Something New

“I bought something new,” I said setting a wrapped package on the coffee table. 

“Is it for me?” Mr. Wonderful said shaking the package.

“Nope.”

“For Jackson?”

“Nope.”

“For The House?”

“Nope.”

“Who’s it for who then?”

“Me.”

When you do everything for everyone else all the time, people and felines tend to forget that you need anything like a break; want anything like a new treasure; or dream of anything like a mani-pedi with a foot massage happy ending.

So after buying Mr. Wonderful everything that his chicken heart desired, purchasing for Jackson the coolest catnip toys and shopping for The House at the home improvement store for months, I finally took matters into my own hands. I went shopping for me. 

And it was glorious! Now I’m not one of those big spenders throwing money around like dirty tissues during flu season. If I’m feeling blue I do not need to buy a huge-ticket item to feel better. Nor do I need to buy multiple items to improve my mood. All I actually need is to get one nice thing. In fact when I have been sad I’ve been known to accept things for free, which cheered me up just as much as buying something. And once at the beach I even found a perfectly round stone so I brought it home and that free stone—now paperweight—still makes me grin with pleasure. 

For me it’s not about the spending, it’s about the getting something beautiful to remind me that life is beautiful.

On this particular afternoon I was running errands, when through a shop window I saw a pretty yellow vase with a doughnut hole. It was tall with an appealing shape and color, the shade of which would match the dining room. But did I need another vase? Nope. I walked on. After running my errands and meeting a friend for a wine tasting, I passed the shop window again. The yellow vase was still there. I still liked it. But did I need another vase? Yes! Hooray for wine tasting.

I bought it, brought it home and filled it with water, a white Lily and a red Gerber Daisy. I didn’t need it. But it brightened my day reminding me on this May gray day that life is beautiful. 

“That looks good,” Mr. Wonderful said pointing to the flowers in the vase.

“Thanks,” I nodded gazing at it while a smile teased my lips.

“I like when you buy things for you.”

“Really?”

“Especially when I get to enjoy them, too.”

Everyone likes a little beauty to remind them that life is beautiful. Enjoy this beautiful day!

Want to read more? Get Alicia Bien's Award-Winning Book EVOLUTION OF A WINE DRINKER.

The Challenge

I wanted it.
I'd trained for it.
I had to win it.
But I didn't count on Jackson.

Memorial Day is about remembering those military men and women who have fought for our country.  To them I say, "Thank you, ladies and gentleman, for your service."

Across America, Memorial Day is also about boating, BBQ and beaucoup beer. In my California neighborhood it is also about putting out the American flag first. My neighbors and I could keep our flags up all day, every day and night, but we don't. That would be cheating. Last year I noticed how my 86 year-old neighbor had decorated his front yard in 76 mini flags before I could even get my one large flag displayed.

"Hey Harold, you're quick with the flag draw," I said pointing to his flag display.
"You have to get up pretty early to beat me to it," he said folding his arms across his chest.
"Are you challenging me?"
"I'm just saying: I'm always the first one in the neighborhood to put up the flag," he shrugged and shuffled off into his house. He was... gloating.

Challenge accepted, Harold. You. Are. Going. Down.

I prepped for our competition. For weeks I set my phone alarm for the crack of dawn. I practiced putting on my shoes while half asleep. I trained in lifting the flag like the soldiers of the Iwo Jima statue. Finally the big day arrived. The night before Memorial Day I pulled the flag out of the closet, propped it next to the kitchen door and dusted off its exterior flag mount on the front of the house. Fully prepared, I went to bed. On M-Day I rose at 5:45 AM, pulled on my clothes and shoes and peered outside. Harold's flag was not up. Ah-hah! I raced to the kitchen door sure of victory.

Unfortunately Jackson did not know that Harold and I had a serious competition going on at this hour of the day. Rather he thought I had arisen from a deep, snored-infused sleep to feed him his can of wet food. As I approached the kitchen door Jackson was threading his body in and out of my legs. How could I get outside with this cat tripping me up? I couldn't. Boom. I fell over the feline and landed in a downward-facing dog pose.

Walking my hands toward my feet I stood up, tore open the pantry and grabbed a can of salmon shreds cat food. Pulling off its seal proof top, I slid it in front of the cat like a deli's short order cook then resumed my flag competition.

Opening the door I rushed outside, grabbed the flag and sped to the front of the house. Unfurling the stars and stripes I stabbed the pole into its mount. A smile spread across my face. Success! I beat Harold! Then turning to my neighbor's yard, my stomach fell. Harold's flag was mounted and flapping in the gentle morning breeze. It looked beautiful. What didn't look beautiful was my second place finish.

But then I thought about it: flying the flag--whether you're first in the neighborhood or last--is about honoring our servicemen and women. Which means anyone who flies a flag is a winner. Or at least that's my consolation prize for this heart-breaking second place.

Wishing you a fun and thankful Memorial Day!



Want to read more? Get Alicia Bien's Award-Winning Book EVOLUTION OF A WINE DRINKER.

Her Day

I'm glad she gets one day out of 365.
I'm glad our culture pauses to say thanks to the woman who holds it together.
I'm glad Mr. Wonderful finally made me breakfast.

Happy Mother's Day to all the mamas out there! Thanks for all you do, for whenever you do it and for doing it even when you're bone tired. Your kids appreciate it. At least I do.

Also, thanks to Anna Jarvis and Hallmark for making this a day when women don't make breakfast. This morning Mr. Wonderful stepped up to the plate and served me homemade crepes. They were so tasty I think Mother's Day should happen more than once a year!

