Independence Day

We grilled a weekend’s worth of meals on Friday so we could mostly stay inside away from the heat without using the oven this weekend. I did have errands to run, so I drove through River Oaks to see flags flying on the mansions of people who can afford to keep their lawns well-watered during the heat wave. Here are a couple of shots I liked:

Unlike certain cooperative Midwestern dogs, Guinness and Margot didn’t want to pose in t-shirts with eagles and patriotic slogans on them. Maybe they’re exercising their right to protest holidays that involve the noise of fireworks.

Montrose: Bad and Good

Until Tim pointed it out to me, I wasn’t aware that one of my favorite little bungalows in Montrose is being destroyed. I was able to get a few photos before it’s gone:

In happier news, I have about two hundred photos that Tim took at the Pride parade available on Flickr for anyone who’s interested. Click here and enjoy.


The others aren’t like this, but I love the movement of this one!
Thank you so much, Tim, for manning the camera.

Happy Pride!

I fought a migraine all day Saturday, hoping to be rid of it in time to walk to Westheimer for Houston’s nighttime Pride parade. Sadly, the headache didn’t go away, and I thought the heat probably would intensify it, so I had to miss the festivities.

However, Tom and Tim went, and Tim took the Nikon. I have tons of photos to enjoy–I almost feel like I was there! Thanks, Tim.

First up, guess who was at the front of the parade? The Montrose Motorcycle Riding Club, that’s who. Which means you get to see:

click here for more

Hump Day Happy

In honor of Puterbaugh’s birthday, comment with a page number between 1 and 611, and another number between 1 and 25, and I’ll not only tell you what the book 14,000 Things To Be Happy About says, but I’ll randomly pick a second happiness item for you.

I personally would be happy if we could just get a little of the rain that seems to be deluging so many of my friends and contacts in the rest of the country and world. But don’t send it all at once, please. It’s hurricane season, and there can be too much of a good thing.

Houston exhibit and New Orleans Notes, No. 7

I’ll begin by telling you the truth. I was coming home from getting my hair cut a few weeks ago when I had an urgent need to go to the bathroom. So urgent that I called Tom and said shrieked, “CLEAR THE PATH TO THE BATHROOM BEFORE I GET HOME, AND WOE BE TO MAN OR BEAST WHO GETS IN MY WAY.”

It became apparent that Tom’s efforts would not be enough, and thank all that is Art that the Menil Museum was open with parking near the door, because I swear, no one is EVER in their restroom–perhaps the reason why it’s always clean. But once my urgent need was taken care of, I felt guilty. I couldn’t go to the Menil Museum to use the restroom and not visit my Rothkos. By “my” I mean the paintings that would adorn the walls of my home on The Compound were there any justice in the world. Stupid unjust world.

I never made it to my Rothkos because I stumbled over the Menil’s current exhibit: Marlene Dumas: Measuring Your Own Grave. This is its FINAL WEEKEND for any locals who might like to see this South African artist’s mid-career retrospective. Dumas’s paintings are made from photographs of people and have been described as “haunting images of sex, birth, death and political repression.” That quote is from Patricia Zohn’s excellent article for The Huffington Post, which explains it all better than I can. Dumas’s paintings are particularly timely considering the events of the past few days in Iran.

One reason the exhibit has stayed with me is that for months, while I’ve been washing dishes or watching TV or sewing doll clothes or sitting outside with the dogs or brushing my teeth or even sleeping, my mind has been grappling with the concept of art and its purpose(s). I have initiated conversations with other writers and just folks (i.e., sane people who are not writers) and strangers at the gym as I attempt to work this out in my head. Many thoughts have been triggered by recent novels I’ve read by Michael Thomas Ford and Scott Heim, as well as poetry Steven Reigns read at Saints and Sinners, and some discussions he and I had there and a message he sent me after the festival.

All I can say is that the topic hasn’t formed itself into a coherent diatribe from me. Yet. Aren’t you lucky?


Steven Reigns reading at Faubourg Marigny Art & Books.
Me with Steven in the lobby of the Bourbon Orleans.

As well as being a poet, Steven is an artist. Check out his his web site for more information about him and his work.

New Orleans Notes, No. 6, plus more

Every morning but our last in New Orleans, Tim went out for breakfast and brought breakfast back to me in the hotel room. I felt SO spoiled. It was wonderful to have yummy food delivered to me as if I were some Very Important Person.

Our last morning in the Crescent City, we’d planned to meet Lisa, ‘Nathan, and Dan at the Clover Grill, but Tim was feeling a little under the weather, so I walked there alone. I was reminded when seeing Lisa’s photos that I, too, upon watching her whip out her camera, took the obligatory Clover Grill breakfast plate shot. Mmmmmm, grits: one of those things that say “back home” to me, even though my real “back home” is one state east and a few hours north of New Orleans. Roll Tide.

As we were eating, I watched the intersection of Bourbon Street and Dumaine come to life, including a house across Dumaine. Men emerged to sit on the stoop, squint against the sun, and wake up to the day. I noticed a “Happy Birthday” sign spraypainted on one of the windows and was idly writing a little story in my head in between the conversations at our table.

Later, when we stepped outside after our meal, I got one of my favorite shots of the trip, capturing an unexpected, happy moment, when Lisa strode across the street and asked the men, “How was the party?” Why hadn’t I realized that OF COURSE she’d probably been talking to the guys for days as she went back and forth to our favorite little cafĂ©, and undoubtedly she knew all kinds of details about them. I just adore her. And if I’m wrong, Lisa, don’t tell me, ’cause I love the way you never meet a stranger.


