With over 20 books to her name (did I mention prolific?) including mainstream romance, chick lit, children's fiction and erotic romance (!) this lady is possibly the workingest writer in the business today. Two of her books (Say You Need Me and Sweet Honesty) have been named in Romance Writers of America's Top Ten Books of the Year list. Her debut hardcover, The Sisters of Theta Phi Kappa became an Essence bestseller and helped put multicultural romance on the map. In 2002, Kayla won a much-deserved Career Achievement award from Romantic Times Magazine for her work in multicultural literature.

Her newest release, Getting Even, is being released by the Harlequin Spice line on May 1st. Here's the info from Kayla's website:

They've all been screwed over done wrong in a very big way . . .

For the past year, self-proclaimed Black American Princess, Claudia, has been planning her perfect wedding, destined to be the event in Atlanta's black society. But when her prince gets cold feet, she's stunned and humiliated. She's done things in the bedroom with this man that her mother would disown her for!

Annelise is frustrated. How long can a woman go without getting some from her husband? The man she supported through law school, who she signed a prenup for. But it seems the man who used to want it all the time is still getting it . . . from another woman.

Thank goodness their devotedly single friend Lishelle has a couch to spare. But when The Guy Who Got Away in college reappears in her life, she starts envisioning a walk down the aisle. Ignoring her friends' advice, she agrees to guarantee his bank loans for a new business. A girl's got to invest in her future husband, right? But once he gets his hands on her money, he disappears.

Devastated, the scorned friends decide to do some digging. And what they discover is devastating. Over a bottle of wine, an idea takes shape-letting these weasels slink quietly out of their lives is too good for them.

These women want revenge.

You want the book now, don't you? Yeah. Me, too.

Which is why our May Giveaway is such good news! Kayla is giving away three signed copies of Getting Even to three lucky winners! All you have to do is send us an e-mail (one per person, please) with and "I'm Gonna Get Even" in the subject header (don't forget your name and address in the text!) and you'll be entered to win! But hurry - Kayla will be announcing the winners in her final L.C. blog on May 22nd, so you have to have that e-mail to us by the 21st! Good luck, and be sure to drop by tomorrow and welcome Kayla!

Posted by Lani at 6:42 PM | Comments (5)

April 28, 2006

That’s why they call it “going postal”

This is gonna be a short blog entry, because I have to go pack for my trip to SoCal. The delectable Eileen Rendahl and I are going to be at the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books on Saturday. We’ll be signing at the Borders booth from 4-5 pm and you know we are going to be a two-woman par-tay. If you’ll be in the area, please please please come by and chat. We would love to meet you. Maybe I’ll even give you candy. You never know.

Okay, on to my story. All authors spend a disproportionate amount of time at their local post office, mailing off manuscripts, contest giveaways, advance review copies, etc. When I added up my total expenditures at the USPS for my 2005 taxes, well…let us just say that it was a lot of money. I could have bought a very high-end designer purse for the amount of money I frittered away in stamps. (Although you can’t write off high-end designer handbags, but I digress…)

So anyway, my point is, I pretty much know the drill at the post office. I always have everything packaged, addressed, and ready to go. I know the difference in estimated delivery time between media mail, first-class, and priority without being told, and I try to time my visits for when the line is likely to be shortest (usually between 10 and 11:30 am). And I know all the clerks by name. I never thought they noticed me, though, until today, when a fed-up looking worker glanced at me across the counter and said, “You know, I really appreciate your preparation. You always have everything in order. No dilly-dallying, no horsing around.”

“Thanks,” I said, beaming. “Being an anal-retentive control freak is kind of my trademark.”

“I wish everyone were like you.” She narrowed her eyes. “Do you want to see something?”

I glanced back at the ever-lengthening line behind me. “Um…I guess?”

“Wait here. You have to see this.” She disappeared into the dank bowels of the back room and emerged holding a bulky Tyvek envelope. “Look at this! LOOK!”

I blinked. “It’s…an envelope?”

“That’s right!” Her voice got shrill. “A Priority envelope with an Express address label and first-class postage. What are people THINKING??? What are we supposed to do with this???”

As I scurried out into the sunlight, I could practically hear the metallic shucking of a 12-gauge shotgun. This is how rampages start, people. We’re only one more two-cent stamp hike away from a bloodbath, I can feel it.

Posted by Beth at 2:32 AM | Comments (4)

April 27, 2006

Gone Surfin'

Because a little procrastination is good for the soul . . .

Nick Hornby once said – and I’m paraphrasing here – that ninety percent of writing is staying off of the Internet.

It’s so true.

I have a terrible habit of interrupting myself while working – sometimes mid-sentence – and surfing over to one of my favorite websites. I check the Drudge Report every day, and the headlines on Google’s main page . . . but my real guilty pleasure is a smattering of blogs that I check out every day without fail. These include:

1. Mighty Goods shopping blog. This is the website where I go to find out about all of the things that I have to have, and just didn’t know it. I love the Tropics table linens (I, too, am pro-pompom), and swooned over the Big Sur dining table.

2. Slave to Target. Because I, too, heart Target. Plus it cracks me up how the author is shameless about using her forum to try and get free stuff out of the mega-store.

3. The Superficial. All your celebrity gossip, served up with a side of snark. This is my newest find, and I’m already hopelessly addicted. (And by the way, what is up with the black bra showing under the white tank top deal, as modeled by the ever-ladylike Heather Locklear on Superficial this morning? I don’t care for it, not one bit. Likewise with the wearing a standard bra under a racer-back tank. Do these women not understand that they make racer-back bras for just that reason, or are they actively going for the skank look? I actually saw a woman in her 60’s at Starbucks yesterday showing off this look! Bad! BAD!!!)

4. Defamer. More celebrity gossip. I've particularly enjoyed their coverage of the birth of the TomKitten.

So, at the risk of finding new and unique ways of procrastinating, what are your favorite online haunts? (Other than the L.C., natch. We know we're your very favoritest of all!)

Posted by Whitney at 9:00 AM | Comments (7)

April 26, 2006

Serving Peace, Truth and Justice

I've got jury duty.

Yep. I got the letter in the mail about showing up for jury duty. When I tell most people this, they start to explain to me how to get out of it, but the truth is I'm kind of excited about it. I've never served on a jury and I think it will be fascinating. If yesterday's few hours at the Yolo County Courthouse were any indication, I'm right,too.

It would be possible to look at the whole experience as having to sit on an uncomfortable wooden bench for hours and listen to people talk about the same things over and over, but as a people watching opportunity, it's amazing.

I love people watching. I can sit and watch people in restaurants, movie theater lines, stores, whatever, for hours. I love eavesdropping on their conversations and trying to figure out what the people are talking about and what they're trying to do and what may be stopping them.

It's especially fascinating in a courthouse. First, there are the main players. The judge, the D.A. and the defense attorney who, in this case, are all so perfect for the parts they're playing that they look like they came from central casting. What was that phone call the defense attorney took in the middle of asking jurors questions? I'm not supposed to try and speculate what that sidebar between the judge and the two lawyers was about, but darn it's hard not to.

Then there are my fellow prospective jurors. What did that guy to do his leg that put him in that brace? How many hours did it take that young woman to get her hair into those sausage curls with the blonde streaks all so amazingly uniform? That guy is actually a retired milkman? I didn't even know there were milkmen still! Cool!

We're not done with jury selection yet, so today could be my last day. I'm going to bring a notebook and try and make the most of it!

Posted by Eileen at 10:50 AM | Comments (5)

April 25, 2006

The glamourous writer's life

My brain is melting

So I know we don't bore you with the blah blah details of the writing life very often, but I have to say that my brain is melting and I wanted to tell you why. This weekend I went to my first-ever mystery conference, Malice Domestic in Washington, D.C., and then to Oakmont for the Mystery Festival (and Mary Alice and her team are so amazing, I can't even begin to tell you how wonderful they are - if you're ever in Pittsburgh, check out her store! And check out the bathroom, where all the authors signed our names on the wall!).

Today I drove the 492 miles home. And opened my computer to find 492 new e-mails.

Hence, the brain melting.

But I wanted to report in on the fun. I sat on a panel called The ChickLit Mystery with authors Susan McBride, Harley Jane Kozak, Elaine Viets, and Nancy Martin. We had a total blast discussing, describing, and dishing on so-called "pink" mysteries.

(Oh, that's us - Nancy, Elaine, Susan, Harley, and me in order, in the pic)

And to you, the man in the audience who asked what a Kegel was?

[I grabbed the mike before the whole thing could go, you know, south, and said: "It's a type of pastry."]

Well, Kegel man, I had guilt ALL THE WAY HOME worrying that you are going in your local bakery and asking for a cinnamon-frosted Kegel.

I'm a bad person.

And that anecdote about accidentally giving the gorgeous Italian waiter my room key instead of my credit card? Don't tell Navy Guy.

