Taste of Summer

, originally uploaded by sweetmondaygirl.

Ripe tomatoes, sliced, a few dashes of sea salt.

Divine.

Monsieur Marcel

his legs and mine, originally uploaded by sweetmondaygirl.

There's this French restaurant in the farmer's market that G. and I discovered last year, just as my little love for all things French was kicking into gear. This place is great. It's small and cramped and the wait time is always nearly unbearable, but these are actually some of the reasons I love to go there. The waiters are French, and I don't know if it's just good luck or what, but I always seem to end up sitting next to French people when I'm there. Because of this, I feel transported while sitting in that tiny place, devouring delicious food.

All afternoon I've been thinking it might be a good night to eat there. The clouds that plagued the morning have long since burnt off, the past few hours have been sunny and warm, and it looks at though we're going to sink into the evening in just the way one hopes every weekend will start. It's the perfect atmosphere for enjoying a cozy cafe.

And then just now, G. called to let me know he was on his way over to pick me up. "Why don't we go to that French place at the farmer's market?" he said.

For all the ways we are different, the boy and I, we sure do think alike much of the time.

25,000 or thereabout

green with..., originally uploaded by sweetmondaygirl.

I'm having another okaynowwhathappensnext moment with the book. Finally finished up the Sally Bishop story, and the next chapter needs to return to the primary story, but I'm stuck. Although I think I know how I want things to end (many, many pages from now), I am not quite sure how to get there. Second act is always hardest, and I'm still in the first. This is an overwhelming feeling for me. I always think there's no way I'll figure out which direction things should go, but so far I've always become unstuck without too much time in limbo. I hope this week will be the same.

Also, here is something I am learning:

When it's time to write, I am a brilliant procrastinator, and suddenly can find many new things that need to be cleaned or organized or fussed over. Anything besides The Page At Hand.

But when it's REALLY time to write, I'm there, and I do it.

the mondays

train station, originally uploaded by sweetmondaygirl.

i'm a bit homesick for the weekend.

it comes from good things. from having had a couple of days of feeling loved and content. from accomplishing stuff i set out to do, and taking care of myself.

it comes from wanting to do more of that, and finding myself paralyzed by work induced boredom.

CMW

CMW, originally uploaded by sweetmondaygirl.

Tomorrow is my amazing sister's twenty first birthday.

Happy birthday, Corinn! I love you.

to go forward

pair, originally uploaded by sweetmondaygirl.

always there are the resolutions

to drink more water

to insist on high quality dark chocolate

to take better care of my hair

to look more carefully before taking a sharp turn

to wake up ten minutes earlier

to eat the vegetables before they spoil

to clean the bathtub with more vigor

to plant something

to be just a bit more

On Tuesdays, they cut the grass around my office building and it smells divine.

I don't want to be at work today. My mind is filled with the tiniest buds of ideas and sitting at my desk under the fluorescent lights is the quickest way to ensure they don't grow into anything. I feel I should be exempt from my office job on days when I feel inspired creatively. It's a shame to waste them. It pains me.

It's been slow going with the writing. I've been averaging three pages a week rather than five, and last week I only wrote on two days. The result is that I'm only at 75-ish pages when I should be closer to 100. This only bothers me because I'm still aiming to have a first draft finished by the end of the year, and I have some catching up to do to make that happen.

My landscape has shifted the last couple of months, and I'm happy about it, but still figuring out how to best move about the new terrain.

I don't like to have a post with no photo to go with it. The new camera has changed what I expect from myself in regard to visual things.

Last Days of School

, originally uploaded by sweetmondaygirl.

Every year around this time, I get a little restless, as though my mind will forever be programmed to anticipate summer vacation, no matter how far my life continues to advance into adulthood.

In many ways, I associate this time of year with a renewed sense of possibility much more than I do January 1st. There's something about the feelings evoked by summer smells, summer foods, summer happenings that make me feel as if something new and exciting must be just around the corner. As a child, and even up until I graduated from college, the source of this anticipation was always quite obvious and much less cluttered a feeling than it is now. It was always pretty clear what was next. Long lemonade days followed by a rush of new things -- new clothes, new teachers, new friendships. I often miss that comforting combination of things that are familiar and safe leading up to a change that is signifant, but non-threatening.

These days, I often struggle with the What Comes Next? of it all. I feel, rather strongly, that there needs to be a Something Coming Next. All around me, friends and family are getting new jobs, getting engaged, getting new homes, getting new couches. And although I wouldn't call my life static by any means, it could use a little push forward, a little oomphf. But I'm also quite fond of my life as it is right now, and I don't want to disrupt the delicate balance. I want new things, better things, more exciting things, but without altering the amazing things I already have.

