Meme-ing kills the time!

Yo Mella Honey.

Three things that scare me:

1. Small, dark, enclosed spaces.
2. The big evil space bug that crawled out of our tub drain.
3. Extremism.

Three people that make me laugh (brought to you by the letter "S"):

1. My son.
2. My sister.
3. Steven Colbert.

Three things I hate:

1. That our government will allow a man and a woman with no prior relationship, no true intention for commitment, no understanding or appreciation for a lifelong love to get married, but will not allow another couple who have been together for 15 years (and adopted and raised 2 children to be loving, moral individuals) to get married because they're both guys.

2. That my husband still has health problems that fight us to be the center of our lives. They're not winning, but I hate that they're still there.

3. Onions. Blech.

Three things I don’t understand:

1. Financial Management.
2. Obsession with celebrities.
3. Yo Gabba Gabba.

Three things I’m doing right now:

1. Listening to Corinne Bailey Rae
2. Watching my son play with his "new" trains.
3. Wishing it wasn't so freakishly hot. It's almost October! I want my 60 degrees!

Three things I want to do before I die:

1. Go to France.
2. Live near the ocean.
3. Be a grandmother.

Three things I can do:

1. Imitate the voices of other people to the point where I can fool my family and friends over the phone.
2. Make an amazing grilled cheese sandwich.
3. Read bizarrely fast.

Three ways to describe my personality:

1. Extroverted
2. Instinctive
3. Odd

Three things I can’t do:

1. Make another person's life happy all by myself.
2. Protect my children from everything bad.
3. Pull my legs behind my head (anymore).

Three things I’d like to learn:

1. How to balance my checkbook.
2. How to do anything with my hair. (I repeat Mella)
3. How to play the drums like Meg White.

Three favorite foods:

1. Salmon.
2. French Bread.
3. Peanut Butter.

Three beverages I drink regularly:

1. Frappuccino
2. Water
3. Milk

Three shows I watched as a kid:

1. The Cosby Show
2. Cheers (NBC Thursday nights were big at my house)
3. Happy Days

I walked out of the mall at 10pm

to what I can only describe as a perfect Autumn night. I wore a long sleeved shirt, but no jacket was needed. A breeze lifted my hair and cooled my tired skin. I breathed in, and a smell both sharp and damp, filled my head, rolled behind my eyes, and cleaned out my lungs of stale mall air. Purification.

Though we associate this season with decay, don't we?

Is that why some people think Autumn is a sad? I understand that, I guess. I have felt it as well. It's the kind of feeling you have before a gentle, satisfying cry or when you remember a loved one who died a long time ago.

I suppose it's because humans connect the seasons to life cycles. Autumn comes before everything dies in Winter.

I'd rather think of it as a long day, than a short life. Autumn is the time when we're snuggled into bed, the worries of the day done with, covered by colorful leaves. Before we drift of to hibernation.

The Stuff I Read: Comics: True Story Swear To God: Chances Are

Life is not comedy or tragedy. It’s a little of both, and a whole lot of stuff in the middle. The best writers get that, and whether or not the story they write is true, it rings true.

In case you didn’t guess by the title...this one's true. Tom Beland (read his bio here) went to Florida, and met Lily Garcia on his way to a Stevie Wonder concert. “Chances Are” tells the story of how their relationship began and developed into love. It’s also about Tom and his large, loving family. It’s romantic, sad, uplifting, and the when Tom’s brother gets married it is oh so funny. It’s a very realistic portrayal of a long distance love, and individuals who have experienced pain and healed wounds.

Tom Beland isn’t really a writer of graphic novels. He’s a cartoonist, his strips are autobiographical. “Chances Are” began as a gift for Lily, that she urged him to publish.

The art plays second to the narrative. Best in true stories, I think, because the words are more important. Beland does a lot with his clean, simple cartooning, The single lines that serve as smiles seem happier and more authentic than they would if he had someone else give it a “realistic” style.

I would suggest this to so many people who would never think to enter a comic shop, or read a comic book. People who think they're all tights, fights, and improbable bosoms. Also people who think that all Romance comcis are cliché and saccharin...and bad.

