A Writer's Bestfriend

(Donna Tartt's little friend.)

I'm rarely home these days. In fact, tonight I dined on takeout from a sandwich chain after a long day of running between campus and home. I envisioned living out my last days in Oxford cocooned in the place I created in which to nest, and instead, I am spending my time on the streets. Not Slum Dog Millionaire-style, but it does have to do with a dog.

Instead of the pink light inside my house that filters through my curtains, it's the blossoms of Japanese magnolias I see -- a first sign of spring -- every morning. I didn't realize what little time I spent outdoors until I got Em. Now, it's at least an hour, often more, that I am truly present in the world (when not telling Em "No" as she sniffs some unpleasant object, poised to dine on it.) I wonder how people can have dogs in big cities paved with cement when I delight in seeing Em's nose half buried in dirt.

Now that I have a dog, it seems that everyone does. I'm also learning dog introduction etiquette (which is that I learn the dog's name but not the owner's) and still get embarrassed when Em uses the front yard of a fancy mansion to relieve herself. Even still, with her in my life, I am in good company. I Google my favorite writers and I've found that dogs are common companions in this field. In fact, Em was a rescue from a group named for Willie Morris's beloved canine Pete.

Then there is the famous Faulkner portrait by Henri Cartier-Bresson with Faulkner looking out in repose with his animated "fyce" or rat terriers . Faulkner had this to say about dog ownership: "Every boy should have a dog. He should be ashamed not to own a dog, and so should everybody else who didn't own a dog." Over at The Valve, they've posted a link to pictures of esteemed writers and their dogs. There's Amy Hempill (Wanita), Donna Tartt (Pongo), and Robert Penn Warren (Frodo). The number of southern writers with dogs outnumbers the others, which is interesting considering that the post was on the New York Social Diary.

I can understand the way in which a dog fits into a writer's life, especially in the South where being outside is a way of life most months out of the year. Contemplation is the writer's best friend, too, and walking a dog provides an instant scenario in which to follow your instinct.

(Faulkner's decisive dogs.)

Spring Cleaning Comes Early

(Some people use post-it notes to be organized, but I get a dog.)

One of the benefits of inviting people to stay with you is that all those projects you keep putting off are suddenly done in one afternoon. Such was the case last weekend, when, after realizing that Chris will be here in FOUR DAYS, I decided I had a lot to do. Namely: hand-mop the floors, rehang the shower curtain, change light bulbs, clear out the summer garden, vacuum the house and car, and wipe everything down. After being on the road for six weeks, a thick layer of dust covered just about everything, and now that I have a dog, hair covers just about everything.

Let's talk about the dog. As I write this, Emileigh is laying beside me in her bed on the floor. She probably thinks she has the most boring dog owner ever, wondering what it is I do all day beside move things around the house and tap at a white object that glows. Bored by me, and because she is still a puppy, she's managed to add some flair to the house. The silk couch I own is now flawed, as is a lamp, and I am with one less bird's nest.

There is a strange correlation between Emileigh and my boyfriend's arrival to my house. Space, that thing we can never really define until something or someone disturbs it, has become an issue. I can not fathom how my parents' shared their space with six children. I am having a hard enough time adjusting to staying with my boyfriend and letting a dog sit on my couch. And perhaps, therein lies the problem.

Growing up, I didn't have any space. Space was the bottom bunk and the pen I used to write underneath the one above me to establish my territory. My twin sister and I used to tape a line down the middle of the room on Saturdays when our room had to be cleaned by the end of the day. That was the only time I was OK with her having a few extra inches. Continuing in the shared space theme, I moved in with my boyfriend after I left my parents' house in the suburbs. He and I lived in a smallish apartment in the the city with a Lab and a German Shepard. The Lab ate a good deal of my books. He, just like Emileigh, was a puppy.

I lived with one other boyfriend after that. He worked from home out of our bedroom, desipte the large den he could have used in the house we shared with a friend. Instead, he became a permanent fixture in the corner of the room with his tower of Coke cans, a sight I found far from endearing. When we moved to London, there was no other choice than to work out of our tiny studio apartment, so we became brilliant (that's what they say to mean "great!" in London) at driving each other nuts. I read and he asked me why I read so much.

Of course with Chris it is different, and with Emileigh too. There is still the adjusting and the wondering if what I am doing is crazy.I like things to be perfect. I look at magazine of homes that are crisp and serene and without a speck of mess. I want that because to me it demonstrates control. But if we let a little bit of control go in our lives, we can let another thing enter: love.

Dogs and the End of Television

(Meet Emileigh Earhart, my bakery beagle.)

I have entered the world of dogs, so there will be some new posts coming up next week. In the meantime, I'm getting the house ready for my boyfriend's first visit to see me (usually I trek the five and a half hours to see him) and trying to train a kind of puppy. I've already prepared Chris for the no television-zone, which he took care of by figuring out a way to redirect his satellite to his laptop. I am amazed by how quickly men go to action to do such inane things as redirecting their television, but when it comes to screwing in a new bulb or taking the trash out, it can take months, let alone ever happen. Thankfully, I've got a guy who can do both.

Dinner Party Daresay

I'm reminded that Mississippi is the Hospitality State every time I return from a trip. Its motto is emblazoned across its welcome sign. I was once told by an Italian that when you are invited to their home for dinner, it's a sincere gesture. It's the same for Southerners. So what's the proper thing to do when you are invited to dinner and told not bring anything? Bring wine or flowers.

