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October 31, 2006
Testing Kate
It's Halloween, and you know what that means . . . Release Day!
So today’s the day! My new book, Testing Kate, is now available in a store near you! Look for it in Target, where it’s being featured as a Break Out book.
Testing Kate follows Kate Bennett through her rocky One-L year at Tulane Law School. (It’s sort of like The Paper Chase . . . only with a feminine twist.)
As Kate adjusts to her new world of intense studying, new friends and navigating the wild city of New Orleans, she also has some unexpected surprises. Like her sadistic new Criminal Law professor who seems to have Kate in his crosshairs. And the sudden appearance of her ex-boyfriend. And a most unexpected love interest that catches Kate completely by surprise . . .
In a year of self-discovery, the most important lesson Kate may learn is that to change your luck, sometimes you have to change your mind – including what you thought was your dream.
So check it out, I think you’ll enjoy it. And it makes a fabulous holiday gift for all of those hard-to-buy-for folks on your shopping list. (Yes, I swear, your father will like it much more than yet another boring old tie. And your great-grandmother. And your ten year old nephew . . . okay, no, nix that, it's not for the kiddies. There are some hot sex scenes in the book, after all. But your great-grandmother? She'll love those.)
And to celebrate the release of Testing Kate, this is Testing Teachers week here at the L.C. . . . our Literary Chicks will regale you with tales of terrible teachers and classroom antics.
This blog was brought to you by Whitney's new book, Testing Kate, a novel about surviving law school, finding love in unexpected places and turning your luck around.
Posted by Whitney at 5:35 AM | Comments (6)
October 28, 2006
“I wish I could quit you”
But I can’t because I have no self-control whatsoever
French fries
This tops the list because this is what I’m obsessed with right now. I want an order of fries so much, I am practically quivering and frothing at the mouth. But they’re so bad for you. And they go against everything I believe about good nutrition and holistic health. And…okay, the truth is, I just had a big order of them last night. (Mr. Tall feels that fast food is integral to our holistic health.) So I should be satiated, right? Au contraire. I just want more, more, more. The Fry Monster within has been awakened. I have tried to fob it off with dried fruit and plain walnuts, but the Fry Monster is not fooled. It wants grease, and it wants it now. Must…resist…be…strong…arrrrgh!!!
Scary movies
I love scary books. True crime, suspense novels, mysteries…I devour ‘em all (much like French fries). I just finished Tess Gerritsen’s The Mephisto Club, which was excellent. It was also scary as all get-out, and I had nightmares for days. This does not deter me from reading more scary books—apparently, I am masochist who secretly enjoys sleeping with the lights on. Scary books, I can handle. Sort of. Scary movies, not so much. I am the girl who still refuses to go anywhere near any forest because of the tent scene in the Blair Witch Project. So I have cut myself off. It was the right thing to do. I’ve never seen Halloween, Friday the 13th, or the Ring, and I’m a happier woman for it. Except…last night, Bravo was airing a special on the 100 scariest movie moments and I couldn’t change the channel. I sat there for an hour, eyes wide and heart racing, and watched tiny, twenty-second clips of random horror films. They barely showed anything. It was mostly commentary from filmmakers and actors. And, you guessed it, I was up til 2 a.m. wielding a flashlight and a baseball bat. Just in case there was a masked axe murderer biding his time in the closet, just waiting for me to doze off.
Dogs (but you all already knew that)
At least once a week, the following conversation occurs at Chez Kendrick:
ME: You know what we need around here?
MR TALL: Please don’t say “another dog.”
ME: How did you know that’s what I was thinking?
MR. TALL: It’s like I’m psychic.
ME: Wow! We must really be soul mates!
MR. TALL: Yeah. Soul mates who aren’t getting any more dogs.
As much as I enjoy tormenting Mr. Tall, I don’t really want another dog. We have our hands full with the three furry rapscallions we already have. Despite lots of obedience training and exercise, they still have plenty of excess energy to devote to barking at the garbage truck while I’m on the phone with my editor and generally wreaking havoc. Just last week, I came home from a run to find that our Ridgeback mix had shredded a hardcover book and scattered the remnants across my office floor. It was a very poetic moment, actually: that disemboweled book captured exactly how I feel every time I get a bad review. Roxie Hart = future canine performance artist. The funniest part is, every time we take one of the dogs out in public, people gush about how well behaved and mellow they are. (I hear it’s the same way with children.)
So what about you guys? Confess your "I love you so much I hate you" weaknesses!
This blog was brought to you by Amy's I Love You To Death, a collection of three witty, sexy novellas that prove true love is only one blind date away from killing you.
Posted by Beth at 1:02 AM | Comments (10)
October 27, 2006
Love Among Mutants
Which mutant are you?
Last Saturday, George and I watched X-Men 3: The Last Stand. The movie was awful, but afterward, George and I got to talking about what mutant powers we’d like to have.
For example, George said, it would really suck if your mutant power was something lame, like smelling really bad no matter how often you showered or always knowing what time it is without having to look at a clock.
“True,” I said. “That wouldn’t be any fun at all.”
“What mutant power would you want?” George asked.
I thought about this for a minute.
“The power to teleport,” I decided. “That way, I’d never have to fly anywhere ever again. Or drive for that matter. Of course, I’d have to be able to take anyone I wanted with me,” I added. “Just by holding their hand.”
“Of course,” George said. “That’s common among mutants.”
“Just think! No more school runs! No more sitting in traffic! And when we’re trying to figure out where to go to dinner, we could go anywhere in the world,” I enthused. “Where do you want to go to dinner tonight? How about Paris? Wouldn’t that be cool?”
“Except for the problem of time zones,” George said. “When it’s dinner time here, it’s the middle of the night in Paris. It would be hard to find a restaurant open for dinner.”
“Okay, buzz kill,” I said, giving him the evil eye.
“I just think you should have all of your facts straight before you decide that should be your power,” George said.
“Right. Because it’s important to be realistic when fantasizing about imaginary powers I’ll never have,” I grumbled.
“You know what power I’d want?” George asked, ignoring me. “The power to be lucky. Like super lucky. That way I’d win the lottery every time I entered.”
“That’s a good one,” I said approvingly. “Between your lottery winnings and my teleporting powers, there’s nothing we couldn’t do.”
So . . . what would your mutant power be?
This blog was brought to you by Amy's I Love You To Death, a collection of three witty, sexy novellas that prove true love is only one blind date away from killing you.
Posted by Whitney at 6:00 AM | Comments (15)
October 26, 2006
Hooked and lovin' it!
Although everyone else is having second thoughts.
I love to crochet. I adore it. I think it's more fun than a barrel full of monkeys. I find it relaxing, meditative, calming. I find it's something to do with my hands that would otherwise be picking at stuff, ripping up napkins or peeling other people's sunburns.
I crochet when we're watching television (assuming the laundry's folded), at soccer games, on car trips, in waiting rooms and while I'm on the phone. I crochet birthday gifts, christmas presents, baby clothes and blankets. If I could crochet a car, I would. I think it would be adorable in alpaca!
You'd think my family would be grateful that I found something so productive to keep me busy. Think again.
First of all, everyone is really done with the ponchos. They were cute and retro for a while. Then I hit the point that Things One and Two christened me the Ponchomatic because I was churning them out at such an alarming rate and single-handedly glutting the poncho market.
I moved on to shrugs. Darling, right? Everyone's wearing them, right? They take a little longer than ponchos, but I've pretty much gotten to the point that most of my friends who want one, have one.
Let's not even get started on the scarves and hats I've sent spiraling out into the universe. Still, I keep on yarning over and pulling through.
Second, my family seems to resent that I'm not entirely focused on them. This, I think, is quite foolish on their parts. Things One and Two seem blissfully unaware of how many times the fact that my hands are busy with my yarn have kept me from wrapping them around their precious little necks (metaphorically speaking, of course). Cowboy also seems oblivious to the fact that crocheting keeps me in a near Zen-like state of calm through all kinds of events. I think I crocheted an entire poncho during the photo session for his brother's wedding. I think it was a better choice than running screaming from the hotel into the streets of Manila.
