Delilah S. Dawson's Blog, page 49

guess that 80's movie costume

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The face glitter didn't show up, and I totally futched with the photo to make it prettier, but can anyone guess what my subtle Halloween costume was?
Hint: Despite the high hair and overdone eyes, NOT SNOOKI.
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the narwhal is here with your tea, madam

I am a simple woman.
Simple things make me happy.
One of them is this tea, which is only available during the holiday season. But you know how Trader Joe's is-- once it's gone, you're screwed, left to scramble on eBay for overpriced lots of bagged tea that has somehow ballooned from $2.99 a box to $9.99 a box with $20 shipping, but you have to buy it anyway because you know you can't go 9 more months without it or you'll start fighting hedge lions and talking to imaginary bartenders, but in a bad way, and you should have bought more than five boxes this year, fool.
So I bought three boxes yesterday. Just to start out.
And it's AWESOME. Not only because it tastes phenomenal and is hot and cozy and perfect and decaffeinated. But also because THERE'S A FREAKING NARWHAL ON THE BOX.

Oh, and know what else makes me ridiculously happy?
The commercial that kept popping up while I was out with my high school friends.
Anybody need a travel catheter? It comes with free hand sanitizer.
For when you're GIVING YOURSELF A CATHETER.

Dear God, if you exist:
Thank you for Narwhal Tea and Travel Catheters.
Amen.
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putting the fun in you guys are still funny

These guys have been my friends since about 1994. I think. I lose track.
We once did an independent study on British humor, which meant we played a lot of pool while watching Monty Python and broke one of my windows while beating a Cabbage Patch Kid like a pinata.
I get to see them about once a year, for about 2 hours.
Totally worth it.
Also, I think I owe someone $13 for a Diet Coke, 24 shrimp, and some Malbec.
Next year, the brownie sundaes are on me.
I think of myself as a very fortunate person in many respects, and knowing fun, intelligent, and hilarious people for nearly 20 years is one of those respects. Even if they still call me Missy and make fun of my arm hair. Except for Meggo, not pictured, who only says really nice things about me and is therefore extra awesome.
Thanks for driving all the way home, guys. You rock.
See you next year.
In Iceland.
Over some moose testicles.
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putting the "fun" in funeral

So I went to a funeral on my birthday, and even though it's dialing the morbid up to 11, I want to say a few things.
When I die, I don't want people to sit around a church and read Bible verses I didn't care about. I don't want some strange fat lady to put a black fleece vest on over her secretary outfit and sing religious songs that I've never heard. I don't want a preacher reading off a card, pretending like he knew me. I don't want everyone to stand around in a parlor in ugly and uncomfortable shoes, making awkward conversation and not eating scones. And I definitely don't want people to pretend I was any better than I was.
So here's what I want: I want a funeral that's fun.
Go somewhere I loved, a park or a backyard or a pretty field. Wear whatever makes you most comfortable, even if it's jeans and boots. Especially if it's jeans and boots. Have a bonfire. Hook up my iPod and pump my favorite playlists. Bring my books and art and tell funny stories from 11th grade history class. Get drunk and dance around like fools. Bring your guitars and play music, or hell, just play a few rounds of Rock Band and celebrate my world-famous lack of any musical skill. Eat cake. Make each other laugh. Give away all my stuff to people who will actually treasure it.
If you want to celebrate my life, celebrate it like I lived it: with humor, with joy, with snarky comments, with pranks and movie quotes. With wacky.
And if you really feel like crying, turn on the Airborne Toxic Event's cover of The Book of Love, right at the end. Watch a slide show of photos of me laughing and pass out printed copies of my blog. Hold hands around the bonfire and get out one good cry.
And then go buy more of my books so I'll become a posthumous success.
But most importantly, have fun. Let that be my legacy.

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Here's the song that made me write THE MOST MORBID POST EVAR.
Please, someone, GET THIS SONG OUT OF MY HEAD.


