I should have written something for Mother’s Day because I really adored my mother, the original Evelyn. She was smart, feisty, independent, hysterically funny, and the original feminist. So Mom, I owe you a blog.
But next Sunday is Father’s Day. The kids and I will celebrate the wonderful Dad that my husband indeed is. But I want to take a moment to honor Carol, my father. He died much too young. He’s been gone more years than we had together. And yet, that bedrock of love he gave me as a kid accounts for much of the person I am today.
First, the name. He spent his life explaining it because Carol is usually reserved for girls. But the family lore is that it was supposed to be Carl, the hospital got it wrong, and my immigrant grandparents didn’t want to argue with authority. So Carol it was.
He was intelligent, kind, gentle, generous, good looking, with a twinkle in his eye and a sense of humor that often saved the moment (especially for an over-dramatic teenage girl). It was Dad who took me to the library every week. He’d get a stack of books (always including a couple of mysteries!), while I carefully picked out my own selection. He traveled for business, probably three weeks out of every month, but never missed a recital, a holiday, or birthday.
We weren’t poor, but money was usually tight. Dad was a product of the Depression and for him, spending money was always a gut-wrenching experience. When I was in college, I begged to go overseas to a summer program at Oxford University. The cost was prohibitive, but his hesitation, I think, was primarily because he would miss me. Still, my heart was set on a summer in England and he reluctantly agreed. I bought my cheap charter plane ticket and headed off. Within two weeks, I was back home. I’d been in a motorcycle accident (don’t ask, I was just incredibly stupid). I’d lost a few teeth, my face was banged up, I looked a mess. But once Dad had been assured by my doctor that I was okay, he paid for a full-fare ticket for me to return to Oxford. “You have to go back,” he insisted. He didn’t want me to be scared to travel or to miss this unique opportunity. It was a magical summer, despite the temporary bite plate!
Now that I’m a parent, I realize how terrifying it must have been for him to let me go. Not to mention how hard it must have been to pay for that expensive plane ticket. But Dad knew what I needed, even if I didn’t.
From him, I learned parenting lessons, long before I had kids. He never spanked me (Mom took a swipe or two), but Dad just looked disappointed when I misbehaved and that would be enough. He said spanking just meant that he was bigger than me, not necessarily that he was right. He taught me to always tell the people you love that you love them – never assume they know. By his example, I learned what a real father should be and I wanted that (and got it) for my own children.
This Sunday, my husband will laugh at the funny cards his kids have given him, smile at the thoughtful gifts they’ve brought, and mostly, just revel in the company of his children. Carol won’t be here, but I’ll hear him in the laughter of his grandchildren. Love you Dad.
Marian, the Northern half of Evelyn David
Plans Often Go Astray
/in Uncategorized/by Stiletto GangWhen we drew close to the bottom of the road over the mountains (I-5, the main connections from the San Joaquin Valley to Southern CA) all the cars slowed to a stop. Accident, we thought. We expected to eventually be guided around it. Instead we were detoured off the highway, around a big loop and back to the main highway going back the way we came. Like sheep, we followed all the trucks and cars figuring they, like us, needed to find an alternate route.
We had a pretty good idea of where we needed to go, up to Tehacapi and down to Mojave, and then we hoped our Magellan would guide us the best way to get to Temecula. By this time we learned via the radio that the problem was a hazardous waste spill on I-5 and no one was going through for a long, long while. Our Magellan wanted to take us back to I-5 through Palmdale but since we had no idea where the spill was we didn’t want to take a chance.
Finally, the mysterious voice on the GPS led us to San Bernardino and on to Genie’s. Of course daughter had already left for home as they had other plans. Genie and Mark are always gracious overnight hosts and we had a great time visiting them and their two little kids.
Before our hosts were awake the next morning, hubby and I headed off for the Flea Market. We thought we left plenty early, but the park where it was being held was already packed. We found a place to leave the car and began hauling the Easy-Up tent, tables, chairs and the pull-alongs with all my books.
