Well, it’s been a month or so. The editing has been coming in fast and furious, and, as my first boss who was a good boss once said to me, “You say, ‘Yes,’ to everything, and then you figure out how to do it later, or you delegate.” Well, she was a VP of circulation, so she had the ability to delegate. I need a staff!
It’s odd that I’m posting on this blog right now because I have barely had my face out of this screen for weeks. I even came home from taking someone to an all-day hospital trip two weeks ago and settled in to finish another set of edits. Over the summer I have been going to a few concerts at the Hollywood Bowl with my friend Amanda, and, though she knows nothing about American rock music, she goes, has fun, and we get one of the gigantic twenty dollar beers and split it. I need to get back out for a beer!
And so it came to pass that, with all that editing, I was bound to wear something out, and need to replace it. My hip.
LOL, no just kidding. That’s an old lady joke. It was my mouse pad. And it was disgusting. It was black, said “But First Coffee,” and had started to become one with the desk.
So, like you do, I found a better one on Etsy. One that is not gross, and that suits the kind-hearted person I truly am. And is in my favorite color!
I also received a gift certificate last December from Dave for my birthday, and last Friday I stole 2 hours from editing to use it (and then went to Starbucks, and went right back to editing, playing through the pain).
To commemorate Devil’s Party Press, my first business. That’s a photo Jing took, so he’d just finished. I’m a bit red.
Whatcha think? Apparently I am good at tattoos. They don’t really hurt me, and I heal quickly and well. Every time I get one I agonize over it, should I get one, shouldn’t I? What kind of a person gets one? Is this the right one to get? But I have virtually no pain. I rubbed this on the sheets a little too roughly Saturday night, and it was ouchy for a minute, but otherwise I am fine.
But every time I get one I am so excited. I want a sleeve, and I think I am going to work more on finishing that sleeve out, before I’m dead.
Dave drew this one, and Jing applied it, and Jing also drew the stars. I love that Jing added the white highlights. White doesn’t always last, but for now it is cool.
And then there were three:
Sophie drew the mint chocolate chip rabbit. Girl power I created from various clip arts. That one was my first, done in DE. I got it when Hillary Clinton lost to the monster. The idea was that if I held up my arm in a fist, the patriarchy could see it when I helped to smash it. The guy who tattooed me said he wasn’t sure what the patriarchy was, but he thought the placement was correct for smashing it.
So, yeah, I’ve been working my butt off. What can I tell you? I think I am good at a few things, and aren’t we all? I am good at getting tattooed. I am good at singing. I am good at making cookies and bean soup (and really, what else do you need to survive?) and I am extra good at editing. It’s the kind of thing you don’t think you need, until you get it, and then you’re like, “Whoa, my book really needed that.” It is expensive though, so I always do a free sample. I’m like COSTCO that way. If you want a free sample, let me know: dianne@currentwords.com
So, I don’t know when I’ll be back here. I think a lot of folks are getting their books ready for 2026 publication. Makes sense. I’m getting mine ready too! Yoinks!
Work work work….
My woman works too much. I have had it! Meeeee-ow!
Things wear out… like mouse pads and pets’ patience!
Today my beautiful lady has been filled with what I believe are gerbera daisies. Cost for flowers, about $20 @ Trader Joe’s.
I had gerberas in my wedding bouquet by necessity and not choice. Unfortunately my April wedding came to be about two weeks after the ranunculus were spent and gone. I wanted ranunculus, because they have a wind-blown look. I wanted orange, and my sister had an orange dress. We both had our dresses made by Kevin Simon, who seems to have vaporized since she once had a very pricey store on Abbott Kinney Boulevard. Kevin made everything in linen, and she was a master of sort of vintage-farm looking clothing, like late 1800s. I loved her work and could not afford any of it, so I splurged on my dress and my sister’s, assuming I was only getting married once. A regular skirt at Kevin’s was over $500. My wedding dress and my sister’s MOH dress combined were $1000. The back bottom of my dress had tulle orange flowers pinned to it. My dress was linen with a silk slip, and my sister’s was orange silk. I’ve since lost about 70 pounds, and I left the dress at Goodwill in Delaware when I moved, but I kept all the organza flowers.
