Friday, December 31, 2010

2011: Year of the Empress

In my own little world, I am declaring 2011 the Year of the Empress.

Every woman is Empress of her home, whether she lives alone, is a single mother, is a working wife or mother, or especially if she stays at home. As a daughter, and therefore an Empress-in-training it is my duty, nay, my joy, to cultivate those traits and habits which befit an Empress, that when my Emperor arrives to take me to our shared domain I may be well-equipped and well-prepared to assisst him in ruling.

Throughout this year I will be chronicling my own adventures in preparation for Empresshood, and will be posting them here for your entertainment, edification and amusement.

Stay tuned.

Tuesday, December 28, 2010

My Gift is My Song

...And this one's for you. 

I don't often write love songs, but even if I do, they're usually written to someone who doesn't know I'm writing them. Punctuated with all the sadness and frustration of unrequited love, which is an unkind and jealous master, they're not the hymns to joy most Top 20 love songs are made of. 

But if I ever did write a love song to a love who loved me back...

I would want it to be like Your Song by Elton John. 

Say what you will about the man, and his penchant for the overwrought ('Daniel' and 'Candle in the Wind' come to mind) Your Song is about as good as it gets. 

It's sweet, honest and simple in an effective way, whereas most songs that try for that just sound like they came from a 13 year old's diary. The song's narrator is an uncomplicated man without a lot to offer or declare. He can't give the object of his love glamour or glitz or even a tangible work of art, all he has is a song. 

And that's what I love most about Your Song. It's a love song about trying to write a perfect love song. Believe me, it's a difficult task. Sometimes you get so caught up in the mechanics of writing a song that you lose all the feeling, or get so caught up in the feeling you lose the mechanics of the song. And on top of that you have to deal with the fact that no matter how perfect you think it is, the person it's meant for may not like it at all. 

I hope the object of Your Song loved it as much as I do. I can't imagine a better love song. I've even joked before that after it, there's really no reason to try writing another. 

And so, if I ever do have the inclination to write a real love song, I want it to be like Your Song. Simple, honest, sweet, a labor of...well, love. 

Because let's face it. I'm not one of those that can easily hide.

Thursday, December 23, 2010

Money

Money has always seemed like chocolate to me. The more you have, the more you want, and it's pretty darn awesome, but if you have too much things go south pretty fast.

Last night at the bookstore I thumbed through a book written about Consuelo Vanderbilt and her (yes, her, named for her Cuban godmother's surname) mother. When Consuelo's grandfather died, he had more money than most people even now can possibly fathom. And almost immediately following his death, his son and daughter-in-law started spending it. They were determined to skyrocket to the top of New York and Newport society, and the only way to do it was to outspend everyone around them.

It eventually led to Consuelo's arranged and loveless marriage to the Duke of Marlborough, Charles Spencer-Churchill-yes-that-Churchill, which has pretty much become emblematic of the void, socially-savvy marriages of the Gilded Age. It was said that on their wedding night, she told her husband she was in love with someone else, to which he responded, "So am I." The Duke treated her like dirt because, like most Old World nobles who married New World heiresses, he thought her to be very much beneath him, but was quite fond of her shiny new money. (Her dowry was close to $100 million by today's counts.)

Somewhere along the ropes of pearls, gown designs, and expensive trans-Atlantic crossings on huge boats they managed to also support women's suffrage, which I guess makes them...brave? Noble? I'm really not sure. I got a little bored. I'm not an enormous Gilded-Age fan, aside from the clothes and some of the furniture, and really only picked up the book because A, the cover was pretty and B, I've always been curious why her name was Consuelo instead of Consuela.

But I was rather struck by the undeniable truth of Consuelo's life; money does not make you happy.

And it got me thinking about my own views on money. I make jokes frequently about having a fabulous amount of it someday from my heartbreaking works of staggering genius, but really? I want a limited amount.

I'd like enough to buy land, and build a nice house on it. I'd REALLY like to buy enough land to build multiple houses with plenty of land around them, so that various family members, and, one day, offspring, can have lovely places to live and be near me. If I became ridiculously wealthy I'd probably build a big, English-style manor, complete with trick bookcases and secret rooms, and have a "house farm" a la Mount Vernon. I'd like to have enough to set up a homestead with some rare and heritage breeds, and enough to put back for me and mine that would assure we would never have to worry about anything.

There are gifts I'd like to buy, vacations I'd like to take, and friends whose futures I'd like to help stabilize. And, yes, there are parties I'd like to throw.

But the truth is, even if I never build an enormous Biltmore of a home...I firmly intend to have at least a little something just outside of town. And if all I ever keep are chickens, so be it. That's within my reach no matter. And even if I were insanely wealthy, you can bet your boots I'd want to be as off-grid as possible.  I have few needs. Running water and indoor plumbing; hot water even if I have to carry it from a stove; and a room somewhere, and it could be a closet with a window unit, that I could go into during the heat of an Oklahoma summer and cool off. I think I admire my ancestors most of all for making it through a summer in this state without central air!

But all this ridiculousness, this obsession with things. My days of it mattering to me are not all that far behind me, I know. I still have several ridiculously pricey handbags from a time when the name on my purse, I thought, mattered a great deal. I blame McGuinness a lot, actually. There were more labels strolling those halls on an average Tuesday than some of the places I went in Vegas. I remember an email, once, that promised me I'd be the envy of all when I whipped out my super-rare $15 lip glaze that's only available in Japan, but that I can buy here for a limited time. I remember it mattering so much, so much to me if I could get this eyeshadow, or these shoes, or that purse. I even feel a little of it now, at college, when I drive my beat-up little Bug past some of these brand new BMWs that kids my own age and younger are driving.

