The Rut

Sometimes it happens. You're going along with your creative life, producing and writing (or painting or  whatevs) and all of a sudden, the rut happens. Creativity screeches to a halt. Production stops. You're in the swamp.

My rut was caused by a loooonnnnnngggggg chain of Peculiar Events, but the point is: I've got to get out of it. So, here's what I'm going to do to pull myself out of my own little nasty slump:

1. Go and see Dark Shadows with my friend. Because I watched that stuff back in the 60's as a soap opera. Vampires + drama = good stuff in my book.

Quentin Collins, from the original show. That was good stuff back in the day.

2. Grill out a lot more. I'm talking burgers and dogs, of course, but also chicken, fish, veggies, and corn.

3. Make homemade icecream. I'm on a diet, so all I see when I look in my bowl is green. At some point this summer, that green will be Mint Chocolate Chip icecream.

Ooh, I like the tea cup idea! Cause then I have a little handle as I  inhale.

4. Go boogie boarding. So I'm in my fifties, right? A fine sport for a middle-aged lady is boogie boarding. I just picked it up two years ago. If you catch the wave right, it's a serious rush and I mean it.

5. Read a bunch of books, and I've mentioned them before, here and here. I've also added Gideon the Cutpurse for my YA book club, plus Gary Hoover just came out with the sequel to Land of Nod so you bet I'm going to be buying that sucker.

The cover reminds me of the books I used to get from Scholastic in fifth grade.

6. Do more Just Dance II. It's a great way to work out, and I'm getting really good at "Katti Kalandal." Bollywood, here I come!

7. Swim with my kid - and play Mermaids while we're at it. (I love how she accepts the idea that the pool vacuum is our pet baby dolphin; that concept makes perfect sense to her.)

8. Finally, finally, finally find a hummingbird feeder that works. If you have an idea of a good one, let me know.

9. Crochet a lavender sachet pillow .... nah, I'll never do that. Scratch that one.

10. Ignore all the drama and work on The South Sea Bubble and The Gramophone Society. Now, that I will do.

My Middle Name

My middle name is Agnes. AGNES. You know, the name that shortens to Aggie. It's one of those old fashioned names, like Dot or Ida, that don't get used any more.


For decades I avoided any discussion of my middle name. When people found out, a lot of laughter and teasing would ensue, and can I blame them? No.


A dear friend once tried to console me by giving me a copy of The Eve of St. Agnes by Keats. It is a lovely poem, but it didn't help.

The Eve of Saint Agnes

My mum and dad named me after my great-grandmother. I didn't know that much about her, except that she died in the Blitz in London. A bomb was dropped on the house, and she perished. And that's all I knew.

Blitz aftermath

This year, however, I got to read my aunt's transcription of what happened that night the bomb fell.


My great-grandmother, Agnes, was in the house with my grandmother and my aunt, who was a little girl at the time. When the bomb dropped the roof caved in, trapping the family in their bedrooms.

They had to lie there under the debris for hours. At last the rescue team lifted the roof off the house (my aunt remembers a "feeling of freedom" as the roof was taken off.) 


Still, the rescue team didn't know if there were any survivors. They dug through the rubble and discovered Agnes, my great-grandmother. Although she was terribly hurt, she was able to tell the search officers, all volunteers themselves, where to find the others in the house. 


And so, with her guidance, my grandmother and my aunt were found, and they survived. Because of her. Because of Agnes.


My name is Alison Agnes. And I'm damn proud of it.

Mean Mommy

At a certain point in some conversations, Mean Mommy kicks in. Allow me to illustrate:

Child: Will you take me to the carnival all four nights?
Me: Nope.
Child: Will you take me two nights? or three?
Me: Nope. We are going one night and that is it.
Child: (aghast) We can't just go one night!!!!
Me: Yup.
Child: That's so mean! I want to go every night! etc, etc
Me: You're lucky to be going at all.
Child: That's so unfair!

Now, this is when Mean Mommy kicks in

Me: Another word, and we will not go to the carnival. We will stay home every night.
(Child opens mouth to retort)
Me: I said not another word. 
(Child closes mouth.)

Now, I'm not so naive to think that this ends the matter. I know the subject will arise again, and with more scowls and grumps on her side, I can just picture the boo lip now, and more threats and Meanness on my side.

Who teaches them to do this?

The facts remain. That carnival is bloody expensive, and it is loud, and rude teenagers arrive after 8 PM, and I have to pawn my jewelry to buy food, and the rides make weird creaking sounds as the kids go on them. But I understand that it is the most important social event of the kid year, a sort of 7-year-old version of the prom, so I will take her.

Once.