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A Grand Old Time

Whoever coined the phrase “kids say the darnedest things” got it wrong in my opinion. I think it’s old people who deserve this distinction. A few examples from my personal experience:

 

When I announced it was teatime and asked my grandparents if they would like to join me. My grandmother demurred but my granddad had a question. 

Him: Do you have crumpets?

Me (already amused): No, I don’t have any crumpets, Granddad. Anyway, do you even know what a crumpet is?

Him: No. But I know you're supposed to have them with tea.

 

When I walked into my grandmother’s bedroom and she gave me a strange look (not an uncommon occurrence these days since she has dementia).

Me: How are you feeling, Grandmother?

Her: You have hips.

That Time I Wished I Hadn't Gone Vegan

Some of my fondest memories of spending summers in Michigan as a kid are of the seasonal ice cream shops. Shuttered most of the year, the corner ice cream shops were always open for business during the warmer months. My grandmother would give my brother and me enough money to buy us each a cone and we'd race down the block to claim our treats. The ice cream shop down the street from my grandparents' old house in Detroit was housed in a narrow brick building. As I recall, it may have been attached to a larger structure, a business whose purpose I never knew because all I cared about was the ice cream window. That's where the magic happened! There was a metal shutter the ice cream man would raise when he was open for business and sad was the day when we ran up there only to find the shutter inexplicably closed.

The Frosty Boy ice cream shop in these pictures is in Belleville, Michigan, where my grandparents have retired. I run or drive by it every day and wish I could order a vanilla cone and sit down on one of the benches to savor it. I don't even want to do it for the taste (I doubt I'd enjoy eating dairy ice cream after all these years), but rather, I'd like to experience again what it was like to visit the ice cream shop as a child, to feel the joy of licking an ice cream on a hot day, trying to eat it all before it inevitably dripped onto my chin and fingers. 

I rarely ever wish I weren't vegan. But passing by this place every day is tantamount to torture. Maybe I'll stop by to inquire if they have coconut milk ice cream. It can't hurt to ask.  

Greetings from Belleville, Michigan!

My grandparents left Detroit for the sleepy community of Belleville, Michigan (population 3,990) about a decade ago because my grandmother wanted to live out her years near a lake. About 30 miles from Detroit, Belleville is the type of town that folds up after dark. The one main street running through its downtown is lined with potted flowers (petunias, I'm told) and old-timey looking storefronts. The town motto is "Quality Living," an enticement for retirees like my grandparents for sure. Belleville Lake is picturesque in that way you'd expect a body of water in this state to be. I've been here since Wednesday and as this visit will be longer than my typical week-long stays every year or so, I should have plenty of time to acclimate to small-town living. In between helping my grandparents with household responsibilities and nursing my grandmother back to health, I hope to get ample writing done. I think the quiet will help. It certainly can't hurt.

A Little Praise for Writing Groups

While some writers like critique groups, others dismiss them entirely, considering them to do more harm than good. Many in the second camp argue that writing groups, with all those varied opinions, foster a perpetual state of rewriting. Some writers internalize group criticism so much they begin to rewrite their work to satisfy the groupthink rather than themselves.

I understand that writers groups aren’t for everyone. Some people work better independently and are adept at critiquing their own writing. Others prefer to work in partnership with only one trusted fellow writer when it comes time for a second set of eyes to pass over their manuscripts. This was my preferred method of critique until five years ago, when my friend, Yvonne, and I started our own writing group.

Opening Doors in San Miguel de Allende

Buenos días from picturesque San Miguel de Allende in Guanajuato, Mexico, where my husband, Matt, and I are vacationing for a week. About a month ago, we found ourselves antsy and stressed, the consequence of having gone six months without a vacation. Pair our wanderlust with the miserable weather Houston has been experiencing lately and we had every reason to take a jaunt.