Any takers?

May!

"What's this?" Mr. Wonderful said closing the front door on the work day.
"A bouquet of flowers," I said fluffing the white hydrangeas.
"But--"
"I'm not allergic to hydrangeas."
"But--"
"I won't sneeze."
"But--"
"They were on sale."
"But why are they in the middle of the floor?"

May is a great month because it means spring, flowers and show tunes. Every year when May rolls around I morph into the Queen of Camelot à la Julie Andrews skipping around singing about how grand May is. 

"It's May, it's May, the lusty month of May!

That lovely month when everyone puts flowers in the way!" 

To be fair the large hydrangea bouquet was in the middle of the floor because it was in a huge vase that was too jinormous to be supported by a table--end, coffee or dining room models. While I'm a May hooray-er, my spouse is a bit more subdued about the fifth month of the year. He likes flowers--especially tulips--but only in small quantities--especially tulips. Also, he doesn't sing or dance. Although I do. 

"It's May, it's May that gorgeous holiday!

When every girl wishes her man would dance the can-can!"

Mr. Wonderful thinks I go overboard with the flowers but after a dry winter, why not celebrate life with bouquets of hydrangeas, dozens of daisies and truckloads of tulips? All while singing and dancing around The House like a medieval royal? After all it's so fleeting--just 31 days long--so we have to enjoy it while it's here. 

"It's May, it's May, that festive time of year

When everyone drinks white wine with their beer!" 

While May signals "fun" for me it represents "work" for Mr. Wonderful. Currently my spouse is busy planning another home improvement project--installing gutters, rain barrels and windows. Or maybe these are three big separate projects? All I know is it's a lot of work. 

"It's May, it's May, the working month of spring,

When he... re-turns to hammers, nails and drilling."

I know home improvement work needs to be done, which is exactly why I've decorated The House in flowers. If I can't be out enjoying nature, then I'll bring nature inside. Besides with the humongo vase of hydrangeas in the path to the front door, maybe Mr. Wonderful won't be able to leave The House and go to the home improvement store for supplies. Maybe he can stay here with me and we can drink white wine or a beer together. After all,

"It's May, it's May, the month of yes you may!

So just sit down and with me stay! 

The lusty month of Maaaaaay!"

Oh! What a Night!

I planned it for months.
I talked about it for weeks.
I had nightmares about it for one night. But oh what a night.

I love books so when I was invited to participate in an author reading at Book'd in Burbank, I jumped at the chance. I had attended this Book'd in Burbank event twice before and enjoyed the writers who showcased there, the audience who came to hear the readings and the whole feeling of being in a theater surrounded by people who love books. It rocked.

Months ago I put this event on my calendar. I knew exactly what I would read: an excerpt from my upcoming comedy book about Paris--Paris! Take Me Away! I knew what I would wear: boots because they're comfortable to stand in during said reading. And I knew exactly when I would get to the theater: early.

For weeks I talked about this event to book lovers--my family, my friends, complete strangers at the LA Times Festival of Books. All 6,000 of them. Needless to say, I was ready for my author reading.

The night before the event, however, I had a dream that I forgot the excerpt of my book that I would be reading. I believe this is called a "nightmare", a "disaster" or the "surest way to give yourself a heart attack".

The next morning I laid out everything for the event, including my excerpt to read in a clean manilla folder. That evening I grabbed my purse, book copies and promotional materials and marched to the car in my comfortable boots.

"Do you have everything?" Mr. Wonderful said as I loaded everything into my car.
"Of course," I said. "I'm ready for tonight."
"Are you... sure?"
It wasn't what he said but the tone with which he said it that made me think twice. I rushed back into The House and on my desk lay the clean manilla folder containing my excerpt to read. I had almost forgotten my reading. I had almost lived my nightmare. I had almost experienced a disaster. I had almost given myself a quadruple heart attack.

Arriving early to the theater I greeted people, settled in and enjoyed the five other books and authors that night: The Revealed by Jessica Hickam, The Sheik's Son by Nicola Italia, Dark Lashes by Felice Fox, Catchee Monkey by Sean Cameron and This Old Homicide by Kate Carlisle.

When my name was called I seized the clean manilla folder, walked on stage and took my place at the podium. Looking out, the audience seemed eager. Removing my excerpt from the manilla folder, I read. The audience listened, they smiled, laughed and applauded at all the right places. It was just what I had wanted. It was worth the months of planning, the weeks of publicizing and even that one night of the disaster nightmare because this night of Book'd in Burbank really rocked!

It was Oh! What a Night!

Shakespeare and Humor in Burbank

April 23, 2015 marks the 451st remembrance of William Shakespeare's birthday (and conveniently his death day, too). But do we need to celebrate the Elizabethan Bard's special day? Again? In other words, is eating cake without the guest of honor all Much Ado About Nothing?

I for one don't think it's superfluous to sing Bill "Happy Birthday" nor does Julius Caesar, Richard III, or Henry IV (Parts I and II), that is, if they were still alive. The question should be: Why not celebrate the playwright who gave us beautiful sonnets, dramatic works and comedic plays? Even if his jokes aren't as funny now as they used to be--Love's Labor's Lost, anyone?--you can forgive him because both have been around for a long time. They have staying power.

This year on the Bard's birthday I'll be celebrating with five other authors reading from our books. My fellow writers represent the categories of poetic, dramatic and mysterious-steam punk-romantic. As for me, I'll be bringing the humor--Paris style--in an even Measure for Measure.

