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February 28, 2007

G’Day, Mate

Moving beyond kangaroos and boomerangs and into the realm of ratbags

So I just realized (it’s been a busy week) that my next YA release, Boy Trouble, hits bookshelves in a few short days. Not to give away too much but, well, the plot involves some boys. And some trouble. Ain't it always the way?

I wanted the romantic lead in this book to be damn sexy, even by Hollywood standards, so I made him an Aussie. Because it is a truth universally acknowledged that there is no man so disarming that he can’t be made even more irresistible with the addition of an Australian accent. And I’m not just saying that because I have a weakness for Russell Crowe films.

Since I didn’t want my Aussie boy to just walk around spouting “mate” at random intervals like an Outback Steakhouse commercial, I did some research into Australian colloquialisms and am pleased to add these colorful new phrases to my repertoire:

“Flat out like a lizard drinking” = crazy busy

“Madder than a frog in a sock” = whipped into a frothy-mouth rage (see: me when I’ve accidentally erased a new episode of Grey’s Anatomy from the TiVo.)

“Spit the dummy” = to have a tantrum (Apparently, “dummy” is the Aussie term for pacifier, so imagine an infant spitting out the binky to really start screaming)

“…and Bob’s your uncle” = “…and there you go.” (see also: “And that’s the end of THAT story”)

“Sweet as a biscuit” = rockin’

“She’ll be apples” = everything’s going to be hunky dory

“Fed up to the back teeth” = just plain over it (see also: any literary chick breaking out the red pencil and thesaurus for her third go-round with line edits)

“Ratbag” = scurrilous knave. My new epithet of choice. Very refreshing to scream when someone cuts you off on the freeway and you're madder than a frog in a sock. Try it and see for yourself.

Posted by Beth at 1:09 AM | Comments (12)

February 27, 2007

Pseudonyms 101

Lesson Number One: Do not confuse your pen name with your porn star name.

Recently, I had to rename myself. I found it to be a very odd experience.

I’ve never had trouble naming my characters. I keep a few baby name books by my desk for reference, and usually it just takes a quick perusal through one to find the perfect name.

Naming babies is almost as easy. Or, at least, thinking up names for babies is easy. The task is only made difficult when your husband insists on having a say in the matter. Or, even worse, when relatives start to give their opinions.

When I was pregnant, I was in love with the name Harry. George was lukewarm on it . . . or he was, right up until his sister opined that it was a playground taunting trauma waiting to happen.

“Harry Gaskell sounds too much like Hairy Asshole,” she pronounced.

And after that, George put the nix on Harry, which made me seriously regret our decision to give each other absolute veto power over any names we didn’t care for. Especially since I was the one gaining five pounds a week, and getting up ten times a night to pee.

But baby names are a breeze when compared to coming up with a pen name.

I’m writing a new series of teen books about a math genius named Miranda Bloom who attends a high school for gifted students. The first book in the series is called Geek High, and it’s coming out this November from NAL.

My editor suggested I use a pseudonym for the series, so that my readers won't confuse the teen books with my adult books. This made a lot of sense to me, so I agreed to come up with a pen name for myself . . . and drew a complete blank. How on earth do you go about renaming yourself?

“Lulu Nipples,” George suggested, when I asked him for help.

“This is a pen name for a teen series. Not a porn star name,” I reminded him.

But he was no help. Once I finally got him off the idea of using Nipples as a last name, he went off on a bizarre Scots tangent.

“Mcpherson? Mcduff? McLaughlin?” he said.

“No, no, no!” I said.

I finally, after much thought, came up with the perfect name: Annabelle Swift.

There were just a few problems with it. First, if we ever have another child, and should that child be a girl-child, I have already decided we are going to name her Annabelle. (And I’m not giving George veto power next time around). Second, it turns out that there’s a designer named Annabelle Swift, and she owns the URL for the name. Third, Annabelle Swift was apparently the star of a children’s picture book.

Gah.

So I dropped the over-used Annabelle Swift. And after much more thought (using Winnie-the-Pooh's technique of tapping myself on the head, while muttering, "think, think, think"), I thought up another name:

Piper Banks.

And this one stuck. I really, really like it. It’s spunky, and preppy, and easy to remember. But it still feels a little odd to see my new book listed under her name, instead of mine. But then I remember: I am Piper Banks.

Weirdness.

Posted by Whitney at 6:00 AM | Comments (20)

February 26, 2007

Whiskers on Kittens

Some of my Favorite Things

I've been a little down lately. Nothing terrible, just a little blue. I didn't even realize it until a friend asked why I was so subdued and I realized I was falling into some old and not so good patterns. So, instead of getting myself get stuck in the usual mental muck and mud, I'm going to focus on the positive and damn it, I expect you to focus on them with me!

Here is a list of a few things that have been making me happy lately.

Dryer Sheets

In addition to keeping my laundry static-free and smelling outdoorsy fresh, I read in the paper that they're great at cleaning soap scum off of shower doors. I practically couldn't wait to jump in the shower and try it out. Guess what? They work. In fact, they work great. They also seem to be getting rid of a bunch of the hard water build up and when you're done, your shower smells outdoorsy fresh! Honestly, it's awesome.

Mike's Light Hard Lemonade

It is no secret that I have a sweet tooth and a taste for liquor. I love all those Mike's Hard products, but they're so sweet and sugary they usually give me a headache. Plus, I can't help imagining how many calories are in those suckers. Well, now they have a Light Hard Lemonade that's pretty darn tasty and only 78 calories. That means I can have TWO of them for only 3 Weight Watcher's points and considering that I'm a bit of a light weight, that's plenty for an evening for me.

Lip Plumping Lip Gloss

No one would ever confuse me with Angelina Jolie. Okay, there may be reasons besides my skinny lips for that, but the skinny lip thing was really starting to bug me. Especially since I noticed Sissy One's (whom I resemble closely) lips were actually starting to thin to the point of actually being non-existent. I was going to buy my usual boring lip gloss at the drugstore when I noticed the lip plumping kind (on sale, even!). Voila! My lips might not actually be luscious, but there is a visible difference which gives me hope that I won't have to be drawing my lips on with liner in a few years.

That's what's making me happy this week. Yeah, yeah, yeay, healthy kids and a loving family and all the usual stuff, too, but some times that's just not quite enough, you know? So what's floating your boat this week? I may need something new to keep me getting out of bed next week.

Posted by Eileen at 7:00 AM | Comments (14)

February 25, 2007

Underneath it all -- my inner child

cotton candy happiness

This blog has got to fall under the category of better late than never, since it's nearly midnight. But we've been out all evening at the Greatest Show on Earth - the Ringling Brothers Barnum and Bailey circus. It was totally fun!! The first time for Princess and Science Boy and they were overwhelmed - didn't know where to look first.

But you know what? To me, it somehow seemed smaller.

