The Scent of Vanilla

Ah… Father’s Day.  Like a normal holiday except what you do doesn’t matter.

A little after I moved here, I started looking for vanilla.  I wanted some good vanilla.  Maybe white vanilla.  I had had enough of artificial vanilla extract, and looked everywhere, willing to pay any price.

Later, I was sitting at a picnic table at the kids’ school BBQ and a lady next to me was chatting on the phone.  When she got off the phone she explained that she was speaking to her father.  I said what I always say, which is that she’s awfully lucky to have a father, leaving out that my father has been dead since before any of my children were born.  She told me her dad was hilarious because he was always going down to Mexico and bringing her huge bottles of vanilla.

Long story short, I haven’t really seen or talked to that woman since, but she left an enormous bottle of real vanilla at the school office for me.

I like to pretend that it was a present from my father… even though, yeah, he’s been dead for almost 15 years.

My mom used to give me vanilla too.  White vanilla.  That was actually the last present she gave me.  From now on, there will be no more presents.

I think of my father the most often when I look at my hands.  My father had beautiful hands, probably the most beautiful I have ever seen, and I got them.  Slender bones, mildly protruding tendons, very little hair, browns easily, pretty shaped, strong nails.  And now his hands are gone, like all my other ancestors on that side.  All gone.  Just me standing with my fingers rustling the tall grass, and it’s fine.

And I feel alone.

It’s a lie.  There’s my one son running by with his perfect eyebrows and his unusual twisting conversation.  Another one is glaring at me with green eyes that say he hates me, but his eyes are not green because my eyes are green.  Another boy is blond, hair so light people don’t think he’s my kid.

And my daughter asked me what she could do to celebrate Father’s Day.  She made brownies.  The vanilla is in them.

And he is in all of them.

My Adventure in Red Satin

Every year, my husband has a work party before Christmas.  It’s in a ballroom at a fancy hotel on the waterfront.  I look on it as one of the events of the year and what I wear to it totally matters.  When it comes to the dress I wear to such an event, I think of it with relatively the same feelings I have when I buy wrapping paper.  As long as it’s shiny, it only has to last 15 minutes, so quality is not the main concern. 

This last year, an obsession took hold of me with its deep vermilion claws.  I had to wear a red dress to this party.  The year before, I wore a gold dress I bought for literally eleven dollars.  It looked like crap on the hanger because the dress had no shape, but I knew its potential.  Obviously, it had not been flashy enough if I had a hankering to wear red.  Not just any red.  I wanted to wear red satin. 

I looked everywhere.  Sadly, shopping is not one of the charms of this part of the island.  But I had been infected by this bug and I had had my eye out for a dress for most of last year.  Actually, it was hard to find any at all.  It seems islanders don’t wear dresses (or pantyhose).  The date for the party was coming up fast, and I hadn’t found anything.  I ended up resorting trying on everything in my closet hoping to figure out what to wear.  I had a few options, because my closet is awesome, but none of my options were the red I had been fantasizing about.  Three days before the party, I was at a Salvation Army going through their dresses. 

I found something.  It was $13.  I’m not even sure if it was satin.  Like I said, it’s wrapping paper so the satin look was all I was going for.  It could have been made of paper for all I cared.  I didn’t even bother to try it on, it was so obviously going to fit. 

I went up to the register to pay, and as I was standing there, waiting for my turn, something about the way the fabric twisted in my fingers touched a nerve, brought me back to another place and another time.  It was a familiar feeling, and suddenly I knew that my dress was not a dress. 

It was a nightgown.

I let the thing unfurl and held it up.  That was why the fabric was in such incredible condition.  It was a nightgown circa 1997 and it had been mushed in the back of someone’s drawer for twenty years.  The reason it wasn’t with the nightgowns in the thrift store was because nightgowns are not made like that anymore.  Nowadays your nightgown is see-through, or it doesn’t cover your thighs, or it’s cotton and stored with your period panties.  This red satin number was a classy piece of opaque beauty and I saw then that the neckline was extraordinarily low, because… you aren’t supposed to wear a bra with it.

The teller called me forward and I bought the thing anyway.  I took it home and ironed it, found that it had a rip in it, which I immediately, expertly repaired.  Then I tried it on.  The neckline was ghastly, but I’m not incompetent when it comes to altering clothing, so I brought it up a few inches.  Then I styled the thing.  I got a black belt, a black shrug, black stockings with a rose pattern (they had holes in them in at least four places, but I treat my pantyhose like we’re in London in 1943, so we’re good), black high heels with the criss-crossy straps, red stone necklace where the stones are carved into leaves, and red and black feathers for my hair clip.

