In which it's de-lurk day!

Lately I've run into loads of people who mention that they read the blog, but they've never commented. Well, today is the day! Every so often I try to coax the lurkers to leave a quick comment. I love to hear from folks who hang out here, both regular commenters and those of you who are too busy or shy or disinclined to identify yourselves. So, in the interest of luring you out to play, I'm taking questions! Whatever you'd like to know about writing, my books, etc. Ask away, and I'll blog the answers over the next few days. (If you don't have a question, feel free just to wave "hi" or keep to yourself if you're in a bashful mood. And thanks for dropping by the blog!)

In which I'm flogging a product

Something I don't do very often, but I am smitten, SMITTEN, I tell you. I've moaned before about the high cost of dry cleaning and not having any "green" dry cleaners in my town. (Thus the $60 Rowenta steamer from Target that was WELL worth the money.) After RWA, I had an entire shopping bag of things to take to the dry cleaners--two silk dresses--one with a heavily-beaded neckline, two cocktail dresses--one with a silver lace slip, the other with a thickly-sequinned neckline, a pashmina, a scarf, and an evening gown. I did the math, and at the rates my dry cleaner charges, it was easily over $100. Until I snagged a Dryel kit at Target and OH MY STARS. Seriously, I could not be happier. The process itself could not be simpler. Just fling the items into the big zippered Dryel bag, toss in the cleaning sheet, and bung it all in the dryer for 30 minutes. The dog could have done it. Now, one or two items will need a quick press of the iron and one or two could use a light steam, but I would have to do that anyway because the snugness of my closet tends to result in things getting a trifle creasy. But I'm not about to complain because for less than $10, I am in business. So go forth, good people, and see if Dryel will make you happy too.

In which I almost gave up writing

because I think I would be very good at this. The story was posted yesterday on a messageboard I frequent, and let me just say that I think professional witch is a superb career opportunity. (I would actually prefer hermit, but those openings are few and far between.) And who wouldn't love to take a goat to work?

In which I was feeling crabbit

Isn't that a wonderful word? Scottish. It means grumpy, and I have made it a permanent addition to my vocabulary. I'm not crabbit for any particular reason beyond the dog--who thinks it's super cool to get up at 4:30 to go out--and the weather. Me and heat, not the best of pals. And since I firmly believe that happiness is a choice, I'm choosing to be happy. What turned my mood around? A wedding processional like no other. (You may have seen this couple on the Today show last week--here's the video in its entirety. Enjoy--and mazel tov to the happy couple!)

In which I am being frugal

I realized over this weekend that I am committed to QUITE a bit of traveling in 2010. I have one re-release and two new releases which will entail some travel, two conferences, and numerous trips planned with various members of my family--I really, really should have thought this through. But none of them are trips I'm willing to give up, so the only solution is to be mindful of expenses that aren't really necessary and use those funds to get me where I need to go. One solution--the home mani/pedi. I usually get a professional one so I'll look at my spiffiest when I travel for work, but there's no reason for me to head to the salon when I'm at home writing. Last night--bereft because the Tour de France is OVER *sniffle, sniffle*--I cracked open my new bottle of Revlon Steel-Her Heart. I know matte polishes are all the rage now, but I love the very shiny pewter finish. Since I never wear gold jewelry, it is the perfect neutral for me--goes with absolutely everything!

On a personal note, I spent the weekend with my cousin Lisa. Those of you who have been hanging out at the Blog A Go-Go will remember her from my trip to Houston last year when she was receiving a bone marrow transplant. I am SO happy to tell you she is cancer-free and looks fabulous! It was wonderful to spend time with her playing tourist in my own town, although the heat has finally settled in after a very mild June. (We're in our 90-degree-days-with-stormy-evenings phase of the summer.) Anyway, we are incredibly grateful to the anonymous marrow donor in New Zealand who made the rest of her life possible.

In which we talk scones

Ah, the scone. Heaven on a plate. I originally posted this recipe on the Blog A Go-Go on July 18, 2008. If you haven't made them, DO.



I know, it isn't soup weather, but I promise these scones would go equally well with a nice salad or some paper-thin salty ham. I just threw them together one evening when I didn't have anything in the house except a few dry ingredients and a box of soup. The scones were by far the better part of the meal. They are loosely based on the divine Whole Wheat Cherry Scones in The Skinny.

Whole Wheat Cheddar Scones

2 cups white flour (I used King Arthur White Wheat)

1 cup whole wheat flour (King Arthur again)

1 T baking powder

salt (I want to say a heaping teaspoon)

1/4 t dry mustard (Why I had a tin of Coleman's lying around I cannot imagine, but I'm sure it's Nigella's fault somehow)

palmful of dried onions (The true sign of desperate pantry cooking. I wanted fresh chives of course, but FORGOT there were some growing in the garden. So I used these dehydrated monstrosities instead, and they were actually fine. If you want a measurement, let's say a teaspoon and a half.)

two eggs

1/2 cup milk (Okay, that's a lie. It's more like 3/4 cup. It depends on your flour. Start with 1/2 and keep adding until the consistency is right. You'll want a little more milk for brushing the tops of the scones, and sour milk is excellent for baking.)

5 T butter

shredded Cheddar (A nice, sharp Cheddar, please. Two or three big palmsful.)

All of this will be much better if your ingredients are at room temperature. Preheat the oven to 450. Mix the dry ingredients, cut in the butter until the mixture is crumbly. Add the cheese and toss to coat the cheese in the flour. Then whisk together the eggs and milk and stir into the flour mixture. Bring the dough together without overworking. Turn onto a floured board and pat into a circle. Cut into eight equal wedges. Place onto parchment-lined baking sheet, brush with milk. Bake for 10-15 minutes. YUM.

