Short Story Hour: Holidays with Pickles, Part Two

Enjoy the conclusion of Holidays with Pickles; Part One appears here. Other Pickles adventures can be found here, here, and here. Pickles will return to the Island sometime in 2015 along with lots of Lazy Movie Weekends, some updates on being a leading lady, and who knows what else. Happy New Year from the Island of Misfit Toys!

The office door was closed. It was never closed. Pickles did not understand why the door was closed. Was it because she knocked over the Christmas tree that one time? Was she being punished for that one small thing? Her human already locked her up at night (and by locked up Pickles meant that she was forced to sleep on her human's bed curled up and comfy). When would she accomplish her cat things if not under the cover of darkness? When would that stupid tree go away? When would this door be opened to her again? Pickles had many questions for her human but figured she'd only be met with pets on the head and sounds that meant nothing to her. She paced in front of the door until her human shooed her away. Pickles was distracted by her new toy; it smelled like heaven (or cat nip) and made noise when she threw it around the apartment. She played for a few minutes until she found a sun patch that was to her liking. She forgot about the door as she warmed herself in the sun.

Pickles had managed to stay out of trouble since the tree incident. Amelia was proud of her little cat. No more tree climbing had occurred. Pickles still sat under the tree but no more climbing. She hadn't even played with the ornaments at the bottom that were there just for her. Amelia had taken some great photos of her amid the gifts during the party. The cat had stayed out of the kitchen while party preparations went on and had stayed off the table. Maybe, Amelia thought, Pickles understood the words "box fort" and "treats" after all. The cat had become very interested in the closed office door but had not managed to get in yet. Danny, Natalie, and Amelia had been working on the box fort for a few days now. It was going to be a great present for Pickles. They should be done by New Year's Eve. Not only was that the day of the next party, it was also Pickles' birthday. Amelia hoped the fort would keep Pickles occupied while she and her friends enjoyed their New Year's Eve feast.

Amelia excelled at lists and dinner parties. In her mind, the two went together. You couldn't throw a dinner party without planning. She was excited to try a few new recipes as well as some old standards. There would be eight people for dinner. Amelia had a final shopping list, a chores list, and a plan for cooking the day of. Some of the menu, like the Italian Orange cake, were already made and other things were prepped, waiting to be cooked. Natalie and Danny would be over to work on the fort later today. While they did that she would work on the other things she could make in advance and start cleaning. New Year's Eve was just one day away and so far she was on schedule.

As she started on her chores list, Amelia sneezed. Not once, not twice, but six times in a row. Her allergies had been acting up again but this was not an allergy sneeze. Amelia could feel that she was getting sick. She opted to ignore it; taking medicine to stop the cold before it started but she was losing the game. Running around for the past few weeks had not helped. She hoped that the cold would stay at bay until after the party. It was only a few more days. She willed herself not to get sick and picked up her chore list. Pickles wandered into the kitchen and wound herself around Amelia's legs. Amelia gave her some treats, scratched her ears, and went about her chores. Pickles took up patrol at the window occasionally glancing at the closed office door.

New Year's Eve - Daytime

"Just stay on the couch. You need your rest and we're almost done. Keep Pickles entertained for a little while longer." Natalie pointed Amelia back towards the living room.

"I just want to see how it's going. I'm not going to do anything. I promise." Amelia appreciated her friend's concern but really wanted to help despite her horrible cold.

"Nope. I know you. You say you won't do anything but the second one of us turns our back you'll be gluing something or moving something around when you should be resting. Now leave."

"I would have a very pithy remark for you if my head wasn't so foggy." Instead, Amelia sneezed three times and continued to look miserable. "Also, don't blame me if either of you get sick." Before either Danny or Natalie could respond, she left and shuffled back to the couch.

Pickles tried to get into the office before Amelia closed the door but her human was too quick. Pickles followed her into the living room. The tree was still there but Pickles had decided against a second climbing expedition. She was going to try her best to be good for a few days; her human didn't feel well and Pickles knew that she needed to help her human feel better. She watched over her at night and stayed by her during the day just in case.

Amelia settled back on the couch under her favorite blanket. She turned on the Hallmark Channel; silly, saccharine holiday movies always made her feel better. The added bonus was that if she fell asleep during the movie she'd still know what was going on since all the movies were a variation of the same plot. She thought the current movie was about bakers competing against one another for something. Or it could have been that they were trying to save the community center. Pickles curled up on her lap and kept her company. The cat always seemed to know when she didn't feel well. If only Pickles could make tea.

"They won't let me help with your present, Pickles. I'm sure you'll love it. And I had to cancel the party. Not exactly the New Year's Eve/your birthday that we planned but I guess it'll have to do. I'm just going to close my eyes for a few minutes. Wake me up if anything interesting happens." Pickles purring put Amelia to sleep.

Danny and Natalie were just about finished with the box fort. The project had taken the trio (now duo) three days to complete. Natalie wasn't quite sure why she was so excited about doing this for a cat that generally ignored her but there was something about the project that made her think of her childhood and building blanket forts in the living room. She and Amelia had known each other since the second grade and had built many a blanket fort together. Amelia was always doing nice things for others so it was nice to do something for her. Obviously Danny liked her friend. She guessed this was why he suggested this project in the first place. Guys needed to learn to ask girls out and not do stuff like this. Oh well, Natalie wasn't going to tackle that conversation today.

"I think we're done. Nice addition with the treat dispenser and the water dish. I'm sure Pickles will love that." Natalie stood back to admire their work.

"I wasn't sure if cats were like dogs in the whole treat department but I figured it couldn't hurt." Danny adjusted the final cardboard doorway and stood back with Natalie.

"You don't know Pickles well enough. I'm convinced she knows one word and that word is treats. Amelia thinks that's why Pickles has stayed off the tree; Amelia threatened to take away her treats." Natalie laughed at the idea but was certain it was true.

"Should we go get them? Is Amelia sleeping?" Danny moved to clean up the last of their tools and the cardboard remnants.

"I told her to go rest. I heard a Hallmark movie so she's probably asleep." The pair finished cleaning up and left the office, closing the door behind them. Pickles perked up at the sound of the door. She could see the closed door from her guard position on the couch. Another missed opportunity.

Natalie didn't really want to wake Amelia but she did anyway. "Did I fall asleep? I promise I was just resting my eyes for a few minutes." Amelia sneezed a few times.

"I'm sure you were. The box fort is done. Do you want to let Pickles in now or later?"

"Let's do it now. It is her birthday and I want her to have plenty of time to enjoy her fort today. Give me five minutes to make myself slightly more presentable. You two can decide what to have for dinner." Amelia knew she was a mess. Her nose was red from the sneezing and she had the dazed look of someone who was taking regular doses of cold medicine throughout the day. The least she could do was brush her hair. Pickles followed her into the bathroom and perched on the sink. "Are you ready for your birthday treat?" Pickles meowed at her favorite word and headbutted Amelia's arm.

"I'll take that as a yes." Amelia picked up the cat and joined her friends in the hallway. "I think we're ready for this."

Danny opened the door and there was the box fort. Amelia had never really stood back and looked at the fort as she was now. What had once been a pile of boxes was now a castle for Pickles. Danny had designed an actual castle. It had a drawbridge entryway and turrets. There were walkways that looked out over the room. Some of the boxes had been reinforced with scratch pads and ribbons and feathers were hung in strategic locations to keep Pickles entertained. The castle fit in one corner of the room near the window so there would be sunlight and sun patches galore. Amelia also noticed a treat dispenser and water bottle.

Pickles had been squirming in her arms since the door opened. Amelia put Pickles down and the cat ran straight to the "front door". She sniffed at the boxes and rubbed her face on everything she passed. The feathers tickled her nose and she could smell treats somewhere in the depths of these boxes. Her own kingdom! The last rays of sunlight hit the top of the castle and Pickles made her way there. She looked regal and proud in her castle. She looked at her human and meowed her approval.

