A VISIT FROM THE GUILT FAIRY

So, for those of you who don’t know, I, Erica B. Davis,  am in the middle of an existential crisis.

As I write this, the universe is kicking me in the bum. With a Grande All No-Water Soy Chai Latte, if you must know.

Eleven minutes ago, a friend called me. As an active consumer of locally grown and made goods and services, he was understandably less-than thrilled when I mentioned I was on my way here, with my laptop, to my friendly neighborhood Starbucks.

Well, the nearest one of them, anyway. Within a 2 mile radius of my apartment there’s three locations.

Okay, four.

It’s ridiculously noisy in here. But not in that comfortable background-noise-of-a-quaint-café-mugs-clinking way. It's more of a whiny-teens-and-soccer-moms-and-baristas-who-are-too-cool-to-be-here way.

And it smells like a Wonka Factory with HVAC issues.

And it looks like a JCPenny’s Christmas display store room exploded.

And it’s about as warm as a mid-January beet slaw salad.

The only seat available is the one I'm now in, next to the entrance. And there’s no outlet within power-cord distance so I can’t plug in my laptop which gives me about forty three minutes to write.

But I've got my Grande All No-Water Soy Chai Latte. And it's really yummy. I've got my laptop with it's remaining minutes of power. I'm writing and I'm happy. But then, I have to ask my conscience why it's so unsettled?

Me: Hey, conscience...

My Conscience: What now?

Me: Why are you so unsettled?

My Conscience: Because you're supporting the commercialization of Christmas, that's why.

Me: Hey, I support NO such thing!

My Conscience: Then, why are you sitting there? As a Starbucks patron you epitomize the commericalization of Christmas. Just look around!

Me: Good point.

My Conscience: That wasn't rhetorical, Erica. Seriously. Look around at the advertisements. Then, shut your laptop and leave.

Me: Okay. You're right. I'm leaving.

[PAUSE]

My Conscience: What are you doing?

Me: Finishing my latte first.

My Conscience: Get up. Now. Your car is eight feet away. You’ve paid your stupid five dollars for warm milk. Get up--

Me: --Ok! I’m leaving.

My Conscience: Good.

[PAUSE]

Me: Wait...

My Conscience: What?

Me: Not like this. I can’t just leave my favorite writing place with a such bad taste in my mouth. It’s kind of like all those episodes of “Full House” when Danny or Uncle Jesse would remind the girls to "Never leave a room angry." They needed resolution.

My Conscience: Uh...ok.

Me: Hey, remember cute little Stephanie? She’d always say “How rude!” whenever someone was out of line. What a sap. I never liked --stop touching my Latte! I’m not done, yet.

My Conscience: I don’t care. This whole place is evil. Your drink is evil.

Me: But it tastes so good. And it helps me concentrate.

My Conscience: Fine. But here comes the Guilt Fairy.

Me: Crap.

Guilt Fairy: Hi, guys!

My Conscience: You’re late.

Guilt Fairy: I know. I’m really sorry. I was coming from a diabetes awareness rally, but I gave my environmentally-safe and solar powered scooter to a homeless guy then rescued some puppies from a puppy mill that was on fire and I would have taken a bio-diesel taxi here, but I donated my money to charity. Again. Hey, Erica, did you know that the electricity it took to make your latte could run a small African village for forty-seven hours?

Me: Fine. Just...do you guys want a drink or not?

My Conscience: If by drink you mean: something with which to slap you upside the head, sure.

Guilt Fairy: Nothing for me, thanks. I’m on a hunger strike to raise awareness of exploited Malaysian slave children forced to work in sub-standard factories making over-priced hideous sweaters like the one you’re currently wearing, but, do you think I can get an ice water?

Me: Even if it comes in a plastic cup and plastic lid with a plastic straw?

Guilt Fairy: Oh, I’d never get it like that. I have my own re-usable water bottle, here. See? It’s the same one my uncle used when he gave all his possessions to a halfway house then built that orphanage for dyslexic blind kids. Did you know it takes fifty-six months for biodegradable plastics --such as that lid on your latte-- to break down in a compost pile? That’s more than enough time for any baby seal or dolphin to get it’s mouth trapped or it’s little flipper stuck, thus rendering it--

And here's when I usually tune them out. Or try to. It’s difficult sometimes, separating my conscience from my guilt. Typically, they’re inseparable and agree on everything.

I know there’s two sides to every coin and if someone asked me to justify my love of Starbucks, I'd be happy to.

It's where I go to catch up with Aunt Margo. It's where Morgan and I go when Hannah steps on the phone. It's how Amanda and I got through grad school. It's how I get my book written.

And save for the barista currently swearing at the cappucino machine, the employees I've met are happy to be here. They love coffee. They love making coffee the way we like it. Students study here. Friends talk here. Couples overshare their feelings here. And as likely as it is that Christmas is selling Starbucks, I can’t help but hope that the reverse is also true.

I mean, how many of us out there go to our corporate or local coffee shops, get our warm and tasty pick-me-ups for the day and find ourselves just a little bit warmer? A little more alert? A little post-sip happier?

A dang good number of us, I’d say.

And yes this world, this country has corruption and deceit and grey areas, but have you read your coffee cup today? Printed all over the Starbucks paraphernalia including mugs, cups, banners, gift-cards, aprons...just about everywhere save for a tattoo across the baristas’ foreheads is the Starbucks holiday slogan for 2007:

Pass the Cheer.

And as you've pointed out to me, Dad, the power of suggestion is no small force. Talk about product placement for happiness. If 2/3 of this country is drinking Starbucks everyday, then that’s a heck of a lot of people being encouraged to pass the cheer. It could be worse.

Guilt Fairy: Not if you grow your own coffee beans and grind them by hand, like I–OW!

My Conscience: That was a warning. She’s got a point.

Me: Hey, are you two disagreeing on something?

My Conscience: No.

Guilt Fairy: No.