In which I'm pondering complications

I make my own life more difficult than it needs to be, of this I am certain. I do try very hard to simplify, to streamline, to cast off stress and woe. But I'm painfully aware of the fact that sometimes I get in the way of my own happiness. I recently ran across a quote from Lisa Rinna's psychic--don't judge--that I keep coming back to: You have to stop thinking that your life has to be a struggle. You don't need to struggle, that is your idea. Just open yourself, treat every day like it's new, and start it with no preconceived notions. It doesn't have to be hard to be good.

In which I adore all things English

As you well know, I am a devoted Anglophile, and one bit of England that I am completely smitten with is my friend Sali. She lives in a village with a name so perfect and twee, you'd swear Winnie-the-Pooh must be a neighbor. She collects vintage velvet coats and her cell phone likes to ring me up from her pocket so I can eavesdrop on the goings-on in Sali's life. (My favorite call came from the Milan airport where I could hear Sali working her best Italian on a Customs agent.) Sali is the friend who started up the moor behind Haworth parsonage with me, then turned back after 100 yards or so and said, "I'll be in the village having a nice cup of tea."

One of the things I love best about Sali is that she is an unrepentant history geek. (Before we'd gotten to know one another, she sent me a pamphlet on some gruesome topic. When I thanked her via e-mail I told her it would be very helpful in my work. Then she asked, "What exactly do you DO?") Her idea of fun is mentioning quite casually that she spent a morning poking around some 14th century ruin just down the road, which I must confess makes me not like her quite so much. (If I were putting together a wishlist for my ideal place to live, I can promise you a 14th century ruin would be VERY close to the top of the list.) Anyway, she is also terribly generous with links she thinks I'll like, and yesterday she sent me one on London Curiosities. She's right, I adore it, and if you're planning a trip to London soon or just want to do a little armchair traveling, do have a look.

In which I muse on puppies

Exhausting--end of musing. I had forgotten HOW exhausting. The little miscreants have actually been pretty good about destruction, just the odd basket here and there that's been gnawed and, of course, my favorite table. It's our kitchen table and I bought it at an antiques store on Hildebrand in San Antonio. The ONE piece of furniture I would really prefer them not to put a tooth on. Anyway, it's nothing a little sanding and paint won't fix, and it doesn't bother me nearly as much as if they had gotten hold of my shoes. Emma the Yellow Wonder Dog NEVER touched shoes or clothes or books--in fact, her only destructive behavior was a section of drywall that she thought was rather tasty. It sounds bad to say your dog ate the wall, doesn't it?

But a bit of jalapeno juice changed her mind--on the advice of the vet, of course. Jalapeno juice doesn't FAZE these pups. They like it--in fact, I caught them licking off tabasco sauce and looking up expectantly for more, wagging their tails. We tried everything the vet suggested to no avail; I think they eventually got tired of chewing and have moved on to general stroppiness. Their favorite game is to pounce on each other and wrestle to the death, but we've had to put a stop to it because they were spayed and neutered last week. (Yes, while I was in DC because my husband said, "Hey, I'll be home anyway. Book the surgery and I'll take care of it." A lovely and masochistic offer that I think he deeply regretted.) Anyway, we've had to keep them separated so they won't inadvertently tear out each other's stitches, and it's KILLING them. We put them together for short periods when they're leashed, but they are desperate to play. The only safe place to let them hang out is the car. For reasons that defy explanation, they are always perfectly calm and loving to each other in the car--no barking, no pouncing, no whining. They will curl up together and groom one another and it gives us hope that ONE DAY they will be able to hang out just as nicely in the house. Maybe.

Also, I've been tinkering STILL with comments and I *think* they're fixed now...

In which I'm pondering self-care

Lately I've been talking to lots of women who are in desperate need of some self-care. I don't know if it's a reflection of the economy or the planetary alignments or just general busyness, but there is a great deal of putting everybody else first and it needs to stop. I'm not saying we shouldn't care for the people and responsibilities in our lives. Far from it. I'm saying we have to care for ourselves first before we can manage caring for anybody else. (Remember your friendly flight attendant and the admonition to secure your OWN oxygen mask before you try to help someone else. If you fail to do this, you could lose consciousness before you are of use to anyone. Scary, no?)

More than once in the past few weeks I've talked to women who are burned out, burned down, and running on empty. They are taking themselves and all of their commitments so seriously they've neglected themselves and they've neglected FUN. And yes, I am prescribing a little frivolity, a little selfishness because I think frivolity is essential and a small amount of well-applied selfishness is an investment against depression and burn-out. If you give and give and give until the well is dry, what's left to nourish and nurture you? And the worst part is, it's insidious. We let our boundaries slip a little at a time--an extra e-mail here, a "yes" when we long to say "no" there--and pretty soon you are overbooked, overextended, overwhelmed. If anyone presented you a list of your commitments in toto, you'd think they were barking mad. "NO woman could possibly manage all of that," you'd say scornfully. And you'd be right.

But things trickle into our lives piecemeal, and taken by themselves, none of these extra responsibilities seem so weighty. But when mountaineers climb Everest, they clip off everything that is not essential. Every extra label, unnecessary lengths of bootlace, blank pages from paperback novels. Why? Because it all adds up and because weight matters. We can only carry so much, so we need to make sure that what we carry is essential. It's time to honor the wee small voice that says, "I need a rest," and give her time to take a nap, to read a book, to sit and BE. I know women who are very busy being wives, mothers, daughters, sisters, executives, artists--but so many of them are neglecting to be SELVES.

The commitment to take care of yourself is the most important one--if you are untended, you will rebel, I promise you. You will grow crabby and impatient. You'll eat for comfort. You'll shop irresponsibly. You will snatch solace wherever you can find it, but it will not last. It won't last until you make a permanent commitment to care for yourself properly.

