It's a...

Pissoir.

A gent's urinal. And it's on the corner opposite my apartment. And four men can use it at once (which they did the other day just before I took this photo - modesty dictated that I wait until they'd finished before taking this snap). But talk about a very public convenience.

Got to love the Dutch and their little quirks :-)

Au voir for now, mes Chicklets!

Michelle, currently in Paris, France, for a few days, snapping more pix for next time!

Posted by Michelle at 12:00 AM | Comments (6)

August 23, 2006

Bouncing Yellow Boxes

It's not that I don't love them. It's just that I'd enjoy them so much more if, occasionally, they went somewhere else.

I'm having horrible Mommy guilt. Of course, 99.9% of Mommy guilt is horrible. Coincidentally, I'd say about 99.9% of it is also really stupid. For instance, one of the classic qualities of Mommy guilt is that, like a Bee Gee's 45 (for those of you who are unfathomably young, that's a record, not a gun, and please don't ask me what a record is) it has two sides, and if you're not on one, you're on the other. For instance:

Classic Mommy Guilt Side A: I'm not spending enough time with the children. I have to encourage their tiny inner sensibilities and help them discover who they are, or they'll never be productive members of society.

Classic Mommy Guilt Side B: I'm spending too much time with the children. I'm smothering them. They need to find and express themselves on their own or they'll never be productive members of society.

Aside: I find it interesting that there's no such animal as Daddy guilt. Either he works to support the family, in which case he feels he's done his part, or he's a deadbeat. That's it. Lucky bastards.

Anyway, I try not to indulge in Mommy Guilt too much. I think it's stupid, destructive, and stems from unrealistic expectations we as women and mothers put on ourselves to mold the perfect child because the world sees that child as a reflection of us - not the dads, noooooo, us, lucky bastards - and we don't want to be seen as failures in the most important job in the world.

Pffft. Whatever. If my kids grow up to move out of my house and live mildly productive lives that don't include illegal methods of procuring a living, I'm okay. Happy, healthy, mildly productive. Those are really my standards. I find everyone benefits from a low bar.

Anyway. As I said, I'm not big on Mommy guilt. But, lately, there's been a stirring inside of me. A low hum of excitement. A constant countdown in my head. I dream of big yellow boxes on wheels gleefully bouncing down the street, stopping at my door and...

... it almost makes me tear up to say it...

... taking my children away.

This September marks the first year in which both Sweetness and Light will be attending that most wonderful of institutions: Public school. And, in this new school district, there's full-day kindergarten. So you know what that means, right? That means that basically, right now, I'm like a prisoner looking at parole, with the only real differences being a) that prisoners get to go outside for an hour a day, and b) when my big day comes, I won't immediately go out and knock over a liquor store.

Well, probably not. My point is, that I'm very much like a child in the days before Christmas. My first thought when my eyes gently flutter open in the morning is, "Is it here yet?" When Sweetness and Light run around my legs, trying to kill each other with whatever toy-turned-weapon is handy, I close my eyes and visualize the bouncing yellow box.

I, literally, cannot wait. Now, it's not that I don't love Sweetness and Light, because I do. I enjoy them. I think they're great kids, and if anyone ever tried to take them away from me for good, they'd have to go through my dead body to do it.

But for six hours a day? Oh, yes, I say. Take them.

And for this, I have the tiniest nudge of guilt. I feel like I should be sad, or nostalgic for the halcyon days of constant, grubby-handed companionship and enthusiastic, cut-off-my-air-supply hugs from small children who think the world begins and ends with me. I know that the countdown is also carrying me ever so swiftly to the days when they will come home from school, go straight to their rooms, slam their doors, and tell me to leave them alone when I gently knock. The days are coming when they will think I'm an idiot, want nothing to do with me, and answer my lovingly phrased, "How was your day, honey?" with "WHY CAN'T YOU JUST LEAVE ME ALONE?"

The guilt comes from the fact that, as I realize this, my only emotional reaction is, "Well, hey. At least I'll be able to take an uninterrupted shower. Possibly sneak out and catch a matinee." And at the thought, my little heart goes pitter-pat with excitement.

So bring it on, big bouncing yellow box. T-minus fourteen days, dude.

Posted by Lani at 6:18 AM | Comments (18)

August 22, 2006

So Long, and Thanks for all the Fish

In Which I Am Auf'd!

Tim Gunn tells me it is time to clean up my work station, as my time here as a GuestChick is over. I suppose I should announce winners? OH BUT FIRST let me say what fun it's been. I loved reading everyone's BETWEEN themed blogs...and Yo, Whitney, for me this season it's HOUSE. Period. Panting to see House.

Although, I do have a Guilty Pleasure....very guilty, which I saw is shared by at least one chick in Whitney's comments! It's Nip/Tuck. I call it my porn, and I can't tell you the number of times I have had the following conversation on Nip/Tuck nights when I left Church Supper Club in time to get home and see it.

Me: UH! OH! Gotta run! It is TIME TO GO HOME AND WATCH MY PORN!
My husband: *shushing me* She doesn't mean actual porn.
Me: Oh. right. "My porn" is a pet name forNip/Tuck.
Anyone who has EVER seen the show even once: Oh. That is porn, pretty much.

They say that...

BECAUSE IT'S PORN! AND last season it becamse BAD porn because Ryan Murphy went off to make that movie, RUNNING WITH SCISSORS. Nip/Tuck is a show like Amy Sherman-Palladino's Gilmore Girls that really came to life because of a strong visionary at the helm. I have heard rumors that Mr. Murphy will have his hands back on the reins for this next season, SO, I am coming back for another heaping scoop of porn, thanks. Also? Secretly? Even though the show was VERY BAD last season? I still watched it because of the amount of time Julian McMahon spent wandering about in black Armani Manties.

Honestly? I used to mock the Manty. I did not understand it. Male underpants should be either Boxer-briefs, boxers, or regular briefs. That's right, I even prefer the dreaded tighty-whitey to the Manty. I felt the Manty was a crime against nature and should not exist, period, and then I saw Julian McMahon wearing them when the older red haired surgery addict was trying to make him be her snuggle bunny. He stood by her bed, proudly gleaming in his Manty, and Suddenly! The clouds lifted! Light came down! EUREKA!!! the Manty made complete sense!

And by "The Manty made complete sense" I obviously meant "IF you are Julian Mcmahon." And only him. If you are currently NOT Julian McMahon, for the LOVE OF GOD, go get yourself some of these. American Womanhood thanks you.

Speaking of GILMORES I am TICKED at the Girls. Amy Sherman-Palladino is GONE, and she made sure to GOOD AND WRECK the show before she left, so it can't possibly survive. I think Fonzi jumped the shark the day Sherilyn Fenn and her Lukely Daughter (the walking, talking, bespectacled plot device) first showed their dorsal fins. I will give it a chance because OH! THE LAUREN GRAHAM LOVE IS STRONG WITHIN THIS ONE, YODA, but...AS IF she would go jump on Christopher. Honey, please.

I am ALSO very much looking forward to Veronica Mars, Season Two. Yeah, you heard me. Two. It released today on DVD, and VM's six discs currently hold the top slots in my Netflix Q. I never could get into VM in season 1 from week to week, but watched the entire season in two enormous gulps on disc last year. I found it to be AWESOME. If only they had added VAMPIRES it would have been BUFFY LEVEL awesome. OR space. Putting Miss Mars in space would be good. But whatev. I am down with V for the duration.