"A treat dispenser? We're never going to see Pickles again! I think she likes it; you got a meow of approval." Amelia gave Natalie and Danny hugs. "Thank you for finishing this. I'm sorry I wasn't very much help today."

""I was worried she might not like it." Danny said.

"It's boxes and treats. Those are two of Pickles' favorite things." 

Pickles jumped down to the first level of the castle and explored the rest of her kingdom. She found the treats and water and helped herself. There was a little blanket and some of her toys in the back too. She curled up on the blanket and fell into a contented sleep.

The three friends peered into the castle to see where the cat was. Amelia took a few pictures of napping Pickles. "Happy Birthday Pickles!," she whispered. Her little cat looked happy and that was really all Amelia wanted. They left the cat to her nap and went back to the living room to discuss dinner and movie options. Amelia left a desk light on for Pickles. "Don't stay in here forever, Pickles."

Pickles stretched and curled back into a ball to continue her nap. She had not expected such a wonderful treat. New adventures awaited Pickles and now she had a place to plan and plot in peace. There were new cupboards and closets to explore and bookshelves to climb and patrols to keep and her kingdom to protect.

Or maybe she would try to be a well behaved cat and not get into any more mischief. If a cat could laugh that's exactly what Pickles did at that moment. Mischief was her favorite. To mischief  and adventure!

Short Story Hour: Holidays with Pickles, Part One

Happy Holidays from the Island of Misfit Toys! As this Buzzfeed article proves the Internet was designed solely for us to enjoy photos and stories about cats. Since I don't want to disappoint the Internet, I thought we'd close of 2014 with a story about Pickles, your favorite "fictional" cat.


The holiday season brings many things: cookies, a frenzied focus on shopping and card mailing, crowded stores, and of course, a twenty-four hour marathon of A Christmas Story. Depending on what you celebrate, you might also enjoy putting up a tree and decorating with priceless ornaments you've collected over the years. And who doesn't love getting packages in the mail? All the suspense of what's in them can be agony (in a good way) for some. Or annoyance for others.

Amelia was over the boxes. Her parents decided that this would be the Christmas they went on a cruise so they sent her box after box of gifts. Between their ten boxes (her parents were clearly feeling guilty about "abandoning" her during the holidays) and the few she received from friends and the boxes from gifts she ordered for others, she must have amassed at least twenty boxes in her small office. She hated taking out the recycling so they just sat there staring at her. Pickles seemed to enjoy jumping in and out of certain ones so Amelia decided to deal with them after her Christmas and New Year's celebrations with her friends. She was playing host for both parties this year.

She had never hosted both Christmas (she refused to call it Friendsmas as Natalie was doing) and New Year's in the same year. Usually she was gone until New Year's Eve so she always went out with friends or over to someone's house for a party. She had spent several weeks planning menus and cookie baking schedules. Christmas was going to be potluck style and New Year's was a fancier affair. Amelia purchased a tree for the first time ever. She had the most fun picking out ornaments and lights. And a wreath. According to her mother, it wasn't Christmas unless you had a wreath on your door. Amelia worried about how Pickles would react to the tree; she was always very well behaved when visiting her "grandparents" but their tree was fake so Amelia suspected it wasn't as enticing as a real one would be. Pickles mostly sat under the tree and looked cute. Amelia braced herself for climbing and ornaments breaking.

Pickles was mesmerized by the tree. It smelled like the outdoors and birds and squirrels (mostly in her mind). When she walked near the branches they scratched her little face in just the right way. She wanted nothing more to climb to the top and survey her kingdom like the regal cat she was. She knew that she would get in trouble for doing so (Pickles had learned much about getting in trouble this year) so she did not immediately scale the tree. She would bide her time and do it when her human wasn't around. She opted instead to sit under the tree like she did when they went to the other house and occasionally rubbed her face on the branches. It was her tree and everyone needed to know it.

Amelia was impressed with Pickles. No tree climbing had occurred and she hadn't gone near the water. She invited a few people over to help decorate the tree, other "orphans" who would be at the Christmas party too. Natalie was her oldest friend; Meredith was a work friend, and Danny was a friend of Natalie's who recently moved to the area. It was odd to bring together different friend groups but Amelia was getting good at it.

"So Pickles hasn't tried anything yet?" Natalie asked as she helped Amelia string the lights on the tree. Pickles was currently sitting on Danny's lap. She ignored everyone else in the room the second he arrived and had not left his side or lap since. He was stuck on the couch, directing decorating rather than helping.

"Nope. Mostly she sits under it. For the first few days, she just stared at it. Now she sits. And if she's not under the tree, she's in the office hiding in one of the millions of boxes that have accumulated. She's being so good. It's weird." Amelia looked over at the couch where Pickles was napping. "Sorry she's made you her pillow. She rarely takes to a person so quickly."

Danny smiled, "It's okay. Animals tend to like me. I don't know why."

"You can move her if you want to get up. It's fine. She'll meow at you and then resettled herself as if nothing happened."

"I'll keep that in mind. So she likes the boxes too? Have you considered making her a box fort?" Danny asked.

"A box fort? I hadn't thought of that. She always jumps in boxes so I just left them as is." Amelia liked the idea of a box fort for Pickles.

"I saw one online and it looked pretty fun. You know, for a cat. I could help you build it." Danny offered.

"Danny is our graphic designer and resident builder at work." Natalie chimed in.

"You should definitely build her a fort, Amelia. Think of how much fun she would have and you could maybe make her a famous internet cat." Meredith started unwrapping ornaments for the tree. "Wasn't the internet designed for cats?"

They all laughed at the idea and continued decorating the tree. By the end of the evening, Pickles had finally let Danny off the couch and the tree was transformed. Pickles settled underneath it and stared out at the group amid the shiny lights and ornaments. Amelia purposely placed plastic and felt ornaments at the bottom so Pickles could play with them without doing any harm. So far, she just stared and looked content. Amelia had also agreed to the box fort idea. Danny did a quick box inventory before leaving and said he'd email her an idea before the end of the week.

Pickles may have looked content and calm but it was just an act. She was plotting her ascent to the top of the tree. She just had to pick the right time and be extra careful as she climbed. While it would please her to bat the balls and toys off the tree, she knew she'd need to avoid them to avoid detection. She figured if all she did was climb to the top and avoided damaging anything, her human couldn't get too mad at her. After all, cats climb trees. If her human didn't want that to happen, she shouldn't have brought a tree into the house.

Later that night

After seeing her guests out and cleaning up the kitchen, Amelia got ready for bed. Since moving into the new apartment, she had made a habit of keeping her bedroom door open a bit so Pickles could come and go as she pleased during the night. Amelia didn't really know what the cat did so late at night but figured cats do cat things at night so she wanted to let Pickles roam. They had more space in this apartment and the cat should enjoy it too.

Amelia read for a bit before going to bed. So far the holidays were going well and she was excited for the parties and the construction of the box fort. Danny was a nice enough guy. She would see where this was going and hope that he at least came through for Pickles. She called to Pickles before turning out the light. The cat didn't come but that wasn't a surprise. "Just doing her cat things." Amelia said aloud. She settled in and promptly fell asleep. Decorating was exhausting.

Pickles was exactly where Amelia didn't want her - attempting to climb the tree. She knew she could wait until it was light out but Pickles felt she did her greatest work at night when her keen eyesight was at its best. She decided to approach her climb from under the tree; she could climb up and hopefully avoid as many of the balls and toys on her ascent. If she was successful tonight she'd do it again during the day so that her human could see her.