We have all been there at some point. We have all neglected ourselves and overextended and resented it. The only cure is to withdraw, come back to ourselves, and take inventory of what is really important. And here are some resources to help; read one or two, read them all. Take what you can use and then put it to use, I beg you. Life is either far too short or far too long to be unhappy, don't you think?
(Also, I think comments are fixed now. I've removed the captcha box, and we'll see if that makes it easier for y'all to leave comments.)

Simple Abundance Sarah Ban Breathnach
Romancing the Ordinary Sarah Ban Breathnach
The Artist's Way Julia Cameron
Vein of Gold Julia Cameron
Living Artfully Sandra Magsamen
Living a Beautiful Life Alexandra Stoddard
On Becoming Fearless Arianna Huffington
A Year by the Sea Joan Anderson
The Joy of Doing Things Badly Veronica Chambers
Hip Tranquil Chick Kimberly Wilson
Wear More Cashmere Jennifer Sander
31 Words to Create a Guilt-Free Life ed. Karen Bouris
Succulent Wild Woman SARK
Eat Mangoes Naked SARK
The Comfort Queen's Guide to Life Jennifer Louden
The 12 Secrets of Highly Creative Women Gail McMeekin
Creating a Life Worth Living Carol Lloyd
Take Time for Your Life Cheryl Richardson

In which I am back from RWA!

And I am a shell of the woman I once was. Soooooo tired! But the national conference was great fun and well worth the trip. (I dither about going because it's longer than I am usually away from home, it's during the summer, yada yada, but as soon as I'm there I kick myself for even thinking it's possible not to go. I confess, I've already scoped out the hotel for next years' event...) Anyway, I got to hang with lots of people I adore and was hugely thrilled to be able to present an award at the RITAs. It works like the Oscars--you win, you present the same category the next year. Anyway, I got to present to Nora Roberts! She was gracious as ever and when I handed her the RITA, she turned to the audience and said, "She beat me last year and this year she gave it back!" (And since I mentioned Nora in my speech last year, it's turning into an award Mobius strip.)

I also scarpered off to do some research at three of the Smithsonian museums--SO fabulous and so worthwhile! I ferret around the museum bookshops because they always have wonderful things I can't find anywhere else, and they ship anywhere, so I don't have to lug them home. I got an armful of goodies at the natural history museum, and I cannot wait until they arrive.

I also had wonderful one-on-one time with my agent, my editor, my publicist's team, and a few writers, and perhaps best of all, I got to meet some new readers at the literacy signing. Many of you stopped by not to get books--because you already had them!--but to let me know what my work means to you and to express your appreciation. I cannot TELL you how much that means to me. Writing is a solitary occupation, and any chance we get to visit with readers and to know you're out there is much appreciated. So thank you for stopping by and sharing your stories!

I've had loads of questions about what I wore to the RITAs, so I'm posting photos. It was a black BCBG jersey gown with Grecian draping, piped in silver. I got a photo of the bodice detail as well and the accessories, and there's a picture of the gold balloon dress I wore to the Daphnes. Forgive the photo quality--I snapped them with my iphone and still haven't managed to figure out to how to take pictures of myself in a mirror!

ETA: I know there have been issues with the comments feature, and I'm tinkering. If you're so inclined, leave a comment today so I can fuss with it some more and see if I can get it fixed--thanks!

In which I am indolent

If all has gone according to plan, then I am home from RWA and following the prescription for re-entry I've detailed below. (A new puppy might well throw a SERIOUS monkey wrench into the plan. Or is that a puppy wrench?) The entry was originally posted on April 28, 2008 on the Blog A Go-Go. See you tomorrow!

After I travel, no matter how short and easy a trip, I like to decline. I come home and instantly unpack, take a hot bath, and take to my bed with a pot of tea and some good chocolate and my loved ones. Even if it's still mid-afternoon, I don't feel like I have properly returned unless I spend the first day back in my nightgown with my husband and daughter snuggled up next to me while we watch old movies. It is nesting at its most extreme, and I usually extend it into the following day. That's when I shove my travel clothes into the washer and take to the sofa with more tea and more movies. I might answer a few e-mails, but nothing strenuous is permitted, and I prefer not to go out.

It feels luxurious and wicked to be so indolent, but I've learned through trial and error that there is a crucial period of decompression after travel. If I rush back into everyday life, I make mistakes. I lose concentration, and I feel harried and breathless. Much better for me to slide gently back in. I might read something thought-provoking and delicious, like Isabel Allende's Aphrodite: A Memoir of the Senses or watch Chocolat. I might roast a chicken because it's comforting without being at all difficult. And if I decide to peruse the web, Fortuna Bella's blog, The Courtesan's Corner, is just the sort of thing I would like to read. There are only a few entries, and regrettably, she seems to have stopped updating in 2006, but the archives are well worth reading. They are sensual and diverting--the perfect reading for a lazy afternoon.

In which I have no hobbies

Gone. RWA. Home Tuesday. You know the drill. This went up on the Blog A Go-Go on April 11, 2008. It's still true, by the way.



On an increasingly frequent basis, I'm asked to answer biographical questions, which I dread like a peasant does a plague rat. I don't mind discussing where I grew up or how I write; I'm an open book. No, the question I fear is What are your hobbies? Because I have none.

I have never been a hobby person. I dabble, certainly. I toy with something just long enough to learn the fundamentals, and then I'm off to something else. (That explains why I once crocheted an 80-foot long chain. I only know the chain stitch.) I have a hot glue gun, knitting needles, beads, embroidery floss, specialty papers, a digital camera, and a truckload of cookbooks, all of which have been used and quietly put aside. I have a madeleine pan from my Proustian attempts to make the perfect scallop-shell cookie. I have a box full of beautiful fabric that would make a spectacular quilt if only I would cut them out and stitch them together. And yet, still they sit.

