Author: Alexandra Langstaff

Yoga teacher, author, and creative movement specialist.

Someone sure made a monkey out of me.

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It’s official. I got scammed. “How?” You might ask. “Aren’t you the one always warning others and believing yourself to be so tech savvy?”

I fell for the oldest trick in the book, flattery.

Hi Alexandra, Virtuous Sinner Made in Vermont is an irresistibly honest and wonderfully human memoir. Your voice wry, grounded, and full of grace makes the messiest parts of life feel like shared wisdom. From dairy farms to ski slopes, concussions to enlightenment, you’ve managed to turn experience into something both meaningful and delightfully entertaining.

The words were an aphrodisiac. Fortunately, my feet were still on the ground, despite my swelling head, so I prudently checked the few references.

Being as smart as I am, I didn’t click the links but did do some internet research. One of the more prolific authors has been writing crime novels for over 30 years with Harper Collins.  Her picture shows a  pleasant looking woman holding an adorable yorkie. Both have lived in the UK all their lives. The chance that she used a marketing firm in St. Petersburg, FL  with no website is highly unlikely.

I had vague feelings of discomfort, but that didn’t stop the feelings of euphoria.

I can say without hesitation: Virtuous Sinner Made in Vermont is the kind of memoir people don’t just read, they carry with them. Its blend of unvarnished honesty, Vermont charm, and dry wit is rare and it deserves to be discovered…to design a campaign that reflects your tone and truth, I like to start by reading the manuscript. This gives me the foundation to build a strategy that feels as authentic and layered as your story itself.

The lure of the New York Times Best Seller List was intoxicating. Despite EJ’s lack of an online presence (with the exception of some stylish jeans of the same name) and the fact that she intimated that she had already read the book, I wanted to believe in her/it/myself.

This really was a dream come true. It never entered my mind that it was too good to be true. Someone saw the value of my words and would do all the stuff that I had no desire to do, to get the word out. That’s what people do.

If you’re hoping to connect Virtuous Sinner with more readers who will laugh, nod, and maybe even heal a little through your story, I’d love to help you build a campaign that reflects your one-of-a-kind voice.

I was becoming addicted to the praise and recognition. So, later that day I sent in a PDF.

Thank you so much for sending over your book and for the trust that comes with sharing such a personal and beautifully written piece. I’ve started reading Virtuous Sinner, and your voice immediately struck me: warm, candid, and effortlessly wry. It’s the kind of memoir that doesn’t just tell a story it invites readers in to recognize their own.

What’s the worst that can happen? It’s like giving away a free book right? I actually made things pretty easy for a theft of intellectual property. A friend said this happens in the cookbook world all the time. A book written here can get hijacked (or get giddily handed over).  After a few cosmetic changes and a new author, someone in Croatia or Australia has a best seller on their hands.

In a way, I’m honored that a well versed person or AI thingy took the time to contact me directly. How cool is that? Unfortunately it means the stats for book sales for Alexandra Langstaff will remain static but the ones for Langdexter Scammith will fly through the roof. That author will end up with a big chunk of change and probably land a movie deal. 

There’s a lesson here. I know it and you know it. There’s no need to rub it in. 

Shouldering Chores

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Last Wednesday, Peter’s surgeon told me, in no nonsense medical terms, that “His shoulder was a mess but the operation was a success”. What great news! Just think, in six, short weeks he will be able to take off his sling and lift a cup of coffee.

In the meantime, I’ve had to take over some chores I prefer not to do. I just did the lawn on our spaceship lawn mower. I felt like Grandpappy Amos from the Real McCoys (Series 1, episode 6). He tried out one of them new fangled machines, albeit a tractor, and drove into a tree. Fortunately I only ran over some daffodils. Funny, I don’t remember the porch being covered with grass clippings after Peter mows.

Cleaning the toilets and taking the garbage and recycling to the transfer station are two chores I’ve yet to tackle. I hope there aren’t more.

Most everything else we take turns doing. But there’s no turn taking going on for the next month and a half.

He’s managing well for himself for breakfast and lunch, however I’m responsible for dinner. When Peter steps into the kitchen with a family recipe or something exotic, he stays there until it’s done. And he cleans up. It may take two hours but usually more.

