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February 28, 2006
Introducing the FABULOUS Susan McBride!!!
Mystery Chick Extraordinaire!
It is my enormous privilege and pleasure to introduce one of the SWEETEST and MOST TALENTED people on the PLANET, the lovely Susan McBride!! (Seriously, she looks like a freaking supermodel, but she's so unbelievably nice, you kind of have to forgive her for that after you get to know her!)
I first got to know Susan after I'd read the hilariously funny and entertaining debut of her Debutante Dropout chicklit mystery series, BLUE BLOOD. Mostly, I just wanted to be all fan girl and squee all over her about how much I loved the crazy antics of Andy and Cissy. But when we met at the Romantic Times convention, we had so much fun talking that we sat in the lobby and missed two hours of workshops just chatting! Yes, she's THAT kind of fun. So OF COURSE we had to invite her to join us at Literary Chicks!
With her schedule, it's amazing she has time to breathe, let alone guest blog, but she graciously agreed (and we didn't even have to loan her the trusty restraining order). She has her own group blog at The Lipstick Chronicles, and is one of the fabulous Mystery Chicks in her spare time.
And of course, the city of St. Louis just AUCTIONED HER OFF as one of the city's hottest sexy singles . . .
and she may have found her own version of Wuv, Twue Wuv, through the experience, which is a chick lit novel all on its own!!! But I'll let her tell you about that . . .
The official bio: Susan McBride is the author of the award-winning Debutante Dropout Mysteries from HarperCollins/Avon. The latest, hot off the press, is THE LONE STAR LONELY HEARTS CLUB. The debut, BLUE BLOOD, won the Lefty Award for Best Humorous Mystery of 2004 and was an Anthony Award nominee for Best Paperback Original. THE GOOD GIRL'S GUIDE TO MURDER was a BookSense Recommended Title in February of 2005 and, along with BLUE BLOOD, was an Independent Mystery Booksellers Association best-seller and a top-seller for the Mystery Guild. Susan's just finishing up the fourth in the series, NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEB, and has a fifth book under contract. For fun, she blogs with the Book Tarts at The Lipstick Chronicles and group promotes with the fabulous Mystery Chicks!
So please give a rousing Lit Chicks welcome to the amazing Susan McBride!!! (Did I mention she's giving away five autographed copies? So Send an e-mail with your name and mailing address to Giveaway at Literary Chicks dot com with the subject header "I Have a Lonely HeartI) between now and March 21st. Susan will be here every Wednesday this month (starting tomorrow!!! Hee hee! Did I mention I ADORE her books??) and will announce the five lucky winners on the 22nd!
Happy March!! May you have the heart of a lion and the sweet, curly nature of a lamb, er, or something like that. :)
Alesia
Posted by Alesia at 7:19 AM | Comments (8)
February 27, 2006
The Plague
Cough, sniffle, snort.
I’m sick. Again. George, too. Our two-year-old, happily, is on the mend from last week’s illness (and is back to running around saying, “I LOVE trains! I LOVE trains!”), but my dad and step-mom, who came in for the weekend, are now sick. My dad has spent the past two days wandering around with a small garbage can clutched to his chest, turning green whenever I ask him if he’d like something to eat.
"Want us to order in? We could get Mexican. How does a burrito sound?" I offered.
"Gah," my dad groaned. "Please stop."
He really shouldn't have teased me so much over the past thirty-plus years. Payback is a bitch.
So today kicks off the fifth week where someone in my house has been sick. Four straight weeks where at least one person has been coughing or wheezing or hacking up nasty green stuff or having projectile vomit. Fun, fun, fun.
My second bout of bronchitis in two weeks left me with laryngitis and a plugged up ear all at the same time.
“I feel like Helen Keller,” I croaked.
“Except she knew sign language,” George replied. “Stop trying to talk.”
“I wish I knew sign language,” I whispered gloomily.
When this all first started, George and I were calling it The Crud. As in, the sort of nasty little infection that starts of feeling like a flu and quickly blossoms into ear and bronchial infections. But now that it’s gone on so long, and now that we’ve infected at least two additional people with it, I’m starting to think that it might just be a resurgence of The Plague. I’m just waiting for someone to come by and paint a big black X on our door.
The last time I was this sick was my sophomore year in college when I got Mono. But the nice thing about that illness was that all I could keep down was hot tea, and I ended up losing twenty pounds, and so I had that nice heroin chic look for the rest of the semester.
Since the only thing I want to eat now is sugar – preferably chocolates – I don’t see that happening. In fact, I’m pretty sure that after a month of sitting around (too sick to run), noshing on Valentines Day chocolates, I look more like the Stay-Puff Marshmallow Man than Kate Moss.
So is anyone else under the weather? Come on, fess up. Misery loves company.
Posted by Whitney at 6:55 AM | Comments (7)
February 26, 2006
Am I My Sister's Keeper?
Apparently not.
My sisters and I are close. Very close. Really very completely close.
How close you ask?
So close that I carry a separate cell phone that I use only to talk to my sisters an my mother. We call it the Batphone and for quite a while I was required to answer it by saying, "Yes, Commissioner! This is Bat Girl."
So close that I generally know what color toenail polish each one of them is wearing and why.
So close . . . you get the picture.
So Sissy #2 sent out one of those e-mail surveys where you fill in stuff about your favorite color and your favorite movie and other stuff. Sissy #1 took one glance and deleted it because she doesn't have time for frippery like that. I, of course, read the whole thing and discovered that my sister's favorite dessert is peach pie.
Peach pie!
I have never once seen her eat peach pie. I have never heard her mention peach pie. One year when she was visiting during her birthday, I actually resorted to sticking a candle in the middle of giant bowl of Red Hots because that was the only sweet I could think of that she really liked.
Sissy #2 is a major carnivore. Family lore says she was bitten by a dog when she was two because she tried to steal a bone back from the dog because she wasn't done chewing on it herself. I am the one who craves sweets. Sissy #1 sensibly craves vegetables, fruit and cheese. Well, the cheese might not be sensible, but she is married to a French man so we have to make allowances.
So I wrote Sissy #2 back and said, "I am not filling out this survey because you lied on yours. You said your favorite dessert is peach pie. It's Red Hots."
"No," she wrote back. "It's peach pie."
"Since when?" I responded.
"Since forever."
So I went to the arbiter, otherwise known as Mommy. "What's Sissy #2's favorite dessert?" I asked.
"Some gooey chocolate thing," my mother said.
I knew that wasn't right. Sissy #2 isn't a chocolate person. When someone gave us a big box of Godiva chocolates, she actually preferred to read the descriptions of the chocolates to us while we ate them than eat them herself. Which, just so you know, is a wildly fun activity especially if the person reading the descriptions uses their best phone sex voice.
I asked Sissy #1 who knows everything. She said, "I have no idea. But then again, I can't remember what my favorite dessert is either."
Sissy #1 is, ahem, a little older than me. The memory thing has been going for a while. So I reminded her that her favorite dessert is carrot cake from Bakers Square and she was happy.
So I called Sissy #2 again and informed that she has no favorite dessert. She says I have to drop this or she's going to end up in therapy because no one in the family cares enough to remember that her favorite dessert is peach pie. My mother says I have to drop it because it's starting to annoy her. Sissy #1 doesn't remember that I've been obsessing about it anyway.
I can't though. I thought I knew everything about my sister and now I can't stop thinking about what else I might not know. What other secrets does she have?
So now I'm wondering, have you ever found out something surprising about someone you thought you knew completely? Was it an isolated thing? Or did it change everything?
Posted by Eileen at 12:18 PM | Comments (4)
February 25, 2006
House-Arrest
Just remember, it's Fish's fault.
Hello, all. It's Saturday morning, and I have a date with my family to go look at houses first thing in the morning, and then we're going to lunch, and then we're going to do housework, and Fish is telling me I can't blog. "Tell them it's Saturday and we're Catholic and you're eating Fish," he says with a raised eyebrow which means he means it Dirty. He says this as he's brushing Light's hair and Light says, "Oh! Gross! Daddy! We hate fish!" at which point I raise an eyebrow back at him and we are fully the Most Inappropriate Parents in the Known Universe.
But, that said, if the day gets too busy and I don't get back here for a real blog today, I just want y'all to know that it's Fish's fault.
And that's all I have to say. Happy Saturday!
Posted by Lani at 8:02 AM | Comments (4)
February 24, 2006
Indestructible Food
...Like Dwarf Bread, Except Much Tastier
So, anyone here a Terry Pratchett fan?
Every member of my household is a total devotee, and we always buy God Terry's latest book in hardback because we cannot, cannot wait until the paperback version emerges several months later. It's just not doable.
Anyway, last October we bought Thud, God Terry's latest book. Because I was writing, Oh Patient One read it first, and then Teenager #2 read it, and then, finally, at the weekend it was MY TURN! Yay!
I planned the day. I was going to stay in bed the whole of Saturday and read it whilst resident slaves (namely Oh Patient One and Teenager #2) pandered to my every whim. Or at least remembered to bring me frequent cups of tea and the odd sandwich for sustenance, here or there.
Except Teenager #2 had lent it to a friend. Yes. My Saturday Plan slipped sadly through my fingers. Let's just say I wasn't in the best of moods and generally grumbled under my breath the whole weekend.