My Conscience: This bites. I’m outta here!

D.J. from Full House: No you don’t. Dad says never leave a room angry.

Guilt Fairy: Do you have any idea how many workers were exploited to build this room?

My Conscience: Do you have any idea how annoying you are?

Stephanie from Full House: How rude.

Starbucks Barista: Who ordered the round of Venti Peppermint Cup-O-Cheer Soy Mocha?

Me: Me!

Dear Jacques, Keep Writing

THE FOLLOWING IS A REAL EMAIL I SENT TO A REAL AUTHOR

****************************************************

FROM: Erica Davis

TO: Jacques Couvillon

SUBJECT: From one writer to another

Dear Jacques,

I'm taking the liberty of using your first name since I will expect the same from you when YOU decide to contact me after spend six and a half hours sitting in your local Barnes and Nobles reading MY debut novel. It was about 2:30 yesterday [last-last Saturday] when I made my customary beeline to the [young adult] section at the Barnes and Nobles in Milford, CT. It's the genre I write. It's the genre I love.

As I've been doing nearly every weekend for the past two months, I was holding a copy of Meg Cabot's latest (Jinx). But I still couldn't justify $16.95 for her. Again. And I'm a big Cabot fan. She's right up there with L'Engle in my book. But, I put "Jinx" back on the shelf and as I turned away, quite literally knocked into a table of New Teen Fiction.

With uncharacteristic cat-like reflexes I caught a shiny blue book that was about fall off a precariously stacked pile. But as I was putting it back, something caught my eye. A chicken head. AND a disco ball. Being a country girl AND dancing queen, my interest was piqued and I turned, not to the blurb, but to the author-info flap.

I saw "debut novel."

I saw chickens.

I saw a tux.

I was sold. For $16.95.

Next, I grabbed a soy latte and a cushy chair.

Six and a half hours later, I had 55 pages left.

You know when your butt's too numb that you can't think straight? Yeah, me too. So I [had to stop there]. But I'd be lying if I didn't mention how, really, I just wanted to go home to get working on my own rewrite.

Jacques, let me make one thing very clear. The last time I paid full price for a book, I had been standing in line for four hours dressed as a Gryffindor prefect surrounded by fifth graders.

I'm thrilled I've found The Chicken Dance. And Mom said being a klutz wasn't a gift.

Please, keep writing.

Best,

Erica Davis

*************************************************

THE FOLLOWING IS JACQUES COUVILLON'S REAL RESPONSE TO ME

*************************************************

FROM: Jacques Couvillon
TO: Erica Davis

SUBJECT: Re: From one future best-seller to another

Hi Erica,

That's a great story. Thank you so much for the support. I will actually be in [your area] on November 10th. My former boss is having a little party for me at this coffee shop/ book store at 5. I need to get the invitation for the name of the place but I think it's [the name of the coffeshope/bookstore] or something like that. If you think you can make it, it would be great to have you there.

Take Care,

jacques

********

Yes, Mom, Dad, and other readers, that's tomorrow Saturday, November 10th, 2007.

At 5pm I will be meeting the author of The Chicken Dance, Jacques Couvillon.

If you want to know more about him, then read on.

Or see my comments on his blog.

Or, get your copy here.

Oh, gosh. Gotta go. What do you wear when you're going to meet your co-future bestselling competition?

The Chicken Dance by Jacques Couvillon
...at a precariously piled teen fiction shelf near you...

Haskoween

How I spent most of October

Cookstock 2007

Doug Cook and I have known each other for going on two-and-a-half years, now. We’ve kept in touch since I left the staff of the Hyde Wilderness School and now that he’s back on the east coast after a summer-long motorcycle journey across the US of A, we’re able to visit each other whenever we please.

Last Saturday I went to his grandmother’s 90th birthday party in southern Connecticut. It was a 35 minute drive from my door to his grandparents home and set on a handful of beautiful acres surrounded by dark woods. Kind of like a more secluded --and older-- 71 Primrose Lane for those of you who know it.

I parked at what was to be the beginning of a very, very long line of cars and made my way down the hilly driveway and up the front walk with a potted red chrysanthemum balanced on my hip.

I rang the doorbell. It tinkled out a muffled, if not, merry rendition of some show tune I’d never heard of, but I’m sure my parents would probably remember. Through the single-pane windows in the door, I saw half a dozen people hovering around what I would soon learn was one of approximately six hundred appetizers. Seeing those few people in the kitchen, I could faintly hear the rest of family, friends, and neighbors spread through out the house and property --each of them eating, chatting, laughing, drinking, eating more and laughing more.

But none of them heard the doorbell.

I stood on the steps with this sprawling plant on my hip, banging on the door as politely as I could. Still, no one looked over. I was debating on just letting myself in when I tried to imagine what Doug would say if I stood there. In my head, clear as day, he said, “Why didn’t you just let yourself in?”

So, I did.

Going through the cool dark hallway into a bright noisy kitchen is not entirely uncomfortable, but there is something to be said for walking into a strange house for the first time and having your sudden appearance met by a steady stream of blinking from ever-so-many-more than half-a-dozen relatives. People were everywhere. None of whom were Doug.

For the smallest fraction of a second, I panicked that I should have stayed on the front steps ringing the doorbell uselessly into the wee hours of the morning, but that thought had little chance as a lovely young woman --who looked vaguely familiar-- waved to me. She was smiling at me, so I smiled and said, “Hi, I’m Doug's friend,” –and then, shifting the plant on my hip,– “Is there a birthday girl here?” The younger woman nodded and said, pointing to a lovely elderly woman standing in the middle of the kitchen, “That’s her, right there.”

Suddenly very aware of how many people were there –something like: two grandparents, four great-aunts, nine-great-uncles, fourteen nephews, eighty seven nieces-- I went to the indicated woman and introduced myself. The young woman --who turned out to be Doug's older sister-- relieved my hands of the chrysanthemum and in it’s place was a full plastic cup, the lip of which was crusted in salt. A Margarita.