I’m Queen of Casseroles and Leftovers. Short prep, easy clean up. However I can’t submit him to quesadillas and last summer’s, never-ending supply of frozen zucchini soup renditions for the next 45 days, so I’m trying new recipes. That means more research, more shopping, more prep, and more clean up. 

I’d rather not use the dishwasher because Peter rolls his eyes when I stack it. (Personally, I think it’s a poorly designed machine.) But unfortunately I’m using more utensils and such, so it’s required.

I’m an early riser so I give Lassie her breakfast. Peter, normally, does dinner at five. He washes out her dog dishes more often than I do. Like 100% more often. I thought dog dishes were better left to season like cast iron skillets and salad bowls. We’ll see how the Lass is doing at the end of June.

Of course cooking, cleaning and caring for my loved ones is not a hardship. It just takes more time than I’m used to giving. Frankly it’s a bit more of my time than I would rather give. That doesn’t make me a bad person.

I think Peter was secretly relieved when I told him that by no means was I taking over lawn mowing. It’s still his job. With any luck, I can reassure him more, once I find the toilet brush and the garbage permit.

Just think in 6 to 12  weeks Peter is allowed to make a sandwich. Did I mention it’s his right arm?

Darn good job!

Walking thoughts

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I can’t pretend anymore that Lassie and I take 2 to 4 walks a day because of her Australian Shepherd background. Most of my friends and family are on to me.

“Does she play with toys, can you teach her tricks, would a cable runner help?” They ask.

The answer is always the same. No.

We follow old deer, bear and cow paths, behind our house and our neighbors.

She would be fine with half the amount of time we take traipsing, I’m the one who needs it more. I find it very productive. I get to try out all kinds of material. It’s like an open mic night with just me performing. It can be stream of consciousness, educational, or just plain fussing. And as we remember fussing is the art of creative problem solving where there doesn’t seem to be a problem. 

It’s the perfect excuse to think about anything I want to think about. For example, just now during a hike on the big loop:

It’s about 50 degrees and drizzling. If it were 15 degrees warmer I could count the orange newts. The other day I saw 6. Last year my record was 27 in one day. This morning they have burrowed back underground until the sun gets stronger.

At least I don’t have to watch out for stepping on them.

My cowboy boots feel sturdy, comfortable, and reliable through the spring water overflow and the slick leaves. This downhill section is a good test. It’s fun to lope in slow motion.

The first owners of the old house, after us, reclaimed this part of an old sugaring road for horseback riding but it ended up being too steep.

I spotted a lone daffodil off to the side and mentioned it to my friend, Jenna, the other day. She suggested a bird had something to do with it. 

“You mean it picked a daffodil and dropped it in the woods?” I asked.

“No, maybe it dropped a bulb” she replied.

“From its mouth?” I asked incredulously.

“I thought maybe it pooped it out or something.”

“I think they prefer to eat worms,” I said officiously.

We both laughed. I’m not sure which of us thought the other was more of a dope.

That owner must have planted it decades ago. Has it taken over 30 years for that flower to burst out, or 30 years for me to notice it?

Peter should be home from singing in the choir any minute. I took another mystery casserole out of the freezer for dinner earlier today and made a cucumber salad.

The last frozen meal I pulled out was labeled Vegetarian Lasagne with Pork Sausage. Obviously it wasn’t vegan. Did I mean the pasta was vegetarian? Opposed to what?

Interestingly the reheating instructions were rather intricate, thaw for 24 hours, heat wrapped, continue heating unwrapped, and then let sit forever. It was pretty good, however I have no idea where this recipe came from. 

Yet another successful dinner never to be repeated. At least I know I’d be a terrible cookbook author. 

After dinner the three of us will take our nightly stroll. We have to be prepared for that fumbling porcupette. It keeps coming around the house and we shoo it off with brooms and the old pool skimmer. The mom came by earlier in the spring to see how we all would react. Everyone was calm and Lassie gave it a wide berth. It ran off after a little coaxing.

She was letting us know that one of her offspring would be fumbling around soon but would eventually get the picture and head for the hills.

The young porcupine is still learning as the mother watches from the treetops, and we all wait patiently.

That was a very productive walk. 

It gave me a chance to remember that sometimes no one is right and no one’s wrong, remain observant even when I think I’ve seen it all, I can write what I want, and community requires patience with fumblers.

