CHARETTE! I’ve sent her an email to tell her about it, and then I’ll send the copy, and then there’s about to be much rejoicing at the Charette household.

—

And now, for your reading pleasure, I’d like to give you one of Becca’s Greatest Hits [1]

From April 15, 2010, for your edification or for to fill my page with words:

So I’m going to go ahead and blog about clothes.

Stop laughing.

I mean it. Stop.

I like clothes. I do. They certainly beat the alternative. (I know, right?) But fashion? I don’t get it. Even little-kid fashion. In fact, I was in Macy’s yesterday with all four Kids, and I had gag-reflex issues with the little girl shirts. Not all of them, just the ones in neon colors with what looked like paint splattered over a silk-screened animal head.* Hellllllooooooo, 1984. The fashion flashbacks were appalling. Skin-crawlingly so. (And not only because I wore that shirt, but because I probably had the whole themed set.)

Kid 3 was entranced. “Look at all these cute clothes,” she crooned. She really did. Maybe it’s because we don’t live within normal daily driving distance of a mall, and she’s very seldom been inside one. Maybe because she’s the poster child for hand-me-downs. Maybe because her new clothes all get picked for her (by me) in an effort at the beauty of “cheap and reusable.” Maybe she’s showing (heaven forbid) an innate sense of style. But she was in heaven and not at all amused when we went to the old lady section to look at dresses. (Which was a bust, by the way. No such luck.)

So here’s what I’ve discovered about me, you know, fashionwise. I need time to get on a bandwagon. Years, maybe. Part of that is my cheapness – I don’t want to invest in a trend that won’t last past this season (and how do I know this? I don’t. Also, I’m learning not to care, too much). But a bigger part is just not knowing how I feel about _____ until I’ve had some time to digest it a little. I read books several times, to be sure which parts I love best. I re-make (and edit) recipes over and over and over to find the just-perfect blend. Also with books, the really popular series ones, I often wait for several volumes before I’ll go ahead and read, not just so I don’t have to wait for the next installment, but so I can hear the buzz and decide if the second, fourth, sixth books stand up to the hype. So it is with clothes: I need to see if I’m going to still like it in a month or next spring.

Next, I know my limitations, figurewise. Fashion is about waiflike tall women without hips. I am not those women. I think I hit thirty about the same time I realized that no matter how cute the fashion, if it doesn’t work on my body, it’s a large waste of dollars. I am not a girl who can wear a drop-waist shirt or dress. Ever. The end. And anything made to highlight cleavage? Not for me. Pleats? Of the devil. And don’t even get me started on skinny jeans.

Color may be my friend, but I’m shy around it. Do you have friends that make you feel like this? My closet is strangely imbalanced in the direction of brown, black and gray. But I’m trying. I am.

Patterns? Shudder. Love them on other people. I do. Bright, patterny clothes are excellent. On you. My face isn’t interesting enough to compete. The patterny clothes in my closet get worn most often by Kid 1.

But do you know what I do well? Accessorize. I love me some earrings. And long, dangly necklaces. And scarves. And jackets. And shoes. Oh, shoes. Not that I give in to that particular love very often – because I don’t. But the love is there.

Are we done here? Because what I’m saying, really, is that I don’t know anything about Fashion, but I’m finding my Style. It’s a work in progress (one that’s a little jeans-and-T-shirts heavy most days), but it’s coming. And I’m not in a hurry.

*A horse’s head, covered in splatters of neon paint? “The Godfather,” anyone? Seriously? Go to the mattresses. (Disclaimer: I read the book. A long time ago. I do not recommend it. Also, I’ve seen this scene, and a few others, not the whole film. Again, do not recommend it. “I knew it was you.” Okay, maybe I recommend it, if you can get an edited version, one they’d show on an airplane. Ooooh. Another blog post is brewing…)

—

[1] We’ll do this periodically throughout the month, because I am lazy. And revising. And occasionally funny, at least in the past.

Okay. Sorry. I got carried away.

But it IS, in fact, the sort-of-beginning of a new year, the Kids are back at school, the Fat Loss Program is two weeks underway, the halls are bare of vinyl-pine needles, and we don’t have a lick of snow on the ground. In fact, the average afternoon temps from the last week hover right around 50 degrees. So, what I’m telling you is, Spring is Coming.

