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May 30, 2007
Just say no . . . to bad commercials
screaming at the TV again
So yesterday my SEVEN YEAR OLD daughter told me she thinks she needs to go on a diet. SEVEN FREAKING YEARS OLD. I told her that she is beautiful and her shape is exactly right for her body (she is curvy where many of her friends have sort of the little girl stick figure skinny thing, which is exactly right for their bodies), and then I said NO MORE TV.
And today, when I was drinking coffee and getting ready to work, I was screaming at the TV. Because of freaking Special K. Now, I used to like Special K. They're the 'don't go on crash diets, eat healthy instead of crap, exercise and (of course) eat our cereal' folks. But no more. I am BOYCOTTING THEIR DAMN CEREAL.
The commercial? A totally anorexic model comes on the screen, getting ready for work, and they do a freeze frame of the rest of the room. I figure it's a commercial for eating disorders - seriously, this chick is bones and skin. But NO. The voiceover?
"TRYING TO LOSE WEIGHT BY SKIPPING BREAKFAST? EAT SPECIAL K INSTEAD"
Yes. Seriously. Because the message our kids and teens and even women of any age needs to get from this moronic profit-hungry bastard of a cereal company is that SEVERELY UNDERWEIGHT WOMEN NEED TO BE FOCUSED ON LOSING WEIGHT.
That was it. I will never buy that product again. I am writing to the company. Smoke is still coming out of my ears. So tell me . . . what commercial drives YOU insane??
Alesia
ps. thanks for all the decluttering tips! Will Marcia in OK, B.E. Sanderson, Janina, and Pam W. please email me at alesia@alesiaholliday.com with their snail mail addys for their free copy of Atlantis Rising?
Posted by Alesia at 8:56 AM | Comments (23)
May 29, 2007
Breaking news: Beth Kendrick sews
In a related story : hell freezes over
Here are four little words I never dreamed I’d utter: today I made curtains. With my own little hands. And thread. And a sewing machine. That’s right, chicks—I faced my fear of all things domestic and, after a single sunny afternoon chock full of swearing and sweating, I have a kicky set of red café curtains hung up over the kitchen window.
I owe it all to my inherent cheapness, of course. After perusing stacks of Pottery Barn and Country Curtain catalogs, I came to the realization that I am simply incapable of parting with hundreds of dollars for window treatments. I mean, I need that money for overpriced handbags. Priorities, people.
So I screwed my courage to the sticking point, borrowed a sewing machine from my neighbor, and headed down to the nearby Jo-Ann superstore, which opened over a year ago, and which I have never set foot in until today. My understanding is that they sell fabric and something nebulously referred to as “craft supplies.” (Hopefully, Eileen can explain this to me later.)
Anyway, I perused the bolts of fabric until I found the least expensive red broadcloth they stock. Then I marched right over to the clerk and said, “I need a pattern to make a basic, single-paneled valance, please.” The clerk stared at me for a few seconds, then said, “Okay. Let me explain. You have to pick out the pattern you want and then I can find it for you.” She pointed out the array of pattern books spread across the counter.
“Oh,” I said. “Right. Well…I’m sort of new to this whole sewing thing. Obviously.”
She kept staring at me. “You know, you could save yourself some money and just freehand the valance. They’re easy, you know. All you do is [goes into lengthy and indecipherable explanation of hemming, stitching, and something called ‘ballooning.’]”
I blinked.
“Anyway,” she continued, “You’ll want your fabric to be three times the length of the window. That’s the important thing.”
I kept blinking.
She paused. “Or I suppose you could always pick out a pattern.”
“Yeah, I’m thinking that’d be best for all involved.”
So I went with a Simplicity pattern because, hey, with a name like that, what could go wrong? And then I picked out thread, fired up the sewing machine, and learned a basic law of sewing: always, always wash your fabric before you start stitching. Especially if you’re working with the cheapest red cotton imaginable.
Currently, my hands are pink, my pants are pink, and my front door has pink fingerprints on it that may never wash off, BUT! I made curtains! And they look damn good, if I do say so myself.
Total cost for fabric, curtain road, pattern, and thread: under $20 (I had a 50% off coupon. See: inherent cheapness.) In your FACE, Pottery Barn!
What’s next? Crocheting? Cake decorating? Changing my car’s oil? Stop the madness!
Posted by Beth at 12:58 AM | Comments (5)
May 28, 2007
Confessions of a Cheater
The love that dare not bark its name.
Before I start, I'd like to wish a happy Memorial Day to everyone, but most especially to our military and their families. Words like "support" and "sacrifice" are nowhere near enough given what it is you people do every day. My thoughts, prayers and gratitude are with you all. Thank you.
All right. Time to come clean: I've been cheating on the LC. But just a little.
It's not that I need another blog. Trust me, between this and that podcast thing, I keep plenty busy. But this side venture was never intended to be what it's become. It started out very simply, when a few months back I became involved in a project that, while it was loved deeply, was just destined to go... nowhere.
It's a collaboration.
I know, I know. I swore I'd never do one. I have discovered, though, through the trials of Lunchables and gag-inducing teeth whitening products, that 'tis better to have just shut up than to have claimed, "I will never do that!" Why was I so against collaborations? Well, one, I'm a control freak, which is why I work for myself creating worlds in which I control everything. No brainer. Two, who would possibly want to work with me? I don't plan, I never have any idea where I'm going in a book, and often I'll write whole chapters only to throw them out later. I am the kind of person other people kill and leave in the woods. Seriously. Plus, collaborations are a tough sell in this business, anyway, and the stars are particularly aligned against this one. But here's the problem:
The book is good.
I mean really, really good.
And I'm gonna write it, damnit.
The only real problem is that it'll probably never get published. For a lot of reasons, not the least of which is that the two other authors involved and myself all need to get solo stuff in the hopper, and the business is cooling on collaborations and we've already had one staff change in just three months, and... and... and... Well. You get the picture.
We should drop it. We just can't. It's too much fun. So we decided to blog it - not the novel, we still hold out hope that someday we'll beat all odds and be able to publish the book, but parts of it. We're also blogging our Sunday night chats about it and we're having posts from special guests and we're doing little confessionals about what it's really like working on a collaboration on a book you love that will probably never see the light of day. It's like a reality tv show, only with writers and not manipulated for maximum drama and no one's taking off their bikini top in the jacuzzi. But trust me, this project has plenty of nature-made drama already, not the least of which is that we love it so much we just can't let go.
Okay. Enough buildup. Here's the basic idea, and you tell me if you would have had the strength to walk away:
Once upon a time, three writers decided to do a novel about three ordinary women who meet at a dog obedience class and discover they’re descended from ancient Mesopotamian priestesses.
Well, you had to be there.
The book is called Dogs and Goddesses, and we’re Anne Stuart, Lani Diane Rich, and Jenny Crusie.
Three writers. One blog. No plan.
Told ya.
Posted by Lani at 5:08 AM | Comments (10)
May 27, 2007
Signs
. . . and what they mean.
I was driving down the highway yesterday when I saw an odd sign:
I had absolutely no idea what to do with this information.
First of all, what did the sign mean by overhead? Over the sign? Or over the highway? And if it meant over the highway, then where exactly? Because there was nothing there. Or, at least, nothing I could see. No railroad tracks, no power lines, no cell phone towers. Nothing. Just open highway.
And exactly what kind of electrical currents was the sign referring to? Should I be expecting random bolts of lightening? Laser beams shooting down from a satellite?
I glanced up nervously. All I saw was the vast blue Florida sky, full of fluffy white clouds.