We wanted to go somewhere we’d never been, and following the advice of friends who vacation here frequently, we were intrigued by the notion of a vacation in Mexico that didn't include beach resorts and obnoxious tourists. This colonial-era city, located in Central Mexico, has turned out to be exactly what we wanted. With a population of around 140,000, San Miguel has a quaint, quiet appeal, just perfect for someone who enjoys the slow life as much as I do.

Ah…the scenery. Bountiful bougainvillea and pretty buildings in pastel and primary shades abound. But I’ve been most enchanted by the Baroque architecture, especially the stunning, hand-carved doors of buildings both commercial and residential. Seriously—I could walk around all day looking at the doors and nothing else. All these doors have me thinking about the “doors” in my life. It’s been a year since I launched my website and started blogging, and even though it took me quite a few months to get my “blog legs,” I’m pleased with where I am now. For years, blogging was a door I was afraid to open for fear of judgment and rejection. But once I opened that door and crossed the threshold, it was easy to leave the fear on the other side. And to close the door against it!

Doors are portals, representing transitions and new beginnings. But they also represent endings. Over the past few years, I’ve found myself closing doors to negativity, to people and behaviors that are no longer welcome on my journey. Yet, I am also opening doors to new, positive experiences and relationships.

There are still many unopened doors ahead of me, but I don’t see them as permanent barriers. I’ve been submitting my fiction to publications recently, and while the rejections I’ve received represent closed doors, at least I’m knocking. Someone will open eventually. I’m sure of it.

Back to San Miguel de Allende, this charming, hospitable city, with its doors standing wide open to visitors. It’s no wonder the foreign population here—primarily U.S. and Canadian citizens—numbers almost 8,000. Everyone on the street says hello—and genuinely, too, with a smile, as though you are already acquainted and they are happy to see you again. As I type this, I’m sitting in the verdant garden of our casita. A rooster I’ve dubbed Cogburn is sounding his alarm, while other birds croon merrily in the trees. The sun is shining and the temperature is a sunny 70 degrees. This vacation is nothing short of sublime. San Miguel is a door I am glad I opened.

My Dentist Is Better Than Yours

We both have Rudy to thank for our chompers!

Other people can have their celebrity musicians and actors, but I’m starstruck by writers (and Stella McCartney, of course). Few experiences quicken my pulse like being in the same room with a beloved author, whether at a reading in an auditorium or at a cozy bookstore signing. But actually sitting down and conversing with a writer I admire? That really turns me into a slobbering fangirl.

So imagine the puddle of drool at my feet the other night when I hung out with Justin Cronin, the author of one of my favorite books, The Passage. He writes the kind of literary speculative fiction I can only dream of pulling off. The City of Mirrors, the final book in the Passage trilogy, came out this week. I’d been awaiting its release since finishing The Twelve in 2012. Four. Long. Years.

When I found out Justin was doing one of his first book signings for it here in Houston, I immediately made plans to attend. Even though he lives in Houston and has done numerous readings and signings here before, for various reasons, I’d been unable to attend those. Nothing was going to keep me from this one. As luck would have it, my friend Rudy (who is also my dentist) is a long-time friend of Justin’s (and also his dentist) and had been promising that he would make an introduction one day. Rudy and I agreed to meet at the bar where the signing would be held.

By the time my husband and I arrived at the signing this past Thursday night, the line to meet Justin snaked outside and around the corner. We headed straight inside because Rudy had assured me I’d still get to meet Justin and have my book signed. Inside, we were lucky to find a table. For almost two hours, we watched Justin shake hands, sign books, and pose for pictures. After he signed his last book and the crowd dissipated, Rudy waved him over (Justin’s delightful wife, Leslie, had already joined us).

Justin collapsed into a chair at our table, exhausted from being “on” for several hours. Yet, he talked with us for 45 minutes and seemed thrilled to do so. I told him The Passage got me through my home remodel in 2011 — I was so absorbed in the story I could barely hear the drilling and banging. He joked that my experience rivaled that of readers who’ve said his books got them through deployments in the Middle East. At one point, my husband outed me, telling Justin how nervous I was to meet him. Justin said, “All you had to do was come to Central Market. I’m there shopping in my shorts and flip-flops all the time.” If I’d only known!