One friend, who was a usual guest at my dinner table, always brought either flowers or wine. It was particularly nice when he brought flowers because they were something I considered an indulgence. My roommate and I would drop them in the closest vase, or something vaguely resembling a vase, and the table was set. Another nice touch is something that Alysson often does. Buy flowers from the grocer and dress them up in nice paper. (Even newspaper can look good when tied with a pretty bow.)

Wine is a welcome treat, too, even if it is not intended to be consumed that evening. I've received many a bottle of my favorite wine or port when the table was already full of libations. The gift can be saved for another occasion. The next dinner party they invite you to perhaps.

So why bring anything? Consider the fact that your host/friend has gone out of their way to accommodate you. Even the tidiest of hosts must spend some time freshening up their place. I should know, since I always devote a few hours to cleaning before a dinner party. Meal preparation also requires substantial time (not to mention money) to ensure a scrumptious feast. And don't forget the fun afterwards. While you are crawling into your cozy bed, your host is cleaning up the equivalent of a week's worth of dirty dishes. I'm lucky enough to have friends who linger around for the dishwashing, but I never expect it.

I used to throw dinners on a regular basis, but the cost and time made the experience less than enjoyable. Downsizing and limiting my feasts to simple, managable meals (my boyfriend gets the experimental dishes), has made dinners with friends a reality once again. It would seem that throwing a dinner for friends is a burden, and for some people it is. It also explains why places like Applebees and TGIFs are still in business. If you haven't had friends over in while, invite them over. For me, it feels good to wait on other people, but home is also an intimate place for people to get to know you better.

***

For an easy gathering with friends, consider brunch. Many of the dishes can be made a day ahead of time so that you can enjoy your friends' company. Also, you can serve a signature drink like Bloody Marys or Mimosas, or be adventurous and invent your own breakfast concoction. With clean up at a minimum, you'll have the afternoon to take a nap!

Dog House

(Oscar Mills)

I'm about to foster a dog in my home, a beagle named Emileigh.

The Dog History runs deep and dysfunctional in my family. My twin sister has two Bostons. They're wild and fierce, but at night they are like any tired dog. They sleep. We had dogs growing up. There was Dukes, then Angie, and finally, Bear. All were mutts and when the kids grew tired of feeding them, my parent's surrendered all three to sympathetic friends with larger yards. (In a similar move, my older sister "got rid of" a Papillon mix that "drove her nuts." In a car ride the other day, her two-year-old proclaimed out of nowhere, "No Dogs!", to which her mother chimed in, "Or cats!" Unable to train dogs, she's at least trained her daughter.) Like my older sister, my mom has never been a fan of canines, and I suspect it was my father's persuasion that allowed any dogs to set foot, let alone stay, in our house. Today, they have a miniature Daschund, a runt named Brutus.

Brutus belonged to one of my brothers, but between his yearly sojourn to Switzerland and moves around town, Brutus relocated to my parents' house, and more specifically, my dad's lap. In Mississippi, I had my own dogs for a time. There was Bass, a gentle German Shepard, and Badger, a Lab mix whose name fit his rambunctious personality. For four years, I was a dog owner, sharing the responsibility with a boyfriend. They were clearly his dogs though. Four years later he split and took the dogs with him.

The only dog I was truly fond for the last few years is Oscar, a dog rescued from the rubble of Katrina. He belonged to my friend Alysson, who previously lived in my house. I remember the first time I saw Alysson. She was walking north on Lamar with this handsome, blond dog at the end of a leash. For a moment, I was transported to Paris. (Later I learned that Oscar responded to some commands in French.) The pair was the picture of chic in a small, north Mississippi town and I wanted to know them. We met shortly thereafter, and have remained friends, sharing recipes, glasses of wine, and stories. Oscar, I'm told, is settled into his new digs in Jackson, but when he stops by his old place at Pierce, you can tell he remembers it.

Many Homes for the Holidays

I'm still on the road and will be moving around the South until the Super Bowl. Currently, I am in Tampa, Florida, but before that I was spending time in Atlanta. However, for the last few days I was on Crystal River, just north of where I grew up on the Tampa Bay. I will be posting about another kind of manspace I found there. More later.

Until then, Merry Christmas and Happy Hannukah to all.

Making Room for the Man Couch

(Humidor)

LaGrange, Georgia. – The way to a man’s heart is not through his stomach, but through a leather recliner. I spent the last two days with my best friend Jessica and her husband James at their home in LaGrange where James took a job a few years ago. Jessica says the house was bachelor pad before she moved in.

Vestigages of that life remain: beer steins and leather couches.

According to one source, a hallmark of the bachelor pad is the lack of attention to detail and cleanliness. The leather couch makes sense, he says. The cushions never have to go to the dry cleaner, which makes cleaning up easy.

A list of men who own leather couches whirls around in my head. Brother-in-laws and rockers among them. In the case of my sister, both she and her spouse decided to put a black leather set in their living room. That was four years ago. Today, she’s wondering why she didn’t recommend them for the den.

This brings me to where the man couch should live. In an earlier post, my architect cousin Beth explained the role of the den, specifically how modern design plans have thwarted this much-coveted man space. Rather than dens or sitting rooms, which were for the ladies, open floor plans force people to share spaces once deemed private for the different sexes.

So what's the big deal? My recent writing on the value of shared spaces suggests that the phasing out of the den is a good thing. It’s not. The best relationships are ones with boundaries, and in the South, where boundaries are often blurred, privacy is at a premium. The man couch in the living room (or what was once the sitting room) looks weird because it is. Where there should be a humidor, there’s a chintz vase in its place.

(Chintz Vase)