I finally decided that the sign had been put there just to freak out the inhabitants of passing cars to get them to slow down and drive more carefully. Sort of like a more drastic version of when the cops leave an empty cruiser by the side of the highway.
But then I thought, if that’s the case, then why leave it at cryptic warnings about electrical currents? I could think of much better ways to scare drivers.
Like:
SPEEDING CARS WILL BE RANDOMLY BLOWN UP.
Or:
BEWARE OF MISSILES FALLING FROM SKY.
Or:
IT IS NOW SAFE TO REMOVE YOUR GAS MASK AND BREATHE NORMALLY.
Anyway. It’s just a thought. And maybe an explanation of why I don’t hold a position of power.
Posted by Whitney at 6:00 AM | Comments (1)
May 26, 2007
Tradition!
A fabulous DIY project for the whole family!
It is time once again for the birthday gauntlet at my house. Four birthdays in sixteen days. I'm not even sure if Bruce Willis could survive it. Live Free or Eat Cake Harder!
To make things easier, we had one big family birthday for all four of us last night. It was truly special when my mom, both kids and I gathered around the four sides of the cake where we'd arranged those number candles with each of our ages and made our wish together. Plus, it was extra special because the little pink ballerina was in the center of the cake. It's our birthday tradition. Actually, we call it a wobberina because that's what my niece said she wanted to be when she was two and couldn't say ballerina.
None of us are entirely certain how it started anymore. I think it might have been my dad's birthday and the package of candles had a little ballerina in it and I stuck it on the cake to be funny.
Now nobody considers it to be a real birthday unless there's a cake with the wobberina on it. Strange? Yes. But we love it and it's our birthday tradition.
So does your family have any strange traditions that you've started?
Posted by Eileen at 1:29 PM | Comments (2)
May 24, 2007
The Land of Oz
And handy travel tips
A few weeks ago my brother-in-law and his wife were blessed with a new addition to the family - a lovely baby boy. We know he's lovely, because due to the marvels of science and technology we're able to visit with him cyperspacially via webcam and Skype. Thank you science and technology!
But, of course, we want to see him in person. Plus we haven't seen my brother-in-law and his wife for awhile, and we want to see them in person, too. The solution: Oh Patient One, Dear Mother-in-Law and I are off to see the Wizard!
We're going to Australia. In July. And I'm scared.
Everybody I know who has ever visited Australia (including Oh Patient One) tells me that it's an absolutely fabulous place, an absolutely incredible place, and that I'll love it so much from the minute I climb off of the plane that I may never want to leave.
But. Creepy crawlies and things that bite are my worst nightmare, and Australia has plenty of them! Here are a few...
1. The Box Jellyfish, also known as the Sea Wasp. It has nasty toxins on its tentacles, and if you are unlucky enough to come into contact with one, the toxins can cause cardio-respiratory functions to stop in as little as three minutes. It causes more deaths in Australia than snakes, sharks and crocs.
So you know what that means? No paddling in the sea for me.
2. The Red Back Spider. Close relative of the Black Widow, it's common in urban areas. Eeep! The males are only about 4 milimeters long. How am I supposed to see something that size? On the bright size, only the females are deadly to humans, and they are a whopping one centimeter in size!
I am so taking a magnifying glass with me. And insecticide (or spidercide). And a mosquito net for my bed.
3. Tiger snakes. These venomous snakes are very territorial, live in the same areas for years, and can also be found in can be found in suburban areas. Especially newer suburban areas.
Guess where my brother-in-law and his wife live? In a newer suburban area.
4. The Funnel Web Spider. Also poisonous, and can be found in and around Sydney. So it's a good job my brother-in-law doesn't live in Sydney.
However, seeing as we're traveling so far, Oh Patient One wants to take me to Sydney for a few days...
I could go on and on about other dangerous Australian creatures, but I'm scaring myself even more. So, instead, my dear chicklets, I am asking for your advice. Do any of you live in Australia? Have any of you visited? Any words of wisdom to placate my fears?
Or maybe I should just stay home and visit via webcam...
Posted by Michelle at 9:03 AM | Comments (7)
May 23, 2007
Thank you, Kimberly!
Come back, soon!
Thanks so much to Kimberly Llewellyn for hanging with us this month, it was great fun having you here, sweetie!
Now, as promised, the winners of Kimberly's Quest for the Holy Veil Giveaway!
Congratulations, girls, and thanks again, Kimberly!
Posted by Lani at 7:23 AM | Comments (2)
May 22, 2007
The Trouble with Writing Comedy…
Is that you raise a kid who's a kidder.
A kid with a real twisted sense of humor. With a highly intelligent, dry wit who can beat you at your own game when you’re not looking. After all, that’s the goal for a kid, isn’t it? To be nurtured by you. To learn from you. Then be better at it than you ever were.
Unfortunately for me, my elementary-school-age son is a fast learner. Oh, and he catches on real quick. He loves to play practical jokes. Loves to dish out whatever kidding – no wait – dishing out is way too gentle – let’s go with shovel and fling – yes, he loves to shovel and fling pranks right back at me. Yes, I’ve created a monster. And the worst of it, at this tender age, he’s learned to do something that I have not taught him. He brings in accomplices. Oh, he’s good all right.
He has a daily job; the next door neighbors who work all day pay him to take out their two dogs. Two very large, rambunctious golden retrievers. My son had a new friend over this day. A very sweet boy, who went with my son to help take out these wildly large dogs who get excitable at times.
I never saw it coming.
Minutes later, the friend – this sweet little boy – comes in crying, holding his arm, barely able to talk. One of the dogs bit him. He’s gripping his arm tightly to his torso, unable to breathe between sobs. My son follows him into the house, eyes wide, stunned, in a panic. Terrified. I search for blood and repeatedly cry out, “What happened? What happened?” But this sweet little child can barely get out his words. My hubby is working from home today. He comes running into the kitchen, panic stricken as well.
Fear and dread course through me. What am I gonna tell his mother? This is the first time this kid has come over! Should we go to the emergency room?
But then the sweet little boy and my son start to smirk. They can pull off the façade no longer. They break into fits of laughter. They’re doubling over, mired in their own hysteria, their eyes wet with mirth. I narrow my own eyes at them. They got me good. I tear through the house after ’em in a dangerous chase. Hubby is unable to aid me in capturing the pranksters; he's too busy holding himself up against the wall in relief.
But they are too fast and run out the front door. All the while their taunts and laughs can be heard. Good thing they got away. I’m not sure what I’d be capable of if I’d caught them anyway. I scream out the front door that they are both grounded for life. They laugh harder as they skip down the sidewalk. (You can ground another person’s child for life, can’t you?)
Who taught this kid to bring in accomplices anyway?
Yes, good-son-number-one, you are a worthy opponent.
But the master is smart enough not to teach the young student everything. The all-knowing master is wise enough to have something up her sleeve at all times.
Therefore, my young son, be afraid, be very afraid...
Well, today is my last blog. Thanks so much for a wonderful month! You’ve been a gracious host and provided a soft landing for all my jokes, whether you found the humor funny or it left you scratching your head at times. It has been a pleasure! Hugs and kisses! --Kimberly Llewellyn
Posted by Kimberly Llewellyn at 11:17 AM | Comments (5)
May 20, 2007
Married Bliss
Or what happens after the wedding is over . . .
I’m not really an expert on weddings. I never had one myself. Although when my husband and I got engaged, we did start planning a wedding.
(And by “we,” I mean, of course, “me.” George took the typical groom route, and abstained from all wedding-related planning.)