I was the only author–something I’ve found to be a good thing–and began attracting attention from the other vendors. Though I didn’t sell a ton of books–I made my fee for the spot back, plus quite a bit more. I also handed out lots of cards and bookmarks and talked to lots of people. By three o’clock the wind came up and vendors began packing up–so we did too.
We programmed in grandson Patrick’s address and followed the voice to his house. There we visited with his wife and three kids. We took them out to dinner, then Patrick, hubby and grandson all went to the motorcycle races. I stayed home with the girls and we watched a chick flick and did a lot of talking.
Once again we left before our hosts were up and about. Left a thank you note and headed for home. Told the mysterious Magellan “best use of freeways” and ended up driving through downtown LA. Not too bad since it was Sunday–however next time I’ll put in “shortest distance” which would have taken us a better way. This time, the drive was uneventful and we arrived home just in time for a barbecue cooked by our son for Father’s Day.
Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com
Summertime and the Living Was Easy
/in Uncategorized/by Stiletto GangIn grade school I loved westerns (covered wagon stories, Kit Carson, and all the Zane Grey novels I could get my hands on) and mysteries (Nancy Drew, The Hardy Boys, and Trixie Belden.) My best friend and I cleaned a motel swimming pool one summer for a little cash and free use of the pool. We cleaned in the mornings and then sat by the pool during the afternoon, reading. When we’d had enough chlorine and sun, we’d go over to the motel restaurant to drink large cokes and eat chips and salsa.
In high school my reading tastes shifted a little. I discovered biographies. My favorite subjects were Abraham and Mary Lincoln, Golda Meir, Amelia Earhart, Mary Queen of Scots, and Eleanor Roosevelt. Yeah, I was all over the place, but that was half the fun. I also discovered true crime (In Cold Blood, Helter Skelter) and the bittersweet romance of Danielle Steele. Ms. Steele made me cry every time.
I still like to read all kinds of fiction, although I read less since I started writing. I was shopping on Saturday for a Father’s Day gift and books were at the top of my list. I picked up the latest Lee Child novel for my Dad and couldn’t resist grabbing a paperback mystery for myself. The book, The Grave Tattoo by Val McDermid, had a lake scene on the cover and a blurb from one of my favorite authors promising it was “irresistible.”
If I get a sunny afternoon this next week, I might play hooky from work, lay in a lounge chair in the backyard with my book and pretend I’m on summer vacation from school. No bills to pay, no career to worry about, no deadlines looming. I won’t even notice that the lawn will need mowing again and that my deck could use a coat of fresh paint. I’m going to ignore all that and do a little time traveling – back to when summers lasted half the year.
Evelyn David
http://www.evelyndavid.com/
Outstanding in My Field
/in Uncategorized/by Stiletto GangWriters are the independent type, in several ways. The most common: independence of mind. The least likely: independence of bank account.
Until a decade ago, I’d nearly always had another full-time job. Writing was something I did mostly nights and weekends. Aside from practice, which has value, I didn’t get much done. I also seldom made money writing. The fact is that if my husband hadn’t said when we were going to buy our house “look, if you really want to write full time I’m with you and you should quit your job now so that we don’t go out and get a mortgage based on two salaries”, I’d still be floundering. He saw the writing on the wall of what writing on the page might pay and faced reality with great generosity. Since then, I’ve made some money from screenwriting, but that’s still a curvy road and I’d rather write my novel, which for now pays nothing.
When I quit my last day job I was working in IT as a programmer/analyst, far from my degree in Journalism. After I quit, someone complimented me, saying, gee, that was brave to give up a good salary just to try writing. But, I had a safety net. One that didn’t just earn the money, but backed me up all the way, encouraged me and tried to understand my work. So, my question is, just how independent am I?
The answer is in other parts of working as a writer. Trust me, when the first time you’ve spoken to a human since breakfast is when you answer the phone at four in the afternoon, you get it. Writing is a job done mostly alone, but it’s not lonely most of the time. The bigger problem is that you start to lose your grasp on the mainstream world because you take yourself out of it to write. I’ve got to plug back in periodically to ground myself.
