November 22

I was a 5th grade band geek. Hard to believe, but I was. I played the flute (badly). The best thing about being a band geek was getting to skip class for practice.

On that day in November, when we were finished, I packed up my flute in its velvet-lined case, and trudged back to Miss Stanke’s room. Usually I walked in on a boring lesson about comets or early California history. My fellow classmates, their eyes glazed over (except for Lance—whose eyes were bright and alert, his hand permanently stuck high overhead) would briefly glance toward the door as I entered, then go back to their self-imposed stupor.

Not this day.

Today the natives were restless. Some sat forward in their chairs, others exchanged quizzical looks. Miss Stanke’s cheeks were flushed and she kept blinking rapidly.

As I slid behind my desk, someone whispered that the principal had walked in and murmured something in our teacher’s ear which had prompted her to burst into tears. A visit from the principal was odd enough, but to have made our teacher cry? My heart went out to her as I wondered what had happened. Had her mother died like mine had just two months before?

That afternoon, Miss Stanke escorted the entire class to the library for a research project. By this time, uneasiness had settled in my stomach. Something was wrong. I didn’t know what it was, but a sense of unarticulated fear permeated the school, although I seemed to be alone in noticing it. I couldn’t concentrate. I was a good student, but my mind was elsewhere.

When Miss Stanke asked why I wasn’t looking for research material, I answered that I intended to use the public library over the weekend.

“I don’t think it will be open for awhile,” she cautioned.

My throat went dry as I watched her turn to help another student.

Libraries wouldn’t close just because a relative of Miss Stanke’s had died. It must be something much worse. And then I knew.

We must be going to war with the Russians. With each growing minute, I strained to hear the air raid sirens. Why hadn’t they sent us home already?

Now I thought I might get physically sick. In all my school years, this was the only time I asked to go the nurse’s office. Once there, I wasn’t sure what to do or say. I’m not one to feign illness nor cause a scene, so I ended up going back to class.

A short time later, I boarded the bus for home. In front of me, two girls chatted in what I would describe years later as a manic fashion.

“Did you hear the news?” one asked the other. “President Kennedy is dead!”

This came as a total shock. I didn’t know whether to believe it, and I didn’t understand her glee at all.

Soon enough, I learned the news was true, and with it my fear disappeared. The death of a man so far away, who I only knew from television, couldn’t affect me personally.

I didn’t know then that a lot more than a man had died that day.

A nation’s innocence, for one.

Because, isn’t that when the 60’s went to hell? Here I’d believed in the romantic comedies where women dressed stylishly and life was about love and laughter. Instead I got more assassinations and riots. I’ve always felt gypped by that.

In July of 2004, I visited Dallas and went to see Daley Plaza where the event that changed the world occurred 42 years ago today. Like everyone says, it’s an eerie place and not the parade route you’d expect. Just one quick turn, really. And yet, so close to the building from which Oswald took aim. As I heard Jack Valenti say this morning (he was six cars away at the time) you could have thrown a baseball from that window and hit your target with ease.

I was barely ten at the time it happened…my strongest memories are of Jackie Kennedy’s blood-spattered pink suit and of John-John saluting the casket as it passed.

Other than that, it’s just another one of those moments to measure time by.

You know…like when I ask a guy where he was when he heard the news, and he answers with a blank stare and says, “I wasn’t born yet,” I know to move on.

Things I Should Probably Get Rid Of Or Replace

• My iron and ironing board--purchased in November of 1974.

• Magnavox console stereo (with 8-track!) won on a game show in 1978.

• Blue and white pot (and assorted kitchen utensils) bought to take to college in 1971.

• IBM PC my company bought circa 1980 which ended up in my garage.

• Car not driven in two-and-a-half years.

• Pair of shoes from 1981.

• The outfit they went with.
  

• Blouse from 1973.

• The bed I’ve slept in since I was five.

• Kody’s chew toys.

• Assorted canned goods from….??

• Half the stuff in my freezer…??

Let’s not discuss the size 6 clothing in my closet.

Only A Matter of Time

I thought I’d giggle like a nervous schoolgirl.

This is so embarrassing!

I thought I’d feel like I do when I walk into Target with a $100 bill in my pocket.

I want it all! I want it all!

Turns out, I was wrong on both counts.

What I’m talking about is the seminar I went to on Thursday night. It was...er, it was...that is, it was…oh, hell. A seminar on cosmetic surgery.

There. I said it.

(Draws deep breath)

And, nope. I didn’t sign up for anything. Yet.

Today's Blog

...got eaten by my computer. Grrrrrrrrrrr.

SWF SO SWM

Okay, I confess. I browsed the Yahoo personals last night.

It’s not that I’m dying to have a man in my life—more like I think it would be good for me. Yanno…sort of like ten years ago when I got a puppy ‘cuz I thought I needed to learn about responsibility.

Anyhoo…that’s the idea. So I entered some parameters, specifically: age range, the “woman seeking man part,” and my zip code. (See? Not too picky.)

Voila.

Pages of men just waiting to meet me.

Let’s see how I eliminated them one by one, shall we?

“Fun, Witty Guy Seeks Princess or Queen”: I don’t wanna be on anyone’s pedestal, thankyouverymuch. NEXT.

“A New Start, A New Love, A New Life”: Um, can you spell r-e-b-o-u-n-d?? And, here’s what he wrote: “I am a sales manager for a manufacturer of protective products for people, vehicles and structures (body armor {bullet resistant vests} and armored limo's…”

HUH? Call me a romantic, but “body armor” and “bullet resistant vests” are two phrases I don’t need to see in a personal ad. NEXT.

“Need a Girl to Couch With”: He writes: “i am cool, laidback, spotanyes, like to find a woman who makes alots of bank so i can relax a wile, must be goodlookinf,in shape and set.no more bimbos please.”

Not that I’m marking off for typos or misspellings, but…is this guy serious?? NEXT.