“Lassie, I think it’s time we stretch our legs.”

A Mating Ball

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Without question, there are things that I have said and done that make me cringe.

That’s what happens to us all when we forget 

or choose not to pause before speaking or reacting. 

Maybe we misheard.

Maybe that’s not what was meant.

Maybe our advise wasn’t needed

Maybe someone was hurting.

Cringing feels like a ball of snakes in my stomach. 

A ball of snakes is also known as a breeding or a mating ball. 

I saw a mating ball once and it was mesmerizing.

It also totally grossed me out. 

Dozens of male garter snakes surround one female and it becomes a writhing orgy. 

The male participants may last an hour or those with stamina may hang around for a couple of days.

Sometimes more than one male gets bragging rights, but not all, she’s selective. Eventually each slithers off, one by one.

I can only imagine the female was getting a great massage, so she stayed put. (That is until she has to birth 15 to 40 live babies in two or three months.)

The venom of Garter snakes is mildly toxic. My husband, Peter, says when you catch one, it feels like it’s peeing in your hand.

No big deal and he’s had experience.

When I find myself kept awake with a knot in my stomach, because of something I’ve done or said, 

I give myself about 5 minutes of 

miserable, 

critical, 

pitiful, 

cringing, 

tossing and turning. 

I then observe, remember, and forgive.

I practice untangling what I can’t change.

Then I have a choice, I can fall asleep or I can imagine who I’d selectively wiggle, twist, squirm, and slink with.

Although cringing could be caused by guilt, shame or regret, they are words I rarely use. I don’t need to make things worse.

It takes practice to shed them like the skin of a snake.

There’s nothing to feel bad about, 

after all, when we shed an old skin, what’s left? 

How many heads do you see?

Part 2- The most scared I’ve been in my life.

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In October of 1969 I turned 10. That meant for one night and one night only I could stay up as late as I wanted. In return I couldn’t complain about our early bed time ever again. 

Deal!

25 months earlier, my brother stayed up until 10:30 playing with his Lionel Train set. Obviously I’d stay up later than that.

(Decades later Chad admitted to doing rounds about the house like a museum guard until the furnace popped, clanged, and dinged one too many times. His eyes got tired and the wall clock got blurred. He thought he was hallucinating. He remembered taking great care not to step on any of the creaky steps as he crept up the stairs.)

On my night, after Laugh In, Hopper said “Time to start up”.

Chad sullenly dragged his feet up the stairs as I sat smugly on the couch.

It didn’t take long before my eyes started to feel dry and heavy.

I must have dozed off because the next thing I saw on the screen was a bald eagle soaring past the American flag.

“Okay, good night, I’m going to bed,” Hopper said.

“Wait, stay up with me a little longer. I’ll scratch your head.” I whined, as I got up on the arm of his chair.

Nothing like a good head massage to get Hopper to agree to most anything like an extra Coke or Oreo

“No, I’m tired.” He yawned.

I didn’t get it. What did he think I would do here by myself? 

I knew he had the potential to stay up really late because his and mom’s parties seemed to last forever.

Why not stay up late, now, with me? We could make ice tea or jello.

“Why don’t you read a book?” he asked as he walked down the hall to their bedroom.

A book!

The wind blowing through the phone and electric wires attached to the house made sing song moans that were soothing during the day and eerie and foreboding at night.

As the broadcast pattern faded, I saw ghostly images floating on the dimming screen, not unlike those found in 

SLOVENLY PETER, OR, CHEERFUL STORIES AND FUNNY PICTURES FOR GOOD LITTLE FOLKS.

It was a children’s primer published in 1849. I was intrigued and alarmed by the drawings and tales of misbehaving children, and the fates that befell them.

I kept it by my bed and read the cloth bound book so often, I had to wrap it with a rubber band.

Children, who wouldn’t eat, dwindled to a thread and died. Others ate so much they burst in two.

Boys donning waistcoats ignited themselves while playing with matches.

Girls dressed in frocks broke legs and spurted blood when they rough-housed like boys.

Children who didn’t heed the warnings like Little-Suck-a-Thumb, were left with bloody stumps on their hands by a man wearing  tights and pointy toed shoes. He carried large scissors and had long stringy hair.