So if you find yourself in Burbank, California on Thursday, April 23 at 8 PM, come to Book'd in Burbank and revel in an evening of literary fun that has nothing to do with Shakespeare, except of course, the date. Plus, there will be tasty snacks, which as we all know, is just As You Like It.  

Happy Birthday, Shakespeare! Hoping that All's Well That Ends Well!

Book Lover's Paradise

Thousands of readers, hundreds of writers and one moi. Yesterday was an amazing day at the LA Times Festival of Books!

I saw LA Times journalist Sandy Banks interview Maria Bello about the actress' book Whatever: Love is Love. I saw celebrity LA chef Ludo Lefebre give a cooking demonstration of a recipe from his Crave cookbook for vegetable broth-poached fish and radishes, which made me hungry. 

Also I listened to a talk about books, writing and reading online by panelists Mallory Ortberg from The Toast, Patrick Brown from Goodreads and Carol Edgarian of Narrative Magazine. Then I went to my booth, hung out with fellow writers, like Kimberly Robeson,

talked to a bunch of people and sold plenty of copies of my book Evolution of a Wine Drinker! 

It was a great day on the University of Southern California campus! Go Trojans, Go book lovers! Go wine drinkers!

As for today, I'm putting my feet up and reading the books I bought at the Festival, which is more delicious than Ludo Lefrebre's broth-poached fish recipe.

But next April I'll be back at the LA Times Festival of Books. Will you?

Going to University of Southern California

"This is going to be fun," I said sitting on the office floor packing my books.
"Where is it?" Mr. Wonderful said loitering in the doorway.
"At the University of Southern California. Imagine: I'll be back on a college campus again!"
"Your happy days--"
"Are he-re a-gain. The skies above are clear again!"

After college graduation, how many chances do you get to spend a whole day hanging out on a university campus? And one as beautiful as USC's? With book lovers? For me the answer is simple: one weekend. Which just so happens to be next weekend at the LA Times Festival of Books!

If you are a reader, writer, child, parent or book lover this event is for you. The LA Times Festival of Books is an annual book party with author readings, writer panels, celebrity chefs giving cooking demonstrations, children's book authors doing readings, snippets of Broadway show performances coming to Los Angeles--this year it's Roald Dahl's Matilda The Musical--Big Five publishers and indie publishers discussing publishing options, and the biggest book sale this side of the Pacific. And the Atlantic. It's a stimulating, entertaining weekend about people and the books they love.

And this year I will be a part of it!

After attending the book festival for years, this time I'll be participating as an author. As a member of the Greater Los Angeles Writers Society (GLAWS), I will be selling and signing copies of my book Evolution of a Wine Drinker! And talking about my forthcoming book. I'll give you a hint: My latest work is also a humor book.

If you want to know more or will be at the LA Times Festival of Books please stop to say "Hi". I'll be at the GLAWS Tent, #953 Saturday, April 18 from 2-4 PM.

After all, how many times do you get to spend the day on a college campus like USC's surrounded by book lovers?

Happy days are he-re a-gain. The skies above are clear again!

Coloring Easter Eggs

Every year I paint my white, store-bought Easter eggs pink, green or burgundy. But not this year! Our chickens are giving us tan eggs like this:

So I am making them turn white and yellow... for Easter breakfast:

Delicious!

Wishing you and yours a delightful Easter Sunday!

I Won!

"WOW!" I said leaping from my computer and rushing to the kitchen.
"What's happening?" Mr. Wonderful said setting his espresso cup on the breakfast table.
"I won. Well, my book won Best Humor Book of 2015!"
"Congratulations!" he said taking me in his arms and swinging me around the kitchen.
"Although today's April first. Do you think it's an April Fool's joke?"
"...Nah."

Two weeks ago my book EVOLUTION OF A WINE DRINKER was nominated by the indie book review site Big Al's Books and Pals as Best Humor Book of 2015! Since this was a reader's choice award, readers got a chance to vote for their favorite humor books, crime thrillers and paranormal vampire romances.

So THANK YOU readers for voting for my book! I literally could not have won without you! Thank you so much!

But then... maybe me winning is just an April Fool's day joke?
... Nah.

Again, here's the Good News!

A Surprise

“Here are our hens,” I said sweeping an arm toward the chicken run.

“They’re beautiful,” my friend Shawna said. I smiled.

“They’re big,” my friend Ellory said. I beamed.

“How many eggs are they laying?” they asked. I slumped.

“None.”

At Christmastime Mr. Wonderful got these hens for one reason: to have home-raised, organic eggs. Now just before Easter we had two adult chickens who ate quarts of organic feed, bushels of fresh fruits and a never-ending supply of garden vegetables. Without producing any eggs. To say I was having doubts about this fowl decision was an understatement. 

“The hens need to start laying eggs,” I said stirring my tea.

“They will,” Mr. Wonderful said downing an espresso in two jolts of his wrist.

“When?”

“When they’re ready,” he said jumping in his car to drive to the studio to work on the weekend again. Alone on a Saturday I made a few phone calls but was interrupted by a commotion from the chicken run.

Squawk! Squawk! Rushing out to see who—or what—was threatening our hens, I saw our fat black and white Barred Rock chicken strutting around the run like she owned the place. Squawk! Squawwwwwwk! It was Pilgrim making all the noise, which I thought was pretty surprising… for a hen.