It isn't as though I didn't have good role models. The women in my family didn't view cooking or baking as a hobby--those were necessities for them--but they did sew, crochet, embroider, macrame, decoupage, collect stamps, keep horses or exotic poultry, and during one extremely trying phase in the 1970s, ARTEX. (If you're not familiar with the horror that was Artex, follow this link but BE WARNED. It's very disturbing. The fact that the link is called "Evil Crafts" should give you a good heads-up.)

Anyway, it occurred to me that I was really tired of trying to make up hobbies for these interview questions, so the other day when I was perusing the library shelves, I made a dive for a book about choosing the perfect hobby. There was even a quiz to determine where my interests lay! I was painfully excited about this. Honestly. I really thought I would answer the questions and there would be a bright light of revelation as my perfect hobby was finally revealed.

Yeah, I failed the quiz. I'M NOT KIDDING. I called my mother to lament my failure, and her response was less than comforting. "Hmm...I can't think of anything you'd be good at," she said thoughtfully. (This from the woman who poisoned us all with Artex fumes. I had a headache from the ages of 5-8 thanks to her.) She is unfortunately correct. It's not that I'm completely useless, but I lose enthusiasm rather quickly. I have friends who are knitters, fabulous knitters who can cable and do Kitchener stitch in their sleep, but I suspect I will always be a person who knits rather than an actual knitter--slow of hands and moving my lips while I read the pattern. I don't have the patience to stick with something for as long as it would take me to become proficient. (Gemini, table for two!)

But I still have the problem of how to answer interview questions about my hobbies, so I flipped through the hobby book for inspiration. And now, when anyone asks what I do with my free time, I'm going to tell them falconry. Or storm chasing. Or puppetry. Or maybe I'll just tell them the truth: I spend a great deal of time sitting on my bum, watching television, sipping tea, and daydreaming.

In which Mel Gibson must be stopped

This entry was originally posted on the Blog A Go-Go on April 10, 2008. I'd be blogging new, but I'm out of town, in case I forgot to mention it. See you Tuesday!

Yahoo posted it's list of 10 Most Historically Inaccurate Movies and Mel Gibson was pretty much responsible for three of the ten--Apocalypto, Braveheart, and The Patriot. (Because Maverick was such a faithful depiction of the Old West?) Anyway, I fully recognize the need to sometimes sacrifice strict historical accuracy in the interest of telling a good story. I will defend The Last of the Mohicans with my last breath just because it was so gloriously over-the-top. I mean, it had EVERYTHING you want in a film--sweeping score, epic scenery, gratuitous buckskin-clad thigh shots, and a couple of extremely memorable and quotable lines. (Who among us hasn't wanted a man to grip us tightly by the shoulders and grind out between clenched jaws, "Stay alive, no matter what occurs! I will find you!" Yeah, it's pretty much unanimous. Forget being modern and liberated. Stick me in a corset and a striped petticoat and say goodbye because my ride is here.)

But I have to draw the line at repeatedly flouting history for no good reason. I mean, there are probably people running around who think that William Wallace actually fathered a child on the Princess of Wales, and that just hurts my heart. (Oooh, and remember the beginning of his career when Mel Gibson was all gorgeous and sulky in Gallipoli? And then when he was all gorgeous and sulky as Fletcher Christian? You can forgive a lot when you think about the mid-eighties. That's when we all thought he was going to have Sean Connery's career and age like a good Burgundy. Oh, how wrong we were.)

As a side note, yes, 300 might not have been historically accurate, but Gerard Butler was wearing a leather loincloth. It gets a pass.

In which I am not athletic

Hey, y'all--guess where I am? Yup, DC. Doing the RWA national thing and probably having a wonderful time. I'm reposting an entry that was originally published on the Blog A Go-Go on April 6, 2008. New posting will resume on July 21. I bet I miss y'all.



I hate to admit it, but my recent physical has led me to obsess on the subject of exercise, as much as I despise it. We've been here before, people. My lack of enthusiasm for most physical activity is legendary. (I blame astrology. I have Libra rising, and everybody knows that any strong Libra or Taurus influence is epically lazy.) But you really can't blame me for not loving athletics for a variety of reasons:

1. I am notoriously uncoordinated. I am capable of tripping over my own feet. When a ball comes toward me, I close my eyes and duck.

2. I am very warm-natured. I run hot, almost all of the time. If the thermostat were permanently set to 73, I would be a very happy girl. Winter is my favorite time of year, followed closely by a nice, chilly fall. Exercise just makes you hotter and screws your inner thermostat up irretrievably.

3. I don't think sweating is a good look for me. My husband disagrees--he thinks it's sexy when I'm pouring perspiration--but I expect him to say nice things about me. (I return the favor. In fact, I'll tell you right now that he has the most gorgeous pair of legs you have EVER seen on any man. Better than Jackman's. Yeah. I'm still not going to go running with him.)

4. I don't like pain. Yes, I admit, stretching out a tight muscle is a glorious feeling, but the sudden snap when you're playing soccer and land on your wrist and the coach has to stop the game and say things to you like, "Euw, it's making a crunchy noise," is a sound that never leaves you. That kind of pain I can live without. Besides, I saw Joe Theismann's ankle. I'm still not over it.

So, those are my reasons for not exercising, and I only have one reason TO exert myself: I'll be forty in June. Much against my will, I am forced to acknowledge that it is time to get aggressive about staying active so I don't end up withered in a rocking chair by the time I'm fifty wondering what happened to my body. I've given it some thought, and these are activities I wouldn't entirely hate. I might sweat a little, and a little fitness might accidentally happen, but I'm not making any promises.

1. Yoga. Alright, I know I claim to do yoga, but the truth is, I haven't been since before my surgery last October. I got busy writing and traveling and neglected to renew my class membership. Besides, this new yoga teacher is HARD. She actually corrects the postures and forces me into a flexibility I'm not sure nature intended for me. But she makes up for it with a nice lavender rubdown of our temples when class is over, and I will go back. I swear.