Current ongoing obsession: Project Runway. ULI FOREVER! VIVA LA MICHAEL! MAY VINCENT CHOKE ON HIS OWN OBSCENE DOG HAT AND LEAVE IN SHAME, COUGHING UP HAT CHUNKS! And WHY did they can Bradley and Allison? Only Bradley gave good diary, and Allison was pleasant to look at. Bah! Wake up producers! Please quit letting the judges rules on the CLOTHES ALONE....send home the boring people.

OKAY enough TV talk...The winnahs are:

Paperback Copies of gods in Alabama go to Valerie Russo in NYC and Nienke Hinton in Canada
Hardbacks of Between, Georgia are heading straight for Maureen Emmons in Yardley PA and also Wendy Robertson in FREAKIN' Apopka Florida, and Dude...I wish I lived with Wendy, just because it's so dern fun to say "Apopka."

Those will go out next week. Thanks for having me, guys. Twas lovely. Peace!

Posted by at 9:35 AM | Comments (7)

August 20, 2006

Between Seasons

Must See TV

I am so ready for the summer to be over, and for the fall season to begin. And, no, I don’t mean fall in a leaves-changing-and-hot-chocolate way – I live in Florida, and the temperature doesn’t start dropping here until late October. In fact, every year I have to find a Halloween costume for Sam that’s not a heat stroke waiting to happen, which is harder than you may think. They have lots of fairy and princess outfits for the little girls, but the boy costumes are all head-to-toe fake fur.

Anyway. What I’m anxiously waiting for is for the new television season to begin. I hate all of the cliff hangers they leave you with in the spring, and then force you to wait around for four months before you get any resolution.

So, here’s what I’m waiting for:

1. CSI. Grissom and Sara? In bed??? I mean, sure, they’ve always hinted at some sexual tension there, but to actually see it . . . shudder. It was just wrong. As wrong as Nick’s facial hair (what was up with that?). As wrong as Warrick’s odd, surprise elopement to a girl he’s never mentioned before. I need answers.

2. Gray’s Anatomy. Obviously. And, yes, you knew a Meredith/McDreamy reunion was coming, but I wasn’t quite expecting the quickie in the exam room while Mrs. McDreamy and McVet were just next door, at the, erm, prom. It gave the whole thing an unexpected ick factor. And if Izzy ends up back on the surgical rotation after the whole Killing Denny stunt, I’m going to throw things at my television.

3. Desperate Housewives. Actually, I’m not all that jazzed to see what happens, because the second season sucked so hard, I lost all interest. But Marc Cherry has promised much less suckage in the new season, so it may be worth a watch to see if he can pull it off.

4. Lost. Another show that lost its first season momentum, but worth watching just for a few of its really interesting characters. Like Sayid and Hurley. And . . . well, no, just Sayid and Hurley really. Although thankfully they bumped off Anna Lucia, so that may improve things on the Island.

5. The Amazing Race. There wasn’t a cliff hanger there, but I am, as always, eagerly awaiting the new season to start. Because with the enormous exception of the family version last fall, it remains the best show on television, reality and otherwise.

So what show are you eagerly waiting for? And are there any new ones coming out that look good?

This week's blog was brought to you by Between, Georgia, Joshilyn's bold, funny novel about a rural south Juliette, her redneck Romeo, and a family feud that blows Georgia's smallest town wide open.

Posted by Whitney at 6:00 AM | Comments (16)

August 19, 2006

Between You and Me

Secrets, intrigues and intimacies

Back in the stone age when I was graduating from high school, at one of the many ceremonies held by different groups, I was awarded a prize by a number of my peers for a prize for the best kept secret. I graciously accepted the award and prudently, since my parents were around, waited until later to ask what secret I'd done such a good job of keeping to myself.

Seriously, I had no idea.

When they told me what the secret was, I was shocked. I hadn't actually considered it to be that important or interesting so I hadn't talked to anybody about it. Everybody else thought it was this big secret. Trust me, if I thought it had been a secret, it would have been a lot harder to keep it to myself.

There is something delicious about sharing a secret with someone. Telling someone something that you wouldn't tell anyone else somehow shrinks that gap between you and that person in a way that is more intimate even than closing the gap between your body and theirs. Letting someone into your confidence conveys trust in that person's friendship, their honesty and their integrity. It can turn an acquaintance into a serious friend. It can turn a lover into a partner.

Conversely, if sharing a secret backfires, it can explode a relationship into Humpty Dumpty pieces that can never be put together again.

I'm a nosy parker kind of gal. I always want to be in the know. It probably goes along with my inability to not touch people (I am SO SORRY, Alesia). I don't like to have those spaces between you and me. I know though that if I want people to tell me those delicious tidbits of information that can only be talked about on the Q.T., I better not have a reputation for blabbing. I have become so good at keeping secrets that most people don't even know that I have a secret I'm not telling. I am convinced I would make an excellent spy because they wouldn't even know to ask me about stuff.

Thing Two is also an awesome secret keeper. He has one of the best poker faces I have ever seen. He's been that way since birth, I think. Thing One? The worst. Even as a toddler, he couldn't keep anything to himself. It's not malicious. He means no harm. He just can't help himself. He'd make a terrible spy. He'd be the one running up to the bad guys, tugging on their sleeves and saying, "I've got a secret!"

So, are you a secret keeper? Or are you one of those people who spills the beans before anyone's even asked you to pass the ketchup?

This week's blog was brought to you by Between, Georgia, Joshilyn's bold, funny novel about a rural south Juliette, her redneck Romeo, and a family feud that blows Georgia's smallest town wide open.

Posted by Eileen at 7:00 AM | Comments (12)

August 18, 2006

Between Fashion and Comfort

A scary limbo

Okay, so I reached a point in my life where I have decided to mostly retire the 4-inch-heeled shoes. Yes, I know many of you (the smart ones) are wondering what kind of nutjob wears 4-inch heels in the first place, especially when she's 5' 11" tall and so is topping 6' 3" in shoes.

Which makes me taller than everyone in something like 70% of the world's countries. (This was helpful when I flew to Japan with my kids and then 2-y.o. Princess kept running away from me down the concourse. I could see over most people's heads. But I digress.)

I used to be a:

and now, at least 99% of the time, I'm a:

Which makes it WAY easier to chase the kids, even when we're not in airports.

This trip down the slippery slope of Comfort over Fashion was brought home to me at RWA National. Last year? I packed 11 pairs of shoes for 6 days. Only one of those pairs had a heel lower than 3 inches. This year? 6 pairs for 9 days and, believe me, cute flat-heeled sandals were in the majority. Except at the parties, which unfortunately made me look like this:

or, in other words, a foot taller than all my friends (thank the jolly green giant for Eileen!). But it's never bothered me being taller than everybody else (I kinda like being tall, it's my only similarity to, say, Michael Jordan or Heidi Klum), but what DOES get to me these days?

Foot pain. And back pain. and having to walk slowly. And all the other assorted silliness that comes with wearing ridiculously fashionable high-heeled shoes.

So, being NEUROTIC, naturally my worry is this: Is it only a matter of weeks before the slippery slide to FRUMPY continues, gaining speed as I hurtle down to some evil depth where I am buying and WEARING gold-lame embroidered VELOUR TRACKSUITS?? (that's pronounced gold la-MAY but I have no idea how to do accent marks on blogs, just FYI)

And wearing shorts with my knee-high pantyhose (suitably baggy from frequent washing? Perhaps in the same solution in which I wash my FALSE TEETH?)