“Retired, Not Dead”: (See above for my recommendation against certain words in personal ads.) This guy writes that he’s now 40 pounds lighter than he was in the picture posted.

Okay, so good that you’re not a fat zombie and all, but could ya make the effort to post the new pic? NEXT.

“Looking for that 1 4 Me”: (Gag, that’s just too cute, isn’t it?). This guy loves sushi, romantic dinners…hey, wait. Sushi comes first?? Out of everything he could love? NEXT.

“Walks on the Beach?”: Not if you look anything like the picture you posted, buddy. Maybe try smiling next time. Or getting rid of that evil-looking moustache and goatee. You look like a serial killer. NEXT.

“Lake Man Looking for Lady of the Lake”: Ah, now we’re talking. This guy’s into boating! Think of how excited my friends Ann and Marty would be! He writes: Well I head for the lake about two weekends a month. (Cool!) I'm very easy going , (Me too!) Love to leave to go on a road trip at the drop of a hat (Just give me 15 minutes to pack!) Love to spend time with my girls (No problem!I respect that!) My favorite thing to do is to go out on the boat (Yep, you said that—I’m ready!) The type of lady I'm looking for is a go with the flow type of person (I am! I am!) Someone that is with me to enjoy are time together (I will! I will!—even if it’s “our,” not “are”!) And loves to be outside camping , (Um, outside?? Camping??) dirt bike riding ( Huh?) , going to the race track (Yes!) auto (Oh), I’m not a gambler (NEXT).

Let’s not even discuss the guy with the scary eyes. I’m sure if the photographer had pulled back, we’d see the upraised knife in his hand.

Okay, so I haven’t mentioned the decent, relatively sane-looking men who knew how to spell relationship and are looking for something more than “a woman to take long walks on the beach and enjoy romantic evenings in front of the fire.”

I told you I was only browsing.

P.S. I may be a writer, but I didn't make any of these guys up.

Blogs And Dads

Time and Place: Sunday evening, dinner at a Mexican restaurant
Participants: Daddy, Annie, and Me

Conversation:

Daddy: Randy, what’s a blog?

Me: It’s short for weblog.

Daddy: But, what is it?

Me: Um, it’s sort of like an on-line diary. There are political blogs, writing blogs, wine blogs…

Daddy (shaking head): But, what are they for?

Me: Well…writers use them to build a fan base—to keep their fans up-to-date on their upcoming books and stuff.

Daddy: Are they free?

Me (unsuccessful at keeping my mouth shut): Yep. Um, I happen to have one.

Daddy (uncertain smile): You do?

Me: (praying) If you still have that business card I gave you, the address is on it.

Daddy: Really?

Me (quickly doing a mental catalog of over 200 posts): I wasn’t sure you should read it.

Daddy: Does anyone want another margarita?

So, there you have it. Did he go home, dig out the card, and seek out my blog? Probably not. Would I wither and die if he did? Probably not. Outside of a few swear words, I don’t THINK I’ve written much to offend him. But, just to be on the safe side, maybe I’d better read EVERY SINGLE POST again.

Oh, the hell—er, heck—with it. There aren’t many things about my life I haven’t told him. (I’m pretty sure he knows I’ve had sex even though I’ve never been married.) And, I’d love for him to read what I wrote about him on Father’s Day.

On second thought, maybe I’ll paste it into an email.

This Is Progress?

Are we all fooling ourselves? Does anyone really believe the IT age has made commerce run more efficiently? More efficiently for whom, by the way?

If you ask me (which you didn’t but, hey—this is MY blog), it’s all a bunch of hoo-ha. Large corporations should go back to building products and/or providing services.

Period.

See, I deal with aerospace and defense behemoths like Boeing, Lockheed, Raytheon and Northrop Grumman (all of whom could be merged into one by the time you read this—you never know.) Anyway, they each have their own super-duper, uber-tech way of dealing with suppliers (me) involving a myriad of org id’s, passwords, password prompts, supplier codes….argh. Oh, and let us not forget that for security purposes, these systems require a change in password practically every time you log on.

Now, I’m no dummy. I’m even a little computer savvy. But when it takes me three weeks to complete the initial registration for a system, I just gotta believe something’s wrong. I’m not talking complicated info here. I mean the first page where you type in stuff like name, address, and phone number. For one particular application, I hit submit and what did I get? A blank screen with the message “invalid data form” in the upper corner. Nothing else…not which field, not what kind of data, nothing.

Well, I tried everything. I tried typing the phone number with a variety of punctuation, then with no punctuation. I tried typing our Federal ID number with and without punctuation. Same with our Duns number.

All returned the same error.

I finally picked up the phone (high tech, I know) and contacted a woman who promised to email me a list of unacceptable words.

Huh?

Like I said, we’re not talking complicated information here. Well, I never got the promised list. Meanwhile, every day, I received automatically generated emails from a buyer trying to place a purchase order and whining about my failure to get registered. I’m trying, I’m trying. Finally, I called again and found someone to walk me through it.

Are you ready for this??

Their system “didn’t like” the word “union” in our street address. THAT’s what tossed me out every time. So, I had to add an ‘s’ to make it happy. Ah, yes. Progress.

So, now that I’ve registered in like a gazillion of these wonderful systems, I actually have to use them. (Remind me again how this is supposed to reduce our workload?)

Take my go-round with Raytheon yesterday. Seems that updating the date field in a column isn’t enough. Every time you make a change, you have to add verbiage as well. Even if the verbiage merely reiterates the numerical data. WTF? Not only that, but check out this system: say, I promise to deliver my widget on 11-15-05. One would assume that’s the date I’d put in the delivery column, no? No. Because it could take A WEEK for them to get said widget properly received ONCE IT HITS THEIR DOCK, so unless I stretch out that date, I’ll get a black mark for being tardy. Strangely enough, I get the impression that we’re all more concerned with making this cute little graph the right color than in actually delivering on time.