(Hint: The music starts at 1:20. Also, if you've watched the last episode of the last season of Scrubs, it's the song to which JD watches the slideshow, the part when I start crying like a goddamn baby.)
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24 and 34

Sometimes, I worry about getting older. But let's look at the evidence.
Here I am at my 24th birthday party:



And here I am at my 34th birthday party:

Things just keep getting better.
And not just because they finally started putting some stretch into boot cut jeans.
A lot has happened in ten years.
But the important things stayed the same.
Right now, I have everything I wanted back then. And more.
Better and better. Better than I ever hoped things would be.
Let's hope the trend continues.

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Thanks to everyone for a wonderful birthday!
Thanks for the messages on Facebook and Twitter, the gifts, the fun.
Cheering on the Green Knight with wonderful friends.
Hanging out with family. Eating lots of cake.
It was a great weekend.
<3
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birthday rapture

It's from Cakes by Darcy.
Dr. Krog gets one for me every year.
For example: 2010. 2009.
In 2008, he got there late, and the only one left had a witch hat on top.And I was all, ARE YOU TRYING TO TELL ME SOMETHING?
But this one? It's perfect.It's white, black, and red, just like my book.
And there is a book on top. Like I'm a real author.
Inside, it's even better.

Chocolate cake. Vanilla frosting. Just a touch of almond.
LOOOOOVE THIS CAKE.
And here's what I had for lunch.



A Vosges Leche chocolate skull with pink Himalayan sea salt from my friend Heidi.
Birthdays aren't supposed to be healthy, right?
And speaking of beautiful things I want to lick...


OMG, this book.
It's part of the Penguin Threads series, which are based on commissioned embroidery by artist Jillian Tamaki. I won it in a Twitter contest from Penguin publicist Gabrielle Gantz (@contextual_life on Twitter).It's one of the most lush, beautiful paperbacks I've ever seen.
There's so much pretty today, friends!
That crazy Camping guy predicted rapture,AND I AM HAVING SO MUCH RAPTURE.
<3

you were good to me, 33

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That's right guys.
IT'S ALMOST MY BIRTHDAY.
Thus far,
PROS:
* 33 was pretty good* I got some interesting news today on the book front* we will be celebrating with jousting* Dr. Krog ordered my Darcy Cake* I have received one kickass gift* my daughter made me a card that says I LOVE YOU MOMMY BE HAPPY* my son said I'm pretty* there will be hibachi* Dr. Krog bought me two cute jackets and a pair of zippy boots* I bought myself these fabulous shoes:
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CONS:
* I have to go to a funeral tomorrow* I can't wear my fabulous new skull shoes to a funeral* synesthesia says 34 is a fugly number, although it's slightly better than 32.
I'll keep you updated as the birthday progresses.
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on writing: skipping, stalling, and stalking

Myth: Writers finish every book they start. Once you've been published, every book you write will get published.
Truth: BWAHAHAHAHA!
Guys, I've got to be honest. I've got 3 books just sitting in folders on my laptop, half-written and waiting. I've got one idea that obsessed me for weeks before a fatal flaw became obvious and I killed it. I've got AN ENTIRE BOOK that will never go anywhere because the idea is unsellable. It's just sitting there, written, the characters fully-formed and deep, a tremendously awesome title, ready to go-- and yet the book is a complete dead-end.
And just yesterday, I started another one.
The idea obsessed me. I tried to think of the three half-finished books, politely waiting their turn. Two of them even have my agent's blessing. But all I could think about was SHINY NEW BOOK. Things that happened, character quirks, scenes, lines. I wrote the first chapter of SHINY NEW BOOK. I went to Writers Group and used the assignment to write an awkward scene I'd been salivating over. I decided the main character wore only white undershirts. I knew the first sentence had to involve eating salad, because someone on Twitter said you could never start a decent book with someone eating salad.
In short, SHINY NEW BOOK totally cut in line.
And I hate line cutters. I hate quitting or stalling out or starting something and not finishing. I hate to think of things dangling, waiting, going nowhere.
But that didn't stop SHINY NEW BOOK from barging right on in.
And I know how this works, so I just let it take me away.
I went through my ritual. Open a new document in Open Office. Format the page, set the paragraphs, add in the indent to .5, write the title in all caps, insert page break, type "1.", and then ZOOOOOOM. We're off on another adventure!
I'm going to treat SHINY NEW BOOK as a NANOWRIMO book. You know, National Novel Writing Month, which is typically November? I'm going to aim to have a short and dirty first draft of 50,000 words by November 30. And that should purge the damn thing out of my suggestive and stubborn brain so that I can get back to those other books.
That's how art works, sometimes.
No matter what you're doing, what you should be doing, or how you've worked in the past, something consumes you. Overtakes you. Obsesses you. Demands precedence. And if you're the type to listen to your muse, you let it. There's plenty of time to finish those other things, and if they want to be finished, they'll start to seep into your subconscious, just at the right time.
They'll obsess you, too.
In conclusion:
If you love something, let it go. If it bothers the crap out of you, get a restraining order. If that doesn't work, just write it all down and hope for the best. You can sleep next year.
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i, too, had a dream. it involved ice.