Then Pilgrim flapped her wings and landed on the roof of the coop. She opened her beak and continued the cacophony. Squawk! Squawk! She was crowing from the roof of the coop, which I thought was pretty surprising… for a hen. Picking the bird up I returned her to the ground where our other fat hen, Honey, was happily devouring a head of fresh lettuce.

But Pilgrim refused to be grounded. She flapped back up to the roof and crowed repeatedly. Squawk! Squawk! Squawk! I thought this was extremely surprising… for a hen. Then it hit me. Perhaps Pilgrim wasn’t a she, but a he? If Pilgrim were a rooster it would explain why we didn’t have any eggs yet since 50% of our adult flock was biologically incapable of laying eggs.

I marched over to the local Fowl Whisperer with the bad news.

“What’s wrong?” our 85 year-old neighbor said opening her front door.

“We have a rooster, Norma,” I said running a hand through my hair. 

“No”

“Oh, yes. We’ve been raising a barren rooster.”

“… All roosters are barren.”

“That’s not what we signed up for!” Norma’s bright blue eyes took pity on me. Grabbing a pair of sunglasses she propped them in front of her reading glasses and pulled the front door closed. “Show me.”

In our backyard, I pointed at the offending black and white fowl. 

She shook her head. “That’s bird’s too fat to be a rooster.” 

“It’s fat because it’s been eating an organic all-you-can-eat smorgasbord for three months.”

“The comb on her head is too small for a rooster.”

Just them Pilgrim flapped up to the coop’s roof again. Squawk, Squawwwwk!

“It’s even crows like a rooster.”

“Hens make noise once they’ve laid an egg.” 

I opened the side compartment to the coop and showed her the interior. “There isn’t an egg to squawk about,” I mumbled. 

“Well,” Norma said crossing her arms. “Chickens do make noise right before they lay their first egg.” 

I raised my eyebrows. “Chickens also make a lot of noise when they are roosters.”

“She’s a hen, ” Norma said retreating to her house. “Just be patient.”

The next morning over breakfast I informed Mr. Wonderful that Pilgrim was a rooster. My spouse exited to the chicken run to check on his flock.  He returned a minute later.

“What do you think of your rooster?” I said pulling bread from the toaster.

“Surprise!” he said revealing a tan egg in his palm.

I dropped the toast. “He laid an egg? He’s a she!” I squawked. “She laid an egg!” I squawked again. And if I could flap up to the roof I’d squawk some more. What a surprise! OUR HEN LAID AN EGG! SHE’S A SHE! BEST SURPRISE EVER!

The Fridge & Big Al

Whoo-Wee! I've been riding high all week because 1) Spring is here; 2) Our new refrigerator was delivered; and 3) My comedy wine book was nominated Best Humor Book of 2015!

The refrigerator has a special place to chill wine bottles: be they red, white or Blue Nun.

As for my wine book, Evolution of a Wine Drinker, was highlighted this week by Big Al's Books and Pals! You can read about it here, there or everywhere! The site also discusses the three other nominees.

1) Heads You Lose by Rob Johnson
2) Mischief in Italy by Beate Booker
3) Vulgarian Vamp by Barbara Silkstone

Congratulations to those writers for their nominations! Thanks to Big Al and Co. for my nomination! And if you would like to vote for my book, you can do so HERE! (I've even included directions!)

Thank you so much for your support and help! Now I'm off to admire my refrigerator and taste how cool it really keeps my wine...

How to Vote for my Book

There have been questions about voting for my wine book to be Best Humor Book of 2015. So here's how you do it:

1) Click here:  (http://booksandpals.blogspot.com/2015/03/2015-readers-choice.html)

2) Scroll down until you find this box:

3) Sign in with your email or Facebook.

4) Click on the HUMOR section. 

5) At the drop down menu, you will see my book so VOTE away! 

Thank you for your support!

My Book Nominated!

Another fancy Saturday of feeding the chickens, taking out the trash and cleaning out Jackson's litter box.

But things really turned up when I learned my book Evolution of a Wine Drinker was nominated as the Best Humor Book of 2015 on Big Al's Books and Pals website! Yippee! A while back Big Al's gave my book a 5-star review and now this? 

Thank you reviewers of Big Al's Books and Pals. I appreciate this nomination and all the work you do reading, reviewing and promoting writers and books. Also, congratulations to the other three humor writers who received nominations in my category! I'm among some talented funny people.

Now I've never done this before but...

Evidently this is a "Reader's Choice Award" so... if any readers of my book would like to vote for it, you can do so via this link. At the link's site, just go to the blue box at the bottom that looks like this:

Sign in with your email address or Facebook. They request a sign-in to limit people to voting just once for each category. No stuffing the ballot box at Big Al's!

Also, voting closes on March 28 at 11 PM Pacific Standard Time, which is just two weeks away. So if you're going to vote, and I hope you do, sooner is better than later!

Thanks for your support! And thanks to Big Al's Books and Pals! Cheers!

Signs of Spring

The calendar says it's still winter but I beg to differ. All over Southern California spring is baaaaack!

The California Poppies are blooming:

The Lavender is a purple haze of blooms and bees:

And my favorite succulents--Senecio aka "Blue Chalksticks"--are thriving:

 

Welcome back spring!

The Fowl Whisperer

“Do you think the chickens get lonely?” I said opening the coop door to allow the fowl to access their chicken run.

“They have each other,” Mr. Wonderful said tossing some grapes into the run.

“But is two enough?” 

The birds raced each other for the grapes and just as Honey had one in her beak, Pilgrim clawed and crawled over Honey’s back seizing the fruit from her bill to gobble it down—along with every other grape available—leaving Honey with none. We watched in stunned silence.