A friend of mine let me borrow this book over 2 years ago. Then I accidentally left my car windows open and it got water damage. I bought him a new one and kept the slightly damaged copy for myself.

Doesn’t really have anything to do with why I like it so much, but just in case my friend stops by, I want him to know I credit him with my discovering this story.

It's as sweet and satisfying as homemade flan de leche.

The Stuff I Read: Comics

My top 5. Next week I'll tell you why.

1. True Story Swear To God: Chances Are Tom Beland
2. The New Frontier, Darwyn Cooke
3. The Plain Janes, Cecil Castellucci/Jim Rugg
4. Watchmen, Alan Moore
5. Dark Victory, Jeph Loeb/Tim Sale (the comic bloggers roll their eyes)

Up to:

Been a bit stressed out. I've been working a lot more. 4 hours a night, 6 nights a week. It's left little time for anything else, so I had myself a nice meltdown and Beloved Husband and I rebuilt our priorities. Still going to be working a lot, but I am going to sit down to write for fifteen minutes at least every single day. It will be held at greater importance that every household duty that doesn't directly involve my son.

So this week you will start to see content that has a point other than my brain vomit. Important, yes, but not why I have this blog.

A list this week. Next week, elaboration.

I wish I could say that I have only one true love...

but that would be a lie. There is another. Boston Creme Donut.

Oh, how I love its glazed chocolate goodness, its custard filling. My tongue extends, my eyes close, I taste, I savor, I adore.
It is not good for me, though, and if I want to fit into my leather pants again, I have to end this affair.

This morning, I was running errands with my son, and I realized that I had almost a dollar in dimes, pennies, and a few quarters in the cup holder of my car. I felt the pull. Suddenly I was hungry, and the Dunkin Donuts, my motel of choice, was calling to me. I turned right, heading towards it's parking lot. When I was stopped at a stoplight, the only stoplight between me and momentary sensual bliss, the fifth song on Toby Lightman's cd came on.

"Looks like the choice is mine,
So where do I want to be?"

Is this really what I want? Fleeting pleasure, feeding an unhealthy desire that will only ruin my relationship with my leather pants?

It's just this one time.

How many times in the last seven days? Two? Three?

I eat so healthy most of the time, I can allow myself this.

It's adding up, how long before you go every day, and no longer eat your healthy breakfast?

But...but...I loooooooooooove it!

If it's worth it to you, Thunder Thighs, go ahead. Don't cry when you have diabetes.

Sigh.

The light turned green, and instead of going straight ahead, I made a U turn. Headed home. No Boston Creme. Not today. A step in the right direction.

WHAT Mommy Wars? ( a rant)

Newsweek ran a piece this week that I liked a lot.

Go read it, then come back to me.

Hi.

So here's my opinion. I think the "Mommy Wars" were fabricated by marketing guys to sell books about the "Mommy Wars". Of the mothers that I know, none of them...not a single one cares if I wear a dress and lipstick when I take my son to the library or if I go in sweats and a baseball cap. All of the mothers I know who have careers think it's cool that I'm home during the day. I think it's great that they have a career that fulfills them, and can support their family. I know mothers who let their kids watch more TV than mine, and mothers who don't let their kids watch TV at all. I buy organic milk for my son. I like the way it tastes, and it's cheaper because we live near a dairy farm. The lady next door who does not buy organic milk and lets her kids drink juice that probably contains sugar has perfectly healthy kids and she's a fantastic mom. Guess what, folks...she thinks I'm great, too!

This thinking that there are factions of us who label someone with a Cole Haan diaper bag as snobby, or don't like the woman who wears "Mom" jeans from Wal-Mart is total bullshit.

The idea that every Work Out Of The House mother is jealous of the Stay At Homes' time with her kids, and the Stay At Homes are jealous of the Work Out Of The House's increased income and different sense of identity is ridiculous.

Love your kids. Mind your own damn business and for God's sake, don't buy stupid books.