So when I was in Manhattan a few weeks later, I had lunch with Nice Publicists at HarperCollins, and we were chatting about books, and I mentioned how much I loved Terry, and they very kindly GAVE ME A COPY OF THUD, and other various HarperCollins titles. I love people who give me books. I love Nice Publicists even if they don't give me books, because they are just so, well, nice...
Anyway...
Teenager #1 was staying in the hotel with me, because she is in college not far from Manhattan and it gave us time to catch up on everything. Poor Teenager #1 (with big, sad, doe eyes) told me that she would have to wait for the paperback version because hardback books were beyond her student means. I took pity on her and lent her my gift copy on the understanding that she brought it with her when she came to vist us at Christmas.
She forgot.
In the meantime, Teenager #2's friend forgot to give back our original copy...
So I helpfully reminded Teenager #2 (because as you know, I never nag, God forbid), and helpfully reminded him some more, and finally I forgot.
Until one day I remembered and prompted him about it.
Teenager #2: "But my friend gave it back weeks ago," he informed me.
Me: "But I haven't seen it."
Teenager #2: "It's on one of the bookshelves under P for Pratchett."
Me (absolutely excited and then totally deflated): "No, it's not," checking under P for Pratchett.
Anyway. I turned the apartment upside down looking for this book. For days on end. Until, finally, one day when I was looking for a book to read, and I was skimming the P's, THERE WAS THUD, right where it should be, under P for Pratchett.
I swear the house fairies were playing a trick on me. Or whatever.
So finally, I wallowed in, I luxuriated in Thud - it was every bit as wonderful as I thought it would be, and when I finished it I read it again.
But I've totally digressed from Indescructible Food...
See. God Terry has Dwarf Bread in his books, and it is totally indestructible as well as totally inedible, and you would rather do absolutely anything than eat this bread, and just thinking about eating it completely destroys your appetite.
The reason I mention this is because the Dutch have their own particular version of Dwarf Bread, except it is totally edible. Let me introduce you to...the stroopwaffel. They are hard, they are sweet, they are round, and in the middle is a syrupy honeyish type of substance, and everyone, but everyone who comes to vist us, from whichever corner of the globe they hail, completely LOVES them, and always take packets upon packets of them back home with them. Teenager #1 took packets upon packets of them back to NJ, because her friends begged her.
But here's the handy thing about stroopwaffels. They don't melt, they don't break, and they don't seem to rot. When we have gone on driving vacations there and back again, the handy stroopwaffel has been our best friend and often, the odd packet has made it back home with us from wherever we have been, even if they have been sat on, or stomped on, or had heavy suitcases placed on top of them.
They are always still edible at the end of the journey.
If you are ever in the Netherlands, you must try them :-)
But in the meantime, I'd love to hear about your version of Indestructible Food. Or, indeed, how much you love God Terry, too, and which are your favorite books!
Michelle
Posted by Michelle at 11:04 AM | Comments (6)
February 22, 2006
Inadvertent Insults
... From Brenda, February's Guest Literary Chick
Before I get to the real point of this, my last blog as February’s Guest Chick, and announce the winners of the “Win Some Monkey Love” contest, I wanted to share something that happened this weekend.
I was in my two-year-old son’s room, attempting to change his diaper, but he kept squirming away to play with his older brother (my 10-year-old stepson). I was sitting on a throw rug, which, like everything else in the room, is decorated with animals (naturally). Lacking the energy to get up and chase him, I patted the spot on the carpet where I wanted him to plop his petite behind. “Sit on the hippo,” I told him.
He ignored me.
“Sit on the hippo,” I repeated, exhaustion and frustration creeping into my voice. “Come on, Sweetie. Sit on the hippo.”
At which point he walked toward me, turned, and sat on my lap.
Needless to say, my stepson found this hysterically funny and kept shouting, “He thinks you’re a hippo!” while rolling on the floor.
While I don’t really believe my two-year-old intended to infer that I am one of the earth’s largest land animals, the exchange did make me consider a new diet plan.
It also made me think of other inadvertent insults I’ve endured. Thankfully, like a hippo (which I’m not), I’m very thick-skinned. Intentional or not, most insults roll off my back like water off a hippo’s hide (still … not).
Like this one: A well-endowed friend, in the changing room at the gym, told me, “You’re lucky you’re so flat-chested; you don’t have to worry about wearing a sports bra when you work out.”
Then there was the coworker who, upon meeting me, said I look exactly like a girl she went to high school with, then proceeded to tell me the girl had abnormal amounts of body hair and an unnatural body odor.
More recently, I’ve been hearing from friends, family, and acquaintances who have read my novel, Monkey Love. They all think it’s hilarious (maybe even FREAKIN’ FABULOUS). But the most common remark goes something like this: “I had no idea you were so funny, Brenda. You always seem so .…”
They always trail off, then, as though realizing there’s no good way to fill in that particular blank. “Serious”? "Dull?" Mind-numbingly boring”? Or just plain “not funny.”
Not one person has said to me, “Oh my gosh, I was completely unsurprised at how funny your book is, because you are knee-slappingly hilarious in real life!”
That’s okay. My two-year-old thinks his mommy is funny, and, aside from mistaking me for a two-ton pachyderm, has demonstrated exceedingly good judgment in his young life.
Have you been on the receiving end of an inadvertent insult, whether humorous or hurtful? Let me know. My run here is finished, but you can always stop by my website.…
Thanks to Lani, Michelle, Alesia, Eileen, Whitney, and Beth! It has been an honor and a pleasure to be a temporary Literary Chick.
And before I forget, the winners of the Monkey Love contest are: Dorre Reiss of Passaic, NJ, and Maureen Emmons of Yardley, PA. Congratulations!
Posted by at 12:28 AM | Comments (12)
February 21, 2006
I am, too, a bad ass
and apparently, so is my mom...
I just handed in an essay about my relationship with my mom for an anthology to be published next year. It’s a sweet essay, poignant and personal, but evocative (I hope) of the universal complexities in every mother-daughter dance.
Or so I thought.
Last week, I emailed the first draft to my mom and envisioned her tears of joy as she read it. She would call me and we would share and care and reminisce in a soft-focus haze of love.
Well, she called me, all right. But there were no tears of joy. “The way you’ve portrayed me in this essay?” she said. “I’m nothing like this.”
“But…” I frowned into the phone. “Yes, you are.”
“Oh no, I’m not.”
“Oh yes, you are.”
“Oh no, I’m not.”
And on and on. For like, hours. We can agree that certain events took place—but the way they took place differs wildly, depending on which of us you talk to. We ended up having a good laugh and agreeing that we’re lucky we can’t see ourselves as others do.
I myself harbor this delusion that I am just like Dr. Cristina Yang on Grey’s Anatomy. I’m tough, I’m sullen, I’m a hard-core, bad ass force to be reckoned with. Seriously. I’m the ice queen. Fear me. Yar.
But if you ask my friends, they will beg to differ. In fact, they will tell you that the TV character I most resemble is Charlotte York from Sex and the City. (Whatever. Just because I write thank you notes in a timely fashion…)
This wounds me. I don’t want to be Charlotte; I want to be Cristina. And anyone who knows me will affirm that I am, in fact, Cristina all the way.
Except for, you know, my closest friends. Hmph.
So maybe it’s better than I can’t see myself the way you guys do. But I know the truth, and the truth is that Cristina and I were separated at birth. Oh, and while we’re on the subject of Grey’s Anatomy, I’d like to know where you all stand on the McDreamy versus McSteamy controversy.
I’m a McDreamy girl. McSteamy’s a little too self-consciously tortured for my tastes. I mean, why go out of your way to inject drama and obstacles into your life? Sure, he’d be fun for a fling, but McDreamy is much better relationship material. Plus he has good hair, even after 12 hours in surgery, and he likes dogs. That’s very important in a man.
Which is probably just what Charlotte would say.
Sigh.
Posted by Beth at 1:10 AM | Comments (10)
February 20, 2006
Bad Hair Day
Or, why my son is wearing a baseball hat.
On Friday, I took my two-year-old to the barber to get his hair cut. From the moment the stylist snapped the plastic smock around his neck, Sam screamed. And screamed. And screamed some more. He also thrashed around, refusing to sit still even for a moment, which forced the stylist to make wild lunges at his head with her scissors. Which, strictly speaking, isn’t something any parent ever really wants to see.
The end result was about the worst haircut I’ve ever seen on anyone, young or old. It was choppy, uneven, and his bangs were cut to look like Jim Carrey’s in Dumb & Dumber. Even worse, the stylist wasn’t able to take anything off the back, so Sam ended up with a baby mullet.
I couldn’t even blame the stylist. I’m sure she does a lovely job on clients who aren’t moving targets.
George and I did the best we could to remedy Sam’s hair, but once things are that bad, all you can do is go short. Really, really short. (I thought some hair gel might also help, but George was appalled at the idea. Men.)
The experience brought back memories of all of the bad haircuts I’ve had over the years. Like pretty much all of middle school and high school. (My mother used to instruct the stylist to cut my hair in an awful short, layered do. Why she did this, I don’t know. I really wasn’t all that bad of a kid.)