Oh, wait. That’s not what I’m telling you.

It’s the New Year. That’s what I’m telling you. And new things are good things.

Also, I am a terrible resolution-keeper. I think some of you knew that. But this year, I decided not to wait for January to set goals which I probably could not keep. So I started in December, and so far, so good.

Pound a week. Check. (Only through April. Not forever. Neither of us needs to worry.)

Speak and behave more kindly to my Kids (and other people, but somehow that’s just naturally easier, because I am wicked or something). Check.

Remember how to Get Over It. Check-ish.

Write. Wellllll… Um. It will come. I’ve been on vacation, remember? Vacation from my PROBLEMS.

Also, I’m Taking Back the Budget. I’ve always been a pretty good budgeter, but lately, I’ve been lazy with the grocery budget in particular. So, starting today, the weekly Wilhite grocery budget is $60. Plus a once-a-month trip to Costco, coming in under $150. Look at me go, putting it all in writing and stuff.

—

So, what’s new with you?

Rumors, you know.
I chose not to believe them.

But I saw it today.

With my own eyes.

Pleated jeans. In the store. On a hanger, facing front, for all the world to see. As if there was no shame in it.

Oh, the humanity.

—

Don’t do it, people.

Trust me. I was alive in the 80s. I know.
I know this can only end in tears.
Fashion designers are PLAYING WITH YOU.

Together we can stand strong.

We need not give in.

Unite against the pleated jeans.

—

Who’s with me?

Ha ha.

Ha ha ha.

Mother Nature is absolutely having a joke with me.

It is snowing. Right now. Big, fat, wet flakes that are covering my tulips like white stocking caps. Isn’t that hysterical?

Snow is sticking to the grass. And the sidewalk. And the road. And the roofs.

And my soul.

(Just a little drama, so you didn’t forget who you were dealing with here.)

It IS May 19th, right?

I haven’t turned a few extra calendar pages by mistake, right?

Remember the groundhog? The one in Pennsylvania? The one who predicted an early spring? Remember him?

You’ll never see him again. I’ve taken care of that.*

—

I’m off to enjoy the snowy day with a class full of clever and delightful fourth-graders. Which, if you can manage it, is the best way to work through Mother Nature’s particular brand of silliness.

—

*Dear ASPCA: That was a joke. I don’t even KNOW anyone who would take a hit job like that. Phil is fine. Really. Thank you.

But here’s the Becca version-distillation of the thing – some people live in the “If Only” world. If only I were lovely. If only I were brilliant. If only my 1,000 words a day didn’t completely fail. If only my manuscript were finished. If only an agent would send me a PERSONALIZED rejection. If only an agent would fall at my feet and beg to represent me. If only my book would be published. If only copies of my book would sell. If only my book won awards. If only I’d been the one to fill that red-hot Post-Apocalyptic Zombie Mermaids niche.

There’s nothing wrong with dreaming. But do you see the negativity at work in those thoughts? My friend Pat would say, “You need to come from a place of thankfulness.”

So here’s my flip-side, my perverse thankfulness – the “At Least” world. At least I can see my computer screen (usually). At least I have fingers to type with. At least my 1,000 words are coming (even if they’re c-r-a-p). At least I’m cute. At least I have published things. At least someone likes those published things. At least there are still some ideas floating around in my head.

There’s nothing wrong with complacency either (heaven forbid I ever knock the complacency), but hey – wow. That’s all pretty negative, too.

So where do I find my place? What do I need to think about, when I find myself spiraling into the “If Only” or the “At Least” worlds?

I try this: I try to say, Yea, me. Yea, me for writing 1,000 words yesterday, and 500 so far this morning. Yea, me for trying. Yea, me, for finding time to read a little (a very little, lately, but still a little). Yea, me, for going teaching. Yea, me, for being a team player. Yea, me, for making dinner every night. Yea, me, for answering my email*. Yea, me for being on top of the laundry pile. (See it? Right there under my chair? Oh, come on. That was a joke.) Yea, me for working on a story that could be harder and bigger and better than anything I’ve tried before. Yea, me for pushing.