Before I could gratefully decline, I was introduced to approximately two hundred and seventy-three other people and a dog whose name I never heard.

In the time it would have taken me to pick out a birthday card --had I not been too preoccupied finding the most appropriate 90th-birthday-ish gift possible-- I had been kissed, hugged, pinched, patted, and squeezed by what felt like one-third of the greater New England area. Only after a few final introductions, kisses, and several hearty hand-shakes did I feel a familiar bear-hug of a squeeze from a tall figure behind me.

It was Doug. Knowing how fond I am of anything Robitussin-related, he laughed at the drink in my hand, took it from me, and led me to the back porch to meet more family.

Can I just tell you? They were awesome. Yes, Doug. Your family rocks. They were welcoming and quirky and loud and smart and wonderful and I've never been more homesick for a Davis-Bauda-LoDestro-Gimbrone-Zarcone-Howard Family Reunion.

Though much of Doug's immediate family resembles more of Icelandic poster children than Italians...they are Italian, through and through. If the plethora of food items was any indication, anyway. Two flatbeds of homemade lasagna, beer-battered sausage, glistening pans of marinated chicken, stuffed mushrooms, kielbasa, hand-tossed Caesar salads....and I would describe the dessert trays but my laptop's only got a two hour battery.

It goes without saying that spending the better part of an entire evening with the zany extended family of one of my closest friends was an singularly unique experience. One which I am confident helped to lessen the blow I received the next day.

Fifteen hours later, I learned that Gail --an incredible woman who's been a mentor and friend to me-- passed away that morning from the cancer she had been fighting since long before I met her. Don't get me wrong; It's sad beyond belief. And as expected as her passing was, its still something of a shock. But all the while I'm thinking about Gail and what I might or might not have been able to do to help her, I can't help thinking of my time with Doug's family. And my family. The old, the young, the senile, the newlyweds, the sick, the healthy, the bitchy, the babies, the toddlers, the teens, the ancestors...everyone.

Much as I'd like to believe, the world doesn't stop and start at my convenience. Nor should it. I mean really, how boring would that be? Actually, I wouldn't mind. Not really, but you know what I mean.

Generation after generation families are, were, and always will be gathering under one roof to celebrate life, weddings, graduations, anniversaries, birthdays, lost teeth, lost loved ones, new jobs, first cars, first jobs, surviving car accidents, surviving proms, swim meets... Regardless of who comes and goes, when or why. Little of this world has ever made sense to me.

So here's to Gail, my great-Uncle Robert Howard, Grandpa Cabina, Donald Cooper, Mike Carter, Aunt Kitty, Poppy, my Grandmas Lucy and Faith, Grandpa Charlie, and everyone else before them.

And a very special belated Congratulations goes out to Doug's Grandpa and Grandma (the birthday girl) who recently celebrated their 69th wedding anniversary.

And my niece Hailey for going on the potty.

And to my sister for finally getting a day off from work.

And my brother-in-law for carving the coolest-creepy jack-o-lantern.

And to my Aunt Margo and to my Godmother Diane, (aka Pina) for being two of my favorite people in the world.

And to my parents who are managing the Lodge alone for the next God-knows how long.

And to all my cousins for having so many freaking adorable children.

As for you Doug, I hope you're hungry. You're invited to Buffalo for Thanksgiving.

With Love, Robert Frost

NOTHING GOLD CAN STAY

Nature's first green is gold
Her hardest hue to hold
Her early leaf's a flower
But only so an hour

Then leaf subsides to leaf
So Eden sank to grief
So dawn goes down to day
Nothing gold can stay

Reminder

It's been 6 months, 2 weeks, 1 day and 16 hours since the accident. I'll recap:

I was coming from a restaurant heading home after paying $3.15 for a flat ginger ale. It was raining. It was 11:20 pm. Based on the damage to my car, the other driver --whose headlights were off-- was traveling between 110-125mph.

I never got a chance to speak to the other driver. He wasn't wearing a seat belt, failed the police sobriety test, and was arrested on scene. I learned recently it was his first time offense. And I have forgiven him. But it's not something that can --or will-- be forgotten anytime soon. I have no idea how he is. I pray he's alright.

As for me, after 26 weeks of chiropractors, hospitals, MRI's, orthopedic surgeons, one-hour physical therapy visits twice weekly, I have just walked out of my final session. At this point, I continue the physical therapy stretches at home. There's not much more progress to be made at a doctor's office. For the most part, I really feel great. It only hurts if I'm sitting for more than 15 minutes at a time. Or standing for more than 15 minutes at a time. Or walking for more than 15 minutes at a time. Or when the barometric pressure drops. Or when I'm sleeping.

If it sounds like I'm complaining, it should.

Because I am.

No one deserves this. No one deserves to face an irrational fear of getting behind the wheel of her car at night. Or when it rains. Or on any given morning on her way to work, not knowing what other 2,000 lbs weapon will come hurling towards her.

But stretching every day to lessen the pain?



I know it's a small price to pay. I was lucky. For that, I am grateful.
Please, drink responsibly.

Dear Madeleine

Madeleine L’Engle, 88, passed away six days ago. She was the author of the award winning A Wrinkle in Time, the story that continues to inspire my own writing. If this book were a man, I would marry him.

I first learned about L'Engle's death from another of my favorite author's (Meg Cabot) online diary. Soon after, I found a NY Times article on the famous writer's life and death. I wanted to read the whole thing, but stopped after the first paragraph. There was little I didn't already know.

I'm not sure why this surprised me, considering I’ve read all but nine of her 60+ books, including an autobiography, interviews, book reviews, commencement speeches, quotes, poems, theories, and even a published thesis written about her life work. As a devoted fan, I know much about her, though it's not without a little regret and self-pity that I never met her, not for a lack of trying. I once wrote to Ms. L'Engle asking her to be my Confirmation sponsor if memory serves.