She started her climb with the skill of all of her cat ancestors, lithely moving from one branch to the next. She stopped about midway up to peer out from the branches. The living room looked different from this height. Pickles felt powerful and more catlike than she normally felt. She could just see the open door of her human's room. She had to move even more carefully as she moved closer to the summit of the tree. Pickles could see the top and it was beautiful. The star was so close she could almost touch it. Just as she was about to emerge from the tree to her triumphant perch at the top, Pickles began to feel the tree move and sway. It hadn't done that as she climbed but now that she was at the top, the tree couldn't take the weight. Pickles was only eight pounds but those eight pounds were throwing off the tree's balance. Pickles took one last look at her living room kingdom and held on as the tree crashed to the floor.

Amelia bolted out of bed at the sound of the crash. She immediately noticed that Pickles was not in the room and knew exactly what had happened. She turned on the living room light and found her tree on the floor and Pickles struggling to free herself of the tree and decorations.

"Pickles! You just can't help yourself can you?" Amelia picked up the cat and took her into the bedroom. She was ready to scold Pickles but the cat looked sort of guilty and sad. "You'll have to stay in here at night until after the holidays. You can't be trusted." She closed the door behind her and the one from the bathroom so Pickles couldn't escape that way. Amelia went back into the living room and began cleaning up the mess. She was able to put the tree back up and fix the few ornaments that had fallen off. Miraculously, nothing had broken. She straightened the lights and placed the star back on top of the tree.

"Please let Pickles behave through the rest of the holiday. Please keep her from knocking over the tree again especially during the party. Please let her be the good cat I know she is." Amelia turned off the lights and returned to bed where she found Pickles curled up on the end of her bed.

"You have to behave for the rest of the holiday or no box fort for you, Pickles. Or treats." Amelia rubbed the cat's ears and slowly feel back to sleep.

Pickles curled up next to her human. She was proud of herself for making it to the top of the tree even if the tree fell down. She would wait awhile before her next attempt. She didn't know what a box fort was but she knew what treats were. She wanted her treats so she would try to behave.

Next up: Does Pickles keep her promise of behaving for the holidays? Will she get her box fort? Find out in Holidays with Pickles, Part Two coming before the end of 2014.

You're Doing Everything Wrong: Furniture Shopping Edition

I'm not a big shopper. A person looking at my closet and listening to me talk about Target might think differently but I've never been big on malls and shopping. I like to think of myself as a stealth shopper - I know exactly what I want/need, go into the mall at the closest entrance, buy, and leave. I don't stop for free samples of pretzels and I rarely wander beyond a three store radius if possible. I'm the type of shopper that online shopping was designed for. I think that this stems from two reoccurring shopping experiences from my childhood: car shopping and furniture shopping.

Shopping for cars and furniture are the height of adult consumer responsibility. You do research, you test drive, you test sit, you haggle, you shop around. All of these steps are designed to make you a better informed consumer and to make sure you purchase the car/sofa/bedroom set of your dreams. And to annoy salespeople. I can only imagine the thoughts going through a car salesperson's head when someone comes in with all this "research" they did on the interwebs before buying a Kia Soul. In this situation, the research probably amounted to watching the hamster commercial and deciding you had a new desire to drive a box. To each his own.

Both car and furniture shopping are boring activities when you're a kid. The two most important aspects of car shopping for me were the quality of candy the dealership made available and the amount of real estate that would be between me and my brother in the back seat. Our two-tone blue Ford Aerostar was the best for real estate; we both had our own row. At furniture stores, it's even more mind-numbing. You're not supposed to put your feet on things or jump on the beds but there is an entire room devoted to new mattresses. It's right there! And you don't want a 10 year old to jump on them? Furniture stores always had bad candy (peppermints and butterscotch - amateurs) and it always took years for my parents to pick something and buy it. Of course, by "years" I mean an hour or two. It wasted valuable kid time.  

My dad is a car guy. He was the type (and still is to some extent) of car buyer who traded in his car regularly, waited for the latest release information from Ford (we're a Ford family), and will occasionally opine about the color options for interiors and how the body colors have been crap since 1978. He has very strong opinions on weird paint colors (please don't ever bring up orange Mustangs). In all the times I experienced car shopping with my dad, I could always tell that the salesperson enjoyed working with him. He knows his stuff and is a decent enough negotiator. When I bought my first car I felt like a feral child who had just been brought back to civilization. I'm not entirely sure I formed a coherent sentence during the entire process. I felt overwhelmed by the experience and like the Ford dealership was judging me despite the fact that they were super nice and patient with me. Apparently, I did not learn anything about car shopping from my father.

As for furniture shopping, I never really had to do any actual furniture shopping until I was in my early twenties and settling into my first apartment without roommates. Up until that I time, I was in college furniture mode which is comprised of "inheriting" furniture from older friends who graduate or from parents who decide to redecorate after their children leave home. My roommates and I were excellent at what I'll call "Wal-Mart chic" (Target didn't come to Louisiana until after I graduated around the time of my need for solo expression in decor). We could make those crappy particle board bookcases and dressers look fancy and expensive. We were theatre design majors so our entire world was thrift stores and making something out of whatever was around. Our apartment was cozy and comfortable. It resembled the nicer furniture section at a thrift store. Most importantly, it was ours. That was what was significant. We were forging identity and responsibility one coffee table at a time.

When I moved to northern Virginia in the summer of 2006, I made a decision to buy a real couch (no more futon for me) and invest in some actual furniture. I went to where every person in their early to mid-20s goes to buy furniture...Ikea. I bought a nice loveseat from the Ektorp line. Ektorp has survived several moves and was all I needed for this stage in my life. However, Ektorp and I are at a point in our relationship where I need to move on and he needs to find a new home. I often fall asleep on my couch at say 9:30 and Ektorp is no longer that comfortable.

And this brings us to why I'm doing everything wrong when it comes to furniture shopping. Like Corky in Waiting for Guffman, I have a vision when it comes to my new living room. I want classic and modern and comfortable. When I watch television, I see all these apartments of characters my age (or younger) who don't have jobs and yet have fabulously decorated apartments. That's what I want in my life. What's difficult is realizing this vision since I don't have thousands of dollars to spend on my living room. I have to work within a budget and that is cramping my vision's style. Did everyone else know how expensive coffee tables are? For real, I've only found a handful that will A. fit in my small apartment and B. don't cost $400. It's insane. Then there's the couch. You could buy a car for what some of these couches go for. It's astounding. One site, that will remain nameless, had a price meter that went from $80 to $3500. I quickly closed the window and returned to my less expensive options.

Another thing that I was troubled by was the number of sites that listed no prices at all. This made me uncomfortable on many levels. Was the price for the couch so astronomical that simply listing it would cause my eyes to burn and the Internet to explode? What I learned from the helpful salesman at Ashley Furniture was that the no price policy existed for one of two reasons (typically): 1. the item could be customized so the price might depend on fabric choice or some other option or 2. each store location is independently owned so pricing while suggested is often controlled by the franchise owner rather than the chain itself. This is actually the case with Ashley; not listing prices allowed the location to offer additional discounts and special offers. I appreciated this as I continued the search to complete my vision.

I went to several places and sat on many couches. I dragged my brother along for several of these research trips. He put up with my questions ranging from the bizarre to the practical: "Do you think Pumpkin will like it?" and "Do you think it will fit through the door?" I didn't purchase anything that first weekend. I went back home and remeasured everything (including the front door). I went back online and read reviews and looked at countless ways in which people had arranged the two finalists (pictured here). 

As much as I would have loved a couch with a chaise lounge for my living room, the reality of my apartment is that I need a normal sized couch with no wild and crazy accoutrements. I opted for bold color instead. A red couch is statement of a different kind. It'll make my mildly drab apartment more vibrant and fun. I can have fun with rearranging my photos and pictures and whatever else makes sense. I'll finally hang curtains. My apartment will become more of a home and I will fall asleep at 9:30 on my new couch like a real adult.