2. Kegels. Well, honestly. I might be in a rocking chair, but there's no call to be incontinent. Besides, you don't sweat with them and you can do them while you're watching "Ghost Hunters".

3. Boating. Okay, technically, I don't have a boat. But I hear it is VERY good exercise. I mean, it's good exercise if you're raising sails or rowing or hauling in scads of fish, none of which I expect to do. But the fresh air has to be beneficial, no? And the red wine I will drink on board will be good for my heart.

4. Riding. Alright, I will freely admit that as a Texas girl, I am a disappointment to my people. I have horse issues. Well, it isn't so much that I have issues with them as they do with ME. The last THREE times I've ridden have ended with either me bailing off the saddle to avoid serious bodily injury or a nice solid kick to my hip that resulted in a glorious black and yellow bruise in the shape of a perfect horseshoe. (That was NOT my fault, and all the guys in the ambulance totally backed me up. FYI, when your mother told you to wear clean underwear in case of accident, she might have neglected--like mine did--to specify that they shouldn't be leopard print. Because having a couple of Army medics remove my Levi's to assess the damage to my hip wasn't at ALL embarrassing.) But I will admit that I covet jodhpurs and a pair of long riding boots would be SWEET. I also secretly want a tidy little riding crop. I wouldn't actually USE it, but it would be fun to swat at things.

5. Tango. Come on, is there any form of dance sexier than a proper tango? Even Robert Duvall looks sexy when he tangos. (Tangos? Tangoes?) Anyway, it is hot, I don't care who you are. The sobbing music, the meaningful glances. Of course with my lack of coordination, there's always the chance my husband would end up with a stiletto in his calf, but guys who dance tango always looked pained.

6. Cheerleading. I was never a cheerleader, but I was in pep squad, and I miss the uniform. The teeny skirt over the bloomers, the Texas-orange gingham blouse, the hairbows. Ah, good times. But the best were the dance routines we had to do. They were all choreographed to pop songs, and they kicked our tails. We practiced each one hundreds of times, burning up as many calories as the basketball players running wind sprints, I'm sure. (The only drawback is the music. You can only hear Adam Ant's "Goody Two-Shoes" about four hundred times before you want to stick an icepick in your brain and stir.)

7. Bellydancing. I confess, I don't even have to sign up for class for this one because I have DVDs. Yep, I can shimmy in the privacy of my own home, just me and the dog on finger cymbals. But really, what's the point without the filmy costume and lots of Turkish finger foods?

And purely for my own curiosity, why is it that I can run a quarter of a mile on a nice, smooth track in Reeboks and want to tear my own heart out and eat it by the time I finish, but I can run the same distance in an airport in three and a half inch heels and still have enough energy to buy the latest InStyle and a bar of dark chocolate?

Honesty compels me to point out that I am no fitter at 41 than I was on the cusp of 40. HOWEVER, puppies are not for wimps, I'm just saying. Running up and down stairs twenty times a day is probably all the cardio I need.

In which we talk manners

Did I mention I'm in DC? At the RWA national conference? Because I totally am. I'll be back here July 21. In the meantime, here's an entry that was published on the Blog A Go-Go on April 1, 2008.

A charming reader by the name of Jenni send me this link to a game of Victorian manners. You choose your gender, then make choices in various social situations to earn points to determine your standing. I ended up a "picture of politeness", but I'm pretty sure that's only because I knew what to wear in each situation and because I knew how to conduct myself at a fancy dress ball. I did rather disgrace myself in the park.

In which I have carpal tunnel syndrome

I am in Washington DC, kicking up my heels at the RWA national conference. Regular posting will resume on July 21. This entry was originally posted on the Blog A Go-Go March 14, 2008.



But it is totally worth it. I've been reading The Mitfords: Letters Between Six Sisters and it is HEAVY. I just put it on my digital bathroom scale and this thing weighs THREE POUNDS. (That's half a pound less than the state crown the Queen wears to the opening of Parliament each year. And yes, I did put the book on my head to see how heavy that actually is. My neck nearly snapped from the strain, so all I can say is either I am totally unsuited to royal life or the Queen has the neck strength of a plow horse. Probably both.) Anyway, I'm really only comfortable reading this book while lying down, my knees bent to make a bookrest. Unfortunately, it's fabulous, which means I'm going to have to keep at it until I'm a broken woman.

Most books about the Mitford sisters are good, simply because the subject matter is endlessly fascinating. Six beautiful, talented, witty women with vastly different interests and no end of courage and determination, moving amongst the most intriguing figures of the 20th century--it's a recipe for good fiction, except nobody would believe the Mitfords could possibly exist if someone had invented them. (Any time someone questions the eccentricity and spirit of the Marches, I always think, "Yes, but clearly you're not familiar with the Mitfords. The Marches are TAME housecats by comparison." I mean, Unity Mitford was a debutante who curtseyed at the English court and then took tea with HITLER, for heaven's sake. And even Pamela, the least notorious of the sisters, was living independently and running her brother-in-law's home farm when she was barely out of the schoolroom.)

I've enjoyed the biographies I've read about them, but hearing them speak to one another in their own words is much more immediate and revealing. The collection was edited by Diana Mitford's daughter-in-law, Charlotte Mosley, and she did a divine job. Not only are the letters well-chosen, she has designated a symbol for each sister--a hammer and sickle for Jessica, a swastika for Unity, a quill for Nancy, etc. These symbols are bulleted at the top of each letter as a quick reminder of which sister the sender was. FABULOUS. Every editor of every collection of letters EVER should make note of this.

At eight hundred pages, the book is certainly not light reading, but it is compelling, and it is the perfect book to dip in and out of--if you can bear to put it down in the first place.