And then there’s my frequent liberation from basic hygiene—the days when I realize it’s quitting time and I still haven’t showered. Or my freedom to take a punch from someone who smiles condescendingly and says, “Well, you don’t work” in response to anything I’ve said about having time to cook or clean or making sure to get enough sleep or having just finished reading a good book. You name it, and apparently the reason I have 48 hours in a day to everyone else’s 24 is because I “don’t work.” It’s always a treat to hear people sum you up that way.
My most treasured but also sometimes most painful independent streak? It’s that oddness of personality that I believe most people feel, but that writers feel acutely. It’s that gnawing, frustrating sense that you are always, always somehow apart from everyone else. Writers operate at a different elevation from sea level. We take in everything out there with a perspective that differs from that of the crowd. It’s like being a lightening rod in a field of wild flowers. But, oh, the view!
So, I fight the not so pretty aspects of my independence and cherish the good. I tell myself, sometimes with a sigh, that it doesn’t matter if no one gets me, so long as someday someone gets something I write. That’s why we stand out in that big field of flowers, taking in every breeze, ray of sun, and bolt of electricity, and then write it all into something we hope others can be struck by, reveling in that few moments of connection between our worlds.
Vicky Polito
I Love You Dad
/in Uncategorized/by Stiletto GangI should have written something for Mother’s Day because I really adored my mother, the original Evelyn. She was smart, feisty, independent, hysterically funny, and the original feminist. So Mom, I owe you a blog.
But next Sunday is Father’s Day. The kids and I will celebrate the wonderful Dad that my husband indeed is. But I want to take a moment to honor Carol, my father. He died much too young. He’s been gone more years than we had together. And yet, that bedrock of love he gave me as a kid accounts for much of the person I am today.
First, the name. He spent his life explaining it because Carol is usually reserved for girls. But the family lore is that it was supposed to be Carl, the hospital got it wrong, and my immigrant grandparents didn’t want to argue with authority. So Carol it was.
He was intelligent, kind, gentle, generous, good looking, with a twinkle in his eye and a sense of humor that often saved the moment (especially for an over-dramatic teenage girl). It was Dad who took me to the library every week. He’d get a stack of books (always including a couple of mysteries!), while I carefully picked out my own selection. He traveled for business, probably three weeks out of every month, but never missed a recital, a holiday, or birthday.
We weren’t poor, but money was usually tight. Dad was a product of the Depression and for him, spending money was always a gut-wrenching experience. When I was in college, I begged to go overseas to a summer program at Oxford University. The cost was prohibitive, but his hesitation, I think, was primarily because he would miss me. Still, my heart was set on a summer in England and he reluctantly agreed. I bought my cheap charter plane ticket and headed off. Within two weeks, I was back home. I’d been in a motorcycle accident (don’t ask, I was just incredibly stupid). I’d lost a few teeth, my face was banged up, I looked a mess. But once Dad had been assured by my doctor that I was okay, he paid for a full-fare ticket for me to return to Oxford. “You have to go back,” he insisted. He didn’t want me to be scared to travel or to miss this unique opportunity. It was a magical summer, despite the temporary bite plate!
Now that I’m a parent, I realize how terrifying it must have been for him to let me go. Not to mention how hard it must have been to pay for that expensive plane ticket. But Dad knew what I needed, even if I didn’t.
From him, I learned parenting lessons, long before I had kids. He never spanked me (Mom took a swipe or two), but Dad just looked disappointed when I misbehaved and that would be enough. He said spanking just meant that he was bigger than me, not necessarily that he was right. He taught me to always tell the people you love that you love them – never assume they know. By his example, I learned what a real father should be and I wanted that (and got it) for my own children.
This Sunday, my husband will laugh at the funny cards his kids have given him, smile at the thoughtful gifts they’ve brought, and mostly, just revel in the company of his children. Carol won’t be here, but I’ll hear him in the laughter of his grandchildren. Love you Dad.