And to my darling readers who drove so very far - 400 miles!!! - to see me in Oakmont?? I don't have the words. Seriously. Except, maybe, you're nuts. In a great and wonderful way.

okay, unpacking. and laundry. and then packing to leave Friday for the fab Chicago North Spring Fling conference where I have to be the annoying one who tries to give a speech while everyone eats their lunch.

Somewhere in there, I'm going to work on the book. Seriously. Really, I am. Just as soon as I scoop my melted brain cells up off the floor. And Susan? Shouldn't we be looking for the river? I blame our being lost on the talented writer and artist (but not so talented navigator) Jonathan Santlofer. Jonathan, if you're reading this, go finish your book. Seriously.

Happy Memorial Day week, everybody! I hope you are all getting all the sleep I'm not.

Alesia

Posted by Alesia at 10:59 PM | Comments (8)

April 24, 2006

Bad Manners!

And what it takes to make my blood boil and my ears steam...

"Michelle, you are too laid back and polite," some of my friends have been know to say to me. Frequently. And it's true, I know. There have been some times in my life when I should have just lost it, and shouted and cursed to make my point, and I am sure there will be more to come. But on occasion, when I am pushed over the top, I blow. Here are a couple of times I blew...

The Taxi

Years ago, I took my then London friend/roomate to Sheffield for the weekend, and because she was really into nightclubbing, we went on a girl's Saturday night out. It was fun, we had a blast, it was great. And then we had to go and line up in the freezing cold with several billion other Saturday-night revelers for a cab home. I'd forgotten that a Saturday night out involved this particular happy experience, else I might just have taken her to the pub near my parents' house, instead.

Finally, after several billion hours it was our turn for the next cab. Yay! No more hanging around in the freezing cold for us! And then, as our cab pulled in, this cheeky wench who had not even been in the line, so therefore had not spent hours in the freezing cold, jumped into our cab cool as you like.

I mean, it just wasn't fair play, was it? It was just not cricket. And to top it all, she was smirking at us through the cab window, like the cat who just ate the canary. And then she smirked some more.

I saw red.

I yanked on the door and opened it before the cab could pull out.

"Out!" I told her, grabbing her arm and tugging on it (but not very hard - it was more of a gesture, really). "Get out of this cab right now and get right to the back of the line where you belong, you cheeky little so-and-so."

Actually, she wasn't little at all. She must have out-talled me by a nearly foot (I am short) and outweighed me by a fair few pounds (let's just say she was well padded), and for one moment I thought she was going to either laugh in my face and push me out of the cab, or take a swing at me. Or both.

I tugged harder on her arm (although still not very hard). That was my cab and no line-jumping little upstart was going to stop me from my turn.

It must have been the expression on my face, because her eyes opened with fear (possibly at the steam coming out of my ears, or possibly at the sight of my bared teeth).

She got out. We got in. The people in line applauded me. We went home.

"Michelle, I never knew you had it in you," roomate/friend said to me. Was that admiration I could see in her eyes?

"I am a woman of mysterious depths," I told her, smiling with victory.

The Parking Lot

A few years later, Oh Patient One and I were on vacation in Wiltshire and we decided to go to Bath for the day.

We drove round and round the multistory parking lot. Finally, after much searching, there was a vacant spot just ahead of us at the end of the row. Yes!

Before we could blink, there was a roaring of an engine and a squealing of tyres, and a car raced around the corner, the wrong way around the one-way system, and pulled into our spot just ahead of us. There was just no way that car driver could not have seen us and realized that we were going to pull into that spot (after having driven the correct way around the one-way system).

I mean, did the car driver really think we were just going to sit there and take it?

I saw red.

I jumped out of our car and flew over and tapped on the car window of this cheeky upstart driver. Who just happened to be a rather posh-looking woman. She made the huge mistake of smirking at me. Huge mistake.

"What the bloody hell do you think you're playing at?" I demanded, steam coming out of my ears as I practiced my snarl. "You came the wrong way around the one-way system just to steal our parking space? I don't think so, sister. Out! Out now or there will be Trouble!"

I hadn't actually figured out what kind of trouble there would be, because I'm a wimp when it comes to physical violence. But it sounded good at the time.

Anyway, her eyes widened with fear as I bared my teeth at her. Her engine roared again, and her tyres squealed again, as she gunned out of the parking space and off into the distant depths of the parking lot.

"My God, I can't believe you just did that. How did you do that?" Oh Patient One asked me, his eyes wide with, well, either appreciation or horror. We hadn't been together that long. "I didn't know you had it in you."

"I am a woman of mysterious depths," I told him, as he pulled the car into the spot.

"Yes, I can see that," he said, and then he winked at me. "I love your mysterious depths."

So, here's a question. What makes you see red? What tips you over the edge?

Michelle

Posted by Michelle at 7:11 AM | Comments (12)

April 22, 2006

True Publishing Story: Don't Look Down

It's like a True Hollywood Story, only without interviewing Jenny's gardener's former lover.

Jenny: So Bob and I are writing our next book, Agnes and the Hitman. We started the same way we started Don't Look Down: I picked a heroine and he picked a hero. This time I picked a food writer because my cousin Russ is an award-winning, internationally known food writer (Russ Parsons of the LA Times, she said proudly) and he could tell me anything I needed to know about Agnes's career, thus shortening the research process and giving me more time to talk with Russ. Bob picked a hitman. Because. So that gave us Agnes and the Hitman (who is Shane, just Shane, no last name, Bob's a romantic).

Jenny (cont'd): Then we needed a plot--this is the part that always trips me up--so we went with our standard plan and gave them a common antagonist. Which has since changed about six times which is also standard for us. It's always been something vaguely to do with the mob though. We set it in Cincinnati since we set Don't Look Down in Savannah and it was my turn to have the book set close to home. Then Bob moved it to Savannah again. Evidently Crusie-Mayers are set in Savannah. I'm dealing with this. Originally Agnes was writing a book called Mob Food. Now that she's living in Savannah, it's called Southern Mob Food. Originally Shane was going to be a hitman hired to kill her. Then we realized that would be a bad start to a relationship. Yes, we have no idea of what we're doing. That's why they call it Creative Writing, folks.

Bob: There are several reasons we're setting things here in the low country. One is I do a lot of the action and I have to walk the terrain to feel the action. Another is it's a lot more eccentric here than in Ohio. I'm sorry. It just is. We're kind of inventing our own place for Agnes: Beauford County and the town of Wilkes. (Sort of like Faulkner and his own place). We're mixing a lot of really interesting topics: Food. A wedding. The Mob. A hitman. A heroine under a lot of stress trying to make it on her own. A hero who has been doing something he's starting to really have questions about. I think it's going to have a lot more gender conflict and play than DON'T LOOK DOWN, our Romantic Adventure, He Wrote/She Wrote, Crusie/Mayer (sorry, leaving on book tour tomorrow and have to stay in practice) had.

Well, thanks so much Jenny and Bob for hanging out with us this month! We loved having you! And as this is their last blog, this is also the blog in which we announce our winners! Getting a signed copy of Don't Look Down are:

Christy Hawkes, of Tremonton, UT
Joan Roberts, of Irving, TX
Rebecca Rohan, of Williamsville, NY
Wendy Robertson, of Apopka, FL

Congratulations, winners! And thanks again to Jenny and Bob for hanging out with us this month!

Posted by Lani at 6:51 AM | Comments (7)

April 21, 2006

Shower Power

I don't make these rules, I just report them...

My shower is magic.

For reals. My bathroom must be enchanted or something, because my shower has mystical powers.

(No, not like that—get your mind out of the gutter. Geez, you guys, as Bob would say.)

If I’ve been waiting all day for a phone call, or for an important package or FedEx letter to be delivered (requiring my signature), all I have to do is hop in the shower, turn on the water full blast, and break out the shampoo, and voila, the phone will ring! Guaranteed.

I won’t be able to hear it, of course, and when I try to return the call, I’ll be informed that the person I need to talk to just left for a two-week vacation (or FedEx will leave a note on the door saying they’ll try me again Monday—Monday?!?), but still. The shower connection is undeniable. It’s happened too many times to be mere coincidence.

My shower also possesses the answer to all my plot and character problems. When I’m on deadline, I’ll bathe like 5 times per day, staring at the white tiles while my unwritten scenes reveal themselves inside my head. A lot of writers report similar experiences—the closer we get to deadline, the cleaner we are. The muse lives in our plumbing. The phone gods hang out in the drain.

Please tell me I’m not the only one. What mysterious cosmic forces are at work in your home?

Posted by Beth at 2:54 AM | Comments (6)

April 20, 2006

Play It Again, Sam

The more we sing together, the happier we'll be . . .

I dread Thursdays. It’s my least favorite day of the week. I remember when I worked in an office, Thursdays were always pretty good days. They meant only one more work day until the weekend, Chinese take-out and a night of Must See TV.

Now Thursdays mean one thing: Sam’s music class.

I loved the concept of music class. You show up with your baby or toddler, sit in a circle, and then sing or play instruments or dance around. At the very least, you’re setting your child up for a lifetime of music appreciation. Even more enticing, you might just end up with a pint-sized virtuoso on your hands.