But then our families started driving us crazy about who was and wasn’t invited to the big event, and who would be sitting where, and for that matter, what state the wedding was going to be in, and I finally got fed up. At that point, we decided to ditch all wedding plans and elope. Which was phenomenal, and – unlike most brides and grooms enduring the family hell that is the modern day nuptials – we had fun on our elopement day.
So I may not know weddings, but after eight-plus years, I do know a bit about being married. And, in particular, about being married to my husband.
For example, I know that when one of the neighbors makes a disparaging comment about our lawn to George, I should never chime in by saying, “yeah, well, you know he had a point when he said our grass looked like it was committing suicide.” And I’ve learned, through experience, that George never finds it nearly as funny as I do when I joke that there’s at a very good chance – “At least a fifty-fifty,” I say, snorting with laughter – that our son is actually his and not the offspring of the UPS man.
Because, you know. I’m sensitive like that.
George, on the other hand, is not so quick. In fact, just the other day, we had that conversation that married people should never have. Because, through trial and error, most men learn not to start it.
It went something like this:
I was ranting about my day. It wasn’t a terrible day; but it wasn’t a good day either. My writing hadn’t gone well, my three-year-old had been acting up, and I’d spent the better part of an afternoon arm deep in the baked ziti I was making for an acquaintance.
“Why were you making her a baked ziti?” George asked.
I sighed, martyr-like. “Because I’m on the Sunshine Committee, which brings dinner to people who are sick or who’ve just had a baby.”
George goggled at me.
“You’re on something called a ‘Sunshine Committee,’” he asked. And then he laughed. For a really, really long time.
“And why is that so funny?” I asked testily.
Really, at this point, he should have known this wasn’t a good time to mess with me. The signs were all there. But, intrepid man that he is, he plunged forward.
“You’re just not very sunshiny today. You’re more of a little black cloud,” he said, and then broke into more fits of hilarity.
I stared at him coldly, and then began banging the dishes into the dishwasher.
“What’s wrong?” George asked, when he finally stopped laughing.
“Nothing,” I said through clenched teeth.
He narrowed his eyes and looked thoughtfully at me. “Do you have PMS?” he asked.
There it was. The question men should never, ever ask their wives.
“Do I WHAT?”
“Do you have PMS? It’s just you seem kind of grouchy, and you’re wearing all black, and your hair is all, you know, sort of limp. The signs are all there,” George concluded. “Wait . . . where are you going, hon? Come back? Hon? Hon?”
This blog was brought to you by The Quest for the Holy Veil, Kimberly’s hilarious novel about making the best of things... even when everything goes horribly wrong.
Posted by Whitney at 6:00 AM | Comments (6)
May 19, 2007
The wedding that was almost too much fun
Or possibly a cautionary tale on getting Jews drunk before noon
Y'all are clearly going to get tired of hearing about my cousin's wedding a few weeks ago in San Diego because I simply can't stop talking about it. It really was almost too much fun. Seriously, though, can you have too much fun? I'm thinking no.
So, in that spirit, let me tell you how I met my cousin's lovely bride. We'll call her, um, Lesley since that's her name. I know. Weird. I'm such an iconoclast.
The wedding went off beautifully. Everything that everyone was worried about didn't happen. It stopped raining. There was no problem with security (it was on a Naval base which required that there be a very specific guest list and supposedly everyone's ID would be checked and if your ID didn't match your name on the guest list you would be left in the upper parking lot and not allowed into the wedding because, as my somewhat stressed out uncle yelled at Sissy Two while shaking her by the shoulders, we're at war, you know, but then the very bored shuttle driver didn't bother to check our IDs our even get out of his seat while we hoisted my mother and her wheelchair and her walker into the bus). No seagulls flew overhead to poop on the bride during the outdoor, seaside ceremony. Everything was lovely. Just lovely.
So, the wedding party went off to have their pictures taken and the DJ encouraged all the guests to head inside and avail themselves of the wine, beer and appetizers provided while we waited. We are an obedient crowd and we did just that.
Have I mentioned that my family has no head for booze?
The wedding party comes back and my sisters and cousins and various aunts and uncles are all pretty much wasted after a half glass of white wine and we're ready to party. The DJ starts playing dance music and we throng onto the floor for "Shout!" I am not including the photo of Sissy Two dancing to "Shout!" even though I think she looks like she's actually possessed by the spirit of "Shout!" with her arms up over her head and her mouth open. She feels it is a somewhat unflattering shot. Anyway, then the DJ asks for requests.
My mother requests Hava Nagila.
Now, let me note, that the bride is not Jewish. I don't think she's ever even been to a Jewish wedding. Officially, the groom is not really Jewish either since his mother was not Jewish. My uncle, who is Jewish, hasn't seen the inside of a temple for several decades and then it probably was only for someone's Bar or Bat Mitzvah. Still, my cousin gamely gets out there with all of us and dances. This is him with my mother. That's Sissy Two driving the wheelchair.
I don't know who started yelling for chairs, but somebody did. So then we're shoving the groom into a chair and someone grabs the lovely bride who hasn't a clue what we're doing to her and shoves her into a chair and then we lift them up over our heads and start dancing around. I so wish I had a picture, but we were all lifting so no one could snap one.
Lesley has a death grip on the edge of the chair. We're telling her to grab the end of the napkin that Danny's extending to her. She says something really polite about how she'd love to, but she can't let go of the chair. Turns out she's afraid of heights.
After a while, we set her down and I shake her hand and say, "By the way, I'm Danny's cousin, Eileen. It's so nice to meet you."
And that's how I met the bride and why you shouldn't give Jews alcohol before noon, especially if you're afraid of heights.
This blog was brought to you by The Quest for the Holy Veil, Kimberly’s hilarious novel about making the best of things... even when everything goes horribly wrong.
Posted by Eileen at 7:00 AM | Comments (5)
May 18, 2007
Decluttering my life
still drowning on deadline
We're getting ready to move (again) across country (again) and I'm decluttering (again) before the movers come in July. I'm also on deadline (again)(still) and Navy Guy is out at sea (again). Which makes me a little tense (again). So I really need help, Chicklets: what are your best tips for decluttering? I'll pick the top 3 to win a signed copy of ATLANTIS RISING. HELP! And have a great weekend!
hugs,
Alesia
Posted by Alesia at 10:05 AM | Comments (28)
May 17, 2007
Romantic moments!
And why I am convinced that Lani and I are related.
So, if you read Lani and Fish's anniversary story, here, that pretty much sums up Oh Patient One and I. We're hopeless when it comes to dates, and have failed miserably to remember our wedding anniversary over the past *coughtwentypluscough* years.
Yes, we've been together that long, if we add the non married but together years to the actual married years. (I was a child bride, LOL.)
There are other *special occasions* we've forgotten over the years, too.
Valentine's Day. Not once, in all the years that I have known Oh Patient One, have we either bought presents or cards for Valentine's Day. Not because we don't have a romantic bone in our bodies, because we are both very sentimental. It's just that, well, do we need a special day to remind ourselves that we love each other? After all, why be boring and remember the official *I love you* day?
What I can tell you is that Oh Patient One makes wildly romantic gestures (wildly romantic to me, at any rate) when I least expect them. Like last year, our official twentieth year married, he surprised me with a secret anniversary gift--a long weekend in Romantic Paris. We'll always have Paris!
Like the times he's been away on a business trip to England or America, and returned with a feast of books that he knows I crave. It's hard getting books in English in the Netherlands, unless ordering online, and he knows how much I still miss having a huge Barnes & Noble store five minutes down the road.