Lisa, chattin’ it up with the dudes.

Lovely memories. But back to Houston and this week…

Monday morning I was reminded of how spoiled I got in New Orleans when Tim came home from the gym with a breakfast sandwich from Jack in the Box for me. It was a nice beginning to what could have been a yucky day. June 1 is the first anniversary of my mother’s death, and Sunday night, I finished reading Scott Heim’s We Disappear while sobbing. What an achingly moving book by such a good writer. In earlier times, I’d have grabbed my quill pen and written him a tear-stained letter of admiration and gratitude. Instead, I sent him an e-mail and received one back from him. There’s a lot to be said for today’s more immediate gratification, and those two e-mails will remain intensely special to me always.

In addition, my brother, sister, and I exchanged some funny e-mails. I’m so glad I was born into a family where we were taught the value of humor for release and coping.

I had an eye appointment on Monday afternoon, and since I knew my eyes would be dilated, Tim graciously agreed to be my driver. (Another thing I could get used to. What am I talking about? I already have.) Off we went to the Galleria. While I was waiting for my glasses (a new prescription because my distance vision has improved, while my close-up vision worsened–I blame all that sewing), Tim further indulged me.

As many of you know, Janet Evanovich’s Stephanie Plum novels became some of my favorite escapist reading after a friend recommended them when I was just starting to write A Coventry Christmas. (She did so after she found out that I, like Evanovich, was giving my main character a hamster.) The characters in these books just slay me with their quirks and exploits. I was able to hook my mother on them, and we used to crack up as we recounted the shenanigans of characters like Grandma Mazur, Sally Sweet, Albert Kloughn, and Lula. I think Evanovich has done a masterful job of introducing three hot men–Joe, Ranger, and Diesel–into Stephanie’s life and balancing them over fourteen “numbers” books (Finger Lickin’ Fifteen releases the end of this month!) and four “between-the-numbers” books. When Tim was in the hospital in 2007 and needed something light to read, those were the books I took to him.

So Monday, being the friend he is, Tim agreed to go on a hunt with me for the Bvlgari shower gel that Ranger uses because I wanted to know how Ranger smells. But as we scanned the men’s fragrance shelves in Nordstrom and Macys, none of the names were jumping out at me. Then we went to Etoile Perfumery, where the sales associate pointed out that there were some unisex Bvlgari products, too. I still wasn’t sure about the name, so we went to Borders to look through the books. Tim finally spotted the exact name in one of the later books: Green Tea. Back to Etoile to check out the scent. They didn’t have the shower gel, but since Tim’s out of Marc Jacobs, he said he’d be willing to wear this because it smells as delicious as Stephanie Plum says. I happen to have a checking account that I shared with my mother that still has money in it, so we paid for it using that account. She’d have gotten a kick out of the Ranger connection. Plus it was ON SALE, as it originally had been part of a set, and the other item was missing. What budget-conscious mother doesn’t teach us the value of buying stuff that’s ON SALE, right?!?

Then I almost got us eighty-sixed from the Galleria. Apparently, there are NO PHOTOS signs at every entrance to this shopping mecca. Which is weird, because I’ve ALWAYS taken photos there, especially at the ice rink. I guess it’s because only a terrorist would take a photo of a ginormous American flag. Ha, I got my shot before the security guard yelled at me. For scale, that’s Tim standing on the walkway directly beneath the flag.


He smells good, too.

I would totally invite her for Survivor night

I went on another outing to Murder By the Book, which as you know is among my favorite places in Houston because it’s not only full of books but good people. In fact, thanks to two of its good people, I’m making progress on a New Novel. Send lots of good energy my way, please.

Enough about me. Today a writer I’ve featured on here before, Leann Sweeney, had a signing at Murder By the Book. Leann is the author of the Yellow Rose mystery series featuring Houston P.I. Abby Rose. I love a good mystery set in Houston, and I’ve been looking forward to Leann’s next book. So I was a little surprised when advance buzz informed me that this was a NEW series: A Cat’s In Trouble Mystery. Was I READY for this? After all, I like Abby Rose. And I’m a dog person. Not that there’s anything wrong with cat.

Today, I got my questions answered. Abby Rose will probably return one day. (Yay!) For now, I get to enjoy new character Jillian Hart, quilter and cat companion who must investigate when one of her three cats–Chablis, Syrah, Merlot–falls victim to a possible catnapper in Jillian’s small South Carolina town. Just as an eager reader would hope, Jillian’s sleuthing uncovers more missing felines and a murder in Mercy.

One of the things I’ve learned about Leann Sweeney is that she enjoys reality television. She likes to watch the dramas unfold and imagine what motives and schemes are going on behind reality TV’s very human faces. I totally get it. I minored in sociology because I’m fascinated by human social behavior. A show like Survivor provides plenty of examples of how our best and worst traits manifest when we try to coexist with others. And after all, a writer’s family can’t provide ALL the material for her books–at least if she wants to keep being invited back for holidays.

I’m really looking forward to reading The Cat, the Quilt, and the Corpse and glad to hear that Leann is already working on its follow-up. I hope Jillian–like Abby Rose before her–manages to outwit, outlast, and outplay the bad guys.