So I signed Sam up, and for the past year, we’ve spent our Thursday mornings at music class with Miss Jodi.

At first, Sam was the perfect baby student. He’d sit quietly in my lap for the whole forty-five minute, absorbing all of the new sights and sounds. He’d shake the egg shakers and gently handle the bells. And I was very smug about this.

Big mistake. As I’ve written before, the number one rule of parenting is never get smug.

Now I know it wasn’t inherent good manners keeping him in my lap. Sam was just terrified. If Miss Jodi so much as glanced in his direction, he’d throw himself into my arms and bury his head in my lap, like an ostrich. Every week when we walked into class, his face would fall, and he’d look up at me, aghast, clearly thinking, “Why do you insist on putting me through this?”

But then, gradually, Sam started to loosen up. He began getting up with the other children to retrieve instruments, and would dance with me (provided that I’d dip him), and – most surprisingly – he began to smile shyly at Miss Jodi.

The other moms in the class commented that Sam was starting to come out of his shell, and would reminisce about how nervous he’d been in the beginning. And I was even more smug, proud of Sam’s joie de vivre.

Yeah, well. Fast-forward a few months. Now Sam has dropped all of his inhibitions. And I do mean all. He has no interest in sitting in my lap, or playing the instruments, or even dancing. Now he just wants to run around the room like a wild thing, and – even better – get the little girls riled up until they’re running with him, while their moms radiate disapproval.

“Sam,” I hiss, when I catch him trying to climb up on the exercise bar (the room doubles as a dance studio) like a monkey, “do you want a time out?”

He just giggles. And then as soon as I lead him back to the circle, and sit him down in my lap, he pops up again and races off.

So, yes, I dread Thursdays. But I still haven’t worked up to dropping the class. Sam just seems to enjoy it so much, and I can’t bring myself to take it away from him.

Then again, I have been mulling over the idea of switching him over to art lessons. At least then, I wouldn’t have to sing to public.

Posted by Whitney at 8:52 AM | Comments (4)

April 19, 2006

I've Been Tagged!

Back to you, Misa!

Misa Ramirez has tagged me. It looked like fun, so here goes:

FOUR MOVIES YOU WOULD WATCH OVER AND OVER

• Gone with the Wind (Just like you, Misa! The characters, the costumes, the scenery, Clark Gable. I love it all!)

• Memento (Because clearly there will be something each and every time I watch it that I missed.)

• Ordinary People. That movie seared my soul. I cried for hours afterwards.

• Airplane. Because I’d need something to make me laugh after watching Ordinary People again!

FOUR PLACES YOU'VE LIVED

• Davis, California
• Scottsdale, Arizona
• Chicago, Illinois
• Madison, Wisconsin

FOUR TV SHOWS YOU LOVE TO WATCH

• Grey’s Anatomy (Excellent characters. Great stories. Smart, smart, smart.)
• Medium (Because I really want to be psychic, too.)
• Gilmore Girls (See Grey’s Anatomy.)
• Lost (See Grey’s Anatomy.)

FOUR PLACES YOU'VE BEEN ON VACATION

• New York City (I just got back. It was fabulous. What an amazing city.)
• The Philippines (The trip of a lifetime. It was amazing.)
• Wisconsin (I know. It doesn’t so exciting next to the Philippines and NYC, but my friends there are so amazing and wonderful that it is the absolute best.)
• The Baja 3 day cruise to Ensenada. (Misa, I did this, too! We went with a huge group of people and it was a blast.)


FOUR WEBSITES YOU VISIT DAILY

• The Literary Chicks
• Pocket Authors
Ummm. Actually that’s it. I don’t check anything else daily.

FOUR OF YOUR FAVORITE FOODS

• Creamy Brie on a piece of crusty bread with a nice Cabernet to wash it down.
• Pizza and beer. I don’t even care what kind of pizza or which brand of beer. If I could eat pizza and drink beer at every meal without having an *ss the size of Wyoming, I would so do it.
• The scallop burrito from Dos Coyotes in Davis. Yum yum yum. And lookie here! I still have more coupons for free burritos. Hmmm. I don’t think I’m cooking tonight.
• My mother’s yellow cake with the chocolate glaze icing.

FOUR PLACES YOU'D RATHER BE RIGHT NOW

• Paris. I’ve never been there. I’ve never been to Europe at all. I got goosebumps when I walked into a room full of Rembrandts at the Metropolitan. I can’t imagine what it would like to be at the Louvre.

• Near an ocean. For a girl who grew up far far away from any kind of water (Holmes Lake in Lincoln, Nebraska does not count as water), I’ve developed a serious attachment to the ocean. I find it both terrifying and fascinating. I can watch the waves for hours.

• Shopping with my sisters. There is no better shopping partner than Sissy #2. She can sniff out a sale rack from a thousand paces. She will fetch you items that complement what you’ve chosen. If something should be, well, perhaps a bit tight, she will say things like “that’s cut poorly” or “the material on that is cheap” and never ever ask if you’ve gained weight. Sissy #1 has the worst shopping luck on the planet, so mainly she’s fun to have along as comic relief. Have I mentioned that I am not the nice sissy?

Oops. I guess that's only three. I'm not very good at this, am I?

TAG FOUR FRIENDS YOU THINK WILL RESPOND

Ummm. I’m not going to. I don’t know who wants to be tagged and who doesn’t. So, feel free to chime in on any of this or none of it. It was fun to think about!

Posted by Eileen at 11:09 AM | Comments (7)

April 18, 2006

Ingratitude

My kids are spoiled

So it was spring break last week at our house, (but we didn't go away since we're heading off to Chicago together next week for me to speak at Chicago North's Spring Fling conference and for a mini-vacation) and I was forced to confront the unavoidable evidence:

My children are spoiled.

We spring-cleaned Princess's room, and came up with a total Barbie inventory of . . . MORE THAN THIRTY FREAKING DOLLS.

This is just wrong.

Now I know I have a head/heart disconnect about this, because when I was a kid my family was the kind who put the punchline in those "How poor was she?" jokes, and so I never had much of anything I didn't get a job and earn. I know that having the money to spend makes me want to give them things even though, technically, nobody NEEDS an Easy Bake Oven to survive. (I was desperate for one as a little girl and never got one.)

Or an ESPN game center. (Hey, it was the ONLY thing Science Boy asked Santa for - what could Santa do???)

Or 17 pairs of girly shoes, complete with ruffles, bows, and sequins. (I had 3 different pairs to start high school. THREE.)

But -- but -- my heart wants to GIVE them stuff. And, to be fair, they're great kids. (Except when they're fighting with each other and I want to bang their heads together or velcro them to opposite walls for, oh, an hour or two.)

[NOTE TO CHILD PROTECTIVE SERVICES: NOT THAT I *DO* ANY OF THESE THINGS. WE'RE MORE OF A "TIME-OUT" KIND OF FAMILY.]

The problem is, well, that they're KIDS. So, they say thanks and all, but don't exactly evince the all-gratitude, all-the-time attitude that you might expect. This especially bothers Navy Guy. He's the kind of Dad who likes to tell the stories of how he walked to school in the snow, uphill both ways. (Of course, he also bought some special cable thingy so he and Science Boy can play head-to-head gameboy, so it's hard to tell if he's 8 or 80 on any given day . . .)

Like last night, for example. We're eating dinner at a restaurant, and we were talking about an article in the paper about a new breed of parent. The term is "helicopter parent" -- think HOVERING. These parents call their kids, in college, EVERY SINGLE DAY. Sometimes more. They call the college guidance office to ask somebody to follow their kid from class "since he didn't call me yet today." They call the dorm housekeeper to give special instructions as to how to CLEAN DEAR DAUGHTER'S BATHROOM!!!!! They have the kids' college professors on speed dial.

I'm not kidding.

They're not letting the poor kids grow up. As Navy Guy and I were shaking our heads over the absurdity of it all, I looked at Science Boy and Princess and suddenly felt a little niggle. I mean, after 18 years at home, I was suddenly going to let them live far away from me and not check in daily???

I don't think so.

Hearing the ominous drone of the helicopter propellers in my future, I laughed and leaned toward Science Boy, my not quite 9 year old darling baby boy. "You'll call Mommy every day, won't you, sweetie?"

He looked up at me, very serious. "Well, if I have any spare time. I'll be very busy."

That shriek you heard last nigh? Yeah, that was me. After a brief rant about the NINE AND HALF MONTHS IN MY BELLY, I turned to look at Princess. "You know, you always were my favorite."

Ingratitude, I tell you.

So how about you? Any helicopters in your future? Were your parents like that?
hugs,
Alesia
ps I'll be at my first mystery conference this weekend, Malice Domestic in D.C. If any of you will be in town, please stop by! I'm speaking on a panel with The Mystery Chicks Saturday and doing signings, too. Also, I'll be at the Oakmont Mystery Lovers' 11th Annual Festival of Mystery Monday. Hope to see you there!