Then I showed my husband what I planned to wear.  I told him very specifically, “Now honey, some of the ladies at the party might be sassy enough to know this is a nightgown and say something about it.  Are you going to be able to deal with the fallout of my wearing this highly inappropriate outfit to your special party?”

He shot me a weird look and quipped, “I’ll just tell them you’re already dressed for the after-party.”  Then seeing my smile, he continued, “Really, you’re being crazy.  You are covered from elbow to calf.  No one is going to make the connection.”

Yes, nothing weird happened, except I have something to say about wearing your nightgown to a party.  It’s awesome.  Nightgowns do not have the same binding stitches and seams of normal party clothes.  My belt gave the garment shape it wouldn’t have had otherwise and I was supremely comfortable all night.  I tucked some slippers in the car for the ride home.  I would be driving, so I tossed the heels and put on my slippers.  I was very ready for bed by the time I got home.

BONUS STORY! 
 
I have a shiny, strapless iron grey ball gown in my closet.  I wear it to the opera if you’re wondering where I would wear something like that.  Regarding this particular dress, I had this fantasy of wearing a white, short sleeved, collared, button-up-the-front shirt under it.  A few weeks ago, I was in the mall and in a ladies clothing store.  The sales rep approached me and asked me what I was looking for.  I said my fantasy shirt and the lady said, “I’m sorry, we don’t have anything with short sleeves.  We do have one with long sleeves if you’d be interested in trying that on.”

I said no.  I wanted short sleeves, because if you know anything about getting laced into a strapless dress, you'll know, that's warm.  You're not going to want long sleeves.  I did not explain this, but instead moved to leave when her coworker piped up, “You’re not going to be able to find anything like that with short sleeves here in the mall.  You should buy the one we’re selling and take it to a tailor to get it altered.”

I scoffed pleasantly and said I did not want that.  I know a bit about altering clothes and do you know what’s the hardest (at least for me)?  Sleeves?  Do you know how much difficulty everyone is spared when a garment lacks sleeves? 

But the Lord gave us sleeves!  He gave us sleeves so we would not sunburn our shoulders!  He gave us sleeves so we didn’t have to worry about shaving our armpits daily!  He gave us sleeves so we wouldn’t have to beg for the coats of creepy men we don’t want to owe anything to!  And so that the nice men wouldn’t be forced to chivalrously remove their coats and then freeze or forfeit their niceness!  He gave us sleeves so we would have to think harder, think about curves and how to sew a tuck, so we would be resourceful and brave when it came to cutting expensive fabric!  He made us independent and bold… with two sleeves, because asymmetrical blouses make zero sense.  Just saying.

Back to the store, the saleslady kept saying that the only way I could get what I wanted in a short sleeve was to buy their shirt and have it altered, expensively at a tailors.

I snagged my shopping buddy and moved for the exit, as I casually explained that I would not hire a tailor.  I knew enough about altering clothing that it would be better for me to simply recut one of my husband’s old shirts rather than do what she suggested.

And the sales girl literally said with a hostile snoot, “Good for you.  There’s a Tip Top down the hall.  I’m sure they can help you.”

I really could not get out of that store fast enough. 

My friend and I had to shake off the icky all the way to the next store, where I found a white, short sleeved, collared, button-up-the-front shirt in my size for $5.  For the record, it was not a Tip Top and it looks exactly how I imagined it would look under my dress.

P.S. Sorry about the lack of pictures.  You're going to need to use your imagination.

Strap a Camera to her Head

Have you ever seen a movie called Dark Passage?  Probably not.  It’s a Humphrey Bogart movie where a good deal of the first part of the film is filmed in the first person.  It was probably revolutionary at the time.  It’s kind of like a first person shooter video game where all you see is the gun you’re carrying and the targets.

In Dark Passage Humphrey’s a convict escaped from prison.  It’s the first few hours of the chase and anything could happen.  At first, you can hear Humphrey’s voice, but you can’t see his face.  All you can see are his hands and his legs when he looks down and anything he sees, you see.  For all you know, you are the one experiencing the action.  You don’t know who to trust.  You get in a car with a man who offers you a ride and he tells you how he made the upholstery for his seats out of an old circus tent.  You listen to the radio and the announcer tells the listener to be on the lookout for… you.  Eventually, you make it to a cosmetic surgeon who lost his medical license.  When you wake up and take the bandages off… and… sadly the story reverts to a third person presentation and you are no longer Humphrey Bogart hiding in shadows or showering in a beautiful woman’s apartment while she buys clothes for you.