Smaller than when I was a kid. And . . . sadder. And way, WAY more expensive. Ten bucks for a sno-cone??? Seriously??? Let's not even talk about the souvenirs.

I am a kid at heart. I wanted to be carried away with the excitement and, for a few moments, I was. The high wire artists always thrill me and the dogs in the dog act make me laugh out loud. But . . .

But. Cotton candy isn't wonderfully sweet any more, it's sticky and something I worry about the kids eating too close to bedtime. The tigers aren't thrilling, but sad to me as I contemplate such majesty in captivity and that they're endangered species. The clowns -- well, clowns always creeped me out. No change there. ;)

My inner child is happy we went to see the circus, and I confess to getting a little teary to see how captivated my kids were at the sight of the elephants marching through the big top. Well, the arena, no actual tent.

Sigh. Another change. It's okay, though. My inner child is content, because she just tucked in Princess, who is sound asleep with her arms cradling her new stuffed clown. And then I pulled the blanket up around Science Boy, and gently took the flashing light-up plastic sword out of his hand.

They get to carry on the wonder and the awe for me. So it's like I've taken my inner child and given her new worlds to discover. All in all, not a bad deal.
hugs,
Alesia

This blog has been brought to you by Margo Candela’s Underneath It All, a novel about finding out who you really are and then trying to forget what you discovered.

Posted by Alesia at 10:45 PM | Comments (4)

February 23, 2007

The Myth of The Writer

Ooooh. Look at the pretty, pretty illusions. I must stomp on them.

I've never worked in any industry where the perception of what your life is like is so different from the reality. But then, writing is a so-called "glamour profession" (I'm not kidding; I read that somewhere, and laughed heartily afterward) which I guess means people think it's glamorous. And it is, to an extent. I mean, through it I've had the opportunity to meet some heroes, even befriend a few. And there's that moment when someone asks me what I do, and I tell them, and suddenly I become interesting. That's nice. I got to dress up one night and take home a pretty statue; I liked that a lot.

But mostly, I sit around in my pajamas, often unshowered, in a ponytail and no makeup, freaking out about my next deadline and wondering what time of day is really too early to have a glass of wine. Not terribly glamorous, that. So I thought today I'd debunk some of those myths for you, give you a little insight into what being a writer is really like.

Myth #1: Wow. You're published? You must be a millionaire. For some reason, there's this idea that because Stephen King and Tom Clancy and Jackie Collins can afford private jets, that all published authors make a lot of money. And people frequently feel perfectly justified in asking you how much you make, which is kinda funny. To be tactful, I usually put it this way - my car has 211,000 miles on it, and I've got my fingers crossed that the new layer of duct tape will get us to 215,000, because I can't afford another layer of duct tape. Does that paint a clear enough picture? Should I bring up the time I considered selling my organs on the black market? No? Okay. The fact is, this industry is like any other - the big names get the big bucks, and the rest of us are just lucky to play. And actually, I'm pretty happy with that. Yeah, it'd be nice to be secure in my ability to pay for the next round of duct tape, but the reality is, I get to do what I love for a living, which is a rare and special blessing. And that's worth more than money.

Um, but my agent will kill me if I say that out loud. So let's keep that just between us, okay, guys?

Myth #2: Writers live lives of whimsy, waiting for inspiration to strike, and then riding it to a completed book. Not so much. Who was it who said most men live lives of quiet desperation? Yeah. He meant writers. When we're not freaking out over the book we're writing, we're freaking out over the book we promised we'd write later, or the book coming out now, which we wrote so long ago we can't remember if it was the one with the talking cat or the maniac serial killer. Oh, sure, occasionally inspiration just strikes, but usually we have to bring a team of dogs and go hunt it's sorry ass down, then tie it up and throw it in our trunk and hope the cops don't stop us on the way home.

That's all metaphor, by the way. I've never put a living thing in my trunk. I shouldn't have to say that, but there's Myth #3 coming up...

Myth #3: All writers are drunks or crazy. Many times both. Okay. There's a little truth in that one, at least the crazy part. But it's a good crazy. We conjure up people who speak to us in our heads, sure. While people saner than us would go get that diagnosed and medicated, we say, "Maybe if I write down what they say, they'll shut up." Then, later, we see the pages in the corner and think, "Hmm. Maybe someone will write me a check for that." So are we crazy or just creatively solving a thorny problem? It's a strong case of tomato, to-mah-to, babe.

Myth #4: All writers have a core team of tiny woodland animals who braid their hair and make them pretty dresses for the Prince's ball. Oh, totally true.

Myth #5: Published writers are famous. This all depends upon your definition of fame. Are there people I don't know who know of me? Sure. A couple. Do I get stopped at the grocery store? Hell, no. Which is a good thing. I used to work in local television, and many of my friends were on-air personalities. I went out to get coffee with a girlfriend of mine once, and every five minutes or so, someone came up to her and interrupted to say hi, that they loved her show, etcetera, etcetera. One woman cried. I kid you not, cried. My friend, of course, was gracious beyond the telling of it because she's a lovely and gracious human being. I was totally freaked out. When the woman left, I leaned forward and said, "Oh, my God, she was crying." My friend shrugged and sipped her coffee and said, "That happens sometimes." That obviously had not been the first time. And that's just strange. So, no, writers are only famous in the good way, in that people know your name. We can still go to the grocery store in our pajamas, just like everyone else.

Wait. Am I the only one who does that? Hmmm.

Okay, that's it for me this week! I'd like to take a moment, though, to thank the lovely Margo Candela for joining us! Many of you may have noticed the technical difficulties we've been having (should be done now, fingers crossed, those of you so inclined my sacrifice a chicken for the safe return of reliable web service) but Margo was completely gracious about everything and just beyond lovely to have guesting with us. Pick up her book and tell all your friends!

Also, I'd like to let you know that I'm starting a podcast! Yes, you heard me right - a podcast! Which means that if my once-a-week here isn't enough Lani for you, you can listen to me for a half-hour, too, as I co-host weekly installments of Will Write for Wine with my good friend Samantha Graves. Check out the website for more information on how to listen, subscribe and be entered in our weekly giveaway... it promises to be very cool for anyone who reads, writes, or likes wine. Hopefully, that's most of you!

And one last thing, for those of you in the general area, the lovely Nora Roberts has invited me to her bookstore, Turn The Page, in Boonsboro, MD, for a huge booksigning event with Nora, Elaine Fox and Cordelia Frances Biddle on March 3rd! I'll be signing special early release copies of The Fortune Quilt for anyone who stops by. Details are on TTP's website; if you can't make it, you can order copies online through the virtual booksigning and I'll sign them when I get there, just for you. Check it out!

This blog has been brought to you by Margo Candela’s Underneath It All, a novel about finding out who you really are and then trying to forget what you discovered.