I still can't stop though. I always have another project lined up so I can start the new one as soon as I've finished off on the last one. I can't seem to stop even though no one wants anything else yarn-based from me and everyone wants me to put the crocheting down and look at them and stop rewinding DVDs to catch whatever it was that I missed while I was counting stitches.
I'm afraid, I just love it too much.
This blog was brought to you by Amy's I Love You To
Death, a collection of three witty, sexy novellas that prove true
love is only one blind date away from killing you.
Posted by Eileen at 7:00 AM | Comments (19)
October 25, 2006
I love you to pieces
lunatic mothering
I think if you’ve spent any time at all around the LC, you know by now that humor writers tend to make . . . nontraditional . . . parenting choices. For example, having conversations like this:
Science Boy: But all the OTHER kids get to play outside before they do their homework!
Me: Good! Another story you can tell the prison psychiatrist!!
When he was born, my darling, my adorable, my colicky monster who screamed for the first four months of his life unless I was holding him at all times (I had never been around babies and figured that’s how they were supposed to be, so I just bought a sling and wore the kid everywhere. Talk about neck strain . . . ), I stayed home with him for the first year of his life. Never before had I been out of the work force since I was, oh, eleven years old, and there were times during that year, I must admit, that I was a little . . . how do I say this?
Oh, right. BORED out of my FREAKING MIND.
Yes, yes, I know about the joy and light that is watching a baby grow. I loved watching his first smile, hearing his first laugh (in the library, surrounded by books, is that my kid or WHAT?), learning to sit up, etc. etc. But . . . but . . . really, how many times can a person change a diaper and burp a squirming baby before she goes insane??
The thing I’d never realized, though, about motherhood, is the sheer, fierce, overwhelming protectiveness I’d feel. I transformed from Alesia Holliday, liberal, pacifist attorney, to Mommy, the mother wolf to end all mother wolves, seemingly overnight.
Strangers who felt they could walk up to my two-month old baby in the store and put their GERMY HANDS OMIGOD I DON’T KNOW WHERE YOUR HANDS HAVE BEEN, STEP AWAY FROM MY BABY on my child soon learned to give us a wide berth. Older kids who threatened mine at the park got the death glare and their slacker mothers got an earful. If I could have bubble wrapped my baby, and his sister who arrived two years later, I’d own stock in the bubble wrap company.
But – but – they have this ridiculous need to be independent. To grow up to be individuals who are strong and responsible and self-reliant. I won’t always be there to protect them from the bully in college or the jerk boss at their first jobs.
I reached a big milestone lately. I let my son ride his bike all the way around the block without me. I let my daughter play outside in our front yard all by herself. (I hid by the window most of the time, but still, progress is progress, right?)
I love them too much. I protect them maybe a little too much. But, hey, there are worse problems to have. For example, I could actually BE a prison psychiatrist. So tell me about your parenting milestones! Share the madness!
hugs,
Alesia
This blog was brought to you by Amy's I Love You To
Death, a collection of three witty, sexy novellas that prove true
love is only one blind date away from killing you.
Posted by Alesia at 9:33 AM | Comments (14)
October 23, 2006
Lovin' It Too Much
Confessions of a Not-So-Secret Buffy Addict
I was destined to be a Buffy fan. You know how the experts (whoever they are) claim that caffeine is a gateway drug to the big bad stuff? (They actually say this. Picture me rolling my eyes.) Well, years of Dark Shadows reruns, Anne Rice novels, and a tragic fondness for star-crossed lovers were the gateways for me. Once I found Buffy, I was hooked.
The little blonde girl with the stake was my crack. There was nothing about her, or the show, I didn’t like. The Scoobies! The alarmingly sexy Mr. Giles with his sweater vests and propriety (and his secret bad boy history)! The smart, snarky dialogue! Angel! Spike! Forbidden love! British accents! Puns!
Hold on a second, I have to fan myself. Note to self: Do not drag out DVDs until finished writing this.
I stumbled onto the show in the third season, when Angel had just returned from hell, Faith was getting ready to make trouble, and Willow and Xander were dealing with inappropriate touching. Who wouldn’t be fascinated? Before long I was scouring the Internet to find out everything I could about the first two seasons, and by then I was a bona fide crack whore—I mean, Buffy fanatic.
I mainlined taped episodes borrowed from friends. I searched out posting boards and online communities where I could discuss the really important questions like why the Master had bones, Xander’s Big Lie, and the Spike’s sire. I instituted the Rule of Absolute Silence on Tuesdays at 7:55, five minutes before the show began.
You know, normal stuff.
But pretty soon I was sitting in the PTA meeting imagining all the snottiest women in gruesome vamp face—and the pleasure of dusting them. I was considering buying kittens simply so I could name them Spike and Dru. I realized I’d gone to high school with Glory, since she clearly perfected her hell god’s attitude there. I was convinced that my bank was situated on a hellmouth, since the ways their “new computer system” had screwed up my checking account were nothing short of pure evil.
I sat through Valentine just because David Boreanaz was in it.
I think that says it all, really.
Now that F/X has restricted reruns to seven a.m. (?!), I’m recovering. I can hear the words “bloody hell” without swooning. I can wear my UC Sunnydale sweatshirt without sniffling. I’ve stopped writing letters to Joss Whedon because, frankly, I think I had the wrong address.
Hello, my name is Amy, and I’m a Buffyholic. Now if you’ll excuse me, I hear a certain DVD calling my name…
This blog was brought to you by Amy's I Love You To
Death, a collection of three witty, sexy novellas that prove true
love is only one blind date away from killing you.
And we have winners! Congratulations to Margaret Jaibaji of Laguna Niguel; Lacy Hairgrove of Euless; and Billie Bininger of Lancaster! Copies of I Love You to Death are coming your way!
Posted by at 8:55 AM | Comments (7)
October 22, 2006
Sunday Hodge Podge
Does anyone beside me under the age of 101 use terms like "hodge podge?" Enquiring minds... really don't give a crap.
Okay. I'm on deadline, and so have kind of disappeared off the scene lately. My good friend Babs (whose actual name is Mike, but we call each other Babs because of a Chevy Chase skit he used to like to quote, it's a long story and you don't care, why am I still talking?) e-mailed me recently with the standard-issue, "Are you dead or what?" e-mail, so I thought I'd come out here today and say, "No, I'm not dead."
Yet.
But if the deadline has its way...
Okay. That's just whiny. I mean, it's not like the deadline lurked around my house then suddenly popped out in front of me and said, "Boo!" I agreed to it about a year ago. I knew it was coming. I baked it a cake. But still. It's those last few weeks before deadline when the story comes together and everything starts to work and that's wonderful... but then I have to write it. So, that's where I've been. And that's where I'll be until, roughly, 11:59 on October 31st.
So I haven't really had a lot of time to invest in blogging. This is why my blogs have been so lame as of late. (Thank you, by the way, for not pointing that out Chicklets. You are true darlings.) So, this week, in a tribute to my lameness, laziness, and general lack of creativity outside The Book, I have decided to answer reader questions. These are generic reader questions, the ones I get a lot, because it would take energy to go through my mailbox and attribute specific questions to the specific people who asked them. So... here we go.
Is there going to be a Joe book?
I get this a lot. (For those of you who haven't read The Comeback Kiss, Joe is Finn's brother. Of course, if you haven't read The Comeback Kiss, that really doesn't clear anything up for you. Buying a copy would, though. How's that for ham-handed shilling? I really suck at selling my own books; didja notice?) Anyway... for those of you who are interested, no promises, but I will share that I'm actually playing with a possible scenario for Joe. And it may involve Izzy, but not in the way many of you have suggested, because IZZY'S SIXTEEN. I know, I know, they had chemistry, but he's 32 and she's 16 and never the twain shall meet, babes. Even when she's 24 and he's 40. Just not. Gonna. Happen.