After Justin left, I thanked Rudy profusely for keeping his promise. I still don’t know how I’ll repay him. In the meantime, I need to figure out if any of my other friends know Stephen King.

For the Love of Bunny

Just gonna block the sidewalk, bunny? How rude!

I’m a sucker for cute animals, especially ginormous cute animals. Luckily for me, Intrude is a thing. The brainchild of Australian artist, Amanda Parer, Intrude is a free, public art exhibition featuring giant, sculptural bunnies constructed of nylon. Visitors are even encouraged to touch! If you never made it to FAO Schwarz to snuggle the jumbo-sized stuffies, these bunnies just might fill that void.

When I found out Houston was one of only four US cities slated to host the bunnies, I knew I had to see them. With temperate weather and clear skies, this past Wednesday was the perfect night for it. Although the 40-ft bunnies are on view during the day, dusk until right after sunset is the time to go. Because they’re internally illuminated, the bunnies are at their most flattering in the gloom. The whimsical spectacle reminded me of a fairytale. If that fairytale is about an adorable woodland creature who eats an enchanted leaf and morphs into a humongous, man-eating beast.

This one DOES look a bit smug.

Seems my suspicion of the bunnies’ underlying malevolence was on point. When I read the exhibition description later, I discovered Parer’s bunnies are indeed “intruders.” Where most Americans equate bunnies with Peter Cottontail, Australians see bunnies as environmental behemoths that have nearly destroyed their ecosystem since being introduced to the continent in the 18^th century. Yikes. I also found it not a little ironic that the bunnies’ temporary Houston home is just in the shadow of what was once a looming, destructive force of a different kind — the old Enron building. Dun dun DUNNNNN!

Now, do you still want to hug the bunnies? If so, today is their last day in Houston before they invade Los Angeles. You’ve got until 9:00 p.m., so hop to it. 1600 Smith Street.

Ode to Joy

I used to hate my name. Teachers struggled with it at the beginning of every school year. J-O-I. The wrinkled brows. The frowns. I’d imagine their inner monologue: What’s this ‘I’ doing here? Hmm, how do I say this? Joey? No. Jo? Yes, definitely Jo. I guess nobody told them Hooked on Phonics works for teachers, too.

The other thing I hated about my name (in addition to being serenaded with “Joy to the World” on a regular) was that it put me firmly in the exclusive club of kids who could never find their name on souvenir merchandise. Amy, Tony, Tiffany, Amanda, Joey, Natalie, Alex — they got keychains, refrigerator magnets, cups, pencils...all the personalized memorabilia! But Joi? Empty-handed every time.

Despite still being traumatized by a childhood bereft of personalized crap, I have grown to love my name. It’s special, just like the woman who gave it to me.

My grandmother was born Margaret, but changed her name to Joy when she became an adult. She liked Joy so much that, when my parents gave her the honor of naming me, she chose it again. Incidentally, Maria comes from Marie, my maternal great-grandmother’s name.

My family calls me Joy, Jr., and I suppose in many ways I am. I grew up wanting to emulate my grandmother. Confidence, humor, compassion, integrity. If I possess these qualities — and on a good day, I think I do — I got them from her. She has always been like a mother to me, and without her guidance, support, and encouragement, I’m not sure where I would be today. I’m not even sure who I would be. My grandmother still tells me she can’t wait to see my book in the “bookshop window,” never mind that I have yet to complete anything close to worthy of appearing in a bookshop window (or a bookshop bargain bin). And she’s been saying this since I was ten, a testament to how much she believes in me.

This Mother’s Day weekend, I’m reflecting on how lucky I am to still have my grandmother in my life. But with each passing year, I’m reminded our time together is not infinite. She has been hospitalized more times in recent years than I can count. Her memory isn’t what it used to be — during our phone calls, I find myself repeating things I’ve told her before, and often more than once. When we hang up, I am left with a bittersweet pang. It is good to hear her voice. I wish she didn’t sound so old.