Random 8

Mella said it best. It is a perfect way for a writer who feels like procrastinating. Also, it makes you feel better as a blogger: Hey, I posted today!

1. I am allergic to cilantro and I love Mexican food.

2. My sixth wedding anniversary is Saturday!

3. I am seriously freaked out by the Precious Moments children.

4. I cannot walk by crooked vertical blinds without straightening them. If I am in a room with crooked vertical blinds, I can't concentrate on anything else. I have tried to solve this by removing them in my apartment, except in rooms where they are drawn almost all the time (bedroom).

5. I have been in 4 weddings. I was in my cousin's when I was 4. My own. I was matron of honor when my best girlfriend got married, and I was a brides matron in my ex-boyfriend's wedding. His girlfriend (now wife) caught the bouquet at my wedding.

6. I would rather scrub a bathroom from top to bottom than wash a sink full of dishes.

7. It pisses me off that people are calling Britney Spears fat. There's so much material for tabloid fodder there...the two "marriages", the rehab, the clubbing, the fact that her two kids may actually be better off living with Kevin Federline. Why call her fat because, what is she, a size 12 now? So she's the average size of an American woman, and thinner than average for a woman who's had 2 kids. For crying out loud, people, she attacked a car with an umbrella and "she's fat" is all you can say? That's such a lack of creativity (as well as being untrue and mean)!

8. I have a desperate crush on Alan Rickman. Also Kenneth Branagh, which made that second Harry Potter movie like porn for me.

Uh...I just looked it up and Alan Rickman is seven years older than my father...

WHY HASN'T THAT CHANGED HOW SEXY HE IS?

Sad is Heavy

Sadness is heavy. It's insanely heavy for an emotion.

The thing I have the most trouble with when it comes to my faith is this: I know God is going to take care of us, but I don't know that God is going to make things better.

Sometimes there are struggles that we have to go through for some reason that we can't understand. Sometimes we struggle because we just got the shit end of the stick this time. I believe that God is with us to comfort us in our pain, but to be honest, I am not a person who necessarily wants comfort. I want to scream "Make it better!".

My life is pretty good right now. My husband's business is on the upswing, I am having a blast at my new job (despite my rants over here). Sam is teething and he's pretty cranky, but if that's the worst I've got, then I've got it good.

I wish I could say the same for my friends. Not just friends, best friends. The friends that can live hundreds or thousands of miles away, but you feel like you could jump through cyberspace or the phone lines in an instant to watch Leno read Headlines with them, just like you could a decade ago.

One has Cancer.
One has high blood pressure, is pregnant, and her husband is having a hard time finding work.
One has a husband in Pakistan, that she misses horribly.

This morning I got the e-mail from a friend who intended to tell us good news...that she was pregnant. Only she isn't anymore. She miscarried last night.

I want to look at the sky and scream "What the HELL are You doing?"

I'm not going to.

I can't remember where I heard this...it was back in college when I was very worried about a bulimic friend. Someone made a suggestion for when the pain of others gets to heavy, and the idea of giving it up to God is too hard. An object lesson.

Write down the sadness, the worry, the anger, the pain of your loved ones on a piece of paper. Go outside. Burn the paper. Watching the ashes float away as the worries burn helps give it to God. It worked then. I hope it will work today. It's going to be a longer paper this time, but fire spreads.

Like Grace.

It's Finished.

The story that came out of my milk white kitchen is done. There's a sort of epilogue. I don't know if I'll keep it. I welcome and beg your comments, criticism, and the like.

I have posted it altogether here.

"Where have you been?"

Iris asks as her sister enters the house. Iris is in the milk white kitchen, rinsing a china teapot acquired at the bake and tag sale.

"Where's Heather?"

"After the church sale, she went to a movie with Nancy's daughter."

"Oh, that's nice. Allison or Jessica?"

"The one who just got married."

"Jessica."

"Sure. Answer my question."

"What did they go see?"

Iris puts the teapot down.



"I don't know. Why aren't you answering me?"

Althea is quiet. She puts her bag on the table and removes her hat.