What's up with the Kakapo? Is that a real bird? Why'd you write about it?
Okay, for those of you who didn't read Maybe Baby (what have you people been doing with your time? They're selling copies for .72 on eBay. I really don't feel arrogant when I say... it's worth it) a Kakapo is this rare parrot out of New Zealand. It's seriously endangered and illegal in America (and thus would be very valuable if, say, loose in New York City.) It's got a body like a chicken, a head like an owl, and a beak like Horshack. It's green, has a primal yell that sounds oddly reminiscent of an 18-wheeler screeching to a halt, and smells like fruitcake on fire. Knowing all this, how could I possibly not have written about this bird? By the way, if you're so inclined, you can click on the kakapo link and donate to the recovery effort. No pressure, I know you've got kids to feed, but if it's your thing, have at it.
Are you ever going to tell Elizabeth and Jack's story?
This is from - holy cats, I'm interrupting to tell you that right outside my window there are THOUSANDS of birds all flying over and crapping on my house, it's like being in a Hitchcock movie, strange - Time Off For Good Behavior. Elizabeth is the psychologist who Wanda ends up renting a room from, and Jack is her ex-husband. [Spoiler Warning] And no, I won't be telling their story because I already told it. It's over between Elizabeth and Jack, and as much as I would love for those two crazy kids to work it out, it's just not going to happen. If you keep your eyes peeled, however, you'll find a minor status update for Wanda in my next release, The Fortune Quilt, which is coming out in March. You're really going to have to be alert to catch it, though.
Okay. That covers the most-asked reader questions. If you have any you'd like to send my way, leave 'em in the comments, and I'll do my darnedest to answer them. Also, here's my weekly opinion poll - as many of you know, I'm foregoing the "f" word because it lacks class. So... what's the verdict on crap? I have to say, I'm not ready to give it up. And I think that, truth be told, there's a very low ceiling on my potential class quotient anyway. I mean, a girl like me is really only going to make it so far. And I like crap. It's a funny word. I dare you to find a sentence that isn't made funnier by the careful insertion of the word crap. For instance:
"Crap is not crap that alters when it alteration finds."
"Ask not what your crap can do for you, but what you can do for your crap."
"Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a piece of crap."
Wow. That class thing lasted for about thirty whole seconds. Hope some of you guys made out big in the office pool.
Posted by Lani at 7:56 AM | Comments (15)
October 21, 2006
Lights, camera…
...freakishly huge forehead zits!
I was invited to appear on a local morning show this week to talk about the upcoming release of Nearlyweds. (November 7, baby. Hilarious holiday book. Pre-order now and beat the rush!) Now, let me just start this post by saying that authors and TV are not generally a match made in heaven. I believe Stephen King once said something to the effect of, “most writers can’t talk worth a #@#%.” This is all too true in my case. There is a reason I chose a career path that involves almost no social interaction and lots of roundtable discussion with an imaginary cast of thousands in my head. I’m shy. I’m not the most articulate girl on the planet. Dude, I’m the official crazy dog lady of our neighborhood.
But I am also in the business of selling books, and I usually have a great time chatting with the interviewers once the cameras actually start rolling. Plus, I was armed with my new palette of makeup from my nervous breakdown at Sephora last week, and I actually had something appropriate to wear: my sassy new purple blazer. (Which, by the way, I will be wearing for all book-related events all season long, so I hope y’all like purple.) I enthusiastically thanked the producer for inviting me on the show, and set to work figuring out my “talking points”, which are the key pieces of information you want to convey to viewers. (I.e., Nearlyweds, November 7, hilarious holiday book, pre-order now and beat the rush! You are feeling sleepy…verrry sleeeeepy…)
I could do this, I told myself. I could be witty and pithy and charming, no problem! But then it happened. While I was wrangling with my talking points, I felt a faint tingling in my forehead. The tingling intensified to a throb, then a dull ache. Yes, a giant zit was burrowing its way up through the hapless pores on my forehead. And we are not talking some puny little surface blemish. We are talking an angry, shiny red goose egg, the dermatological equivalent of Kilimanjaro.
You can imagine the fallout: whimpering, cursing, desperate and ultimately futile attempts to perform a home facial with witch hazel, Cetaphil, and steam from a pot of boiling water.
“Why?” I fell to my knees on the tile floor (ouch), balled up my fists, and turned my face to the heavens. “WHY????”
There was no reply, save the three dogs slobbering all over my face. The zit was not going anywhere. It had come to teach me a lesson—a lesson in rising above adversity, in humility, in how to apply tinted concealer with a trowel.
The next morning, I tried to arrange my hair in artfully disheveled waves over the goose egg, suited up in my purple blazer, and drove out to the TV station. I reminded myself that even Tyra Banks and Heidi Klum must get giant red zits from time to time. But they don’t let a pimple get between them and a cover shoot! (Of course, they have access to a crackerjack team of professional makeup artists and ample photo retouching, but that is not really the point here, now is it?) The interview went well. I covered all my talking points, I had lots of fun because the interviewer was fabulous, and no one even noticed my zit. I’m pretty sure. At least, no one said anything like “Oh dear God, what is that thing on your forehead? It’s spreading! It’s moving! It’s alive!!!” Which I’m counting as a win.
And now, of course, my zit is gone. My knees, however, remain bruised; our tile floor is really hard. But I learned a poignant and valuable lesson from all this: Nearlyweds, November 7, hilarious holiday book, pre-order now and beat the rush.
Posted by Beth at 12:58 AM | Comments (5)
October 20, 2006
‘Tis the Season
Fa La La La La!
Only 65 shopping days until Christmas, and 57 shopping days until Hanukkah!
I love Christmas shopping. Well. I love it on one condition: if I finish early. The earlier, the better, in fact.
To me, Christmas shopping is sort of a game. I make up a list of who I’m shopping for, and what I need, and then I ruthlessly track store sales and internet bargains. The rules are as follows:
(1) All shopping must be completed by Black Friday. That way, I can smugly watch the news stories about people trampling one another trying to get the latest hot gift at Wal-mart or Target or Best Buy, and feel superior to them.
(2) Sales are maximized. There is no high in the world like snagging a two-hundred dollar cashmere sweater for $19.99.
(3) Not to buy doubles of everything. This is my biggest shopping hurdle . . . I always end up liking the presents I buy so much, I want one for myself. So I try not to do the one for you, one for me thing.
If my presents are wrapped, my cards are mailed and my Christmas cookies are baked and frozen by December 1, I’ve won. If I’m running around the week before Christmas, desperately snapping up anything I can find, regardless of cost and whether the recipient will even like it, I’ve failed.
So far, I’m doing nicely this year. I’ve already bought presents for the following people: my mom, my sister, my nieces and nephews, my mother-in-law and all of George’s co-workers (if left to his own devices, George spins his wheels for two weeks trying to think of what to buy them, and in the end, guiltily slinks into the holiday party empty handed). And I’m about half-done buying Sam’s presents.
George is another story.
Me: What do you want for Christmas?
George: Nothing.
Me: No, really. I don’t know what to get you.
George: I don’t need anything, honey. I just want to spend time with you and Sam.
Me: Oh, Jesus Christ, that is so lame. Will you just freaking tell me what you want already???
Because I’m all about the Christmas spirit.
So . . . are you an early shopper, or are you one of those desperate people racing around the mall on Christmas Eve with my husband?
Posted by Whitney at 6:00 AM | Comments (9)
October 19, 2006
Be a Dentist, My Son
But leave me alone
I had to go to the dentist this week. I hate going to the dentist. It is not my dentist's fault. She is a lovely woman, gentle as a lamb and sweetly supportive despite the fact that I never floss anywhere near as much as I intend. It's because of my evil childhood dentist.
This was back in the day that the dentist was supposed to hurt you. Even given that, we had a particularly sadistic dentist. At age six, he did something inside my mouth that hurt enough that I shut my mouth. Abruptly. And just happened to catch his finger between my teeth.