Okay….AND ANOTHER THING. A buyer just called and said they can’t purchase directly from us because we have a poor delivery record. Well, guess what? I happen to know that our vendor record contains entries for ANOTHER COMPANY BY THE SAME NAME. Hey, there’s a system for ya, huh? Yeah, Progress.

All I know is that before computers, before fancy “supply chain collaborations,” and before the proliferation of on-line vendor/supplier communication, we got paid (which is all I really care about) in 15 days. Now, we’re lucky if its 45. And, that’s if they haven’t forgotten to log their PO in the system, lost our receiver, or sent payment to the wrong company.

Ah, yes. Progress.

From The "Only In L.A. Files"

An old friend I haven’t seen or talked to in three months just called from the set of SCRUBS to ask how to spell commemorate.

Could be just me, but I found that amusing.

Yes, I'm in high demand for my writing skills.

A Solution To Writers' Block?

Writers don’t have to dress for success. They can do their thing without having to brush their teeth, wash their hair, or get out of their jammies.

Or so I thought.

I pretty much spent yesterday in the above described condition. Off and on, hour after hour, I plopped myself in front of the computer, trying to make progress on my WIP. I’d write three sentences then delete, delete, delete. I’d write three more, then backspace over them in one fell swoop (what the heck does that phrase mean, anyway?).

By late afternoon I was seriously wondering what had ever given me the impression I could write a complete sentence.

Finally, it was time to go out for the evening, so I dragged myself from the computer and did the shave, shower, and shine routine.

With fifteen minutes to spare, I returned to the computer…and banged out the rest of the scene.

Grrrrr. Does this mean I have to “get ready for work” to put me in the proper mood?

Why can’t I ever be like other writers??

No News

In case anyone’s wondering, I haven’t had any news yet on the requested full I sent to the unnamed publishing house. Nor have I heard on the partial I sent to another house. Shoot, I haven’t even heard anything on the contest whose finalists were supposed to be announced “by the beginning of November.”

As they say, no news is good news, right?

Well….most houses don’t promise a quick turnaround…some even tell ya up front it could be a year before they get back to you. But, I suspect that if your initial query really piques their interest, they put you on the fast track. Or, not. Sigh. Who knows?

Meanwhile, my little fingers should be tapping out a new book with record speed…but for some reason, they’re moving like slugs over the keyboard. Am I looking for validation before I put forth the effort? I dunno. I hope not because the odds of hearing anything favorable on any of the above submissions are so, so, minimal…and yet, sometimes it’s hard to forge ahead when it could all be for nothing.

Take my second manuscript. (Please, ha ha.) I write a pretty good query letter and NO ONE seems to wanna see this orphan. Not that I’ve even begun to saturate the market with submissions but still…to have queried 15 agents and not even get a partial requested…that’s not a good sign. So, did I spend thousands of hours on something no one will ever look at??

Good thing I have a day job, huh?

Probably TMI

Lying isn’t my strong suit. Never has been. Maybe if I’d been more successful with my initial stab at it, I’d have gone forth and flourished, but oh well.

I was about six years old and my father asked if I’d put my shoes away like he’d told me to (of course, I hadn’t). In that instant, I had an epiphany. Why not say I had? What was the harm? Who would it hurt? He’d be satisfied, and I’d avoid a reprimand. No harm, no foul, right? Brilliant, I thought.

Except my father easily discovered my shoes just where I’d left them.

So much for epiphanies.

And because I sucked at lying, I went on to overcompensate with too much honesty. Take today’s post for example.

I am seriously thinking of “having some work done.” In California parlance that means anything from botox injections to bolts in your skull to lift your brow. Ugh. All of it makes me cringe, wince…no, wait. RECOIL. That’s the word. And yet…and yet…I’d do it all if I had the time and money.

God, do I wanna cling to my youth that badly?

In a word: Yep.

God, am I that vain? That shallow?

Yep and Yep.

And, like I said above, painfully honest. Hey, at least I’d have something to blog about.

The Best Show On TV

Who says the Golden Age of Television went out with Truman? (Not that anyone actually does say that—in fact, I just made it up.) My point is, that I believe some of the best programming EVER can be viewed on commercial TV these days.

Oh, sure. Many of you probably think the reality glut is a sign of Armageddon--I disagree (see March post)--but today, I’m talking about drama. Specifically, LOST. Man, this ain’t your father’s Gilligan’s Island. Just like Grey’s Anatomy ain’t his Medical Center, nor Boston Legal his Perry Mason.

Watching LOST is like having a front row seat to Storytelling 101 at the University of Iowa Writers’ Workshop. (Not that I’d know, not having been a student in their program--gee, are you surprised?--but I imagine they offer something along those lines.) Each scene is so masterfully crafted, each character so organically complex, each flashback so artfully woven into the main story so as so make you believe it IS the story…then, to top things off, the writers fling you a fresh twist just when you think you’ve nailed what’s about to happen.

Even their promos are ingenuous. To wit, this week’s ads promised one of the survivors would be “lost permanently.” Well, about three quarters into the show, a minor character—one we’d barely gotten to know—disappeared, and I have to admit I fell for it. Thought I’d been “had” by misleading commercials. Then, pow. One of the main characters buys the farm with about a minute left to go.

Don't even get me started on how the previews promised a whole NEW direction...

Sigh. Makes the writer in me feel woefully inadequate.

Mush For Brains

Yep. That’s the situation today.

Let me back up to Saturday. After zipping down to San Diego for my Uncle’s 80th birthday (which was a blast, by the way) I met friends Marty and Ann at the Ramada Inn-San Marcos. You read that right. The Ramada Inn-San Marcos. See, Harrah’s Rincon was booked, so after much Internet research, well…that’s where we ended up.

That night we drove to Harrah’s and let’s just say I made another of my ongoing contributions to the Native American community. Assuaging my white woman’s guilt and all.