Those times he's away in England, he always brings me back English blend tea. English tea is a much stronger brew than either the regular Dutch varieties available to me now, or the American varieties that were available to me during my American years--is this not just as romantic as flowers and chocolates?
Like the year we moved to Rotterdam, he bought me a squishy, totally huggable toy cat. I love cats, but because we don't know what the future will bring, or where we will move to, we can't adopt a real cat because of the suffering we might inflict. What if we had a real cat and we had to move to England? Quarantine just isn't something to take lightly, and my stuffed cat (whom I hug whilst watching TV, or when I'm blue) doesn't have to worry about that kind of thing.
Occasionally I show Oh Patient One my love by ironing his shirts. He knows how much I hate and detest any kind of ironing, so he understands how much it means as a gift from me to him. If I see a CD I know he wants, I don't wait for a special occasion to buy it for him--I'll get it right there and then. Or, I'll see a silly little something like a comic refrigerator magnet and buy that for him. One features a cartoon man holding up a glass of beer, along with the inscription, "Of course I love you. Now get me a beer!" (It's a joke - another one I bought him reads, "I am having my period and am therefore allowed to legally kill you, LOL). But do we really need to have a reason or way to be romantic?
So, enough about me. What alternative romantic gestures has your loved one made, chicklets? And what gestures do you make to your loved ones?
This blog was brought to you by The Quest for the Holy Veil, Kimberly’s hilarious novel about making the best of things... even when everything goes horribly wrong.
Posted by Michelle at 2:37 PM | Comments (4)
May 16, 2007
It is Wednesday...
...right?
Yesterday marked nine years that Fish and I have been married.
We both forgot.
It's not that we're not romantic people, me and Fish. We're affectionate and loving and committed and all that jazz. We're just not date people. I mean, we know all the dates - first kiss, marriage, birthdays, etc - it's just that usually, we don't know what exactly today is. That's really the problem. Not the then. It's the now. It wasn't such a problem when I worked in an office. I had daily deadlines, weekly meetings, production plans - everything centered around dates. Now, I have maybe ten deadlines a year for various things - first draft, revision, copyedits, galleys, proposals, etc - and to be honest, most of the time, I have no idea specifically what day it is. Forget the date. Call me on any given day and ask me what day of the week it is, and I'll hesitate before answering, "Wednesday? Right?"
I have friends who will never understand this. For girls, dates are pretty big. Birthdays, anniversaries, special little commemorations - in and of themselves, not a big deal. It's what they mean that matters. Remembering to celebrate the day shows you care. And they're right. And it's not that Fish and I don't care, it's that we just don't know what day it is. The typical anniversary for us goes a little something like this:
Me: (circa 5pm or so) Oh, shit.
Fish: What?
Me: It's our anniversary.
Fish: Oh, shit.
Me: Happy anniversary.
Fish: Happy anniversary.
Me: I love you.
Fish: I love you, too.
Me: We'll do better next year.
Fish: Yeah. Probably not.
Still, I try not to worry too much. I think what it comes down to is that we have a compatibility of spirit - we're both forgetters. You get one forgetter and one rememberer together, and it's a recipe for misery.
And while Fish and I are maybe not the most demonstratively romantic people in the world, we do have one thing going for us. Every conversation, every e-mail, every morning, every night, we always tell each other we love each other. I had a friend who, when we were too young yet to understand anything, said that she didn't want to always say, "I love you," to her husband when she got married. She wanted the words to be special, and she thought that the more you said them, the less they meant.
I'll argue the exact opposite. I'll argue that, the more often it's said, the more it means. I can't imagine only hearing it once a year, or once a month, or even once a day. We got married in Vegas because we cared more about being married than having a wedding, and we stay married without anniversaries because we care more about staying married. Every day, Fish makes me and our family his priority. Every day, he makes sure I know he'd walk in front of a train for any of us. Every day, he's a wonderful husband and father, and every day, he gives me everything I need.
As for Fish, well... according to the Chicago Public Library (and they oughta know) the gift for the ninth anniversary is... leather.
I'll bet anything that right now, he's wishing one of us had remembered.
This blog was brought to you by The Quest for the Holy Veil, Kimberly’s hilarious novel about making the best of things... even when everything goes horribly wrong.
Posted by Lani at 11:05 AM | Comments (11)
May 15, 2007
Holy Matrimony!
The Most Wonderful Time of the Year
Yes, we are in the glorious throws of wedding season as Beth Kendrick mentioned in a previous blog. A time of year where we are exposed to the institution of holy matrimony in one form of another. We find ourselves either in a wedding, attending a wedding, know of someone getting married, read a blog about it, or peruse a wedding feature in a newspaper or magazine. On TV, we see wedding specials, celebrities weddings, bridezilla shows or sitcoms, and witness wedding-couple contests on morning shows. And who can forget our favorite soap opera weddings over the years?
As the "wedding writer," I love this time of year and can’t get enough of the towering wedding cakes, endless layers of silk and tulle, and gathering of machismo men dressed in their finest garb (even if such garb has to be returned by five the next day according to their contracts.) I guess it’s because it offers great material for my books. I love hearing all the stories, both sentimental and crazy.
Maybe it helps me forget memories of my own engagement fiascos. My fiance and I wanted something simple. A short engagement. A tiny chapel ceremony. A party afterward. With a shiny rock on my finger and newly engaged, I was excited to plan my little wedding!
I spent the next four months in tears.
My fiance and I lived in Florida, but the wedding was to take in Massachusetts. The archaic marriage license laws and their interpretations of such laws were excruciating. MA still required a blood test. MA also wanted you to sign a form that you understand that you know what AIDS is. Simple enough. FL interpreted this as: you must take an expensive six-week course with other medical professionals. Huh? But I’m a bride not a med-tech! Then there was the long wait period prior to getting married. It wouldn’t work out due to our flight sked. Then the scheduling of the chapel wasn’t working out. Then the window of time to apply for the license at town hall came down to three hours. What? Three hours? Tears, people, tears.
Then one day, all our problems were solved with one little action.
We secretly eloped.
A handful of us went to the beach for my fiance and I to exchange vows at sunset. During a 150-day drought, this shouldn’t have been a problem, but the one thunderstorm in the greater Tampa Bay area happened over our head at that moment. So with lightening bolts shooting down around us, we quickly said, "I do," and ran inside for champagne, appetizers, and calypso music. No, we didn’t take the hint. We only knew that all the legalities that made me cry every day went away in an instant.
My new hubby and I kept our secret and still planned to renew our vows in front of the rest of our friends and family two weeks later. So, we boarded a plane to Boston and made the flight attendants check our suit and wedding gown right there on board. We weren’t taking any chances checking them with our luggage. Good thing. Due to a scheduling snafu and lengthy delays, we had to land in VA and spend the night! I kept thinking about the three-hour window at town hall and feeling so grateful that we had eloped. But then the young woman across the aisle from me said with tears in her eyes, "I’m flying home to get married, too, but I checked my gown with my luggage. They lost it. I don’t know what I’m gonna do."
Hubby and I had to do the "terminal shuffle" and trudged through our stopover VA airport. I was so worn out, I dragged my heavy gown-length garment bag along the floor of the terminal. Fellow travelers were kind enough to leap over this huge monstrosity when they saw me coming. But if they had stepped on it, I really wouldn’t have cared at that point. After a night at a hotel and an ensuing flight, we finally made it to Boston.
The chapel and ceremony were lovely. The day was sunny but hot. When it came time for photos outside, the sky opened up and another thunderstorm screeched on during the one hour needed to take pictures. (What the hell? Was someone trying to tell us something?)