Marian, the Northern half of Evelyn David
Perception versus Reality
/in Uncategorized/by Stiletto GangIt’s that time of year again when college graduates flood the job market in record numbers, only to be subjected to dire pronouncements of media talking heads warning of the dearth of suitable employment for our country’s best and brightest. That’s one problem. The other is that it is also the time of year when those same college graduates have to readjust their thinking—that is, take their diplomas, swallow their collective pride, and take a variety of jobs that have little or nothing at all to do with their major course of study. It’s the old perception versus reality conundrum. Your perception—the job market’s reality.
As an English/French major back in the 80’s, it never occurred to me that there were few, if any, jobs out there at a level I thought I was suited for available to someone like me. Sure, if you were a nursing major, like the majority of students at my college, you could have come out of college and begun nursing immediately. If you majored in accounting, you probably landed a job that involved crunching numbers. And if you were smart enough to be a computer science major back then…well, we know where you are now. Counting the cash from your Microsoft stock splitting a billion trillion times since graduation. But if you graduated with an English/French major, your options were limitless and limiting, all at the same time. You were qualified to do a broad spectrum of things, probably, but just not what you thought. I wanted to be a writer. But unfortunately, none of the writing stores were hiring.
Thankfully, twenty-three years ago this month, I left college lucky enough to have a job in pocket when I processed across the stage. Sure, it only paid $13,000 a year, and sure, I wouldn’t get any vacation time for a year, but one thing was certain: I had to take it because not taking it would mean that I couldn’t live in my old bedroom in the family homestead. I could come back home but I had to be gainfully employed. Now that I’m older (and a mother), I can say that that sounds eminently reasonable. Back then? Well, I wasn’t thrilled. It was one of those jobs that I never thought I’d have to do; it involved typing, filing, answering phones, and being an all-around girl Friday to an editor-in-chief at a publishing house. I never had to get his lunch, and he was the nicest man in the world, but I did spend many day hunched over a broken down copy machine, looking for the paper jam that it proclaimed I had produced. I should have known that this was the only type of job I was qualified for after graduating with my liberal arts degree but I was sure that I would interview at a few places for this type of position only to have the interviewer say, “There must be some mistake. You are completely overqualified for this job. You are brilliant! A gift to the literary world! We will make you an editor right away!”
I remember wandering the streets of midtown Manhattan at lunchtime for the first few weeks eating hot pretzels from street vendors (because that was all I could afford) and reminding myself that I was a writer, not an assistant. It became something of a mantra.
But you know what? I worked with a lot of “writers not assistants” and they were all extremely bright and talented people, and much happier in the job than I was. What did they know? Were they just broken down? Had they completely supplanted their dreams and aspirations? Maybe. But they were a great group and I made good friends. Vicky Polito, Friday’s guest blogger, is one of them. I ended up having a lot of fun at my job, met some interesting people, learned some amazing things. I worked with writers and at that point in my life, that was enough to help stoke the fire inside of me to keep writing. I stayed in the field, in house, for fifteen years, and after that, another nine as a freelancer. Turns out I really liked what I did. And I was good at it. I eventually rose to the rank of editor and when the demands of that job became too great for me, I started freelancing. And writing again. It all came full circle.
If there are any liberal arts college graduates reading this blog, take it from me: if you have a passion, like writing, you’ll find a way to do it. But you have to be gainfully employed. It’s no fun being a starving anything, particularly a writer. Because if you are weak from hunger, you won’t be able to pick up a pen never mind sit in front of a keyboard for hours. However, if you are employed, even at a job you think is beneath you, it will all work out. You will dance, paint, write, act, or do anything else that your liberal arts degree prepared you to do. Maybe not right now. But someday soon.
Maggie
Planning Towards Next Book Promo
/in Uncategorized/by Stiletto GangIn my book that will be coming out towards the end of August, Kindred Spirits, my heroine, Deputy Tempe Crabtree heads to Crescent City, CA to see if she can find out some information about a murder victim. While there she meets relatives of the victims, who are also Tolowa.