I'm not entirely sure what to do with this year's restlessness. I wish I could say that a summer break (or at least a mental one) would magically make things clear, steer me where I need to go, but I'm sure it will take more work than that. Life is much trickier to navigate once there's no longer a report card in June bearing the name of who your teacher will be in the fall.

May Flowers

, originally uploaded by sweetmondaygirl.

Megan and Tony -

Looking forward to a month from today!

The Birds and The Bees

This weekend I worked on a short film that Hosea's friend was directing. It was my first time really being on a set since moving out here, which was a bit funny considering that being on set was my whole motivation for making the move in the first place. But that's a whole other thing.

The actual shooting experience was fine, nothing spectacular, nothing that made me too sad that I'm not much a part of that world right now. I do like filmmaking, but working on this made me realize that the vast majority if what I like about it has to do with liking the people I'm working with (and having a true sense of team work going on) and working on a project that I believe is solid creatively. With the exception of being happy to spend a weekend working on something with April and Hosea, which is always fun, neither of those elements were really in place, so it wasn't brilliant, it was just fine. But I'm glad I did it.

A couple of weird things that I will remember after I've forgotten almost everything else about the weekend:

There was a woman and her two kids who were in one scene of the movie. They were friends with the writer, whose house we were shooting in, so they brought their dog, Timmy, to the set with them. Right before we started shooting the scene, Timmy shows up with a live bird in his mouth. Much yelling at the dog ensued before we could get him to drop it, and of course by then it was too late for the bird, and one of the fine gentlemen on set had to put it out of its misery. I hate stuff like that. It makes me really sad and hangs over my head long after it's over. I know it's the circle of life and all that, but I can never get over feeling sad for the poor birds or other little creatures that are just going about their days and suddenly find themselves trapped in the foamy mouth of some other animal.

An hour or so earlier, we were shooting a scene in the back yard and had already started to roll camera when suddenly the actress who we were shooting said "Oh my God!" and her eyes got big as saucers and then there was this horrible sound, like a plane on fire, only softer and more organic, and I heard April gasp beside me and finally I looked up and there was an enormous swarm of bees coming towards us. Literally thousands of them. We all took off running for the house, and everyone made it in without being stung, and within a minute the bees were gone. Their target was clearly something else, something they hadn't gotten to yet, but for a few brief moments I felt pure fear and a rush of adrenaline like I don't think I've felt in years, if ever.

Before all that though, there was a moment when we were shooting a very uncomfortable scene, physically, and we were all hot and in a cramped space and there were sound issues because planes kept flying over head and dogs kept barking, so we all had to stand there sweating a lot longer than we wanted to, and then on one of the last takes I noticed a hummingbird in the bush I was standing next to, so I watched that for the rest of the time until I felt calm, and it flew off.

Darling Things

new plates, originally uploaded by sweetmondaygirl.

I had a friend in town last weekend and we ate at two of my favorite French restaurants in town. They are most likely NOT two of the best in town, but I have personal attachments to them, their food is tasty, and they are inexpensive enough that I can frequent them without feeling guilty.

At both meals, our food was served on lovely white plates with blue around the rims. While I have no idea if there is anything French about this type of plate, eating off of them made me feel more appreciate and captivated by my food, made me savor it more, and I KNOW that is a French thing.

I was thrilled, later in the weekend, to find some similar plates at Target for only $3.99 each. I scooped up two in blue and two in yellow. Last night I had my first meal on one of them, and it was divine.

, originally uploaded by sweetmondaygirl.

Mira likes to flaunt her belly.

I believe it's called Soft Floral.

On Monday, a few hours into my work day, I became painfully aware that someone around me was wearing ghastly cheap perfume. Pungent, offensive, floral perfume. The kind that is found on the shelves at K-Mart. Not in the glass cases, just on the open shelves. That cheap.

I've nothing, in theory, against cheap perfume. There are gems to be found in that world. And let's face it, my own favored brand, while definitely a tiny bit expensive for me, is no Chanel No. 5. But this was, My Goodness, Just. So. Bad. As the day wore on, and the scent grew stronger, I began to wonder what could possibly be behind the decision made by one of my co-workers to suddenly sport something so... challenging. Perhaps in the store, lightly sprayed on the inside of her wrist, it had smelled better? Less like a combination of molasses, gardenias and alcohol? It started to burn my nose. I could actually feel the little hairs in there withering away to nothing, brought down to their follicles by a $11.99 spray.