My first thought when I learned of her death was, of course, sadness followed by regret that our paths had never crossed. But the more I thought of it, I realized that wasn't entirely true. Not technically.

Last year, I worked in Maine alongside a teacher who later introduced me to his brother, author T. A. Barron. Barron just so happens to be L’Engle’s godson of sorts.

When I began commuting to NYU last June, I stayed with a cousin who shall not remain nameless: John LoDestro. Cousin John lives approximately twelve-seconds from the very cathedral on which many of L’Engle’s books and stories are centered. Here, L’Engle worked for a handful of decades as librarian and writer-in-residence. While in NYC, I'd visit the Cathedral regularly. No sign of her.

Two and a half weeks ago, a colleague and I were talking about writing and she mentioned how she grew up, quite literally, across the street from L’Engle’s daughter.

I can only be grateful for the people whose paths I have crossed that in one way or another are her friends, neighbors, family, and fans. Through her writing she breaks the rules, explains our world, defies the time-space continuum, crosses universes, and loves unapologetically. Not having met her, I suppose I keep the image of her I've always had. This divinely untouchable, but utterly humble country woman who's writing prowess keeps me reaching for my pen.

Ms. L'Engle, you will be missed and are adored.


Madeleine L'Engle Franklin, 1999
SONNET 9 (Circa 1998)

Resurrection’s not resuscitation.
What, in heaven’s name, do we expect?
I’m satisfied with no one’s explanation
Which seem to me more fancy than correct.
I know that hour beloved body’s gone
And heaven’s not pie in some ethereal sky
It’s you I want, familiar flesh and bone.
But my flesh, too, is mortal. I will die.
So what, then, do I hope from resurrection?
I hope beyond my wildest hope unseen
That there will be some aware connection
‘Twixt what we will be and ‘twixt what we’ve been,
And you and I and all we love will meet
When Love has won, and we’re at last complete.

–Madeleine L’Engle, The Ordering of Love

Top Ten Writing Motivators

10. Intuition. I can't really explain it, just a gut feeling. I love what I do. I love to write. It just makes sense to me.

9. Focus. Or lack, thereof. The amount of dirty laundry on the floor of my closet would fill the Grand Canyon. Same goes for unread email and missed calls.

8. Rigor. The seat of my comfy overstuffed writing chair no longer bothers to re-inflate to itself to original puffiness. It's probably realized by now that it won't be vacant for long, as I've quickly learned to maximize the hours of my day to full writing-capacity by eliminating unnecessary time-consuming such as: Starbucks runs, Non-work related socializing, window shopping, surfing the Internet, checking email, personal hygiene, etc.

7. Sacrifice. If anyone wants to learn about the best acoustics --based on volume of empty space-- in New England, send all correspondences to my fridge. In it, there 's a bag of celery, one expired container cottage cheese, orange juice, a 2-liter of Coca-Cola (last used: Thanksgiving 'o6), and something that looks like it used to have been a bread of some sort. Hard to tell through the green growth.

6. Awareness. I voluntarily went to the sports isle at --involuntary shudder-- Wal-Mart and bought noise reduction earmuffs to ensure maximum email/alarm clock ignoring-capacity.

5. Talent. I don't know how Stephen King or Agatha Christie do it, but there are just some scenes you don't work on past sundown.

4. Support. My parents, sister, cousins, brother(s)-in-law, Aunts, Uncles, Pets...Their love and support means the world to me. They inspire me in different ways. Every last one of them. I love my family. Even when Hannah steps on the phone. My nieces are probably driving now. I wouldn't know. Can't find my cell (See item 9).

3. Persistence. If my roommate had to positively identify me in a line-up, the cops would make each suspect turn their backs and hunch over a laptop. Not to mention the knotty-hair wigs.

2. Planning. My daily coffee consumption increases weekly and I've figured out the equation (See diagram 1) for the volume required per chapter versus the word-per-page ratio compared to typing speed equivalency of caffeine per cc.

DIAGRAM 1

And my number one writing motivator:

1. Awareness. Ninety-Nine percent of unsolicited manuscripts are rejected. But a year ago at the Margaret Mitchell House in Atlanta, GA, I spoke with my favorite author's editor from Harper Collins who invited me to send her the first three chapters of my manuscript. This means my manuscript is solicited, thus, increasing the chance that it's read past the first five pages. Editors and disgruntled interns alike receive upwards of forty manuscripts per month and look hastily for even the smallest of reasons to reject one, so as to make a dent in the pile of would-be best-sellers overtaking their desks. Best-case scenario: Not only does the editor remember me from Atlanta, but she recognizes my tale-weaving prowess and Fed-Exes the book deal to me, like, yesterday.

There once was a short clever gal

Who worked on the ninth floor at Yale.

She elbowed professors,

Ignored the confessors,

I am no Yalie,

And nary do dally,

Said the Gal to college;

You can have all your knowledge.

If you need me, don't grovel.

I'll be at my hovel

Writing my seventeenth novel

Ovens are Hot, Boys are Stupid, and Doors Have to Be Open To Walk Through

It was the coldest month of my seventh grade year, the snow wasn't deep, though the three inch layer of crusted ice the covered everything more than made up for it. Making it, oh, say, April 1992. I was twelve. Or was it fourteen? Whatever; I looked like a boy and had no chest. Like that narrows it down.

It was less than a year into my public school debut, and though the pangs and shunnings as "The New Kid" still rang in my ears, my awkwardness had faded somewhat, I finally found my way around the labyrinth of Casey Middle School, but there were some aspects of life outside of the impenetrable Catholic School bubble that still had baffled. Some puzzlement included:

-Two gymnasiums

-Fire alarms that weren't always just drills

-A nautatourium (aka pool)

-An blatantly obvious lack of nuns

-Locker rooms (with lockers)

-Yarmulkes

-Technology and Home Economics Class

-Sex Ed

-Crowded hallways

-Lunch lines

-Spanish club

-Hall fights

-Cheerleaders

-Organized sports clubs

-Mexican Pizza Day

-Art classes without patterns

This "Home-Ec" thing was especially baffling. I mean, are they seriously letting pre-teens operate real-life kitcheny things like; toasters, mixers, whisks, ovens...The authorities knowingly put these items in the path of twelve year old boys. C'mon now....