As a presenter in a writers conference at the college in Crescent City, I had the opportunity to meet a wonderful Tolawa woman, Junie Mattice. She told me fascinating stories about her people, Big Foot, and some of the horrors the Tolowa have endured. Besides the fact, the white man did a wholesale slaughter on them in the 1800s, President Eisenhower decided since there weren’t many of them left, they shouldn’t be considered a legitimate tribe. So no Tolowa receive the benefits other Native Americans do. What a travesty!
Within the boundaries of Crescent City are redwood forests–gorgeous enormous trees that were growing before Christ was born. They cut down a whole section of the forest to build the infamous prison, Pelican Bay. They’ve also cut down many of these magnificent trees to clear the land for houses. Also sad.
I’ll be going back to Crescent City in September to promote my book. I’m not sure how well I’ll be received as I’ve portrayed the Tolowa and how they are treated now in a factual manner.
We’ve been invited to stay with friends who are enthusiastically planning the promotion for the book. I met the wife years ago when she attended a writing class I was giving. She is married to a minister who is now retired and they chose Crescent City as the place they wanted to live. She’s hoping to line up a library talk, a bookstore appearance over the border in Oregon, and most exciting, an appearance at the Tolowa coffee house run by Junie Mattice. Of course I dedicated the book to Junie.
One of the most fun parts of the book is some references to Big Foot. The Tolowa are great believers in Big Foot. In the book that comes after this one, Dispel the Mist, Tempe encounters the Hairy Man, the Yokut’s counterpart of Big Foot.
Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com
Garden Variety Adventures
/in Uncategorized/by Stiletto GangMy interest in gardening increased when I had my own patch of dirt. I approached gardening like I did writing; full steam ahead with the research coming later when things didn’t quite go as expected.
My backyard came with six trees – two peach, a plum, two apples, and one overgrown evergreen something. I cut the evergreen down within the first four months and added a deck in that location. Best decision I ever made – it really opened up my backyard and I was immediately able to enjoy “my” outdoors. The fruit trees were about ten feet tall when I moved in. I admit it – I really didn’t like the fruit trees. There were too many of them for the size of my yard and fruit trees take a lot of time and attention if you intend on eating the fruit. Webworms, molds, diseases – you name it, fruit trees are afflicted. I wanted those trees gone with a passion, but people gave me the “what, are you crazy?” look every time I mentioned it. I couldn’t just cut them down. It took a number of years, but God finally took the decision out of my hands via several storms. The last of the fruit trees toppled two years ago during one of Oklahoma’s worst ice storms. I don’t miss them at all. The neighbors’ trees provide all the shade I need and I have a very nice crepe myrtle (planted some ten years ago) left.
Another plant that came with my mortgage was a very healthy vine on the west side of my yard (full-sun location), running along the top and sides of a chain-length fence. Medium large green leaves, hard green berries, strong pencil thick vines, and no flowers. When clipped and controlled, it’s a great privacy feature. Leave it alone two weeks in the summer and the battle is on! I have no idea what this vine’s real name is. Anyone have any ideas? I call it my “monster vine.” It can grow five feet overnight, choking everything in its path.
My success stories – and there are some – involve hydrangeas, a variety of Rose of Sharon species (Hibiscus syriacus), shrub roses, and lilies. I have at least three different types of Rose of Sharon in my yard today. One variety is more like a tree than a shrub (up to 8 feet tall) with pink, white or purple blooms from late spring through fall. They require no care other than pruning. One type has plate sized blooms, but it only blooms for about six weeks and bugs love to chew on the flowers.
I love lilies and usually plant new ones each year to replace some of the ones I lose to moles or hard freezes. Some of new varieties are just gorgeous.
Peonies, hollyhocks, and lilacs are great additions to most gardens but I’ve had problems with them. Peonies are beautiful but need perfect light for the blooms to last more than a couple of weeks. I haven’t found a good location for them yet. Hollyhocks, another of my favorites, need a protected area from the wind and insects are a problem. Lilacs need lots of room and light. If you crowd them, they won’t grow, won’t bloom, and develop all kinds of leaf molds etc. I’ve given up on them for my yard.