In any case, I do have to say I’m not usually a gerbera girl, except when needs must. But today the yellow (which is a lot lighter in real life) on the flowers screamed, “Butter!” at me, with just a hint of orange at their centers, and so I was compelled. Mixed them with orange and some green greenery, et voila!
The little pumpkin/squash you see there I plan to eat, not carve. LOL. Roasted pumpkin in things is divine! As are these lovely gerbera. Ranunculus are actually not great cut flowers, so droopy.
It is a blessing to have flowers anywhere in the world, of any kind, and especially on my very sunny kitchen counter. Buy the flowers, hold them high, and repeat after me, “Here’s to the times we bless others, and also to the times we bless ourselves!”
Have a wonderful week~
PS. Most flowers I buy last a full two weeks! Just keep the water clean and fresh.
I have this sense that sometimes I come off as a competent professional, and this post is proof that I’m faking it, just like most people on the web.
This is a photo of me in an outfit I particularly liked last spring, but, if it looks on your screen like it looks on mine, it looks warped. And I don’t know why. I have Photoshop, and mad Photoshop skills (if mad Photoshop skills means I pay for it, and noodle around and do my best, and really have no idea what I’m doing). I don’t know why I look freaking warped, but I can’t be bothered to care, mostly because I love this outfit, and I so badly want it to be chilly, even a little bit for a few hours. So, yes, I am faking any confidence (and proficiency at Photoshop) that you may feel that you see.
It’s times like these that I realize that while I absolutely consider air conditioning to be both a privilege and a blessing, what I consider even more of a privilege and a blessing is some outdoor space to call your own, and nice enough weather to enjoy it. I’m in that awkward phase of life where I am really not too good in The Heat, with capital letters, and also not too good when the temps go below freezing. I was a winter-over-summer fan from birth almost (and aren’t most very pale-skinned people?) and I still am, but not quite as cold as I age. Blech. Aging.
In any case: I bought that green blouse, I don’t remember from where, but it is long-sleeved, a bit cropped, and I love it. Over my (presumably, at the time) chilly shoulders I have an inexpensive sweater shawl/wrap I treated myself to (I think it came from Quince) when we first moved back to CA, which was insane because I probably would have gotten more use out of it on the East Coast, but maybe had less reasons to go out looking dressy enough for a shawl. Are shawls dressy? It seems to me they are. East Coast or West, hot-as-blazes or nicely cold, I have never gotten over my love of corduroy.
When I was going into sixth grade my mother gave me some money, and let me take the trolly to our local mall to buy some school clothes on my own. My mother was a very clothing-controlling mother who “knew” how children were supposed to be dressed, and that often meant clothes I didn’t especially like, like pink or pale peach, and Keds (sorry Keds) and lots of white, and no dark colors. If you got an Easter purse made of some sort of wicker every spring along with your white sweater and a hat with fake flowers on it, your mom may have been like mine. That year I don’t know what had come over her, as she also really liked seeing me try clothes on, and deciding which stores to go into, but she sent me off on my own. I went to the Levi’s store that had floor-to-ceiling bins full of denim and corduroy arranged by waist, and length, and also leg type. I cannot tell you how disappointed I was to hear that they only had straight legs, skinny, and boot cut; bell bottoms had been discontinued the prior fall, they told me. I mean I adored bell bottoms. So sad for me. But they had corduroy, and I had never had corduroy before, so I bought three pairs: one in green and one in a dark rust color, and I think the other pair was deep brown. Needless to say my mother was nonplussed. I remember feeling like middle school, where, for the first time, I would have a different teacher for each class, and move from classroom to classroom like a college student, was the big time. I was ready to learn, baby! (Of course I was. I read the encyclopedia and the atlas. I was a positively thrilling child with my consumption of plays and gothic horror romances. What sixth-grader doesn’t like gothic horror romance?) So I wanted to go to middle school looking collegiate, and for me that was corduroy and fall colors. Flash forward to this spring, and I have been lugging those green corduroy pants (from Gap or Old Navy) around for at least five years!