Posted by Lani at 9:01 AM | Comments (9)

February 22, 2007

The Plunge

The short hop from a hot stone massage to Botox


I am a confessed spa junkie. Don’t bother with flowers, fancy dinners or jewelry, I tell the husband. For me nothing says I love you like gift certificate to a spa. Since I’m married, I’ve stopped waiting for a special occasion or for it to occur to the husband that I might need a little pampering. When the mood strikes me, I send my own butt to the spa and make no apologies about it. So is it any wonder that I picked up a pamphlet on my way out from a recent visit and turned to the other side of the menu—the side that puts the medical in medispa.

Living in Los Angeles, I’m witness to a lot of unnecessary tinkering to the face and body. I once saw a petit gal who was so top heavy, I wanted to volunteer to carry her boobs for her. Kind of like when Sam offered to share the load with Frodo. At my old gym a woman, who I could only describe as a sexy elfin like creature, took many of the same classes I did (and then some since she was there before and after I left). Her butt and boobs were incredibly perky, something I attributed to the vast amounts of exercise she got. Her hair, and there was lots of it, was perfectly honey-colored and would be the envy of any surfer girl with a shampoo contract. And then one day I got closer look and saw she was actually in her late, late 50’s. What she looked liked a few feet away was so incongruous with what she really should look like, it was disconcerting.

I realized then I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. (That and when I went to get a bagel and the woman in front of me asked for hers plain, toasted and hollowed out.) Compared to those two women, at least, I was downright conservative in my expectations of what medical science and a disposable income could offer besides kneading, exfoliating and moisturizing.
A friend of mine took the plunge before I did and got her forehead shot full Botox. For months we tried to make her frown and for months she looked oddly serene. And then it wore off and no one really noticed. Not one but me and only because I was really looking and thinking about giving it a try myself.

Last summer I was looking forward to my 35th birthday and decided it was time. I made an appointment with her doctor, a friendly fellow, despite his propensity to cause pain with needles. He gave me a V configuration of shots starting at the middle of the top of my nose and over my brows and a total of six shots at my crow’s feet. Then I went home and waited. By the time I was blowing out the candles on my birthday cake I couldn’t frown…and it bothered me. I’m a wife, a mother, and dog owner. I need to frown. It saves me the embarrassment of screaming, “Settle the hell down!” in crowded restaurants and at dog parks.

So when it wore off, I was relived to be able to move my forehead again, but not so thrilled with the crinkles around my eyes. Those I could do without. And what’s up with those gray hairs that have suddenly appeared on my head and...I suppose this is how it all gets started.

P.S.
Many thanks to all the wonderful women who make LiteraryChicks happen and look so good while doing it, you know who you are. It was a lot of fun and nerve-wracking to write on a deadline. I’d do it again in a heartbeat, but would consider doing it sober next time. Or maybe not. And to the readers who were kind enough to comment on my entries and for those brave enough to take a chance and buy my debut novel Underneath It All. As promised, I reserved five copies of UIA to give away and here are the winners: Deanna of Louisiana, MO, Deb of Ontario, CA, Shelia of Wiggins, MS, Amy of Westborough, MA and Heather of Mays Landing, NJ.

Posted by Margo at 6:00 AM | Comments (6)

February 20, 2007

Dirty little secrets

counter space is a terrible thing to waste

WARNING: If you are the type who dusts on top of the refrigerator every week and/or you can’t sleep at night unless you’re sure the dryer’s lint trap is freshly cleaned, you may want to skip today’s blog entry. Martha Stewart, this means you.

I have a sordid confession to make. Literally.

Our house has three distinct levels of clean. First, we have the foyer, dining room, guest bathroom and the ironically named “living” room, which are always kept spotless just in case someone drops by or, you know, the Windex corporation decides to use our home to film their next commercial. (Which they would never do, thanks to my slavish devotion to vinegar, but that is another post for another day.) The dogs are not allowed in these rooms. Hell, Mr. Tall and I are basically not allowed in these rooms. And that is how they stay clean. The goal is to fool our friends and neighbors into believing that we are not savages living in squalor.

Then we have the kitchen, family room, and the offices. I hesitate to the use the term “squalor” here—I prefer “comfortably cluttered.” We have vast expanses of counter space, which I was ecstatic about when we bought the house, but it turns out that lots of counter space = plenty of room to dump whatever you may be carrying while telling yourself that you’ll tidy up in a minute. Hence, the tangle of dog leashes, pile of books, and tower of junk mail.

Okay, now we get to the real squalor, aka our spare room and (shamefully) the bedroom closet. In our defense, I grew up with basements, but these are in short supply in the great state of Arizona. So the spare room serves as our surrogate basement, which means that old boxes of VHS tapes, clothes designated for Goodwill and everything we (shamefully) never bothered to unpack from the last move are moldering away in there. As for the bedroom closet…well, let’s just say it would behoove me to invest in some extra laundry baskets and a few shoe racks.

So there it is! Sob! The messy truth about my life. I pretend I’m clean and semi-organized, but I’m living a lie! And my only defense is a platitude taken from a cross-stitched sampler hanging in my friend Barbara’s powder room: “A spotless house is the sign of a misspent life.”

Yeah, I know. Tell it to Martha.

This blog has been brought to you by Margo Candela’s Underneath It All, a novel about finding out who you really are and then trying to forget what you discovered.

Posted by Beth at 10:49 PM | Comments (4)

Boxers . . . or Briefs?

Neither!

Maybe I’m taking this week’s theme – What’s Underneath – a bit too literally, but here’s my answer:

A Victoria’s Secret Classic Cotton Bikini.

Too much information? Sorry. But I have a long, long love affair with the Victoria’s Secret Classic Cotton Bikini. After thorough trial and error, they’re the only panties I’ll ever buy. Even though it means that, a few times a year, I have to actually go in to the Victoria’s Secret store to stock up.

I hate the Victoria’s Secret store. Hate, hate, hate it.

Here’s the thing: the sales clerks there are the most annoying sales clerks in the world. They will not leave you alone. From the time I walk in to the store, to the time I walk out, pink bag in hand, I will have been asked approximately five thousand and forty two times, “May I help you find something?”

They station a woman right at the door to ask you this as you first walk in.

“No, thanks,” I say, shaking my head and smiling politely at her. “I know what I’m getting.”

But it doesn’t stop there. To get to the back of the store, where they stash the panties, I have to run a gauntlet of brazenly forward sales women, all armed with tape measurers and all determined to help me.

“May I help you?”

“May I help you?”

“May I help you?"

"I can measure your cup size!” one of the sales clerk says, holding out her tape measurer in an unnecessarily menacing fashion.

“No, no, no,” I say, hastily backing away and running smack into a rack of pink satin bustiers. “But thanks anyway!”

But they’re not satisfied with that. One of the sales women will always insist on following me around the store. Every time I pick up a pair of panties, she’ll ask hopefully, “Do you need help finding a size?”

“No,” I say. “I’m good.”

“Because we have other sizes!” she’ll chirp.