It was an accident! I swear! Regardless, he clearly never forgot and never ever forgave.
My mother didn't believe me that he was mean until my grandfather refused to go to him anymore either. Have I mentioned that my mother has a very high pain tolerance?
At any rate, I got the bad news that I have to have my wisdom teeth out. I've been avoiding this since I was sixteen and wouldn't let Dr. Demento remove them. I think I told my mother she would have to knock me unconscious and drag me there by my hair. Now one of them has a cavity and my sweet soulful dentist sat next to me, patted my hand and explained how much worse it would be if the tooth broke off before I had it pulled. She says that they're tiny wee little teeth (apparently the only thing on me that's petite are my teeth) and will pop right out like the little button on the turkey when it's done cooking.
She makes perfect sense. I just don't want to do it. I don't want to spend the money. I don't want to deal with the hassle. Mainly, I'm scared about the whole pain thing. The second I start thinking about people doing ouchy things in my mouth, I turn back into that scared six-year-old who accidentally closed her mouth really hard on Dr. Damage's stupid finger.
I do not want to be the adult here and do the adult thing. Do you have something like that? Something that turns you into a scared little kid?
Posted by Eileen at 7:00 AM | Comments (15)
October 17, 2006
Food!
Glorious, or not so?
Some time ago The Teenagers made this impassioned plea:
"Dearest, most wonderful Mother, please let tonight be a rare fast food night. Along with a viewing of something vital and interesting to the better development and nourishment of our inquisitive minds. Our souls need burgers and fries for a change, rather than the deliciously delicious healthy stuff that you usually prepare for our nutrition. And our brains need to be uplifted by The Lord of the Rings trilogy."
Actually, they didn't phrase it quite like that. It was more like:
"Mum, we're having a Lord of the Rings marathon, can we have burgers and fries to go with?
And then they said that magic word:
"Pppppuuuullllllleeeeeeeeeezzzzeeee?""
How could I resist?
And I would like to say, "And they all ate fast food and watched great movies and lived happily ever after."
Well, we did. Until the next movie marathon (Jane Austen evening) about a week later, when The Teenagers repeated their request for burgers and fries, and said please, and Oh Patient One and I said yes. But this time, Teenager #1 decided to improve her Dutch whilst I was cooking said fast food.
This is what happened.
Teenager #1 (flicking through the Dutch dictionary pages, burger packet in hand): "Mum, do you know what 'paard' means?"
Me (distracted by complicated Dutch explanation of oven-fries preparation): "No..."
A few seconds later...
Teenager #1 (throwing burger packet and dictionary across the kitchen table): "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEKKKKK!!"
Me: "??? Whatever is the matter???" I mean, at this point I am thinking that the burgers are out of date, and that we cannot now cook and eat them. I am nearly right.
Several moments later, once Teenager #1 has regained her power of speech.
Teenager No #1: "Paard means horse. Which means that these are horse burgers. And last week we ate these same horse burgers. Which means that you have fed us My Little Pony! I may need years of therapy to get over this."
Oh. Dear. It never occured to me to check for horse meat in the burgers.
On the plus side, we ordered (non-horse) takeout, instead, and Teenager #1 has since put the episode behind her without any costly therapy :-)
So I am now wondering, Chicklets, what odd thing you might have eaten by accident, or even on purpose?
Posted by Michelle at 12:12 PM | Comments (23)
October 16, 2006
It's All My Mother's Fault
At least that's what my kids say
My mother rocks. I mean, really, she does. But my freaky obsession with Halloween and what constitutes a “proper” costume is all her fault.
The woman didn’t get her craft on until a few years ago, when she started knitting (and then tried to teach me, which is an incident better left untold here. I mean, someone has to think of the children.). She didn’t make our clothes, my dad usually baked the Christmas cookies, and the closest she ever got to a glue gun were the hardened bottles of Elmer’s my brother and I had in our school bags.
But Halloween was somehow sacrosanct. Our costumes were – brace yourself – homemade. Like, not bought. (I know, the concept baffling, isn’t it?) She made our costumes from scratch, and some of them were, to be honest, pretty awesome.
One year I was an elf, all green felt and tights, with adorable little elfin ears. (And little elf boots, which were an unfortunate last-minute addition, because she made them out of green felt, too, and they barely lasted down the driveway before they were worn through.) Another year I was Raggedy Ann, which was a bit of a shortcut because I had a cloth doll exactly my size (I think I was four), so I wore her dress. But Mom made the red yarn wig and painted my face, and it’s still my favorite costume ever.
So, yeah, it was cool. When I was six. Sadly, I obviously inherited whatever bizarre illness had infected my mother, because since SkaterBoy, my oldest child, was born I’ve been congenitally unable to purchase a Halloween costume.
Sure, I’ll buy the accessories. The makeup, the scythe, the rattling Styrofoam bones. But from the first, I was determined to do Halloween the way my mom had. SkaterBoy was a puppy from 101 Dalmations the year he was three, and believe me, I learned the hard way that a glue gun is a lot more efficient than sewing dozens of kidney-shaped black patches to a white sweat suit. My lovable middle kid, Mr. Sunshine, was a dragon another year, and I spent many an evening in front of the TV sewing spikes to the back of the green sweat suit that was the basis of his costume.
I don’t really sew, though. I don’t own a machine, and my stitches generally only last as long as trick-or-treating does. When I was fifteen, and decided to go out at the last minute I actually stapled old sheets together to make a clown costume for myself. I like costumes homemade, but I’m the first to admit I’m no Martha Stewart.
Then along came Miss Smartypants, my youngest, and my only girl. And this year I’m buying her costume. Since her idea of being a princess involves running, throwing, and assorted unique gymnastics, I can’t even pretend I can make a dress that will withstand all that.
A witch I could do. A kitten, no problem. Basically anything involving a black leotard or sweats I can glue stuff to, I’m there. But a princess? With truly pretty, flowing skirts, and lots of sparkles and glitter? Not happening.
The truth is, I’m a little relieved. I think I’ve been cured. This October I’ll finally have more time for the really important things, like carefully hoarding Halloween candy where the children will never find it, watching the really gruesome moments in Thirteen Ghosts between my fingers, and lurking at Dunkin’ Donuts until the fresh batch of pumpkin muffins comes out.
And, probably, making a costume for myself. Just for old times’ sake.
Posted by at 7:33 AM | Comments (10)
October 14, 2006
Diamonds Makeovers are a girl’s best friend
New mascara—that’ll cure what ails ye
It’s been one of those weeks. I’m sure you have them, too—One Of Those Weeks. (Apparently, Whitney’s in the throes of one right now.) And one of those weeks came right on the heels of one of those months and frankly, there was only one thing left to do—throw in the towel and go shopping.
Now I know that shopping is a temporary stopgap and material goods are not going to fill up the holes in one’s soul and blah, blah, blah. But the fact remains that I need some cute new fall outfits for when fall finally comes to Arizona. Besides, I have a book release party coming up and also, I’ve started watching What Not To Wear on TLC and I was anxious to try out my newfound fashion wisdom. (Pointy toed shoes = good, matchy-matchy shoes and handbag = bad, acid-washed denim miniskirt with cowboy boots and hoochie halter top = eternal damnation.)
So I called my mom and dragged her to the mall. “It’s an emergency,” I told her. “My wardrobe is flatlining! Need color, texture, novelty, STAT!” My mom, being the good sport and fellow Project Runway viewer she is, played along. I found a kicky purple blazer, a sparkly patterned top to wear under it, and some uber-flattering black pants. I even bought some pointy-toed shoes. This cheered me up enormously. But there was still something missing. Some lingering malaise.
Luckily, Sephora was having a “complexion correction” makeover day, and although you were supposed to have scheduled an appointment in advance, there was a no-show right as I walked in and Sam the Genius Makeover Guru was able to fit me right in. Uneven skin tone, I thought to myself. That’s the root of all my problems!
“I need new foundation,” I told Sam. “Also, powder, blush, and eye color. And could you show me how to properly put on concealer? I’ve never been able to master concealer.”