I was thinking about reality TV today and how I don’t think I’d be particularly interested in watching a show where an actress is filmed from a third person perspective.  You know what would be more fun?  If you just strapped the camera to her forehead and we got to see what really goes on. 

Can you imagine hanging out from Charlize Theron’s perspective while she taught the male cast of Mad Max to knit and then imagine you were still with her when she went home to read her maid’s complaints.  Just as an aside, those are both rumors about her.  That she refuses to speak to her maid.  If her maid has something to tell her, she has to write it down in a book, which Charlize will read when she is dang good and ready.  Beats me if either of those things are true, but that does sound like a good day to me.  Knitting with steam punk clad boys to return home at the end of the day to no housework.

The idea of the reality show would be to remove the actress’s beauty from the equation.  Half of what’s fun about filming an actress in reality type role is to keep the camera on her and on her prettiness.  This would be taking the whole thing from a different perspective.  It would be to give the audience an idea of what it’s like to be the beautiful actress.  How do people talk to her?  What do they say?  Does she regularly have to deal with a lot of difficult news?  People complaining and wanting more from her?  Is she paid so much that everyone simply expects her to do everything and carry a production?  Are fans always nice?  Do they whine to her that the movie didn’t end the way they hoped?

I was watching an interview with Kevin Bacon where he said he got all dolled up by professional makeup artists in order to experiment with the idea of anonymity.  Meaning, he walked through a mall without being recognized.  He said it was awful… and obviously not what he was used to.  So, if he gets recognized everywhere he goes, try strapping a camera to his head and show the audience what it’s like to be Kevin Bacon for the day.

Okay… the camera needs to be discrete.  Maybe he could have a camera pen over his ear.  I’d watch that.

I Don't Always Read, but When I Do...

I read something no one has read lately.  I mean, why would they?  I finished reading this book this week and here are my thoughts on it.

A Winter Away by Elizabeth Fair (copyright 1957)

My second favourite novel of all time is Something Light by Margery Sharp.  I was checking out the adorable new cover the novel has lately been given on Amazon and the suggestion box at the bottom suggested A Winter Away.  It’s about a young lady who goes to work for an extremely cranky estate owner who wants her to help him catalog his library.  I am a trifle ecstatic when it comes to the idea of cataloging a library the old fashioned way.  I’m going to do that for my own collection of books someday.  Sadly, there is not much adventure in the library in the novel.

The book has such understated romance in it, I honestly thought it was going to end without Maud having selected a romantic partner from the two young men presented.  I felt that would have been very modern for the time, but alas, she does choose one of them in the last chapter.  Though, I honestly have no idea why she bothered.  She spends the entire book complaining about one and then the other.  And I do suppose it’s good to smash the idea that one can only love perfection in one’s partner… it was also good to have a hard boiled egg roll across the floor and have everyone stop what they’re doing to stare at it.

However, I would like to take this opportunity to insert what I would write about a girl cataloging a library, which I think is utter perfection.  However, it will be obvious why I never write a book about my fantasy very quickly.

Lilian sat down at the desk.  She changed the height of her chair twice before she got to the height she found most satisfactory.  Reaching across the desk, she chose a pen with a long feather on the end of it.  It was not a ridiculous pen.  It was a safe ball-point pen even though the feather attached to the end of it was decorative.  

She scanned the stack of books to her left and without prejudice selected the book on top.  It was a book about bathrooms.  It gave tips on how to design a beautiful bathroom, and later how to clean your bathroom of choice with as little fuss as possible.  It was a cherished book.  

Lilian flipped open the front cover and removed the paper cover attached.  Then, without a moment’s delay she threw the paper cover immediately into the recycling bin without looking at it for another second.  Now, the book would always be held comfortably without the villainous, flimsy paper cover biting into another reader’s hand.  

What was left was a book with a white cover with gold lettering on the spine and on the front cover.  It had become, with that simple step, a thing of beauty.

With her spidery handwriting, Lilian prepared the envelope and card for the back cover.  She wrote the name of the book and the name of the author.   After the ink was dry, she peeled the wax paper from the adhesive on the back of the envelope and carefully centered it on the inside of the back cover.  It went down perfectly without a bubble or a ripple.

She nodded her head in delight and set the finished book aside.

The second book on the stack was a paperback.  She’d have to construct a hardcover for it!  Adventures in the library never ceased!