Anyway, blah, blah, blah…we checked into Harrah’s the next day. Writer friend Brooke trekked over from Fallbrook and we had a delightful poolside lunch. Later, I went to my room for a nap, halfway believing I’d spend the rest of the night there. The notion of getting in my jammies, ordering up room service, and hunkering down for an episode of Desperate Housewives was enormously appealing. After all, my plan was to get on the road about 6 a.m. in order to roll into work mid-morning.

I’ll bet you can already guess things didn’t exactly go according to plan, huh?

So, Ann called about 6 just as I (don’t laugh! don’t laugh!) finished donning gym clothes. No, really. I’d decided to hit the treadmill before the aforementioned jammies plan. With very little arm twisting, I agreed instead to go downstairs for “just awhile.” (Plus, I was feeling a little flush from an earlier Wheel Of Fortune interlude and figured I owed those poor Native American children who might need a new school or something.)

I should have recognized the first sign of my plan’s disintegration. That was when Marty abandoned the poker table and started looking for slot machines to get rich on. Then, exhausting that inadequate revenue producer, we stumbled on the source of my doom.

A Texas Hold ‘Em table.

Not exactly how you see it on TV…for instance, you play against the dealer not each other, nevertheless, essentially the same game but without the stress and strain (and intimidation) of a serious poker table. Suddenly, without so much as a nonverbal cue, Marty and I were “catching the flop,” “betting on the river,”…all that good Texas Hold ‘em stuff.

Meanwhile, Ann sat out, claiming she didn’t know how to play. Well, y’all know how that turned out, right? After Marty and I dragged her kicking and screaming into the game, she virtually took over. We even named pocket aces the “Ann Hand.”

The next thing I knew, it was last call. Not a good sign unless tribal casinos shut down their bars at 10. Which they don’t.

And the NEXT thing I knew, it was 3 a.m.

Bad, bad, bad.

We’d spent HOURS at this stupid table, with only a couple of interruptions for, as Ann put it, “doin’ the Harpo walk.” (This is “casinospeak” for the odd gait of a person suddenly in need of a bathroom break who’s so stiff from sitting in one position that he or she can barely walk to the restroom. Trust me, it’s aptly named.)

As we left the table, the casino folk generously provided a $60 comp for food (at three o’clock in the morning???) but I declined and said good night. The last I saw Ann and Marty, they were headed for steak and eggs.

So, that’s why the mush for brains today. Alcohol + sleep deprivation + long drive = mucho exhaustion.

Not to mention boring blog.

New Rule (Since Tuesday)

Treadmill: 20 minutes in the morning, 20 minutes at night

Tuesday: Check
Thursday: Check
Friday: Check (so far)
Tomorrow...before I drive down to San Diego (cross your fingers)
Tomorrow night...after I check into the Lake San Marcos Ramada (cross your toes)
Sunday...after I check into Harrahs-Rincon (cross your eyes)
Sunday night...........??????? Cross whatever's left!

0 for 3 At Bunco

That’s my record. Just call me the big L-O-S-E-R.

When Ann, Thea, and Pam first proposed putting together a “Bunco group”, I thought: “Oh God, isn’t Bunco an irregular heart beat away from Bridge? What’s next…Pinochle? Quilting bees? Or, worse (huge shudder)…shuffleboard???”

Then I heard from ex-boyfriend Joe that his 30-something daughter, Renee, had joined a group in her neighborhood. What a relief! I figured if SAHMs (stay-at-home-moms—and, please note, I did not use the pejorative “soccer moms”) are gathering to play Bunco, it couldn’t hurt to get together with women my own age, right?

So, here’s how it works (at least with our group). Once a month, twelve of us meet at 6:00p.m. to share cocktails, munchies, and gossip. Then we play a round of Bunco, followed by more cocktails, munchies, and gossip. Round two comes next and after that we…no, you’re wrong. This time it’s cocktails, DESSERT, and gossip. (Are you sensing a pattern here? There’s a spot for round three on the scorecard doohinky, but so far, what with all the drinking/eating/talking, we haven’t been able to squeeze it in. Oh, well.)

Lastly, the winners are awarded honest-to-God cash. Not a lot, but hey—something tells me this Bunco craze is not about getting rich.

The game is rather simple (which is probably a good thing since our aptitudes are somewhat impaired right off the bat). I won’t bore you with the details, but suffice to say it involves rolling three die (yep—that’s the plural of dice) and looking for “ones,” then “twos,” and so on. (Not a game for Mensa candidates, but then with all the wine involved, probably about the right speed, intellectually speaking.) I don’t know if it’s the game itself or the wine ingested, but somehow the decibel level stays in the mosh pit range. Must be those screams of “TRAVELING” and “BUNCO” which, no doubt, cause the neighbors some justifiable concern.

Anyway, yours truly gets to host the December gathering. Time to re-stock the wine rack!

Y-a-a-awn

Last weekend I stumbled across a “woman’s” magazine. You know the kind—the ones with ten tips to the best sex ever—ten tips to more manageable hair—ten fashion “must haves” for the coming season—and blah, blah, blah. While ruminating over how much paper gets wasted on the same tired subjects, I landed on one that made me shake my head.

Ten tips to losing weight. Geez, I thought, only ten? What…eat less…exercise more?

Get your stomach surgically excised?

Wait a minute. The tenth one caught my eye: “Make sure you’re getting enough sleep.”

Yeah, right. Who were they kidding? Wasn’t that counterintuitive?

Then, I read on and (gulp) the explanation actually made sense. It turns out that when we don’t get enough sleep, we screw up a couple of hormones. Important hormones. Guys involved in things like fat storage and appetite control.

Ding, ding, ding!!!! Eureka!!!!

When I started writing, I decreased my per night sleeping time by about two hours. No wonder I gained weight!!! I need to spend more time in bed than at the computer!!