“On second thought, maybe two chickens is two too many.” 

Mr. Wonderful wanted egg-laying chickens for his Christmas gift so he got them as his Christmas gift, but what I suspected would happen, happened: I spent more time with them than he did. As an early riser I did a lot of the feeding, watering and fluffing of the fowl’s feathers. Which wouldn’t even be worth noting if the hens were holding up their side of the bargain. In other words: producing eggs. They had been advertised as “egg-laying chickens” not “voracious grape-addicted monsters”. 

The critters were now five months old and according to the Farmer’s Almanac, due to be laying eggs—tan, golden or otherwise—but they weren’t. Instead what they were doing was scratching up their chicken run for grapes, clucking at me to give them more grapes and duking it out over grapes. If these chickens were human beings, they’d be wine drinkers.

“Maybe they’re not laying yet because they’re getting too many fruity grapes and not enough vegetables?” I said over an egg-less breakfast. 

“Nope,” Mr. Wonderful said eating a bowl of cold granola.

“Maybe they need some more feathered friends?”

“Nope.”

“Maybe they need a fowl whisperer?”

Hmmm.

Not that I knew of a fowl whisperer but if there were whisperers for horses, dogs and cats, why not for our fair fowl? 

A little google search introduced me to a radio personality who calls himself The Chicken Whisperer but since I couldn’t fly my birds to Georgia for a one-on-one with him, I had to find another whisperer option. 

Google also told me about a book called “The Hen Whisperer”, a work of fiction where a boy hits his head and gains the ability to communicate with his hens. But since I needed non-fiction help, I had to find another whisperer option. 

“Bok-bok.” 

I heard clucking coming from our chicken run but it didn’t sound like our fowl. I left my computer and tip-toed to the run. 

“Bok-bok.” It sounded again. “Bok-bok-boo!”

Through the slats of the fence between our property and Harold’s, I saw a white-haired woman bent over looking our birds in the eye.

“Norma, are you okay?”

“Fine,” her voice warbled. “I’m just conversing with your chickens. They’re so interested.” I looked at our hens and indeed they were mesmerized: staring at Norma through the fence trying to determine if what they heard clucking was a Buff Orpington, a Barred Rock or a Rhode Island Looney Lady. She had their attention.

I pressed an eye to the fence gap and asked, “What do you know about chickens?”

Norma said she grew up with chickens on her parents’ farm. Feeding them and collecting the eggs was her responsibility. 

Wow. I’d been looking all over the internet for a fowl whisperer and Bam! right next door I found one in Harold’s blue-eyed wife. Our neighbors never ceased to amaze me.

“In fact,” Norma continued, “When I was just a girl and World War II broke out taking my daddy away, I was tasked with plucking and slaughtering the chick—”

“We’re not slaughtering our hens,” I said stroking Honey’s tan feathers. “Say, do you know why our girls aren’t laying eggs yet?”

 “Give them time. They’ll do it soon. Until then, keep talking to them. I know I will.” With that, Norma disappeared into her house. 

I bent over looking our birds in the eye, inhaled, then let loose a resounding, “Bok-bok-boo!”

With curiosity our Buff Orpington and Barred Rock looked at me—the Rhode Island Looney Lady—and clucked back. It wasn’t a freshly laid egg, but hey!—they clucked back!

The Bench

“Good morning, Harold,” I said carting away more dead palm fronds from my too tall palm trees.
“I’ve got a gift for you,” my 86 year-old neighbor said entering his garage.
“A gift?” I said trotting after him. “For me?”
“Here you go.”
“It’s… an old plank of wood.”
“You’re welcome.”

I love presents (who doesn’t?) and I like our neighbors but I wasn’t sure how to feel about Harold’s plank gift. Basically: Should I like it? Dislike it? Or say “Oh, you really shouldn’t have. Really.”? Mr. Wonderful was much less conflicted. 

“How nice of him,” my spouse said running a hand over it.

“It’s an old plank of wood.”

“Real wood’s expensive these days.”

“It was cluttering his garage.”

“One man’s trash is another man’s plank.”

“It’s paint color looks like a sick peach.”

“It’ll go with everything.”

“Like sick peaches.”

Mr. Wonderful dismissed Harold’s pre-spring cleaning plus all my concerns and promptly put the plank to work. That day he was moving gravel from one corner of our lot to another—as men are wont to do—and needed something to run the gravel-filled wheelbarrow over. He used the plank. 

Later he needed to level off the gravel he had moved from the old pile to the new pile—as men are wont to do. He used the plank.

The next day he needed to sweep the Pétanque court clean of fallen leaves—as Pétanque players are wont to do. He used le plank.

Bringing my spouse a refreshing glass of water I found him in the garden eyeing two of our palm trees.

“What if,” Mr. Wonderful said “I made a permanent bench of Harold’s plank?” My spouse explained how he would cut the plank to fit between the two palm tree trunks thereby making the palm trees useful (finally!) but also make further use of Harold’s plank. This was the best idea I’d heard from Mr. Wonderful that day so I supported it wholeheartedly with more glasses of water, a back rub and several cheers. Such as:

“Two-Four-Six-in the bank,

      Here’s to the best ever plank!”  

and:

“Plank and trees unite!

Fight, bench, fight!”

and:

“Beeeeeeeeeeench!”

Once my spouse had finished sawing the plank and setting it between the palm tree trunks to form the bench, we sat on it.

“I like it,” I said brushing away the sawdust “except for the sick peach color.”

