. They’re going to spend their lives together.

Too bad she messes everything up.

Q: Oh! Why is she so cold?
A: Annabelle tells you in the chapters of Finding Cuba.

Everything bad that happens to Daisy really happened to Annabelle.

Q: Oh.

A: Yeah. Well. Bad things happen, right?


Q: OK, so how does she mess everything up?
A: Ick. It gets ugly.

She’s really angry at him for letting her down in a few ways, even though, to defend the guy, he was completely honest.

She just is into something (which I will NOT tell you here, so bite your tongue and don’t even ask), which is running -- and ruining -- her whole days.

Because they pretty much have a long distance relationship, the poor guy hasn’t got a clue about what’s really going on with Annabelle.

Still, he loves her, at least the pieces he sees. She loves him too, almost too much.

On Christmas Eve, 1992, they’re supposed to get engaged.

It’s no secret that he has the ring in his pocket, and she wants it.
But something else happens.

Q: What?? What!!

A: Well, it’s not good.

We know that something bad happens in Christmas 1992 because when Hooked opens in January 1993, Annabelle is single.

And hungover.

You’ll have to read the book.

Q: Do they end up together?

A: That’s a great question.

I think you’ll know the answer, or at least the real question, when you get to the last page.

Q: Stop abusing me and let me read the book already.
A: OK, that TOTALLY wasn’t a question.

Q: Sorry. I guess I got excited. When can I read the book?

A: That’s better.

The answer is “soon.”

I wrote the manuscript out longhand instead of typing it up.

When I’m on the computer I tend to revise revise revise, and I knew that I needed to just write the entire thing, start to finish, in a linear way.

So that’s what I did.

Now I have months of typing and revising to do. But that’s OK. I’m already thinking about what happens next.

Q: Next?

A: Yes. Of course.

There are exactly 2 book-shaped holes within this story.


Q: Oh, now this sounds like a saga.

A: I’d call it a romp.

Q: A romp. Great!

A: Glad you’re excited.

Now, can you help me find someone to publish it?

Actually, can you find me an agent to sell it to a publisher?

Q: Hello. I’m your shopping diva, not one of your blue-suit friends. Ask someone else!
A: Hey, it was worth a try. Now scoot. I’ve got a ton of typing to do!

Q: Congratulations, by the way.

A: Thanks!!! Now goodbye!

Hard to be Me. Today.

Today, I hate myself.

I think it's because the suit I'm wearing isn't fitting right.
My stomach looks... weird, at least from my angle.

And I think I have the wrong bra on for this suit.

Did you know that some people (me?) have different bras for different suits? Honestly. See, the girls need to be at different levels (up or down by an inch or two) depending on the cut of the suit.

So if they're too high -- not good.
Too low? Even worse.

I'm not for sure about this, but I bet that women with 1) size B cups 2) "physician enhanced" breasts and/or 3)have never had kids DO NOT have to worry about things like correct nipple placement.

Their boobs are in the same place every day. Wow. No wonder they have a better quality of life than I do.

But, well, since I don't fall into any of those categories above (yet) I have this extra burden.

Breast placement is a science, and today I get an "F" for not doing my homework.

Shame.

I probably wouldn't be so hard on myself if I didn't have a mirror.

At least I won't be in front of one for several more hours.

At the office (where I'm hiding until 9:30am, probably for the last time since the move to Tallahassee is so close....) the women's bathroom is locked *with the key inside* so I can't get in until Lory gets here... BUT the men's bathroom is NEVER locked so I sneaked in there.

Guess what? No full length mirror.
Just a stall, a urinal, sink and small face-level mirror.

Why do *they* TORTURE women with full length mirrors in the bathrooms????

While driving here at 5:30am, I started to list 100 things that I despise about myself, but I was having trouble stopping at 100.

I won't bore you here with it, but hopefully another diet coke and maybe thinking about the students I get to work with today will totally change that mood.


After all, it isn't about me.... right?

The Car Man Cometh

(from 2006) I was just sitting in my office yesterday, alphabetizing final exams and final papers as foreplay to grading.

There was a gentle knock on my office door.

He opened the door before I could respond, then stood in the doorway as though I'd been expecting him.

Of course, I hadn't, but I pride myself on world-class bluffing skills, so I said *Hi.*

He was handsome, stern and kind at the same time.

I remembered him well but knew better than to show my delight.

Instead of standing up to offer a handshake or a hug, I leaned back in my chair and smiled. This always makes me feel more powerful, but it goes against my nature -- which is FAR closer to a spastic cocker spaniel than a regal but disdainful cat.

He closed the door behind him conspiratorially, and leaned a shoulder against the wall.

What's the story about your car?

I love the accent that lilts his words, making them sound more like poetry or music than plain conversational English.

Oh, my car. (Damn!!!! He wants to talk about my CAR?? Well, I am a married woman.)

Um. So you've been reading my blog? (He nodded)

OK. Well, see, I had a little accident wayyyy back in September , and needed new tires and rims, but I never got new hubcaps.

So I have this car that is reliable and great but it has no hubcaps, and one of the doors doesn't work, and it doesn't play CDs.

And I really need to vaccumm it....

Yes. What's the story? You haven't taken care of cars as long as I've known you. And now all this "good car," "bad car" stuff....

That's not true! I. I mean, I... well. I....

You're right. I don't.

I looked up at him with my puppy dog eyes, admitting failure, hoping to be scolded, praised, hugged and maybe taken for a loooooooong walk without a leash.

I wilted a little bit in the chair.

My invisble cocker spaniel tail kept wagged quickly, betraying my delight at his attention.

Well. Maybe I don't take care of my cars because I'm hoping someone will do it for me.

He laughed, but still didn't sit down.

And since he didn't ask another question, I babbled on with my confession, hoping for a treat, scratch behind the ears, SOMETHING.

Umm, my spedometer and odometer kinda don't work, so I know I probably need an oil change but really I can't tell if I've gone 3,000 miles...

He nodded, not excusing me, but showing his understanding.

Wal-Mart has oil changes for $14.95. And a nice waiting room where you could grade exams while you wait.

Do they have hubcaps too?

He laughed, told me to behave myself, and slipped out as quickly as he arrived.

Sigh.

He forgot to ask for my car keys. Does he seriously think I'll do it myself?

Maybe I will go to WalMart for the dreaded oil change.

It would be something to write about.

And I could pick up some doggie treats -- like diet coke, cabernet, and stuff to make a carrot cake -- while I'm waiting.