And then right after Sam was born, I insisted that my stylist cut off all my hair. I was tired, and fat, and leaking milk out of my boobs, and I had the insane idea that a short hair-do would make me look peppy and spunky, like Annette Benning or Sharon Stone. Yeah, well. Instead, I was tired, and fat, and leaking milk, and had really ugly hair.
And don’t even get me started on the hair coloring disasters. Like when I turned my hair pink. Or when I turned it orange. Or when I over bleached it, and no matter how much conditioner I used, my hair looked like white straw.
So . . . what was your worst hair disaster?
Posted by Whitney at 12:00 PM | Comments (17)
February 19, 2006
Hello, My Name is Eileen.
And I'm an Olympaholic.
I love the Olympics. From the goofy opening ceremonies to the weirdly cloying personal interviews to the fake fireplace behind Bob Costas. I completely groove on them.
I particularly love all the weird sports that I never really see otherwise. You know what I mean, the ones where people cross country ski at a blistering pace than fall face first into the snow to shoot at something. Or maybe the ones where four people on snowboards careen down a hill at the same time, knocking each other around like kids who all yelled "shotgun" at the same time. This year, I am completely enraptured by Curling.
I know I'm not alone. I can't be the only one spell-bound as Pete Fenson, the USA Skip, works out his strategy and the crouches low to release his stone before he hits the hog line. I got so excited the other day, I didn't really how loudly I was screaming, "Hurry! Hard!" to the Brushers until Thing One came running out of his room to see what was wrong.
Part of my fascination might be that my two exercise buddies (the ones who dragged me through 13.1 miles of running a couple weeks ago) think that Curling may be our last chance to be Olympic athletes. None of us have ever Curled. Two of us have very poor depth perception, but here's what we think is the real problem. We don't like the clothes.
The U.S. Olympic Curling Team seems to wear Polo shirts and black pants. There's something terribly wrong about a face as semitic as mine popping out of the collar of a Polo shirt. My Sisters-in-Sweat aren't too taken with Polos either. And the shoes? Totally orthopedic looking. Yeesh.
I think we should wear dresses like the ice dancers wear. We're still working on the shoe issue, but we're leaning toward some kind of cute boot like thing.
Once we have that figured out though, look out.
Posted by Eileen at 12:59 PM | Comments (11)
February 18, 2006
Maybe This is Why All Our Visitors Stay at Hotels...
If lazy were a blog, this is what it would look like...
Hello, all. I'm on deadline, and THISCLOSE to being done, done, done, so I'm gonna let the kids write my blog this week. Which doesn't mean they're going to be physically typing the words. That'll come in a few years. No, I'm just going to give you little snippets of actual conversations that have happened in my house this week. Here's the cast of characters:
FISH. Husband. 33 years old. Blonde hair, going increasingly gray, which he blames on me. Irreverent sense of humor. What we in the industry term a "writing widow," meaning that when I'm under deadline, he's basically on his own.
SWEETNESS. Daughter The First. 6 years old. Blonde hair. Irreverent sense of humor. Likes poop jokes and cheesy crackers.
LIGHT. Daughter the Second. 4 years old. Brown hair. Irreverent sense of humor. Likes to walk around the house with no pants on.
LANI. Well. You know.
Without further ado...
INT. RICH FAMILY BATHROOM. DAY.
LANI is... well. It's a bathroom. Use your imagination. BOOM! Door flies open. Lani screams.
LANI: Hey! Privacy!
LIGHT: I want to take a bath.
LANI: Okay. I'll draw you a bath. In a minute. Bye.
LIGHT: I want the water warm.
LANI: Warm water. Check. Bye.
LIGHT: Not hot.
LANI: Got it. Not hot. Bye.
LIGHT: Because if it's hot, then I'll get in it, and I'll cry. And my skin will come off.
LANI:
LIGHT: And there will be blood everywhere.
LANI: My God, you're a morbid kid. Bye.
LIGHT: (running off to the bedroom, leaving the bathroom door wide open) Mommy says I'm a morbid kid! Mommy says I'm a morbid kid! (pause) What's a morbid kid?
INT. RICH FAMILY LIVING ROOM. NIGHT.
Entire family is assembled in the living room. The TWO GIRLS are crawling all over LANI, who is trying to protect her internal organs from battling bony limbs without looking like she doesn't enjoy the affection of her children as they try to outdo each other. FISH watches in amusement.
SWEETNESS: When I grow up, I want to be a writer, like Mommy.
LANI: Awwww. Ow!
LIGHT: When I grow up, I want to be a present-giver.
LANI: Awwww. Ow!
SWEETNESS: And I'm going to put words in the computer!
LIGHT: And I'm going to be careful with the scissors!
INT. RICH FAMILY DINING ROOM. CRACK OF FREAKIN' DAWN.
LANI is standing in the kitchen, one eye open, staring at THE GIRLS.
LANI: What do you want for breakfast?
SWEETNESS: Poop waffles! (breaks into hysterical laughter)
LANI: I'm not making waffles. Kix or Cheerios?
SWEETNESS: Poop-eee-ohs! (more hysterical laughter)
LANI:
SWEETNESS: Kix Poops! (again, with the hysteria)
LANI: Light, what do you want?
LIGHT: Plain Cheerios. Please.
FISH: (yelling from the bedroom) Honey, I'll pay you a million dollars if you bring me some coffee!
SWEETNESS: Pee coffee! Coff-pee!
LIGHT: Don't put pee in Daddy's coffee!
So... what's been heard around your house this week?
Posted by Lani at 6:00 AM | Comments (7)
February 17, 2006
Famous People...
...Who Come From My City
So, as you might have guessed by now, I am a big music lover. And no, I don't just mean Led Zeppelin (although those Led Zep boys are, and will always be to me, my gods amongst men). I love a lot of other music, too.
So far this year (approximately seven weeks into the new year) Oh Patient One and I have bought fifteen CDs. Yes, I know that sounds like a lot, but we really do love music and at the end of last year we discovered...
Virginradioxtreme is a radio station that plays a lot of up-and-coming British and American bands, and is generally fabulous, and it is all Virginradioxtreme's fault that we have so far purchased fifteen new CDs in only seven weeks, because the music scene at the moment is really hopping! (And if you don't beeleeve me, just go listen online for a day, or even for a few days, and you might see what I mean).
Anyway, *fans self to cool down,* one of the new CDs we have is Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not by The Arctic Monkeys.
My especial favorites on this CD so far are I Bet That You Look Good On The Dance Floor (what a great title!), and When The Sun Goes Down, but what I discovered today via a cunning lyric in one of their songs that was about taking a taxi to High Green via Hillsborough, is that they come from my home city of Sheffield! And not only from my home city, but from a mile or so down the road from where I lived. I used to take that cab to Lound Side, on the way to High Green via Hillsborough!
It crossed my mind that the lads from the band might have (a) gone to my old school, or (b) be related to people that I used to know. (Probably, I have to admit, their older brothers and sisters. Or their parents, who would obviously have been a lot older than me, LOL.)
So anyway, it got me to thinking about other famous (at least, famous to me) people who come from Sheffield. I once walked past Phil Oakey from Human League and his entourage when I was shopping in Sheffield city center. And Glen Gregory from Heaven 17 was part of the stage crew at the Crucible Theatre when I worked there.
It got me to thinking that the world really is a small place!
And what I would like to know is this. Does someone famous (or infamous) come from your hometown or city? Did you ever walk past them?
Oh, call me curious if you like...
Michelle, off to listen to I Bet That You Look Good On The Dancefloor for the millionth time!
Posted by Michelle at 3:35 PM | Comments (10)
February 16, 2006
I'm not that innocent
Song lyrics from hell
Deep in the book that will be turned in this week - so just checking in to say I hate Britney Spears. I mean, not personally, I'm sure she's a lovely girl, but she has been the cause of much anguish this week in my house. Princess somehow got her hands on a Britney CD that has an insidious song on it, the main lyrics of which seem to be I'M NOT THAT INNOCENT.
Picture my darling cherub-cheeked 6 year-old daughter singing this.
Over and over and over until my brain explodes.
Sooooo, in honor of my deadline-frazzed brain, and my upcoming book, I'm running a little contest here at the Lit Chicks. Write a comment and tell me your vote for the most annoying song lyrics of all time, and I'll randomly pick 3 to receive a free copy of BLONDES HAVE MORE FELONS.
OOPS, I DID IT AGAIN.
hugs,
Alesia, whose vote is either for the hideous INNOCENT song or the Barney theme song, which still haunts me at random moments YEARS after my kids quit watching the show
Posted by Alesia at 8:15 AM | Comments (24)
February 15, 2006
Is That a Barnacle in Your Pocket...?
From Brenda, February’s Guest Literary Chick
In honor of Valentine's Day, I thought I'd share some scintillating facts I've learned over the years working with, researching, and writing about animals.
Let's start with some deep-sea trivia you won't learn from SpongeBob: A barnacle's penis is about 10 times its body height. Ten times. That's the largest penis-to-body size ratio in the animal kingdom. Now you know why barnacles don't get around much.