Posted by Alesia at 9:04 AM | Comments (13)

April 17, 2006

Favorite Foods

And why Oh Patient One has never bought me a box of chocolates.

Not because he is mean or is trying (subliminally) to send me a message about weight loss or anything, but because I just am not a chocolate kind of person.

I remember eating sugary things during my childhood (and the subsequent cavities, and gas and air anaesthesia at the dentists that made me vomit afterwards), but during the 1970s there was a sugar shortage in the UK - I can't remember why - and I stopped having sugar in my tea.

And as I got older, I got less and less interested in candy, or chocolate, or anything with sugar in. Nowdays, I occasionally eat chocolate - but only very occasionally - and then usually regret it because it leaves me feeling just a bit sick.

"Oh Michelle, you paragon of virtue," I hear all you Chicklits crying out.

Nope. I have my vices. (More on ALL of them another time, LOL). And foodwise that means anything with cheese in it (particulary Stilton, or mature Cheddar, or similary stinky cheese), spicy Indian food, crispy fries with mayonnaise (a specialty over here in the Netherlands) or savory pastries - especially the artery-thickening, suet-filled steak and kidney pies my grandmother used to make.

I can't be the only non-chocoholic in the whole world. Come on, fess up everyone. What are your favorite foods?

Michelle, off to eat 4 cheese nacho chips

Posted by Michelle at 1:22 PM | Comments (7)

April 16, 2006

Happy Easter!

May your eggs all be made of solid Dove chocolate...

Well, good morning, dear Chicklits. It's 5 am, and I have a few minutes before I have to start the coffee, get my husband up, fill the egg with houses - oh, man, I'm not even fixing that typo because it so perfectly illustrates my state of mind at the moment - so I thought I'd take a few moments out to present to you the Easter card I made just for you guys.

Have a great day!

Posted by Lani at 5:26 AM | Comments (5)

April 15, 2006

Blogs Well With Others...

They write. They blog. They blog about writing. It's a thing.

Jenny: We're thrilled to be here guest blogging because we just don't get enough with the four blogs we're currently doing. Well, Bob's blog on his website appears to be on hiatus, and I'm doing about one post a month on my Argh Ink blog, and the Well-Behaved blog is resting before Krissie, Eileen, and I gear back up again in May, but the He Wrote She Wrote blog, that's taken on a life of its own, thank God. The idea was to keep a journal of the Year From Hell, 2006, the year we wrote Agnes and toured for Don't Look Down, letting people behind the scenes of how it all works or, more often, doesn't work. And then maybe, we thought, we'd turn it into a book at the end of the year, if it worked out which it probably wouldn't. One entry from each of us every week, it seemed like a plan.

Jenny: (cont'd) But then Bob turned into Blog Guy. This is a man who used to blog one sentence every month, suddenly he's writing essays and flirting with people who come to comment. And he's GOOD at it, too. So I started blogging more, too, just because it was fun. And then people started showing up and named themselves the Cherry Bombs after our logo which we thought was hysterical and really great, and now it's like a small town over there. The way it is here. So I'm thinking that's why blogging is so much fun; it's building a community. So if this is the Literary Chicks, then are you readers the Chicklits?

Bob: My blog on my web site was never much. It was like: "I'm breathing. Ok? Leave me alone." We've done over 60,000 words in three months on He Wrote She Wrote for some bizarre reason. I don't really read blogs either which is interesting. I've bounced around to a few. I think the key to a blog is it has to be about something. And not necessarily about the people who blog. It's like the fictional memoir. At writer's conferences I see so many manuscripts that are so obviously the person's own life story turned into a 'novel' and they usually aren't very good, because, sorry to say, most of our lives really aren't that interesting. I think a blog has to be about something interesting. He Wrote She Wrote is about writing a book and about publicizing a book, not about Jenny's life (yawn) or my life (double yawn). So there's a lot on there about the craft of writing and the emotions involved in that. The angst. The ups and downs. I think people like to hear about that. Sort of the inside story. And then also about what a writer's real life is like. Not the BS you hear sometimes at a lot of writer's conferences. I sit there sometimes and hear these speeches and I start wondering "What planet is this guy from?" And the reality of the publishing side of a writer's life. That's a whole different ball game too. We're on a book tour now, my first book tour ever. After sixteen years making a living in this business. Jenny is the jaded veteran and I'm the wide eyed novice. So it will be interesting. But we're being as honest as we can be without hurting anyone's feelings-- except each other's-- on the blog. But the blog isn't about me walking the dog or what I had for breakfast. It's about the writing life which is actually kind of interesting.

Jenny: What's surprising to me is how much fun it is to blog with another person. The Literary Chicks must have a riot doing this. They can talk about shoes without anybody saying, "Huh?"

Posted by Lani at 5:44 AM | Comments (9)

April 14, 2006

Real Men Don’t Get Sick

Just ask Mr. Tall

Battle of the Sexes week may be over here at the L.C. (see how I worked that in, Whitney? “The L.C.” You like?), but it rages on unabated at our house. Last Saturday, Mr. Tall and I went out with some friends, and I thought we all had a lovely time until six hours later when, upon our return to the house, Mr. Tall remarked, “You know, my stomach has been bothering me all night” and proceeded to puke his guts out.

You can easily imagine my reaction: Shock! Dismay! Cries of “Why didn’t you SAY something, for the love of all that is good and holy?!?”

“You were having a good time and I didn’t want to ruin the night,” Mr. Tall said. “Besides, it’s not a big deal. Just a touch of food poisoning or something.”

“Food poisoning.” That is Mr. Tall’s catchall for physical ailments. That and “allergies.” He could be drenching the sheets with sweat, hallucinating plaid dinosaurs, and vomiting vile green slime the likes of which has not been seen since “Ghostbusters”, and he will claim it’s just allergies.

He refuses to admit he’s sick. It’s a guy thing.

True story: the first month we lived in Arizona, Mr. Tall came down with the flu (oh sorry, I mean “allergies”). He soldiered on through the chills and aches for a few days, refusing treatment and/or Nyquil, until one night I took his temperature and it was 103.7 degrees. I wigged and called my mom in the middle of the night to ask her advice since we didn’t have a family physician yet, there were no urgent care centers nearby and I was reasonably certain that human brain cells start spontaneously combusting at about that temperature. My mom said I should take advantage of Mr.Tall’s delirious state and hustle him to the nearest E.R., which I did, after dosing him with aspirin to bring down the fever.

We waited at the emergency room for hours—five, to be exact—while Mr. Tall protested that he didn’t belong there and a few tabs of Clartin would fix him right up. Then his forehead would break out in red blotches and he’d start talking nonsense about a purple kangaroo and the 1993 L.A. Kings season. So FINALLY we get in to see an actual doctor, and so much time and aspirin has gone by that when they take Mr. Tall’s temperature, it is (wait for it) 98.7. The nurse clearly thought I was a hysterical, Munchausen’s by Proxy loon, but was too polite to say so.

“See?” Mr. Tall raised his fist in triumph. “Allegies!”

Then he damn near collapsed on the gurney.

Turns out, he had bronchitis that had developed into walking pneumonia and had to take antibiotics the size of the Goodyear blimp for the next three weeks. If you ask him about that E.R. visit today, he just says, “98.7, baby! Ohhh, snap!”

By the way, he’s still sick today. From Saturday’s case of, ahem, “food poisoning.” I’m going to have to start sneaking Sudafed into his salsa.

Posted by Beth at 1:31 AM | Comments (5)

April 13, 2006

Gossip Girls

Hooray for Hollywood!

As I’m sure you’ve figured out, we here at the L.C. take turns blogging. This month, I’ve got Thursdays. Which means today is my day to post something. And I’ve got nothing. Seriously. Zip, zero, nada. I haven’t even left the house yet.

Instead, Sam and I spent the morning watching a friend’s baby. Or, rather, I spent the morning watching the baby, and Sam spent the morning trying to dislodge the baby from my lap, which he considers his territory. And while holding a sleepy, warm, cuddly baby definitely made me all googly-eyed and broody, trying to calm a crying baby while wrestling with a two-and-a-half year old quickly sobered me up.

Once the baby toddled off home, I got online and began browsing around, hoping for inspiration for today's blog, but still nothing. Unless ya'll want to talk about Iraq, or Iran, or CIA leaks, or sdf wer;lk 09olff0324j,jkxz zzzzzzzzzzz . . . Huh? What? Oh. Sorry. Must have dozed off there for a minute.

Hollywood, I thought. Hollywood will not let me down. Those wacky kids over on the left coast are always up to something.

So I browsed over to eonline.com, and score! Our celeb friends are as dependably kooky as ever. Here's a sampling:

(1) Britney. She’s in trouble again. This time, the pop-mama was investigated by child-welfare officials after son, Sean Preston, took a tumble out of his highchair and suffered a hairline fracture.

(2) Madge and Guy. Madonna’s father-in-law has likely forfeited his Christmas invitation, after blabbing to the papers that Madonna and Guy’s marriage is on the rocks. "Guy's career is not going well," John Richie said. "His last two films have flopped, so it's a pressure.” Gee, thanks Dad.