In which I am out of pocket

I am leaving tomorrow for the RWA national conference in DC, which means I will be out of blogging range. I'm very excited about the trip--I get to see lots of fabulous people, I get to present a RITA Award, I am nominated for a du Maurier Award, and honestly, I have a few new dresses I've been dying to wear. (Now you know me in my shamefulness.) The interesting thing about RWA is how entirely exhausting it is. Because last year's conference was in San Francisco, I flew out a day early and came home a day late, which made for a VERY long trip. This year it's much closer to home--just far enough to justify a quick commuter flight. And it's in DC, a city I have come to appreciate very much.

Here's another secret shame: I am an ambivalent traveler. I love the preparation and planning--I own more Eyewitness travel guides than anyone else I know, some to places I have no intention of visiting. I love sorting the clothes and plotting how to fit everything into a medium-sized carry-on and agonizing over which books to take. But I am a fairly solitary creature. I spend hours a day on my own and I like it that way. Writing demands a lot of quiet time, and when I socialize, I find I run down rather quickly. I discovered last year that the best solution is for me to socialize when I can and when I ought to, and the rest of the time keep to myself. I eliminated the non-essential things from my schedule and many times withdrew to my room with a cup of tea and the do-not-disturb sign.

This time, I'm going a step further. I am frequently inspired by the delightful Kimberly Wilson of Hip Tranquil Chick fame. A few weeks ago I noticed on her Twitter updates that she was having the MOTHER of all bad travel experiences. Her transcontinental trip had her delayed in Houston by 20 hours on the way and diverted for an extra evening to New Jersey on the way home. And yet not one of her tweets was bitter or resentful or crabby, as mine might have been. She was the essence of serenity, and I have decided that THAT is the kind of traveler I want to be. (I manage it sometimes, but on other occasions I am woefully short of the mark.)

So this trip is going to be my mini-retreat. No puppy, no e-mails, no little day-to-day diversions. I am packing a travel candle and a stack of books, tea and magazines and a journal. When I have a few spare minutes, I am going to process the clutter in my head that's bogging down my thinking. I'm going to slip away for a visit to one of my favorite museums, and I am going to spend some time just BEING instead of DOING. (I guarantee you that anyone who has actually experienced the joyous chaos of RWA is laughing hollowly at me right now, but I swear it can be done.)

In the meantime, I am not leaving you entirely without bloggage. I will keep reposting entries from the old Blog A Go-Go every day--can you believe I'm still getting too many hits there to close it down?! Crazy. Anyway, I wish you all a lovely week, and I will be back with fresh bloggery and pictures on July 21. I will also be posting Twitter updates--which in turn will update my Facebook status--while I'm away. Until then!

(And a very happy Bastille Day to my French readers!)

In which I have house envy

This entry was originally posted to the Blog A Go-Go on March 30, 2008.



Our last trip to England involved stately homes--LOTS of stately homes. (At least there were lots to hear my daughter tell it.) We visited Castle Howard and Harewood House which were grand and impressive and well worth the time and expense. But as beautiful as those homes are, they were a little terrifying. I stood in the main hall of Castle Howard and thought about the weight of responsibility that comes with owning such a place. Even provided with enough money and manpower to keep up with endless taxes and repairs, there must be a nearly paralyzing awareness that you are not the first to own this place, but you very well might be the last if you screw it up. Do the owners agonize over new wallpaper or flooring samples, worrying about how their choices will stand up for the next generation? I have been known to take six months to consider paint samples on a sheetrock wall. How much more daunting must it be to authorize someone to take a paintbrush to plaster that was troweled on when Charles II was king?

But for all its splendor, one house stood apart because it wasn't terrifying in the least. Sledmere House almost didn't make our itinerary. The house is only open for the summer season, but a quick e-mail to the house manager confirmed that they would be open for Easter weekend, the only opening before summer and the only weekend we would be in England. It seemed like kismet, and so I dutifully circled "Driffield" on the map and we set out from York. After Castle Howard and Harewood House, Sledmere seemed modest by comparison. Modest, but perfect. It is Georgian, with all the symmetry you would expect. The car park is mercifully tiny. (We hiked for AGES to get to Harewood, and Castle Howard required a jitney--or whatever the British equivalent is.)

Within minutes of parking we were inside Sledmere, welcomed warmly by the volunteers from the Lifeboat. They were fundraising that weekend, and the house was full of the most beautiful spring flower arrangements--something to do with the charity. I had the dim idea that the house was opened by the family with the proceeds going to support the Lifeboat, but I could be wrong about that. (The house is still owned by the Sykes family as it has been for centuries.) But aside from the delicious smell of flowers filling the house, there was music. Organ music. It was astonishing but a bit over the top, I thought, to blast a CD at the visitors. Until I realized the organ was tucked behind the staircase and there was an actual musician beavering away at it. It was, in a word, glorious, and yet the house only felt cozier for it.

We listened as we toured the downstairs rooms, admiring the art and the furniture, and as we peeked inside the drawing room, I realized why Sledmere felt so homey: there was a telephone on the desk. A modern telephone with multiple lines. There was a pile of magazines and correspondence. The sofa cushions were plumped, but clearly had been used recently. The feeling in the room was that the host had been expecting us and had quickly tidied up before we arrived--which is precisely what had happened, although I suspect the volunteers had been the ones doing the cushion-plumping. The rooms we were seeing were lived in.

And that made all the difference. Instead of a formal, forbidding museum, Sledmere is a beautiful, welcoming home, and as we made our way through the house, I scrutinized each room for traces of the family who lived there. (I've already admitted my tendencies to domestic voyeurism.) In one luxurious guest room, I noticed the faintest trace that the bedcover was rumpled. The docent in that room saw my glance and smiled. "This room is in use at present. There is a famous actor from London staying with the family and we've only just removed his cases. Of course I can't say who..." she trailed off. And, maddeningly enough, she didn't. It doesn't matter. Whoever he was, I was bitterly envious.