Could you imagine if human males had the equivalent? First of all, ouch. Secondly, after the initial novelty wore off, it'd be impossible to get a guy up off the couch to do anything. "Sorry, hon, I can't mow the lawn, I injured my back carrying around my enormous 60-foot penis." This must be why, after a brief, free-floating larval stage, barnacles attach themselves to a fixed object (like a boat bottom, dock, or fellow sea creature) and live a sedentary life. Their dating pool is thus limited to immediate neighbors. I like my neighbors, but I'm really glad I could look farther afield when choosing a mate.
We’ve all heard about how the female praying mantis will kill and eat her mate right after (or sometimes during) sex. Turns out, sex is more pleasurable for the female if she bites her mate’s head off during the act, since losing his brain releases his inhibitions. (Fear of post-coital decapitation would hamper a male’s performance in any species, I would think.) Now we know what male mantises are praying about.
Of course, Valentine’s Day isn’t just about sex … It’s also about presents. And gift-giving isn’t a uniquely human endeavor. Many animals reward gift-bearing suitors with sex. Female penguins, even those in seemingly monogamous relationships, will mate with males who bring them big, shiny rocks. (Some human females will do this too, for the right kind of rock.)
I’ve gotten some pretty cheesy Valentine’s Day gifts in my life. The least romantic was a coffee mug, still in a Walmart bag with the receipt, which my then-boyfriend thrust at me saying, “Um, here, happy … whatever.” But hey, even a cheap mug is better than a rotting corpse, which is what male “burying” beetles use to woo their mates. The boy beetle locates the carcass of a bird or rodent (the bigger, the better), then emits pheromones to attract a mate (if striking a jaunty pose atop a dead rat isn’t sexy enough). In this case, the “gift” isn’t actually for the female; it’s food for their future offspring. The couple seals themselves in a burial chamber with the deceased, they mate, and the female lays her eggs in a nearby tunnel. When the babies are born, their first meal is already decomposing in the next room.
I used to hate Valentine’s Day, but since getting married to a very romantic guy, it’s become one of my favorite days of the year. My husband not only always remembers Valentine’s Day, he can also be counted on to give me a gift that is neither a coffee mug nor a rotting corpse. For that I am thankful.
I’m also really, really glad he’s not a barnacle.
Posted by at 7:30 AM | Comments (3)
February 14, 2006
Surefire tips for a blissful love life
brought to you in part by Home Depot...
Crap. I didn’t realize it was Valentine’s Day until I read Whitney’s post. Darn holiday snuck up on me this year. So I just rushed out to the drugstore to procure a valentine for Mr. Tall, along with a super size box of Kleenex (I made the mistake of getting on an airplane 10 days ago and have been riddled with germs ever since) and the place was chock full of desperate guys, all of them drenched with flop sweat while scanning the racks of frilly red cards with wild eyes. And now…I’m one of them. We’re gonna have to change the name of this blog to 5 Literary Chicks and 1 Clueless Guy With Really Well Conditioned Hair. Pray for me.
Anyway, in honor of V-Day, I figured I’d pass along my top 3 relationship tips. We’ll start with my personal mantra:
Happiness is having separate bathrooms
Mr. Tall’s job requires him to work crazy, erratic hours, and he’ll often get up at mythical hours of the morning, like 4 a.m. Now, I’ve heard about 4 a.m. But I don’t want to see 4 a.m. And I definitely don’t want to see anyone else at 4 a.m. So, early in our marriage, Mr. Tall took over the guest bathroom. The guest bathroom is "his," the master bath is “mine” (I get the good shower with the fancy “misting” showerhead, mwah ha ha). This has led to a détente of all squabbles over counter space, beard trimmings in the sink, and what, exactly, I need with 87 bottles of moisturizer. Now if we could just call a truce in the ongoing land war for closet space…
Never, ever remodel your kitchen
My mother shared this pearl of wisdom when I was about 21 and I laughed her to scorn. But since then, I have to say, I’ve seen a LOT of couples split while the contractors install the new cherry cabinets. I’m not sure whether the kitchen overhaul is a cause or a symptom of the relationship problems, but either way, I’m scared straight. You know what they say: remodel in haste, repent at leisure.
Avoid shopping for furniture together whenever possible
Well, unless your spouse is like Whitney and has an unerring ability to select fabulous pieces guaranteed to pull the whole living room together. Then, by all means, shop away. But I am willing to bet that most husbands/boyfriends are not at all like Whitney, as evidenced by the large number of shrieking couples I’ve witnessed in recent weeks while shopping for a sofa to replace the one Friday ate.
So there you have it--that's the best I've got. What? I’ve only been married for two years. Check back with me in about a decade. In the meantime, let’s all stop for a minute on this Valentine’s Day and remember what’s really important. It’s not the flowers, lingerie, or jewelry.
It’s the fact that the Easter candy will be out on the shelves starting tomorrow. Pick up a bag of Cadbury Mini-Eggs for me.
Got a surefire love tip of your own? Hit me!
Posted by Beth at 1:08 AM | Comments (13)
February 13, 2006
Wuv . . . True Wuv . . .
Where's My Freaking Chocolate?
Attention all Literary Chick husbands: tomorrow is Valentine's Day. That's right: TOMORROW. You have one day to haul ass over to the florist or gourmet chocolate shop (no cheap stuff), or even better, both.
You know what happens when you forget about Valentine's Day, right? If you’ve made that mistake in the past, then you're already heading out the door. If you haven't, I'll give you one hint: it's bad, so bad it will henceforth and forever be known in your house as the Great February Frost.
Even if your wife/girlfriend/whatever says things like, "I don't need a Hallmark holiday to celebrate our love," don't fall for it. She doesn’t really mean it, even if she says, “no, really, I mean it. Don’t get me anything.” It's a sucker move, meant to test you.
I started life off thinking that Valentine's Day was pretty sweet. Every year my dad would buy my sister and me each one of those little heart-shaped boxes of chocolates. And it was always a fun holiday at school, a day full of red lollipops and conversation hearts and other sorts of refined sugar.
But once I got into Middle School, all of that changed. Starting in fifth grade, Valentine's Day became all about the carnations.
Some sadistic student group would hold a yearly fundraiser in the weeks leading up to Valentine's Day. For a dollar a pop, you could send your friends -- or whoever you were crushing on -- a carnation with a little love note attached. And then on the morning of February 14th, the carnations would be distributed, and the girls who got carnations would carry them around all day to show them off.
Sounds like innocent fun, right? Not.
Because it all came down to a popularity contest. The cuter and more popular you were, the more carnations you got. And, by extension, it was the day you found out just how cute and popular others considered you. Kelli Cooney, a former Miss Little Syracuse, got so many carnations every year, she couldn't even carry the damn things around. She tried tucking them under her arm like a football, but the burden was so great, she eventually had to give up and store most of them in her locker.
Conversely, if you weren't so cute or so popular -- for example, if, like me, you had thick purple glasses, a mouthful of braces and a haircut identical to Kirk Cameron's on Growing Pains -- you were lucky to get a single pity flower sent by your mother.
Great freaking holiday, huh? Nothing like putting aside one whole day a year to celebrate those who are pretty and beloved, and ridicule those who aren't.
Which brings me back to my original point: guys, don't screw this one up. Valentine's Day may seem silly to you, but for us, there's a lot of baggage that goes along with it. So stay away from the sleazy lingerie and cheesy stuffed bears, and shell out for some roses or maybe a perfect, potted orchid. Trust me, you'll be glad you did.
Posted by Whitney at 1:58 PM | Comments (9)
February 12, 2006
Debauchery.
It's just not for me anymore.
Last night, the stars aligned and Things One and Two were both invited to spend the night elsewhere. As it happened, one of Cowboy's friends, Lynn Asher, and her good buddy, Allison Paige, were having the inaugural gig for their new band at the Sweetwater in Mill Valley. So Cowboy and I got dressed up and then saddled up and drove out there. I was so excited. I told some parents at the soccer game that we were going out to act like irresponsible teenagers.
I've seen both women perform separately and they totally rock. Together? They blew the rafters off the place. I cannot imagine what it must be like to open your mouth and have a sound like that come out. It must feel like you're channeling angels. One minute they had everyone on their feet, dancing like fools. The next, they'd have me near tears with a ballad.
But back to the debauchery.
Thing Two had two soccer games (both ties, he scored one goal, yes, he's gorgeous and athletic and no, I'm not biased in the least) so we had to go to those and then get home and get cleaned up and then distribute children around the city before we took off. This meant that we didn't have dinner because we were worried about getting there on time since Cowboy had promised he'd videotape the performance for them.
Thank goodness there was that awesome pizza place down the street from the bar. We ordered a couple of slices (so not Weight Watchers, but I was starving!) and a salad to share. It turned out the slices were about the size of a quarter of a pizza, but I ate them both anyway (so so so not Weight Watchers) and washed them down with beer (so so so so not Weight Watchers).
The heartburn hit about 20 minutes into the first set. That's when it occurred to me that I could be home on my couch watching the Olympics and crocheting. I was then horrified that that sounded like a good thing.
My cute shoes started to pinch on the walk to the pizza place. By the end of the first set, they were gripping my toes like a vise. It occurred to me that if I was on the couch crocheting and watching the Olympics, I would be wearing my comfy down slippers. I was horrified all over again.