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Can anyone guess what that is?
Can you?
That's a circle of scarlet ibises, two frogs, and a firefly. They are ice skating.
HOW DID YOU NOT GET THAT?
Okay, just kidding. It was pretty trippy, even with a proper frame of reference.
That, friends, is DISNEY ON ICE.
Subtitle: Bean and Biscuit's Next Excellent Journey, Because Who Could Forget THIS?
And it was awesome.
Oh, and here's proof that I left the surburbs:


That's a REAL, LIVE SKYSCRAPER.
And, for the record, Centennial Olympic Park was pretty cool.
The show was pretty cool, too. From what I could gather, it was a three-part play about a woman suffering paranoid delusions. She wanted to make beignets, wear dangerous shoes, and communicate with the stars. At one point, she and her French friend turned into giant, ice-skating frogs and swam around world 3 from Super Mario 3. King Koopa looked an awful lot like a giant crocodile with a trumpet. The most impressive part involved aerial silks, and Rapunzel wrapped herself up in her hair and flew around.
I know that sounds insane, but IT'S ALL TRUE.
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Also, my kid has awesome shoes.
And she spent her $20 on the EXACT same pair of plastic Cinderella shoes that she bought two years ago, which is actually pretty adorable. Except for all the clopping around on wood floors.
She clops a lot now.
And she spent the rest of her money on ice cream.



I got to eat the last of those Dippin' Dots. Once they had melted out of dottiness and were more Mushin' Mush. But it was still delicious. And then there was CAKE.
Conclusion: Love my kid, love our friends, loved our day.
Happy Birthday, Bean!


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don't be a harpy

Something magical happened this morning.
I was eating breakfast at ChickfilA when I heard a low humming. It built into a beautiful love song, a capella/barber shop style, by some young men. Their recipient? An old woman with white hair wearing a veil headband and a BRIDE sash. They sang to her, right there in the ChickfilA line, and she blushed like she was 16 and hugged them and took pictures with her iPhone. I don't know if they knew her and planned it, or if it was a random-type flash mob of orderly boys with lovely voices, or what. I just know that it was a beautiful scene that made my day and brought my daughter and I to our feet, clapping.
And then something horribly depressing happened.
"That's so rude," someone said. "I can't believe they think they can just interrupt our meal like that. Don't they know this is a public place? It's just so rude."
It was the woman sitting behind us with her husband and two children. They were about the same ages as my kids, but instead of being allowed to run and play in the indoor playground, they were sitting on the other side of the glass, tightly reined in by a loudly critical mom who had been complaining since they walked in. The booth was dirty. The coffee was burnt. The children-- IN THE INDOOR PLAYSPACE 5 FEET AWAY-- were horribly loud and mannerless, their parents negligent boors to allow them to, you know, PLAY IN THE PLAYSPACE.
I had held my tongue as she complained about my kids from four inches behind my back. After all, I've tried my best to give up the judging thing. I've been annoyed by other kids, too. Maybe she was just having a bad day or had a headache. And I guess they were pretty loud, but I just assumed that anyone who chose to sit on the other side of the glass knew what they were getting into.
My first instinct was anger. But then I just felt sorry for her.
What kind of person would actually get angry at four teenagers serenading an elderly bride? How dead do you have to be inside, how negative and wrapped up in yourself?
I saw magic. She saw annoyance.
And so I decided that I would add this saying to my personal list of quotes.
DON'T BE A HARPY.
I think I'm going to make a t-shirt.
And if anyone is ever thinking of publicly serenading me, I promise to blush like I'm 16.

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