Or - okay, this is a desperate plea for help!! Can a woman wear (gasp!!) comfortable clothes and shoes and still be fashionable???? 'Fess up, those of you who hide this:

behind your stilettos! Let's unite in PAIN-FREE feet and backs!! And, Barb, anybody who says that her 5-inch stilettos are "surprisingly comfortable" is not allowed to play. You have a sickness. Just admit it now.

hugs,
Alesia, currently barefoot. Hee.

This week's blog was brought to you by Between, Georgia, Joshilyn's bold,
funny novel about a rural south Juliette, her redneck Romeo, and a family
feud that blows Georgia's smallest town wide open.

Posted by Alesia at 2:28 PM | Comments (12)

August 16, 2006

Betwixt

Kinda sounds like a candy bar, doesn't it?

Hey, all. Before we get started today, I have two announcements to make. Well, actually, three.

1. Chicklets rock. I cannot believe the fab limericks you guys wrote! I'm tempted to give out more writing assignments. Like, maybe, Chapter Five of my next book. Any takers?

2. Tara, alas, never showed up. So the new winner of the signed copy of Alesia's Seven Ways to Lose Your Lover is Jocelyn, who gave us this lame-o breakup line (and what it really means):

BREAKUP LINE:

"I'm writing the next chapter in the story of my life...and you're not in it."

MEANING:

I'm writing the next chapter in the story of my life...and you're not in it.

So, congrats, Jocelyn. Of course, since Jocelyn's entry didn't have any contact information either, I have to wait for her to e-mail me. Which, hopefully she will.

3. And the winning limerick for the Maybe Baby contest is Helen, for this great limerick:

Tara was a great story tell-er

she told us how she lost her fell-er

hers was the best

she won the contest

but now, for her, we're having to yell-er

And, I'm sure this will be no surprise to you all, but Helen didn't have any contact information, either.

See, the thing is, when you enter a contest... you need to come back so I can give you your free stuff. So, come back, chicklets. Come back.

Helen and Jocelyn, e-mail me. Don't make me break out the haiku.

Now, for our regularly scheduled blog. This week, in honor of our lovely guest chick, Joshilyn, and her wonderful book, Between, Georgia, our topic is being between. I thought on this for a while. I thought about being between men, which I haven't been for a long while. Between jobs, doesn't really apply to me. I am self-employed and as such, I am always working and always kinda between jobs. I thought about a rock and a hard place, but all the thoughts I had on that were highly inappropriate. I even thought about betwixt... which never seemed like a real word to me, but no, it's in the Webster's and everything... but in the end, I got nothing.

Usually, if I sit around long enough, something will percolate. Something will come through. This week, not so much. It's not Joshilyn's fault, nor her book. Nor the subject. I'm sure on any other week, I'd be able to come up with something. But I'm right in the middle of my book, and...

Wait. I'm between chapter four and chapter five. Does that count?

No? Geez. You guys are tough.

Anyway. I'm right in the middle of my book and I spent the last two full days writing about Veronica Mars (look for the Benbella anthology out in stores... eventually) and now my brain has plunked itself down in the middle of the room, called me all sorts of foul names I will not repeat out of concern for your fair sensitivities, flipped me the bird, and held its breath until it turned blue. Which really wasn't necessary. It had me at the flip off.

So basically, what I'm saying is that the only thing I'm between right now is useless and brain dead. Which, I guess, technically qualifies as a legitimate, on-topic blog.

Wow. Dig that. See ya next week!

This week's blog was brought to you by Between, Georgia, Joshilyn's bold,
funny novel about a rural south Juliette, her redneck Romeo, and a family
feud that blows Georgia's smallest town wide open.

Posted by Lani at 6:00 AM | Comments (9)

August 15, 2006

Between, Georgia

I'm All About the Boys Today...

The Chicks are going to be blogging on BEING BETWEEN as a sort of THEME for the week, but I thought I would talk a little about about the actual book. More specifically, about the GUYS in the book. I feel moved to share some weird little real life anecdotes about how Guy 1 got his name and how I secretly feel about Guy 2....

My main character is BETWEEN a lot of things, including two men. One is her bad boy band husband, Jonno Overmilk. I had a hard time naming him. He started out as Jon-Jon Murphy. I wanted him to have some sort of OBNOXIOUS cool-in-highschool nickname, you know? Some sort of in-clique Bastardization of his name that he was glory-daze-pathetic STILL using in his 30's. Jon-Jon was too KENNEDY, but it was close.

SO, I am playing online scrabble with my friend Matt. We do this all the time. We are DEADLY serious about it and it usually ends in BLOODSHED and WEEPING. You know that moment in Conan the Barbarain where the Mongol Chief asks Conan what is best in life? And Conan says: To crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentations of their women! Yeah. That's how Matt and I play scrabble.There are days when I think would eat live mice before I would open up a triple word square for him.

Now, if you don't play scrabble, there's this thing you can do where you use ALL your tiles. It's called a bingo, and it's worth a HUGE fat bonus. Matt and I routinely Bingo 2 - 4 times a game. If the board is reasonably open and we are given decent tiles that we suspect MIGHT contain a bingo, we will make the other person wait twenty minutes, half an hour even, for our next move. And we are SHAMELESS about the things we will TRY to make into bingos.

One day we are playing, it's his turn, and the pause begins to STREEEETCH.

Me: YOU SUSPECT YOU HAVE A BINGO!
Him: Oh, I KNOW I have a bingo. I just have to find it.

SO I go answer some e-mails and get a little work done, checking back on the board every few minutes.
Matt starts putting up tiles at last, and he spells out....OVERMILK.
He hasn't hit ENTER yet, but he's BLATANTLY put this dumbass stupid NOT A WORD up there.

Me: Dude, that is pathetic. SO not a word.
Him: Dude. It might be.
Me: Use it in a sentence.
Him: The cream was not undermilk. It rose to overmilk.
Me: DUDE! PATHETIQUE!
Him: I feel it might be a word.
Me: If it's a word I will completely name a character OVERMILK in the book I am working on. That's HOW sure I am that you are barking out your butt.
Him: Okay, pressing enter.

Heh. It was a word. It is a farm term -- you can overmilk a cow and it is ONE WORD, not TWO as any rational human would think. So I made Jon-Jon have last name Overmilk, though Matt said I should have had to make my main character's FIRST name be Overmilk. And then I realized.... Jon Overmilk. Jon O. Jonno. VERY high school in-clique sounding nickname. And if it ALSO sounds a little urinal cake-y.....good. He's that sort of guy. *grin*

Guy the second is Nonny's best friend, Henry, and I have to tell you --- I had a LEETLE teeny crushlet on Mr. Henry. He's a bookstore owner and....I got a little fluttery, writing about him. And as for READING HIM! I got to read the audio version of Between myself, and there are a LOT of male characters in the book but...Henry was the only problem.

I had a genuine CRUSH!, and I got scared trying to make him be all I see in him. The first day of taping, I only read TWO of Henry's lines, and one was "Me Neither" and one was "It's terrible to be robbed, of course." NOT LONG LINES. But I had to read both those lines OVER AND OVER with new instructions from Bob-my-director, who was telling me to NOT sound like Elvis, to NOT sound like Dennis Quaid in the Big Easy, to NOT sound like a muppet on crack. I don't know what Henry sounds like, but at least my director didn't let him sound like THOSE things.