We had a block party at my brother-in-law's place. It was awesome; he lived in a great historical neighborhood in a picturesque seaside North Shore town. Terrific authentic Italian food. Wild music. People dancing in the streets. All the neighbors joined in on the fun. But to afford such a great place, his great neighborhood is kinda near a rough neighborhood. Hence the gun shots ("Head count! Is everybody accounted for?") and a car getting stolen. Fortunately, it was no one’s car from the party. With excitement like that, I was dubbed, "danger-bride!"
I’m glad hubby and I didn’t take the hint of the lightening bolts zapping down around us twice on both wedding days because hubby and I still together. His name is Michael.
But there were the fun parts to the engagement, too. Like choosing a wedding planner guide. Deciding on the food and music. Picking out the wedding dress. My favorite part? Looking into Michael’s eyes and saying, "I do," not once, but twice.
The only advice I have about weddings is this: try and enjoy the engagement because it lasts longer than the wedding day itself. I wish someone told me that! If course, it’s really about the marriage, isn’t it?
So, this week is all about weddings. Its light and tender side. Its crazy-zany side. Ever deal with a bridezilla? Ever meet an ugly bride? (I worked in the banquet/wedding industry before and yes I actually saw an ugly bride once!) What’s your most tender matrimonial moment? What engagement or wedding-day advice do the LCs have to offer this week?
Oh, did I mention, Michael and I eloped on the anniversary of Elvis’ death?
This blog was brought to you by The Quest for the Holy Veil, Kimberly’s hilarious novel about making the best of things... even when everything goes horribly wrong.
Posted by Kimberly Llewellyn at 1:07 PM | Comments (8)
May 13, 2007
Discovering my inner bunny
except with clothes and zits and stuff. And more comfortable shoes.
Okay, I hate to be the literary chick who’s forever posting about shamefully cheesy TV shows she secretly likes, but…can we please spend a few minutes discussing “The Girls Next Door”? I’m fascinated by this series because it goes against every principle of feminism and pseudo-intellectualism I hold dear. And yet, somehow…somehow it has earned itself a season pass on my TiVo and I can’t look away.
For those of you who actually do something productive with your Sunday nights other than lounging around in yoga pants watching E!, “The Girls Next Door” is a reality show (and I use the term loosely) that follows Hugh Hefner’s three girlfriends (again, I use the term loosely). We have Holly, the “first lady of the Playboy Mansion”; Bridget, the M.A. candidate whose most cherished goal in life is to be a Playboy centerfold; and Kendra, a 21-year-old tomboy with a mouth like a longshoreman and a body like Barbie.
Yes. I know. When I summarize it like that, this doesn’t sound like must-see TV. It sounds like skeevy porn.
But it manages to be funny and interesting and kind of sweet, in an aw-shucks way. The show revolves around the three girls attending galas, organizing social events, and romping around with their vast assortment of dogs and cats. They eat out, they shop, they get their hair done, they dial up the mansion staff to get their every need attended to. And therein, I think, lies the true appeal of the show. I know a lot of other women who count “The Girls Next Door” as a guilty pleasure. Smart, well-educated, high-achieving women who would sooner die than pose nude or even get a Brazilian wax. So what’s the deal? Do we all secretly wish we could be surgically-enhanced trophy wives?
I don’t think so. Rather, I think we wish we could live the trophy wife lifestyle without actually having to make the socio-cultural and physical sacrifices that come along with it. Like 24-hour laundry and room service. First-class trips to Aspen and Europe. The total assurance that one is wanted and adored and appreciated merely for existing. The cold, hard truth is that these women were chosen because they look and behave a certain way, but no one ever makes reference to this. Everyone treats them as though they are rocket scientists/royalty and as though it is their due to be revered and catered to every minute of every day. It’s the total fantasy of every “real world” woman who’s overstressed, underpaid, and would kill for an extra hour of sleep every night. And the girls never gossip or criticize one another—they are like sisters/BFFs and the entire Playboy posse is portrayed as one big, happy, functional family. This is the other reason the show succeeds with female viewers, I suspect: although Holly, Bridget and Kendra are described as Hef’s “girlfriends”, they are actually more like his doting granddaughters. There are no seedy, sexual overtones to the storylines, and the most public display of affection we ever see is an avuncular kiss on the cheek.
But you want to hear the weirdest thing of all? Most men I know aren’t into the show. I mean, if ever there were an E! show that could keep a guy’s attention, you’d think this would be it! Lots of cleavage, blurred-out nudity, and giggling blondes. But Mr. Tall can’t make it through a whole episode. “Wait, honey!” I’ll cry as he grabs the popcorn bowl and slinks away to his office. “They’re going to shoot a bunch of photos for a calendar and Kendra’s wearing a microscopic cheerleading outfit! Don’t you want to see that?” He’ll just say, “Eh”, and be on his way. I was convinced this was just an act, but my female friends tell me their male partners react the same way. Maybe the idea of a round-the-clock pastry chef just doesn’t do for a man what it does for me.
Anyway, in the interests of fairness, I’ll be reading some point/counterpoint books on the REAL reality of life at the mansion: Bunny Tales: Behind the Doors at the Playboy Mansion, The Bunny Years: Women Who Worked as Bunnies and Where They Are Now, and Playground: A Childhood Lost Inside the Playboy Mansion. I’ll also be harassing my friend Sara for stories about her aunt, who was a bona fide bunny in the seventies and assures me that life with Playboy included a lot more than private jets and harmless flirting. I’ll keep you guys posted.
So yeah, I could definitely do without the plastic surgery and grueling three-hour workouts. But a groundskeeper to pick up after the dogs and an actual petting zoo in my back yard? Yes, please!
Posted by Beth at 11:11 PM | Comments (4)
Happy Mother's Day!
So, what did you get?
Did the kids come through? Did the husband/partner/significant other?
Or did you happen to oversleep, and then race around your house muttering, "shit, shit, shit," while glugging coffee and trying to summon the energy to whip up brunch for assorted family members? And then spend the afternoon wilting in the ninety degree heat while you put in the summer planters? After fighting with the customer service people at Lowe's who rang up your plant order all wrong, overcharging you for everything, and then flat out insisted that they're not "authorized" to refund you the ten dollars they overcharged you?
Or was that just me?
Sigh. I have this fantasy that someday, I'll actually spend Mother's Day laying around, my feet up on a plush pillow, reading a good book, while my husband and son periodically bring me iced fruity drinks, and ask me if they can get me anything else.
Yeah. Like that'll ever happen.
So post your Mother Day's stories below. And misery loves company, so no cutesy stories about perfect children who labored for weeks to make you a popsicle stick bird feeder or husbands surprising you with trips to Italy. I want angst, I want anger, I want a bitch session.
Posted by Whitney at 5:54 PM | Comments (11)
May 12, 2007
Brainal Abandonment
I'd sue my brain for support, if only I could find the bastard...
Hi! Remember me? My name's Lani, and I used to post here all the time. But then, life got busy. Really busy. And I got forgetful. Really forgetful. And though I could tell you tales of deadlines, proposals, late nights, asthmatic children and hospitals (Sweetness, earlier this week, only in the hospital for one night, she's fine, no worries) what I'd really rather talk about now that I'm finally back with you all is something else. Anything else, really.
Alas, I can't.
Because my brain has left me. Moved on to sunnier climes, I suppose. But in the meantime, here I am with a life to support, and no discernable mental function.
It's a bitch.