The list goes on, right up to the fact that we didn't get home until two o'clock in the morning. Right now, my head feels like a giant helium balloon bobbing above my shoulders and my stomach is rolling. I am apparently too old for debauchery and am completely horrified that two slices of pizza and a draft beer now qualify as debauchery in my life.
So, final analysis? Ticket for the show: $12. Pizza slices and salad: $20. Hearing fantastic live music by two talented women: still priceless.
Posted by Eileen at 12:06 PM | Comments (10)
February 11, 2006
But... You Have a Cat...
I pity the poor fool that manages the apartment I rent. I pity the fool
Hi. Sorry. I don't know why the channeling of Mr. T there. Like tattoos and all-night-benders (which often precede the tattoos) it just seemed like a good idea at the time.
Oh, and before I get started today, I want to let y'all know that I've finally updated my website! Yay! And the first excerpt of my May release, The Comeback Kiss, is up! Yay! And there's another excerpt coming soon! Yay!
Sorry. Considering the fact that "Meet me in Reno, July 2005!" has been on my events page since last April... this is a big deal. Hee hee.
But that's not why I'm here today. I mean, shameless self-promotion is why I'm here, of course, but it's not what I came here to talk about.
I'm here to talk about the toy mouse... that wasn't.
In 1996, I was single and living in Syracuse and engaging in a string of what would turn out to be really poor dating scenarios. Not that they were bad guys, per se. They just weren't the guy for me. Little did I know that the man I was to someday marry and procreate with was back in Arizona, where I'd left him the year before. Yeah, "oops" doesn't exactly cover that. But, hey, it all turned out well, so let's move on.
Anyway, during these single years, I thought it made sense to get a cat. Companionship. Something to care for. And if I ended up alone for the rest of my life, there'd be someone to get drunk and watch depressive doomed-relationship movies with. I did have a roommate, but she had a boyfriend she didn't want to be "technically" living with, so they were at our place every even day, his place every odd day. I was for all intents and purposes living alone half the time, and a cat seemed like the perfect answer. So I went down to the Humane Society looking for a cute, short-hair calico kitten and came home with a black, fluffy cat that crawled on my shoulders and licked my face when I got there. I named her Dashwood. She was lazy, laid back, and let me drape her over my shoulders while I did the dishes.
It was instant love. Just add cat.
So, anyway, let's fast-forward a few months. It's early. Say, six o'clock. Just about time to get up and start getting ready for work. My eyes are closed, but I'm starting to wake up. I feel the familiar soft plunk-plunk-plunk of Dashwood hopping onto my bed to say "Good morning. Feed me." I hear another plunk, right on my pillow by my head and I turn to look.
"Ohhhh," I think sleepily. "How cute. Dash just gave me her gray toy mouse. Boy, it looks real. When did I buy her a toy mouse? Was it the day I got her collar with the...? No. No. NO. I NEVER GOT HER A TOY MOUSE."
I shoot up in bed, screaming. I grab my pillow and wing it across the room, where it thumps down into the corner, presumably on top of the toy mouse that wasn't. I have my hand over my heart, which is thumping wildly in my chest, and poor Dash is sitting on the foot of my bed, staring at me as if to say, "See if I ever bring you anything again, you ungrateful bitch. Do you know how long I had to hold its little gray head in the iron vise of my jaws while kicking the life out of it with my back paws? You think Jane Fonda is hard? Try killing a mouse for a while, okay? Then we'll talk abs of steel. Jeez."
Now, of course, it's an odd day, so I'm in the apartment by myself. No roommate's boyfriend to run to screaming. No Harvey Keitel to clean up the wetwork. I am forced to deal on my own, which I do by talking myself through it, running a vocal narrative to keep myself sane as I handle the situation.
"Okay. Okay. Just gonna get some paper towels. Okay. Got enough paper towels to alarm an environmentalist. Okay. Okay. Just gonna walk over, lift up the pillow OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD it's so dead. Okay. Good thing. If it was running around, that would be worse. Okay. Okay. Just... pick... it... up... with... the... paper...... ACK ACK ACK I HAVE IT I HAVE IT BATHROOM BATHROOM BATHROOM!!!"
Fluuuuuuuuuuush.
Note: No, I didn't flush the paper towels. Just the mouse. Which isn't much better but I was a young woman alone in a harrowing situation. What would you have done?
Fast-forward to later in my day, while I'm at work. I've been calling my building super like a thousand times, waiting for a call back. I've been sharing the "toy mouse that wasn't" story with everyone, which is a lot of everyones, because I worked in an edit lab at Syracuse University and there was a lot of traffic. Students, faculty, other staff. Everyone heard the story. Finally, the super calls me back, and it goes a little something like this:
S: Yeah, uh. Lannie?
L: No. Lani. Like Bonnie, but with an L and spelled different. But that's not what's important. What's important is that my cat left a mouse in my bed this morning... (pause to shudder) ... and she's an indoor cat, like totally indoor, which means there was a mouse in my apartment. Do you understand what I'm telling you?
S: (pause) That you had a mouse in your apartment?
L: Yes!! That's it exactly!!! I had a mouse in my apartment.
S: (very obviously trying not to laugh; he was a very nice super, by the way) Well. See. Here's the thing. It's spring, and sometimes, yes, mice do get in the building. You've lived here how long?
L: About a year.
S: And this was the only mouse?
L: OH, GOD, YES!!! WHAT, DO YOU THINK THERE ARE MORE?
S: No. No, ma'am. What I'm saying is that this is something of an isolated event. It does happen, but it's very rare, and--
L: Okay. Okay. So what do we do now? I mean, to be proactive? Rat poison? Little snappy necky things with cheese? Electric shock plates around the apartment, like little mousy aversion therapy? Because, see, I'm freaking out as it is, but if I pour out my Cheerios one day and there's Mickey asking me if I happen to have some brie, you're gonna have a full-fledged psychological event brewing here. You understand what I'm saying?
S: (long pause) Well. Yes. I do understand... but...
L: But what? What?
S: Well... you have a cat.
L:
S: Um. Okay. Poison, mouse traps - I mean, snappy-necky things - those are effective. And electro-shock aversion therapy - haven't really heard of that, but I imagine it'd be expensive. But really, there's one method of getting rid of mice that's really effective and... well, you've already got it.
L: Oh. So, what you're saying is that you guys already have snappy-necky things in the building, but this little guy just happened to get around it?
S: (speaking very slowly) No. No, that's not what I'm saying. What I'm saying is, you have a cat.
L: Yeah. I know. (pause) So... what? No snappy-necky things?
S: You have. A cat. And from what you described, it seems to me she handled the situation pretty well for you, with the exception of... you know... the pillow thing. I can see how that would be disturbing but... you have a cat.
L:
S: So... you know. Call me if you have another incident, but I really doubt you will. Thanks so much.
And that was the end of that conversation. As it turns out, we didn't have another incident, that I knew of, anyway. Dash never gave me another "gift," aside from her companionship and lazy snuggles for the next eight years. And the super... well, I believe he's in construction now. Some jobs just don't pay enough. Especially when they involve dealing with me.
This blog was brought to you by Monkey Love, Brenda Scott Royce’s hilarious debut novel about love, odd jobs and odder pets.
Posted by Lani at 7:23 AM | Comments (5)
February 10, 2006
The Truth About Cats And Dogs
'Cept only a teeny bit...
So, I love cats and dogs, but the truth is that I love cats just a teeny bit more than I love dogs simply because...
...Cats are less dependent than your average dog. Mostly. And cats look after themselves without too much intervention. Usually. And are a bit less of a headache when you are on the move from continent to contient and have to worry about things called quarantine, and your pet (insert animal of choice) being able to cope with it. It's true - cat's are (and please don't chuck rotten tomatoes at me, dog lovers) just a bit easier at adapting to that kind of stuff and, well, other stuff, too...which is why I've always had cats rather than dogs.
But I do love both, and here is a little bit about a dog and a cat I have known ...
The Truth About Dogs
Way back when, in the depths of time, I was three. Yes, I was three. At that time we had a rather largeish, very daft (which means stupid and silly) poodle named Poodle. Poodle was one of those poodles with all the right bits shaved off to make her look even more silly and poodlish than she actually was. (Why do people do that to poodles?) I loved Poodle with my whole being.
That year, (Christmas, to sell on to others) my dad got a great deal from *someone he knew* on liqueur chocolates. These were regular little chocolates, except were hollow but with an extra special something (alcholol volume 40% or thereabouts) in the middle. Dad had a lot of orders, and he stored the stock in our kitchen on a high shelf.
Well, one morning Poodle and I got up way early (about 5ish in the morning) and we eyed those chocolates on that high shelf with a great deal of interest. We only understood the chocolate part and not the (40% volume filling) liqueur part.
Anyhoo, I had an idea. I got a chair, and then I climbed on it, and all of a sudden I could reach those boxes of chocolates on their high shelf. I opened every single box. Poodle (because she loved chocolate as much as three-year-old me) and I had a fine old time eating those chocolates...
Our first hangover! My parents were mortified (and now broke - on account of having to replace all those chocolates)! Apparently, I stopped eating those chocolates (40% proof) after only a few, but Poodle went on and on and on...
(PS. she had a headache, and was off her regular food for a few days, but she was okay.)
The Truth About Cats
Quite a few years later Fred came into my life, shortly before Teenager #1 was born.