And, lastly, to finish off this particular ensemble, on my feet was the birthday gift I requested from Sophie and her dad for 2024: green Doc Martens. I had Doc Martens boots in college, but they have gotten so much more comfortable now. I love them. I replaced Doc’s laces with some pretty green ribbon laces, and that completed the look, in my mind.
Here’s to fall colors. I bought Dave a pumpkin spice latte the other day!
You know, one last thought, when I was a K-12 kid, all I thought about and longed for was going to college. I know I was a teensy bit of a dork, but I just cannot stand what it happening to colleges now: Cutting down on diversity (which I loved. I requested a non-white roommate on my college form because I was leaving Wonder-Bread-white Springfield, and wanted to meet some people who were not like me), cutting down on international students, controlling what teachers can teach and what books can be made available. But the most horrible thing is the absolute lie that college is neither good nor necessary. I had teachers with different morals and beliefs and ideas than me, and I liked them just as much as the ones who were more similar to me in my thinking, and I loved them all (except for that one Irish poet who refused to pass women, which I’m sure is here somewhere in a past post). And learning new things is important. You cannot do it all on your own, and you have to read to do it, and you have to care about knowing things. I tend to be a very trusting person, but I also always wanted to check the source before I changed or confirmed my thinking on a topic. I wished, so much, that I could have had time in my program to learn more languages, and to take subjects that weren’t related to my degree, and that were tough for me, like physics, which continues to fascinate me, and automotive repair (I wanted to learn how to fix car engines). September is the month of school, and fall, and new things to learn, and the circus of idiots in leadership of the federal government at the moment should have their brains washed out with soap for their absolute hatred of college. College is not easy, but it is a wonderful experience that every American child should be encouraged to pursue, and supported to pursue (use my tax dollars to pay for college please, and not to give Tesla a tax break!).
So, in the spirit of fall, and going back to school, and wishing, in vain, that it was cool enough for corduroy, and that I was young enough to be a college student all over again, here is my head-to-toe green outfit. If only the pants were bell-bottoms! If only college were life-long and free. If only we had time, and resources, to do it all. I would stay busy.
What was a class that you took in K-12 or college that you still remember fondly? I loved choir, geometry, home ec (cooking) in middle school, and still remember some of the recipes, and literary criticism, the Vietnam War (which went with a PBS series), and black and white photography in college.
Today my beautiful lady head is holding pincushion protea, safflower, and eucalyptus. When I was younger I was more snooty about flowers: they had to smell, and smell good. None of these really have a smell, although fresh (really fresh) eucalyptus can smell wonderful. Cost for flowers, again about $11 at Trader Joe’s.
I venture to say I’ve almost made it through summer, always a challenge for me as a person who prefers chillier climes. My sister reports that up (up the hill) in Idyllwild where she lives now it has been chilly and stormy… of which I am envious as we’ve had a 90-100 degree heat wave here. It’s been a bit of a year so far, her dealing with a diagnosis of mucosal melanoma, and me dealing with her diagnosis. We’ve done the majority of her doctor’s appointments together, and although I know she sometimes must get sick of me, I really have treasured spending all that time with my baby sis. She was supposed to go visit our handful of a mother, but there were new protocols to try, so that got cancelled. She’s hoping our mother will come to her. I am not holding my breath on that because the mountain usually doesn’t go to Mohammed.
I now present an actual undoctored video of Mama:
Ha!
No, that’s not actually her, but the “everything” about Lucille is pretty close to Mama Pearce. And… if I tease out the comparison… I’m probably Michael in that scenario, who is probably the lamest Bluth. Sorry Michael. I have to tell the truth… on both of us!