Do you have a flower garden? What are your favorites?
Evelyn David
www.evelyndavid.com
I Love Cemeteries
/in Uncategorized/by Stiletto GangThe Stiletto Gang is delighted to welcome Casey Daniels, author of the spookily delightful, hysterically funny Pepper Martin mystery series.
I love cemeteries.
No, really. I’m serious.
Think about it: a cemetery—I mean a really old cemetery, not these new “memorial parks” where every headstone is flat to the ground and they all look the same—is really a museum without walls. Take a peek, and you’ll find interesting architecture, sculpture and art. There are stories, too, everywhere you look. One memorial can give you a glimpse into generations of family history. Another might suggest tragedy. Still others speak of undying love, precious memories, interesting lives and valorous deaths.
I’m lucky, I live near Cleveland, Ohio, and we’ve got some great old graveyards here. When I’m looking to hobnob with the city’s former movers and shakers, I head to Lake View Cemetery to visit the likes of President James A. Garfield, John D. Rockefeller and Eliot Ness. When I want something a little more down to earth (every pun intended), there are small country burial grounds that hold the remains of the settlers who tamed the lands of the Western Reserve.
In fact, I was in a cemetery when I got the idea for the Pepper Martin Mystery Series. Here’s the story: I began my publishing career back in 1992 with my first book, Twilight Secrets, a historical romance. I published somewhere around 15 historicals as well as a number of category romance, single-title contemporaries and even young adult horror novels. But the whole time I was writing romance, I was reading mysteries. And I was itching to write one. Trouble is, I never could find a hook that appealed to me. Interesting setting? Unusual protagonist? Fascinating time period? There are so many possibilities, it’s enough to make a writer’s head spin!
Then I got a job interview at a cemetery. They were looking for a part-time tour guide. I was looking to get away from my computer a couple days a week to remind myself there is life beyond writing (even in a place where just about everyone is dead).
I didn’t get the job, but I did get the idea for Pepper Martin, a cemetery tour guide whose enthusiasm for graveyards does not equal my own. Things really got interesting when I decided to add a little oomph to Pepper’s sleuthing resume—she just so happens to be able to see and talk to the “residents” of her cemetery.
Having ghosts and cemeteries in the mix adds an interesting dimension both to the writing and research. The book I’m plotting now (#5 in the series) involves the restoration of an old cemetery, so I’ve been in touch with a group that’s revitalizing Woodland Cemetery in Cleveland.
This dedicated group of volunteers gathers before Memorial Day to place flags on veterans’ graves. Sound easy? Not when old cemetery maps are inaccurate, records contain any number of misspellings, and tombstones are toppled, worn and hardly legible.
I had the time of my life, and it was gratifying to think that because we took the time to search and study and lay on our bellies to decipher just-about-unreadable gravestones, many veterans who’ve never had a flag before got one for the first time.
Thanks to Pepper, I’ve also taken classes in the paranormal, participated in ghost hunts and shot some amazing photographs at a “haunted” bed and breakfast, pictures that just might prove Pepper isn’t the only one who’s been in contact with the dearly not-quite departed.
Casey Daniels
www.caseydaniels.com
Now that I Know, What Should I Do?
/in Uncategorized/by Stiletto GangMy point?
I plunged into despair when I read the Sisters in Crime report of the Publishers’ Summit (and btw, everyone, and I mean everyone, should join Sisters in Crime, whether you’re a writer or a female). Yes, I can be a drama queen, but I confess to a bit of a moment when I read that one publisher had firmly pronounced that the cozy mystery was dead (pun intended).
This same publisher also opined that thrillers and paranormal books were flying off the shelves.