After take 90, Bob said: Why is Henry so hard -- Jonno sounds great, so you can do men. Why are you balking at Henry?
Me: I don't know.
Bob: The uncle sounded good, this is just another man.
Me: I want to do him right.
Bob: So you are intimidated because you LIKE him.
Me: I MORE than like him. I want to have sex with him. And I want to read him so well that YOU want to have sex with him, too.
*Long pause.*
Bob: Well, we have a ways to go, then, don't we.
*Another Pause*
Me to the Sound Engineer: Um, were you taping when I said that 'I want to have sex with Henry' part?
Sound Engineer: You betcha.

This week's blog was brought to you by Between, Georgia, Joshilyn's bold,
funny novel about a rural south Juliette, her redneck Romeo, and a family
feud that blows Georgia's smallest town wide open.

Posted by at 3:20 AM | Comments (5)

August 13, 2006

Oreos: A hard-hitting exposé

The truth never tasted so good

Last month I discovered Nirvana in a blue foil wrapper: Oreo Dunkers (limited edition!), which are a new, and in my opinion, vastly improved version of the classic cookie. They’re oblong, see, so as to maximize dunking potential, and contain the perfect cookie-to-filling ratio.

I’ve never been much of a dunker, myself; I’m one of those purists who believes in dismantling the entire cookie and eating each piece in a distinct, never-varying order. My least favorite part is the white “crème” filling, which always tastes kinda lardy. As for Double-Stufs…why? I always wondered when the No-Stufs were coming out—all chocolate, no crème.

Anyway, I bought a box (or three) of the new Dunkers and was inexplicably overwhelmed with the urge to submerge them in milk. Then I poured some fat-free, organic milk (N.B.: this balances out the nutritional effects of consuming Oreos with wild abandon) and dunked me a cookie.

OMG. I am a convert.

Why have I been depriving myself all these years? Oreos and milk are like…like yin and yang. Wrigley Field and the Cubs. Ebony and ivory! They really do live together in perfect harmony!

And now I am screwed because I can never go back to regular round Oreos again. But the Dunker supply isn’t gonna last forever. What’s a junkie to do??? It’s bad enough that they don’t have Dunkin’ Donuts out here! When will the tragedy end?

Wait. I am starting to notice that all my junk food addictions cravings involve the term “dunk.” What would Freud have to say about that? Well, we know what Nabisco would say, because it turns out they have already conducted a vast longitudinal study on their consumers and have generated psychological profiles for each type of cookie consumer. Here’s what it says about “Twisters”, i.e., me:

TWISTERS “Warm & Fuzzy”
Twisters are the sensitive type and tend to be a bit emotional. They love animals and cry at drama movies. They are especially artistic and adverse to sports. Twisters are extremely trendy and always on the leading edge of fashion. They are young at heart, often acting like a big kid. Professionally, they are very talented, goal oriented, planners capable of seeing the big picture. Preferring to be a big fish in a little pond, Twisters aspire to own their own business.

Translation: cry-baby attention whores.

Hmm. Well, I do like animals, I admit that. And I might occasionally tend to over-plan. But warm and fuzzy? Emotional? Crying at movies? Come on. I never cry at movies. Only every other episode of Alias and, um, every single episode of Grey’s Anatomy. Sigh. Charlotte York-ed again.

So what about you? Confess the deep, dark secrets revealed by your Oreo profile. I’ll be over here, bingeing and weeping over Hallmark commercials.

update: here are the other two profiles, to save you having to click over to another site. We aim to please!

DUNKERS “Danger Zone”
Dunkers are the life of the party. They define the “in-crowd” and strive to be the most popular and best looking at any gathering. They are high-energy athletic types who thrive on adventure and live for the thrill of the moment, making them unpredictable by nature and proponents of change and variety. Extremely social beings, Dunkers prefer the excitement and energy of the big city. They are more likely to be sexy and romantic with a wild imagination. Professionally, they tend to be workaholics and control freaks causing them to be anxious “worry warts” at the office. They enjoy action movies, listen to rock music, drive sports cars and prefer to vacation in the Caribbean.

BITERS “Toe the Line”
Biters are carefree and easy-going, preferring not to make waves. Their laid back attitude makes them adverse to risk and totally predictable. Their need for consistency and structure makes them very family oriented with a strong sense of tradition, values, patriotism and spiritual conviction. They are very intelligent with an air of self-confidence and eternal optimism. The ideal company man, Biters tend to be overly organized, opposed to change and experience the least amount of stress at the office. They enjoy comedies, listen to classical music, drive a mini-van and prefer to travel within the United States.

Posted by Beth at 10:58 PM | Comments (16)

August 12, 2006

Cleaning out the closets

And breaking my heart

School will start here in just a couple weeks so I coerced Things One and Two into spending a day cleaning out closets, getting rid of clothes that don't fit and toys that no longer interest and delight. It turned into a wild rout of furniture rearrangement as well which mean that Thing Two's drum set is no longer in the living room, a very happy outcome for all concerned.

All in all, it was a highly successful day. There's room in the kids' dresser drawers for the new fall clothes that we'll shop for next week. There's space in their desks for new folders and books. Then, however, I started to glance through the stuff that was being given away.

Big mistake.

"But you loved Barney!" I say, aghast when I find the stuffed Barney who used to tell us he wanted to be our friend when we squoze his purple paw until whatever little electronic dealie bob that made him do that started running out of batteries making Barney stutter.

Thing One looks at me like I've lost my mind. "I was two," he says.

"Yes, you were and you were adorable. We'd put you on a table top and sing the Barney song and you'd dance. I have it on tape somewhere." I clutch Barney to my chest.

Thing One puts the headphones to his iPod back in his ears and slinks away humming "No Woman No Cry." Cowboy gently wrests Barney from me and puts him back in the box, but it's too late. I am lost. There's Sammy the Walrus and the ocean-themed sweatshirt that I didn't know glowed in the dark until one of the kids scared me half to death in the middle of the night and the toy steering wheel that made the obnoxious noise.

Before I know it, I'm sitting in the living room with tears rolling down my cheeks amid piles of stuff I've taken out of the boxes and all the Testosterone Americans that live in my house (which is everybody, but me) are staring at me since this whole thing was my idea.

I know that I don't need Barney or Sammy to remember the kids when they were small. I know I don't need the sweatshirts and T-shirts from various trip and vacations to remember them either. I know space is at a premium in my tiny overstuffed little house and it's ridiculous to hold onto things that we don't need when we so desperately do need the space for stuff we will use. I know I need to make room for all the new good memories we're going to make, but my heart breaks a little anyway as I put Barney back in the give away box.

Posted by Eileen at 11:19 AM | Comments (5)

August 11, 2006

The end of the book

Brain tired

We don't talk about writing much, here, in spite of the fact that all of us write books for a living. The LC is more a fun, chatty place to talk about ball pits, f%$*ing pools, and golf carts.

But I'm two weeks away from turning in this book, after I've ripped out a section to rewrite yet again, so the topic is on my brain.

What's left of my brain. [OH!! AND I NEARLY FORGOT TO SHOW YOU MY NEW HOT, HUNKY GUY COVER!! Hee. Go here!]