As long as I have been a parent I have been worried about my daughter’s summer plans/schedule, because she’s a kid who does better with one than without. She was too old for any camps this year, so we just made a deal: she took an online Driver’s Ed course; she had to make plans with one friend at least once a week, and she did some new and interesting chores around the house in preparation for someday being in charge of her own dorm room or apartment. She mopped, and organized, and did all sorts of things she doesn’t have a lot of time for when school is in session, because her program has days that run from 8-5, but can go as late as 9. She’s joined a teen program at Pasadena Playhouse for the fall, where she’ll begin to get a little real-world backstage experience. And she passed the driver’s ed course. We’re waiting for the necessary pink slip to arrive in the mail, which will allow her to take the permit test (it is a rule in California that they have the pink slip before they take the permit test.).
Anyway, it’s been a busy few months, and I’m glad school has begin again, and the patterns are falling back into place that alleviate some of the the pressure. Is there a mom out there in a hetero relationship whose partner takes on the responsibility for the kid(s) over the summer?
🦗 🦗 🦗 🦗 🦗
Are those… crickets?
Yeah, I didn’t think so.
When life comes in waves of responsibility and busyness, you STILL have to manage to get to the ever more expensive grocery store (wait, I thought he was lowering the prices on day 1…. Good thing none of us held our breath), so skip a few of the overpriced boxes of cereal, or other overpriced things, and make sure you use ten bucks or so to buy yourself flowers!
These flowers I love because… orange, and green, the two best colors ever.
From the time I can remember, whenever I belonged to any group, I was, what my brother would call, a rah! rah!
My brother was definitely not a rah! rah! But, in his defense, organized things, like church and school, weren’t always that welcoming to the distracted kid who looked like he would have preferred to be anywhere other than there, and he would have.
I remember so clearly many aspects of 1976. I wore one of those mop hats Betsy Ross and the like wore, because my class was so often engaged in colonial reenactments at malls and nursing homes. I remember my friend, Krissi, who had Mr. Griffin instead of Mrs. Wentz, and her whole class did a huge lip-syncing performance, and Krissi got to be Elton John while another girl, who I was very jealous of, got to be Kiki Dee. Damn!
But my class was relegated to what Mrs. Wentz liked, and that was patriotism.
Well, that wasn’t that hard for me. I loved fireworks, something which, I must admit, years of dog ownership as an adult have soured for me. I loved barbecues in the back field with all the dads playing softball against all the sons, even if it did mean that the other daughters and I were stuck being beer-bringers, cheerleaders, and trash-picker-uppers. I was so proud a few years earlier for the Battle of the Sexes, where Billie Jean King roundly kicked Bobby Riggs’ old ass. I believed in feminism from the door, as much as a new human could. But the guys were not at all happy about Billie Jean King. They were pissed, and embarrassed, as if each one of them was Bobby Riggs. When our working class neighborhood had those ball games in the field I had an understanding that the guys needed those ball games. Those dads needed to clobber their young sons, and they needed their wives and daughters to cheer them on.
I have the photo of Converse at the top because we wore Converse and Keds, my brother and me, and I had a pair of Converse, I think they were Converse, in 1976 that were stars and stripes, and I loved them. I had a patriotic T, and I put crepe paper in my spokes, and biked in the 4th of July parade, learned all the patriotic songs (I was able to sing all the words to “When Johnny Comes Marching Home” just last night at the Hollywood Bowl), and I loved America.
My parents were blue-collar, a machinist (later a gunsmith) and a telephone operator, and they raised us on church, and baseball games, and love and respect of elders, and turkey with stuffing, and all that stuff.
As I grew up, though, that fit me less and less.