I have to tell you, over the years, I've worried about a lot of possible things happening to me. Car wreck. Cancer. Hearing country music and liking it. But never in a million years did I ever suspect that my brain would leave. I mean, I'm not typically one to take these things for granted, but I just didn't think it was possible, attached to my spinal column as it was. I'd always thought it was committed, or at the very least, stuck. It just never occurred to me this would happen.
Of course... there were signs. There always are. The rooms entered only to find, once I'd gotten there, that I'd forgotten what I'd come there for. The late nights, staring at the TV, knowing that I'd just had an idea for... something, or maybe about... something... but I can't remember what it was. The minutes spent, searching desperately for the right work, snapping my fingers, repeating, "you know.. the thingy... the thingy" over and over again, until finally, the elusive word returns and I shout, "Car! That's it! Thank God!" So, yes, there were signs. A wiser woman than me would have seen this coming, but sadly, while my ass is indeed wise, the rest of me is somewhat underperforming in that area.
I was taken by surprise. The end came earlier this week, at the hospital, when countless doctors and nurses would ask me questions about which medications my daughter had been given and when, and I'd stare at them blankly and realize I had no idea. Now, no matter how bad things have been between me and my brain, in a crisis, it has always come through for me. I can usually rattle off a series of medications, dosages, times. This visit, though... I had nothing. My typical answer was, "Isn't that why you guys have charts?" Which, granted, is true. But still, the truth remained - my brain had finally left me.
So now I'm alone, bereft, wondering what I did to drive it away. I was neglectful. I could have eaten more fish, done more crossword puzzles. I took it for granted, relied on it too much. At this moment, I have exactly five books in various stages of existence which I'm working on simultaneously, while running a house, keeping two children alive, and maintaining a blog and a podcast. So, now, in the cold, analytical light of day, I can see how this happened. Still, it doesn't help me now. Now, I have to figure out a way to win her back. I'm thinking Omega-3 tablets. Clearing some projects off my plate. Easing up my schedule. Maybe a spa day. I don't know. If any of you have ever had this problem and managed to woo your brains back, I'm open to...
... to... um... the thingies, the thingies, you know...
...suggestions! Yes! That's it! Thank God.
Okay. Um... where was I?
Posted by Lani at 8:46 AM | Comments (7)
May 9, 2007
La Penultime
Almost time to say good-bye
Last next was the next to last episode of Gilmore Girls. I have love love loved this series since it started which is now long enough ago that Treasured Niece (the one who's in South America right now and is fine, by the way) used to watch it with me religiously on Tuesday nights. She'd spend the night here and we'd watch Lorelei and Rory banter and eat while we bantered, ate and did our nails after I got my little men (who were truly little then) off to bed.
Those evenings were reason enough to love that series. But wait! There's more! And it's not a bamboo steamer.
I loved it because I pretty much am the chubby semitic Lorelei Gilmore.
Yep. I'm a single mom. I was somewhat singler then, too. I talk too fast. I drink too much coffee. I have dark hair and blue eyes. I live in a small quirky town (have you hear about our toad tunnel?) peopled with quirky eccentrics. I have two boys and not a daughter, but I had my niece who was an excellent Rory stand-in. Clearly, I am practically Lorelei's clone. Except for the extra pounds and the semitic nose.
And then there's Cowboy who pretty much is Luke all over. He tends a little toward the scruffy side in the same kind of adorable way. He can be a little grumpy. And the heart that beats inside that chest? Huge. Just like Luke's.
Over the past seven years, the series has had its ups and downs. I hated Lorelei being married to Christopher. The April sub-plot was enough to make me want to bang my head against the wall. There have been times when I wanted to jump into the TV set and give Lorelei a little shake. Still, I stuck with it.
Why? Well, in romance writer terms, I wanted my HEA. For those not in the know, HEA stands for Happily Ever After. It's been clear to me (and I assume the entire planet) that Luke and Lorelei need to end up together. I need to see it. It's probably because I identify so strongly with Lorelei and see so much of Cowboy in Luke, but I feel like their HEA is my HEA.
And I want it bad.
So the teaser for the series finale showed Luke and Lorelei in a major lip lock in the middle of the town square by the adorable gazebo. I am thrilled beyond belief and can't wait. I'm hoping for a MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING-ish moment where Luke stops Lorelei's mouth with a kiss. I'm a little sad about saying good-bye, but also a little relieved that I can send our avatars off into the sunset to their HEA because it means that I can be HEA, too.
So have you ever had a TV series that you identified with that strongly? Did the characters end up where you wanted them? Or did they make you crazy and do the wrong thing?
Posted by Eileen at 10:14 AM | Comments (13)
May 8, 2007
Stripping It Down
A tongue-in-cheek look at women’s names today
Ever notice today that women are running around with gorgeous names like Diamond, Destiny, or Dakota? They sound so glammed out, don’t they? Where did these names originate? Was a woman actually named after a precious gem? A girl-band? A U.S. state? I really don’t think so. If I had to, I could take one guess where names like these came from.
Diamond is a stripper name. A very popular stripper name. And it’s one of a few names pole-dancing their way into mainstream. (In fact, DH knows a guy who knows a guy who named his daughter after his favorite stripper. Am I the only one troubled by hearing about such a phenomenon? But that’s for another blog!)
Now, other names in recent years have also hello-kittied their way into mainstream America in addition to Diamond, Destiny and Dakota: Montana, Raven, and Savannah. And yes (gasp!) even Ashley and Jessica were once the crowning jewels when it came to names of exotic dancers.
Does that mean all women today are named after some famous exotic dancer somewhere? Gosh, no! Different regions have different popular names, too, that have nothing to do with strip clubs. And names come and go in popularity. It’s just interesting to see the correlation of popularity of some names in clubs followed by the popularity of those same names in the mainstream from time to time…is all I’m ah-saying.
So what other popular names are out there lurking, lap-dancing right now on the horizon? Oh, there are some goodies. They include Angel, Candy, Cherry, Crystal, Houston, Porsche, and Roxy. If your name happens to be on this list, then wear it proudly. They are all beautiful, glamorous names and do exist in mainstream. But they’re very popular in the gentlemen's clubs, too. And quite trendy sounding, like a nice Fendi handbag. (Huh. Fendi isn’t on the list. Give it time, I’m sure.)
What’s that you say? You’re disappointed that your own name doesn’t measure up to the glam of these names? Awww. Well, there’s a remedy for that. Why not create your own snappy stripper name? My author friends and I did this during a birthday luncheon recently. Two of the authors are inspirational writers, which made it all the more indulgent. So, what’s my snappy stripper name if I ever needed a second job?
Jubilee.
And boy, isn’t it fun when my writer friends and I are working on our novels at Panera, and we hear on the loud speaker, “Jubilee! Your order’s ready!” We all giggle while I go get my half sandwich and salad. As for my writer friends’ names, we have Cherry Twizzler, Corona-Corona, and Stormy Daniels.
If you are stumped for a stripper name, you can always fall back on the porn star formula to come up with an alias for a day. Take the name of your first pet you ever owned and pair it with the first street you ever lived on. My porn star name would be Collette Pleasant. Now if I could just get my pole-dancing down pat…
So, I’m bouncing it back to you. What would your stripper name be? Or using the formula above, what would your porn star name be?
Posted by Kimberly Llewellyn at 11:04 AM | Comments (20)
May 7, 2007
Beth and Mr. Tall’s Excellent Adventure Bogus Journey
Michelle no longer has a monopoly on travel disasters
So remember back a few weeks, when I mentioned that wedding season has officially begun? Last weekend, Mr. Tall and I packed our bags and headed to Los Angeles to celebrate nuptials and gorge ourselves on chocolate mousse cake. The wedding itself was beautiful and amazing—they even hosted a post-dinner cigar bar, which was very popular with the boys.