So here are a few myths about the writer's life:

1. We all sit around in silky lingerie and fluffy boas, nibbling on chocolate whilst (yes, we're the type of people who regularly use words like "whilst") dictating our marvelous pearls of prose to our handsome hunk of a secretary. (Still not out of my PJs yet, will make it into shorts and a t-shirt in an hour or so)

2. We have secretaries. (Looking around at the stack of unfiled paperwork, unanswered correspondence, and everything else that piles up at the end of the book)

3. We live our live pretty much all year jetting off to fabulous conferences, wear designer clothes and ridiculous heels and close out the bars with our writer friends . . . (well, OKAY ALREADY. But that's only ONE WEEK OUT OF THE YEAR.)

4. We always know exactly where a book is going to go when we start writing it, and the road from CHAPTER ONE to THE END is a straight path, with no diversions. (Sorry, had to pause to clean up the coffee I snorted out my nose over that last one . . .)

5. We get together for coffee regularly in each other's mansions, which the household staff has cleaned to shining perfection. (Had to step over a pile of laundry to get to my keyboard.)

Okay, since I'm in the land of BRAIN FULL, BOOK BOOK BOOK TORNADO, and this is a fairly lame column, how about this -- 'cause you know I wouldn't let you Lit Chicklets down!! Post your idea of any myth of the writer's life and I'll randomly choose two to win autographed copies of my RITA-winning novella in the anthology THE NAKED TRUTH. Because I love you guys!! (And because nobody lets me say RITA-winning after that first couple of days, hee hee.) Oh - and check back tomorrow because I'll post the winner in the comments section and I just don't have the energy to try to track somebody down. (Did I mention brain tired?)

hugs,
me

ps Send big FINISH THE DAMN BOOK vibes my way. PLEASE. And, honestly, I wouldn't mind somebody who knows how to file or do laundry or cook dropping by, either. Just saying.

Posted by Alesia at 7:57 AM | Comments (24)

August 10, 2006

The Spookiest Puzzle In The Entire World!

Or, at least I think so...

So, Oh Patient One was very naughty this week, because he sent me a link to a very spookily odd computer puzzle. Naughty, because he has distracted me from my current writing-at-top-speed project, and I am now convinced that my computer has developed telepathy!

The Teenagers, of course, have thought about it long and hard, and they tell me that the logical explanation for why my computer only seemingly reads my mind is very simple, but it relates to math. And me and math are not a marriage made in heaven, let me tell you. And (The Teenagers also tell me) no, my computer is not going to turn into some kind of evil mind-control manic entity and try to take over me, the world, and the universe any time soon, but when they try to explain it to me, I just. Don't. Get it.

Do you?

If you would like to torture yourselves for a bit, the link is below. And be sure to let me know why it works if you can fathom it. (No complicated math, please.)

(Oh, and the URL doesn't work from all browsers, so you might have to switch about a bit).

The Spookiest Puzzle In The Entire World

Do you get it? Spooky, no? And if anyone has found something even more spooky, be sure to let me know about that, too.

In the meantime, last week I promised that I would announce the winner of my mini contest for a sleep T-shirt with the cover of Confessions of a Serial Dater emblazoned on the front. Well, Teenager No 1 very helpfully pulled a name out of the magic hat a bit earlier, and the winner is...

It is...

Chickadee Brittney!

Thank you so much for playing, all of you lovely chickadees, you're all winners to me :-)

Michelle, who thinks that her computer is watching her...Oh, no, it's the webcam Oh Patient One installed earlier in the week.

Posted by Michelle at 1:00 PM | Comments (13)

August 9, 2006

Tara. Oh, Tara. Wherefore art thou, Tara?

Deny thy father. Refuse thy name. Yadda yadda.

You know what I find funny? "Wherefore art thou Romeo?" actually means, "Why the hell are you Romeo, and not someone I can invite to dinner without my family trying to kill him?" And yet, mostly, today, we just read the "Where" part.

But that's really not important. What's important is Tara.

See, a few weeks ago, I held a little contest. Lots of people entered; one person won.

Tara.

So, I announced that Tara had won her very own, personally signed copy of Alesia's fabulous Seven Ways to Lose Your Lover, but we have a tiny problem.

Tara doesn't seem to have come back.

And there's no link in her comment to give me anything to go on other than Tara.

And there are approximately a gazillion Taras roaming the internet at any given moment. (That's a rough estimate. But you know what I'm saying.)

So now, I'm a little betwixt and between. What to do? Well, this is what I'm doing. I'm giving the elusive and mysterious Tara one week to claim her prize, and then I'm giving it to someone else.

So tick tock, Tara, time's a-wasting.

And in the meantime... because I really can't be stopped and because I've got a few extra copies of Maybe Baby burning a hole in my bookshelves... I'm holding another contest.

Everyone who leaves a limerick here to entice Tara back to the L.C. to claim her prize will automatically be entered to win a signed copy of Maybe Baby. Only, this time, if you enter... check back next week to find out if you won. Because the next time I have to do this, I won't be embarrassing you with limericks.

Oh, no. It'll be haiku.

And for those of you who aren't familiar with limericks, here's the basics:

(ahem ahem)

There once was a Chicklet named Tara
Who visited the L.C. on a dare-a
She left a funny post
Then abandoned the host
And now we've got running mascara

(You know. From the tears? Because, um, Tara's not here? Okay. Fine. Critics. YOU find something that rhymes with Tara. Go for it.)

(Oh, and not too dirty. I'm a blusher.)

Posted by Lani at 6:17 AM | Comments (14)

August 8, 2006

How to make a 90 Minute Flight Last 13 Hours (Part Deux)

Or, How I saved the lives of Over 20 Babies. And One Dog.

I blogged the first half of this story last week, and nothing below will make a lick a sense if you haven't read the first part...

SO when the captain FINALLY stopped talking about how we might not all die probably, I had this deep, gut instinct telling I must NOT, notnotnot, NOT under any circumstances, get on that flight. I had been burned, you see. And burned and burned and burned, until I had moved WAY past twice shy and into Extra Crispy.

Saying, "I had some trouble this tour with the travel" is akin to announcing that The Middle Ages had a slight rat problem. That may seem like a mild little simile for a girl as hooked on hyperbole as I am, until you consider that medieval rats were all positively dripping with the black plague. It wasn't JUST the security flag... It was a HOST of things. One small example: If I made it to my destination, my luggage did not. If I did not, my luggage did. After the second time, I cleverly tucked a pair of leopard print underpants in my laptop bag, thinking at least I would arrive with clean underpants to wear to the hospital when the cab I got into had its inevitable deadly crash. Two concrete ideas, 1) security flag, and 2) leopard print underpants, wandered around in my brain looking for each other, but they never actually intersected until the next airport's security flag stopped me and the guy who was combing THROUGH my laptop bag picked up the small wad of leapard print cloth, lofted it high where all could see, and fluttered it open into its unmistakably underpantsian shape. NEAT!

I was traveling with Murphy, and his law was in full effect.

I looked around to see if anyone else was panicking, and I started noticing the VAST NUMBERS OF BABIES who were planning to go to Atlanta on my flight. Seriously, like 20 babies. And they were all very CUTE, NICE babies, everything from sleeping twin newborns to a positive herd of fat-cheeked wandering toddlers dragging their parents around to see the exciting chairs of the waiting area.