My name. It is the greatest gift my grandmother has ever given me and it will be her legacy. I wish I’d always been so grateful.

This Post Has Only Six Words

Writing a six-word story. Not easy.

 

 

Okay, I lied. This post has more than six words.

This week, I’ve been writing six-word stories for Narrative and I’ve found it challenging. How does one tell a complete story using only six words? Stories that feel whole. Where the reader has a sense of a beginning, middle, and end. It’s especially difficult for me because I really like words. Lots and lots of words. That’s why I couldn’t end this post with only six of them. I had to explain myself.

But a good six-word story shouldn’t need explanation. Here’s a popular example. And who better to have accomplished this feat than this man, arguably the world’s most economical writer. I mean, check this:

 

For sale: Baby shoes. Never worn. — Ernest Hemingway

 

Chills.

The trick for me was to first try to tell a story in one sentence, disregarding word count. Then I removed, changed, and rearranged words until I was left with only six. So far, I have about a dozen six-word stories to submit to Narrative. Here’s one of my rejects:

 

Walked in together. Only I left.

 

I’ve enjoyed this challenge and it’s a good exercise for the editing process, where I follow the rule of whittling down my completed first drafts by ten percent.

 

Can you write a six-word story? Let me see.

STELLAAAAA!!!

After becoming an ethical vegan in the early 2000s, I surrendered to a certain future of PVC shoes and faux leather handbags. It was easier to give up cheeseburgers than it was to say farewell to my leather accessories. And with Sex and the City there to remind me of all I was missing, it was enough to make me wish I’d never watched all those damn PETA videos about leather production. The saving grace was I couldn't afford Manolos and Jimmy Choos when I first went vegan.

While I made do for years with the vegan accessories available to me at the time (thank God for Moo Shoes), I still wished for tonier, higher quality options. What was a veganista to do? Then I found Stella McCartney, a high-end designer who launched her eponymous brand in 2001. A life-long vegetarian, Stella McCartney shuns fur and leather (although she uses silk and wool), and creates ethical, sustainable, all vegan shoes and bags. Her chic, fashion-forward designs are coveted by celebrities and fashionistas the world over. 

My love for all things Stella runs deep. I’m talking bathymetrically deep. I started my Stella collection with an inexpensive T-shirt from her 2005 H&M collaboration. Now, more than a decade later, my closet is filled with Stella. I love her feminine, tailored suiting; her figure-flattering dresses; and her prints, especially the big cat motifs. I'm also a diehard Falabella fan. I wear other designers, but my ideal ensemble is tip to toe Stella. Sublime. Over the years, I’ve relaxed some on my stance regarding leather shoes, but I still prefer to buy vegan. Stella makes it possible. And fashionable. 

Given my admiration obsession, you can imagine how geeked I was when I found out last year that Houston was getting its very own Stella boutique. Game. On. Next, imagine my delight when I received an invitation to the grand opening. The guest of honor? Stella McCartney, of course! My first thought after I picked myself up off the floor was, I’m going to meet Stella! My second: What am I going to wear?

Embed from Getty Images

 

The party was this past Monday (that's me in image 19!). There were about 40 of us packed into the boutique. I felt like one of those teenage girls in the old news reels of fans awaiting the arrival of another famous McCartney. Among the fashionable set, Stella is just as famous, if not more so, than her father, Paul.

When she finally floated into the store, she was wearing a drapey all-in-one and blazer, both from her current collection. Her attire was black, but she looked like an angel. I found my voice and said hello. She looked me up and down, smiled, and said, “Look at you. I love what you’re wearing.”

“It’s all thanks to YOU,” I said stammered. Then, clutching our respective Falabellas, we leaned in for the best picture I’ve ever taken.

Apologies to my husband, but this is way better than our wedding photo!