That stuff didn’t scare me. I was braver now. I’ll suck my thumb until I go to college if I want to.

Six months earlier someone reported a high heeled, slashing, lunatic with long fingernails on the loose in rural Dorset.

Although the story was false and there used to be a branch tapping against our bedroom window, sounding like stilettos on slate,

something wasn’t right. 

I froze with fear and slowly slid my thumb out of my mouth.

This wasn’t like being afraid of the Ghost of Christmas Future, the Wicked Witch of the West, or the man with the hook who murdered kids at camp. 

Those were bad but this was pure evil.

No way am I staying down here all alone. 

I made a lot of noise going up the stairs.

I closed the bathroom door hard enough so that the plaque Aunt Tani made, clattered against it.

I read the purple Gothic letters painted onto dark wood for the thousandnth time from the toilet.

“From ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggedy beasties and things that go bump in the night, Good Lord deliver us.”

That Scottish prayer had never seemed so ominous. 

I left the hall, bathroom and bedroom light on, and looked up at the newly pinned centerfolds of the Partridge Family, and the Monkee’s on the ceiling.

I felt more at ease.

I shoved Slovenly Peter deep under the bed and reached for good old Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle. She was a kind old lady who had cures for children who were slow-eater-tiny-bite-takers, answer backers, and bath haters.

She even had one for kids who were never-want-to-go-to-bedders.

None of her cures involved death or maiming.

Rational fear reminds us that pulling the covers over our heads, quietly breathing, doesn’t mean we don’t stay alert. It just gives us a moment to hide from the Bogey Man and remember how brave we are.

Irrational fear, however, can cause us to overreact to innocent sounds and situations causing excess anxiety and stress.

That’s all I’ll say, Namaste.

Part 1- The most scared I’ve been in my life.

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“Did you hear what happened to Bonnie’s older sister?” Mary asked in a low voice, drawing the seven of us, 4th grade girls even closer together on the monkey bars at recess.

“A man with long fingernails attacked her in her house and ripped her shirt. I think she got cuts on her face as well”, Mary added. 

Well if this didn’t change things forever. 

Never again would we discuss jumping out of swings, bouncing  on the teeter-totter, or Secret Santas with the same intensity.

This was 8th grade material at the least.

Bonnie’s sister was old, like 17. 

“How long were his nails?” 

”Who was he?”

”Where did he come from?”

”Why?” was the question we all wanted to ask but didn’t.

It was hard to image someone being attacked in a town where prank calls and minor shop lifting were the usual rites of criminal passage in the late 60’s.

But still, long fingernails on a man? I couldn’t wrap my head around it.

We discussed the attack for days out on the playground, and it was agreed that the stranger was armed and dangerous. We didn’t discuss anything with our teachers or parents because it was too thrilling to share.

So thrilling that I had a hard time falling asleep that week.

My sister Dee and I shared a room above our parents. The windows above our beds opened up over the slate roof of the terrace below.

There were three pictures, out of Tiger Beat Magazine, pinned to the ceiling above my bed,

Bobby Sherman, the youngest brother on the logging series Here Come the Brides, and David Shelby and Jonathan Frid, of the spooky but exciting Dark Shadows.

One night Dee asked me what I was smiling at in the dark. I must have been having a conversation with Bobby’s character Jeremy. His stutter made me want glasses and a lisp.

“I’m not smiling, I’m yawning” I told Dee.

I was embarrassed. 

I wouldn’t say I was caught having a sexual fantasy but then again, maybe I was. 

She rolled over and fell asleep.

Jeremy was my favorite, but Quentin was quite attractive in a were wolf bad boy way. Barnabas wasn’t good looking at all and seemed ancient. 

He was up there because I felt sorry for him.

That Thursday night, I lay there imagining Barnabas, the gothic vampire that he was, protecting our house, when I heard the sounds.

“Tick… tick… tick tick tick… tick…” Oh my gosh! Someone or something is tapping at the window! I pulled the covers over my head but left one ear free.

Wait. That’s got to be fingernails! No…it sounds more like high heels on slate shingles. It could be a man with long fingernails and high heeled boots, I’ll bet he has long hair too! And tight pants. Maybe a long leather jacket or a cape as well.

I was petrified.