What I've been doing wrong when it comes to furniture shopping is neglecting to take into consideration that I do not have a set dresser and unlimited funds. You can still have a nice place to come home to without breaking the bank. I can still have a vision; I just have to have the vision that fits into my apartment.

Lazy Movie Weekend: Extortion, Larceny, and Women on Fire - A True Family Christmas

Happy Holidays! I hope that everyone enjoyed the Thanksgiving holidays and the marathon of food and guilt that I'm sure ran rampant across the world. Hopefully you also spent some quality time with loved ones (I certainly did) and learned the true meaning of the holiday. Or something. I realized that I'm super awkward at holding babies. I'm not sure how marketable that skill is but it's mine and I like to focus on those things in which I excel.

I thought we'd return to Lazy Movie Weekend with an often overlooked holiday film that should really be part of your regular rotation. Throw it in somewhere between Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and the Jim Carrey version of The Grinch. Or maybe hold off until the kids are in bed; there's a lot of adult language in this one. This movie has everything a holiday movie should have: larceny, extortion, Christine Baranski, sarcasm, and women on fire.

Slice up the orange marzipan cake with creme de menthe and lime zest and let's settle in for The Ref.

• What is it about odd movies from the mid-1990s that make me feel comforted and like life makes sense? Is it the pleated pants and shapeless dresses? Maybe it's the fact that so many very good actors were in these little gems so it's like hanging out with old friends before they become incredibly famous. 
• The town of Old Baybrook looks like Christmas threw up on it. This is probably why I avoid small towns and Connecticut during the holidays.
• The entire opening sequence is meant to introduce us to characters and plot points that will become important later - the chief of police, two bumbling police officers, George, the town Santa who will be responsible for the ending of the movie (in a way), and the missing Baby Jesus. I never realized this until this viewing. 
• Does B.D. Wong ever play anything but a doctor or psychologist? He's Dr. Wong (so creative) in this movie, a marriage counselor that our protagonists, Caroline (Judy David) and Lloyd (Kevin Spacey) visit at the beginning of the film. He will also be important later.
• I love the quick pace of the dialogue and the movement between Caroline and Lloyd and Gus (Denis Leary), our thief. The pace of the movie is great.
• Confession: I have had a huge crush on Kevin Spacey since around 1994. I love him. But I don't watch House of Cards since I don't have Netflix. I prefer to watch this movie, The Usual Suspects, and every other movie he's in instead. Except for Horrible Bosses - nothing good can come out of either of those movies. He's perfect and amazing and awesome.
• I love movies that came out before cell phones were part of our daily lives. We also get to see some cool 1994 computer technology that Gus uses to break into the Willard mansion. So advanced. So amazing.
• Let's talk about Murray, my third favorite secondary character in the movie (we'll talk about numbers one and two shortly). Murray is like that drunk relative in so many other holiday movies; he provides an odd amount of comic relief mixed in with a little sadness. He's Gus's partner in crime (in a literal sense) and probably should not be responsible for things like driving the getaway car and stealing a boat. But he is since Gus gets stuck in the fifth ring of hell otherwise known as the Chasseur home on Christmas Eve. Murray is the best and I sort of wish we knew what happened to him after this movie. I want to believe that he ended up in a nice comfy home after this and is able to watch Happy Days reruns forever.
• Who waits until Christmas Eve to buy eggnog when they know they have 25 people coming over? Who does that and then gets into an argument with the cashier at the tiny grocery store about there only being one carton? Don't people in small towns (in movies) know how to plan ahead? This bothers me more than it should I'm sure.
• Let's talk Denis Leary for a moment: does anyone else want to be around him all the time just because there's the hope that he'll just go off on one of his wild, stand up rants? This movie is basically a vehicle for him to do just that. He's just so good in this movie that you want him to win no matter what. He's not a bad guy, just not a great citizen. 
• "Don't annoy me. It's Christmas." Connie (Christine Baranski) has so many excellent one liners in this movie, I lost count and couldn't write them all down. Her amount of awesome lines rivals the number of times Gus says the f-word. Connie is my second favorite side character - she is the stereotypical annoying relative in a holiday movie. It's a long tradition and she plays her part beautifully.
• Did anyone else not know what a mudroom was until they say this movie? 
• "So that means you, too, are a liar. Capital "L", small "i", small "a", small "r", period." I used this line of Gus's for years. It still creeps into my head along with, "What are we? Girlfriends here?"
• Jesse and Lt. Siskel - we finally get to meet Lloyd and Caroline's delinquent son, Jesse at military school where he happens to blackmailing Lt. Siskel over some naughty photos. You know, like all 15 year olds do.
• Connie: Who would catch a criminal and then let him go free? Mary: Republicans?
• "You know what this family needs? A mute." Gus is the best.
• Does every town in Connecticut have an eccentric millionaire? I'm just curious. 
• I also realized on this re-watching that Gus is Jesse's criminal Yoda. Let that sink in for a bit as you watch.
• "Why do you get strange at family gatherings? Finally, Lloyd's Satan mom arrives in the form of Rose played by Glynis Johns. Rose is my favorite side character in this movie. Keep in mind that Glynis Johns is Mrs. Banks from Mary Poppins. Mrs. Banks! Seriously, how great is that? And she's Mary Katherine Gallagher's grandma in the movie Superstar. Just bask in the awesomeness that is Rose for the entire rest of this movie.
• I believe that we all need to invest in some Lucia wreaths and bring the story of St. Lucia into all of our homes this holiday season.
• Caroline at dinner is the absolute greatest. I realized that I am Mary in my family - just listening to the adults gossip and talk about life. Watching Mary and John through the rest of the movie is so much fun. You also have to appreciate that they jump in and help save Gus too.
• The best line in the entire movie from Lloyd: "You know what I'm going to get you next Christmas, Mom? A big wooden cross, so every time you feel unappreciated for all your sacrifices, you can climb on up and nail yourself to it." 
• Remember George, the town Santa? Throughout the movie we're treated to scenes of George getting increasingly intoxicated as he visits homes for Christmas. He arrives back at the Chasseur house just in time for everything to go to hell as the army arrives (Lt. Siskel to talk about the blackmail), the state police begin house to house searches looking for Gus, and Mary and John help tie up the rest of the family. Ultimately, George saves the day even if he's passed out when it happens.
• Does Gus get away? I'll let you watch the movie to find our for yourself. I can tell you that both endings exist. 

Really The Ref is the ideal holiday film: we learn lessons about family and the true meaning of forgiveness. It takes an outsider (a thief in this case) to teach the Chasseurs that what they have is really great if only they'd stand up for themselves and occasionally beat the crap out of the Christmas tree with a fire poker. The Ref belongs on everyone's holiday movie list. 

Dinner picture
The trio

The conclusion - Actually, It’s Pronounced Mil-e-wah-que

And so another NaNoWriMo has come to an end. I have successfully completed my second year and second novel. It was another year of people asking me "You're doing what exactly?" and "You mean you don't really win anything?". I take these questions as one should, with a smile and the knowledge that I did win something at least to me. Now I have two novels that are in some shape that I can do something with. That may be very vague but it's what I have for now. I commit to editing my novels this year and doing more with them. And of course, sharing it with all of you.

Let's take a look at this year in numbers:

• Days to complete the novel: 22
• Final word count: 50,963 (I thought I would be 1K over; I was close.)
• Most words written in a day: 6,202 (done on the day I finished)
• Least words written in a day: 591 (all other days were over 1400 words)
• Number of pages: 106 (everyone asks me this)
• Number of chapters: 33 and an epilogue
• Alcohol consumed: 2 beers, 1.5 bottles of wine over 22 days (#hemingwaywasadrunk)
• Number of times Pumpkin gave me the "you are a horrible pet mom" look: 4000

I finished early again this year (four days earlier than last year) only because I gave myself a deadline of finishing before going to visit family for Thanksgiving. I like my characters a lot and am looking forward to revisiting them in a few months.