So after I finished weeping and wailing, gnashing my teeth, and checking the wants ads to see if there were any jobs for cozy mystery writers, I took a deep breath and tried to figure out what to do next. And then I recalled a second adage. My mom didn’t say this one either, but I’m pretty sure she would have given me another of her Evelyn looks which translated to mean, “duh, of course that’s right.” (Needless to say, at no time in my mother’s life did she ever say, duh.). In any case this pithy bit of truth is from Christopher Columbus Kraft, NASA’s first flight director. He said, “If you don’t know what to do, don’t do anything.”
How does this apply to the current authors of Murder Off the Books, and the forthcoming Murder Takes the Cake (and hopefully even more in the Sullivan Investigation Series)? It means that just because someone believes that the cozy mystery has passed its expiration date doesn’t mean that I have to change what I write. Look, as I said, my momma didn’t raise no fools. So of course I think it’s important to understand the current marketing trends. But if I start writing to the fad, rather than writing what I do best, then it will please no one.
As it happens, the Southern half of Evelyn David and I have been kicking around a story for more than two years that features a sleuth who talks to ghosts. But, and here’s the kernel of truth that I’ve learned, it’s all about the characters. If they’re believable, you can capture an audience. If they’re not, then it doesn’t matter if they talk to your mother, you won’t buy the concept.
To paraphrase Mark Twain, “reports of the cozy mystery death have been greatly exaggerated.” I’m not ready to don any sackcloth and ashes just yet.
Evelyn David
www.evelyndavid.com
Being Green
/in Uncategorized/by Stiletto GangTo borrow a line from my old friend, Kermit, “it’s not easy being green.” And it’s not easy going green. But dang it if we’re not giving it the good old college try in my house. I’ve been reading a lot about what it takes to have a greener household and I’m doing my best—as well as encouraging the rest of my family members—to join me in this pursuit. Here are a few of the things I’ve been doing that supposedly, if done en masse, will have an effect on the environment. And here are some of my musings about these suggestions.
1. Driving a more gas-efficient car. As you know, if you’ve been keeping up on our humble blog, I traded in my gas-guzzling station wagon for a hipper, more stylish, and way more gas-efficient Mini Cooper. I’m getting thirty miles to the gallon and loving it. And frankly, the kids and dog aren’t all that squeezed into the back seat. They’ve each got their own cup holders—the kids, not the dog—and that seems to mitigate any discomfort they feel in having their legs wedged up against the back of the seat when my husband, he of the long legs, is driving.
2. Using those new-fangled light bulbs. Can’t remember what they’re called because it’s so dark in here I can’t read the package. But I installed a few of them. I’ve noticed that they don’t turn on quite as quickly as regular old light bulbs and they definitely don’t throw as much light (which, if you are of a certain age like me, works beautifully—I look ten years younger in our living room). So, could I install lower-wattage light bulbs and get the same effect? Not sure. But my daughter informed me that although these new light bulbs last longer, there is now some evidence that there is not good way to dispose of them. Once again, you can’t win.
3. Walking instead of driving. This one sounds great in theory. But we’ve entered “cute sandal season” and that impacts the suggestion to walk instead of drive. You can’t walk any measurable distance in a three-inch wedge heel. Trust me. Instead, I’ve decided not to leave the house which is in its own way a reasonable sacrifice to make, don’t you think? And truth be told, I’m not a big fan of the outdoors in general.
4. Eating one non-meat meal a week. Try getting your kids to eat quinoa. Enough said.
5. Taking three minutes showers. Works for me because if you’ve read #3 and #4, I don’t really work up a sweat. Doesn’t really work for child #2 who plays lacrosse on muddy fields. But he’s a gamer. He’s given it a try. Suffice it say he’s just not that clean.
6. Turning off your computer. I’m going to use this excuse come December 31st when my next manuscript is due. (It’s late?! I was trying to save the planet!)
7. Growing your own food. See #3.
8. Buy a composting toiler. I discussed this several posts ago. It’s an idea that really hasn’t taken hold here at Chez Barbieri.
So, what are you doing to go green? We here at the Stiletto Gang offices would love to hear your suggestions for anything you’re doing to help the planet. Or walk in three-inch wedge heels.
We have our priorities, after all.