Wow…if only all our problems could be solved so easily.

Click here for one of many articles I found on the Internet.

'Tis The Season For NaNoWriMo

And this year I’m not there.

Hoped to be. Wanted to be. Planned to be.

Alas, that’s the way it is when you’re trying to be a writer. Life intervenes a lot—which is the antithesis of National Novel Writing Month.

Beginning today, November 1st, wannabe writers (and some pubbed) from all over the globe embark on a 30-day journey of scribbling (okay, mostly typing) a 50,000-word (200-page) novel. The idea is to put everything aside (spouses, kids, parents, laundry, landscaping, personal hygiene if that’s what it takes...) and just write, write, write. The founder, Chris Baty, has a motto: No plot? No problem...in fact, he’s written a book with the title.

Anyway, my interpretation of the whole thing is this: there’s a ton of people out there (including some who read this blog) who have been meaning to get around to writing the great American novel—or memoir, or sci-fi fantasy. Whatever. Only, they don’t. Writing is the easiest thing in the world about which to procrastinate (I should know). And, it was NaNoWriMo that finally got me off the dime four years ago.

Not really knowing much about the craft of writing, I dove right in and, yes, completed a 50,000 word novel that month. Not only that, but I had a vacation planned for the fourth week in November, so I had to finish it in three weeks, not four. And I did. I forget—you do the math—but I wrote something like 10 pages a night. (Ouch--now that I’m a “better” writer, I can do about 2 a night but, oh well.) Still….about five months later, I thought: shoot, the stuff I wrote wasn’t so bad. Not long enough to be publishable, but maybe if I could add to it....

Well, the rest is history. That thought sent me on a journey that’s changed my life in a lot of ways--taken me to cities I’d never seen and brought me friends I would never have met. (Not to mention subtracted 100’s of hours of television viewing that wouldn’t have added a scintilla of worth to my life.)

So, I salute all the NaNo participants this year and wish them oodles of luck. Not everyone will “finish.” Not everyone will use it as a stepping stone toward a writing career (like Lani Diane Rich did with her NaNo Novel of a couple of years ago).

And to all those people sitting down to write their novel for the first time, welcome to a world you’ll learn to love to hate!

Happy Halloweeeeeeen

Sigh. Well, it was one of those years I had to ‘splain my costume. My first clue came when my housecleaner left a note after seeing some of the components on my bed. “Wish I could have seen you dressed up as a Mexican lady. I’m sure you looked beautiful!”

Um, Mexican lady? Is that what people would think I was??

So, here’s the deal. I wore a southern belle dress with the flouncy skirt, the pouffy sleeves, and the lacy gloves. Then I topped it off with……a Mexican sombrero. And, for the piece de resistance, I carried a couple bags of tacos from (have you guessed yet?)…Taco Bell.

Get it?

TACO BELLE.

I was Taco Belle.

And here’s the pic (and others) to prove it.

Marty and Ann...tattooed and pierced!

Dodi and Cathi...AKA...Minnie and the Bride From Hell Alexis and Penny...the mother/daughter duo

The Party's (Almost) Over

Yep...my birthday 2005 RIP.

Okay, I know it's October 29th and my birthday was way back on September 16th...I'm living proof that if you know how to work it....

So it's off to Laguna Niguel where I'm bidding farewell to the 2005 birthday season by celebrating with my oldest girlfriends in the world (I mean that in two ways hahahahahaha). Yikes. I've known Juli for about 47 years; Kath and Nance for about 35.

Hopefully the discussion won't center on our aches, pains, and hormonal imbalances.

A command performance looms on the horizon. One filled with relatives I rarely see.

Already, scouting reports have begun. A call this morning delicately suggested a new hairdo—the kind that takes ten pounds off your face. The next one will fish for what I’m planning to wear.

Sigh. Family gatherings.

Isn’t it enough to be a good person?
I have to be thin, well-dressed, and appropriately coifed, too?

I swear. Only in California.

Or is it just my family???

(File this under the heading of rant--and is it any wonder that my characters all have self-image issues???)

(And yes, maybe I should upload a more recent picture with the longer hair and added pounds.)

The truth is, I hate writing.

However, to paraphrase author Debra Dixon, I love having written.

I love having written most when I got a kick out of living in my characters’ world. For example, I set Stealing Amy in a fictional beach town south of Puerto Vallarta. Even when I ran into roadblocks with that manuscript, it was always fun to picture myself in their world

Which brings me to the scene that’s been giving me trouble in my current WIP. One of the recommendations you hear is: change the POV character (that is, change the perspective from which the scene is being viewed). Well, I can’t do that ‘cuz I’m writing in first person. Another recommendation is to change the setting. Okay…but that’s the only part of the scene I was enjoying—it’s on the beach.

Then it occurred to me that my character has nothing (so far) to do in this scene. She’s entered, she’s greeted, and now she’s sitting back observing. Ho-hum. Big yawn. What I need to do is cut to the chase—get right to the conflict that will make this scene come alive.

I can do that. I know exactly how to do it.

And when it’s finished, I’ll be happy to have written.

Nothing New Under the Sun

What are the odds? Three months into this whole writing endeavor, I attended a conference in Denver where I met my first honest-to-goodness published author. Her name was (is?) Beverly Brandt and she generously offered advice to this newbie on a host of topics. In the course of our conversation, I learned she sold the first book she wrote which, as you might well imagine, impressed me to no end.

Two years later, I saw her at a book signing at the conference in Dallas and she told me she’d sold five books that year. Not only that, she’s now writing in a different genre under a separate name (Jacey Ford) and one of her romantic comedies has been optioned as a movie for Jessica Simpson.

Um. Can you spell o-v-e-r-a-c-h-i-v-e-r??

Meanwhile, I slog on, still unpublished. (Big sigh).