And it doesn’t even end once I finally have my panties picked out, and have brushed off all offers to have my bosoms measured, and finally make it to the check out. Because the sales clerk at the register won’t just take my credit card, and wrap up my panties. Oh, no. Instead, she’ll assault me with credit card offers, and in-store offers, and am I sure – am I really, really, really sure – that I don’t need a matching bra? Because they have matching bras! And they’re on sale! And it’s too good a deal to pass up!

“No,” I say through gritted teeth, trying to push my thirty bucks at her, so I can get the hell out of there. “I’m fine. Really.”

It exhausts me just thinking about it.

The worst is when I get a coupon from VS offering me a FREE pair of panties. I like that word: free. And, yes, I always very much want a free pair of panties, especially if it’s a Victoria’s Secret Classic Cotton Bikini. But when they give you that coupon? They don’t really want you to get a free pair of underwear. No. They want you to come in, and buy armfuls of bras and only then, at the last moment, as you’re checking out, remember that you have the free coupon.

So if you just go in for your free panties, and arrive at the register, panties and coupon in hand, the checker-outer gets a bit surly.

“You know, this coupon is also good for ten dollars off of a bra purchase,” she snaps.

“Yes, I know. But I don’t want a bra,” I say.

“Are you sure? Because that’s a great deal! A really, really great deal. And everyone can always use another bra,” she continues.

I swear, the Teamsters could take lessons from these chicks.

So I think maybe it’s time I start buying my panties off the Victoria’s Secret website. Because the pushy sales women I can do without . . . but I can’t live without my Victoria’s Secret Classic Cotton Bikinis.

This blog has been brought to you by Margo Candela's Underneath It All, a novel about finding out who you really are and then trying to forget what you discovered.

Posted by Whitney at 6:00 AM | Comments (4)

February 19, 2007

We're Back!!!!!!!

And I'm ready to tell you something that's underneath it all!

First of all, let us all take a moment to worship at the altar of Lani. She has been working tirelessly to get the site back up. In fact, she's constantly working tirelessly to make this site the awesome and fun place it is. Yay, Lani!!!! Underneath all the fun and laughs on this site is a lot of hard work, thought and determination. You rock!

Now, I'd like to tell you about discovering that I am not as girly a girl as I thought I was.

My mother is NOT a girly girl. She grew up on a farm doing things like harvesting tobacco. She didn't have running water or electricity until she was in her teens. Her idea of wearing makeup is to put on lipstick and that is only for extremely fancy occasions like weddings. She has her hair cut in a short utilitarian style that requires nothing except washing it.

I think my interest in things girly grew, in part, as a rebellion. I love my mommy, but we all gotta strike out on our own somehow. I loved makeup and clothes and things with lace and frills and ruffles. I liked high heels and perfume and pretty lingerie. I had not, however, ever been inside a beauty salon where you could get things waxed or ever had my nails done until my second wedding.

There were scads of things to be done that I hadn't even known about! The eyebrow thing alone was literally an eye-opener. Plus, I had always figured if my nails weren't cracked or broken that meant they were "done." Someone asked what my beauty regime was. I had no idea I was even supposed to have a regime.

For a while, I threw myself into the fray. I tweezed and buffed and shaped, but it all seemed so overwhelming. Slowly, I admitted defeat and withdrew. Nowadays, I'll have an intensive week of beauty right before a big event (like a wedding or a conference), but otherwise, my fingernails probably have their cuticles growing up all over them and my eyebrows aren't quite as shapely as they should be. I just can't quite seem to make it the priority it has to be to keep up with it all.

Which is what my mother always used to say. "Who has time?" she'd ask. Apparently, not me (although what I'm actually doing with my time is something of a mystery to me sometimes as well) and apparently, underneath it all, I'm a lot more like my mom than I ever realized.

This blog has been brought to you by Margo Candela�s Underneath It All, a novel about finding out who you really are and then trying to forget what you discovered.

Posted by Eileen at 12:49 PM | Comments (8)

February 16, 2007

Sick site!

Hello, Chicklets! It's Lani! Some of you may have noticed the severe lag in the web server over the last few days, and sad to say, that's just the last in a long string of issues we've been having with our web hosting service - which means it's time to switch.

Bummer.

What this means to you is we'll be going "dark" here at the LC for a few days while we switch servers, so there will be no new posts for a few days. And comments will be disabled. And possibly we might disappear for a day or so while we switch over. But we'll be back next week, continuing with Margo's theme week and finishing her giveaway next Thursday. Thanks for your patience, Chicklets! We'll be back soon!

Posted by Lani at 8:51 AM

February 15, 2007

I Am What I Read

My eternal battle for bettering my brain...

I was going through my mail the other day and realized I must fit some specific demographic. On the table in front of me was an issue of the New York Review of Books (I got a free subscription when I renewed my Salon.com premium membership), a Newsweek, Wired Magazine (its been showing up lately and I have no idea why since I never subscribed to it), a letter from Greenpeace and a Fredricks of Hollywood catalog. The day before Id received my New Yorker, Atlantic Monthly, a delivery of books from Amazon.com and a Lillian Vernon catalog. I subscribed to a year of Harpers, considered adding The Economist to my stack of reading and, despite my initial reservations, I've come to enjoy the pithiness of The Week.

My magazines say Im a socially aware, well-read individual who likes flashy lingerie and knickknacksexcept Ive never purchased anything from either Fredricks or Lillian and I can only manage to make it through one entire piece in the New York Review of Books per issue, if that much. (Hey, theres only so much brain fiber one person can take.) But underneath it all, its a slightly different story. (Theme week alert! And it ties in nicely with the title of my debut novel. What a coincidence!)

As much as I brighten when I do find a New Yorker in my mail box what Id really like to have my mail carrier deliver is an US Weekly or a thick juicy issue InStyle. If I was going to go all out Id admit to wanting something truly tawdry like Star or even (dare I say it?) OK! along with an Allure to temper the artificial sugar rush.

There was a time when I didnt care what my reading material said about me or did to me. I subscribed to about 20 magazines, including three fitness titles but they would all be set aside for my most guilty of guilty pleasures, US Magazine. Every Thursday Id walk with a spring in my step because I knew a glossy treat was on its way, chock full of colorful pictures, useless news and depth free in-depth features on the celebrity crises du jour. So what if the rush would only last 15 minutes? I savored every second of it, forcing myself to read the magazine page by page, from front to back, to make it worth the death of the innocent tree carcass it was printed on.

At one point I even wished they ran letters to the editor so Id have more to read before I realized US Magazine isnt that type of publication. Its the kind of magazine youre happy to find at the dentist office, intact with no random pages ripped out, or save for a hot bubble bath after a stressful day. Really, two occasions not very conducive to writing an irate letter to the editor protesting the coverage of Jessica Simpson and her creepy pimp-daddy.