Cha-ching. Sam was far too tactful to say this, but I could hear the cash register ringing between her ears. Cha-ching.
Twenty minutes later, my skin was completely under control, my eyes looked dusky and exotic, and I felt like I’d just had a massage and two margaritas. And my concealer—oh, my concealer. Who knew makeup was such a panacea? Also, who knew makeup was so pricey? Not to mention makeup brushes. (But I finally learned how to apply foundation via brush, and you can’t really put a price on that, can you? No, you cannot.)
I came home, cheerful and aglow, and Mr. Tall said I should do an edgy public service announcement: “Make-up. It’s my anti-drug.”
So what about you? What never fails to bring a smile to your face and a skip to your step when you’re having one of Those Weeks?
Posted by Beth at 3:00 AM | Comments (10)
October 13, 2006
Technical Difficulties
Freaking computers
Whitney is experiencing technical difficulties, and is unable to post what undoubtedly would have been a brilliant and witty blog. She has no computer, no internet, no email, no link to the outside world, and is reduced to snarling at kid videos, while clutching a paper-bagged bottle of wine with a screw-off top. (Or, I could be projecting that last part.)
After spending four hours today waiting on the repair people who never came, then thirty minutes on hold with their #$%@ customer service department, who advised her that they won't be able to come until Monday, she and I had a loooong phone call about #@%$ Friday the 13th.
So, in honor of Whitney and her tenuous grasp on sanity, please tell us your worst Friday the 13th story!
Alesia, for the lovely Whitney (& for me it was banks. Every bank in the world crapped on me today)
Posted by Alesia at 7:11 PM | Comments (11)
October 12, 2006
Foot Fashion Faux Pas
Missteps
I am so not a fashionista. It is perhaps why Amy's post earlier this week about the endless black sweaters struck such a chord with me. Oh, yeah, the black sweaters, the black shoes, the black dresses. I know they'll work on me and be generally inoffensive and they'll match. So bring 'em on.
Still, there are areas that baffle me. The one I've been contemplating recently: foot fashions.
This is probably because I'm STILL not over that whole plantar fasciitis thingie that appears to be even harder to come back from than it is to spell. Add to that the fact that I dropped one of the #*$&*( soccer goals I was supposed to be locking up on my OTHER foot. At any rate, I look longingly these days at about seventy-five percent of my shoe collection as they gather dust near the charming shoe trees I purchased just so I could dump my shoes next to them and still have a mess in my bedroom. But now there are shiny things extending up above the mess! It's much better! Really! But I digress.
So, now to my foot fashion questions, chicklets. I know you'll have the answers.
I know that you are not to wear socks or hose with sandals unless you are my Grandpa Morris who when he hit his nineties could only stand to wear birkenstocks. Everything else hurt his feet too much. And he got cold a lot so he needed to wear them with socks. Frankly, the way my family works, if my grandfather had said he wanted to wear underpants on his head we would have all fought to be the one to lovingly place his boxers on his sweet bald pate. But I digress. Again.
No socks with sandals. Got it. But do slingbacks count as sandals? Is it okay to wear pantyhose with them?
What about toe rings? Cute and flirty or trailer park?
Ankle bracelets? Sexy and enticing or, once again, trailer park? What about the people who trap them under their hose? Surely that's forbidden, isn't it? Or am I being harsh?
Help me put my best foot forward, chicklets. Do us all a favor. Educate me. Please.
Posted by Eileen at 7:00 AM | Comments (8)
October 11, 2006
Scary karaoke
and other frightening songs
So, I will be the first to admit to a certain fascination with karaoke. There are the not-to-be-named (Lani) people brave enough to actually DO it:
Who get big props from me, 'cause I sing with the same gentle lilting melodic tones of two horny cats fighting in a burlap bag (not that I've ever put actual cats in a bag, nor am I advocating it, so please, no PETA letters to our complaint dept.). Even my children run and hide when I sing.
BUT, it must be admitted, when it comes to karaoke or any public singing, I believe that there should be RULES. Some songs are so hideous, they should never, EVER be sung via karaoke. For instance, there just ain't enough liquor in THE WORLD, no matter what bar you're in, to subject people to your rendition of:
Sarah M's ANGEL. Yes, I'm too lazy to look up the spelling of her last name. Yes, I know that people with lovely voices (like one woman at the NJ conference, for example) can sing the song beautifully. But NO.
In fact, NO NO NO NO NO NO. This is the DEATH SONG. What does it make us think of? DEATH. And this is appropriate for fun entertainment WHY EXACTLY???? It's an auto-push on the big, freaking maudlin button, and really, in a BAR?? And, without the acoustics of a recording studio behind her, I bet even Sarah sounds crappy on this particular song. It literally makes the FILLINGS IN MY TEETH HURT.
Anything that involves falsetto. Of any kind. NO, YOU CANNOT PULL IT OFF. I don't know you, I've never heard you sing, but NO. PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, NO.
However, if you feel the need to sing, and your friends are drunk enough to dance along with you, please follow a few simple guidelines:
1. Rock out!! The above-pictured anonymous singer (Lani) sang ONLY THE GOOD DIE YOUNG and it was freaking fabulous! We all knew the words, it was fun, it was uptempo . . .
2. Have fun with it!! Another anonymous singer (Barb Ferrer) laughed so hard during her rocking song that she coudn't catch her breath! We loved her for it!
3. Shake your stuff!! Yet another nameless (Cindy Holby) singer gave us a boot-scooting country tune and threw in some of her hellacious dancing moves!
And never, EVER EVER EVER sing Neil Young. Please. We're BEGGING YOU.
Okay, Chicklets, what is the one song you believe should NEVER EVER be sung in a drunken karaoke setting?
hugs,
Alesia, who only got away with singing lullabies when the babies were too little to fight back
Posted by Alesia at 8:45 AM | Comments (20)
October 10, 2006
Upgraded!
So, where's my champagne?
Greetings, dear Chicklets, I'm just back from my New Jersey trip, where I got to hang with all my New Jersey friends, as well as Lani, Alesia, and a whole host of other buddies, and I'm a bit punchy from my redeye flight. But before I drag my jet-lagged self off to the shower and go bed for a snooze, I have a little travel tale for you.
"Here she goes again," I hear you all cry. "Michelle always has a mini disaster when she travels. What did she get up to this time?"
Well...
On the outward bound trip I was constantly thwarted by a bunch of extremely large, extremely loud Dutch men (which you can read about in Alesia's comments section, here), so when I got to the airport yesterday, I fully expected to be thwarted again by that same group of extremely large, extremely loud Dutch men. I mean, that would just be my luck, no?
Wrong!
As I checked in I got UPGRADED! YAY!!!! I was no longer a regular coach traveller, I was now an ELITE traveller. YAY!!!
As the nice security people hastened me to the front of the line and through the elite security check, I fondly imagined a larger, more comfortable seat on the plane.
And as the nice airline crew invited me to board the plane ahead of the travellers in coach, I fondly imagined glasses of free champagne and an a la carte menu. I fondly imagined all of the celebs who would also be travelling in elite.
Wrong again!
What ELITE actually meant: I was seated closer to the front of the plane. I got to sit in row 26 instead of row 40 something. Oh, well, at least the plane was half empty so I got to spread out over three seats.
Have you ever been upgraded? I mean, what does a girl have to do to get that champagne?
Posted by Michelle at 8:32 AM | Comments (8)
October 9, 2006
Does That Come In Black?
It sounds better if you call it "Midnight."
I’ll be the first to admit I have a big weakness. Wait, maybe “weakness” isn’t the right word. Maybe it’s “preference.” Okay, who am I kidding? The only word that fits here is “compulsion.” And no it’s not for anything icky. (Minds out of the gutter, ladies.) It’s for … black sweaters.