"You were supposed to be back from Dr. Van Austen's at one. I was worried."

"I'm sorry you were concerned. See, though? I'm fine." Althea smiles at the teapot. "This is very pretty. Did you pick this out?"

"Heather found it. Althea!" Iris has her hands on her hips and she stands in front of her sister.

When Iris is trying to hide something from her sister, she huffs and puffs and pretends offense. When Althea is trying to hide something from her sister, she changes the subject and is extra sweet. The tactics work on other people. They do not work on each other.

Iris's unfounded concern changed to irritation and now it is anger. She does something not done in this house. She curses.

"Althea Elizabeth Wight, where the hell were you?"

Not one of the greater swear words, but strong in a house where none are said at all.

Althea sighs. "I took the car to Heather's house and killed her husband."

Looking at Iris, it seems time has stopped. She does not blink, and even her breathing seems to pause.

She speaks a full minute later.

"You...you did?"

"Yes." Althea delicately removes her driving gloves and puts them in her bag.

"Oh." says Iris. "Well." She pulls up another chair and sits. She still does not blink.

Althea reaches out and gently takes her sister's hand. Her voice never changes in tone or urgency.

"She can come and stay with us now. Mrs. Herman's son said Calais Regional is hiring. She can live in Corydalis' room and leave that awful, smelly place and that awful parasite of a man and be really happy."

She might have been discussing the pretty teapot.

"Something had to be done, Iris. I think it's a service, don't you?"

Iris stares at her sister.

Then she blinks.

"They have neighbors..."

"There were no cars in the next driveway, and all of the shades were drawn. The other house is empty. It's a little, dead end dirt road, far from the main highway. You remember? Heather told us that when they moved there."

"I remember. Are you sure no one saw you?"

"No one, dear. Don't worry about that. It's Heather that matters. When do you think she'll be back? Not for a while?"

I have a kitchen in my head. There's an old woman standing in it.

It's hard to tell what color it is, as everything is covered with a layer of gold film. "Gold" does not mean shiny and expensive. It means the sort of yellow, sort of orange, sort of brownish color that makes everything look as if it's sticky. Every cabinet, every wood veneer panel, every appliance has this...this grime that has long ago smothered the original colors.

It smells of cigarettes and warm plastic, and something else that she does not recognize.

Looking into the room from the front door, there is a large plastic trash bin on the left, with an aged pair of sneakers kicked nest to it, and a plastic grocery bag with a box of light bulbs. The bag and the box are covered in dust. A much stained counter (it was light blue at one time, but now it looks a swampy green) leads to a sink full of dirty dishes, a stove with blackened clumps of mystery stuck to it, and an old refrigerator. The refrigerator has three magnets. One is in the shape of a toilet, (holding a scrap of paper with a phone number), one of a beer can (holding a photo of Heather with her arm around another young woman. They are at a beach, slightly sun burnt, but smiling broadly.), one of a duck (holding a piece of paper that reads "Jolene Friday 4").

Past that is a little more counter space, and then a wall of "wood" paneling. There is a poster of a busty woman holding a beer stein. Below the poster is a table. There is several days of mail on the table, grocery store circulars, and two styrofoam food containers. There is a dead daisy in a jelly glass. On the floor there is an empty paper container that once housed a dozen cans of cheap beer.



The old woman looks as if she is in a foreign land. She wears crisp white pants and a short sleeved blouse with small pink flowers. She has a white hat that shades her face. She wears pale fawn colored driving gloves and soft white shoes.

She is subtly upset by this room. She moves through it without touching anything, she doesn't even want to touch the floor. She clears her throat delicately. She passes into the next room, where she believed she hears snoring.

He is on the couch, lying on his back. He is shirtless and wearing gray sweatpants. The enormous television is on to the weather channel, but the sound is off. The room has stacks of things. Stacks of folded clothes, stacks of magazines, stacks of DVD’s. This room is less messy than the kitchen, but it is darker. The unfamiliar smell is much stronger here. The carpet and couch are worn dark blue, and the dirty curtains are drawn. Between his knees is one empty beer can. On the floor, at the end near his feet are five more.