I know people who have gotten so wrapped up in it as adults that it's sickening. People who spend themselves into pits of debt so that maybe, maybe people will think that they're one level above their real income bracket. I could go on and on. Most who know me are aware of my distaste for the Cult of Designer Junk and some of the highly popular films and TV shows that promote it. Heck, I was channel surfing the other day and came across a show so simply and honestly titled "Rich Women."

But I've had a couple of glimpses of the real world. A committee here, a training there, and particularly now where I attend Church. When I worked on Crystal Darkness, it was probably the first time I had ever been around a large number of people who had more important things to think about than that. PRSS training, too, was an amazing foray into a world wherein my experiences and what I had learned from them mattered far more than how expensive my clothes were.

And Church! I've been to Churches before where I acutely felt my own financial inadequacies. I've finally found one where people care far too much about why we're actually supposed to be there.

It's just hit me as I'm writing this that I used to dread Christmas. The time of year when people buy more, more, more has always made me focus on what I don't have. This year I'm noticing completely different things. And you know?

I like it much better.

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

Next time...*grumble*

I always try to follow the written recipe once.

Even when I KNOW the dry to wet ingredient ratio they have me using is NOT going to bode well.

Low and behold, a rather dry, crumbly cake plopped out of my pan in three pieces. I know this pan. A well-made cake falls perfectly out of it without a crumble missing.

So, it's in dire need of a good glazing to take the edge of the dry off. But flavor wise it's very nice, not ridiculously sweet and just rich enough. It'll still be good, it just won't be pretty.

Next time I'm just adding the concentrated Earl Grey to my usual, standby chocolate pound cake recipe.

Saturday, December 18, 2010

Short: Out of Luck

(Per usual, names have been changed.)

A fellow choir girl, we'll call her Kitty: I've found the best way to deal with boys who get on your nerves is by telling them off using large words they can't understand.

Me: The only guy I spend any time around is Hat Guy.

Kitty: Oh. Huh. I guess you're out of luck, then.

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

The Hard Part

Melodrama warning.

Everything worth anything has a hard part to it. A difficult component, something that must be overcome. I'm, unfortunately, hitting a lot of things at the hard part right now. In descending order of importance...

The most important one, as it's the one with the most far-reaching and grave implications, is my religion. Being a Traditional Catholic is...well, it's hard. People around you, unless they're also traditional Catholics, really don't understand it. It's so very counter-cultural, and by that I don't mean prepackaged ripped fishnets and safety pin earrings. I mean it is directly opposed to the culture in which I'm living, the culture of modern America. I really can't find solace amid most modern Catholics, either. Frankly I might as well appliqué a large, scarlet SSPX on all my blouses now and save the trouble of  what usually happens.

Traditional Catholicism is a bloodless war, fought constantly, waking and sleeping. It's not something you can really do halfway. You must believe in it, and believe in it with all you are. Otherwise, it's not going to be worth it to go through what you will go through. And that's all I'm going to say about that.

There's also another thing that I really can't talk about. Not here, anyway. It's sort of a pervasive thing that hangs over a lot of what I do, and it...well, it stinks. I can't go into detail, which is frustrating. I feel a little like Odette in the Swan Princess; the worst part of my plight is I can't speak about it.

And on a related note, my pride is...well, it's pretty much limping along. The only reason I can really tell that I have any left is because it's hurting. But I've had plenty of it chipped away lately, from several different directions but one in particular. I'm starting to feel a little like a yo-yo or a court jester or something.

Also, I'm at a point in the outlining stage of my novel where I'm running a little dry. I know I need to set it aside and brainstorm for a few days, but I have two more days of formatting before I can do that. At this point I'm just chugging in through, making notes on top of each other and layering. It's magnificent to watch it all come together slowly, but it's also tedious. I have the most fickle, demanding, mercurial muse in the history of difficult muses.

And then of course I have finals next week, which seem to be most of my friends' chief concern. I myself have always been really good in a testing environment. That and the sheer amount of other stuff I have going on make finals seem a little less do-or-die than they have in the past.

And with a deep breath I offer them all up. My Nanny turned me on to the idea of having a "God Jar," where you place on paper the things that you wish to offer up, things that are bothering you and things that are filling you with worry. Beyond prayer, the physical act of placing my worry, on paper, in the jar (I use a teapot) is really good at reminding me that I did in fact place this in God's hands and He is in control of the situation. When it gets full, you're supposed to empty it out and burn the papers. I actually kind of like to look through them and see what worries have worked out alright.

So I've got quite a few strips of paper for my teapot tonight...

Thursday, December 2, 2010

Short: Groundhog Day

Background: I was having another conversation with Bourbon about one of the pervasive topics that's been permeating my thoughts as of late. She suggested a resolution to a problem that, quite frankly, has an exact 50/50 chance of being "A Huge Relief" or "Excruciatingly Humiliating."

Me: The thought of doing that makes me want to jump under my covers, hide, and not come out until Groundhog Day.

...And if I see my shadow, I'm going back in for six more weeks.

Bourbon: So emerge from  your burrow at night.

Me: ...Touché.