But that was the old me. In a fit of brain deterioration anxiety, I purged myself of all my fun magazines. The new me reads well-written exposs about the world water crises and likes it. The new me has squashed the old mes interest in who is dating who, who cheated with what and why everyone seems to be wearing this or that thing.

My mail box is proof that Ive moved beyond my obsession with guilty, time wasting, invariably useless reads. My recycling bin, now crammed with dog-eared issues of respected magazines and journals, is a testament to how far Ive come.

So what if I make a point of standing in the longest line at the grocery store so I can madly page through US, Star, OK! and the redundant Life & Style? What my mail carrier doesnt know wont hurt him.

This blog has been brought to you by Margo Candelas Underneath It All, a novel about finding out who you really are and then trying to forget what you discovered.

Posted by Margo at 6:00 AM | Comments (3)

February 14, 2007

Car Trouble!

Don't forget to check your oil! And your gas!

Yes, despite our euphoria at acquiring our very own wheels after a two-year period of no car, trouble was bound to follow...

To set the scene, picture this: Rewind a few years to a time when Oh Patient One and I had a clapped out Vauxhall Viva, and were travelling from London to Sheffield with one of my sisters for the wedding of my other sister.

Three quarters of the way up the M1, the main route to the north of England, the car started to make strange sounds.

"I think we'd better pull off at the next exit," Oh Patient One told me and Sister #2.

"This doesn't sound too good," we said, agreeing with him.

About five miles later we could see the next exit up ahead. Unfortunately...

...A thick cloud of smoke was leaking out of the sides of the bonnet of the car, and before we reached the exit, the car began to slow down. Oh Patient One pulled over to the emergency lane just as the car juddered to a complete stop.

Valiently, we pushed the car off the main route and abandoned it just outside a small town where, fortunately, there was an auto repair business. The mechanic shook his head when he came to inspect our car, and basically told us that the engine had completely gone. We had forgotten to check the oil. It was a write-off.

Several hours (five billion, felt like), two busses and two trains later, we finally arrived in Sheffield...

Fast forward a few years. Picture this: We are off for a minibreak in Germany in our newly acquired (the same day newly acquired) company car. Although the gas gauge was showing empty, we stopped at several gas stations to refill the tank and the pump kept cutting off.

"Which means it must be full," Oh Patient One said.

"So it's probably a mechanical malfunction on the dashboard," I agreed, nodding my head.

Back we went onto the autobahn, and a few miles later the car began to lose power. We pulled over to the emergency lane just as the car ground to a halt. What were we to do with no transport and two small children, somewhere in the depths Germany? Well, we pushed the car off the main route and before long a very nice German family stopped to ask if we needed help. When we explained that we were out of gas, even though we didn't think we should be out of gas, they very helpfully towed us to the nearest town where...

...The auto mechanic nearly fell on the floor laughing. Apparently, we had a full gas tank. Apparently, there was nothing wrong with the dashboard electrics. Apparently we had two kinds of gas tanks in the car--one for the regular liquid petroleum kind of gas, and one for the gas-the-kind-you-can't see kind of gas, and we had the car switched to the latter kind, which was why the dashboard was reflecting empty! Who knew a car could have two kinds of gas tank? Anyway, red-faced we continued on to our minibreak destination and lived happily ever after car-wise until...

Fast-forward to this weekend and our new car. Picture this: Oh Patient One and I decided to take our car for a spin into the country. About 20 miles from Rotterdam the oil light flashed orange on the dashboard.

"But. But. But we checked the oil when we picked up the car from the dealership," I said to Oh Patient One, worrying that history was about to repeat itself. "I mean, we CHECKED it. It was FINE."

"Don't worry--I'm sure it's just some kind of mechanical problem with the dashboard," Oh Patient One tried to reassure me, but I could see he was remembering our previous Trouble With Oil scenario. And our previous Trouble With Gas scenario.

We took no chances. We pulled of the main route and hit the next small town, parked the car so that it could cool down, and went for coffee. And worried about that flashing orange light on the dashboard.

Once it had cooled down we checked the oil. It was perfectly fine, but as soon as we got back to Rotterdam we took it back to the dealership.

It was a mechanical defect, which was fixed straight away, whew!

So come on, chicklets, tell me your troubles with automobiles! Surely I am not alone?

Posted by Michelle at 7:55 AM | Comments (6)

February 13, 2007

Happy Birthday To Me

Honestly? I'd rather be 34.

So my birthday was last week. Normally, I adore birthdays. The cake, the presents, the cards. I love it all.

Well, I love almost all of it. Sometimes it can be a bit daunting to see the new number youre assigned to for the next year. When I turned 29, for example, I found the looming number 30 to be so disquieting, that I ended up writing a book about it.

Birthdays 31 through 33 werent so bad. I was still in my early 30s, which sounded young and hip. 34 was a bit disconcerting, if only because it meant that I had officially hit my mid-30s.

But this year, I turned 35. And 35? Not a fun number.

Are you feeling birthday happy or sad? my sister emailed me.

Well, I'm 35, which means that all of my eggs have suddenly shriveled up inside of me, I responded grumpily, feeling very sorry for myself.

No, Im not pregnant. And I dont have any immediate plans to get pregnant. But I am suddenly all too aware that my fertile years will not be around forever. Now that I'm 35, if I were to get pregnant, Id be an old mom. Or what the doctors like to call, Advanced Maternal Age, considering this to be more p.c. than the terms Elderly Primigravida, Post-Mature, and my personal favorite Obstetrically Senescent.

I mean, honestly . . . why don't they just call it The Barren Old Crone syndrome?

And, yes, I know there are tons of women out there who go on to have babies in their late 30s, or even early 40s, with no complications or difficulties. But then there are those who cant . . . which makes the number 35 suddenly feel like an awful lot of pressure. Its not so much that my biological clock is ticking . . . more that I just noticed that its in need of a new battery and the glass front is scratched and the snooze button has gotten stuck.

So what new birthday number was the hardest for you to face?

Posted by Whitney at 10:22 AM | Comments (10)

February 12, 2007

Tis the season

No, it's not!

Cowboy and Things One and Two watch a lot of sports. This means that I see a lot of beer commercials. Also viagra and hair replacement commercials, but those are not what I want to talk about today. Today it's beer. Specifically, Guinness Stout.

You know the ads, the ones with the funny cartoon guys who keep yelling "Brilliant!" at each other. I had no problem with them until now. But now, they have crossed the line. They have declared a St. Patrick's Day Season.

You may remember (or not) that I am not a big fan of the holiday season. By holiday season, I am referring to the one that begins with Thanksgiving and ends with New Years unless you're a retailer in which case it seems to start at July 4 and end at Valentine's Day. So to have ANOTHER holiday season where I'm forced to be happy and "in the spirit" is just too much especially since this one seems to require drinking a lot of beer. I like beer. Unfortunately, it makes me a tad gassy.