The (pregnant!!!) woman next to me had a tiny little dog in her purse, and the wandering babies would come up and discover the dog, and then naturally they would want to PAT the dog in a LOVING but uncontrolled baby-esque fashion that looked a LOT like whanging the dog in its head. The parents would apologize, and the Purse-Dog Owner would say, "Oh no, it's fine, she LOVES babies," and take the dog out of its purse to allow the babies to whang at the whole dog, the dog would WAG ITS ENTIRE BODY in joyful acceptance, as if to say OH YES! WHANG ME AGAIN DELICIOUS BABIES. It was probably the nicest dog ever born.

Everyone was having a good time, except me, because I KNEW, I KNEW, if I got on that plane with my terrible cursed travel juices, I would cause the tail to ice, and, not to be too technical here and confuse the NON AVIATRIXES among us by DIRECTLY quoting the stalwart captain....but IF the tail were to ice "Whew-whee! That would be bad."

My mother has always told me, TRUST YOUR INSTINCTS. And my instincts were telling me... DO NOT GET ON THAT PLANE. I tried to get my husband aka Scott aka The Bastion of Reason on the phone, but I got his voicemail. So I started calling girlfriends. I called a good ten girlfriends and got maybe six on the phone. I asked every girlfriend who picked up if I should trust my instincts or get on the plane. TRUST YOUR INSTINCTS!!!! each of them said. I was looking for ONE PERSON to say, "Darling, you are on CRACK. You HAVE no instincts worth speaking of. Get your BUTTOCKS on that perfectly mostly probably safe unless the tail ices flight and COME HOME. But no. It was a Hallelujah chorus of TRUST YOUR INSTINCTS.

Right after the plane left with me not on it, Scott called me back.

Scott: Get on the plane.
Me: It left. Should I rent a car and DRIVE HOME?
Scott: Oh, honey. That's insane.
Me: But, but....I trusted my instincts!
Him: Your instincts are in a state of hysteria and exhaustion. I wouldn't trust your instincts to make DINNER right now, much less life and death decisions. Go get your butt on the next flight.

See why I call him the Bastion of Reason?

I stomped off CURSING MYSELF for a superstitious insane instinct trusting fool. I cursed louder when I learned the next flight would be in five hours. I went dierctly to the airport bar, ordered a cosmo and then struck up a lively conversation with a drunk guy who knew as much English as I knew Deutsche. It went like this:

Me: I don't remember any more German. Oh wait. Geschmacklosigkeit! That's smacking something. Or being blinded by a stick in the eye. Or a kind of horse. Right?
Him: YA! YA! Geschmacklosigkeit! Ya! SomethingSomethingSomething.

Long Pause

Him: SomethingSomethingSomethingSomething "Bucket!" Ja??? SomethingSomethingSomething.
Me: Yes, yes BUCKET, that's the English word for...A Bucket. I don't know the German for it.

Long Pause

Me: Oh but I also remember the word for blue pencil, which is blaustift. DER blaustift because in Germany, pencils are male. Even pink pencils are male, although I think PINK pencils should be called DIE Pinktifts, feminine, except then the SHAPE. Does SHAPE trump COLOR when sexing your pencils?
Him: Ja! SomethingSomethingSomething. Blaustift. Something.

And on like that. If it sounds like a bad conversation, then I hypothesize that you have not currently had NEARLY as many cosmopolitans as I had at that point.

Do I need to tell you that when I FINALLY arrived at the Atlanta airport my luggage had been lost? No, you already assumed that, right? Okay, well, further assume that the LOST LUGGAGE LINE needed one of those winding rat mazes like they set up for the newest rollercoasters at Disney World. I was in that line for almost an hour, then a lady took my info and sent me down the hall. I waited, half dozing and regretting that final Cosmo. Another hour or went by, and then I saw a man coming with my luggage. I stood up and gave a weak cheer. I took it from his hand, began dragging it away. I think I had taken maybe two steps when the handle snapped off. The luggage dropped, peeling a festive ribbon of skin off the back of my leg and foot.

I stared stupidly at the luggage and the foot carnage, then looked up at the man. My foot was bleeding. I still held the broken handle, attached to nothing.
I could not decide whether I should laugh or cry when he shrugged and said "Major Airline won't pay for that," and walked off.

Kindness might have undone me. As it was, I laughed until I thought my liver would come out my nose, giggling and bleeding and wondering how I would lug 50 pounds of luggage out to the taxi line with no wheely handle. I managed though, and now, I tell you, ASHLEY WILKES, I tell you true, I tell you SO SO true I might as well be standing on the hill at 12 Oaks having just vomited up a radish. Picture me lifting my little fist to the heavens and hear me when I say, "If I have to lie and cheat and steal and kill twenty babies AND the nicest dog ever spawned.... I will never listen to my stupid instincts again."

Posted by at 5:51 AM | Comments (10)

August 7, 2006

Technological Wonders

How did I ever survive without this stuff?

First of all, I must give a hearty, LC welcome to our guest chick, Joshilyn Jackson. If you haven’t read her first novel, Gods in Alabama, run, do not walk, to your nearest bookstore/library/online purveyor. It is so good, I can’t even tell you. But I will try anyway:

I picked up Gods in Alabama last summer, at the behest of several well-read friends. Started chapter 1 at about 10 p.m. By midnight, Mr. Tall had issued a stern lights-out decree (something about “having to get up for work…” Whatever.) But I couldn’t put the book down. “Eh,” I thought, “one more chapter.” I moved to the bathroom and curled up on the floor on my fluffy white bathmat.

One a.m.: “Eh, one more chapter.”
Two a.m.: “Eh, I’m almost done; may as well keep going.”
Finished at three, bleary-eyed and with permanent bathmat creases on my booty. It was worth it, though.

“One more chapter” is going to be the death of me. I have a real problem in that department. But! You know what is NOT going to be the death of me? Suffocating in a hot car. That’s right—not even in Phoenix in July. And you know why? Because some innovative genius has finally brought us:

The Auto Cool car cooler! (You have to watch the little movie on the website. See that woman grimacing in anguish? That’s totally me!) I’ve seen the commercial for this several times on late-night TV, and I’m sold. This, people, is why engineers and artists and physicists have labored lo these many years: So I can leave my car in a parking lot at noon in full sun, return an hour later, and put my palms on the steering wheel without permanently scarring my flesh. Never again will I whimper and attempt to steer with two fingers while soaking the back of my shirt in sweat. And it’s mine for the incredibly low price of $14.99 (plus S&H). Marked down from $40! Plus you get some type of cupholder-caddy-organizer thing. Who can resist? My whole life is about to change forever! As soon as I convince Mr. Tall.

Another milestone of the modern era: The Ice Cream Ball. This is the perfect product for lazy louts like myself. Fill it up with cream and sugar (and, presumably, ice of some variety), hand it off to the rascally neighborhood kids for a rousing game of kickball, and voila! Freshly churned ice cream! It’s a miracle! I have no idea how it works, but my motto with ice cream has always been, eat first, ask questions later.

And listen, you guys. I know I’m not the only one who succumbs to the power of these infomercials. (Okay, I also want that amazing dicing/chopping slicer box thing that prepares vegetables and fruits for stir fry and salads in seconds!) Confess: what marvel of technology are you pining after???