Here's the epilogue of the novel. It may be a "spoiler" of sorts but it was one of my favorite parts to write so I think it's fitting that I share it here. It's the final column Harper writes for the magazine that she's written for since graduating from college. She named her column after a line in a song by The Replacements.

Enjoy and Happy Thanksgiving!

I Never Travel Far, Without a Little Big Star

Actually, It’s Pronounced Mil-e-wah-que

By Harper Monroe

I live a very privileged life. I have a family who cares about me, a job I love, and the possibility of a future with a person who sort of fell into my life. I can honestly say that the worst thing that has ever happened to me is that one day a long time ago someone that I thought was my best friend, that I would know forever decided to end our friendship. He ended it because adolescence is a confusing time and hormones and petty jealousy make things seem like more than they actually are. At the time, I felt nothing. Then I felt anger and rage and sadness. Then nothing again. Until now.

First loves are magical and awkward and hurt more than any other love you’ll ever experience. It’s especially hard when you’ve never met the person you’re in love with, when you only have their words to rely on to figure out who they are. In our hyper-connected, tendency to over share world, it’s easy to hide behind a status on Facebook or a tweet. You can craft and re-craft your image and how you want the world to perceive you. You can be casual and impersonal all the time. You can respond in haste and anger without any meaning. If you wait long enough, people will forget. That’s how social media works. Wait a news cycle and it’s all forgiven.

Writing a letter is more personal than that. Sure, you can paint the picture that you want to in a letter too but the mere act of sitting down and taking pen to paper is more personal than any status update, text. or email. You have to know the person. You have to be personal. You have to ask questions and answer questions. You have to give of yourself in a way that we don’t when we tell everyone in our network what we had for lunch. You have to believe that those letters and the conversations are the conversations you’d have if you were face to face. There is trust and the expectation of privacy when you send a letter to someone.

When I was in the fourth grade I met a boy named Ben. Well, I never actually met him. He was my pen pal, assigned by some company that created pen pals kits for elementary schools. I’m sure a very sophisticated algorithm was used to match us. We were supposed to learn about how to write letters, practice our cursive writing, and learn about someone who lived in a town that was different from ours. There was no expectation that we would remain friends or even write to one another after the assignment ended. The only expectation was that we would send twenty letters to each other. Our teachers couldn’t force friendship. I was crushed when I found out that my pen pal was a boy. What would I have in common with a boy? What would we talk about? My teacher, Mrs, Henderson, wouldn’t budge. She challenged me to write to this boy, to stop being the hyper serious nine year old that I was. She wanted me to have fun and be myself.

In the end, Mrs. Henderson was right. I had fun and I was myself. Ben and I became best friends, something I don’t think Mrs. Henderson would have ever expected. We learned from one another, shared music and books and movies. We made each other mixtapes. We grew up together. We told each other secrets. We were ourselves and the start of who we would grow up to be.

I have almost 200 letters from Ben. We wrote to each other almost weekly from 1988 to 1994. One day, Ben met a girl and fell in love in the way that ninth graders fall in love. The only things that mattered to Ben were his band and that girl. He decided that it was time stop childish things and that included being friends with me. The thirty-five year old me totally understands. The fifteen year old me did not.

Twenty years is a long time. In that time I’ve graduated from high school and college, moved to California, and started the only job I ever wanted to have. I have a book coming out in the fall and might even have a television show out later this year. My siblings have both married, my parents moved back to Michigan, my sister has twins of her own. All of these things are significant and important. All of things are what normal people do (well maybe not the book and the tv show but you get my point).

Ben became a rock star.

That’s something that I cannot wrap my head around. It happened but it does not compute. Of course, he’s not really Ben anymore. He’s Martin Hendrixe, lead singer of Transient Suburbia. His life involves studios and tours and adoring fans. He both is and is not the boy I knew.

I am sitting at a place called The Diner. It’s in Milwaukee, WI and it’s an actual diner. You can order breakfast all day long if you want. Frankly, I could use some pancakes but I am not here to eat. It’s 10 pm on a Thursday in the middle of August. It’s the corner booth, the best booth in the place. This is the booth where Ben, Jane, Adam, and Dave became Transient Suburbia. I am waiting with 100 Transient Suburbia fans who followed the clues on Twitter to find the secret show at the place where the band was born. I was brought here partially because this is what I do and partially because I am as much a part of Transient Suburbia as Ben or any of the band members. All those letters to Ben inspired the lyrics for some of the band’s most famous songs. I called my life “transient suburbia” in a letter once and that became the band’s name. I am what you hear between the lyrics and the music.

The audience is getting restless in the way excited concertgoers get restless. The crowd buzzes with a mix of anticipation, boredom, and rock and roll. They’ve been standing for two hours. They are ready for the show to start and their heroes to appear and sing their favorite songs. Or disappoint them by only playing new stuff. Such is the life of a music fan.

A young woman, maybe seventeen or eighteen, keeps looking at me sitting in the booth, jotting notes and observations in my trusty notebook. She and her friend consult one another in whispers. After ten minutes of this, she decides to ask me what my deal is. That’s her actual question. It’s not rude, not really. I tell her I’m a journalist and that I traveled with the band so that I could see this show. I introduce myself. She freaks out; she knows who I am. She reads my column and more importantly, she knows that I am the girl that “Outlaw For Your Love”  is about. It is her favorite Transient Suburbia song. She asks if I would be in a picture with her. I agree as long as she agrees to send it to me so I can add it to the web version of the article. Her name is Marlene. Marlene’s excitement has drawn attention from others nearby (it’s a diner after all and not that big). A murmur goes through the crowd. They know I’m her, the girl that Martin/Ben let go. The girl all the songs are about.

I wave at a few people and go back to my position as observer and recorder.The show should be starting any minute now. The lights will dim, the crowd will get quiet for a split second, and then erupt in the exuberant way that concert crowds do. I suspect this show will be very loud; diners are not really designed for rock concerts. No one in the room cares about that of course. They are ready for this once in a lifetime experience. None of them have ever been this close to their favorite band before. This is a night they will never forget.

The lights dim. The crowd gets quiet for just a second or two. And then bam! The lights come up and there they are. There is Transient Suburbia. There is rock and roll glory. They launch into their first song and I can feel the crowd move with them. The acoustics are such that I can feel the drums in my stomach and the guitar is in my head. I am in the song. I am the song. We all are.

There should probably be a commemorative coin

Welcome to the 200th Island of Misfit Toys post! Who knew that the Island would make it this far? Who knew people other than my mother would read it and enjoy themselves? I'm glad that so many of you have stuck with me for the last few years and enjoyed visiting my little corner of the world. It means a lot to me that there are so many loyal readers and so many people who stumble upon this little world when searching for things like "Andrew McCarthy bobbleheads" or "hobo symbols." The Internet is a strange and wonderful place.

Many of you know that I'm currently participating in National Novel Writing Month. It's almost over (which is crazy) and I'm about 5K words away from hitting the goal and about 6K words away from being done with the novel. In the novel my protagonist, Harper, gets assigned a pen pal in the fourth grade. This is the most important thing to happen in her young life and it's "ruined" by the fact that the pen pal ends up being a boy. She does not want to write to a boy and tries to get her teacher to change her assignment. Her teacher refuses and presents this as a challenge to the young girl. She encourages Harper to be herself and not worry so much about the boy/girl aspect of her potential new friendship. Harper stubbornly agrees with her teacher and writes the boy, Ben, her first letter. Of course, they become friends. They talk to each other about all manner of things from music to movies to books to how to ask someone to a dance. They grow up together. However, adolescence happens and eventually, Ben stops writing to Harper. The second half of the novel is about reconnection and how we figure out which people in our lives are supposed to be the people in our lives.