I consoled myself with a delicious cream tea in the tea room and bought an armful of books and goodies from the shop. (If I told you that the girls working in the tea room were, in spite of being rushed off their feet and almost out of everything, charming and utterly beautiful, you would accuse me of embellishment. Fine, but they were the prettiest girls I saw in Yorkshire, I promise.) And before I left, I bought a CD of the organ music recorded at Sledmere. I may not live in a Georgian manor house, but at least I can fill a vase with spring flowers and turn up the volume on the CD and be mistress of my own little domain.

In which it is time for some frivolity

I am eyebrows-deep into my research at present--India, tea plantations, Darjeeling, women photographers, memoirs of the Raj, and loads of things I can't tell you for fear of spoiling the plot--and every once in awhile, I have to put it aside and look at something intensely silly. So I give you 50 Animals in Fake Beards. (I dearly love that the authors of this felt it necessary to specify that they are FAKE beards. Good to know.)And when you've done with that, have a look at Dogs Looking Like People. I do think it's a cheat to dress your dog up, and one of my firm rules with Deacon is NO clothing except a nice gentlemanly collar and proper leather lead. But if your dog just HAPPENS to look like a person, well, that's entirely fine.

(Why, oh, WHY did this post on Thursday afternoon when it was scheduled for Saturday morning, I have to ask myself? Curious.)

In which you might be into weapons and history

If so, you must go right out instantly and get a copy of Adrienne Mayor's Greek Fire, Poison Arrows, & Scorpion Bombs: Biological and Chemical Warfare in the Ancient World. Heavy stuff, no? But it's riveting, I promise. I was intrigued by the mention of Greek fire, but the rest of the topics are equally fascinating. It would be extremely easy to render the subject dry, but Mayor does a superb job of spinning tales from antiquity. (On the back is a blurb by Martin Van Creveld which brought my senior seminar SCREAMING back to me. I read a LOT of Martin Van Creveld when I was writing my senior paper on George S. Patton. Oy.)

In which we wax nostalgic

I know you are all quite familiar with Fail Blog and Lolcats. But have you seen Epic Wins? Brought to you by the same people who want to know if their cats can has cheezburgers, Epic Wins is a wander through my childhood. Oh, Lemon Twist! Otter Pops! ABC Weekend Specials! It's enough to make you want to put on a Mork-striped shirt and sing along to a Donny Osmond song. Almost.

In which a single man in possession of a great fortune

must be on Twitter. HUGE thanks for reader Karen for sending this my way.

In which we talk scones

Last week a reader requested the recipe for my Whole Wheat Cherry Scones--I think it was on Twitter, but I could be entirely mistaken. The recipe I use is based on the one in The Skinny: How To Fit Into Your Little Black Dress Forever by Melissa Clark and Robin Aronson. (There are loads of tasty things in that book, so you might want to grab a copy for yourself.)Fair warning--I bake in a casual fashion and this recipe reflects that. If you're a purist, stop reading now, I beg you.

Whole Wheat Cherry Scones

3/4 cup dried cherries, roughly chopped (I use one package of dried cherries. You can substitute dried cranberries, raisins, dried blueberries, whatever.)
2 c flour (I use white-wheat)
1 c whole wheat flour
1/4 c sugar (I use raw, and I use a scant 1/4 cup of sugar. In place of the extra sugar, I add a tablespoon of honey to the milk and egg.)
1 T baking powder
1 t cinnamon
1/2 t salt
5 T unsalted butter
2 eggs
1/2 cup milk (plus an extra sploosh. I don't know how much a sploosh is, but it's the extra bit of milk it takes for this dough to come together for me. The half-cup doesn't quite do it.)

Preheat oven to 450 degrees and line a baking sheet with parchment--no grease. Put the dried fruit in a sieve, pour boiling water over and let cool.

Combine flours, sugar, baking powder, cinnamon, salt. Cut in butter completely, add cherries.

In another bowl, whisk together eggs, milk, and honey if you're using it. Add to dry and mix just until it comes together. (This is where the extra sploosh might be necessary. Just don't over-sploosh.)

Pat dough into large circle, cut into wedges--there should be eight. You can also use a biscuit cutter or cut the dough into smaller pieces if you like. Brush each scone with a little extra milk, sprinkle with sugar, bake for 10-15 minutes.


In honor of the Fourth of July, I made some luscious lemonade. Cannot remember where I saw the recipe, so alas, I cannot give credit, but it's painfully simple: Juice several lemons. Add an equal part agave syrup which will make the lemonade honey-colored rather than yellow. Add water to taste. Thinly slice a lemon to float in the lemonade and chill thoroughly. (I used three large lemons and 2/3 c agave nectar. This made a small pitcher.) YUM.

In which I love nuns

This entry was posted on the original Blog A Go-Go on March 2, 2008.




I don't know why, but I have always harbored an affection for nuns. (I actually wanted to BE one when I was five. Then my mother explained that we were Protestant and that nuns very rarely got to date or wear makeup. Reluctantly, I gave up the dream, but I STILL like a nice full black habit with a killer coif.) My husband and father, both raised Catholic, twitch a little when faced with a nun, but I think they're vastly interesting. My favorite desk toy is my boxing nun, Sister Mary Pugnacious II--so named because the first Sister Mary Pugnacious met an untimely end.

I am also a lover of art, and I don't think it gets any better than putting nuns and art together. Yes, I know about Sister Wendy. She's very sweet, and I have been known to do an impression of her that isn't entirely respectful. But I have to say, Sister Randy is a little more up my alley. If you're not familiar, Sister Randy is an animated art critic who just happens to be a bride of Christ. Her creator, Dan Hanna--who totally ought to win a MacArthur Evil Genius Grant--describes her as "a smokin' nun who shoots from the lip and wears a sexy Freudian slip beneath her conservative black habit."