I probably shouldn’t write this here…ya know, I should probably stick to touting my successes. But the truth is, my second manuscript, Stealing Amy, hasn’t exactly met with resounding demand, which is to say, my query letter hasn’t resulted in requests for partials. My writing friend, Brooke, suggests maybe the topic is off-putting (Amy goes off on a search for the woman who stole her identity).

Well, guess what?

Today I was browsing at B&N and came across a new release by Beverly Brandt. Yep. It’s about a character who’s searching for her identity thief. The opening scene is strikingly similar to my own.

Eerie, huh? Like I say. What are the odds?

Ann: “PBS is taping a show at the Thousand Oaks Civic Arts Plaza and I’ve gotta a bunch of free tickets. Wanna go?”

Me: “Did you say FREE?”

So, that’s how I found myself at a TV taping last night for an upcoming PBS pledge drive special on Movie Themes. In the front row, no less. (See my earlier rant on the impossibility of getting a good concert seat in L.A.)

Anyway, how much FUN. First off, we rehearsed our standing ovation technique. I opted for a gasp of recognition, a quick turn of the head to the friend seated next to me, followed by a launch from my seat with enthusiastic hand clapping and long, drawn out screeches of “Woo Hoo!” (The cool ex-television professional that I am, I never ONCE looked directly into a camera.)

When the director thought his audience sufficiently trained, the performances began. Here’s the rundown and my thoughts on each:

1. Bill Medley—Grey haired but in strong voice. Sang “You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling” with the keyboard guy doing the Bobby Hatfield part (so sad).

2. Jennifer Warnes—Okay, this is too, too weird. That morning, I’d come across an old CD of hers and listened to it all day, NOT KNOWING I’D BE SEEING HER LIVE A COUPLE HOURS LATER (insert eerie Twilight Zone music here). I mean, I hadn’t even THOUGHT about her in years, let alone listened to her music. (Whoa) Anyway, lookswise, she’s still a cross between John Lennon and John Sebastian (Loving Spoonful). She and Bill sang their duet from Dirty Dancing, “I Had The Time Of My Life,” and then she soloed on her song from Norma Rae. Personally, I thought her voice was amazing.

3. Frankie Laine—who, it turns out, is 92 fricking’ years old (and WAY before my time). Had to hand it to the guy. He hadn’t sung publicly in two years (since recuperating from a vocal chord problem). The first run-through was horribly off-key, but the second improved considerably. Nice patent leather loafers in beige.

4. Patti Page—Again, before my time, although I sorta remember “How Much Is That Doggie In The Window” (which she did NOT sing). By the way, we were informed that Frankie and Patti were slated to appear in the second night’s show (“Pop Songs from the 50’s) but were taping their performance on the evening we attended. (Ahem…bonus.)

5. Nick Clooney—Omigod, what a charming man. His role was to tape intros, outros and pledge pleas. Plus, he sorta held Patti’s hand at times (remember: before Nick was George’s father, he was Rosemary’s brother!). During some of the usual downtime (makeup touch-ups, scene shifting, etc.) he kept us entertained with his self-deprecating wit. (Example: “I’m so afraid my obituary will read like this: Nick Clooney comma, brother of 50’s pop stylist Rosemary Clooney comma, and father of actor-director-writer-producer George Clooney comma........died today.” Well, you probably had to be there.

6. Lulu—Remember her? Think she’d be old and fat by now? No such luck. She’s tiny and adorable. And, man…she can still belt out “To Sir With Love.”

7. The Fifth Dimension—well, at least three of the original five. No Marilyn McCoo, although I’m pretty sure one of the guys was her (ex?) husband. Not surprisingly, they sang “Aquarius” from the movie, “Hair.” (Sidebar: these folks need to re-think their costumes. I’m not a fan of leather on men, but when you add seafoam green to the mixture and put it on guys older than God, well….let’s just say this is the EVE (not the dawn) of these aging Aquarians.

8. BJ Thomas—remember this sweet, southern guy? He sang three songs, ending with “Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head” from “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.” Another guy who can still sing (and apparently does).

9. Last, but not least, The Cowsills—the REAL Partridge Family, as they pointed out. Only three of the originals but entertaining just the same. Don’t know the names of the first two songs but you’d recognize them. The last was, of course, “Hair.” That one got the audience standing and singing along for real.

And then it was (yawn) over. Four and half hours of strolling down memory lane with a smile plastered to my face, ever-conscious of the camera searching for cutaway shots, and trying to look just as enthralled the second (or sometimes third) time the song was performed.

What made the evening enjoyable instead of tedious (trust me, there was lots and lots of downtime) was the obvious joy expressed by each and every one of the performers. Maybe it’s because their heyday has past; maybe it’s because they appreciate doing what they love; maybe they’re all just really good actors, hamming it up for the TV exposure (note to self: stop being so cynical). Anyway, their attitudes made the audience feel like friends, and how nice is that?

My one regret…not being able to tell Patti Page about the role she played in a moment of great disillusionment for me: I was about six years old and PLEADING with Santa for a Patty Playmate doll. (Remember her? The life-sized doll? Well, life-sized to a six-year-old.) Anyway, in discussing my Christmas list with my father, he kept referring to my request as a Patti PAGE doll. No matter how many times I corrected him, he couldn’t get it right. So on the big night—Christmas Eve—“Santa” made his customary in-person visit to my house and what did he bring? A frigging’ Hasbro sno-cone maker (probably something my DAD wanted). So, Santa says: “Sorry I couldn’t bring you a Patti PAGE doll, but I thought you’d like this instead.”

Me: Patti PAGE doll? What a coincidence that SANTA and DADDY would make the same mistake.

Five minutes later, when I caught “Santa” tip-toeing through the backyard with his mask off, I confirmed the truth.

So, I blame the death of my belief in Santa Claus on Patti Page. Sure woulda loved a chance to tell her about it.