(3) Tori Spelling is an alleged home-wrecker. She’s ditching her husband just in time to marry, erm, somebody else’s husband.

(4) Gwyneth had a baby. Named him Moses. Meh. Better than Apple, I guess.

So . . . Britney – misunderstood or missing a few marbles? Will Madonna and Guy go the way of Madonna and Sean? Would Donna approve of Tori? Moses . . . no, seriously, Moses?

Discuss amongst yourselves.

Posted by Whitney at 2:17 PM | Comments (13)

April 12, 2006

Jenny Crusie Thinks I'm Cute.

Shallow and proud of it.

I've been gone all week. I left Davis last Thursday to go to the fabulous NEC RWA Let Your Imagination Take Flight Conference. It was great. There were terrific people and interesting workshops. I learned interesting things about writing (thank you, Leah Vale and Terri Reed for helping me figure out what my heroine wants and why she can't have it) and about travel (never ever arrive at Logan Airport after midnight).

But the best moment of all was when Jenny Crusie told me I was cute.

Jenny and Bob were there as part of their Gator tour. Since I have a writer crush on Jenny, I made sure to go up and introduce myself at the welcome cocktail party. Since they'd just been guests here, I was pretty sure she'd have some clue about who I was despite being surrounded by hordes of other people who have writer crushes on her. She did. I then proceeded to choke on my wine as I tried to walk and drink at the same time. A few minutes after that, my new butterfly earring fell out of my ear and dropped down my chest to lodge in my cleavage. Yeah, I know. Smooooooth. That's me.

That went so well, I decided to introduce myself to Bob at breakfast the next morning. I accosted him at his table and decided to blame the slightly blank smile he gave to me on the fact that he hadn't even had his first cup of coffee yet. I didn't choke or get anything wedged between my breasts. Big success! Then I managed to ask a question at one of their talks that made them disagree with each other. They looked like they thought it was funny, but then they're gracious like that.

So I was still a little nervous when I went up to have them sign my copy of DON'T LOOK DOWN. That was when Jenny turned to Bob to remind me about who I was, but about ten people were talking at once and he gave her a really blank look. I told Jenny I'd introduced myself to him that morning and that he'd smiled as if he knew what I was talking about.

She said, "He didn't remember who you were. He smiled at you because you're cute."

There it is: the highlight of my conference. Yes. I worked out significant plot points in my latest manuscript. I sold books. I met new people. I was exposed to interesting ideas from other authors. But the highlight of the conference for me was having Jennifer Crusie tell me that I was cute.

I know it's shallow and I don't care. I'm thrilled.

Posted by Eileen at 10:00 AM | Comments (8)

April 11, 2006

Googling myself

The dark side of the internet

Overheard at our house just after my recent release of BLONDES HAVE MORE FELONS:

Navy Guy: Whatcha doing?
Me: I’m Googling myself.
NG: You’ll go blind.
Me:
NG: Can I watch?

I have to admit I’m on the slow end of the curve on the information superhighway. I’m usually the person in the far right lane, clinging white-knuckled to her steering wheel, while all the speedy showoffs race by me churning exhaust fumes of syndicated blogsite feeds, uploading, downloading, sideloading, and anthropomorphic narfawonkers.

Or, you know, actual computer terms.

But after my second book came out, another author asked me if I’d found any interesting reviews when I’d Googled myself.

Me: ?

Turns out that you can find all sorts of online review sites that may have featured your book, bookstore websites that may have done the same, and media sites where your book may have gotten a mention. Of course, you can also find blogsites of people who think your book was a gigantic ball of suckitude.

These are not fun.

In addition to Googling yourself and your book, there is a whole trend of Googling your ex-boyfriends or ex-husbands, the girl you went to college with, or even your kindergarten teacher. Who knew? And, really, do you want to find those people?

This weekend, I had a fun surprise. One of the two boys I was friends with in eighth and ninth grade, when we all lived in Izmir, Turkey, e-mailed me. During routine institutional checking (i.e. one of your clients wants to make sure their business associates aren’t criminals or running online porn sites, I figure) someone found his name in one of my online interviews.

I’d mentioned him by name as the inspiration for one of the two hotties in my teen series. I’d said he and I were the math geeks and he let me know that much fun had been made of that around his office. (Sorry, Seth!) So it was fun to trade a couple of emails, and I’m sending him a copy of the books.

But this led me to wonder – what about the dark side? Are there people out there this minute tracking you down through cyberspace? The kind of people you never, ever, ever want to hear from again? Or are you the cyberstalker, checking up on people from your past?

What is the oddest/most embarrassing/freakish/most interesting instance of “Tag! You’re Googled!” that has happened to you?Alesia

Posted by Alesia at 9:59 AM | Comments (12)

April 10, 2006

Cars!

So, we live in the city center and we don't need an actual, you know, car. We walk. A lot. We cycle (although I personally am not currently cycling since that horrible, nasty person with the metal cutters ruthlessly cut the chain lock and stole my bike).

We can also take the tram or the metro or the train. When it works (which I have to say it generally does over here) public transport really is a viable and good option. Yay, we're helping the global warming status quo, which is good.

But every now and then it's nice to have a form of self transportation more powerful than legs. Like a car. Like the time (oh, last week) when Oh Patient One and Teenager #2 and I went to visit our family in the UK...

We hired the car a day early so that we could run a few additional errands. Errands, namely, involving big packages transportable in a car, when one (or should I say two?) doesn't usually have a car. A little trip to IKEA in Delft (where the famous blue and white crockery with windmills on it comes from).

So, we went to the car rental place. All is good. At least we think it is...

Me ( as we seatbelt ourselves into the car) : "We know everything we need to know about this car, and we're good? Right?"

Oh Patient One (in the driving seat, due to unforseen navigational incidents to IKEA - namely, I have not quite memorized the way due to the complicated "In Dutch" Internet instructions, and he knows the "general direction" of the way. And he also knows "the short cut".) "Yes."

I sink into the seat and decide to Admire The Countryside...

Many years later...miraculously, we arrive at IKEA. (No, I am not going to tell anybody how many u- turns or 'short cuts' or whatever else this journey has thus entailed. It's a private kind of suffering kind of thing.)

So, we park the car in the multistory parking lot at IKEA. And now the car will not self lock at the click of an automated click from the, you know, automated clicky thing that all modern cars are provided with on the key ring.

We both have a go, but this car really doesn't respond to the infra-red clicky, lock-me-now-against-the-whole-world thing. The doors open when you try to open the doors. Even though we have tried to lock them with the clicky thing.

So we open all of the doors, and we open the trunk, and we open the gas access thing, and we slam them all shut again. But still the car will not lock.

And then we do it all again and still the car will not lock.

Me: "Let's read the operational instructions."

Oh Patient One (very nearly at the end of His Patience, which is unusual for him): "Okay. I give in. Open the glove compartment and hand me the instructions..."

I know at this point that he is stressed. He just NEVER reads instructions. He usually just wings it (and, I have to say, gets there on common sense, anyway.)

We both read the instructions (which are in Dutch, and Icelandic, and Turkish, and Croatian, and in Every Other Language Except English). The car itself beeps to us. In Dutch. We understand that the "back opening thingie is not quite closed and will beep at us henceforth ( we can understand, but we don't understand why the car is still beeping at us because we closed the "back opening thingie is not quite closed" thing.)

Anyway, more years later we decide to drive back to the car rental place. Amidst constant beeping of the "back opening thingie is not quite closed" thing. It beeped. All the way back to Rotterdam.

So, we arrive back at the car rental place, and we told the guy about the "back opening" thingie. And the beeping.

Who knew that the trunk WINDOW had its own open/close option on the keyring? Yeah, the window on the trunk opened and had its own opening thingie (although the trunk itself, oddly, didn't)...And who even knew that trunk windows even opened separately to the trunk?

Good thing we hired the car a day early, or what would we have done on the ferry when the car started beeping at us?

Oh, please tell me we are not alone in our technological misunderstanding!

PS. We went back to IKEA and bought wonderous CD racks. And then we took a "short cut," and years later we finally got home...

Posted by Michelle at 2:08 PM | Comments (3)

April 9, 2006

As Promised

You wanted the Asshole! Martyr! story, and I'm a helpless people pleaser. Yes, I am. Yes. I am. Damnit. Shut up.

All right. By popular demand, the Asshole! Martyr! story as mentioned last week. But it's not that great a story, which is why I fought Fish on telling it last week. Don't say I didn't warn ya.

Okay. So, go back in time about 4 years. I'm not saying literally, because of course, that's impossible. And if it wasn't, I'd be hovering somewhere around 1991, because I was thin and cute and slept until 10 every day. Yes, when you have young children who wake up at 6am every day, those criteria do make up a lifetime highlight.