His right arm has dropped off the end of the couch, and his hand rests between an ashtray (full of stubs of paper, that she assumes are hand rolled cigarettes) and an open pizza box. She can see that there are slices of pizza, loaded with meat and onions, and a cheap steak knife. Used to cut the pizza slices apart. It will suffice.

She bends to the box. She picks up the knife and positions herself so she is standing directly above him.

She calmly sticks the knife into his chest, where his heart is. Sideways, so it goes between his ribs and makes less mess. She pushes it into the hilt. His eyes flutter when she does this, but he is inebriated on beer and lazy from marijuana. They close again.

Althea leaves as quietly as she came.

The Stuff I Read: Comics

"What is it you like about comics?" my husband asked me one night.
He'd just finished watching Heroes...his new favorite show.
I was flopped across our bed reading, and he popped in to ask me that question.

I really do like comics. Graphic novels.

I hadn't had to think of a real explanation of "why" though.

The first layer of it has to do with pictures.
I like pictures.
I like books that have pictures that reflect the story well.

By that I don't mean art that's pretty. The art in Watchmen isn't pretty, but it's perfect, and it's one of the best graphic novels I have ever read.

I mean art that works with the narration, the mood, the person of the protagonist. When the art and the words blend well, it's a fantastic reading experience.

I think another aspect of it has to do with my love of theater and film.

I was talking to Sam Costello about the difference between film and graphic novel script, and he told me there is almost no difference. It makes sense. When you compose both, you need to have the image, the frame in mind as well as the words. This is why comics and movies are frequently written by two people. Most of us are only good at the frame or the words.

The biggest part of it for me, though, is the history I have with comics. There's a nostalgia there, and I think it's great that it's a medium that I was fascinated by as a child and can love as an adult.

So in the weeks ahead, I'll tell you about my top 5 comics/graphic novels.

Probably the people who know far, far, far more about it than I do will stop by and tell me why I'm so totally wrong.

Meme, so I feel like I'm doing something.

Objects Within One Metre Of You.

Husband's Fancy Shmancy camera that I can't figure out, single toddler sandal, my backpack from college.

TV Programmes You Won’t Watch


Age of Love, America's Next Top Model, Survivor, Lost, 24, Law & Order SVU.

Favourite Trivial Pursuit Categories

Arts & Entertainment, Literature.

Superpowers You’d Like To Have.


Invisibility, weapon impervious skin, exact change for anything I want to buy always in my wallet.


Newspapers, Magazines or Periodicals Read Regularly

Real Simple, Cookie, House Beautiful, Newsweek, Men's Health (I circle things I want my husband to pay attention to).

Songs You Dislike

Don't You Wish Your Girlfriend Was Hot Like Me, She's Like The Wind, any love song done by a hard rock band.

Blog Posts of Your Own That You’d Recommend.

On Fucking
Corydalis's Room
Waking Up


People You’d Like To See Answer These Same Stupid Questions

Strong Bad
The Incredible Hulk
Tina Fey

Sorry,

I've been away for a while. Sad information has been coming into my life via e-mails, phone calls, and end of the day conversations with my Beloved. It's just been difficult to write without getting distracted.

Notes have been jotted this whole time, though. Thoughts on a new story, ways to tie up loose ends.

Next week there will be actual content. If not sooner.

My friend has cancer. She is thirty.

She has been my friend for almost 9 years. Her husband is one of my oldest college friends, and he visited me this afternoon.

He told me he had some "not great" news. Then he clarified "It's bad news".

She has breast cancer.

But...but...

She told me to tell you not to worry about her.

DON'T WORRY ABOUT HER? IF MY HUSBAND TOLD HER THAT I HAD CANCER SHE WOULD WORRY ABOUT ME!

I know.

Early stages, right? They can just remove it? Right?

No. It's spread very quickly. They can't just take it out.

What...what...what...

The doctors were very surprised, because there's no history in her family.

But...she didn't grow up in one of those...cluster...places.