I was doing the summer-to-fall clothes switch the other day (a fabulous way to procrastinate, let me add) and when I was done hauling out all of the cold weather things, I counted up the black sweaters piled on the bed. (Which I’d made! Another way to procrastinate! At least when what I’m supposed to be doing is writing this column. Or the book that’s due.)
The total? Eleven. I think the only occasions for which I don’t have black sweaters are a) an S&M bondage party, and b) tea with the queen. Otherwise, I’m good. An outdoorsy black sweater? Check. A V-neck black sweater with funky trim to wear out to a bar one evening, with jeans and high-heeled boots? Check. A plain black turtleneck, to go with everything? Check – three times, actually. A delicate black sweater appropriate for a fancy evening, or a holiday? Check.
Please remember that I never go anywhere other than the kids’ schools, the grocery store, and, occasionally, Applebee’s.
I’m not sure what to blame for my obsession with black sweaters. The fact that I probably read way too much Sylvia Plath as a teenager? That I worked in New York for too long? That I am, in reality, a vampire? (Doubtful, because the sight of blood makes me faint.)
I think I read somewhere that blonds look good in black. Of course, my days of being a natural blonde are long over (how I love you, L’Oreal), but it is true. I mean, I think it is. Even if I think read it in Flowers From the Attic. And black does go with everything. Jeans, khakis, red, white—pair a black sweater with it and you’re good to go!
There’s a whole mix and match philosophy behind this, too, which doesn’t always work in practice. Sometimes the particular style of a sweater demands a different kind of skirt, or pair of jeans. And then the on-sale sweater costs me three times as much because I’m out buying something to wear with it, and sometimes two things to wear with it, because really, if you can only wear one pair of pants with a sweater, it’s just not worth it! (See, here you have to picture me trying to explain to my darling husband why a particular black turtleneck is subtly different than the two others I own. Comedy gold, baby. Believe me.)
You know, I’m thinking Garanimals for adults is not a bad idea.
At least black sweaters are my only weakness. I mean, I’m not out there impulse purchasing yachts, or vintage diamonds, or lace handmade by blind Italian nuns at a convent in the Alps. (Although the diamonds do sound tempting…)
Just don’t ask me about the number of black shoes I own. Or black handbags. Or black coats…
Posted by at 7:26 AM | Comments (10)
October 8, 2006
Sunday Confessions
Forgive me, taste, for I have sinned...
Does anyone here watch Days of Our Lives? Anyone? Beuhler? Just me, huh? Well, can't say as I'm surprised, because it's been amazingly craptastic in recent years. Like, the last ten. Or fifteen. I don't know; whenever Patch died and Kayla went off with Shane and Marlena got possessed by the devil. Yep, I think you can pretty much date the craptaculousness of it all back to the possessed-by-the-devil storyline.
And yet, I watch. Mostly for Patch and Kayla, because they rocked it back in the 80's and now her hair is up to date and she's lost the shoulder pads and yeah, Patch has both come back from the dead and lost his memory (throw in a secret love child that may or may not be his and he'd hit the crapitudinous soap opera storyline trifecta) but still... I watch, hoping against all hope that the new head writer will bring it back to its glory days before someone walked in the writer's room and said, "Hey, what if we have Marlena get possessed by the devil?"
Part of me is, understandably, embarrassed to admit my obsession to y'all, mostly because it's... well... embarrassing. But part of me takes a weird kind of pleasure in enjoying things that are, admittedly, kinda stupid. You know, there's a word for taking odd pleasure in someone else's misfortune - schadenfreude. Do they have one for taking pleasure in having no taste? If so, baby, that's me.
Big plaid, flannel shirts. I don't know if it's because I met Fish while I was in Alaska wearing big, flannel shirts every day, but I have a weakness. There's nothing remotely flattering about them. Not a single redeeming characteristic. They make you look like a lumberjack whale, but I just love them.
Cheap wine. I have to admit, I'm a fan. I can't tell a "good" bottle of wine from a "bad" one, but I can tell you that if it's under $6 a bottle, it's good in my book. And in my fridge. And in my glass. Just a minute... gotta go refill.
Hello Kitty. Okay, y'all know about this. I have the Hello Kitty toaster. (Thanks, Alesia!!!) I covet the Hello Kitty phone. The Hello Kitty Diamond Pendant kinda scares me, but still. I heart the Kitty. I really do.
So, what are your guilty pleasures? Before you tell me, though, congratulate berni, the winner of a signed copy of Maybe Baby from last week's Daddy's a Target contest! berni, e-mail me!
Posted by Lani at 6:00 AM | Comments (20)
October 7, 2006
Mommy is always right.
But please don't tell her.
I cannot begin to tell you how many conversations between my sisters and me have started with the phrase, "Don't tell Mommy, but . . ." I don't know why we bother. She has always had a knack for figuring out whatever it was that we weren't telling her anyway. One time, when my brother-in-law was going to have surgery, my sister didn't tell my mother because she didn't want to worry her. At two a.m. the night before the surgery, my mother had a dream that something was wrong, called my sister and demanded to know what was happening.
See? There's no point. Plus, she's always right although sometimes it takes decades for her to prove it.
For instance, she breastfed us. I am old enough that it was most definitely NOT the thing to do. It was considered backwards, ignorant and dirty. Still, my mother insisted that it was as nature intended and she was going to do it. So now, decades later, science seems to back my mother up with claims of how good breastmilk is for infants. Go figure.
Then there was the seatbelt thing. My family bought a station wagon when I was four or five. My mother insisted that the dealership install three seatbelts in the backseat. The mechanics made fun of her and ridiculed my father for going along with her. She insisted anyway. Now, four decades later, who amongst us would put their kids in the backseat of a station wagon and NOT belt them in? We wouldn't dream of it.
Now, it's squirrels. My mother instilled a fear of squirrels in us at a very young age. They all had rabies and if we got too close, they would try to bite us. For years, I would cross the street rather than walk past a squirrel. Yes. I have been ridiculed about this by many people many times, but once again it appears my mother was right! Right here in northern California there are VICIOUS ATTACK SQUIRRELS !!!!
(As an aside, I have to say that I really wanted the attack squirrel story to be funny when I first heard about it. Unfortunately, like the story about the guy in Petaluma who got arrested for DUI while driving a golf cart, it ended with a kid getting hurt and therefore was not funny.)
So what did your mother tell you that you didn't believe that turned out to be true? Or vice versa. Did your mother have you convinced about something that turned out to be totally bogus?
Posted by Eileen at 7:00 AM | Comments (13)
October 6, 2006
No Excuses
Well. Maybe one or two.
Last night, when I was digging through the clean laundry piled up in the laundry basket, looking for a t-shirt to sleep in, I thought, “I really need to fold this laundry.” Then I thought, rather rebelliously, “Screw that, I’m under deadline.”
So I got the idea to blog about how whenever I’m under deadline, one of the first things to go is the laundry. Not the wash part; sticking laundry in the machine is easy. But once the clothes come out of the dryer, they just sit piled up in a laundry basket, wrinkled and unfolded, for weeks at a time.
Then I realized that if I were telling the complete truth, it would be that I’m not that great about folding and putting up clothes even when I’m not on a deadline. Which got me thinking about how much I like to fall back on being on deadline as my all-purpose excuse in life.
The thing is . . . it’s not a total lie. Like most writers of commercial fiction, I’m almost always working on a deadline. I have three books due in the next year, which roughly comes out to one every four months. Which is tad bit stressful.
(I’ve never had much interest in writing a more literary book, although I have to admit, the idea of only having to produce one every seven years or so – as so many literary writers seem to do – sounds kind of nice right now.)
But, even so, I definitely do abuse it as an excuse. For example:
1. Food.
I’m of the belief that when I am under deadline, I should be able to eat whatever I want whenever I want it. Sad, I know. But the thing is . . . it works.
For example, yesterday I had (among other things): a peppermint mocha from Starbucks (Whole milk? Yes! Whipped cream? Yes, yes!), a yummy chicken, cheese and avocado panini from my favorite little restaurant, and a huge splash out dinner – including multiple slices of buttered bread – at Bonefish Grill. And I got six hours of work done.