You may recognize Sister Randy from the early days of BBCAmerica when she flitted around between episodes of "Men Behaving Badly" and "Changing Rooms". If you're not familiar, go here and prepare to waste a LOT of time. She's hilarious and a little filthy. If you haven't the time to go right now, I'll leave you with two of her cleaner observations:

*The surest way to start feeling guilty is by getting caught.

*All's fair in love and war, but those who love war can get away with even more stuff.

In which you might be expecting something patriotic

And I will oblige. In light of recent events abroad, it seems that these words--taken from our Declaration of Independence--are just as appropriate and just as timeless as they were in the eighteenth century. Perhaps more so. So, amidst the apple pie and the sparklers and the waving flags, here's a reminder of what it's all about:

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. — That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, — That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security.

Happy Fourth, y'all!

In which everyone needs a little flattery sometime

I firmly concur with Holly Golightly that the best cure for the mean reds is a danish in front of a Tiffany display window. But since I don't live in New York--and seldom find myself wandering around in an evening gown at 7am--the next best thing may be the compliment generator. Go ahead--put in your first name and settle in for a little ego stroking. I'm very sure you deserve it. (I discovered the flattery site via Emily, the unspeakably adorable girl behind the delightful blog, Cupcakes and Cashmere. If you visit her archives, and I strongly suggest you do if you are a girly-girl, please do not miss her Alexander McQueen carry-on bag. I crave.)

In which I muse on things custom-made

I was pondering recently how impoverished our modern lives are compared to people in centuries past--specifically Victorians. (Occupational hazard, you might say.) Anyway, it occurred to me that much of what they considered commonplace, we would find luxurious: leather books, beeswax candles, servants, feather beds, bespoke clothing, and handmade shoes. Odd, isn't it, that perhaps even the rising merchant class could have afforded all those things which we now think of as indulgent? They would have scoffed at our cheap candles which burn poorly, our paperback books, our ill-fitting clothes off the rack. (We won't even discuss how galled the most modest of housekeepers would have been not to have a maid-of-all-work.) What a tremendous delight it is to us to have something made FOR us, crafted by someone who takes time and care with their materials and their technique to fashion something lasting and serviceable and beautiful.

The trouble is, where to FIND such things. Growing up in San Antonio, I occasionally had my shoes resoled by proper cobblers, gentlemen from Mexico who had grown up in the leather trade and could rebuild a shoe stitch by stitch. It was an ART and not a cheap one. I remember a pair of much-loved sandals whose soles I wore out. I could not bear to part with them, and my mother surprised me by taking them to one of these masters to be completely remade. He cut new soles and painstakingly stitched them into place, and when he finished, they were more beautiful than they had been new. (More expensive too, but things that are handmade and have someone's effort put into them DESERVE to be more costly.) Here, I have only a tired shoe repair shop where the proprietor lacks the skill to do anything more complicated than nail a tap to the sole. Three times I have taken him shoes that needed a new strap or a bit of stitching or a replacement button, and all three times he has passed the shoes back to me with a shrug and the excuse, "I don't know how to fix that." (Don't get me started on the death of the skilled professions and the state of our throwaway society. It makes me want to lie down with a cool cloth and rub some lavender on my temples.)

Anyway, the point I'm belaboring is that when we can, we ought to think about supporting those folks who are making the time and taking the effort to create things that will last, things that make our everyday activities a bit less mundane by giving us lovely tools. And of course, one of the best places to find such things is etsy, the marketplace for all things handmade. There are some truly gorgeous things there, and although my transactions have been few, there is something remarkably wonderful about connecting with the person who is actually handcrafting an item that will live in your home.

The pups are allowed out of their confinement as of Friday--rabies shot day!--so we can finally take them in public. In honor of the occasion, I have ordered collars from the etsy shop of The Mod Dog. (And let me just say, I was spoiled for choice. The proprietress, Kyra, uses the most fabulous ribbons to adorn her collars--many of them imported, all of them interesting.) She has been gracious and quick in her communications, and I have found that to be the case with the other sellers I have done business with as well. I cannot WAIT to see the dogs in their custom-made collars, and they will be even more delicious for being half the price I would have paid at a local dog boutique for similar but lesser collars. The moral? Go etsy, good people.

In which I am pondering podcasts

I have made no secret of my love for the podcast. I get giddy over the fact that I can learn a language, listen to talk radio programs, or absorb some literature with so little effort on my part. My ipod is usually clipped to an apron because I listen to podcasts while I clean, iron, do laundry, cook, and generally putter around the house, and I sometimes muse that this is the modern equivalent to my grandmother turning on the radio as she bustled through her chores before television brought "Days of Our Lives" into her life. Anyway, I currently have more than 800 podcasts loaded that I haven't yet listened to, which I suspect may be a sickness of sorts. But I find myself always pulling up the same few podcasters over and over again, working my way through their archives rather than simply listening to what's current. Here's my list of favorites of the moment:

Miette's Bedtime Story Podcast. Sometimes the audio is a bit wonky, but I adore Miette. She reads short stories--a genre of which I am rather woefully ignorant--and there is something soothing about her voice. I cannot place her accent, and she's very elusive about herself. Fine with me. She chooses interesting pieces, some quite short, others not, and I love the fact that she's finding authors with whom I am totally unfamiliar.

Tranquility du Jour. This used to be Kimberly Wilson's Hip Tranquil Chick podcast, and I haven't yet caught up with the reason for the name change, but I am deeply smitten with Kimberly's mission to help us all become hipper and more tranquil. (She's a yoga instructor from DC who believes it is possible to embrace both yoga and glamour in a quest to be fabulous.) If you enjoy the podcast, be sure to check out Kimberly's Twitter feed and her book, Hip Tranquil Chick.

BBC Radio 4 Woman's Hour. News and current events from the BBC with a slant toward women's issues. Makes me feel very intelligent and informed when I listen.

And what about YOU? What's playing in your ear?