Anyway, you only have to go back to sometime in mid-2002. Around that time, we were living in Alaska, near Fish's family. Who are lovely, lovely people, and I'm not being sarcastic. I moved to Alaska for them, that should tell you how freakin' great they are. Anyway, I don't know if I ever told you this, but Fish's family? Lots of kids. Between the merged Brady Bunch that started it all and the kids Fish's mom and stepdad had later, the count totals 10.

Yes, they're crazy. But I still love them.

Anyway, take, oh, say, six of this family, and put them in our living room in Anchorage. We didn't have a big house, but we were next to the airport, so whenever anyone flew into or out of Alaska to visit, everyone convened on our living room floor. Sleeping bags, futon, bodies strewn like a warzone. It was a one-level ranch, so with the living room full of people, there wasn't much opportunity for privacy of any sort. Everything in this house was within earshot of everything else in this house.

No, we didn't do that. Jeez. What kind of people do you think we are?

So. It's, I don't know, probably about one in the morning. If this was a typical family gathering, we stayed up drinking and went to bed around midnight. So, Fish and I finally get in bed, and I'm drunk and happy because it's his family, and he's slightly tense because it's his family (seriously, you want to see a people pleaser, get Fish around his family) and suddenly, Light starts crying. Neither Fish nor I particularly want to get out of bed, but neither of us wants Light to keep up the rest of the Family, either. Because we lurrrrve the Family. So, I think there was some kind of variation on Rock, Paper, Scissors which I probably lost, but wasn't willing to accept.

I'm a people pleaser, just as long as People ain't Fish. And you must understand. The baby was 8 months old, so for 98% of the nights during the last eight months, the midnight calls had been for me. But as I'd recently stopped breast-feeding, these calls had become equal opportunity, which Fish wasn't quite willing to accept. Those of you who have been there are nodding your heads, and you totally understand. Those of you who haven't been there, do two things for me - trust me, and thank your lucky stars.

So, in Light's bedroom, there is crying. In our bedroom, right next door, there is fighting with harsh whispers, so as not to disturb the guests who surely can hear everything because, as I said, one-level ranch.

Me: You go get her. I haven't had a full night's sleep in a year. A year, Fish!

Fish: No. She wants you. When I go get her, she just keeps crying.

Me: Because you don't want to be there. And she knows it.

Fish: Of course I don't want to be there. It's the middle of the :::expletive deleted::: night!

Me: See? See? She knows that's your attitude!

Fish: Good, so you go get her!

Me: No! You!

Fish: You!

Me: You!

Fish: No. I'm not going.

Me:

Fish:

Me:

Fish:

Me: (throwing covers from the bed with a level of violence usually only occuring with Force 5 Hurricanes and reaaaaalllllly pissed off women) Fine! Fine! Once again, I will go! You stay here and sleep nicely, you lazy :::expletives deleted. Lots of expletives deleted. As a matter of fact, I believe this entry would have probably take you another hour to read if I didn't delete all these expletives. You're welcome.:::

Fish: (hopping out of bed) No! If you're going to be like this, then fine! I'll go!

We proceed to elbow at each other as we make our way out toward Light's room, where she's still crying, although her cries have taken on a slight, "What the hell is wrong with you people?" tinge.

Me: No, don't worry about it. You're tired. You go to bed, like you do every night, because every night you get to sleep.

Fish: No. I said I would do it. I will do it. You go back to bed since it's where you want to be!

Out in the hallway now, voices at full level.

Me: Asshole!

Fish: Martyr!

I go into Light's room and slam the door. Fish goes back into our room and slams the door. I take care of Light, who goes back to sleep pretty easily. Then I slink back into our room, shut the door behind me, and we both start laughing hysterically. To this day, whenever a fight gets really stupid - which happens in pretty much every fight - one of us will typically yell "Asshole! Martyr!" and the other one will start laughing and then we start to talk like rational people.

His family still insists they never heard a thing. Can you see why I love these people so much?

But anyway - there you have it. The "Asshole! Martyr!" story. And now that you've heard it, I have to say, I think everyone has an "Asshole! Martyr!" story. What's yours?

Posted by Lani at 7:27 AM | Comments (20)

April 8, 2006

Battle of the Sexes, Redux

Because a battle isn't any fun if there's no blood...

Q: Did writing Don’t Look Down give you any insights into how the other sex thinks?

Jenny: Why, yes, I did get some insights as to how men think while writing Don’t Look Downwith Bob. But you know, insights are overrated. For example, when Bob doesn't want to answer a question, he just ignores my e-mail. I think that's carrying the strong silent type too far, but Bob sees it as Conflict Avoidance. Or just Avoidance. Wilder does the same thing in Don’t Look Down; his catchall response to any time Lucy gets angry is, "I'm sorry." Of course, he's nailed when she says, "For what?" And since he knows better than to say, "I'm sorry you're angry," he's pretty much stuck. I enjoyed writing that scene. Or there's the whole men are logical, women are emotional problem. If I send Bob an e-mail that's about Feelings, I get one word back, "Huh?" Yes, I am going to kill him one day, and write "Huh?" on his forehead with magic marker.

Jenny: (cont'd) Lucy had a hell of a time getting Wilder to express his feelings in Don’t Look Down. Well, I had a hell of a time getting Bob to write Wilder expressing his feelings anyway. He resisted having Wilder say "I love you" until three hundred romance writers hissed at him in Reno, then he wrote a scene in which Wilder yells it at Lucy across the cargo bay of a helicopter while his best friend made jokes about it. I finally ripped it out of his hands and wrote it in a different place. He was very relieved. I think typing the words almost send him into cardiac arrest. So insights as to how men think? Yeah, I got some. Now if I could just get rid of them . . .

Bob: The question is: Do women think? Women seem to emote. Then think. Which puzzles men. There's a scene where Wilder apologizes to Lucy. And by the end of the book he still has no clue why he apologizes. He just knows it was the right thing to do at the right time. I just watched Double Indemnity and there's a classic scene where the male and female lead meet in a drug store. Their murder plan has fallen apart and they're trying to figure out how not to get caught and they're apprroaching it from completely opposite ends: he's being rational and she's being emotional. Yet they're both right. And both wrong. If they could only meet in the middle they could work it out. But they can't because they can't communicate. Neither is willing to let go of the way their looking at things to try to the other's point of view. Also, neither is willing to think their own point of view might have serious flaws-- even though it does.

Another issue we had in the book was sex and love. Wilder had no problem having sex in the four days the book took place over. With two different women no less. But the 'I love you' thing caused him great trouble. Lucy had no problem with the 'I love you' thing by the end of day two. The sex thing thing though in four days was big trouble. Men. Women. Big trouble in opposite directions.

Posted by Lani at 6:41 AM | Comments (4)

April 7, 2006

The Battle of the Nose Job

Someone's been watching too much TV...

I hate my nose. I’ve always hated it—it’s lumpy, bumpy, and way too large for my face. And no, this is not a hidden entreaty to get you guys to assure me that my nose is perfectly fine and I should be happy with it just the way it is. I know the truth. My nose = genetic travesty.

But I never seriously considered doing anything about this until I started watching Dr 90210 on E!

This is a reality show that follows the personal and professional lives of several SoCal plastic surgeons, and each episode features a different client pre- and post-surgery. I had no idea plastic surgery had come so far, technologically speaking; I always pictured some guy in scrubs futzing around with a sawbone and a needle and thread. ( I also had no idea that plastic surgery was so gross; I could really do without the close-up camera shots of blood and subcutaneous fat.)

Anyway, the patients showcased on Dr. 90210 always profess to be thrilled with the results of their surgery. My chin implant saved my marriage, they say. Lipo has made life worth living again. This sounds ridiculous now that I’m typing it, but let me tell you, at 2 in the morning after I’ve been revising a manuscript for 8 hours straight, these testimonials are very convincing. Maybe I should get a nose job, I think. That might be the answer to all my problems. Plus, come on, how painful could it really be?

Then I run my brilliant new idea past Mr. Tall and he shoots me down. Won’t even listen to reason. “But I’d look good!” I tell him. “I could be, like, your trophy wife.”

“You’re already beautiful,” he says, since this is not his first day on the job.

“Okay, well then, I’d FEEL more beautiful,” I try. “On the inside. Confidence! Self-esteem!”

“It’s elective surgery,” he says. “Surgery’s dangerous. You could die.”

“Look at all the patients on Dr. 90210! None of them ever die!”

“They don’t show the stories that go bad.”

“Go to any mall, beach, or bar in Los Angeles,” I say. “All those chicks somehow survived their boob jobs. you're being ridiculous.”

“You don’t need a nose job.”

“What if I get in a bar fight and someone breaks my nose? Then can I get it re-set?”

“No.”

“Seriously? You’d make me spend the rest of my life looking like Owen Wilson?”

“Yes.”

“I want a nose job, damnit!”

“And I want a golf cart. I guess we all want things.”

“Well, I’m an adult, my friend. If I want plastic surgery, you can’t stop me.”

Then he breaks out the heavy artillery: he makes me call my sister, who is a physician, and my friend Seema, who is in med school. They regale me with tales of horrible mahaps on the operating table and assure me that they themselves would never give agree to surgery unless it was a matter of life and death. Then they get off topic and start telling snide surgeon jokes.