No. The cancer rates where she grew up aren't any higher than in the rest of the country.

THIS SUCKS! THIS ROYALLY SUCKS! What...okay. Okay. What are we doing? What are we going to do?

I tried to keep from crying. I didn't succeed. My son was playing on the floor in front of us, and he came over and smiled at me, then rested his soft little head on my knee.

It spread so very fast, because she saw the doctor and had the mammogram immediately after she found the lump. Then she had a biopsy. The doctors have to find out exactly how far the cancer has spread and she will probably have to have chemo, and a mastectomy.

My friends learned this a week ago today.

Even in my head I am afraid to say "what if..."

What if she dies?

You would think, with everything my husband and I have been through, illness in someone my age wouldn't terrify me, but it does. I suppose I thought my husband was the one. I figured it doesn't happen often in people under thirty, some hideous illness that could kill you, so if it happened to us, then our friends will be fine.

My husband didn't die, though.

What if she dies?

It's so strange that I prepared myself for my husband's death to the point where, if it happened, I knew that I would be prostrate with grief, but my life could go on. It was hard to get to that point, and my husband wanted to know that I could be at that point.

I never prepared myself for one of my friends dying.

What will we do if she dies?

What will her husband do if she dies?

I missed their wedding because the friend who was driving me there got lost.

She's so tiny, and her wedding dress had a very full skirt. She looked beautiful, but she had trouble getting out of the door.

She took the photos at my wedding.

I have a photo of her from seven years ago, putting her cousin in a headlock with silly expressions on their faces.

Her cousin looks very much like her younger sister.

Her younger sister got married this past winter.

Her younger sister was in a play I directed, and on the closing night, my friend and her fiancé (my friend) gave me a spinning tin top...because everyone gives flowers.

Oh, God, please please please please don't let her die.

Vacation!

I'm not going to be posting for a few days!

I'm going to Chicago!

I'm going with Beloved Husband,
while Baby stays with Mum-Mum and Auntie!

I'm going to wear dangly earrings!

I'm going to wear the top that with the really low back
that I haven't worn in two years!

I'm going to wear my leather pants
(I don't care how hot it is)!

I'm going to wear sexy strappy heels!

I'm going to have lots of wild hotel sex!

Uh...too much information?

The Stuff I Read: Agatha Christie: Just Plain Entertaining

Or: The Lists Of "You Should"s.

If you want to get started on Christie

1. The Mysterious Affair at Styles
2. The Murder at The Vicarage
3. The Secret Adversary
4. The Mysterious Mr. Quinn
5. Parker Pyne Investigates

These five books are the first for each of her detectives. Hercule Poirot, Jane Marple, Tommy and Tuppence Beresford, Harley Quin (no relation at all to this person), and Parker Pyne. Christie's detectives are so fine, that if you really want to experience them fully, you should start where they start, and follow them.

If you want to read Christie's personal favourites

1. Crooked House
2. Ordeal by Innocence
3. And Then There Were None (play version...because of combination of complex story and the romantic ending. The original story doesn't have a romantic ending).
4. The Complete Quin and Satterthwaite (Mr.Quinn was her favourite character)
5. Death on The Nile

If you want to know what my favourites are

1. The Murder of Roger Ackroyd: Because I haven't mentioned this book enough. The execution of the murder is done well...not brilliantly, but well. It's just the Oh Holy Crap moment in the parlour scene. I was reading Christie for a decade before I got to Ackroyd and it threw me for such a loop. Whenever I feel like Christie, I pick it up, and even though I know what's coming, it never loses its fun for me at that moment. Also, Caroline Sheppard is so neat!

2. The A.B.C. Murders: This was the first one I read, when I was eleven. I still have the same copy. I don't think it's the sentimentality that keeps me coming back, though. It's very much a story where we see Poirot's brain at the best of his ability, and I like that it's a story that spans several months with periods of inactivity between crimes. It's one of the few stories with a deliberate serial killer who calls attention to his work. In that, it's more like a lot of mainstream detective fiction, but the characters keep what could have been a tired cliché anything but. It's engaging, it's fun, and it makes you say "Ahhhhh...yesssss." at the end.