Oh, and P.S.: I almost forgot to pimp out my newest release: Everything She Wants, the second book in my YA series. I hereby pledge to keep you up until 3 a.m. with bathmat-booty. And if enough people buy it, I can finally spring for the Auto Cool car cooler. Come on! It was 120 degrees here last week.

Posted by Beth at 1:28 AM | Comments (12)

August 6, 2006

Frankly, My Dear . . .

. . . and, well, you know the rest.

Mommy circles are all a-twitter at Helen Kirwan-Taylor’s recent column, in which she proudly proclaimed, “Sorry, but my children bore me to death!”

That was actually the name of her column. Although I’m assuming that she was being figurative, and not literal, since she’s certainly alive enough to write columns about how annoying she finds her kids.

In the piece, Kirwan-Taylor went on to discuss how she’ll do just about anything not to have to spend time with her children – the nanny is sent in her place to parties and play dates, her children have learned not to ask to her to take them to the park – and furthermore, believes that she’s brave to admit how little she wants to do with her offspring.

And to this I can only say: yawn. But it’s not Sam I find boring, it’s the constant naval gazing that chicks like Kirwan-Taylor love to engage in.

Is being a mom boring? Sure, sometimes. And sometimes it’s fun, and sometimes it makes your heart soar, and sometimes it makes you want to bang your head against the wall.

But really, what job isn’t boring at times? Being a writer is a dream job for me, but don’t even get me started on how much I loathe line edits.

I just sent off my latest manuscript, THE MOMMY WARS, to my agent, and after congratulating me, George looked a bit gloomy.

“I suppose this means that you’ll be revising it soon,” he said.

“Yeah, probably,” I said. That’s how it usually works. The book becomes like a boomerang – every time I think I’m done with it, and send it off, back it returns with various suggestions for improvement. “But probably not for a few weeks. Why?”

“Because,” George said darkly, “you always get moody when you’re doing revisions.”

Which is husband-speak for saying that I turn into the Bitch Queen From Hell while editing. And while I’ll admit I do tend to get a tad bit grouchy (“If I have to read this one more time, I swear to GOD, I will THROW UP!”), I do try to keep in mind that there’s a light at the end of the tunnel, and soon I’ll have the old manuscript back off my desk, and I’ll be able to happily turn my attention back to writing the new one, which I always very much enjoy.

So every job has its drawbacks, and motherhood is no exception. There are good days and bad days, and everything in between. But the thing about motherhood is this . . . it’s entirely voluntary. If you don’t want kids, you don’t have to have them. So if the idea of schlepping around a diaper bag, and going to the park, and reading the same picture book four hundred times in a row, and keeping the freezer stocked with chicken fingers makes you want to throw yourself off a bridge . . . well, then don’t have kids. It’s certainly the cheaper option, considering what a pair of Stride-Rites go for these days.

I never thought I wanted kids when I was younger. But now that I have one – and took a very long, painful, bumpy road to get him here – I have to say: I love being a mom. In fact, I fell helplessly in love with Sam long before he was born. And, on balance, a sticky kiss and a baby cuddle are ample payment for enduring the tedium of yet another round of Brown Bear, Brown Bear.

That’s not to say there aren’t days when I would cheerfully stick a stamp on Sam and mail him off to his grandmother, or that I don’t enjoy the occasional leisurely afternoon to myself, or that having our umpteenth conversation about how stinky poos go in the potty makes me want to run out of the room screaming like a mad thing..

But on the hard days, I try to stay philosophical. The past three years have gone by in the blink of an eye. In another blink of the eye, we’re going to reach the day when Sam isn’t going to want to snuggle on the sofa with me, or pester me to play trains with him, or hang out with me at all. So I try to focus on not missing out on those small-but-important moments before they’re gone. And if that means a little boredom now and again, so be it.

Posted by Whitney at 7:17 AM | Comments (8)

August 5, 2006

No Licking!

Michelle said so

First of all, I'd like to apologize for not posting anything from Nationals. I have the double hand-me-down laptop and I'm not sure how to make it do that stuff and having left Cowboy to the tender mercies of Things One and Two back in California, I was a bit lost. Lani graciously offered use of her computer and internet connection, but somehow it never worked out.

Now, back to the licking.

It all started when someone licked my arm in a bar while I was at RT. Now, I know I should have jumped up, smacked her on the nose with a rolled up newspaper and yelled, "Bad, Writer! No lattes for you!" Unfortunately, I'd had a martini or three and frankly, she hit a particularly good spot so my reflexes weren't what they should be.

At least, that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

So it was kind of a joke when I called Lani after my plane landed in Atlanta (At least, I think it was Atlanta. Based on how long it took me to walk from my gate to the baggage claim, I could well have landed somewhere in Virginia.) and told her I couldn't wait to see her, hug her, sniff her and lick her. Yet, somehow, when I got there, I couldn't help it. I gave her a little lick. I can't even blame booze. Unless it was the three diet cokes I'd had on the plane. Altitude can really make those things potent. Anyway, things went downhill from there.

In fact, things went so downhill that "some girl" who may or may not be related to "some girl" who later leaned against a bathroom wall in the hotel and had her butt go through the tiles which, to be honest, is another story entirely that I don't quite have time to tell right now, actually poured wine on her arm to get me to lick it off her.

Thank goodness Michelle finally did her best school marm finger shake in my face and in that totally glorious accent said, "No licking, Rendahl!" Snapped me right out of it.

I'm hoping I got all this licking out of my system (I think everyone else is, too, by the way, except the aforementioned girl who put her really quite small behind through the tiles) and can return to being the nice stodgy middle-aged mom that I am. All in good fun, right? Except now, in my post conference maturity, I'm worried that Lani is going to replace my little butterfly motif on the blog with a giant Gene Simmons tongue.

Posted by Eileen at 7:00 AM | Comments (15)

August 3, 2006

The Secret Lives of Butterflies!!

And why, apparently, I resemble an insect of the Order Lepidoptera...

I hardly ever use salt when I cook, or add it to my food afterwards (although I am a huge ground pepper freak). So every now and then (especially when it is hot - something scientific to do with sweating and osmosis, I suspect) I feel the need to eat something salty. I have to have something salty. And that something salty is usually a delicious chunk of Stilton cheese. Or some potato chips.

"Yes, yes, Michelle, that's all very well, we get that you don't like salt very much. But what does this have to do with butterflies?" I hear you all cry. Well, last night, The Teenagers and I decided to have a movie night, and this is what happened...

Me: "I need salty potato chips, right now," I tell The Teenagers. "I also need a volunteer to go get them for me. How much is it going to cost me to bribe one of you?"

The Teenagers (in unison, identical angelic expression on faces): "You don't need to bribe us, we'll both go because we lurve you." And then, because while I think that they are perfect beings, they can still spot a good bribe opportunity when it hits them in the face, "But we could use some potato chips and popcorn, too. You know - because then it will feel like a real movie night."

So then we haggled for a bit and came to a mutually satisfactory bribe, and then...

Teenager No 1: "Actually, Mum, did you know that you are like a butterfly?"

Me (flattered, imagining that I am being compared to a gorgeously patterned specimen with fairy wings): "Why is that, my darlingest, most beloved offspring?"

Teenager No 1 has such a way with similes and metaphors, as I discovered when she compared me to a rainforest. So I really am expecting something fabulous...

Teenager No 1 (in a matter-of-fact tone of voice): "Because butterflies don't always get enough salt from nectar, so they sometimes have to find an alternative source. Just like you. That's why they land on humans sometimes - it's the salt on our skin."