“Let’s paint it brown to match The House,” he said.

“But first let’s show Harold what his plank has become.”

Just then Harold appeared. 

“You built a bench?” he said shuffling toward us on the walk.

“With your plank, Harold!” I said smiling. “Come sit on it.”

Mr. Wonderful stood and gingerly Harold sat down on the bench next to me.

“It fits two people,” he said patting the bench. 

“He made it out of your plank,” I explained. 

“Good work,” his hand slid over the wooden seat and its sick peach color. 

“Thanks for the plank,” Mr. Wonderful said. “We’re lucky to have a neighbor like you.”

“You’re welcome,” Harold rose and retuned to the walkway leading back to his house. “But you need to paint that bench. Right now it looks like sick peaches.” 

Who Are You Wearing to the Oscars?

It's Oscar Sunday, the day that Hollywood comes out to applaud... Hollywood. I love movies and moviemakers and can't wait to watch the show. (What will MC Neil Patrick Harris not sing? Can NPH best last year's Ellen? Will they order take-out pizza again?) But before the first statuette is handed out, all the attendees walk the red carpet in couture gowns and tuxedos.

Although I won't be walking the red carpet with them, my Los Angeles neighbors and I are dressed up today because... it's raining. Just a quarter of an inch but for us Angelenos, it still counts!

So the question of the day is: Who are you wearing?

Harold, my 86 year-old neighbor, looks irritated and grumbles: "You mean 'what'. I'm wearing galoshes because it's raining."

Mr. Wonderful is planting shrubs in the rain, so he tells me he's wearing "Wet jeans."

Wordlessly, Jackson saunters around the house in a fur coat. Typical.

And I'm wearing the same Lucky Jeans I wore 10 years ago. I've been juicing for two weeks but still, I'm wearing the same jeans I wore 10 years ago!

Hoping you win your Oscar pool!

A Hearty Breakfast

Valentine's is the day for heart-shaped toast for breakfast!

And heart-shaped sandwiches for lunch!

And heart-shaped salmon steaks for dinner!

And for dessert? ... I'll let you use your imagination...

Wishing you a very Happy Valentine's Day to you and all your loved ones!

Talking to a Movie Star

“What a terrific performance,” Mr. Wonderful said folding a coat over his arm. I nodded.
“He said to meet him after the show,” I said exiting the theater for the lobby.
“Then we’ll meet him now.”
What if he’s not cool?”
“Then he’s a fool.”
“What do you think he’ll be like?” I said biting a fingernail.
“… A human being.”

As a girl I read a lot of books: Ethan Frome, O Pioneers! and that feel-good Orwellian comedy, 1984. I also read my fair share of 19th century English literature, namely: Jane Austen, E.M. Forster and more Jane Austen. After all, who doesn’t love Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy? I dare say, Mis-ter Dar-cy.

I particularly liked the book A Room with View by E. M. Forster. My fondness for the book was rooted in several possible elements. It could have been the Italian travel component (Rome and Florence!); or could have been Lucy, the free spirited young heroine who follows her heart; or it could have been the free-thinking, Thoreau-reading man she kissed in a field of red poppies. Che bello!

When I discovered that A Room with a View had been made into a movie I watched it on DVD, VHS and Betamax, which is where I first saw the actor, Julian Sands. He played the free-thinking, Thoreau-reading man whom Lucy kissed in a field of red poppies. And as “George Emerson” he was perfect; a total movie star.

Years later I had the pleasure of meeting him on 24, the TV show I was working on when he had a guest starring role as an evil Russian bad guy named Bierko. When I met him off-camera he was so humble and pleasant. But he didn’t need to be humble or pleasant because he had played “George bloody Emerson”. Perfectly!

Recently our paths crossed again over a project I was working on. Julian was performing a one-man show about the British writer Harold Pinter, “A Celebration of Harold Pinter”, whom he had known personally. Using that personal connection to inform his work in this show, he chose to highlight Pinter's poetry and the Pinter... Pause. Julian's performance was powerful, real, humorous and heartfelt. Uh, Hello? Of course it was. He's a movie star who played "George frickin' Emerson"!

Through our talks about my project, Julian had invited Mr. Wonderful and me to visit him after the Pinter show in the theater's reception room. After a tour de force performance of Pinter, Julian was still on and working the room; saying witty things to theater patrons, fans and moi. (Although I'm both a theater patron and a fan.) Through it all he was still so humble and pleasant. If all movie stars--and people--were like him the world would be a better place.

Although the project I was working on did not work the way I wished it had, I got to talk to and hug a movie star whom Mr. Wonderful called “a... human being.” And I called “a fantastic... human being”.

It was better than talking to "George @#$% Emerson"... Almost.



"A Celebration of Harold Pinter" is traveling throughout the country. If it comes to your town, do yourself a favor and see it.

The Big Day

It's Super Bowl Sunday when two football teams--the New England Patriots and the Seattle Seahawks--battle it out to see which NFL team is the best.

The question is: who are you rooting for?

Mr. Wonderful is cheering for a quick game so we can go out for sushi afterwards.

Jackson the cat is hoping for a long, drawn-out game so he will get the maximum amount of time being stroked and petted by said spouse and me.

And I can't wait to watch the best part of the game: the commercials! This year I especially love this Budweiser commercial.

Enjoy the Super Bowl!

Counting Days for Gifts, Subtly

“What’s today?” I said setting the plate of freshly made crepes on the table.

“January 17th,” Mr. Wonderful said spreading strawberry jam on a hot crepe.