See the difference? If Only  and At Least compare me to some outer standard. Some uncontrollable “other” – and I will always find myself feeling icky with the comparison. But Yea, Me? That’s personal. That’s intrinsic. That’s mine. And if it’s not 100% sincere? At least I’m trying. If only I always meant it…

*If you’re waiting for a response, resend your email. Because I’m totally all over answering the ones I’ve gotten.

Are you listening, NWS?

You promised.

You said.

You guaranteed me the snowstorm of the century.

You used the word Blizzard.

—

You lied.

—

There was a teeeeeny bit of snow. A bit of wind. A lot of hype and very little delivery. Am I annoyed? Oh, you betcha.

I was prepared to be snowed in for at least three days. I even went to the store (along with everyone else in the Frozen Mountaintops) to get a bit of snackiness in the event (the Totally Probable Event) that we’d be without power for a few days and I wouldn’t be able to depend on fresh hot bread at my every whim. I was prepared to miss Thanksgiving dinner. I dusted off “A Christmas Carol,” all prepared to read by firelight, to ready my Kids for the best Christmas in living memory.

I was LOOKING FORWARD TO A SNOWSTORM. Do you know what a big deal this is, NWS?

Do you?

This never happens. I like Spring. I crave sunlight. I want to get out and mow the lawn. But yesterday, I was giddy at the thought of sinking into the couch with a heap of blankets and a box of Wheat Thins.

So, thanks a lot.

See if I ever listen to your dire, evil, false predictions again. Pooh.

The End.

Oh, yeah.

So besides the quick-and-early trip over the mountain to pick up Husband’s car (which has a very nice new water pump to match its very nice new brakes), I had a writing day.

Here’s what happens, apparently, when I have a writing day: I write. I revise. I write a little more. I make bread dough with which I will make pretty baguettes at some future time. I drink many glasses of water. With lime. I finish re-reading THE THIEF by Megan Whalen Turner. (I love this, Have I told you? Try it.) I do laundry. I eat sauteed yellow squash with kosher salt for lunch. I stretch out on the couch, because frankly it is too cold to stretch out outside.

Shall I explain that? It is too cold. In August. Outside. This morning, driving over the aforementioned mountain, I saw s^*%. Get your mind out of the gutter. Yes, you. I wasn’t being vulgar. Just shocked and unprepared. That secret code means the cold white stuff that comes down at higher altitudes when it is raining and 38 degrees on the ground. (It warmed up. To 64. But not right away.)

So what I’m saying is that I am trying to get back into my writing mojo (and that part is going to take some practice to get into the groove) and I am mourning summer (that part will come back, maybe for many weeks) and I am in a new piece of my life, a piece that almost BEGS me to be selfish and do MY THING. So I get to remember what MY THING is, and figure out how to make the most of it.

Apparently by making bread.

Oh, yeah – and writing.

Stop laughing.

I mean it. Stop.

I like clothes. I do. They certainly beat the alternative. (I know, right?) But fashion? I don’t get it. Even little-kid fashion. In fact, I was in Macy’s yesterday with all four Kids, and I had gag-reflex issues with the little girl shirts. Not all of them, just the ones in neon colors with what looked like paint splattered over a silk-screened animal head.* Hellllllooooooo, 1984. The fashion flashbacks were appalling. Skin-crawlingly so. (And not only because I wore that shirt, but because I probably had the whole themed set.)

Kid 3 was entranced. “Look at all these cute clothes,” she crooned. She really did. Maybe it’s because we don’t live within normal daily driving distance of a mall, and she’s very seldom been inside one. Maybe because she’s the poster child for hand-me-downs. Maybe because her new clothes all get picked for her (by me) in an effort at the beauty of “cheap and reusable.” Maybe she’s showing (heaven forbid) an innate sense of style. But she was in heaven and not at all amused when we went to the old lady section to look at dresses. (Which was a bust, by the way. No such luck.)

So here’s what I’ve discovered about me, you know, fashionwise. I need time to get on a bandwagon. Years, maybe. Part of that is my cheapness – I don’t want to invest in a trend that won’t last past this season (and how do I know this? I don’t. Also, I’m learning not to care, too much). But a bigger part is just not knowing how I feel about _____ until I’ve had some time to digest it a little. I read books several times, to be sure which parts I love best. I re-make (and edit) recipes over and over and over to find the just-perfect blend. Also with books, the really popular series ones, I often wait for several volumes before I’ll go ahead and read, not just so I don’t have to wait for the next installment, but so I can hear the buzz and decide if the second, fourth, sixth books stand up to the hype. So it is with clothes: I need to see if I’m going to still like it in a month or next spring.