Coincidence? I think not.
I mentioned this phenomenon to my husband, George, last night, and he said, “So you can either be fat and prolific . . . or be thin and have writer’s block?” And then he laughed.
I don’t like George today.
2. Taking on projects I don’t want to take on.
Yes, I know, this is an obvious one. But it’s very, very effective. When someone asks me to do something I don’t want to do, I just shake my head sadly, and say, “I’d really love to help, but I’m under deadline. Sorry.”
And they always buy it! Always! They don’t even become suspicious and ask exactly when my deadline is, they just say, “Of course, I totally understand.” And I think, “Hee! Got away with that again!”
Although now that I’ve published this on a very public blog, people might stop believing me. So quick . . . give me your all-purpose excuse. I think I’m going to need a new one after this.
Posted by Whitney at 6:00 AM | Comments (6)
October 4, 2006
Candy Corn: Why?
It's a sickness, I tell you
Okay, before I get into the important and totally scintillating details of my own life, I have to take a second to mention that my friend and fellow author, Julie Kenner, has organized an eBay auction chock full of goodies for readers and writers. You can bid on signed movie posters, signed books, and writing critiques by authors/editors/agents. All the profits will go directly to Love Without Boundaries. It’s a great cause and on a totally selfish note, I am begging you--any of you--to bid on my three-pack of signed books because, well, it’ll be really humiliating if no one wants them. Come on, I’ll dedicate them to you in fancy pink ink! I’ll even draw a little picture of a dog on the title pages. Or a dinosaur, a bunny, whatever you want! You can find out more about Love Without Boundaries and the auction on Julie's website.
Now, back to your regularly scheduled blog, where we will be talking about: poodles, Britney Spears, and candy.
My friend Karin has an annual Halloween party, and all invitees are required to attend in costume. Karin is dead serious about this. The invitation clearly states that if you show up at her door without a costume, “one will be provided for you.” (We don’t know exactly what kind of costume is provided, because we are all too cowed to defy her.) Anyway, last year Mr. Tall and I went as Britney Spears and Kevin Federline, and many hilarious photos were taken, which I cannot share here because my agent and editor sometimes read this blog and there are some lines which really should not be crossed. Suffice it to say that Mr. Tall looks fab-u-lous in a wife beater and baggy denim shorts.
This year, we wanted to do another topical celebrity couple. But who? I was thinking Katie Holmes and Tom Cruise, but Mr. Tall is just too, well, tall to pull it off. And I am not nearly lippy enough to be the Angelina to his Brad. (Plus, black leather pants are expensive.) So we decided to think outside the pop culture box and, in a moment of genius, Mr. Tall suggested that I dress up as a dog and he as a dog-catcher. Cute, right?
Except they don’t make dog costumes for adults. WTH? Everywhere you look, there are adorable puppy outfits for kids, but after searching the Internet for hours, I can’t find a single one for adults. I envision myself as a poodle (obviously my canine alter ego), but noooo! Unless you want to be a vixenish, vinyl-suited cat, you’re out of luck if you’re over the age of 5. But I’m creative—I’ll do white long underwear (or maybe just a tank top; it’s still pretty hot out here in Arizona), paint on a black nose and whiskers, put my hair in flippy pigtails with pink bows, and fashion a collar out of pink ribbon and tin foil. Except…I want the signature poodle topknot, darn it. And the jaunty little tail. Any ideas on how to make that happen?
Are you guys dressing up this year? Please share your brilliant costume ideas. Also, share your favorite and least favorite Halloween candy. When I was little, I used to curse the neighbors who gave out that taffy in the black and orange waxed wrappers. Do you know what I’m referring to? Ugh. Horribleness. Now I adore Russell Stover peanut butter ghosts and abhor candy corn, which Mr. Tall loves. He claims he is even going to invent a new drink for Karin’s party this year: the candy corn-tini. I’ll let you know how it goes.
Posted by Beth at 11:04 PM | Comments (13)
Random thoughts
’cause it’s that kind of week
I’m working hard on my Atlantis novella and getting ready to go to the New Jersey conference and gathering supplies for Science Boy to do his fourth grade book report on Eragon (he’s designing a dragon that actually flies, I think. Or hacking into the space-time continuum. One never knows, with that kid.) So I’m definitely in a random thoughts kind of place.
Kids’ haircuts: Okay, you know those haircut-in-a-box places? With names like Super Cuts, Hair Cuttery, Hair Cuts in Seven Seconds or Less? Yeah. Talk about mixed results. Took Science Boy there for a haircut yesterday so he didn’t look like scruffy boy for his school pics Friday. MUCH improvement – now he looks like he just escaped from prison. I figure I’ll put him in a striped shirt and we’ll have a theme picture. Wonder how Princess feels about orange jumpsuits?
Homework: Hate it, hate it, hate it. Probably even more than the kids do. I didn’t particularly enjoy doing second grade math the first time around, but now that I’m on my third go-through, I get this twitch under my eye every time I have to explain doubling and doubling less one.
Cars: My beautiful car was in the shop for a week (and don’t get me started on condescending car service employees who tell you repeatedly that your car will be done Friday after you brought it in Monday morning, then wait till FOUR IN THE AFTERNOON on Friday to leave a voice mail that oh, sorry, it will be Tuesday), and I had a Prius as a loaner. I loved it! Loved that I was running on battery half the time, loved the cool factor, loved the GPS system and rear-view camera that showed me that no kids were crouching behind my back bumper. We may get one of these as a family car.
The news this week: I know we’re more of a funny, lighthearted place here at the LC. But I wanted to send out this PUBLIC SERVICE MESSAGE: IF YOU’RE CONTEMPLATING A MURDER/SUICIDE PLAN, YOU SICK, TWISTED BASTARD, JUST DO THE SUICIDE FIRST.
Please share a random thought with us - anything off the top of your head (okay, keep it clean, sheesh). :)
Happy first week of October!
Alesia
Posted by Alesia at 7:53 AM | Comments (12)
October 3, 2006
Fishing!
And how Super Mum saved my blog...
So, I have nothing for you today. I haven't had any bridge incidents, or technological disasters, or travel emergencies, because I am currently working hard on my first Young Adult book (and playing Spider Solitaire, but don't tell anybody, heh, heh) and have barely left the apartment. In fact nothing has happened at all. Which based on my life might be a good thing.
Anyway, I am heading off to America very shortly to a) spend time with Teenager No 1, b) spend time visiting friends, c) spend time visiting the outlets, and d) spend time with my writing buddies at the New Jersey Romance Author's conference next weekend. So a little while ago I called my mother (Super Mum) to have a little gossip, and say, "farewell, speak to you next week," and generally have a little moan about ideas for my blog.
This is the conversation we had.
Super Mum: "I forgot to tell you - the other day our so-and-so went fishing, and he asked me to store his jar of maggots in my refrigerator, and I said no."
Me: "Eeuw! Wise move.That's too disgusting.
Super Mum: "So why don't you blog about fishing?"
Me (shaking head in bewilderment): "But I HATE fishing. Why would I write about it? I mean, given the choice of beating myself with soggy wet lettuce and going fishing, the soggy wet lettuce has a good chance of winning!"
Super Mum (patiently): "Yes dear, I know, but remember how much more you used to hate it when Granddad thought you loved it and took you fishing regularly?"
Me (with a sigh): "Oh, yes...I'd forgotten about those cold, dark mornings in the freezing cold, wrapped up in multiple layers of clothes, on the riverbank, with nothing but Granddad, a fishing rod, soggy egg sandwiches, and a jar of maggots for company. I mean Granddad was good company, usually, but we had to stay silent on account of the fish being scared. Hmm, I'd forgotten about that. Thankfully."
Super Mum: "And you could mention that you never told Granddad that you hated fishing, and how he bought you fishing-related Christmas and birthday presents - remember that new fishing reel he bought for you when you were fifiteen? After we all dropped such big hints about that Donny Osmond album you wanted, too."