“January is more than half over.”

“Yep.”

“Christmas seems like a long time ago.”

“Yep.”

“Any promised Christmas gifts should have been given by now.”

“Major yep.”

Christmas felt like a long time ago because it had been a long time ago. Three and a half weeks ago, in case you were counting. And believe me: I was counting. Christmas had been a wonderful time of gift getting: Mr. Wonderful had gotten his chickens; Jackson had gotten his cat nip toy; and being so busy on December 25th I didn’t get to talk to our 86-year-old neighbor, which meant even Harold had gotten what he wanted: peace and quiet for a day. 

Everyone had gotten what they wanted except Miss America and me. Miss America had wished for world peace (which didn’t happen) and I had wished for my unpainted doors to be painted (which also didn’t happen). I wasn’t born yesterday. I know achieving world peace is pretty involved with 195 countries bickering and needing to agree and although every Miss America wishes for world peace, in the last 93 years, not one has ever gotten it. 

Therefore my wish of getting some doors painted in my own house seemed like a gift that could actually happen. I didn’t have to sit down with dictators or army generals to broker a paint job. I just had to ask one man to paint our doors to which he replied in the affirmative. He promised he would paint them for my gift. But by Christmas Eve it hadn’t happened, nor by Christmas Day, nor by Eastern Orthodox Christmas, which is (bizarrely) weeks later in case you were counting. And believe me: I was counting. 

Therefore I needed to nudge Mr. Wonderful (oh so gently) into action.

“The doors look bare without paint,” I said hauling wood in for a fire.

“Yep,” Mr. Wonderful said reading his comic book.

“They’d look better with paint.”

“Yep.”

“Are you going to do it for my Christmas gift?”

“Yep.” 

Sure enough that afternoon he got out his painting gear and set to work—stripping more paint from the walls. Whaaat?

I rushed in flapping my arms like one of our hens. “You’re supposed to be putting paint on the doors not taking it off!” 

“I can’t paint just the doors, I also have to paint the door frames,” he tapped the woodwork around the door opening.

“Then paint them, don’t strip them.”

“These door frames already have seven coats of paint.” He explained if he painted two more coats on top, the doors wouldn’t even fit in the door frames. So 1) He needed to strip the door frames; 2) Paint the door frames; and only then 3) Paint the doors. 

My Christmas gift was getting more involved.

“That’s not the end of it,” he said using a paintbrush to point out another snag in the process: namely that by stripping the door frames while in situ, aka while affixed in their door-framey places, this would also strip the paint from the walls of several rooms. Five rooms, in case you were counting. And believe me: I was counting how this simple Christmas wish of newly painted doors had morphed into a major redo of what we had already redone on The House. 

“And once that’s done I’ll have to repaint the entire hallway and ceiling where the doors meet,” he gestured above to the ceiling and lamp hanging over our heads. I slumped against the wall.

“So I won’t be getting my Christmas gift before Martin Luther King Jr. Day.”

“Nope.”

“How about by Groundhog Day?”

“Nope.”

“Valentine’s Day?” 

“Yep.”

Valentine’s Day is 27 days away. But then, who’s counting?

Golden Globes, Suburban Style

Today the Golden Globes take place in Beverly Hills honoring the best films and talent of the year. 

Meanwhile, the Suburban Style Golden Globes are taking place in my neighborhood right now.

Here are this year's Winners:
Mr. Wonderful for "Birdman"
His quote: "The chickens made me do it."

Harold for "Boyhood"
His quote: "It happened so long ago. I can't believe I ever had a boyhood."

Jackson the Cat for "Into the Woods"
His quote: "Meow, meow, meooooow."

Me for "Still A̶l̶i̶c̶e̶ Alicia"
My quote: "Thank you, I think."

And that's it from my house to yours! Enjoy the Golden Globes!

Happy 2015 from our Brood

The newest members of our brood wanted to say Happy New Year!

The striped one is called "Pilgrim" and the solid goes by the name of "Honey". They are so curious and sweet although when they get close they do have a dinosaur-ish look.

We're all wishing you a fabulous new year; with lots of organic eggs!

Blackjack Chicken

“Do you prefer Peach or Strawberry?” I said sliding two paint cards side by side on the table.

“Are there any other choices?” Mr. Wonderful said sipping a cafe au lait.

“There’s also Punch or Ballet Slipper.”

“Other options?”

“Bubblegum or… I got it! Hot Pink!”

“… Uh, anything else?”

When my spouse said all he wanted for Christmas was live, egg-laying chickens to live in our backyard, I agreed on three firm conditions: 1) He would feed them; 2) He would clean up after them; and 3) I would paint their coop—pink!—to look like Barbie’s Malibu Dreamhouse to recapture my lost youth. But somewhere between me saying “Yes” to the chickens and me showing him the Hot Pink paint card, he had changed his mind. 

“We’re not painting the coop pink,” he said brushing all the pinkish paint cards aside. 

I spread out the pink cards again like a Las Vegas Blackjack dealer. “But having chickens who live in a coop that looks like Barbie’s Malibu Dreamhouse, won’t that be funny?” I smiled and nodded.

“Funny for whom?”

He did have a a point. The chickens wouldn’t get the joke. Nor would anyone who didn’t know Barbie’s Malibu Dreamhouse, which is most men and all feminists. Mr. Wonderful rationally understood the joke but his hesitancy told me it did not tickle his funny bone. Therefore only I would laugh when I saw the coop. As any good comedian knows, if you tell a joke and the audience doesn’t laugh, dump the joke. Therefore as much as I wanted a Bubblebum-Taffy-Hot Pink coop for his hens, I dumped the color cards—and joke—in the recycle bin.