I have no beef with St. Patrick's Day. I can make corned beef and soda bread and I have a rather fetching green sweater. It's more that I can't imagine making an entire season around it. Would we have to wear green every day? For how many days? How much beer would I have to consume? How many days would we have to have corned beef? And, most importantly, where do these guys get off making it an entire season?

Then I started to wonder if I could just up and declare various seasons. I happen to be a big fan of my town's July 4 celebration. Maybe we could make an Independence Day Season and we could spend weeks picnicking at the park and there would be live music, skydivers and fireworks every night.

What holiday would you like to see made into an entire season?

Posted by Eileen at 7:00 AM | Comments (10)

February 10, 2007

My Most Exciting Experience of the Year So Far...

Today, I went supermarket shopping in our very own car!

Yes, we have a car! Oh Patient One's new job is located out of Rotterdam, therefore after two whole years of being car-less due to living in a city center and not really needing one, a car has suddenly become a vital necessity.

I could barely contain my excitement this morning as I climbed behind the wheel of our newly acquired Fiat Punto for the first time, adjusted the seat (all the way forward due to my short legs), fiddled with the rear-view mirror, turned the ignition key and slipped into first gear.

My delight knew no bounds as I raised my left foot from the clutch, and simultaneously applied pressure to the accelorator with my right foot. What a smooth biting point this baby had! And as I pulled off and slipped into second gear, my heart was nearly set to burst. Was there ever a car with such a smooth gear change? When I reached the main road, accelerated and changed up to third gear, I was nearly exploding with the joy of it all!

Then, as I pulled into the side road where the supermarket is located, my joy was enhanced to its limits when I spotted a car leaving at exactly the same time as I required a parking space. I mean, surely it was a sign! So I switched on my directional light to, you know, indicate to anybody else who might come along while I was waiting to pull into the space that I was, in fact, waiting to pull into the space once the car had reversed out.

Well, wouldn't you just bloody know it. Another car came around the corner in front of me, and while I remained motionless to let him pass me so that I'd have enough room to maneuver into the space, the bastard pulled into MY PARKING SPACE. Couldn't he see my directional light? Was he blind? And if so, who the hell let him loose on the open road? But I didn't let that phase me or anything, because I was just too damned delighted with being in OUR VERY OWN CAR. I just pulled around the block and found another space. (Owkey, maybe the air in the car in the car did go a bit blue.)

The supermarket was an absolute dream! For once, I didn't mind being invisible. I didn't even blink when two people blocked the aisle to have a chat. It was just so stupendously liberating to fill my shopping cart to the brim and not have to worry about how much stuff I could reasonably carry home on foot.

Owkey, Michelle, I hear you all cry. Reality check time. You got excited about supermarket shopping in a car? So what? Have you no life, woman?

I know, I know, a silly thing to get excited about. But I was. Oh, the little things in life :-)

Later today, I am going for a drive down a main route so that I can change up into fifth gear and see what this baby can really do :-) My heart's already pounding with excited anticipation...


Posted by Michelle at 8:43 AM | Comments (5)

February 9, 2007

On the radio!

Am I the only one who remembers that Donna Summer song? Am I the only one who remembers Donna Summer? Anyone? Beuller?

Well, good day, chicklets! I have to be quick today because we've been snowed in (five feet in four days! Check us out on CNN! The people with four snow days this week that they're talking about? Yeah. That's me!) But I wanted to let y'all know that, snow permitting, I will be on the radio via phone interview with the Radio Ron-Wanda Show on WGNS in Murfreesboro, TN from 4:05 to 5pm EST today! The Wanda part of the equation is my good friend Wanda (whose name, gas explosion experience and civil court tale she generously allowed me to use for Time Off For Good Behavior, for those of you interested in really trivial trivia.) We're gonna be discussing my upcoming release, The Fortune Quilt, as well as many other topics. And the best part - no matter where in the world you are, you can listen live via streaming radio! You gotta love the internet, huh?

There's also a toll-free number to call in on at their website (scroll down to the Ron-Wanda show) and, well... they have me on for an hour. The truth is, I'm just not that interesting. So please feel free to call in, and identify yourself as a chicklet if you do!

Posted by Lani at 10:52 AM | Comments (3)

February 8, 2007

Teen Dreams: From Robbie to Matt

The 1980s gave us more than bad hair and fashion

Recently my sister and I were torturing each other by bringing up the others most embarrassing teenage afflictions. She reminded me of the solid month I whined and pleaded when I was in the 7th grade for a pair of jellies shoes. When my mother finally gave in, it was the tail end of the trend but I finally had my own pair of clear PVC woven pattern shoes with a peek-a-boo toe and minuscule heel. I only wore them once or twice as they left my feet incredibly dirty and were downright painful in a late summer heat wave. Reminded of that fashion crime, I was forced to counter with her misguided adventure with Flock of Seagulls hair cut teamed with a series of super-sized button down shirts that reached her knees.

Just when things started to get ugly, our other sister simply said, C. Thomas Howell. We had no choice but to whisper it back simultaneously.

The year was 1983 and the movie was The Outsiders based on the book by S. E. Hinton. Who wasnt in that movie? Matt Dillon (more on him later), Rob Lowe at his prettiest on the Greasers side and Leif Garret (what happened to you?!) was the ultimate Socs. But for me the movie was all about C. Thomas Howell. Specifically, the scene where hes sitting on the monkey bars and swings down, still holding onto the bar overhead and his armpits are there for the whole world to see. I remember gasping in the theater at the sight of it because it was when I realized boys really were different. In Red Dawn, you know the 1984 movie that fed into all of our communist fears, C. Thomas declared that his hate for the invaders who killed his dad and took over half the country, kept him warm at night. That movie ended pretty badly for C. Thomas, but for me hell always be that glimpse of arm pit and the angry man-boy with a big gun taking pot shots at communist invaders.

Robbie Benson also made a huge impression on us when we watched his movies on KTLA Channel 5 and KCOP Channel 13 during long hot lazy summer days before we got cable. Robbie, technically, had his teenage heyday during the1970s when we didnt have the attention span to appreciate his cinematic achievements, but thats the beauty of TV movie marathons. Just because we were too busy making dirt pies when Robbie Benson was ruling the big screen didnt mean we couldnt enjoy him the second time around in our living room.

In One on One he played a puny basketball player way out of his league both on the court and in his tutors apartment until he triumphs in both places. And, if you can get past the too short shorts and too high socks, its a satisfying underdog who wins the girl and the game story. What Robbie did for basketball he did double for ice skating. Many little girls dream about being an ice skater at one time or another and Ice Castles prompted us to pull on our roller skates and do some clumsy spins on the sidewalk while imagining that Robbie was our hockey playing boyfriend. Plus, Ice Castles has that kick ass song, Through the Eyes of Love, that Im sure has made an appearance at many a wedding reception as the first dance.

And where would this list be without the teen king among teen kings, Matt Dillon.