Minor Writing Epiphany

I browse several other unpubbed writers’ blogs, and I see the same sentiment echoed over and over. Something on the order of: “I can’t find the time to write,” or “I set a goal of 40 pages this week and only wrote two,” or “I’m just not sure this book is working.”

My answer (borrowing shamelessly from Nike): Just Do It.

Or, maybe: Find A Way To Do It.

In my case, I’d been feeling stalled lately which pissed me off because, hey—hadn’t I written a nice synopsis? Shouldn’t it act as the roadmap that would keep me from hitting blank walls?

Then I stumbled across The Snowflake Plotting Method. I discovered that sure, I had a roadmap, but it’s sorta like TV’s Amazing Race. Each team has the same instructions but, depending on the interpersonal dynamics and external forces, not everyone’s gonna get to the pit stop in the same way or at the same time.

At the end of the day (boy, talk about an overused phrase) the story comes from the characters.

My roadmap hadn’t fleshed out some of the important characters, namely the hero’s three daughters. And that’s why I was having trouble coming up with the scenes to match my synopsis. This became clear when (as instructed by the article) I attempted to create a scene-by-scene spreadsheet. Talk about some huge gaps!

Then, I did my daily cruise (pun intended) by Jenny Crusie’s website and ended up reading her notes from the workshop she did in Maui on brainstorming characters.

Ding, ding, ding.

Images flew into my brain of who my hero’s daughters are—what they look like..who they admire…the stuff they have on the walls in their bedrooms…how they relate to each other…how they relate to their dad and absent mom.

From this vision, scene ideas began to flow nonstop. Ways to deepen the conflicts and theme popped up.

So, back to the writing epiphany, and I’ll summarize it with one of my favorite sayings: If you always do what you’ve always done, you’ll always get what you already have.

Lesson: Try something new.

Snap, Crackle, Pop

Lightning strike? Car crash?

Or, was it just another Southern California Edison screw-up?

Whatever….there I was last night, enjoying a Friends rerun and finishing dinner, when I heard that odd, indescribable sound (which is actually the onset of non-sound) accompanied by instant darkness.

No power.

I groped around on the coffee table past the Healthy Choice ice cream bar wrapper and the 100-calorie Cheese Nips bag to locate my lighter. Next I fumbled for the nearest candle but the wick was so buried in wax (I estimated 3rd degree burns for sure) I had to do my best 80’s concert impression and use the Bic to find another one.

Okay, so I had light. What now?

Maybe I’ve seen too many slasher movies, but my first inclination was to make sure The Serial Killer hadn’t cut my lines, so I peeked out the window and confirmed the rest of the neighborhood was in darkness. Check.

So how do you pass the time when none of life’s modern conveniences are available? Aha, I thought. The laptop runs on a battery! That is, it does when the battery’s charged. Mine wasn’t.

Second aha! The radio my dad gave me for emergencies—the one you can crank 100 times for an hour of power when the batteries are dead! Oops. At the office.

If only…if only…Forget it. You need a male partner for that.

I settled for taking a nice hot bath and headed upstairs, mindful of my steps since I had this horrible vision of ending up in folklore right next to Mrs. O’Leary’s cow. Alas, as it turns out, candlelit baths are not what they’re cracked up to be when they’re forced. More like creepy. Or maybe it was the absence of Enya playing in the background.

Anyway, after exhausting myself with a couple marathon phone calls, I went to bed—a daunting task when you’re used to old sitcoms for lullabies. As I tossed and turned, I heard the welcome sound of heavy trucks lumbering up and down the streets of my complex. Each time one roared off into silence, I waited with crossed fingers for the power to go on and when it didn’t, I wondered if they had to go back to the shop to flip a switch or something.

Finally, total silence again. No trucks, no workmen. Also, still no power.

Then, at midnight, va-voom. The TV blasted to life and an overhead floodlight glared a path straight into my eyes.

Cool. Too bad I was sound asleep at the time.

Decisions, Decisions

Multiple choice exams always send me into a mental frenzy. Even if I know the material backwards and forwards, just throw me extra options and I’ll find a way to rationalize them into the right answer. Doesn’t matter if I’m being tested on American history or who gets to go first at a four-way stop.

Call my wishy-washy. Call me a Pollyanna. Whatever. I can always make a case for the other side and I’m a damn good Devil’s Advocate.

Unfortunately, these are not valuable traits in a writer. Writer’s need to make decisions about which they hold firm convictions.

Which is why I seemed to have smashed into a brick wall in my latest WIP. So many directions, so many options…which do I choose?

I’M STUCK! STUCK! STUCK!

Truly. For the life of me, I don’t seem to be able to add another word to the fifty pages I’ve written. I’ve tried for three days now.

Who said writing was easy?

Oh. No one said that?

Fun With Google

Agents and Editors are asked if they ever ‘Google’ a prospective client/author. Some say they do; others deny it.

I live in fear that one will look up my blog on the day I’ve posted something like the following, but shoot. Let’s have some fun, shall we?

Here’s the deal (I saw this on someone else’s blog but can’t remember whose or else I’d give credit where it is so well-deserved). Go to google and type in your name followed by the word ‘needs’. That’s right. Google can tell you what you need! Is there no end to the service these savvy people provide? But, be forewarned. Sometimes you have to read between the lines. On the whole though, I think we as a society can dispatch shrinks to the crap heap and quit reading our daily horoscopes. Google’s got us covered.

Here’s a sample of what I learned about myself:

1. Randy needs help from Raider mates.

2. Randy needs to list every skill she used in each of her jobs Randy needs to write a song about the "search for weapons of mass destrucion". ...

3. Randy needs a loving and committed family to give her a sense of belonging.
... minions are in place to quash the rebellion, and Randy needs a nap

4. Randy needs to fight wandy now and dana needs to authorize Randy to go to japan.

Hm. Anytime I hear I need a nap, I know someone’s been spying on my private life. Not sure what kind of help those Raider folks will provide, but I’m willing to accept it. And, Japan? Sure, I’ll go!