Did they really think that cake batter would not end up in Paula McPerkychest's feathered bangs?

I remember Mrs. Klug (aka THE KLUGGER). She was awesome. One of those women who must have been born 58 years old. She never aged. But, boy, could she get angry. And not to be sexist, but the boys in our class usually had it coming.

One day in particular comes to mind. Erin, Sara and I had been partners in crime since the summer. I thought about changing your names, just now, but this is too good to pretend you weren't a part of. Correct me if I'm wrong girls, but it went something like this...

We were Baking-Team-Number-Eight for The Klugger's new pudding bake-off or some other intriguing lesson like that. Sara was complaining away about this boy interest from her Hebrew school thingy who had, and I quote, "been acting weird lately."; Erin reading War and Peace for the eleventeenth time, and I was manning the oven for our pine-apple turn over cake. Maybe it was Brownies.

Each of us in our own world, we tried speculating on each other's comments, sharing ideas and finally, when the schmucks from the next mini-kitchen pod over beat us since their torte was un-burnt-to-a-crisp, I flung my charred oven mitt to the floor in the shame of defeat. Erin bent to pick it up, but burned her arm on the oven door; Sara kept on and on about this twit of a soon-to-be ex of hers and as the droning bell rang releasing us from the dungeon of rhubarb-pie-making, I banged shoulder-first into the unopened door during the mass exodus of students into the hallway.

Thus, our life lessons for that day ring louder and truer than any fire alarms...and still do:

1. Ovens are hot.

2. Boys are stupid.

3. And doors have to be opened to walk through.

The Butterthief

"Just when you think you're safe...moments away from that toasty warm goodness of your bagel or twelve-grain wheat toast...you reach for that sleek butterknife and your one smearing away from breakfastly goodness...The Breakfast Condiment Thief Strikes Again!!! Who is she? How does she do it? And why? (queue the title: THE BUTTERTHIEF) The mystery begins...Fall 2008."


And that, my friends, is the deep-voiced voice-over for the movie they'll make about me. Yes, Dear Reader, I am The Butterthief.

I mean, what was I supposed to do? Eat a dry, warm bagel? Sure, if I'm a hobo. But I am NOT a hobo. Seriously. Do you know how many poor souls must be out there on the streets begging innocent breakfast-eaters for deliciously melted butter for their bagel? Well, me neither, but I bet there's a few.

It's not like I haven't thought about bringing in my own butter to the Lab's kitchen. And not that I don't love sharing, but, c'mon. Who's thinking clearly at 6:32am as they stumble through their apartments or mansions or homestays as they perform their morning ablutions on their way out the door?

No One, that's who. I can barely remember to not lock myself out of the house, much less where my keys are.

Though I have taken recently to packing my own lunch and breakfast, how precisely am I supposed to transport butter for my bagel, that won't be toasted for another 47 minutes* (*times are estimates only. Coffee stops, chatting with the security guard, and checking if the cute guy's mail is still in his box--indicating that he's not yet arrived to work--, or bathroom stops not included).

I know what you're thinking, Mom. And this time, I agree that I do have several options:

Option #1: Bite the bullet. Bring in a barrel sized tub of butter to share with the greater New England area.

Option #2: Bite the bagel: Suck it up and eat the dang plain bagel.

Option #3: "Borrow" a pad a butter from the open stick that's already in the fridge AND replace the stick of butter with one of my own. Eventually.

I've actually already tried Option #3 already, but because now there is barely enough left in the cold, soggy wax wrapping from whence it came, I needed an alternative.

I opened up the Lab's fridge, and there, surrounded by a mysterious golden light was a gold-wrapped one-serving pad of land-o-lakes butter that had probably been dumped unceremoniously on the shelf by the same type of person who throws out the thumbnail-sized packets of salt and pepper (each with approximately 3.2 grains of salt or pepper) that come with take-out.

I looked over my shoulder...the coast was clear. And I took it! At the same moment, the toaster dinged, my bagel popped up, my boss walked in, but the damage had been done. I had the golden butter pad packet of goodness in my hand. Victory was mine!

As I spread my winnings across the warm and toast surface of my bagel, my boss poured herself some coffee and we spoke casually about how good it is coming in early and getting a nice and fresh start on the day, how nice the weather has been, and how the research was coming along, then we parted ways.

She really is a wonderful, kind, and smart woman, but I don't think she noticed me eyeing the packet of Smucker's strawberry jam she was holding.

An excerpt from my novel

CHAPTER THREE

Confession #8

I could really use, to lose my Catholic conscience/

'Cuz I'm getting sick of feeling guilty all the time.

--Great Big Sea

“Bless me, father, for I have sinned. This is my first confession. Ever.” As practiced four minutes earlier, these words escaped my dry mouth in April of 1988. I was seven, buck-toothed, short-haired, and guiltless. But thanks to my teacher, Mrs. V., I was saddled with enough shame in advance of disappointing the priest with the lack of anything interesting to say, that I did what any self respecting, middle-class second grader would do in a such a severe and potentially self-incriminating situation. I lied.

Well, what choice did I have? For the past six months, we had heard nothing from Mrs. V. but how thankful we should be that we were swiftly approaching our first chance to free our hearts, souls, mind, body, and spirit of all the horrible things we, as seven-and-a-half year olds, were certain to have committed by this time.

What the heck was she even talking about?

So far as I could tell, the worst thing I had done was stuck my tongue when Donny Shiltz turned around in his chair during the Big Math Test to tell me I was 'doing it wrong.'