I hope you all enjoyed that.  There was nothing like it in that book.

Hybrid Afghan

This is an afghan I made last year and I just finished weaving all the ends in last week.  This is a special blanket and I’ll tell you why.  It was made with one hundred percent new materials.  Normally, I don’t do that.  People have unloaded an incredible amount of craft material on me that someone purchased and didn’t use before they died.  Moving to BC meant that I left any craft material I wasn’t madly in love with back in Alberta.  So last year, I didn’t have the same craft supply to draw projects from, so I decided to try something different that required initial shopping; a hybrid blanket.  This is how it went down. 

First, we have the fabric.  The purple fabric was fabric I bought years ago, because I loved the print.  It was probably around the time prints like that first came out.  Now they’re everywhere and that is the least interesting coloured square.  I almost didn’t use it, but I wanted the blanket to be actual blanket size and the extra colour brought me into the right dimensions for that.  Then we have the green and the grey.  Both of those I got out of a remnant bin, so they were super cheap.  The yellow was on sale.  The black and the pink were full price.  I only bought half a meter of those and my wallet burned while I did it.  So, since I only had half a meter of the black, pink and yellow, I sat down with my calculator and made the squares the best size they could be to make the most of the fabric.  I used the same amount of all colours.  I cut all the fabric and all the quilt batting.  I did not have a quilters wheel.

So, then, we get down to sewing on the machine.  I sewed each block right sides together with a matching block (didn’t want weird colours bleeding through the yellow per say).  Turned them inside out, stuck in my quilt batting, and then sewed an extra line all the way around the outside.  Now, those of you who know what I did, know that I then had a little hole in each one of those blocks between the seam from when I turned it inside out.  Some of them got sewn shut when I sewed the square about 5mm from the edge.  Some of them didn’t. 

Next, I took white baby weight yarn and blanket stitched by hand all the way around all the squares, so I would have something to crochet into.  It also closed any remaining holes.

I used the same baby white yarn to crochet three border lines around each square.  Doing one square probably took about an hour. 

Then, I arranged all the squares the way I wanted them and whip stitched them together… on both sides. 

Then, I did the border.  The border just went in a seashell type pattern until I ran out of yarn.  I also added a little gray line on one side that I think it quite charming.

Finally, I weaved in the ends and proclaimed it finished.

Now, I have some things to say about this project. 

The sewing part took a couple weeks and the crocheted part took like six months.  I had no idea quilting was such an easy hobby.  Really easy.  That’s why you go into those quilting shops and the ladies have cut their fabric into diamonds two inches long and with the seam allowance, there’s only one inch that’s visible.  They’re trying to make it harder.  That’s the goal, because that’s the only way quilting is going to stand up to other hobbies with a similar ratio of money spent on materials versus how long you were entertained by it.

The next thing to point out is that crocheting into a solid piece of fabric is the pits.  When you crochet into the work you have already completed it has a bit of give to it that is very pleasant and I completely took for granted.  The weave of quilters fabric has zero give and it was like crocheting into cement.  My hands would hurt after I had done a few lines when I used to be able to crochet for days.

The other thing is that I have crocheted in public a lot.  It’s a really good way to prevent boredom in hospitals and waiting rooms.  Not only do you have the work you’re doing, but you get a lot of admiring glances and comments when you’re crocheting something pretty.  Crocheting something interesting is how you pick up people in waiting rooms.  It’s the equivalent of having a dog at the park.  There’s a handy icebreaker, so everyone thinks they can talk to you.  Sadly, I hardly ever got admiring comments or glances when I was working on this thing.  No one knew what it was I was trying to do.  The usual was someone glancing at me and saying, “Cute fabric.”  But that only happened when I was working on the pink.

I wish I could remember how this priced out.  I didn’t buy enough of the baby weight white yarn and had to buy more twice, which I found very demoralizing considering a huge percentage of my usual crafting materials are donated to me and then sold for a profit.

Basically, if I ever wanted to prove that I am persistent to the point of stupidity, this blanket was my way of proving it.  I’m like a mountain goat who keeps banging things with her head. 

Upcoming Novels

This winter has been a really good time to write.  I mean, really write.  Finish unfinished projects.  I have a lot of unfinished projects.  Let’s talk about them.  Of course, I can’t guarantee that any of them will actually be available for purchase anytime soon, but you know, all forward motion counts.