When it comes down to it, Matt Dillon reigns supreme, and has only gotten better with age. He was brilliant in Crash, even though he played a racist cop. And its in keep with the characters he played when he was youngerso pretty, so mean, so troubled. He was the bully in the classic My Bodyguard. In Little Darlings he did the dirty with Kristy McNichol. And his trio of roles in three S.E. Hinton movie adaptations, The Outsiders, Tex and Rumble Fish seals the deal. To this day when we mention his name to friends our age, their eyes will get that far away look. Sort of like they do when presented with a platter of fresh hot donuts. This goes for both men and women. Matt Dillon lust crosses all sorts of boundaries.

But Flock of Seagulls hair? Thats one teenage indiscretion no one can ever live down.

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

February 7, 2007

I can stop anytime I want

denial is the first sign of a problem...

We all have them--little pick-me-ups that help us make it through the day. But how to draw the line between harmless habit or full-blown addiction? You decide!

Coca-Cola
I have no idea whats in Cokes famous secret formula, but it must be something goooood. My friend Jill is quitting her three-Coke-a-day habit cold turkey and it ain't pretty. Tensions are running high at her house. Very high. Its like going through heroin withdrawal, she says. Honestly, giving up smoking was easier than this. Ive had a splitting headache for the last two days and I wake up at night in a cold sweat. I know Ill lose like 10 pounds after two weeks off the sauce, but at this point, Id rather be fat and caffeinated.
Jill is not alone. I have several friends who were forbidden to drink Coke (in any variety) during their pregnancies, and all of them jonesed like junkies for the entire 9 months. One of them sent her husband to fetch an icy cold soda before her C-section stitches were even in place. Thats how they could break methe FBI or the CIA or whoever, she reports. If I had top secret information and the fate of the Western world hinged upon my silence. I could withstand tons of physical abuse, but if they took away my Coke, I would quiver and cry and spill my guts.

Side note: I just read a very interesting book on the origins and rise of the American soda empire: For God, country, and Coca-Cola by Mark Pendergrast. Interesting stuff.

TV seasons on DVD
Ill be the first to admit that I have very little self-control. And even less patience. So the advent of television series box sets has been both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, I never have to wait a whole week to find out what happens after a nail-biting cliff-hanger on "Lost" or "Alias." On the other hand, I seem unable to even wait 8 hours, which means Ill stay up late into the night, watching episode after episode and promising myself, This is the last one. Im going straight to bed after this one.

Lies, lies, lies.

On the recommendation of practically everyone I know, I recently rented the first season of "24." Big mistake. Im well into the second season now, and may never have a free weekend again.


Books
Whats one more little paperback on that towering to-be-read pile, right? I have a real problem in this department and I know Im not alone. There are just so many interesting things to read! And you never know when a freak blizzard might hit Phoenix, leaving me snowed in for days on end with nothing to do but read, read, read. It could happen, right? I better head out to Barnes & Noble and stock up right now!

Heres a sampling of whats in my TBR pile right this minute:

Hide by Lisa Gardner
Angels by Marian Keyes
The Intelligence of Dogs by Stanley Coren
My Latest Grievance by Elinor Lipman
Nasty by Simon Doonan

So tell us: what everyday addiction can you not live without? (And Eileen, for the love of all that is good and holy, you better not say working out. We want vices, people.)

Posted by Beth at 12:25 AM | Comments (15)

February 6, 2007

I Think I Can, I Think I Can

Then again, maybe I cant.

My 3-year-old is going through a new stage. Whenever I ask him to do something, he looks up at me with wide, guileless eyes and very earnestly says, I cant, Mama.

Only, he draws out the word cant into two syllables: I caaa-ant, Mama.

It doesnt matter what Im asking him to do, the response is always the same.

I caaa-ant.

Sam, come eat your dinner.

I caaa-ant.

Sam, do you want to go to the playground?

I caaa-ant.

Sam, would you like Mama to buy you a pet monkey?

I caaa-ant.

Clearly, its time to get tricksy with him. Sam has two other favorite conversations, and I have decided to exploit these in order to bend him to my will.

(This is what Ive been reduced to: plotting how to manipulate a 3-year-old into doing what I want him to do.)

The first one is when I say, Who wants to ____?

It doesnt matter what the blank is -- take a bath, eat a bag of candy, donate a kidney -- Sams response is always the same. He jumps to his feet, waves his arms wildly in the air and shrieks, ME, ME, ME!!!!

The second is that Sam loves being given alternatives to choose from. For example, if he's being recalcitrant about going to bed, Ill say, Okay. Either you can get into bed and go right to sleep or you can get into bed, and Ill read a story before you go to sleep. Which one will it be?

And, more often than not, Sam will choose wisely.

So, this morning, I told Sam to brush his teeth.

"Mama, I caaa-ant."

So I went to tactic number two: Who wants to brush their teeth?

Sam looked at me contemptuously, as if to say, Yeah, like thats going to work, lady. Im three, not stupid.

On to tactic number three: Would you rather brush your teeth . . . or be force fed a pound of liver?

Sam looked me dead in the eye, and, without hesitating, said, The liver.

Youve never even had liver. You dont know awful it tastes, I said.

He just shrugged and went back to playing with his trains. And I was left with the sinking realization that if someone here was being bent to the others will . . . that Sam wasnt the one doing the bending.

Posted by Whitney at 6:00 AM | Comments (4)

February 5, 2007

People

Completely clueless or out to get me?

Last week was one of those weeks where I really start to wonder if the entire world couldn't collectively come up with a quarter to buy a clue or if everyone is out to irritate me.

Example: Cowboy and I get a rare evening out for dinner and a movie. It happens to be a Sunday night. We walk into the theater just a teensy bit early. The place is empty. Literally, completely devoid of human beings. We decide to sit smack dab in the middle of the theater. Woo hoo! A group of people walk in. We are not concerned. We are taking up only two seats in a decent sized venue. Yet, where do they sit? DIRECTLY BEHIND US. Not a row or so behind us or to the side or even a row or two in front of us. DIRECTLY BEHIND US. Then the dude behind me begins to cross and uncross his legs, kicking me in the back every freaking time. After giving him one dirty look and getting kicked again, we move. The guy asks if he has been kicking me. Cowboy answers in the affirmative. The dude apologizes which mollifies me slightly, yet does not explain why with every place else to sit in the theatre HE HAD TO SIT DIRECTLY BEHIND ME. I wouldn't sit behind me. I'm tall.

Later in the week, I was picking up prescriptions for my Mom. Obedient thing that I am, I am standing at the little sign that says "Please Wait Here for Pharmacist" that's a little ways back from the actual counter so as to give people the illusion of privacy (and trust me, it is just an illusion). When it's just about to be my turn, some lady swoops in from the side and marches up to the counter. She picks up her prescription, pays for it and then turns and sees me and says, "Oh, I'm sorry. Were you waiting?"