Everything involved with this weekend trip besides the wedding? Not so beautiful and amazing. Allow me to start on Friday night, when Mr. Tall announces at 8:30 PM that he has no acceptable shirts to wear with his suit and tie. And the mall closes in 30 minutes. And, due to the fact that Mr. Tall is so, well, TALL, most stores do not carry clothes that fit his freakishly lanky frame.
Fast forward to Saturday morning, when, according to Mr. Tall’s itinerary, we must leave for the airport at 6:30 AM. I am all packed and ready to depart at 6:25 (for real). Mr. Tall decides to start packing at approximately 6:29, despite—or perhaps because of--the fact that I nagged him relentlessly about it the day before. Then he decides to take out the trash and tidy up the kitchen so the dog-sitter won’t realize we live in squalor. Actual departure time: 7:15 AM.
Halfway to the airport (approximate speed: 90 mph), we discover the freeway has been closed and we must detour, along with every other car clogging the roads, on winding little surface streets.
This is when the swearing begins.
Due to time constraints, we abandon our plan to park at a low-cost lot and accept that we must pay $40 per day for airport parking. (When you’re as cheap as I am, this hurts. Bad.) And, due to the new restrictions against carrying on gels and liquids, we must check one of our bags. Time until our flight takes off: 20 minutes. We race into the departures terminal, only to recoil in abject horror. The airport is busier than I’ve ever seen it. The line at security looks like the queue for Space Mountain at Disney Land during a holiday weekend. The line to check baggage is longer still.
Divide and conquer: Mr. Tall lines up for baggage check, I fight for a place in the security screening mob. I am literally on the phone with the airlines, trying to re-book for the next flight to LAX, when Mr. Tall squeaks into line next to me, earning the fiery wrath of our fellow stressed-out travelers. And of course we get pulled aside at security for a thorough bag-searching—turns out, my darling gold lame kitten heels have aroused suspicion that I’m smuggling deadly weapons. Something about the metallic finish? Yeah, I don’t really understand it, either. Anyway, the harried TSA official unpacks our bag, rummages around, then re-packs it just in time for Mr. Tall and I to full-out RUN to our appointed gate and dive onto the plane mere minutes before they close the doors.
By the end of the 75-minute flight, we are finally beginning to speak to each other again. Then we open our carry-on bag to retrieve our rental car confirmation…only to discover that the security agent back in Phoenix forgot to re-pack that critical piece of paper, along with the wedding invitation, all the directions to the hotel and wedding, our hotel reservation confirmation, and oh yeah, my darling gold lame kitten heel shoes.
Swearing goes from R-rated to NC-17.
We manage to secure a rental car and wend our way to the hotel, whereupon we are informed that they are booked solid and “we have no record of your reservation.” Mr. Tall takes one look at my face, pulls the desk clerk aside for a few gentle words, and miraculously, something opens up. (He’s freakishly tall AND charming!) I get dressed for the wedding as best I can, given my glaring lack of cute shoes, and we leave in plenty of time to make the ceremony kick-off. Well, it would have been plenty of time in Phoenix, but we’ve gone soft since leaving Los Angeles, and we’ve forgotten how beastly traffic can get on Sunset Boulevard on Saturday afternoon.
We arrive to the wedding only 15 minutes late, which, at this point, is a major victory. Swearing temporarily abates, as wedding is lovely and lots of old friends are there.
Swearing recommences bright and early Sunday morning, when we awake to realize that our requested wake-up call never came and we are now going to be late to the airport. AGAIN. (Further investigation reveals that our room phone broke sometime after midnight. For real. No dial tone. It probably committed suicide just to spite us.)
Miraculously, the airport is virtually empty and we make it to our gate with time to spare. Seventy-five minutes later, we’re back in the Grand Canyon state and congratulating ourselves on a) our superior ability to sprint even when laden with overstuffed luggage and b) refraining from killing each other and/or innocent bystanders. This is when we realize that the freeway is closed AGAIN. And then the dog-sitter calls to break the news that Roxie has somehow managed to slip out the front door and is “currently at large.” (We do eventually round her up, but only after she indulges in some unidentifiable road kill, which she later vomits onto the family room floor.)
The next day, we get a call from the fraud alert department of our credit card company. They want to know why our rental car company is attempting to charge us $400 for what was supposed to be a $40 bill.
We have scrapped all plans for future summer vacations, and have decided to install a LoJack on Roxie's collar. Michelle, the gauntlet has been thrown: bring your (bad) karmic A-game next time you step on the subway!
Posted by Beth at 1:11 AM | Comments (8)
May 6, 2007
Potter Mania
The Summer of Harry.
I’m a Harry Potter fanatic. I’ve read each book multiple times, and listened to them even more times on CD. (For any fans out there who haven’t yet heard the books-on-CD version, read by the amazing and phenomenal Jim Dale, you must drop what you’re doing, and go hunt them down now.)
As I’m sure everyone now knows, the seventh and final book in the Harry Potter series is being released July 21st . . . and I cannot freaking wait. As soon as I get that book in my hands, life is going to come to a screeching halt until I finish it. Deadlines, kids, husbands . . . they’re all going to have to go away for a few days, while I find out how the saga ends.
Here are the things I have to know (followed by my best guesses):
(1) Is Harry a horcrux?
Speculation over at mugglenet.com is that he is. I’m not so sure. It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to me, since Voldemort was planning to murder Harry that night all those years ago, when Harry was still a baby. And once his attempt to kill Harry failed, Voldemort lost all his powers and turned into a weak wisp of vapor. How would he have created a horcrux in that state?
(2) Is Dumbledore really dead . . . or just in hiding?
I think he’s dead . . . in fact, I’m sure of it. Fawkes sang his lament, and left Hogwarts for good. And besides, Harry has to face Voldemort in their final battle to the death on his own . . . he can’t have Dumbledore hanging around ready to save him again.
(3) Is Snape really evil?
I’m 100% sure that Snape is a good guy, and that he killed Dumbledore on Dumbledore’s own orders. Why, I don’t know . . . but I’m sure we’ll find out in the next book.
I am pretty sure that Snape made an unbreakable vow to Dumbledore to protect Harry. But, if you remember, there has to be a third wizard present when the Unbreakable Vow is performed to act as the vow bonder . . . which means that someone out there, other than Snape and the late Dumbledore, knows about the bond . . .
(4) Who’s going to die in book 7?
Rowling has promised that at least two characters are going to die in book 7. A lot of people are expecting it to be Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. Others are betting on Lupin and Tonks.
Me? I’m worrying most about the Weasley twins. Maybe it’s just lingering trauma over the fate of the Tarleton twins in Gone with the Wind, but I think only one of the Weasley twins will live to the end. Call it a hunch.
So anyone else? Post all Potter speculation below!
Posted by Whitney at 6:00 AM | Comments (10)
May 5, 2007
Happy Saturday, Chicklets!
Ain't it sweet
I slept in this morning and it was fabulous. I've been gone a lot in April and we've been busy and this has been the first morning in a long while that I've just slept until I woke up. Okay. I woke up once because I forgot to un-set the alarm clock, but really I just pounded the top of the thing and rolled right back over.
It's windy out this morning and a little bit cool and my window was open so the fresh air was pouring in and I snuggled down under those blankies and closed my eyes and drifted. It was delicious.