I longed to complain out loud, longed to commiserate with someone near me. Surely I couldn't be the only one in such pain, both physical and emotional?! But of course, I could say nothing without offending the owner of the stench, and so I suffered in silence all day, growing ever more nauseated and befuddled with each passing hour.

Leaving the office that day was more of a relief than usual. As I stepped into the open air, I breathed a sigh of relief. I'd survived. I climbed into my car, and there, in the comfort of my own space, I realized that some of the stink had gotten on me. I could still smell it. I frantically started sniffing my jacket, my arms. Yes, it was on me! It was stuck on me! I raised the top of my tee shirt to my nose. It was on that, too! And... wait... it was REALLY on that. I smelled again. Man. Then something terrible occurred to me. I gingerly sniffed my armpit. Yeah. Um... that smell, THE smell... that would be my new deodorant.

ode to hormones

piano fingers, originally uploaded by sweetmondaygirl.

my insecurities come like clockwork. i can tell you just when they will hover and when they will lash. when they will politely decline to comment and when they will shriek so loudly that attempting to ignore them is pointless.

i know, long before it happens, when exactly i will cry upon reading someone else's sad blog entry, when i will shudder every time the phone rings at work. when i will interpret the things that are said to me in the worst possible way. when i will feel as if i can't fit into any of my clothing, when i will have hair that is an offense to humankind. when i will tell myself mean things that make me feel small.

this knowledge, hard won, is rendered meaningless in the face of Week Three of Four.

sweet

lollipop, originally uploaded by sweetmondaygirl.

Time goes by so quickly.

This picture I took at the farmer's market a couple of weekends ago made me think of my sister, who used to love these huge lollipops (as well as huge jaw breakers) when she was little. She would lick them for a few minutes and then wrap them in tin foil until the next time she wanted them. Sometimes mom would give her some Tupperware to hold the half eaten jawbreaker, and it would roll around all sticky and spitty inside the plastic. Once on a trip to Florida to visit our grandparents, Corinn got a lolli that had Mickey Mouse on it and she was in heaven. The thing broke long before its time (and if I remember correctly I might have been partially responsible for its demise)and Corinn was devastated. We had to track another one down for her.

In a few weeks, C will be turning 21, and I am in disbelief.

Holly Wood

, originally uploaded by sweetmondaygirl.

When I was younger, in 8th or 9th grade, every week I would walk to the grocery store down the street from our house in Traverse City, and buy a pack of green Extra gum and People magazine with my allowance. My awareness of celebrities -- what they wear, who they love for the moment -- stretches back at least that far. I was always sort of fascinated by movie stars (the glamour and whatnot) and moving to Los Angeles, where the celebrities roam as free as is possible, hasn't really changed that. Five years later, I still love to pour over US Weekly, and I still blush when I see someone famous walking out of the bathroom at the movie theatre.

What's changed is that now some of these people are actually part of my social life. Through various circumstances, I find myself at their birthday parties, or at dinner with them, or simply at their place of business. This has brought an element to my life that is on one hand sort of cool, and on the other hand quite stressful.

Famous people, you see, are wee folk. Male, female, young, old, really famous or only sort of... they are, nearly universally, very short and very thin. In the men, I find this sort of cute and funny. I think it's amusing to know that women all over the country are being wooed from afar by men who are barely over five feet tall.

In the women, I find it to be downright intimidating. I'm a tall girl, and thin but not skinny. Petite girls have always terrified me. I feel like an oaf next them, as if I've suddenly become the most ginormous women in all the land. If these girls also happen to be beautiful and immaculately dressed and, oh, I don't know... FABULOUS SOCIAL BUTTERFLY MOVIE STARS then it gets a bit scary for me. I get shy and sweaty, and all at once I'm back in second grade when my feet grew too fast and my mom made me wear huge pink Converse All Stars and everyone called me Dumbo (nevermind that Dumbo had large ears, not large feet).

It's rather wretched, when this happens.

Before you go ahead with the comments about how I'm darling just the way I am (and aren't I, though?), I must add that you couldn't pay me to switch places with any of these girls. The other thing my fairly close proximity to these people affords me is the ability to see just how rather normal they really are, all physical beauty and riches aside. The vast majority of them are horribly insecure, and with good reason: In most cases, they will be tossed aside for being too old, too undertalented, too difficult, too addicted, too "last year" long before they are ready to be done with their careers. Their lives are riddled with bizarre pressures. The pressure to be microscopic in size and enormous in personality and talent. The pressure to always look ten years younger than they are. The pressure to wear a full face of make up when they drag the dumpster down to the curb, unless they want to be seen by all the world in their pale, puffy faced glory. And Lord help them if they want to have a normal romantic relationship!