3. Death on The Nile: For the cleverly executed murder, but also for the diversity of the female characters. Rosalie Otterbourne, who is so, so unhappy, who has had such a hard life that she has "forgotten how to be nice". Mrs. Allerton, who is bright and sweet and practical and has such a great sense of humor. Cornelia Robson, ugly, uneducated, unaffected and quite possibly the most emotionally healthy person in literature. Jacqueline DeBelefort; passionate, tragic, intense and fascinating. "Tall, Golden" Linnet Ridgeway,"Linnet La Blonde!" who is so beautiful, rich, smart and admired that she is completely removed from reality. I have imagined myself playing each of these roles at one time...every time I read it, I choose a different woman and read her lines aloud in the voice I think she would use. Huh. Typed out, that sounds...a little nuts.

4. Hickory Dickory Dock: I read this in high school for the first time, and I think it resonated because several of the characters were only a little older than myself. It was also pretty cool to see that Felicity Lemon (first of all, this is where the reader learns she has a first name...and it's Felicity, of all things) is human after all. That she has a family and affections. It throws the brilliant Poirot for such a loop in the first page, and it takes the audience a minute to recover, as well. Oh, and Colin McNabb and Len Bateson are really sexy.

5. The Murder at The Vicarage: Miss Marple is so wonderful, but for me, it just doesn't get better with her than in her debut. The photographs you get in your mind of St. Mary Mead and this delicate, elderly, overlooked lady are never more vivid than the first time you see them.

Thus ends my Christie Breakdowns. I think I may do more of these "Stuff I Read" posts. I'm thinking of Conan Doyle, Dorothy L. Sayers, and Graphic Novels (the genre, not one specific writer) for the future.

The Stuff I Read: Agatha Christie: The Top Five Monsters (Spoilers Ahead)

My intention was to do the Top 5 Lists of Agatha Christie Books (Just Plain Entertaining), but it seemed to me that it would be better put next week, which will be my last week of Christie.

Top Five Agatha Christie Monsters, In My Humble Opinion.

Simeon Lee Hercule Poirot’s Christmas

He made his fortune in South African diamonds. When he came back to England, he married a women he was never faithful, or even kind to. He enjoyed flaunting his mistresses before her and the four children he had with her (there were more, by other women). When his sons were grown, he took his delight in pitting them against each other, baiting them as to who may or may not get his money. His old son uncomplainingly stayed home to care for his father once he became an invalid, and he treated him the worst. He’s not actually the murderer in this story. He’s the victim

Mr. Ratchett Murder on The Orient Express

Many years ago in New York City there was a wealthy and admired family who loved each other, their community, even loved their servants. The Armstrong Family consisted of Toby, his wife Sonya, and their daughter, Daisy.

When Daisy was 3 years old Mr. Ratchett kidnapped her. When her parents paid the very high ransom, he took it, and brutally murdered her. Sonya was pregnant at the time, and when she learned her daughter had been killed, she fainted and went into premature labor. She died at the hospital, as did the unborn baby. Having lost his wife and two children in 24 hours, Toby went home and blew his brains out. That’s only four of the people Mr. Ratchett destroyed. In this book, he’s is murdered.

Mrs. Boynton Appointment With Death

Mrs. Boynton was a prison wardess before her marriage. She grew bored torturing prisoners, so she married and began to torture her very young stepchildren. By the time Lennox, Raymond and Jinny were adults, they were mentally and emotionally stunted to a spectacular degree...Jinny almost to the point of insanity. Mrs. Boynton loved it. She loved the power she had over them.

She loved it so much that when she learned she was going to die from heart disease, she committed suicide in a way that implicated each of her children just enough for them to be suspected by the police for her murder, but not enough for it to be clearly proved which of them did it. So the shadow of murder would stay on them for the rest of their lives.

Michael Garfield Hallowe’en Party

He was a gardener. More than that, he was an artist. He created beauty, he was obsessed with beauty. He was beautiful, he was vain. He murdered for his art. Michael Garfield was Agamemnon and Narcissus in one completely inhumane person. Remember what Agamemnon did?