"Oh, yeah, Donnie?" I had replayed myself saying to him over and over ever since, "At least I don't stand up when I pee."

Ha. Take that, Shiltzy-boy.

But why, you ask, did I never say this to Donny in person? In real life? In cold blood? Because. I'm Caaaaaatholic. I'm a gooooood girl.

My sisters, on the other hand, seemed to take their seniority over me as a direct request from God, Himself to be exceptions from the Rule. So while they were breaking crayons, hiding the remote, throwing tantrums and pretending not to know where my She-Ra doll's sword was, --even though I saw them flush it-- who gets to sit knee-to-shin with a priest in the velvet phone booth of Sin?

Yeah, that'd be me. So there I went into the telephone-booth-sized confessional. He was kind of like an uncle to me, after all. What was I supposed to do? Bow? Was nausea part of everyone else's First Confession? Because it sure as heck was making an appearance at mine. It was hot and stuffy and formal and awkward in there and his bright green dress reminded me of that itchy turf at Putt-Putt birthday parties. I hate Putt-Putt. And that stupid windmill.

"Ahem. " Father was looking at me. Smiled. Then said, “Tell me your sins, my child.”

And that’s when I almost threw up.

This man... This Holy Man, who on so many occasions prior to this confusingly awkward moment moment had been present during some of my ever expanding family's lavish Sunday Night dinner parties, who had not only baptized me, my sisters, married my parents and baptized each of them, was now, truly a deity to whom I had nothing to say. Confess, rather.

I tried to focus on something to say, but all I could think of was when my first elderly relative had died. Father Kettler had been the first person Mom had taken us children to speak with about our Tragic Grief. In confused tears at why my four sisters and were crying, I remember saying out loud in the most convincingly devastated voice I could muster, “It’s all Adam and Eve’s fault. Snakes are nasty.”

Here, Father Kettler looked at me, his bald head tilted to one side about to say something but that’s when Mom thanked the priest and packed the five of us up; scarves, mittens, backpacks, and woolly hats and all. Then, took us to Sweet Jenny's Ice Cream Parlor.

Back in the confessional, all of these memories, even the foggy, recent ones, came back to me with full force. I thought of all the times that he, Father Kettler, had been there for me and my family, and here I was sitting before someone whom I could only imagine as nothing short of God’s Right Hand Man’s Secretary's Assistant and staring at the wall. He coughed again. "Tell me your sins, my child."

“Umm. My sisters and I were fighting--” --this much was probably true-- “–over an apple...so, my mom cut it in half and we had to split it.”

Conflict resolution? My First Confession centers around conflict resolution? Lame.

Lame. Lame. Lame.

It's a wonder I could go to the bathroom after that, considering the depths from which I had pulled the fabrication. And what was it worth? Nada! I knew for a fact that Pattie O'McPatrick had at least ten Hail Mary’s and three Acts of Contrition. And that was her very first time. How did I know this girls penance? She told us of course. Not to mention the sin Oh-the-glamour-of-it all! That she had kissed Donny Schiltz --the math jerk-- by the drinking fountain every day after gym this year, much to his horror, I’m sure.

Not only was Pattie McPatrick the prettiest, tallest, most self-declared popular girl in our class, she was the nastiest.

Minutes, earlier, when Patty had entered into the confessional, I remember the collective gasp of twenty some-odd fourth graders sitting nearby, who had seen her enter into the screened room. This was bad. I don’t know why, or what it meant, but it had to be. Everyone was looking over there, the whispers, lashing against the gritty stained glass windows like Da's cold over-cooked spaghetti, sent chills up my slouched spine. Once she left the confessional she made a pretty big show about the time, and sighed as if exasperated, or pissed. “Seven minutes and forty eight seconds? That’s three minutes and twelve seconds longer than you Donnie-pooh...”

But what was so bad about it? I thought of this, as I sat across from Father Kettler. He was not an old man, really. Though what little hair he did have was already white. He had what I can only describe here as at least a few dozen chins. Like Santa Claus’s nephew, he forced a small smile at me.

“Do you have any other sins to confess, my child?”

Only that I lied to you. A man of God. Just now. during my First Confession. "No," I shrugged.

He did not respond, but looked at me. The hint of a railed eyebrow, too much like my own mother's threatened the smoothness of his shiny forehead.

Then it hit me. Why else would he just be sitting there, staring back at me.

I was a sinner.

Maybe it was my imagination or maybe it was a sign, but I could no longer say anything for fear that yet another verbal demon of my own creation would bring my downfall.

In my guilty minds’ eye, I tried to imagine what my bedroom in Hell was going to look like. Probably not too different from what it was then, I thought: Dirty laundry waiting to be done, NKOTB posters everywhere...my sisters screeching at each other about what boy did who, or about pop stars or crushes...No windows, No air conditioning and really, really hot. But clean.

Eh, it didn’t seem too bad at the time, but I was snapped out of my reverie by Father Kettler's pending sentance, er, Penance. “Child...”

But my thougths, and the guilt, were still coming...

“For your repentance...”

How could I have just done that? I just committed a sin. A real one. Heck it might have even been a Commandment --I'd have to check later. I could taste the bile...

“You shall say...”

My face burned. I choked down an unexpected sob. More words --maybe it was vomit-- were about to come spilling up out of my toes...

“...three Hail Mary’s and an Act of-”

“--Father!" I blurted, not caring that I had just committed yet another act of horrifying shame: interrupting... "Can you hold on just a sec?” and before I could register the look of utter disinterest on his face, I ran out of the telephone-booth-sized-booth, and ignoring as best I could the incredulous looks of my fellow pseudo-guilt ridden classmates, turned a sharp right and another until I was pushed with Godspeed into the private screened booth.

I was in the anonymous confessional. Otherwise known as "Traditional." As I knelt down onto the cold comfort of the pleathery kneeler, I could just make out Pattie craning her abnormally long neck to look at me, then sharply down at her watch.