So it's not about jealousy (although I wouldn't mind some Prada dresses and perfectly glossy hair) as much as it is about feeling a bit uncomfortable in my own skin when I'm around a certain type of person.

Hollywood breeds that, maybe even for The Stars Themselves.

In Bloom

, originally uploaded by sweetmondaygirl.

This weekend I walked the majority of the places I went. Probably about 7 miles in all, maybe a bit more. It felt really good. I'm always surprised at how much is missed when driving in a car. There are so many things that must be experienced up close or will be lost altogether.

The roses in Los Angeles are amazing right now. It's possible to walk for block after block and smell nothing except their scent. Marvelous.

Enough said, but I'm going to say more.

it's a shame about..., originally uploaded by sweetmondaygirl.

There's a deeply disturbing trend I've noticed in Los Angeles. Somewhere, and I prefer to pretend that these places reside deep in the dark bowels of the city where light and dictionaries dare not tread, there are multiple sign manufacturers who cannot spell, nor, in some cases, can they tell when a letter is backward or forward (I shall provide examples of the latter in a future post, as this is not an issue I will let die quietly).

I realize I live in a City of Diversity and yadda yadda. Doesn't matter. There's no excuse. It's one thing, as a sign seeker, to not know enough english to write down your requested message and spell it correctly. That I understand. I'm all for shop owners who don't speak english. They tend to just let you enjoy browsing in their stores in peace and quiet. It's an entirely different thing to be a sign maker and have not a clue in the whole wide world of how to spell "everything" or "beauty" or so, so many others, and to refuse to inquire about the spellings of such before plastering them on plasic or metal or wood or glass, and giving them to your poor, unsuspecting, peace and quiet loving clients, therefore condemning them to years of looking foolish.

WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE?!

I think this has to be one of the highest forms of cruelty I've ever seen.

"The photograph on the dashboard, taken years ago..."

If you are me, here is what you live for:

A Friday night, you are slightly tired, it's been a long week. You've got plenty of energy for making dinner though. Cheddar and bacon panini with a complicated chipotle relish that you've been making for a half hour. You're cutting an onion. It doesn't sting your eyes, but it does sting the skin around a tiny little crack in one of your cuticles.

In the living room, the boy and his roommate are playing the piano and the guitar, and then the bass and the guitar. They play songs you know the words to, songs you love the words to, but which you're perfectly willing to not hear the words to just now. The music is enough.

When you put the onions in with ketchup and the Worcestershire sauce, which are bubbling on the stove, it smells divine and your stomach growls. The boy takes a break from the piano to check on the dessert he's making while you're doing dinner. He puts his hand on your back and you remind him that it was when he first played one of those songs for you that you realized you loved him.

You remember when you were younger and imagined that being an adult would include exactly these things. Cooking late night dinners, someone playing good music, a glass of wine while you chop vegetables, bare feet on hardwood floors.

When he's back out at the piano, he plays the other song he played for you that night so long ago, maybe without even knowing what he's doing. You smile as you drop in the pinches of oregano and cinnamon, and the moment feels complete.

Sally Bishop

Running into something interesting with the book right now. My story has several shorter narratives woven into the larger one, and because these stories are meant to be able to practically stand on their own, they feature characters who don't appear in the primary story. The one I am working on right now centers on a rather complicated girl who, I discovered the other day, I do not like.

When I started her story, I had no idea this would be the case. I knew she would be a bit prickly, and that her choices would be poor ones, but it wasn't until I got into the guts a bit that I realized I'm not at all fond of her. This is the first time this has happened to me. I've written other characters who weren't, overall, the most likeable folk, but I always liked them just fine. I have a soft spot for difficult personalities. So it took me a bit by surprise, my disdain for this nineteen year old and her brazen nature, her selfishness.

I thought for a moment that I should change her, warm her up a bit. She is, after all, the protagonist of her brief little tale, and it would make sense that she'd need to be likeable. But it was too late. By the time I realized what was going on, the character was already fully grown, already sitting at a table looking at a man she doesn't love, who disgusts her in fact, agreeing to marry him. There was no stopping her. So I, her creator, am writing her not how I intended her to be, but instead, just how she is.