Now I'm walking around smiling and feeling calm. Of course, I'm not in deadline hell like Alesia (I should probably be stressed that I'm not in deadline hell, but I haven't worked up to that level of neurosis yet today).
Now, don't get me wrong. My house is a mess. I pat myself on the back because I actually cooked three times this week and my hair's a mess. It's just not bothering me much. Sleep is such a wonderful thing. It just erases all that stuff.
So what de-stresses you, chicklets? Sleep? Wine? A little bout of retail therapy? What's your pleasure?
Posted by Eileen at 12:57 PM | Comments (12)
May 4, 2007
Top Ten Ways You Know You're Stressed Out
drowning on deadline
I'm drowning!! Can't quite get those pesky subplots to get in line!! I looked up from my 18th pot of coffee this morning and realized, bleary-eyed, that there were SIGNS that I'm overstressed. So here are my top 10 ways you know you're Stressed Out - please add your own!!!
Number 10: You look at the calendar and it's May 4th and you belatedly remember you had a new book come out this week. the 1st in fact. Oops. WILD THING is in stores now - please rush right over and buy a copy; Maggie Shayne, Marjorie Liu, Meljean Brook and I each have stories in it and it's totally fun!
Number 9: You tell yourself that pizza 4 nights out of the week is a healthy food choice for your family.
Number 8: Laundry? What laundry?
Number 7: A day when you remember to comb your hair after showering is a good day.
Number 6: You're on your sixth cup of coffee, and it's nine a.m.
Number 5: Groceries? What groceries?
Number 4: There is a lineup of six bottles of headache medication on the top of your computer desk.
Number 3: House cleaning? What house cleaning?
Number 2: Someone actually thought you'd been robbed or vandalized when she walked into your office and saw the cyclone of destruction.
Number 1: Did I mention that NEW BOOK RELEASE?? That I totally forgot?? Go ahead, have pity on me and buy it so I can at least afford to feed my children something other than pizza.
hugs,
Alesia
Posted by Alesia at 10:07 AM | Comments (11)
May 3, 2007
Unbelievable!
Will it ever end?
Mes cheres poussaines (because I am, inexplicably, in a French kind of mood today), would you believe me if I said that Oh Patient One and I went to the UK last weekend to visit family, and we encountered Even More Car Trouble?
This time it wasn't just down to moi and ma mal luck when travelling...
We arrived at London's Stansted airport which, by the way, is in the county of Essex and not in London at all, late at night after our flight was delayed by just over an hour. (I did warn Oh Patient One that he was doomed, because he was travelling with moi.)
Anyway, off we went to pick up our hire voiture. It was a dark, dark night, the parking lot was deserted apart from the spookily-appearing-out-of nowhere assistant (he was rather tall, gaunt and pale). After handing us the voiture key he disappeared, pouff, in a cloud of mist, and off we went to find our car.
First problem: How the hell do we unlock the bloody vehicule?
See, what the spooky assistant had given to us was not a voiture key, but a voiture credit card thingie. Where was the automatic clicky button that unlocked it? Oh Patient One and I marched for miles and miles (felt like, but was in reality only a few feet) to the nearest street light and peered at our credit card thingie. Okay, there was the little clicky symbol for unlocking. Finally, we could get on our way to Dear Mother-in-law's house. Or so we thought...
Second problem: how do we drive the bloody voiture with the bloody credit card thingie?
We searched for ages and ages to find a slot into which the bloody credit card thingie should be inserted. It wasn't anywhere near where you insert the key into a traditional car. Eventually, we found a secret place on the dashboard, so secret that it was practically underneath the dashboard, and inserted the credit card thingie.
Third problem: how do we switch the vehicule on?
See, nothing happened when we inserted the bloody credit card thingie in the bloody secret slot. After about five million hours (okay, so five minutes) we found a button on the dashboard that said, "push for ignition." So we did. Yay! We had lift off!
Anyway, I was driving that night and I certainly don't recommend driving down twisty-twiney narrow country lanes in the pitch black in an unfamiliar voiture.
Later, on the way back to the airport...
Remember back to when I was travelling to the airport alone, and the airport signs magically disappeared? For months afterward Oh Patient One laughed and insisted that the airport was clearly signed, and he couldn't understand why I'd had a problem. Except that it was me we were talking about, and we all know about my terrible sense of direction.
Anyhoo, this time Oh Patient One was behind the wheel, and pouff! The airport signs disappeared and Oh Patient One took a wrong turn! Mwahahaha, I cannot tell you how vindicated I felt. Fortunately, Oh Patient One has a tres bon sense of direction, and soon we were back on track.
By the way, the in between part of our trip - the part we actually spent with Dear Mother-in-Law - was merveilleux. Hever Castle, where both Ann Boleyn and Anne of Cleves lived at different times was completement wonderful! The castle, the history, the gardens, oh my!
Castle Hedingham was also pretty merveilleux, too.
So tell me poussains, tell me anything you like about your car stories, or favorite historical places, or favorite periods of history, or about ghosts. Merde! Go on, surprise me :-)
Posted by Michelle at 1:31 PM | Comments (6)
May 1, 2007
An Odd Blond Moment
Let's go back to junior high, shall we?
Hooray! This is too fun! Thanks, guys for having me this month on Literary Chicks! Wahoo! And thanks, Alesia, for that intro! I’m delighted to give away a copy of The Quest for the Holy Veil to three lucky winners! Yippee! I hope you enjoy it! Speaking of reading, can I pause here and just say I had a teeny “Marcia, Marcia, Marcia!” moment recently?
I picked up my Elle Magazine for some fun fashionable reading and on the cover is a gorgeous picture of Jessica Simpson. Blond hair, bright pink dress, big smile, bigger double Ds -- well you get the picture. And quite frankly, it took me back to all the angst of junior high. I had to put it down.
I like Jessica. I really do. She seems sweet and bubbly. But the trouble is, she looks exactly like the mean girl who drove me nuts back in junior high. A girl who competed with me with everything. Whether it be gymnastics, friends, grades, swimming and diving, stealing my boyfriends -- you name it.
How does a short, chubby, flat-chested, freckle-faced kid with a mop of wild frizzy orangy-red hair (who could barely do a cartwheel) stand a chance against a va-va-voom, overdeveloped, double-jointed blonde who could do a backbend and a split in a tube top and short-shorts in front of the boys with ease?
She doesn’t stand a snowball’s chance. That’s why I tried to escape Lacey (name’s been changed!). But I never could escape her. My parents and her parents were best friends. We lived on the same street. We went to the same school. We went camping together. We took vacations together. And she was mean.
So, take a moment and flash back to the “mean girl” from back in school -- your one nightmare -- and then splash her image on the covers of your favorite magazines, tabloids, and on TV today. Everywhere you look, there she is. Welcome to my world.
Okay, but I’m a big girl now and the Marcia-Marcia-Marcia moment was fleeting. But it was weird to say the least. Fortunately, I did escape Lacey. Eventually. No, I didn’t kill her off in one of my novels. I’m not the type of author who takes revenge on mean people in that way. Goodness no. I do the opposite. In my stories, I like to fix things, right the wrongs, and make happily ever after, even to the point of reforming a mean girl like Lacey.
The memories of Lacey have softened despite the images of Jessica popping up all over the media. (But their resemblance is frightfully uncanny!) At least for now, instead of a memory of Lacey in short-shorts, I’ll think of Jessica in Daisy-Dukes. And who can forget her Chicken of the Sea incident? With stuff like this to make me chuckle today, who needs angsty memories of junior high?
Posted by Kimberly Llewellyn at 7:12 AM | Comments (20)