The dusty velvet curtain fell shut, I took in the darkness. Once my eyes had adjusted to the dim half watt light, Father Kettler cleared his throat.

This time, I did not dawdle. “BlessmeFatherforIhavesinned,” I spat in one breath. “This is my...um...still my First Confession?” Already, I could feel the relief of the weight of my real sin lifting. Because, at least, now, he couldn’t see who I was.

Brilliance, thy name is me.

Through the slatted metal screen I could still make out Father Kettler’s grey hairs. I noticed how odd it was that the spaces in between the metal looked like two Mickey Mouse heads stuck together at the chins, but it was neat to look at.

I pressed my eye up close to see through and see him all the better, when he said in my general direction, “What are your sins, my child?”

“I lied just now. That never happened about the apple before, and I didn’t have anything to confess and Sister Margie didn’t tell us what to do if we didn’t have anything to confess because she said that everyone had something to confess, and I guess she was right since I lied which is one of the Top Twelve Commandments and I know I shouldn’t lie, but I did because I didn’t want you to be mad at me because I had nothing to confess even though I do now, which is why I am here because I am really sorry and please don’t tell my mom and I am really sorry I did it, I won’t ever do it again and now I can see why people come here since it feels a lot better to tell the truth, thought it was true that my sisters and I fight a lot and I know it makes Mom mad, so I guess I am sorry for that too, for always fighting with them but sometimes it seemes it’s the only way I can get any of them to talk to me, even my cousins. It’s because of their new friends though. Ever since they left this school, they’ve done nothing but ignore me or if they are watching me they order me around and I won’t do it, or I will get them a glass of pop but I fill with a little bit of warm water and two ice cubes instead of three ice cubes like they asked and I don’t even know where mom and dad keep those tiny umbrellas but I think they are in that locked cabinet that only gets opened on holidays or parties or Sundays and I tell on my sisters when they hit or swear at me but the hitting doesn’t hurt, though, so when I swear at them I use the D-A-R-N word and last week I may or may not have given all of them the finger when they were not looking and there is nothing I can do that makes my mom laugh when she's mad at us and make sure your mom doesn't brush your hair when she'd mad at dad, but I guess you don't have to worry about that, but not just because you don't have hair, but because I betchya they pay people to do your hair and stuff so you look nice at mass and I know she will be so mad at me for lying to you but she works alot and I don't really get to see her too much and I am sorry for lying to you but I didn’t know what else to say, so...yeah.”

Father Kettler was then kind of coughing, but it sounded more like a sneezy-gag so I said ‘bless you.’ Which made me feel like an even bigger you-know-what since he was the one that was supposed to be doing the blessing.

Finally, he spoke. But I don’t really remember what he said, since I was more focused on how surprised I was at how good I felt.

I mean, really.

I had told him some pretty heavy stuff afterall, which I had not even thought of as sins at first. Just more of a necessary...well...evil for surviving as the youngest of five girls. But what really iced my cupcake was what he said next:

“You say, that your mom has no time for anything but work, correct? Yes?”

“Yeah."

He was silent.

"I mean...yes, Father.” I looked down at the floor. It was an ugly purply-grey, but it was familiar. How many Sunday Masses had I spent staing down at the ground upon which I was kneeling, trying to see what colors and shapes I could imagine if only to keep from falling asleep standing up... How many pieces of lint? How many threads in an inch square? How many people were wearing orange?

“Your Penance will be...”

I looked up and braced for the Sentence-of-Certain-Godly-Doom. My pulse banged in my throat.

“...Six Hail Mary’s. Four Acts of Contritions...Unload and reload the dishwasher, fold the laundry, put away the laundry, do anything and everything your mother asks of you without contest, even, when you can, before she asks you. And ignore your sisters. For one week.”

My mouth fell open.

Big sins, little sinners, my grandmother's voice rattled in my brain.

Before I could open the Pint-sized Pandora's Box that was my yapper, Father Kettler raised his beefy right hand, as if to silence me, once and for all. I braced for the wrath of his backhand, but it never came. Then, I heard, “Lord, Bless this innocent child of yours. Keep her in Your Protection, and guide her to make the best decisions until she meets You again in the Protection of Your Grace. Go in Peace, child to..."

But I had stopped listening somewhere around "innocent child."

Was it true? Was I really as innocent as I had originally thought? Without thinking, my hands mimicked his--forehead, abdomen, left shoulder, right shoulder, hands together, finger entwined. Eyes to the floor.

Through the patterned double Mickey screen, he said to me, “Go child, your sins are forgiven and do good work in the Name of God.”

“Thanks, Father.” and I gave him a half hearted bow that he hopefully did not see, and exited the booth--er, Confessional. When I left the thing, I looked for Pattie's face. But I could not find her. Or Mrs. V., for that matter. As I made my way back to the pew from whence I had come, I saw them at the back of the church.

Now, I may have an active imagination, but I am pretty darn sure that I did not imagine seeing Patricia O'McPatrick getting what looked like a rather intense scolding, off to the side was a sheepish looking Donnie Schiltz.

At the back of my relieved mind, gnawed my pending penance...waiting like a cute little non-housebroken puppy to be taken out of it’s kennel of hibernating salvation. It was all I could to keep from giggling with the relief of it all! My First Confession was over. Once again, I was innocent. A clean slate! A guilt-free soul, right here in this body! A new beginning! How much longer till lunch?

As I sat there in rote recitation of my first few contritions, my stomach grumbled, shamefully loud and I thought of how many more times my fellow classmates and I would be there like that. parallel sinners waiting...just waiting...in the House of a God we knew so little about, yet feared as if he were our own Big Brother, so to speak.

It was, I assumed somewhat naively, that it was the first of many bonding opportunities to come. But still, there were those who had been with me, supporting me, laughing with me laughing at me, knowing me, secretly liking me, maybe hating me, maybe loving me...They were right there...by my side. My classmates. Regardless of alphabetical destiny.