This was the guy who wanted to slash and kill off all the girls in Dorset! 

I did what anyone in their right mind would do. I slunk out of bed, left Dee, and went downstairs to my parent’s bedroom. I curled up in the oversized green corduroy chair and stared out the window as the pitch black sky stayed that way.

When Hopper finally rolled over in my direction I coughed loudly.

“What are you doing up so early?” he mumbled.

 “There’s a man on the roof with high heels and long fingernails. He’s attaching people.” I blurted out.

“Okay, I’ll check it out later” he said and rolled back towards Mom.

With that, I jumped up and stayed in their bathroom with the light on until the birds and my parents woke up.

At school the next day, I told the enthralled group on the jungle gym what had happened.

This was huge. 

“How did he get on the roof?”

”Do you think he’s checking out all of our houses?”

”How come your dog didn’t bark?” 

These were all valid questions but none I could answer.

Later, after school, Hopper said, “Come here, I want to show you something.” He pointed to a maple tree next to the house.

“See the tree, and the branch? Go upstairs and see if you hear it tapping.”

Even at 3:30 in the afternoon, in broad daylight, I was afraid to look out the bedroom windows. I don’t need to prove that nightmares aren’t fake.

I could feel my heart in my throat as I peeked out through the glass at what would inevitably be a gruesome display of shattered shingles, fingernail clippings, and strands of oily hair.

But no… nothing but some branches tick-tick-ticking. 

“Do you see and hear the branch?” Hopper yelled up to me.

“Sort of” I yelled back, though not entirely convinced.

A few weeks later the truth came out. Bonnie’s sister had made the whole thing up.

Once again the big question was why, but nobody asked.

I definitely heard more than a branch that night. It could have been something.

The image of a leather coated, caped man in high heeled stiletto boots, possibly on crutches, with wild hair, long dirty nails, who leapt on to porch rooftops as quietly as a cat, despite being 1/2 crippled, stayed with me until I switched out my ceiling photos for David Cassidy and poor short Davy Jones.

The fact that photos of gothic boogeymen  were the last thing I saw before drifting off to sleep each night was lost on me until decades later.

Reeeeeeaaaaaaaadddddd Meeeeeeeeee

Apologies to Allen “Griddy” Davis

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My brother in law, Bill, said, “We had a party at work yesterday and people were doing the Griddy. It’s a football thing.”

His demonstration reminded me how much fun we have dancing together, although it’s been awhile.

“It must be named after gridiron”, I said as I  step-chugged in my work boots. Although I’d never heard of the Griddy Dance, the movement felt familiar.

It’s what I do my when I dance too long in the kitchen and need to catch my breath.

“Nah, it’s the guys name.” He replied. “What is a gridiron anyway?”

“It’s an old term for football” I declared, feigning wisdom. 

That’s  another thing I enjoy doing with Bill.

“No, it’s the metal posts at the end of the field that look like this.” My sister, Dee said, standing proudly with her arms up and elbows bent.

“What do you think Chad?” 

Our brother mumbled something about markers and lines.

“No, you’re all wrong according to Google.” Bill sounded pleased.

“Actually we were all really close to being right. What do you expect from three Smith kids who grew up eating and breathing football?” I interjected.

“Wait? Did we?” Dee asked.

“Obviously not” I replied. “I just always wanted to say that.”

We had gathered on New Year’s Day to take a walk up the new logging road behind Dee and Bill’s house.

“Twenty years ago the forester said we’d be able to pay for the girl’s college from the sale of the timber. More like 2 semesters of text books.”

Bill groused and then continued,

“I think we should start compiling family lore, let’s start with you Chad.” 

“Okay, here we go” Chad groaned. (This sort of random change in the conversation is not uncommon by any of us.)

“How long did you live at the Hotel Carter?” Dee asked.

Before he could answer, she continued, gaining speed.

“One review said it was the filthiest hotel in NYC. Another said the bar was like the scene in Star Wars, all kinds of riffraff and oddballs. Apparently it finally got shut down when people were openly selling crack cocaine in the lobby. When did you live there?”

“It was in the 80’s, only eight months and it wasn’t that bad”, Chad answered patiently. He knows that being patient is the only way that the spotlight will turn on to someone else’s lore.

