You probably already know this–I should have, but did not. DON’T turn your back, not even for 3 seconds, on pre-made taco shells you think you can warm up in your toaster oven. Because when you do turn around, you might see flames leaping out of said toaster oven–not flickers, flames. DON’T call loudly for your child, only to have him arrive in the kitchen just as you are tossing contents from the filtered water pitcher on flames. “You’re not supposed to do that, Mom,” your son might say in a remarkably calm voice–and he will be right. DO tell your son: “Grab the dog’s towel from outside,” in your own calm voice as flames lick up the front of your cabinets (and knowing somewhere in the back of your mind that the only reason you sound calm is because you MUST sound calm in front of your child during a crisis, all the books say so, plus–YOUR SON sounds calm, so…). “Quick,” you might add and you don’t mean to maybe calmly snap the word QUICK at your son–he is easily offended these day–it’s just that (or because) he is very pre-teen, so he moves slowly if anything is asked of him by his parents. MAYBE unplug the toaster oven, which your son will chide you for doing when he appears with the towel, and he will be right, again, because you could electrocute yourself thanks to all the filtered water you threw on the toaster oven to no avail, or you could have set your sweater-sleeve on fire as you reached around flames for the plug. I got away with the unplugging portion of the crisis–clearly. Tough call–I guess (!), although probably DON’T DO IT. DO beat flames with the dog’s towel. They will go out. Or your towel will catch fire, something else your son calmly (!) lets you know as you are in the process of beating the flames. DO review–now, today, this instant–how to use your fire extinguisher. I did not want to stop beating the flames with the towel and reach under the sink for the extinguisher because things were happening quickly and I didn’t have my reading glasses handy and would have had to squint at any print and…NO TIME!!!
New kitchen cabinet in holding pattern in living room as it awaits installation. Who knew you can’t just buy the cabinet doors on their own? Um–not me.
DO agree to make burritos instead of tacos after the fire. When your significant other returns home from work, DO listen closely as your son relates the fire tale–you might hear a little enthusiastic praise, such as you haven’t heard since your son became a pre-teen. IT’S OKAY to complain about the ruination of Taco Wednesday to your significant other after your son is in bed and maybe even cry a little into your SO’s shoulder, but not so your son can hear–even if you think he’s asleep, he’s probably not. DO expand upon the kitchen fire teaching moment for your family by having future discussions about how else the situation might have been handled, such as: KNOWING HOW THE FIRE EXTINGUISHER WORKS. And: Isn’t flour supposed to snuff flames? FIND OUT. DO banish possessed toaster oven from your kitchen. Our toaster oven was a sentimental keepsake that secretly horrified me from the day it was brought home, but I made an honorary space for it on the kitchen counter as I am not dictator of all I survey. I wish, though, I’d made an honorary space for it in the shed, instead. With, possibly, if Target sells them, a plastic flower-crown. Daisies would have sufficed.
Note: Pre-made taco shells are like lace. Tinder-lace. I wouldn’t even trust them in a real oven. Will make my own in the future.
Note: Toaster oven was pretty damn old.
Faced with views custom-made to inspire writers, I didn’t. Write. Or edit the 50 pages I’d brought with me. Instead, I continued reading Michelle Obama’s Becoming. Occasionally I glanced up from the book and gaped at the storm–then I’d consciously try to slow down my reading instead of zooming to the last page. It’s a novel I didn’t want to end.
o find out if it was a bear. On another walk, we came upon a trail leading to a snow-covered meadow filled with oak trees. We slipped and lumbered and created oversized snowballs and oohed and ahhed at the views of the lake when the clouds lifted their skirts briefly.
If you haven’t read Becoming, I can’t recommend it enough. Same rec goes for a mountain get-away–especially one with more than one cozy place to relax with an inspiring book. And, of course, a retreat that welcomes dogs.