Franklin Clarke The A.B.C. Murders

You don’t notice a particular pin when it’s in a pincushion surrounded by other pins. Franklin Clarke knew that people wouldn’t notice a personal, family murder if it was surrounded by other murders. Murders committed by a made up psychopath. So he planned multiple murders. He murdered people who had loving families, all to cover the one murder that benefitted him. He implicated a man with epilepsy, a kind, lonely mad who had blackouts from time to time, who wouldn’t know that he hadn’t done these horrible things. He did all of this for his brother’s money. That’s all. Four dead people, and one man almost hung, so Franklin Clarke could get his brother’s money.

The Stuff I Read: Agatha Christie: Holy Crap, That's Creepy!

This is about Agatha Christie. She whose pen spouts the clever capers. Her very genteel detectives will make sure that everything is cleared up and everyone gets their cup of tea.

Right?

Yeah, not so much.

In The Last Séance, a parent begs a medium to call up the spirit of a dead child. The medium does this. Really, really well.

In A Glass Darkly has the protagonist seeing a crime reflected in a mirror...or does he? He tells the woman he thought he saw, and she changes the path of her life because of it. Years later the vision comes true anyway...or does it?

As for The House of Dreams...I won't tell you the plot. It's freaky and tragic.

What really kills me, is that these stories are in collections with her regular mysteries. Her horror stories (I'd classify them as that, anyway, though the Cool Kids may disagree) are woven in to what a typical reader expects, packing a greater "...the hell?" reaction than if they were put in a volume with "The Horror Stories of Agatha Christie" on the cover.

The first of these that I read remains my favorite. It got the best reaction (an inability to fall asleep).

When I saw the title The Dressmaker’s Doll, I expected a jewel thief would steal a large diamond from Lady Honoria Flotherling-West and hide it in the stuffing of a doll. Something like that.

Way off. Waaaaaay off.

The Doll sits in the fitting room of a dress shop. She matches the walls. She matches the drapes. She must always have been there. She clearly belongs there. Only...no one who works at the shop can remember seeing her before.

Alicia (the owner) starts finding The Doll at her desk every morning. It must be a junior employee being silly, surely. Then, things start to disappear, and are found under wherever The Doll is sitting. Customers complain that she gives them the creeps. They actually stop coming to the store because they don't want to see her. Whenever The Doll is moved to the sofa from where she seemed to begin, she is back at the desk the next time the employees enter the office.

Weeks pass, and the cleaning woman won’t go into The Doll’s room. The women become convinced that The Doll is evil. She consumes their thoughts: What does she want? How can they get rid of her? Can they, will she just come back? Can they destroy her? Why are they so afraid of a her in the first place?

They surrender. They lock her in the room she seems to want, keep the only key, and vow never to go in there again.

Locks don’t matter to The Doll.

I read this story late at night, six months ago.

When I finished, I looked up. Paige was staring at me.

Paige has a sweet rag doll face and purple streaks in her yarn hair. She wears a denim miniskirt and a T-shirt that says “Girls Rock”. My son loves Paige. When he was 9 months old he crawled around with her hand between his teeth. He tugs her hair and bites her feet and hugs her and she smiles all the while.

Before reading The Dressmaker’s Doll, I believed Paige to be precious.

After reading it, I believed Paige to be planning a subtle takeover of my house.

Ridiculous! It’s a story about a doll, for crying out loud. Remember what Costello said about Chucky?

"So, I don’t get it again. It’s a little talking doll. It tries to kill you. Kick it. Hit it with a broom. Whatever - it’s stupid." (Little Terrors, November 2004)

That was three years ago? Okay, maybe no one remembers that but me.

Anyway, he's right! It is stupid! Punt it out a window, you're fine.

I spent hours that night trying to get anything other than possessed dolls out of my head. Calvin and Hobbes, porn, Cartoon Network, yoga...nothing worked.

Damn you, Agatha Christie and your unpredicted creativity!