Freddie was a self-conserving coward (and generally an all-round self-preservationist kind of cat), but in a loveable kind of way. He always approached danger only if there was some kind of backup on hand to sort it out. Usually, that meant me or Oh Patient One.
One year we had a glut of snails in our backyard - and that meant a glut of birds (mainly thrushes) after eating the glut of snails.
Well. Fred took umbridge with (got really mad with) those thrushes in our backyard. He would come and yowl at me in the house, and then I'd follow him into the backyard, and he'd CHASE those thruses and generally see them off! With me as his champion. But the moment I went back into the kitchen, those thrushes would chase poor Freddie back indoors...
Ah, gotta love the underdog... (or undercat...)
Michelle
This blog was brought to you by Monkey Love, Brenda Scott Royce’s hilarious debut novel about love, odd jobs and odder pets.
Posted by Michelle at 12:47 PM | Comments (7)
February 9, 2006
And they call it Puppy Love
Googly-eyed over a puppy
Like Beth, I'm fairly upload-challenged, so I'm just going to show you my new puppy, Peanut, like this, and this and point out that she is the cutest puppy on the PLANET. At least, the cutest puppy since Daisy was a puppy.
And THAT, of course, is the problem.
We got us a house filled with pugly jealousy.
As I told Navy Guy, when Daisy tried to use her teeth to remove Peanut's ear (Peanut had stolen the sacred hedgehog), it makes perfect sense to me. I mean, yes, we've given Daisy (now 2 years old, or 14 in dog years, which would make her a teenager and we all know THAT has its own problems) tons and TONS of extra attention and cuddles in the 2 weeks since we brought puppy home.
And yes, Peanut has her own toys and her own dishes and her own bed and is - technically - supposed to leave Daisy's stuff alone. But she doesn't. In Peanut's defense, Daisy taunts her with the hedgehog: "Look what I've got, you interloper. Clearly, I am a FAMILY MEMBER and you are merely a little rat-sized ANNOYANCE. Plus, I can jump on the bed and you can't. NYAH NYAH NYAH." [Editor's note: translated from the original Dog.]
So Peanut, being a 4.8 pound puppy, does what puppies do. She jumps on Daisy's head and tries to take the hedgie away. Chaos ensues.
Now, when you think about this logically, it's a DUH moment. I told Navy Guy that if he brought a younger, cuter wife home and she thought she could take my jewelry and drag it back to her crate, I'd be delivering the big smackdown, myself.
[This was the point where he gave me that "you need professional help" look and changed the subject, which happens more often than you might think in our conversations, for some inexplicable reason.]
This is the first time I've ever had a puppy and an adult dog at the same time, and it's an interesting view into the world of animal hierarchy. Daisy is all about sharing the second-tier toys, but the hedgie and "her" place on my lap is OFF LIMITS to the puppy.
I totally understand. She better stay away from my jewelry, too.
hugs,
Alesia
This blog was brought to you by Monkey Love, Brenda Scott Royce’s hilarious debut novel about love, odd jobs and odder pets.
Posted by Alesia at 10:54 AM | Comments (12)
February 8, 2006
Soupy Sales Killed My Dog
... I think
Deciding which pet to write about here during Pets Week was tough. After all, I’ve been the proud owner of Silver the Bionic Goldfish, Kullervo the Stump-Tailed Gerbil, and Gizmo the Vicious Attack Cat. But my mind kept coming back to a long-ago family dog with the unwieldy name of Archibald Bunkerbald Bunkerbald McLeish (that’s what happens when Mom goes to work and lets her alcoholic husband and very young daughters name the dog).
In life Archie was an ordinary mutt. But in death he achieved near-mythic status (at least in my family) for his fateful encounter with the front-end of Soupy Sales’ sedan.
Before Soupy (still alive and kickin’ at 80) slaps me with a libel suit, let me prevaricate a wee bit. I didn’t see Soupy do it. I was only four years old at the time, and wouldn’t have known Soupy Sales from Sally Struthers. And various members of my family are at odds as to what actually happened.
But here’s what I know. Archie was struck by a car while out for a walk with my older sister and her friends. We lived in New York’s Westchester County. Because of its proximity to Manhattan, it wasn’t unheard of for the famous and near-famous to blow through our little town. When my mother worked at the local diner, she waited on a handful of celebs, her favorites being Fred Gwynne and Al Lewis (a.k.a. Herman and Grandpa Munster).
So it’s not inconceivable that Soupy Sales, perhaps best known for getting the most pies in the face on TV, was driving the car that sent Archie to doggie heaven.
I was home when it happened, alternately dressing and undressing my Dressy Bessie doll, when my mother ran inside the house, covered in blood, and told me to come outside to say goodbye to Archie. I refused to budge, thinking somehow that if I didn’t go outside and say goodbye, it wouldn’t be true.
Later, after Archie was buried in the backyard and we’d stopped sobbing, my sister showed us the wrinkled up paper on which Soupy Sales had scrawled his name. (Who stops to sign autographs after something like that? Sorry I killed your dog. Love, Soupy.)
Since muttricide isn’t a jailable offense, Soupy went on to receive roughly a million more pies in the face throughout the years. Whenever I’d see his smiling mug on TV, I’d point an accusing finger at the screen and yell “dog killer!”
My older sister, the only member of our family to witness the incident, now claims it wasn’t Soupy after all. She says Soupy did come through town, stopped to ask directions, and signed a few autographs. A different driver, on a different day, killed my dog.
She would have been about six at the time.
And she’s been known to drink.
My mother sides with me and says Soupy did it. You’d think her memory would be the more credible since she was an adult at the time. But my mother has been known to forget my birthday, and occasionally my name.
So the jury’s still out.
This blog was brought to you by Monkey Love, Brenda Scott Royce’s hilarious debut novel about love, odd jobs and odder pets.
Posted by at 8:00 AM | Comments (7)
February 6, 2006
Bad dogs and the women who love them
Stop reading now if you're considering getting a puppy any time soon
This is our newest dog, Friday:
All together now: awww! Looks cute, doesn’t he? Sweet, friendly, happy-go-lucky?
Ha. Beneath that furry exterior beats the remorseless heart of a hardened criminal.
We have lost shoes, rubber-handle paring knives (I know!), even the cushion of our Ethan Allen leather sofa to his insatiable appetite for destruction.
But the delinquency reached a fever pitch in December, 2005. Or as we now refer to it: Red Christmas.
This was the Christmas I was finally going to get it together and act like a grown up. I would decorate with tasteful wreaths and festive reindeer cocoa mugs. I would put up the tree before Christmas Eve and take it down before the Super Bowl. By God, I would make gingerbread cookies for our neighbors and decorate them (the cookies, not the neighbors) with artistic flair that would rival Sylvia Weinstock! This was the year that I, Beth Kendrick, would actually use the oven that sits idle in our kitchen.
Well, the tree and the tasteful wreath parts didn’t work out exactly as planned, but I got the gingerbread made. And while the cookies were cooling, I placed them carefully out of counter-surfing range (see: hardened criminal, above) and ran over to my friend Kim’s house so she could congratulate me on my mad crazy Bree VandeKamp skills.
When I returned home from Kim’s, her 100% sincere “ooh”s and “ahh”s still ringing in my ears, Mr. Tall was just returning from work and I flagged him down to boast:
“Check it, yo. I dominated the convection oven today. I should totally open up my own bakery.”
But his 100% sincere “ooh”s and “ahh”s ceased as soon as we opened the side door. There was blood all over the white tile floor. And big pawprints tracked through it.
“They finally did it,” Mr. Tall said grimly. “They must have seen that gray cat [editor’s note: this would be the neighbor’s gray cat who likes to sit atop our six-foot block fence and twitch his tail and laugh evilly, just out of reach of the frenzied dogs] and run right through the sliding glass door.”
As visions of jagged glass shards flashed through my head, I pounced on the three dogs and examined them for injuries. “Which one?” I cried. “I don’t see any cuts!”
“Well, check again,” he commanded, rounding the corner to check the patio door. “Somebody’s hemorrhaging blood.”
Then I saw it: red gushing out between the pads of Friday’s paws. We are talking an incredible amount of gore here. Mortal Kombat in our family room.
“It’s Friday!” I shrieked, my heart palpitating wildly. “He’s covered in blood. You find a blanket for the back if the car and I’ll grab the map to the emergency vet!” (Yes, we have a map to the emergency vet printed up and taped to the fridge at all times. Multiple-pet owners, can I get a witness?)
We were halfway to the garage before we saw it: yellow pawprints in the kitchen mingled with the red. And blue pawprints. And green.
“Food coloring.” Mr. Tall pointed out the shredded carton that had once contained 4 vials of dye for the gingerbread icing. “They got into the food coloring. False alarm. Everything’s okay.”
This was not the first time my definition of “okay” differed wildly from Mr. Tall’s. I said some things that were neither a) Christmasy nor b) appropriate for reprinting on a family-friendly website. Then I herded the dogs outside and turned the hose on them (relax, we live in Arizona—it was like 65 degrees) while my husband mopped up the forensic evidence.
For Christmas, Santa bought Friday a big, metal crate where he can “den” whenever he is left unsupervised.