So I listen to them and all is well. Until the next episode of Dr. 90210. Maybe I could somehow contact the producers and arrange to get on the show. I’d get rhinoplasty and testify that my new nose took my writing career to a whole new level. Which it totally would. If they’re filming you, they probably take extra good care of you while you’re under the knife. What do you think?

Battle of the Sexes Week is brought to you by Don’t Look Down, Jenny Crusie and Bob Mayer's new Romantic Adventure, in stores April 4th!

Posted by Beth at 3:10 AM | Comments (14)

April 6, 2006

He Said, She Said

Want to know what he's really thinking?

So it’s Battle of the Sexes week here at Literary Chicks. And I just so happen to have the inside scoop on the main difference between men and women.

Besides the obvious, I mean.

Years ago, a male friend told me the truth about men:

“Men are constantly thinking about sex. In fact, they picture themselves having sex with every woman they meet,” he said.

“But that’s impossible,” I said, assuming he was exaggerating. If it were true, it would mean that when a man is walking through a public place – like, say, a mall – he’d be so busy picturing himself in bed with the hundreds of women he’d come across, it would be paralyzing.

“Yes. It’s very difficult,” my friend said sadly.

“How about elderly women? Or extremely ugly women?” I asked.

“Pretty much everyone,” he said, shrugging.

“Huh,” I said, trying to wrap my mind around this.

My husband claims it isn’t true.

“I don’t picture myself having sex with anyone other than you,” he said, when pressed on the subject.

But then his is not exactly an unbiased opinion, so I’m still suspicious.

I can’t even imagine it. If, for example, while winding my way through the grocery store, I started to picture myself in flagrante with every butcher, stock boy and bagger that I tripped upon, there’s no way I’d remember that we needed an extra gallon of milk or that we were out of parmesan cheese. What with all of the mom stuff I have to remember, and the household stuff, not to mention the writer stuff, there simply isn’t any room left in my head for a 24-hour sex channel.

Then again, maybe I finally have an explanation for why, when my husband does the grocery shopping, he’s incapable of remembering that we need anything unless it’s written on the list . . .

Battle of the Sexes Week is brought to you by Don’t Look Down, Jenny Crusie and Bob Mayer's new Romantic Adventure, in stores April 4th!

Posted by Whitney at 8:18 AM | Comments (7)

April 5, 2006

There's a Battle?

We don't need no stinkin' battle.

I am the only girl in my house.

Things One and Two are, as they say, all boy so there are almost always dirty soccer cleats, rockclimbing gear or footballs strewn around my living room and they think a really good movie is one that has at least three car chases and five explosions. Cowboy is most decidedly male. Even the cats are male.

Nobody but me in this house understands potpourri, cares about what kind of heel a pair of shoes has or watches TV shows to see what people are wearing.

This is the exact opposite of how I grew up.

I have two sisters and no brothers. The best times of my childhood were vacations spent with my aunt and uncle and their three daughters. I grew up thinking that a high-pitched squeal was an appropriate means of communication and a really good movie was one that made you cry for at least a half an hour.

I have adjusted though. I have learned that here at my house, I am the Queen Bee and there is no one to challenge me. That does have it's advantages. If something pink shows up here, I get it and I don't have to share. Everyone has to stand by the door and wait for me to be ready to go. No one ever uses up the tampons and forgets to say anything about it or takes my favorite shirt and spills something on it or breaks my favorite eyeliner.

So I've been thinking about this Battle of the Sexes thing and how it's really not much of a battle in my house. I've given up on the toilet seat thing and have learned to look before I sit. They've learned to watch a parade of outfits and help me decide which one to wear. If I want to watch a really good movie, I've learned which ones make Cowboy cry.

It's all a series of adjustments. I doubt I'm alone. Are any of you outnumbered in your houses? Or maybe you're a member of the majority? What adjustments have you made?

Battle of the Sexes Week is brought to you by Don’t Look Down, Jenny Crusie and Bob Mayer's new Romantic Adventure, in stores April 4th!

Posted by Eileen at 10:43 AM | Comments (7)

April 4, 2006

"But I changed your oil"

The battle of the clueless

I knew what I was getting into, after all. Not only is Navy Guy a . . . well . . . Navy Guy, but he’s an electrical engineer. This is not your touchy-feely combination. Plus, this is a man who once told me when we were still only engaged – I could have made a break for it – “Of course I love you! I changed the oil in your car!”

Yep. Still married him. The expression “you made your bed” comes to mind. (And of course he also gave me the ultimate spa package for Christmas that I finally arranged last week – oh, sheer and total bliss! You’ll be pleased to hear that I’m SO not going to tell you about being a vanilla-almond paste burrito, though.) So the "great guy" column is pretty chock full, but there are times when I want to strangle him. 'Cause men are just so darn clueless.

I asked Navy Guy for insights into this week’s theme, and he said, “There is no battle. I give you everything you want and make you think you’re always right.”

!!

(His birthday is this weekend; I’m guessing he’s angling for a big gift.) Wait . . . THINK I’m always right?? Hmmm.

But let me just head straight into today’s topic:

Top Ten Ways Men are a skinch different from Women:
[with the disclaimer that of course these are ridiculously broad, may not apply to you or anybody you know, yada, yada]

10. He can’t remember the date of your birthday or your anniversary, but he can tell you how many strikes his favorite pitcher threw in the 14th game of the 1993 season.

9. He has three pairs of shoes: black, brown, and sneakers.

8. He has no idea what size clothes your children wear.

7. He needs to “fix it,” even when you’re only venting because you need emotional support.

6. THE NEXT SIX ARE UP TO YOU! Tell me ways you think men (or women, if you’re a guy) are from the planet “what the hell is up with that??”

Hugs,
Alesia, who needs to find Navy Guy to set up her new software . . .

Battle of the Sexes Week is brought to you by Don’t Look Down, Jenny Crusie and Bob Mayer's new Romantic Adventure, in stores April 4th! - and I started reading it yesterday and it ROCKS!!

Posted by Alesia at 9:45 AM | Comments (14)

April 3, 2006

Vive La Difference!

Battle Of The Sexes, or Minor Skirmish Which Might Or Might Not Be Gender Related?

I'm all Squealy Giggly over here in Rotterdam today because Jenny and Bob are here! Sigh. Plus, my copy of Don't Look Down is on order and should be winging its way to me from America very soon. But just in case I am still cursed with postal problems (my mail frequently yet inexplicably takes vacations somewhere nice like the Bahamas, or Bermuda, or Bondi Beach before either arriving months late at its destination or being sent back from whence it came), I have two back-up plans.

Oh Patient One is under strict instruction to check if it is available in the UK when he goes over next week. (Although the US release date is tomorrow, the UK date might apparently be sometime in April, according to the Nice Bookseller I just called.) My third option is a trip to the American Bookstore in Amsterdam to see if they have it. Yes, I am covering my bases! (I will probably end up with three copies, which is good, because three copies is much, much better than zero copies).

So, back to the Battle of the Sexes and vivant les differences...

Mostly, because Oh Patient One and I are fairly laid back people (like Jane Bennet and Bingley, rather than Eliza Bennet and Darcy) there isn't much battling in our relationship. Neither of us likes to shout and scream. We don't like to smash plates on the floors (what a waste of a good plate). We don't throw food at each other (what a waste of a good plate of food).

We do have our, shall we say, differences of opinion. You know, I'm convinced I'm right, he's convinced he's right, and we somehow work it through to a place where we are both right simultaneously. Although if you Do Us Wrong, or Do The Teenagers Wrong, Hear Us Roar (but not in a loud kind of way, LOL).

Basically, Oh Patient One tidies. I clean. Vive la difference!

Oh Patient One alphabetizes our vast collection of CDs (over 700 at last count), and I dust them...now and then. Vive la difference!

Oh Patient One categorizes and alphabetizes our books (with over a thousand in the apartment, this is a vital necessity if we are ever to find the book we are looking for), and I dust them, too...well, sometimes. Vive that particular difference, too! And if you would like to take a peek at some of my categorized, alphabetized, only slightly dusty books, fellow author Paige Cuccaro invited me to submit a picture of my writerly cave to her, here on her website.

But one big, and not-quite-so-complimentary difference between Oh Patient One and I is...

Our sense of direction. Especially when driving.

I don't have one. At all. If I am planning on driving somewhere I have never driven before I look up the step-by-step instructions on the Internet. And I memorize them word for word. And when I get lost right at the very end part of the journey (frequently, because the instructions didn't include which out of the six billion lanes I need to be in to exit the Turnpike, or whatnot), I stop and ask someone for directions. And then I get lost again, and I ask someone else for directions, and eventually I reach my destination.