Me: "Actually, it wasn't the Donny album. I was so over my Donny period by then. I'm pretty sure I'd moved on to John Bon Jovi by then..."
Super Mum: "Or that nice tackle box he made for you when you were sixteen? Now I come to think of it, didn't he buy you a fishing net when you were twenty? Did he ever stop buying you fishing presents?"
Me: "You know, I think he bought me a subscription to Angler's News, or something, even after I moved to London. Just so I could keep my hand in if I wanted to. I'd forgotten about that."
Super Mum: "And you could talk about how fishermen suck their maggots to make them plump and white..."
Me: "Eeuw, no! That's too horrible!"
Super Mum: "Or the fact that your great grandfather and great great grandfather were both Fishing Champion of England..."
Me: "They were? That explains the family's obsession with fishing, then."
Super Mum: "Or you could tell them about great great Uncle Thingie who deserted his wife and seven children, and ran off to London with his fancy woman and.-"
Me: "That's more like it. Give me the dirt. Tell me more."
Super Mum: "I'm sure your readers will be more interested in the fishing than the fancy woman. Anyway, I'm going to let you go, and I'm going to make a nice cup of tea. Have a lovely trip, love!" Click.
So there you go. No family scandal today. Just fishing.
Michelle
Posted by Michelle at 12:00 AM | Comments (10)
October 2, 2006
I left my heart in a pot of fondue...
Introduction to a cheese addict
A week ago I was agonizing, as I tend to do, over how to introduce myself to all of you here at Literary Chicks. Focus on writing? On my old job as an editor? On my sad, sad addictions to reality TV, cheese doodles, and Target’s Dollar Spot?
And then my mom and I went to New York for the weekend. (Let me just add here that my mom rocks like a rocking thing, and this girls’ weekend, just for the two of us, was all her idea. She gets so many Fabulous Mom points, there aren’t enough left in the world for the other moms.) And I realized that almost everything about the weekend is a perfect Introduction to Amy. How convenient!
Let’s start with the biggie, shall we? Cheese. Those “behold the power of cheese” ads were probably written with me in mind. And mom and I ate at what can only be called a shrine to cheese, a veritable Sacred House O’Cheese on Friday night – a restaurant called Artisanal. It’s French Country, but it’s also a fromagerie – there are gougeres (delicious little cheese popovers), fondue with bread, meat, fingerling potatoes, apple slices, and more, a cheese shop, and cheesecake that is almost better than sex. (Almost.) For someone who loves cheese, eating there is like the culmination of a pilgrimage. I was very tempted to kiss our waiter.
Then there’s music, or more specifically the chance to listen to my MP3 player uninterrupted. In the car at home, SkaterBoy, the fifteen-year-old, makes barfing noises if I play Sarah Maclachlan, and Jet’s “Cold Hard Bitch” isn’t exactly appropriate for Miss Information, the three-year-old (who doesn’t want to hear anything if Dora or Elmo aren’t singing it anyway). But…two flights! A couple of boring hours sitting in the airport after shuffling through security! A train ride from the airport into the city! Just me and the collection of songs my husband claims is schizophrenic. Bliss.
Let’s not forget books. New York is nothing if not a book lover’s city. Everywhere you turn, some enterprising entrepreneur is selling used books on the sidewalk, and there are bookstores in every neighborhood. Mom and I went to the Strand, which is another mecca—inside there are 18 miles of used and new books, as they like to say, stacked nearly to the ceiling. Again, there was the temptation to kiss the guy who rang me up. Only the idea of being arrested for lewd behavior in front of my mother stopped me.
We stopped for tea at Café Reggio on Friday afternoon. I’ve never learned to like coffee (although there are days I really yearn for the caffeine jolt in a cup of espresso), but tea now…give me tea or give me death. Irish Breakfast, English Afternoon, Earl Grey, Prince of Wales, doesn’t matter. I am a tea whore. There’s something so civilized about sitting down with a freshly brewed cup in the afternoon—especially when the idea of being civilized is under attack from the pile of dirty laundry in the upstairs hall, the reheated pizza I’m serving for dinner (again), and the most intelligent conversation I’ve heard all day was between SpongeBob and Patrick Star.
The last of my favorite things? Weird old stuff. Okay, sure, it’s a broad definition, but it fits. Give me a flea market and I am a happy girl. There’s something about the chance to buy funky vintage silver napkin rings as well as cheap socks (three for $5!) that makes me incredibly happy. It’s a little like looking through someone’s closet – picking through old photos, used records, mismatched silverware, Tweetie Bird T-shirts, and the kind of jewelry your grandmother might have worn that’s fascinating to someone as curious and slightly twisted as a writer. At the risk of sounding completely smarmy, there are a million stories in those tables of junk – even if some of them are about crazy old cat ladies and men who clearly have a strange attachment to Leif Garrett.
So that’s me. Or part of me, at least. I’m glad to be here! And I promise to keep the slobbering cheese love to a minimum.
Posted by at 8:13 AM | Comments (11)
October 1, 2006
Amy Garvey!!
Well, happy October Chicklets! We here at the LC are so excited to welcome Amy Garvey to be our guest LC this month!
Amy moved to upstate New York last year, and the second she joined my local chapter, I knew she was total guest LC material - funny, smart and just a little bit of a wiseass! She's here this month promoting her latest book, I Love You to Death, which is a series of three fun mystery/romance novellas about blind dates gone horribly, horribly wrong! And she's generously giving away three signed copies of the book - yay! Just send us an e-mail with "I love it!" in the subject and your name and mailing address (any entries without them will be instantly disqualified) in the body by October 22nd, then be sure to stop in for Amy's farewell blog on the 23rd when she announces the lucky winners! Now please show your love in the comments and give Amy a warm, Chicklet welcome!
Posted by Lani at 9:11 AM | Comments (6)
Daddy's a Target
Sometimes, justice is really fun.
You know what I love? Karmic smackdown. You know how it goes. Someone does something because they're just being an ass, and karma puts it at the top of the inbox and immediately comes back and whomps said person down. It's like a behavioral boomerang, and it's really fun to watch when it's not you on the receiving end. Witness a recent conversation with the Family O'Fish when we went out for dinner on Friday night. Picture me driving, Fish in the passenger seat, and Sweetness and Light in the back of the minivan. Fish is playing with a little wooden puzzle that he bought for the girls, and now he can't put it back together. Of course, because Fish is a man, it's the puzzle's fault.
Fish: That's retarded.
Me: Don't say that!
Fish: Why not? It is. It's retarded.
Me: I don't care. I don't want them to hear you and repeat it. Then we'll be the parents of the kids who call other kids retarded.
Sweetness: What did Daddy say?
Me: Nothing, Sweetness.
Fish and I exchange glances. He starts to laugh, and he's opening his mouth, teasing me like he's going to tell Sweetness exactly what he said, and then a small voice comes from the back of the van...
Sweetness: Is Daddy... a target?
I glance in the rearview and see Sweetness watching us to see if she got it right. I burst out laughing. Fish swivels in his seat to face them.
Fish: No. Daddy is not a target.
Me: We tried to hide it from you as long as we could, Sweetness, but yes. Daddy's a target.
Sweetness & Light: Daddy's a target! Daddy's a target! Daddy's a target!
They sang that song all the way home to the sweet, sweet tune of karmic retribution. Of course, now we're going to be the parents of the kids that call other kids targets, but it's a small price to pay for the sheer karmic beauty of it all.
Mini-Giveaway: Got any great karmic smackdown stories to share? Comment here! Because I'm going to be giving away a signed copy of Maybe Baby to a random commenter and announcing the winner next Sunday! So comment away - if I get more than 10 commenters (that's commenters, not comments) I'll give away 2 copies, more than 20 and I'll give away 3 copies! Time for you lurkers to de-lurk, say hi and share your stories of karmic smackdown. Let Fish know he's not the only target out there!
Posted by Lani at 8:39 AM | Comments (11)