In hindsight, I should have known that I was not the only one who had thought there was nothing of import to confess in the lowly life of an Upstate New York Third-Grader. But, even so, what gave Sister Margie Largie the right to be so vague about sins and everything, anyway? I wanted answers. Of the twelve of us, give or take an exchange student every other month or so, this would be the beginning of a long social and academic timeline of ups and downs. Truths and lies. Crushes and loves. Sins and Betrayals. Though, for the most part of our rapidly approaching horizon of adolescence, we were, the twelve of us, in it together.

Weekend Update #2

I have my parents dog, Sammy Davis Jr.--a 71lbs One-Eyed Greyhound at my house (read: very small apartment) this week. What I love most about this pup, is that my stories seem to just flow out of my fingertips and into my laptop when he's around. He's a champ of a muse. Which is appropriate as his racing name was Should-Have-Been-A-Champ.

Hey, we didn't pick it. The ball-less schmucks at the tracks who own, race, then destroy these noble creatures did. And as much as I enjoy becoming a socially awkward recluse in my pursuit of publication, I love having Sam at my place. When he's not sleeping, he's looking at me with that big beautiful eye, as if to say, "Hey...tall person," --It's nice to be the tall one for a change... Even if it is compared to another species-- "I feel like walking. Then, whining at that cat again, while you hold me back. You know, the ugly one that spits. But, I think I'll sleep first. Is that cool?"

He's slept for most of the weekend. Though we did take a hike in between two writing sessions. If, in fact, him trailing along lazily behind me for a quarter of the trail that I wanted to do counts as a hike, then, yes. We hiked. There was natural swimming hole there too. I went in up to my knees, but Sammy wasn't having it.

Once, when AJ and I were petsitting, we went swimming, and Sammy, never having seen me so low in the ground, walked right into the top of the water.

Did I mention that Greyhounds are the only breed of dog that are not natural swimmers? Ever since Sammy avoids reflective surfaces like pools, shiny floors, my brothers-in-laws' foreheads, and patent leather shoes. Each of which have proven to be a big deterrant for the poochie. Hey, remember Poochie?

Yale time. More Later...

Love,

tdg

Weekend Update

So, the canoe thing was not so much the "canoeing" as it was the "laying on the beach with a battered copy of MC's Jurassic Park." But it was well worth the drive into East Haven. As for today, I am trying to decide between exploring these new nature trails I found in Woodbridge, or some other trails that I found earlier in...Woodbridge. For being one of the wealthiest towns in the nation, Woodbridge seems to be pulling it's weight in the Recreational Opportunities department. Though, that still doesn't explain why I could count on one finger the amount of patrons I pass on my own excursions. Sad or secret?

Oh, Mom: I finished all my laundry! Then spilt coffee all over my shirt at Starbucks. Go figure.

I was a guinea pig in an fMRI scan today. It was the most relaxing thing I've done in a long time. Come three weeks, I'll have a 3-D image of my brain, ready to be made into Christmas cards. Sounds exciting? You bet!

Gotta run, now. I'm wearing a clean white shirt and those grande peppermint mochas don't spill themselves.

Currents? More like CurRANTS.

I've been looking all afternoon for a canoeing partner for tomorrow. So far, no takers. Is it me, or are fewer and fewer people willing to take a less planned trip than usual. Used to be: "Hey, we're undergrads...Let's go camping!" And then: "I don't have to pay off my graduate loans until 2006! Let's go to Toronto!" Now? "Hey. I've got an hour before I fall asleep...carry me to the nearest Starbucks."

...HECK NO! I refuse! I'll be dammed if I don't go canoeing tomorrow. Where? Not sure. When? Who knows. But that's sure as heck where I'll be.

A Rhyme-less City Poem

Just now, near the subway stairs
I fell off a curb in the middle of an open-air market and traffic
I cried out instinctively,
Landing on my palms and knees.
A few people looked over.
One man pulled out an earbud and laughed.
My hands sting from the asphalt.
Thank God I'm a country girl.

Welcome Back, Me. Hi, You!

No way! This is incredible. (Dramatic pause). Until about seventeen minutes ago, I had entirely forgotten that I even had a blog, but having recently been handed my intellectual/creative arse by a trusted colleague from my writing group, I realized--a word here which means 'was forced to actually look at my talent with a critical, yet, caffeine-deprived eye'-- that approximately 87% of my stories' content are, in fact, asides. Asides are those quasi-witty, vaguely metaphorical, and always awkward reminiscences told from a character's POV that have little to nothing to do with that tiny setback that has so many writers reaching for a Grande All No-Water Chai: the "plot". I would elaborate, but having had a recent minor head trauma that triggered another bout of short-term memory recovery issues --also known as anterograde amnesia-- I'm currently blanking on how this paragraph began.

But so it is, I dedicate this, my online diary: "The Davis Girl" to you; my friends, family, and future devoted fans of my original New York Times chart-topping, heart-pounding, page-turning, Best-Selling books. And just for the record: My goal is to have REPLICA published on or before 12:00 midnight on February 18th, 2011. I think what I'm most looking forward to is the book tour. Not only will I:

a). get to meet the first of my throngs of devoted fans, but
b). I hear that most book sellers give free, yes FREE coffee to the visiting famous author and
c). I'm 100% certain that the hotel to which my comfort has been assigned has a pool!

I ask you, is there anything better than the smell of chlorine and fifty-seven gallons of fabric softener that so often accompanies the memories of childhood? God love SPEBSQA Conventions. As the dawn of the onset of the serious consideration of the planning of the second draft of REPLICA approaches, I'm catching myself projecting in more and more detail, what the reception of my first book will be like. And, Dear Reader, I know that you are just as curious as me, so here in print, is my (future) first exclusive interview as a famoused published author:

But first, I need a Grande All No-Water Chai.

More soon,
ED