At least we saved ourselves considerable time and money in the emergency vet care department. Which is good, because although the tile floors in the family room were easily mopped up, the same cannot be said for the Oriental rug.
But on the bright side, Sylvia Weinstock reigns unchallenged. For now. The rematch is scheduled for Christmas 2006—stay tuned.
This blog was brought to you by Monkey Love, Brenda Scott Royce’s hilarious debut novel about love, odd jobs and odder pets.
Posted by Beth at 10:37 PM | Comments (7)
There and Back Again . . .
. . . A Pug's Tale
To celebrate Brenda’s book, Monkey Love, we’re sharing our favorite animal stories. Here's mine.
Last year, we were renting a house out in the boondocks of Florida. The house was located on a golf course, but was surrounded by woods on one side and an orange grove on the other.
One night, I took my pug, Maddy, out for a potty break. Maddy was nearing the end of her life, and was blind and at least partially deaf, so she always stayed right at my ankle. She was also obese, and was opposed to any sort of exercise, so I rarely bothered with a leash for these little jaunts. It wasn’t like she was going to run off anywhere.
Except that night, she did.
She suddenly dropped her little squashed-in nose to the ground, picked up an irresistible scent and took off toward the tangle of trees that lined the far end of the golf course. I’d never seen her move so fast, and particularly not since she’d gotten sick.
“Maddy!” I yelled. But she was gone, swallowed into the darkness, running toward God only knows what.
I went racing inside for George, a flashlight and a pair of shoes, and the two of us took off after her. We combed through the golf course, shining our flashlights into the darkness and calling for Maddy. She was nowhere to be found.
After searching for hours, we were both losing hope. This was rural Florida; there were all sorts of predators out there. Alligators lived in the water hazards on the golf course, and there were bobcats in the woods. They’d view an obese, slow moving pug as a walking hamburger wrapped in bacon.
“I think she’s gone,” George said sadly. I knew what he meant: she was gone for good.
“I’ll put up flyers first thing in the morning,” I said. And we both went to bed in tears.
The next morning, I printed up a stack of MISSING DOG flyers, put Sam in his stroller, and we walked up and down the neighborhood. I put a flyer in every mailbox, handed one out to every person we passed, and posted one on the bulletin board by the guard shack, so that all of the cars passing into the complex would see Maddy’s picture.
The news was grim: no one had seen my wayward pug. I turned Sam’s stroller around, and headed home.
The phone rang as soon as Sam and I walked in the door.
“I’m calling about your missing dog,” a man said.
“Yes?” I asked hopefully. “Have you seen her?”
“I just saw a dead dog over on Kings Highway,” he said. “I thought it might be her, and I wanted to let you know.”
My throat closed up.
I thanked the man, and we hung up. I sat there for a minute, knowing I would have to drive over to see if the dead dog was indeed Maddy, but not wanting to do it. And then the phone rang again.
“Hi, Whitney, it’s Glen.” Glen was the tennis pro at the club. “I think I found your missing dog. She’s here at the club.”
“You found Maddy?” I asked. “Is she okay?”
“Well . . . she looks hungry,” he said doubtfully.
I strapped Sam into the car, and we went racing over to the club . . . and there was Maddy! She was tired and hungry, but otherwise looked healthy.
“She was waiting by the club doors when I got in this morning,” Glen said.
Which explained a lot – the tennis club is located directly next to the dining room. And Maddy was first and foremost a glutton.
Still, it was truly amazing. Blind and deaf, Maddy walked over two miles, past at least two of the resident alligators and the water hazards they lurked in, past cars and pools, and somehow survived the night. Which says a lot about her nature. Yes, she was a diva, and she was certainly spoiled. But she was also the sort of dog to always land on her paws. George and I always joked that if you dropped Maddy in the middle of a desert, she’d emerge a few weeks later with a little white turban tied around her head, perched on top of a camel. It was just her way.
Sadly, it was a brief reunion. Two months later, I held Maddy in my arms while the vet administered the shot that ended her life. And as my tears soaked into her fur, I knew there would never be another girl quite like her.
This blog was brought to you by Monkey Love, Brenda Scott Royce’s hilarious debut novel about love, odd jobs and odder pets.
Posted by Whitney at 10:09 AM | Comments (7)
February 5, 2006
With Great Power . . .
. . . Comes Great Responsibility.
It is my awesome charge to launch Pet Week here at Literary Chicks. I can't believe they've trusted me with this huge responsibility. Honestly, I don't know what they were thinking, but here we are. I'm trying to take my duty very seriously, especially since it's in honor of Brenda's upcoming book MONKEY LOVE that Lani says is FREAKIN' FABULOUS and since Lani is honest to a fault, it must be true. I, for one, can't wait to read it. So without further adieu, I will tell you that I have a mouse in my house.
No. I'm not going off into some weird alternate Dr. Seuss universe. There's a mouse in my kitchen. I haven't actually seen this mouse, but I know it's there because the cat is spending hours and hours sitting and staring at the cupboard underneath the kitchen sink.
I also know because when Cowboy went to take out the garbage the other day, he said, "Hey! There's a mouse under the kitchen sink. No wonder the cat is spending hours and hours sitting and staring at the cupboard underneath the kitchen sink."
I demanded immediate mouse removal. Just the thought of it scampering out of the cupboard and over my feet and being touched by its nasty little mouse paws made my skin crawl a little. Cowboy, however, demurred.
"It's an honorable mouse," he said. "It won't run out of the cupboard and scamper over your feet with its nasty little mouse paws. Besides, look how happy it's making the cat."
We are all about making the cat happy. Last summer when our black cat Shadow (the white cat is named Snowy -- we are an imaginative bunch here at the Rendahl Ranch when it comes to naming) became unhappy for reasons we are yet to understand, he began clawing at his own back with a ferocity that left my house looking like a murder scene for CSI Feline. After many weeks of expensive testing, trips to the vet, giving him kitty cat Prozac and performing wildly imaginative dressing changes (have you ever tried to bandage a cat?), he simply stopped hurting himself. We really really don't want to trigger some kind relapse. If we do, I might have to take the kitty cat Prozac myself. I might have to chase it down with a lot of alcohol. It was awful. I will do almost anything to avoid this, up to and apparently including allowing a mouse to live in my house.
I generally know where the mouse is based on which cupboard or appliance Shadow has camped out in front of which means there are days that I'm terrified to approach the stove or the refrigerator or the sink, but the cat is happy so I guess I am, too.
P.S. I am posting this early on a Sunday morning because I am off to run a half-marathon. This has nothing to do with pet week or anything else, but 13.1 miles is a long way to run and even though I do it incredibly slowly, I feel I deserve maximum credit. Last year, I was the second slowest woman in my age group. It is quite possible that I will be the slowest this year. I don't care. I still want every shred of credit I can get.
This blog was brought to you by Monkey Love, Brenda Scott Royce’s hilarious debut novel about love, odd jobs and odder pets.
Posted by Eileen at 11:53 AM | Comments (11)
February 4, 2006
Natural Disasters
The sleepover birthday party
My skull is still reverberating with the shrieks of a hundred or so (or at least six) six and seven-year-old girls, and it’s nine hours after they went home.
I may have developed a twitch.
Somebody shoulda warned me.
Individually, these girls are all darling and adorable and everything wonderful that first-grade girls should be. Together, they’re . . . they’re . . .
LOUD.
Navy Guy called it Night of the Banshee. He’s got a twitch, too.
It was great through the part where they all arrived and started playing. Loudly. Then I sent Navy Guy off for the four large pizzas. By the time he got back, I was a little desperate – only a little – because everyone was hungry “STARVING.” (Loudly) .
But one girl didn’t want pizza, so she asked for a hot dog. This started the Amazing Domino Effect of “We all want hot dogs.”
Every single one of them. Loudly.
(Anybody want some leftover pizza? We’ve got four larges.)
At one point, the shrieking seemed to reach a new high, and I went running into the foyer, to discover my daughter – my darling delicate Princess -- MOONING the girls from the balcony.
This is not something we ever, EVER do around our house, not being drunken frat boys, so you can imagine the shock. (Princess and I had a little CHAT over that one. This time, it was ME being loud.)
After games (Loudly) and cake (Loudly) and presents(Loudly) , it was nearly 11 and time to calm down, so we blew up air mattresses and put everyone and their sleeping bags in the family room, with me on the couch. Then I told stories until eyes were drooping, and everybody was asleep by 11:30. (We did lose two of them to “I want Mommy” by 11.)
This morning, Navy Guy made pancakes and bacon for everyone and there was more shrieking. Much shrieking. Well-rested, pancake-fueled shrieking.
But we were smart. We’d asked the parents to come over by 10 to pick them up. (Did I mention my four-hour nap this afternoon?)
I think I’m still twitching. Good thing I love that kid.
Hugs and happy weekend,
Alesia
ps In book news, I got a ROCKING new review for Blondes Have More Felons, which is coming out March 7th!! And I've gotta share, since someday I want to send Princess to college (where she can undoubtedly practice her mooning skills). Onceuponaromance.net said: Blondes Have More Felons is saucy and clever. Every word was a delight to read. Every scene vividly painted. A terrific blending of mystery and humor.