The fictional universe that I've created shares some similarities to the real universe where I reside. It's hard as a beginning writer to not rely on what I know and my experiences when I create a character or a place. There is that old adage to "write what you know" and I think there is truth in that statement. I can still challenge myself even in that familiarness to try new things and to think about events and relationships differently than I do in real life. I can also thank the technology gods that Google street view exists. When I was writing about a trip to see CBGB's and Max's Kansas City, I could look at the street view image and describe the sadness of seeing iconic landmarks disappear (at least in name and clientele). It wasn't as good as being there in person but it worked for what I need to accomplish.

The inspiration for the novel came from two places: a reconnection with an elementary school friend on Facebook and the Jack White concert I went to back in September. Facebook is a lot of things but at the end of the day it is supposed to be about connection to people. I've kept in touch with former students, friends around the world, and my very awesome colleagues. I've enjoyed reconnecting with friends from elementary school; it's cool to be able to see the people they've become and their families. After this friend sent me a friend request I started to think back to all the fun we had at slumber parties and in school. It was so easy to make friends back then; I don't know why that stops when you get older. I was thinking about this while brushing my teeth one morning and the idea of Harper and her pen pal popped into my head. I had the first chapter mapped out by the time my hair was dry and I was dressed. I couldn't write it yet but the idea was there. Who are the people who are supposed to be in our lives? Do they only come back to us when we need them? I don't really have the answers to these questions but I thought maybe my characters would. It's a good thought.

A Jack White concert is not where I expected to get the second idea for the novel but it's where it happened. I was sitting at Merriweather listening to him plow through a killer set and the novel came back to me. What if her pen pal was famous but she didn't know that it was him and they meet again? What would happen to them? How does fame change the way we think about our friends? Would we want that person back in our lives especially if we felt they had wronged us? Shouldn't people always use their rock star powers for good?

I know that I'm a lucky person. I have some really amazing people in my life. They come in and out at odd times and appropriate times and unexpected times. They connect me to places and times in my life that are both wonderful to recall and painful to remember. Harper will have to decide if the errant rock star is worthy of being in her life or if their time together has passed. I don't actually know yet which option she will choose. I have five thousand words and nine days left to figure it out.

Coming soon to the Island: The conclusion of NaNoWriMo, a return to Lazy Movie Weekends, and we discuss how I'm doing everything wrong when it comes to holiday shopping. 

This Is the End (an excerpt from Transient Suburbia)

It's National Novel Writing Month! A little check in on my progress:
Total Word Count (as of 11.7): 15197
Words Left: 34803
Days Left: 22

My protagonist, Harper Monroe, is all grown up (finally through that high school section) and has started her journalism career. She writes about musical pilgrimages. Enjoy a journey with Harper.

This Is the End

June 1999

I am lost in a cemetery. It’s a beautiful cemetery but it’s a cemetery nonetheless. I love cemeteries particularly ones where famous people are interred. But right now this cemetery is getting on my nerves.

I have a terrible sense of direction. Even with a map, I can’t say that I know where I am or where I’m trying to go. Interpreting cardinal directions is not a skill I possess. We all have our skills; mine are mostly related to making mixtapes, baking exceptional banana bread, and having opinions about 70s punk bands.

Cities of the dead are intriguing to me. My family visited New Orleans when I was in high school and I remember seeing the above ground tombs there for the first time. The cities of the dead are both creepy and beautiful, monuments to death and life. Tour guides in New Orleans like to tell people that the tombs exist because the dead would float if they were buried underground (New Orleans is below sea-level after all) but that’s really only partially true. The French and Spanish settled the city and the tombs have more to do with their influence than floating corpses.

I’ve come to Paris to find a rock star. Well, the resting place of a rock star. Like so many before me, I’ve come to pay my respects to the Lizard King, Mr. Mojo Risin’ Jim Morrison. Most people come to Paris for romance and good food. I want Jim to tell me my future. Or something.

There are some that don’t believe he’s dead; that the tomb is a simply a ploy to make fans believe he’s gone. Morrison no longer wanted to be the Lizard King; he just wanted a life of obscurity and quiet. People claim to see him at gas stations and on isolated stretches on highway. Morrison and Elvis forever alive, never being able to rest.

I believe he’s dead and buried here at  Cimetière du Père-Lachaise (Père Lachaise Cemetery). Morrison was an addict and heroin would be his downfall. July 3, 1971 - the day the music was over and we could turn out the light.

I have to believe he’s dead. I’ve been walking around this beautiful cemetery for an hour and am lost. I half expected him to appear to me like he appears to Wayne in Wayn’e’s World 2 and convinces Wayne to create the music festival Waynestock. Maybe Jim and aren’t connected on that level. I’m sad about that but I soldier on.

The official map of Père Lachaise Cemetery does not include the tomb of Jim Morrison. It used to and I suspect that it will again one day. The devoted have been making their way to Morrison’s tomb since it was erected and they don’t always exercise the right amount of respect for those buried near Morrison. At one point the tomb was even removed to combat the graffiti and destruction committed. This is why we can’t have nice things.

So finding Morrison’s tomb has now become a quest, a true music fan’s pilgrimage. It also attracts its share of curiosity seekers and people like me, a fan of The Doors but not a devotee. A person who is seeking answers about life who believe that Morrison can help.

I thought I had the directions. My roommate’s boyfriend visited last summer. He wrote down the directions and kept them. To remember his pilgrimage. I dutifully copied down his directions and followed them when I got here (in addition to picking up a map from the visitor’s office). However, he had forgotten an important part of the directions. He had forgotten the “chemins”. Chemins are basically side streets and they’re tricky. The run parallel and perpendicular and round and round. Between the directions and the map I was getting nowhere.I am starting to second guess my decision to start here in Paris. I don’t know why I decided to start my musical pilgrimages with Jim Morrison. I like The Doors but I don’t love The Doors. I could have started with Graceland or any number of places in New Orleans; familiar and close places. But here I am in Paris getting lost in a cemetery.

I don’t know if it’s luck or Jim Morrison deciding to help me out but just as I am about to give up and leave, help arrives. A group of Irish lads (sadly not those Irish lads) appear out of nowhere (or around the corner). I was sitting on the curb, disheveled and annoyed, when they crossed my path. The tallest guy, the one I’ve decided is the lead singer because they’re obviously in a band, introduces himself as Danny (of course) and asks if I need help. I explain my dilemma; Danny and his friends laugh and invite me to join them. They know the way. They have been here before. We walk for exactly ten minutes, circle around the same chemins I had already walked down twice, and walk another ten minutes in the opposite direction. We do not speak.

And then we arrive.

There it was. The tomb I had been searching for. I don’t know what I was expecting. All that happens is that “Love Street” pops into my head at the exact moment I see the tomb. This is probably not the song that most people would think of when seeing Jim Morrison’s final resting place for the first time but it is my favorite and that’s all there is. There are barricades keeping visitors from getting too close. The tomb itself is a bit further back from the path. The bust is gone but the graffiti and offerings remain. Whiskey bottles and song lyrics and flowers. That is what the legion of the faithful have left behind.

The Irish lads make their offerings. They brought whiskey (a little for Jim, a little for them). They offer me the bottle. As much as I would like to imbibe, I decide it is not wise to drink whiskey with unknown persons in a cemetery. Sometimes I’m not very rock and roll. We are not alone; an older couple snap photos and reminisce about seeing The Doors live in Los Angeles in their youth. They sing along to “Alabama Song (Whiskey Bar)” when my Irish friends start to sing it and I can see the happiness/sadness in their eyes. They are lost in the music and the memories and their adoration of a flawed and talented man.