No, of course not. I just like to hang out over here by the bedside commode display for fun.

I am not even going to BEGIN to discuss driving. I might burst a blood vessel. So is it just me? Or is Mercury in retrograde? Have you been having this kind of week?

Posted by Eileen at 7:00 AM | Comments (8)

February 4, 2007

Oh, boy, the misery of a head cold

Times four

We're all sick here. I'm sick. Princess is sick. Science Boy is sick. I've already called the school absence hotline to let them know we won't be showing our faces tomorrow. Even my brother Josh, who showed up this morning to visit for a couple of days, is sick.

We are the house of Cold Medicine and Vapo Patches. Germ-topia, as Princess said. So, I got nothing. Except this: My celebrity collage. Which cracks me up. Honestly? I don't think any of them look like me, although james Blunt was on my list at the bottom and I should have included him in the collage. heh. Go to heritage.com and find yours. And keep healthy!



hugs in a non-contagious way,
Alesia

Posted by Alesia at 9:54 PM | Comments (4)

February 2, 2007

Something To Talk About

Birds do it. Bees do it. Any chance we can just stop there?

Okay. So recently, my mom came for a visit and dropped off a pile of books from my childhood which she thought the girls might enjoy. One of which was the This is how babies are made" book she gave me when I was six and never once discussed with me, because that's how it was done in the seventies. The kid can read? The kid can figure it out for herself.

There's wisdom in that, I think.

Anyway, Sweetness got a hold of The Book a while back, which was a nice foray into The Starter Talk, in which we tell our seven-year-old that this is what happens when two people love each other very much. The Starter Talk differs markedly from The Scared Celibate Talk, in which, about seven years from now, we tell her that if sex doesn't get her pregnant, it'll kill her in a thousand nasty ways. The Scared Celibate Talk comes with visual aids, testimonials and possibly a laser light show, and will very likely be the direct source of some lucky therapist's Jamaican vacation in about ten to fifteen years.

Anyway, we had The Starter Talk, got the basics out of the way, and I left it alone, figuring I'd give Light a couple more years to catch up.

Those of you who have been parents longer than me are laughing right now, and with good reason.

So, this morning my sweet little girls are eating breakfast in the kitchen and Im on the computer, and I overhear this:

Sweetness: Your sperm kinda looks like that.

Light: Like a rice krispie?

Sweetness: Yeah. Except its got a tail. It goes in the vagina and it makes a baby.

Me: Sweetness! Light! Can you come in here, please?

Sweetness and Light obediently traipse into the den, eyelashes blinking innocence so pure, it would make a downy baby chick seem embittered and cynical.

Sweetness and Light: Yes, mother?

(Okay. That's a paraphrase. But you get the picture.)

Me: Lights a girl. She doesnt have sperm.

Sweetness: Oh. Okay.

Me: Light, honey, what were talking about is sex, and its how babies are made, and puppies, and kittens. We can talk about it all you want at home, thats fine, but dont talk about it at school.

Light: Why not?

Me: Well, some children dont know about it yet, and its really up to the parents to tell them. I dont want you to be the one to spill the beans. Do you understand?

They both nod emphatically, but still, I feel the need to double-check.

Me: So, what are we not talking about at school?

Light: Sperm!

Sweetness: Vaginas!

At this point, I feel pretty good. Almost like a parent who has the slightest clue what she's doing. They both run off to the other room to discuss the existential angst of Spongebob Squarepants while I bask in the glory of my parenting skills. A few seconds later, Sweetness shows up, The Book in hand, opened up to the page on which (hand to God) one felt-cutout doggie is mounting another, blissful smiles on both their sinning faces.

Sweetness: Im gonna take this with me to show everyone on the bus, okay?

So, what I'm saying is, to those of you whose kindergarteners are coming home asking, "What's doggie style?" Yeah. That's my kid.

Sorry.

Posted by Lani at 6:00 AM | Comments (17)

February 1, 2007

The Art of Late Blooming

Well worth the wait...in some cases


First, a disclaimer. Yes, I was (am?) a certified late bloomera condition which I look upon with equal amounts of nostalgia and self-pity depending on the day or circumstance when Im reminded. I came about milestones, from buying my first lipstick to my first time, at my own pace because its what felt right even when it wasnt. Ive long since discarded the lipstick shade and the boyfriendboth just didnt suit, if you know what I meanand can finally say Ive a pretty good handle on my life and myself as a person.

From cheerful kid, to awkward teen, clueless young adult to (practically all the time) mature adult woman with a clear vision of what my future looks like, in only three and half decades. It may have taken me a bit longer to get here, but here I am and not a moment too soon.

I have this kid; hes a joy and a pain in the ass as most kids can be, but generally I really like him as a person as well as love him as a son. A few weeks ago he told me about this game called Kissy Girls hes been partaking in during recess. Basically, the first grade girls raid the blacktop where the boys are playing, kidnap them and make the boys their slaves. The boys have to do the girls bidding until the end of recess. No kissing is involved and when I asked just to make sure, he looked at me like I was stupid and crazy.

Kissy Girls was invented by the girls, 6-year-old girls. When I was six I was playing a mean game of tetherball at recess. (Id still be playing now if I wasnt sure Id really hurt myself. Late blooming comes with age, after all. ) Every day, as we walk home from school, I casually as possible ask him if he played Kissy Girls. Some days he says yes, still no kissing but there have been some close calls, and other days Im flooded with relief when he tells me he played dragons and knights or Harry Potter instead.

Not that I think these girls are out to get my little boy, but Im starting to suspect some are going straight from sleeping in footed pajamas with their stuffed animals to getting mani-pedis and waxing their underarms. (Something I myself tried last year for the first and only time.) They seem to be in such a hurry to grow up, and in many respects, they already have. They seem to know it all, seen it all and done most of it by the times they hit their teens. They charge ahead to meet the destiny of their own creation to make it, whatever that might mean to them, as soon as possible if not by yesterday. Theres no time to waste, no time to stand back and let ideas, thoughts and feelings simmer for a while.

Im not talking about Getting Older Younger (GOY) a term coined by marketers where a five-year-old in pigtails can tell you that not only is your Gucci clutch a knock-off but its also so two seasons ago. Im talking about doing away with a whole developmental stage. You know, the awkward stage our mothers said would build character and personality. And we believed themmostly because we had no choice. Still, theres something valuable in that speed bump between being a kid and a teenager and a teenager and an adult. Its a time when a person builds up resentments, phobias and complexes that will last a lifetime and, maybe eventually, help you figure out who you are.

While I wouldnt wish my teenage years (or the years that followed) on anyone, I do know all the angst, confusion and general yuckiness of it all made me, me. And maybe Im not done blooming yet. The best may be yet to come. I can always hope so, at least. And while I might have never come up with a game like Kissy Girls when I was in first grade, I can appreciate why my son finds it a fun and innocent game. Because, at least for now, it is.

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