It's not every day somebody says "every word" was a delight, so I had to share. (Loudly)
Posted by Alesia at 7:46 PM | Comments (6)
February 3, 2006
Much Ado About Nothing Very Much
So, my non-eventful week...
Thus far:
No telemarketers have called me to try and force me buy something I absolutely do not want. (Actually, I'm feeling a bit neglected...)
No streetmarketers have stopped me to sell me something I defintely do not need. (Don't they want to chat with me anymore?)
And what is more...
No trams or tains have ambushed my travelling plans (possibly because I haven't travelled anywhere).
Nobody has Falconry-the-sequelled me. (Those falcons are all ignoring me!)
No officious official has red-taped me. (Sniffle, am I not worth the odd red-tape moment, anymore?)
But then again, I haven't been across the doorstep this week. In fact, I've spent the whole week attached to my computer bonding with imaginary characters!
I really need an exciting hobby that gets me out there, you know, meeting people on the cutting edge....
"I need an exciting hobby," I told Oh Patient One last night as we watched The Mask of Zorro. "Something on the cutting edge."
Oh Patient One (a bit absently, because he is concentrating on the movie) "How about skydiving?"
Me: "No! You know I hate heights."
Oh Patient One (still very absent from the conversation on account of Catherine Zeta Jones on screen rapiering very nicely with her rapier): "Hmm."
Me (actually rather absent myself due to Antonio Banderas on screen also rapiering very nicely with his rapier - en guard!): "Hmm. I rather fancy the idea of fencing as a hobby - what do you think? That's very cutting edge."
Oh Patient One (who isn't even pretending to pay attention, now): "Hmm - that might be nice."
But I really do actually quite fancy the idea of being able to fence. It just looks so - you know - cool and energetic! And cutting edge! And maybe I could be, you know, Catherine Zeta Jones!
Today, I got A Sign. Actually, I got a phone call from Nice Brother-In-Law to ask could he pop around and see us? This was a bit of a surprise because Nice Brother-In-Law doesn't live in Rotterdam - in fact, he doesn't live in the Netherlands - he's based in the USA. He is a writer, but he is also a film reviewer and is over here for that Rotterdam Film Festival.
Of course, we were delighted to see him because he is a tremendously lovely chap, and as it happens (as it usually does when we meet up) he and I got to chatting about The Life of a Writer, and How Isolated That Can Sometimes Be, and How We Need A Hobby, and while we're on the subject of hobbies he's taken up a new one.
Yes, you guessed. Fencing.
"Honestly, Michelle, I think you'd love it - you meet such interesting people!" he told me. "They just charge at you with swords and it is exciting."
So. I am thinking that I am going to take up fencing. In fact, I am going to research it right now. (I really want to be Catherine Zeta Jones in Zorro.)
Does anyone else out there have a great hobby that they either do or they think would be a good idea for yours truly? Interested Catherine wannabes want to know, LOL!
Michelle
PS. On the bright side, Teenager #2 is no longer Monobrow Man! Yay!
Posted by Michelle at 3:08 PM | Comments (9)
February 2, 2006
I'm a Pig
Maybe that's why I'm not a big fan of bacon...
Hello, all! My blogging dates are falling on Thursdays this month (and next, thanks to February being a freak month) and I have my class to teach on Thursdays.
Which means I hit the ground running at the buttcrack of dawn and don't really get a chance to breathe until a little later in the day.
Which means that I need to have the foresight to actually write the bastard insightful prose early and set it to post on Thursday mornings.
Which means that I need to plan. Which I don't do. Usually. Typically. I'm a by-the-seat-of-your-pants kind of girl. So that's why, this morning, I'm kinda cheating...
... and cribbing this crap-ass post life-changing blog from an e-mail I sent to a group (Hi, Cherries!) earlier this week. It comes from someone posting a link to the Chinese Zodiac to the list, at which point I discovered an ugly truth about myself.
I'm a Pig. But, bright side, the Chinese zodiac appears to be full of crap inaccurate. See below...
People born in the Year of the Pig are chivalrous and gallant.
Sure. As long as it doesn't mean I have to go out of my way or anything.
Whatever they do, they do with all their strength.
Yeah. Unless it's fixing the toilet. Then I pretend to do it with all my strength, whine a lot, and make Adam do it.
For Boar Year people, there is no left or right and there is no retreat.
Um. I go either left or right, depending on what the situation calls for. And there's a bar called The Retreat that we go to after my RWA chapter meetings.
Obviously, I have no idea what the hell this is supposed to mean.
They have tremendous fortitude and great honesty.
I don't know about the fortitude, but yes, I'm honest. This is why people rarely ask me my opinion.
They don't make many friends but they make them for life, and anyone having a Boar Year friend is fortunate for they are extremely loyal.
I'm pretty loyal, but I also make loads of friends. I just usually don't keep the ones who ask for my opinions. See above re: honest.
They don't talk much but have a great thirst for knowledge.
They don't talk much? They don't? Really? Hmmm. Well.
Yeah. That's not me.
They study a great deal and are generally well informed.
Strike two. I'm terribly ignorant and I talk a lot. Come to think of it, those aren't great qualities to have in a pair, are they? Hmmm.
Boar people are quick tempered, yet they hate arguments and quarreling.
I love arguments. Bring it on, baby. And I am quick tempered, but quick to forgive. But they don't put that in there. Ohhhhh no.
They are kind to their loved ones.
Unless my loved ones are assholes. Then, not so much.
No matter how bad problems seem to be, Pigs try to work them out, honestly if sometimes impulsively.
Hey! Impulsive! Now it's starting to look like me again.
They are most compatible with Rabbits and Sheep.
I'm married to a Rat. A Pig and a Rat. Good God. What does that make the kids?
So. What are you?
Posted by Lani at 9:08 AM | Comments (14)
February 1, 2006
Happy to Be ... A Homebody!
From Brenda, February's Guest Literary Chick
I’m thrilled to be blogging here at Literary Chicks this month, and still blushing over Lani’s gushing introduction of me. My head is spinning over all the attention my book has been getting ... although to be honest, whenever I see something wonderful written about me, I have to look twice to make sure it’s not a typo.
Like when Lani writes FREAKIN’ FABULOUS forty times in her intro, I’m thinking maybe she meant to write FREAKIN’ FATUOUS, or FREAKISHLY FATHEADED. Or that she, like the rest of America, got my book confused with the new TV show “Love Monkey” and the book it’s based on, and meant to invite that author to be a Guest Literary Chick ... even though he’s a guy.
O.K., so I’m a wee bit insecure.
It probably comes from having spent half my life thinking I was ugly—and worse, that my entire family acknowledged, accepted, and openly spoke about my ugliness at family gatherings.
And all because my Swiss stepfather screwed up his suffixes.
My stepdad was born in Switzerland, lived all over Europe, and speaks several languages fluently. He met my mother when I was seven, and they dated for ten years before they got engaged. When he finally popped the question, one Christmas morning when I was in my teens, he began with a speech about how much he loved being part of our family. He went around the room, waxing poetic about my sisters and I, and how much we’d grown since he first met us.
He turned to my older sister first, saying, “You were such a tomboy, always climbing trees.” Then to my younger sister, he said, "You were always doing cartwheels." He told my youngest sister, “You used to run around the house without any underpants on!”
Then it was my turn. “And you were homeless,” he said, smiling. “So very homeless.”
I was pretty sure that at age seven I had not actually lived on the streets, so I spoke up. “Um… I think you mean homely.” (And by the way, thanks.)
He nodded vigorously, still grinning. “Yes, you were a homely girl.”
I knew he loved me as much as he loved my obviously more attractive sisters, but it was a huge blow to hear him describe me like that. It was especially hurtful because it was true—I had been a homely child. I had an overbite, crooked teeth, and thick, unmanageable hair. My clothes were chronically mismatched and I had beauty marks on my face, which were so hideous that I once tried to surgically remove them with all sorts of kitchen and bathroom accessories (don’t try this at home!).
By my teens, I was “growing into” my looks (or so they told me), and while I didn’t think I’d be homecoming queen, I thought I’d do okay in life, and maybe even land a date to the prom.
Until, with a single word, my stepfather shattered my already fragile self-esteem.
My mother tried to soften the blow, saying something about Europeans being much more blunt than we “tactful” Americans. I remember thinking how cruel Europeans must be, to go around telling children they were ugly.
Fast forward twenty years. I’m visiting my Mom and stepdad, and over breakfast he starts reminiscing again, talking about my sisters and their tree-climbing, cartwheeling, pantyless exploits. Then he turned to me and said, “And you were homeless.”
I corrected him again. “I wasn’t home-less, I was home-ly!”
“That’s right,” he nodded. “You were so homely! Always in your room with your nose in a book.”
I could almost see the clouds parting and hear the angels singing as comprehension dawned. “You thought I was a … homebody?!”
He shrugged. Homeless, homely, homebody, what’s the difference?
All those years I’d believed my stepdad thought I was ugly, when he was just referring to how I would hole up in my room for hours reading Nancy Drew mysteries when everyone else was outside playing. Heck, I was a homebody. I still am. And proud of it.
Maybe I wasn’t ugly after all. And maybe Lani meant it when she said my book is freakin’ fabulous. After all, she’s not Swiss, so she has no excuse.
Posted by at 4:35 AM | Comments (15)