I think about why I have come here. I think it is because rock music makes us do crazy and bizarre things. It invades our souls and takes over our hearts. A friend once told me that all rock songs are about love. After observing these fans, I think I believe that statement more than ever.

I think I was in love once. I never actually met him; we wrote letters to one another. I was always myself in those letters I could tell him anything. We shared rock and roll and books and growing up. And then one day, he stopped writing to me. He’s the one that told me about The Doors. I listened because we traded music and I wanted to be a good music friend. I wanted to understand him through the music he loved. He told me that he thought I’d “dig” the music. And I did. I really did. Not because he liked it but because it was good. I could see Southern California and 1967 and the mythical Jim Morrison.

I am here because I want Jim Morrison to explain to me why people leave and why Love Street isn’t a real place. I need to be in this place at this moment so that I can put this person to rest in my heart.

There is no where to sit at the tomb of Jim Morrison so I sit on the curb across from it. I watch the Irish lads and the couple dance and sing and pay their respects. They being to move along. Not because it is too crowded but because their time with the Lizard King is over. They have had their moment and they can move on. Until next time.

I stare at the tomb. I take a few pictures (like the good tourist I am). I sketch some of the graffiti into my notebook. A few more pilgrims make their way to their moment with Jim - a couple of hippies, some students like me, an aging rocker in well-worn leather pants. They each have their moment, nod to one another, and move on. There are no orgies or wild parties. There are only fans paying their respects.

Morrison has not revealed anything to me. He has not led me to my lost boy or to some version of understanding. I’m okay with this. I feel more at ease, more aware of myself. I spend a few more minutes with Jim. I leave a small token of my admiration (a sunflower) and move along back to the busy streets of Paris.

All rock songs are about love and love is a crazy thing.
 

Let the writing begin...It's NaNoWriMo time!

It's November so that means it's time for me to write a 50,000 word novel in thirty days. You know, what everyone does with their November. I participated for the first time last year and successfully completed my first novel. You can read all about last year's entry here. NaNoWriMo is fun and challenging and awesome. I've been looking forward to getting this year's novel started. I hope that you'll enjoy what I have to share.

But before I preview this year's novel, Transient Suburbia, I want to take a moment to address something that happened here yesterday. I received for the first time ever a hate filled, misogynistic comment on my last post about Christmas decorations. I'd like to say that I'm surprised that I received such a comment but I'm not. The state of the Internet today is one of hate and ignorance. I've expected to receive some kind of negativity at some point. I was mostly shocked that it was that it was the post about Christmas decorations. Seriously? I'm angry and annoyed but mostly I'm sad that people can't just let others be who they are. Hate takes so much more energy; I don't know what anyone would want to spend so much time hating. Two things I would like to say and then I will let this go:

1. I would like to apologize to any readers of the Island, regular or new that may have seen the comment. I removed the it as soon as I received notification of its existence. If you saw it before then, I'm truly sorry. No one needs to see that hatefulness. I hope it doesn't keep you from continuing to visit the Island.
2. To the anonymous poster - if you're going to spew hate at least have the decency to use your name and stand behind your statements. Maybe you think it gives you power but it doesn't. I don't have time for your hate and I don't know anyone else who does either. You can believe whatever you want to believe; just stay on your side of the Internet and I'll stay on mine.

My blog isn't about politics or hate. I write to express myself and have a creative outlet. I want people to have fun while they visit and maybe even identify with some of my experiences. That's all.

With that said, here are the first two chapters from NaNoWriMo novel, Transient Suburbia. I hope you enjoy it. Please excuse any grammar or spelling errors; NaNoWriMo is not about editing!

 Part One: Pen Pals

Chapter One

Mrs. Henderson’s 4th Grade Class, September 19, 1988

    Harper was getting impatient. Today was the day. She had been waiting for this day since the first week of school. Fourth grade was serious business; they switched classes now for Math, French, and art. She was learning fractions and multiplication tables. Lockers replaced cubbies. Harper felt very grown-up. She felt more responsible and mature and wanted everyone to know it. Today would be a step in that direction. Today she was the project she had been looking forward to and she hoped it would connect her to the world outside of Dothan, Alabama. She knew there was more to life than peanut festivals and Azalea Trail Maids.

Harper Monroe was nine and had already lived in three states. Her dad worked for the government and they moved every few years. Harper had learned to be helpful and to cultivate a sense of adventure. Her father called every move “an adventure” and Harper loved that idea. Her siblings, Flannery and Walker, were five years older and less interested in adventure. Her sister just wanted to be popular and pretty and Walker went along with whatever Flannery said. Since they were twins, they often treated Harper like a pet rather than a sister. Her mother called her thoughtful; her sister called her a pest.

This was her second school; she had gone to kindergarten in Ohio and now she was in elementary school in Dothan, Alabama. She loved school and books and reading and music. To Harper books were the most important thing in the world. Once she learned to read, no one could stop her. She took weekly trips to the library with her dad (she would have liked it to be daily). The librarian knew her and always made recommendations and called her “Mathilda” after the character in the Roald Dahl book. She looked forward to the day that she would be able to read To Kill a Mockingbird since she was named after the author, Harper Lee. She wanted to be a writer someday.

Harper fidgeted at her desk. The morning was dragging on and on. Mrs. Henderson was her favorite teacher so far but the vocabulary review was killing her. Harper aced the quiz this week and was barely listening to her classmates use the words in sentences as a review. She didn’t hear Mrs. Henderson calling her name.
    “Harper! Harper, are you listening?” Mrs. Henderson knew the answer but asked anyway. She liked Harper a lot and knew the girl was very smart. Mrs. Henderson thought Harper was probably bored in class but there wasn’t currently an alternative. The gifted program had been cut so Harper had to stay in this class. Mrs. Henderson encouraged her reading and had recently started encouraging her to write more. She was also fond of Harper and let these little daydreaming moments slide.

“Sorry Mrs. Henderson.” Harper blushed and some of her classmates laughed. Her friend Janie made a face at her. Harper hated it when she got caught not paying attention.

“Stay with us, Harper. I asked you to use “captivate” in a sentence.” Mrs. Henderson smiled at Harper.

Harper thought a for a minute. Captive was both a noun and an adjective. Both forms had been on the quiz. Which one should she choose? She opted for adjective.

“Mrs. Henderson help the pen pal assignments captive all morning long making it hard to pay attention.” Harper smiled at her clever use of the word captive.

Mrs. Henderson laughed a little under her breath. “That’s an excellent use of the adjective form of captive. Can anyone use it as a noun?” She called on Peter to answer her question. As she turned to him, she looked at Harper and mouthed, “After lunch.”

Harper was disappointed. That was so far away. How would she make it through math (stupid long division), PE (stupid dodgeball), and lunch (adequate sandwich). Didn’t Mrs. Henderson know that pen-pal assignment day was the most important day of all time? Didn’t she understand how much this was torturing Harper. She was a captive (noun) of fourth grade vocab and long division. The afternoon could not come fast enough.

Chapter Two

Afternoon

Somehow, Harper survived the rest of the morning and lunch. She practiced being patient and focused on what was going on in class. She did okay on her math work; math was not her thing. She tried but it never made sense. At lunch, she gossiped with her friends and they started planning Janie’s birthday party. It was going to be a boy/girl skating party. It would be the first boy/girl party for all of them. They were all very excited and had been obsessing about about what to wear and who would skate with which boy in their class for couple skates. Harper volunteered to help decorate.

When they returned to class, they saw that Mrs. Henderson had set up the room differently. At the front of the room there was a large box that was covered in stamps. Harper couldn’t tell if they were stamps or stickers but she didn’t really care. It was finally time.