Sometimes, in my childhood, boys were just jerks, mean, violent. I never had a group of girls surround me on bikes and spit all over me, or throw worms in my long hair when it rained, or pick on my friend Richard, who was probably gay, and hit him, and hit me if I tried to stop them. But the boys did that. The boys told me I couldn’t play run-the-bases, or go in their fort, or go with them to the creek. Not my brother, my brother was always nice, but the boys the same age as me. In school the boys got angry when I got a higher score on the test, like it was a crime, and then would do something, “Race you to that pole!” to prove they could beat me. Or just knock into me in the hall, or hold my locker door closed when I was trying to get my books out. I loved my father and brother. I loved baseball and hockey and boxing. I wanted to hang out with the guys and the girls, but the guys weren’t usually welcoming, and they really didn’t want to hear my ideas on how to do things, at church or at school. And there were plenty of girls who were always ready to defend the guys being just as jerky as they wanted to be, if it meant they got asked to the prom. I also wanted to go to prom, but not that much.
As I grew up I was always more of a reader than most, and so I read the Sunday paper, and the Bible, and the school textbooks, and the encyclopedias that we had (I think we had through J), and the Atlas. I knew what the books said, and I knew what I thought about what I read. A lot of the guys hadn’t read, but they knew with certainty what they thought, and I had better not say different. And their girlfriends agreed.
In college, when I was living in an apartment near University of Pennsylvania, the neighbor guys threw ketchup and mustard on my apartment door, and banged up my bike locked up in the hall, because of my Geraldine Ferraro poster, which they tore down and tore up. Guys were always telling me I had too much to say, and too many opinions, and read too much.
Much later, when I signed up to adopt from China, I joined a Yahoo group for adopters-to-be, and quickly learned that a vocal group of waiting parents were fundamentalist Christians, and they didn’t want anyone using rainbows for anything, or to adopt while gay, or to really like China at all, which was, in the views they often espoused, a bad place full of bad people whose children needed rescuing.
I watched the Watergate hearings as a small child. When the cartoons were over on Saturday mornings, I stayed for the hearings until my mom shooed me away. I was so disappointed in Nixon. I thought Ford was a kindly but ineffective man. I thought Carter was great; I wanted to meet him. I despised Reagan, and both Bushes, and I was thrilled about Clinton, but more thrilled about Mrs. Clinton. I was devasted when Bill cheated on his wife.
I don’t know where I’m going with this except that, when I was young, I loved being a USA booster, and as I aged, I have felt more and more pushed out, like my kind of person wasn’t the right kind of American, and I’m white and straight! For those who aren’t, the pushing must feel so much more constant.
When I went to see Hamilton last fall, all my patriotism was re-awakened. My god what they did to get this country made! What they had the imaginations to plan for in the future, and what they were willing to give up to make this dream country!
But then, less than a month after I saw it, so many people voted for the wrong person. Now, I agree, we can compare and agree to disagree on John McCain and Mitt Romney vs. Barak Obama or the like. But we cannot do that on the current occupant of the White House. The man elected in 2024 has done nothing but egregious activities his entire adult life, and yet he brings out the patriotism in so many people, people, I would argue, who have no idea what patriotism is, and what it means to be an American in the America created by those founders whose stories are told in Hamilton. My father, who taught me to love baseball and boxing, and my brother, who taught me to love hockey and catch tadpoles, would have been horrified by elected officials being shot in their homes by a fake cop, and would have been disappointed in a president who could not bring himself to offer condolences to their governor. Where are men like them? Where are the real patriots? I feel like I’ve been in states of disbelief, grief, confusion, amazement, and panic since the fall election. I have moments where I want to take my small family, and our friends, and run for another country. But when you’re from the country that kicks everyone out, can you really ask another country to let you in?
I haven’t put out a flag for Flag Day or the 4th of July in years. I am an American patriot, but not for this version of America. And I wish I could have my pride and patriotism back. For me, it’s almost like the 4thof July has been sucked into “the upside down,” where everything I’ve loved about this country has been changed to its most perverse opposite. I know that what people like me lost from our country we lost in tiny little pieces, from, in my lifetime, the pardoning of Nixon foreword, in the name of trying to give space to two sides that are really not equal at all. As the short and fantastic film Here Be Dragons says, “Math class doesn’t give equal time to 2+2=5.” But we did. I lost my patriotism, and many lost much much more. I don’t think it’s something barbecue or patriotic sneakers or colored explosions can fix.