But if magenta was out, what color for the coop would be in? Mr. Wonderful had an opinion. 

“What if we paint it red like a Midwestern barn?” he smiled and nodded. Hmmm, first we adopted a persnickety cat, then a rascally squirrel moved in, then we got chickens. Our property was turning into a regular farm that I didn’t the color combination on the coop to remind me of that fact. We lived in the suburbs not the great Midwest. After all we were us, not the Beverly Hillbillies. I vetoed the barn color scheme.

Pink was out, Red was out, but what could be in? I thought rationally about this, which is saying a lot since saying “Yes” to chickens but losing out on the coop paint color was irrational of me and I never should have accepted it. But that was then, we had to move on to now and what we had. Yes! That’s it! The coop should reflect what we had, who we were. 

“We should paint it to look like a mini version of our House!” I smiled, nodded and waved my arms toward The House’s exterior paint job.

“That’s promising,” Mr. Wonderful followed my gaze. He nodded but didn’t smile. 

“It’ll look like a mini version of our House.”

“But we don’t like our exterior color scheme.”

He did have another point. We had bought The House liking the exterior paint colors but not loving them. We knew that we wanted to repaint the exterior but we just couldn’t decide what colors. We fluctuated between what the neighbors had, what the neighbors didn’t have and the color scheme of a house in Beverly Hills that I loved. Or I should say, I liked the house but I loved its paint job. Anyway you looked at it, the two-man jury of us was still out on what to paint The House and therefore, chicken coop.

Ah, ha! Maybe we could paint the coop in the colors of what we wanted the exterior of The House to look like? Yes! This would solve the problem of the coop’s coloring and maybe help us decide what to paint our own abode. I pushed all my chips onto the gambling table. 

“What do you think of a brown varnish?” I smiled, nodded and slid a russet color card toward him. He seized the card and looked at it closely. Then he smiled and nodded. 

Blackjack!

A Wonderful Gift

“Christmas is coming,” Mr Wonderful’s voice came over the phone.

“Actually it’s tomorrow,” I said rolling another toy in tissue paper and sinking it into a gift bag.  

“I’ve decided that I do want a Christmas gift.”

“Finally!” I stopping my wrapping marathon to grab my gift list. “What do you want?”

“Chickens.”

“… Excuse me?” 

“Chickens. Cluck cluck.”

In early December Mr. Wonderful announced that he didn’t want a Christmas gift this year. So I’d spent weeks thinking of holiday gifts for other people. And my suggestions worked. Case in point: a dear cousin took my advice and bought the pink tool set… for herself! Because when a gal sees a complete tool set in pink, how can she not buy it… for herself?!

But none of this moved Mr. Wonderful. He had announced he was abstaining from gifts this year and he was sticking to that because he was “too old” for Christmas. 

“No one is too old for Christmas,” I said hanging Christmas lights in the living room.

“When you pass your 20th birthday, Christmas is over,” he said stirring a mug of hot chocolate.

“Au contraire. At 20, the joy of Christmas is just beginning!” 

Now I’m not saying that before I was 20 that my childhood Christmases were subpar because they weren’t. Au contraire! They were magical, family-oriented and fun-filled. I loved shaking the presents to guess their contents, ripping paper from the packages and playing with my Peter Rabbit toys with my siblings in the glow of the popcorn and cranberry-strung, decorated tree. I have fond memories of my childhood Christmases.

But when I was a child sometimes Santa Claus did not read my letter carefully, the letter that said I wanted the pink Barbie Malibu Dreamhouse. Maybe Santa was too busy with all the other children in the world that he couldn’t fit the pink Barbie Malibu Dreamhouse in his sleigh for me; or maybe my letter addressed to him got lost in the mail; or just maybe my parents didn’t like the pink Barbie Malibu Dreamhouse, and they let him know so he didn’t bring it for me.

Anyway you look at it, I never got the pink Barbie Malibu Dreamhouse. But I have been fascinated with houses ever since. So when I was older than 20 I started learning about houses, attending designer showcase homes and watching This Old House on PBS. The roots of my DIY began with not getting the pink Barbie Malibu Dreamhouse!

“So the point of your story is that I am too old for Christmas,” Mr. Wonderful said sipping a hot chocolate. 

“Au contraire,” I grabbed my wine glass. “Christmas is about joy. And if you are joyful you will spread that joy to others.”

“… Okay... ?”

“When you’re under 20, you often get exactly what you want for Christmas. And if you don’t, you just have to accept the disappointment. But when you are older than 20, you have the where with all to buy yourself what makes you joyful and spread the Christmas cheer! Like my cousin and her pink tool set.” 

“Hey, you’re right,” he said clinking his mug to my wine glass.

That was the other day and now his voice in my ear was telling me he wanted chickens for Christmas.

“You want a chicken dinner?” I said thinking I’d misunderstood him.

“No, I want live chickens who can lay eggs for us.”

“… I don’t think that is such a good idea.”

“We can put them in our backyard.”

“This sounds like a bad idea.”

“They’ll have their own little coop-house to live in.”

“This is a bad idea.”

“Their coop is the size of Barbie’s Malibu Dreamhouse,” he said.

“... Can I paint it pink?”

I heard him smile over the phone. What joy! He was getting chickens and I was getting my pink Barbie Malibu Dreamhouse! Finally!

Merry Christmas!