Harper had always wanted a pen pal. Her mom had first told her about pen pals. She had one when she was younger. She even showed Harper some of the letters she saved from her pen pal. They had fallen out of touch at some point. Her mother got that look she had when she talked about her childhood. Harper just let her talk.

Since that conversation, Harper had imagined what her pen-pal would be like. She would be nine and unlike Harper, live in a big city. She and Harper would have the same favorite books and tv shows but would also find things to introduce to one another. Harper would be able to tell her pen pal how much she didn’t like having twins as siblings. They would stay in touch forever and become lifelong friends. Maybe they’d be in each other’s weddings and vacation together (like her parents and their friends).

In her heart, Harper knew this was probably not how the whole pen-pal thing would work. She wasn’t that naive (she heard that word on tv and looked it up) enough to think this stranger from another state would like her or that she would like them. But she hoped. A girl could dream.

At the front of the classroom a new map had been hung on the bulletin board. Harper guessed that Mrs. Henderson had plans to turn the pen-pals into some sort of geography lesson. Where would her pen-pal live? Was it better than Dothan? As Harper made her way to her desk, she noticed new supplies waiting. Mrs. Henderson had placed two new pens on each person’s desk. Pens! Homework had to be done in pencil so the idea of pens was too exciting. Harper examined the pens as the rest of the class made their way to their seats. They were regular Bic ballpoint pens; one blue, one black. These were the same pens Harper’s mom used for her grocery lists and paying bills. Ballpoint pens signified adulthood and responsibility. Harper was ready for it. Now.

Mrs. Henderson finally closed the classroom door as the final end of lunch bell rang. She took what seemed like centuries to get the class settled. After lunch was always a challenge; there was too much energy and movement. Mrs. Henderson liked to give her class a quick active task after lunch to get them to settle down and burn off some of that lunchtime energy. Today would be no exception.

“Alright let’s get started. As Harper reminded us during our vocabulary review, today is the day we start our pen pal project. We are one of three schools in Alabama participating this year. Each of you has been assigned a pen pal from another state. You’ll get your assignment in a few minutes.”

Harper did all she could to focus her attention on what Mrs. Henderson was saying. What she really wanted to do was jump out of her seat and go through the box and find her pen pal. She showed tremendous restraint. She didn’t want her behavior to impact her match.

“Before I introduce you to your pen pals, let’s talk about a new map. Who can find Alabama on the map?” All hands shot up. “Good. Now, how many of you were born in Dothan?”

Six hands went up. “Each of you come up and grab a blue pin.”

The group went up to the map and grabbed their pins. Tony, the most popular boy in class, found Dothan and they planted their pins. Mrs. Henderson moved onto born in Alabama (twelve people) then to a Southern state (six people), and the Harper and James. Harper was born in Michigan and James in New York. Their pins were so far away from the rest.

“Once you “meet” your pen pal you’ll use a red pin to plot where they live. We’ll connect them to Dothan and to the other locations on our map so we can learn more about the different places we come from.” Mrs. Henderson looked at her students and just saw blank stares. She was hoping that this pen pal project would get them all excited about.

“Each of you will receive your starter pen pal kit. Remember when we filled out those biography sheets and wrote about ourselves? Well, those sheets were used to match each of you with a pen pal. Inside your kit, you’ll see a similar sheet about your pen pal.” Mrs. Henderson started passing out the kits.

Harper sat in the fourth row and the fifth seat. She was practically last and the wait was agony. As Mrs. Henderson passed out the kits, she explained that the kits also included stamps, stationery and envelopes, and some an assignment book they would use throughout the project. There were a few questions from the group about how pen pals were matched and how many letters they would have to write. Mrs. Henderson answered them all.

“Today we’ll start with some basic letter writing exercises to get you all started. We’ll practice our writing and using our new vocabulary words. You won’t have to to turn in all of your letters but we will go over letters in class throughout the next few weeks.” Mrs. Henderson was almost to Harper’s row.

“You’ll also have to share things about your pen pal one time per month. This will help us learn about new places and people.” The last packet made it back to the last student in class.

“Now that everyone has their kit, I’ll give you a few minutes to read about your pen pal. Then we’ll start our first lesson on greeting and salutations.” Mrs. Henderson dramatically pulled up the screen at the front of the room. Different greetings were all over the board.

Harper didn’t notice. She had tuned out her class as soon her kit arrived at her desk. The kit was a large envelope. Her name was across the top in bold orange lettering. Harper thought that was a good sign since orange is her favorite color. Postage stamps and other stamps made up the background. Harper carefully opened her envelope and removed each item, carefully inspecting each item.

The stationery was white and lined. There were geometric patterns along the bottom edge in different colors. The envelopes had the same design. Harper had never had her own stationery before. It was as amazing as the pens. Next was a book of twenty first class stamps. Flags. Not her favorite stamps (her dad let her pick the stamps at the post office) but they’d get her letters there. The assignment book was next. She put that to the side. She knew she’d be spending lots of time on the lessons. The only item left was her pen pal sheet. She would finally know her new friend. Weeks of waiting would finally be over. Harper would have a new friend.

She slowly pulled the sheet from the envelope. She said a final wish for the perfect pen pal. She slowly turned the paper over. She looked for a name and her jaw dropped.

Her pen pal was a boy.

How could this be? This wasn’t what she had imagined. What would she talk to a boy about? There had to be a mistake. A boy? It made no sense.

Benjamin Riggs, Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Harper couldn’t focus her eyes enough to read the rest of the sheet. It all just blurred together. She was fighting tears. She would not cry in class. Mrs. Henderson would fix this. Ten minutes flew by and Harper tried to focus on the lesson on greetings and how to begin a letter.

“Your first letter is due this Friday. You’ll need to use what we learned today in your letter. Start short, ask a few questions, and tell your pen pal a little bit about yourself. Each letter will be easier to write.” Mrs. Henderson’s voice was encouraging.

She went on to explain that each student would be responsible for twenty letters. Mrs. Henderson would not read them but would mail the letters so everyone would get credit. They would receive their letters at home. She encouraged them to write more frequently if they wanted to. If they needed help there would be writing time during the week.

The final bell rang and Mrs. Henderson’s class gathered their books and pen pal kits. The mad rush to buses and the pickup line began in earnest. Harper was a walker; she waited for her brother or sister to pick her up and they walked home together. She took her time gathering her books and homework. She wanted her classmates gone before she talked to Mrs. Henderson.

“Do you need something Harper? Your brother is probably waiting for you.”

Harper hesitated. She wasn’t sure how to start so she just blurted it out. “Mrs. Henderson, I need a new pen pal. They gave me a boy. I can’t write to a boy.” Harper was beyond upset and on the verge of crying.

Mrs. Henderson sat down next to her and took her hands. “Harper, it’s going to be okay. You talk to boys all the time at school and you do just fine.”

“But what if he doesn’t like anything that I like? What if we don’t have anything to say? I don’t want to write to a boy.” Harper continued to protest.

Mrs. Henderson was not going to let Harper out of this. She knew that this was the kind of challenge the girl needed.“You need to think of this as a challenge. You know you like a challenge. I know you can do this.”

The word challenge hit Harper. She understood that word and knew in her heart that Mrs. Henderson was right. There was nothing wrong with having a boy for a pen pal. Maybe he would be nice and they’d like some of the same tv shows. She could do this.

“Okay Mrs. Henderson. I’ll try my best.”

“Just remember that letter writing is about being yourself. Just be you and you’ll be great.”

“Thanks Mrs. Henderson. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Harper gathered her bookbag and waved goodbye to her teacher. She had to figure out how to be herself and talked to a boy in a letter. Easiest thing in the world.