And, you know? I've always wondered why butterflies never land on me. It's just one of those life mysteries that has mystified me. Now I know. I am a salt vampire.

In the meantime, to celebrate my new two-book deal for my young adult series The Fabulous Ms. Fizz, I have a little contest for you, chickadees. I have a gorgeous sleeping T-shirt emblazoned with the cover of Confessions of a Serial Dater, and if you would like to win it, just email me at mjcunnah@yahoo.com and I will draw a name out of a magic hat next Thursday and announce it right here. Go on. You know you want to. *Winks.*

Michelle :-)

Posted by Michelle at 12:12 PM | Comments (14)

August 2, 2006

It's not the heat...

Wait. No. Yes. It's the heat.

My mother told me that, back in the day, before air conditioning, people used to hose down the trees by the house and that would cool things down. It doesn't work, and it certainly doesn't help with the humidity.

Oh, holy mother of God, the air is wet here in Central New York (shut up, Bob) and I am miserable and sticky and as I walk through the house things attach themselves to me. I was halfway to the kitchen before I realized I had a cat stuck to my leg.

And we don't have a cat.

(Shut up, Bob)

Anyway, I have discovered something. Heat makes me lazy. Humidity makes me cranky. And when I say cranky, I mean... really unpleasant. Fish said something innocuous to me this morning - along the lines of, "Good morning," - and I just started in on him. The argument ended up being about the garbage, I think, which he remembered to take out, so I don't really know what my problem was. Then there was this whole thing where he swears that for the first time in recorded history while I was away he remembered to give Sweetness her medicine every day and I didn't believe him.

This is worse than my period. Speaking of which, I also have my period.

Poor Fish.

ANYWAY, all this to say, there will be no blog today, because I'm just too cranky, and I'm afraid that if I unleash my true self upon you, you will be horrified and run far, far away and then you'll miss the second half of the lovely Joshilyn's harrowing 13-hour-flight story, and that would be really sad, because that babe is funny. So pay no attention to the cranky LC behind the curtain. And if you're feeling cranky, feel free to rant away your crankiness in the comments. Be a sister in the crank.

Posted by Lani at 10:12 AM | Comments (19)

August 1, 2006

How to make a 90 Minute Flight Last 13 Hours

Hey Chickletinas--Thanks for having me!

I finished up the book tour for Between, Georgia last week---a month of city to city to city. I missed my husband and my little kids. I missed my one-eyed, obese cat. I even missed my relentless humping Gerbils who made more Gerbils TWICE because my friend the internet said NOT to remove the male because he was needed to help raise the litter, and then he knocked up her up AGAIN 15 minutes after she gave birth. Which. No. Just no.

I mean, think about it...You've given birth to the last of your octuplets, and he's going to come at you with bedroom eyes and be all, like, "Hey, Sugartail, want to go 'run in the wheel.'" LORD. I'd wait til he was sleeping and then bean him with an Aspen chip and drown him in the water bottle like the Farrah Fawcett of Gerbilkind. BUT I EVEN MISSED THEM, that's how much missing was going on.

And while the TOUR itself was AWESOME (I loved having the chance to meet readers and booksellers and librarians) the PLANE RIDES were...not awesome. Sample Not-Awesomeness: Because I'd done two tours before, I didn't think to remind Travel that I WRITE under my maiden name but LIVE and DRIVE under my married name. They booked all my flights in my maiden name. We got it straightened out, but the result of the name change was a security flag that got me felt up in every airport in the Southern states. But what are a few fingers in my bra, really, in comparison to the 90 minute final flight home that took over 13 hours?

UPON THAT FATEFUL MORNING! I got up at around 4 am and got to the St. Louis airport a good hour and a half early, to make sure I had time for security to touch me inappropriately and rifle through my underpants and confiscate the corkscrew I had carefully hidden in my exercise shorts in case emergency wine drinking was called for. Then I breezed through security entirely unmolested, corkscrew and all, and had 90 minutes to sit by the gate. FINE! And I'd worn my black lace half slip, too...

I finished my book and became bored, so I decided to go ahead and be REALLY obnoxious; I screwed my Blue Tooth into my ear and called my friend Lydia for a long luxurious gossip. "BlahBlahBlah, Blah!!! Blah?" said I to Lydia. "Blahblahblah Blahbbitty blah!" said Lydia back. Lather, rinse, repeat. Blue Tooth was hiding in my long hair. People passing by either rolled their eyes at yet ANOTHER obnoxious Blue Tooth Yapper, or crossed to the far side of the walkway, assuming I was completely off meds talking to myself.

Fifteen minutes before take off, and we had not boarded yet...The captain came out.

What the captain SHOULD have said: "Folks, there's a slight delay as we work out a tiny and completely inconsequential mechanical problem with the plane. Sit tight, we'll be on our way ASAP!"

What the captain actually said: "Folks, our de-icing valve in the tail is not working, and Major Airline wants to ground us but, I think that's silly. I mean, what are the chances ice is going to get on the tail? We're flying to ATLANTA, not ANTARCTICA. Although, okay, I see Major Airline's point. I mean, if ice DID get on the tail and we didn't have a de-icing valve, Whew-whee! That would be bad. Very bad. But, you know, we are flying SOUTH and it's not like it's RAINING, even though the forecast calls for rain, I am LOOKING and I don't SEE rain. Well, I don't see any right NOW, so, you know, I'm thinking it will probably be okay. If I can just convince Major Airline that we'll be fine if we take on extra fuel and fly really low...Otherwise, we'll have to wait until they fly the part HERE from Atlanta so, that's like 90 minutes out of your day, but I really do think we don’t need that valve. For THIS flight. Probably. So. Let me go argue with Major Airline...

What Lydia is said in my ear as we listened to the Captain: "Is that the captain explaining why you are delayed? ..... Is that STILL the captain explaining why you are delayed? ....IS THAT HIM STILL EXPLAINING? … What is WRONG with him? … Did he just say you would PROBABLY be okay?... Does he think he is in THERAPY? Is he working out his ISSUES? ... OMG IS HE STILL EXPLAINING???

What the ear listening to the captain heard: " If you get on this faulty, broken plane, you will probably die. Just saying!"

What the ear listening to Lydia heard: "The captain is a big ol' crazy mansy. Dart him and tag him and ship him to Arkham, but if he is the pilot, then for the LOVE OF GOD do NOT get on that plane. Even a plane flown by Papa Smurf would be better, and Papa Smurf is 2 inches high. And IMAGINARY.

Whoops, I have blathered onandonandon… I’m already WAY over the word count Lani gave me, so I will shut up. DID I GET ON THAT ILL FATED FLIGHT? Come back next Tuesday for Part Deux, tentatively titled “In Which I Save the Lives of at Least 20 Babies. And One Dog.”

OH! WAIT! I wanted to real quick invite you to join me in the Barnes and Noble book club discussion of BETWEEN, GEORGIA, It starts in a week, and the thing I find ESPECIALLY cool about this program is that my editor has written all the jumping off discussion questions and given her take on the book. How often do you get to have a book club meeting with the author that the book's EDITOR had such a big hand in? Hint: never. It ought to be a blast, so come on with your bad self. If you haven't read the book yet, that's okay. We'll be reading it and discussing it in pieces as we go.

Posted by at 5:12 AM | Comments (8)