Thanks a latte, have a grande

1950s, Florence

Everything on my desk has regenerated: from one red cup there are now two; from one computer, two; one Dasani Lemon water bottle, two; one dinosaur sticker, two. And I've just finished cleaning it up. 

Discovered: the most amazing drink in the entire world. Caramel Apple Spice Cider, Starbucks. And I don't even like caramel, really. It may be its ambiguous pronunciation (care-a-mel, if you were wondering) or it being on foods (chocolate, ice cream, coffee) that are perfectly good on their own. But for some reason, this is different. Or maybe I really do like caramel. Go get one, before the holidays are over. I might stock up. Or send in a spy (Abby) to figure out the secret ingredients.

I am working on writing my grandmother a poem for Christmas. In my senior year of high school one of my teachers nominated me for the writing award/scholarship (extremely unexpectedly, and with nothing but essays written, really) and so for a month I was in a writing frenzy. I wrote poems and short stories and more poems. They were almost done -- in fact, they might have been done -- but I hadn't read the part where I needed a teacher recommendation. Anyway, I didn't send it in. But I did have this portfolio of creative writing just sitting there, and when my grandmother found out about it she demanded I send them over. And if anyone has ever met my grandmother, you'll know she won't take a no. Now, two years later, she will not stop badgering me about whether I'm writing anything new, "Your poems were so good, I loved the one about the man in the forest," and how I need to start writing again, "Please write more, for a dear old grandmother's sake." Lawdy. So I'm working on a poem about this small, gold mirror (pictured above) I bought her from an estate store a few months ago. Even though it says "1950s, Florence" on it, I want it to be Russia, 1918, during the time the Bolsheviks attacked Czar Nicholas II. I want it to be Anastasia's, to follow her through what happened on that day, through what she asked of the intruders and through a few weeks ago, when they finally found her and her brother. All I've got now is snow, a staircase, some color symbolism (white, black) and the sound of boots. So if anyone wants to throw in some suggestions, I'll be very thankful. I don't know if that's cheating, but I don't really care; I can't write like I used to.

All I want to do is curl up by the fire, watch Poirot or read or blog, and take a nap. But I have to go curl up with this Genetic book, which I can promise won't be as comforting.