Next, I know my limitations, figurewise. Fashion is about waiflike tall women without hips. I am not those women. I think I hit thirty about the same time I realized that no matter how cute the fashion, if it doesn’t work on my body, it’s a large waste of dollars. I am not a girl who can wear a drop-waist shirt or dress. Ever. The end. And anything made to highlight cleavage? Not for me. Pleats? Of the devil. And don’t even get me started on skinny jeans.

Color may be my friend, but I’m shy around it. Do you have friends that make you feel like this? My closet is strangely imbalanced in the direction of brown, black and gray. But I’m trying. I am.

Patterns? Shudder. Love them on other people. I do. Bright, patterny clothes are excellent. On you. My face isn’t interesting enough to compete. The patterny clothes in my closet get worn most often by Kid 1.

But do you know what I do well? Accessorize. I love me some earrings. And long, dangly necklaces. And scarves. And jackets. And shoes. Oh, shoes. Not that I give in to that particular love very often – because I don’t. But the love is there.

Are we done here? Because what I’m saying, really, is that I don’t know anything about Fashion, but I’m finding my Style. It’s a work in progress (one that’s a little jeans-and-T-shirts heavy most days), but it’s coming. And I’m not in a hurry.

*A horse’s head, covered in splatters of neon paint? “The Godfather,” anyone? Seriously? Go to the mattresses. (Disclaimer: I read the book. A long time ago. I do not recommend it. Also, I’ve seen this scene, and a few others, not the whole film. Again, do not recommend it. “I knew it was you.” Okay, maybe I recommend it, if you can get an edited version, one they’d show on an airplane. Ooooh. Another blog post is brewing…)

And something funny happened.

By funny, I mean… odd. Strange. Well, I’ll just tell you.

This really nice lady who was there being an author talked about being a young girl and wanting to write. What she loved was Historical Romance. Swoony period stuff. She was so excited to write and share that she took a manuscript to her grandmother. She was in sixth grade. The writer. Not the grandma. So her grandma read over her work and said to her, “Why in the world are you writing this kind of trash?” I know, right? Heartbreaking, soul-crushing, disastrous. But what this woman learned (eventually, I’m guessing) is that you can’t listen to critics. Criticism kills. I’m totally with her at this point. Nodding my head and everything.

Then.

She introduced her daughter, also working at  being a writer. And she said that this daughter (maybe she was in High school, at least that’s how old she looked to me) is really into paranormal romance. Actually, she said “vampire love fiction” and she said it with a Very Noisy Sneer in her voice. And then she actually said, “I hate that stuff. Hate it. I won’t read what she’s writing.”

And didn’t even seem to sense the irony.

Part of me wanted to laugh. Because, duh. She is her own grandmother. But another, bigger, maybe more sensitive part of me said, wow. That is so, so sad. She has no idea what she is doing. She has no idea that she is criticizing a whole genre, and more importantly, a very important person (hello, her own child!) for participating in it. She sneered at her for reading it. For writing it. I had to sit on my hands to keep myself from walking over to that daughter and saying, “Hey, guess what. Lots of people like the thing you do. And maybe it’s a phase. But write it anyway if it’s in your head and in your heart, because maybe you’ll come out of this phase a better writer than you went into it, and someone (even if it isn’t your mom) will read and like some of the work you do.”

But of course, I didn’t say any of it, and that’s probably because it’s none of my business. But hey, writers? If you’re writing something someone thinks is dumb, or overdone, or lame, or copy-catty, or fluffy, or too pop-u-lar, here’s what to remember.

1. Writing (writing anything) makes  you a better writer. Write. Write. Write.

2. Criticism kills. Don’t let it kill your important relationships.

3. If you love it, write it. Because nobody else’s love is going to validate your writing like your own love will.

End of lecture. But I just have to wonder, what am I doing that I totally miss on a regular basis? What deep ironies of my character are invisible in the mirror?