We had gone about 25 feet up from the landing. The mud was so thick and gummy that I had the sensation of walking in quick sand. It was a little unnerving.

Chad was  behind me. “If I pushed you over, you wouldn’t be able to stand up on your own” I announced to him. 

I would never do that but it was fun to verbalize the possibility, especially one so threatening. 

He didn’t respond…another example of patience.

“We can climb up here, get off the road and find a drier section above.” Of course Bill would suggest bushwhacking straight up the hill, after all, he reached the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro last July. 

We plodded around in the muck and mire for a few more seconds and then decided to ignore his suggestion and head back to the house.

Along the way the conversation jumped from one observation to another.

“Look at all the different fungi on this stump.” 

“Here’s some major scat.”

“There’s the remnants of the tree house that the girls used exactly once.”

“Is that what they call blow down?”

“There’s so much mud on the bottoms of my boots that I feel like I’m wearing platform shoes.”

“Let’s do this another time when there’s snow and we can find animal tracks.”

When we got back to the house I said,

“You know where the telephone line crosses your driveway? An owl flew over my head like a missile. I even ducked a bit.”

“Wait. When? Today?” Dee asked.  “That is so great, it’s like a sign!”

Actually this was the fourth owl sighting I’d had in two months. 

Owls can symbolize mysticism, intuition, and wisdom; however, what’s more remarkable are some of their physical traits. The ability to sit quietly, high on a branch, moving its head 270 degrees so that it’s large eyes can detect movement, even in the dark of night, and ears capable of hearing  mice creeping deep in the grass or snow, is all quite something. However, eating its prey whole and then regurgitating pellets of fur and bones is quite naturally magical.

Observing nature reminds us to observe ourselves.

Can we trust our gut, get rid of what we don’t need, learn from our surroundings, be efficient, know when to move quietly and when to make a lot of noise?

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about the owl when you first got here” Dee said,  a bit surprised. 

“I got sidetracked, giddy with the Griddy” I answered.

I swear it looked worse.

When am I ever going to need this?

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I was  fussing around earlier and decided to give myself a math problem.

Alexandra wants to know how she spends a typical day, using percentages. Please allow 33% for sleeping and pretending to sleep. Use the list below, provided by the subject, to arrive at a total of 100%.

Be honest and realistic in your estimates.

  • Dog related activity
  • Reading
  • Writing
  • Fiber Arts
  • Driving
  • Food related activity
  • Teaching
  • Errands

Once completed, I had 16.67% unaccounted for.

What was I doing during those missing four hours?

Typical things like exercise, spirituality and personal hygiene didn’t make the list because there’s a lot of overlap in the other categories.

Then I realized I forgot fussing.

Fussing is the art of creative problem solving even when there doesn’t really seem to be a problem to solve.

Being fussy is not the same thing. That’s just looking too closely at any situation, for no good reason. 

Fussing allows you to use your energy wisely, taking care of things that need to be taken care of, ideally in a way that isn’t tiresome.

As a rule, I fuss in 20 minute intervals; for instance, while going through pocketbooks, emptying the dishwasher, mopping the floor, planning get rich quick schemes, playing the ukelele, vacuuming, staring into space, stacking wood, trying on outfits, cleaning out the garage, or rearranging the furniture.

You wouldn’t believe how much I get done during those short sessions. It makes me feel productive, efficient, challenged and accomplished.

Fussing is an art to be shared.

Last winter my friend Nadia and I returned to our hotel in Boston after a day of shopping.

“We have 45 minutes until dinner, this is a perfect time for fussing!” I announced.

“Put all your purchases on the bed and open them one by one. Take off price tags. Fold up the packaging. Find where you are going to store the item for the time being, in your suitcase, pocketbook, or on your person.”

“I like to keep them as they are until I get home. Then it’s like opening gifts at Christmas,” she explained.

She had a point but I knew better.

“If you wait until you get home, you have to do the recycling yourself. Here, they do it. One less chore and we can spend time oohing and aahing over our purchases together!”

I’m pretty sure I changed her life.

I realize now why housework didn’t make my list, I only tidy-up when I’m fussing.

Try this for yourself.

Choose your own categories.

Do your results surprise you?

Marvel at the realization that math really is handy.

This is what fussing can lead to. Ancient drying rack and mismatched towels turn into an art installation!