I sing-songed like Snow White as I whisked open his curtains. I raved about the smell of cinnamon pancakes filling the house as I jumped on his bed. I hit him with a pillow as I encouraged him to seize the day.
A couple of weeks before the strike, I was John Snow: I knew nothing.
May the year be merry and bright and productive. And may I acquire a new laptop. And definitely completion of the current novel and definitely long before the end of this shiny new year. And may I continue to exercise brain and body. And remember to live in the moment, such as appreciating the time my son reads a book by sitting down with a book of my own and reading alongside him. I wish only the best for everyone, such as: beachwalks, good dreams coming true, and homemade spaghetti pie. PS. That’s a coat I’m holding, not my stomach. I’ve been asked.
Busy keeping my butt in a seat this week before Christmas (see everything Anne Lamott has ever written about the writing process). My son is under-the-weather, and while his feeling sick is not great, we are taking advantage of the downtime: he is reading A BOOK, I am writing page 45 of my 3rd MG novel. Keeping on with the keeping on as Christmas looms with, hopefully, Christmas Eve tamales, Christmas crackers stuffed in paper hats and wind-up toys, copious amounts of gingerbread coffee, beach time, and a new pair of slippers (the kind with backs on them–I don’t understand backless slippers–what about frozen heels?).
230am, the dog’s nose a wet Q-tip on my ear, his drunk-carny’s breath. I rise, stumble to the patio door, let him out. Waiting, I realize my right foot is wet. I panic: blood? Cat vomit. I stumble to the kitchen, use paper towels and water until I’m pretty sure my foot can touch our sheets again. The dog leads the way to the bedroom. I burrow under the comforter. Toss and turn. The kits scale my body, even when I switch sides, one touches a paw to my eye. I rise and stumble to the laundry room, fill cat bowls, mutter screw it, serve them a can, too. I stumble to bed, burrow. And obsess on the sequel I’m writing. 4am. I should just rise for the day, brew coffee, write, but even 5 is better than 4. I toss and turn. Big Boy bangs on the front door. I rise, let him in. He lopes by me, his creamsicle coat a beacon, he is that fabulous. I escort him to the laundry room and listen to him eat and purr simultaneously. It’s closer to 5, but I burrow anyway and plummet into a dream in which I am Mary Louise Parker in a movie with Tom Selleck who is helpless on a runaway gurney and I launch onto a gurney of my own and am about to fix everything, but my husband’s hand thumps my stomach. He mumbles something I will never ask him to clarify. 8am. We rise. I make coffee. Our son stumbles into the kitchen. I make pancakes. We’re going house hunting and I’m writing this before we leave because if I don’t write something, anything, I’ll forget why it is I am cranky. I’ll forget to catch myself when I snap an order, forget to apologize for not remembering: If I don’t write at all during the day, even if I’m blocked, 230am will torture me. Not to mention the pets.
that I could be one of the first to nab them. Can I just say–I’m glad I was a night owl as the event did sell out and, because I bought tix so early, we weren’t #1,005 for our turn to meet and greet the author–we were #21.
if he’d been acknowledged and seen and heard by a hero slash rockstar. Our 11 year old teenager dropped any moodiness in order to gush to his parents for the next couple of days about meeting Dav Pilkey. The event truly meant a lot to him.
Hood meeting the wolf, or Goldilocks annoyed by the wrong beds, so my focus returned to my sequel. I love being back in the world of novel #1, although dealing with exposition is challenging. However, dealing with exposition is forcing me to make my characters grow/evolve as they guide me through the sequel. I like that!
I won runner-up (there were only two of us who won in the Middle Grade category). 
joys her outdoor pen and a fat orangesicle cat sprawls on his back in the forever-sun and this weekend, once my 2 lights are back, we are going to play croquet in this yard with the set Santa brought us.
It’s always an emotional rush to post great news: All evacuations have been lifted in the Santa Barbara fire zones (
PB Rippey Writes 
You must be logged in to post a comment.