Kiss of Tragedy

This is a book of mine I originally published under the title Vampire Kiss, which is not a very inspiring title if you ask me.  When you write online and publish a chapter a week, unless you have the whole thing ready to go when you begin, you might have to post online under a working title.  I really felt that was the case with this story, and rather than alienate my readers, I left it under the old title.  Though, it’s really not a very good title for the book, as anyone who has read it will tell you.  

The book had the tag lines:

Vampire hunting can be dangerous business, until he turns out to be something worse.

He’s not a vampire, but he kisses like one.

Anyway, those were the original tag lines.  Hopefully, I’ll be able to come up with something a little more accurate and fun for what I consider to be my best novel when it comes out in ebook and soft cover this spring.

His Sixteenth Face

Originally, I posted this short story on fictionpress.com (as a side note there are also a few chapters of Kiss of Tragedy posted there too).  I’ve been working on a complete novel version of His Sixteenth Face for almost ten years.  What can I say?  It’s a really tricky subject and has required a lot of reworking.  I once finished it and then chopped off 35,000 words to go back to the spot where I was blocked to begin again.  It gets better every time I touch it, but it’s a really courageous piece of work, and I have seen a lot of similar pieces bomb, so I have to be careful with it.  It’s my bonsai tree, in that it can’t get bigger because I keep chopping stuff off.  I posted the first chapter in December of 2009, so my goal is to finish before it has its tenth birthday as an unfinished book.  

The first chapter is still available for reading so, here’s the link.

https://www.fictionpress.com/s/2749766/1/His-Sixteenth-Face

If you read the first chapter and like it, please fire me off a line saying so.  I could really use the encouragement at this point.

A Little Like Scarlett

I decided to write a partial autobiography of my teenage dating years.  The thing is, as an author it is my duty to write in detail about any unusual experiences I have had.  So, this is that.  Unusual experiences I had while dating as a teen.  So, far I’m up over 50,000 words.  It’s pretty fun.  The next time I post about it, I’ll post a sample.  

Where Her Garden Grows

This is the sequel to Behind His Mask.  It might not be published under that title as I still feel dissatisfied by those words as the banner for the story.  But, on the whole, I’m very pleased with how this book has turned out.  

So, there you have it.  What I would really like is to publish two books every year.  At least, I should be able to do one a year.  Hopefully… You know… hopefully.

Yes, I Have to Display my Pantyhose

So, he turned to me and said, "Do you have to display your pantyhose?"  His tone suggested this was the most ridiculous thing ever.  He was wondering why I couldn't wad all of them into a ball and shove them in one giant heap to the back of the drawer.

I considered it for a moment and then replied, “Yes.  Yes, I do.”  My voice was full of conviction.  I was not going to compromise and he nodded and backed up… as he should.
 
The thing with pantyhose is that you need to know at a glance what you have.  You require a full arsenal of pantyhose.  There is nothing worse than needing a pair of black sheers and racing around the house like a lunatic from the laundry room, back to your room, and then back to the laundry room again before you have somewhere you have to be.  So, for organization and serenity of mind, displaying them is the only thing to do. 

I made a display rack before that I end up being very disappointed in (the pockets for them weren’t quite big enough), and if you Pinterest pantyhose storage solutions, you’re going to be underwhelmed.  Which is weird.  Usually Pinterest is a powerhouse of knowledge.  Most women I know hate, hate, hate pantyhose, so that’s probably why. 

I needed something that could be vertical and on the wall.  Anyway, I was wandering around the shops after Christmas, and I saw an old box that had been used for displaying Christmas cards.  I detached it from the wall and took it up to the front.  “Can I have this?”

The woman looked at me and chomped on her gum a little.  “No one wants that.  No one would ever want that.  But check to see if there are any cards stuffed in the back.  Really, no one wants that.  It’s garbage.  You don’t look like a hoarder, but if you pick up garbage like that and take it home then you are one.”  Okay, that’s not what she said, but if non-verbal communication is a thing, then that is what she meant.  So, I got the box for free.

Success… sort of.

I hate red most of the time, so I decided to give my little stand a makeover.  It was sort of weird.  Because my expectations were so low, I decided that I couldn’t buy anything for this project.  I did the whole thing with old paper, contact paper and scotch tape.  I’m really not crazy about the contact paper I used, but I have that kind on hand because the pattern is chaotic you can overlap it any which way you like without having to match up the pattern.  It’s good if you’re cheap and hate red, otherwise, try to be cooler.

That’s what I think is the most depressing about this solution, is that I know this isn’t going to last.  I’m going to end up making a new pantyhose wall hanging thing.  I did this last year too!  If only I could be cooler!