Oh Patient One, I have to admit, has a great sense of direction. He can look at a map and apply it to real life, which never looks like the map. He always knows roughly where he is going, and which direction is North wherever he happens to be, and when he is driving it usually involves a lengthy "short" cut (otherwise known as a wrong turning), but he never, EVER asks for directions. His philosophy is, "Isn't it exciting to try something different and see where this road goes?" Mine is, "Where the hell are we? I can't find this road on the map and now we are lost and we'll never find our way. Ever. Again." But Oh Patient One always reaches his destination, too.

My pet hate? If we are travelling together and I am driving and I haven't memorized the directions (because they are in Dutch and I couldn't figure out exactly what they were telling me to do quickly enough before we left home) and Oh Patient One is directing me. Or if I am driving and there is a traffic jam on the maine route and Oh Patient One blithely suggests that we take an alternative route. I just know that it is going to involve a "short" cut sometime soon...

Battle of the Sexes Week is brought to you by Don’t Look Down, Jenny Crusie and Bob Mayer's new Romantic Adventure, in stores April 4th!

Posted by Michelle at 5:02 AM | Comments (10)

April 2, 2006

Go Fish.

A battle to the death. Or to the frustration. You know. Whatever.

Wow, how cool is it having Jenny and Bob here this month? Now, yes, they are on tour and so won't be popping in to comment much, but please feel free to leave them notes in the comments of their blogs - I'll make sure they get them!

And I have to say, I was a little conflicted about how I would handle a Battle of the Sexes week. Mostly because Fish, while he and I definitely have our battles, has been taking care of the house and kids this week so I can finish my revisions, so I feel a little bad doing my typical "complain about the man" thing. So, I thought I would bring my laptop out to where he's lounging on the couch and give him the opportunity to complain about what it's like for a man living in a house with three girls. Unfortunately, because of said revisions, I have to do it right now as in first thing in the morning (which wouldn't be quite so first thing if it weren't for setting the stupid clocks ahead... gar). So... no Sunday morning lounging for Fish today.

Oh. Man. Someone just put on The Little Mermaid. Loud. And Light is yelling, "Daddy! Daddy! Wake up!" which is kinda funny. I mean, if you're not Fish.

Which I'm not. So it's funny.

So now here's the scene. I'm in the living room and Fish has his coffee and the girls are watching television, so we actually have a shot of getting this done. Here's the transcription of our conversation:

Me: Okay. Go.

Fish: I can't perform on demand. I think you should tell the "Asshole! Martyr!" story.

Me: No, I'm not telling the "Asshole! Martyr!" story.

Fish: Why not? That's a funny story.

Me: No. It makes you look like an asshole and me look like a martyr.

Fish: Well, it makes you look like a martyr, definitely...

Me:

Fish: Okay. So. (crickets) My big thing is women and their checklists.

Me: Checklists?

Fish: Yeah. They keep a mental checklist of everything you've ever done wrong in your life, and then when they get mad, out comes the list.

Me: Oh, you mean, like how yesterday, when you were "watching" our children, Sweetness managed to somehow cut off all of Light's hair, even though you were "watching" them.

Fish:

Me: Okay. Fine. Give me something else.

Fish: I got nothing. (watching the movie, Zathura, about kids playing a game that puts their house in space)

Sweetness: Mama! Mama!

Me: Yes?

Sweetness: A meteor shot the stuff off the house!

Me: Okay, Fish. Give me something else. I need to do my revisions.

Fish: This is too off-the-cuff. It's gonna be dumb.

Sweetness: Now that was what I call a big meteor!

Fish: (off the movie) I don't think they should play that game anymore.

Me:

Sweetness: Look! They're in outer space!

Fish: I thought being in outer space made your blood boil out your ears.

Me: I thought it made you freeze.

Fish: Actually, it does both. Temperature goes down, but pressure goes down, too--

Me: Okay, okay.

Fish: The first thing to go is your spleen, which--

Me: Okay.

Fish:--explodes in your gut.

Me: OKAY! FINE! I'LL TELL THE "ASSHOLE! MARTYR!" STORY!

Fish:

Sweetness:

Light:

Yeah. I know. I should have known better. Off to my revisions. I think I should hide all the scissors in the house before I go, though...

Battle of the Sexes Week is brought to you by Don’t Look Down, Jenny Crusie and Bob Mayer's new Romantic Adventure, in stores April 4th!

Posted by Lani at 7:31 AM | Comments (5)

April 1, 2006

Jenny and Bob Launch Battle of the Sexes Week!

But they get along great. Really.

Hey, everyone! It's Lani. Because Jenny and Bob are currently touring their asses off, I'm going to be posting their blogs for them, and today's is just one more reason why you should rush out first thing on April 4th and grab yourself a copy of Don’t Look Down! Enjoy!

Jenny: Hi, I’m Jenny Crusie and I just wrote a great book (she said modestly) with Bob Mayer called Don’t Look Down. I wrote the heroine’s point of view (all of Lucy’s scenes) and Bob wrote the hero’s point of view (all of Wilder’s scenes) plus this crazed sniper wandering in the swamp (Tyler) because Bob wanted a crazed sniper. Don’t Look Down is about a film director who comes to a movie set to finish the last four days of shooting on somebody else’s movie and ends up contending with her ex-husband, the Russian Mob, the CIA, and this Green Beret moonlighting as stuntman who doesn’t seem to get the idea that “director” means she gets to tell him what to do. I had the same problems with Bob, so I sympathized.

Bob: I’m Bob Mayer. The other half of this fearsome twosome. Actually the book is really about a Green Beret who has to save the movie from, well originally I had the Russian mob, the IRA, the aliens from Area 51, the Knights Templar (which would have been really timely, damn it), and several other nefarious groups, but Jenny forced me to cut it back a bit. We absolutely needed the crazed sniper because it is an ironclad rule of writing that every book needs a crazed sniper. I was taught that in Creative Writing 101 at the JFK Special Warfare School at Ft. Bragg.

Jenny: We had plans to keep everything nice and tidy with Bob doing the action parts and me doing the romance plot. Or as Bob said, “I don’t do that yucky emotional crap,” so I was stuck with the Yucky Emotional Crap (YEC) from there on out. Bob would write a scene and say something like “Wilder pulled Lucy closer” and then he’d write in parentheses “Needs YEC here.” And I would write the YEC.

Bob: Wilder would usually pull Lucy closer to use her as cover from enemy fire. No. That was a joke. Really. He would never do that. The big disconnect we had was sex and love. Wilder seemed to have no problem having sex, and lots of it, in the five days the plot took. But he had lots of trouble uttering three words. You know. Those three words. While Lucy was simply babbling those three words. But the sex. Well, it was easier the refloat the Titanic than to work her sex scenes in. But work them in we did.

Jenny: We also had plans (well, Bob had plans) of writing the book in an orderly fashion but it soon turned out that I was a dachshund yoked to an ox: Bob set his sights on the end of the book and went straight toward it, strong and steady, while I yapped around his feet, darting off in all directions, diving into the literary underbrush, backtracking to make sure I hadn’t missed anything interesting. He wanted to get to the explosion part, and I wanted to know what shoes Lucy was wearing.

Bob: Who looks at feet? You always watch where the barrel of your weapon is pointed. Well, if it happens to be pointed at someone’s feet, then so be it, but you don’t shoot at someone’s feet, for Chrissakes. Forehead. Double-tap. I like to write linear. Start to finish. I have been corrupted. Sort-of. My next book I just wrote the resolution first. But, by God, I’m now writing from the beginning and going to get to that resolution in linear fashion. I think.

Jenny: Then we got to the end of the first draft, no thanks to me, and Bob said, “We’re done!” I said, “You must be kidding. Now the good stuff starts.” It was as if he’d built a house and thought it was finished, and I had to point out that the bathroom needed tile and there were no drapes and a little paint on the walls would be good, too. So I added a Wonder Woman motif and Bob said, “What the hell?” and then got into the spirit of the thing and started a High Noon motif, and pretty soon he was asking me what kind of shoes Lucy was wearing. Okay, not the shoes, but I think toward the end, he kind of liked picking out the drapes. At least he liked the curtain rod.

Bob: When I redo a house I hate that finishing stuff. I like knocking down walls and putting up the sheetrock. But finishing sheetrock I am not good at. Of course, Jenny still hasn’t seen High Noon. But if you read the end of Don’t Look Down, our Romantic Adventure, you’ll know what I mean. I get the idea of rewriting now. Although, I did rewrite before. More along the way. Rewriting while writing, if you get my drift.

Jenny: Basically, Bob was a Guy through the whole thing while I was reasonable and thoughtful and, you know, womanly. But what we found was that, even though much of the time we wanted to kill each other, our differences made for a better, stronger book, and we both became better writers because of it.

Bob: We have corrupted each other a lot. I’ve spent months working over just three chapters for my proposal for my next stand-alone book. And I started with characters, not plot, which is a big change for me. I feel it’s a much stronger book for me. But I still haven’t mentioned shoes in it. I think.

Battle of the Sexes Week is brought to you by Don’t Look Down, Jenny Crusie and Bob Mayer's new Romantic Adventure, in stores April 4th!

Posted by Lani at 6:00 AM | Comments (7)