A gazillion years ago now I spotted a pair of madras pants at a Goodwill. Man, I wanted them. Unfortunately, based on their size or mine, it wasn’t happening. I remember standing there, thinking, What sewing skills can I unleash to make these work? I do have sewing skills, and they are universally unimpressive, so there’s that. I talked myself out of them, which was a good idea, but I’ve been longing for them ever since.
Facebook puts clothing ads up in my feed all the time. It knows me, and, in this case, I don’t mind, because here came a golf store (last month) with a huge sale on men’s madras pants. Score! Now, what the hell do you wear with madras pants if you don’t golf, and you don’t want to look more dork than usual? T-shirts just seemed to add to the wrong vibe, so I went with this shirt, from Old Navy, I think, during the pandemic, and I believe it is a women’s shirt, because it is a petite, as you can tell because it doesn’t come down to below my butt. I am short, really short, so short my favorite HS teacher called me Shorty instead of my name, and my waist is also short. And, while I’m outing myself, I might as well go all the way and reveal that, also during HS, the costume lady informed me that my arms are shorter than they’re supposed to be, which explains a lot of yoga challenges, and why my daughter says I am a T-Rex. Add into all that my usual chest size of 38D, and it’s been a work-in-progress, sometimes, to find what I want, like a good men’s shirt to wear with ties that fits waist and boobs, and this petite version does the trick so well that you cannot imagine how carefully I launder it. This shirt has to last me to death, folks, and I ain’t planning on going anytime soon.
Lastly the tie is, like all my ties, from Goodwill, but, until today, it had been living in my closet, unworn, for probably 8 or more years. Listen, I commit to clothes I love. I think it works with the slightly preppy vibe.
I have on Seavees sneakers, and, pro tip, every August Seavees has a massive online sale on most of their sneakers that is often 50% off, which these were. They are not as comfy as Vans, IMHO, but they do have that retro beach feel. I have had this pair about five years, bought on sale one August. I am obsessed with my favorite color, green, and really have to hold myself back from buying nothing but green clothes.
Dave has off today, and is sleeping in. I got up (even though I was up late, one!) at my usual pre-6 time, mostly because I was sooo hot, which was, I think, not a function of the weather, but more of the time of life, and had to get in a nice cool shower. Then I thought I would try to wear these pants, and put this look together, and took Oliver for a walk so he wouldn’t bother Dave. As we were heading back we pulled ourselves over to make room for another pedestrian, and we said hello, and she said, “I love your look!” So, you know, I’m pretty much on cloud 9 right now: day slayed. I only dress for me, so that I think, OMGosh, woman, I love it! and tell myself how clever I am. But, having another person comment, before 7 in the morning too, is a great surprise.
These pants are comfy, and got looser just on the walk, which was nice. They have four pockets too, cool, as I often walk with my hands in my back pockets for some reason. I’m all in on the pants, and also happy to be undercutting that golf, country club thing. Golfers… I just don’t know. Someone out there is giving golfing a very bad reputation these days. You know what I’m talking about. Imagine how authors would feel if I golfed instead of helping them edit and sell their books! So Ima sit my madras butt down on the porch before Los Angeles gets scorching at noon, and do some editing. And if it needs saying again, there are no riots here. Just hot days and hard-working people being nice to each other. Los Angeles is one of the best places to merge onto the highway, because they’re nice here. I mean, you know, I’m from Philly. I can drive freaking anywhere in the world because I could easily merge onto the Schuylkill Expressway from the left lane, coming down a ramp into the fast lane at 65. It’s a thing. Los Angeles is so much more forgiving. So, yeah, if you like nice weather, really nice, 9 or more months of the year (a teensy bit too hot other times), if you like happy people to interact with at stores and on the street, if you like diversity for your kids and your own general weirdness, and a more chill vibe overall, and especially if you like international food, this is a pretty good place to be. And if you want some super soft comfortable pants with lots of pockets that could, truly, go with almost anything, get some madras. Geek out!
Dianne Pearce Writes 