So, what does Google say YOU need?

Halloween's Around the Corner...

...do you know where your costume is?

Feel free to plagiarize some of my previous ideas since I won’t be repeating.

1. Take two kitchen-sized trash bags (the only size that’s white), put one inside the other (also known as providing a lining), then cut two holes for your legs. Step inside, pull above your boobs and tie the yellow tapes together for that come hither, strapless look. Add drippy rhinestone earrings, long gloves, stockings and stilettos. Voila. Rich White Trash. (Be forewarned—wearing two trash bags can result in a sweaty midsection, not to mention raised eyebrows.)

2. Take the sluttiest dress you have. (Come on, we all have at least one, don’t we?) At the local costume shop, buy yourself a cheap (preferably cardboard) tiara, scepter, sash, whorey-looking wig, and iron-on letters. Spell out MISS-BEHAVING on sash. Voila. Beauty Queen Gone Bad.

3. This time, take your sluttiest black skirt and throw on that whorey-looking wig again. Add your sexiest bustier bra and high-heeled boots. Stick a small British flag down inside the top of one boot (so the banner is next to your knee). Buy a couple of spears (like if you were going as a hunter). Voila. Britkneespears. Oh, I really cracked myself up with that one.

Naturally, this year’s idea won’t be unveiled until the big night…but suffice to say it involves the participation of and reliance on two other people. If they crap out, Plan B is already in the works.

I’ll bet y’all just can’t WAIT for pictures, huh?

Check's In The Mail

Er, rather…the manuscript is. Yep. Finally got the sucker out last Friday after an emergency read-through by Brooke who spent her lunch hours and other precious moments making sure I hadn’t missed anything really, really, stupid.

Was it perfect?

Nope.

Will it ever be?

Probably not.

Think of it. This is a manuscript I finished almost TWO YEARS ago. I did a lot of editing/revising back then when I first queried and submitted a couple places. After a handful of rejections, I put it on the back burner while I finished my second manuscript. Then, after National last July, I decided I’d never really given Fit For Love its proper chance, so I put it through a second round of queries. Voila…more requests. And, voila. More editing/revising. This time, a month’s worth.

Now, it’s back to the WIP (work-in-process). Talk about changing gears! Aside from this blog, I haven’t written anything “new” in a month! Hope I remember how.

The good news is, I dragged out what I’d been working on (well, the part I could find—I had a computer crash at home and hopefully the full version is on my computer at work—see, that’s how long it’s been—I don’t even know where the thing IS) and I really, really liked it. So, tonight it’s back to the drawing board.

First rule of submitting manuscripts: while they’re under consideration…write, write, write some more.

Birthday Date

Last night I celebrated my birthday with ex-boyfriend Joe. (Yes, I KNOW my birthday was nearly a month ago, but I DID tell you this was my birthday SEASON).

Joe’s my biggest blog fan so I can’t say anything really nasty about him (huge grin) but I couldn’t resist divulging the following.

While we were dating (5 years) one thing Joe introduced me to was Latin music and dancing. Frankly, I don’t know why there aren’t a zillion Latin clubs in L.A. ‘cuz the music is so infectious and salsa dancing is incredibly sexy. We loved to go to a place called La Masia in West Hollywood but then some rich snobby guys bought it out and turned it into a hip hop club. After that, we were hard pressed to find anywhere with which to replace it.

But recently, I was surfing the net and discovered a place called Mama Juana’s so we decided to try it. Arriving in Studio City (which is just over the pass from Hollywood) we parked and viewed the entrance with trepidation. It was basically just a door in a building. Looked like the place must be about four feet wide. Then I remembered the website said something about a steep staircase. Duh. We headed upstairs.

We were seated in a lovely booth one step up from the dance floor where a salsa lesson was going on. While we debated the difference between salsa and mambo, the instructor was teaching the male dancers how to twirl their partners. That’s when Joe made a fatal mistake. He pointed out that I always turn AWAY from him.

Hm, I thought. I wished he’d told me that before. Might have improved our dancing prowess. ‘Cuz, listen. We are NOT Fred and Ginger out there. Well, wait a sec. Joe THINKS he’s Fred. I’m quite aware I’m not Ginger. If you picture that John Hurely guy from that celebrity dance show on TV, you’ve got Joe to a T (minus the dancing talent).

After dinner, the band took their places on stage. All nine of them. We listened to a couple songs, then it was time for us to venture out.

Guess what? Every time we TWIRLED, Joe TWIRLED me AWAY from him. Turns out, I didn’t even have a CHOICE in the matter.

I love it when a man is wrong. I love it even more when the man is the source of the proof.

By the way, remember that blog about giving out your phone number to strange men in bars? Here’s a cautionary tale: I slipped outside to have a cigarette and got to talking to a guy who happened to be from my neck of the woods and he asked for my cellphone number. I demurred, as I always do. Then I got tired of saying no, so I reeled off what I thought was the number (who remembers their cell number?) Well, he hauls out his Blackberry and inputs the number and hits DIAL!!!! Thank God I’d made a big deal about having a hard time trying to remember it, ‘cuz it wasn’t the right number.

Yikes. Is this what guys do now?? They test you on the spot??

Hey, Bunko Ladies (or is it BunCo??)

Welcome to Thea, Pam, Charmaine et al...as promised, the post below chronicles the latest Marty/Ann/Randy journey.

Now that you've found this, be forewarned...things that happen around me tend to end up broadcast all over the Internet.

Travelin' (and the links have been fixed)

So, if you had free tickets on Southwest Airlines, and you had to use them by October 4th, where would you go?

Lincoln City, Oregon, right??

Okay, here’s how THAT happened. My friends Ann and Marty had the two tickets, not me, but well…wither they go, I goest…or something like that.

One day, Marty calls and says, “Let’s go to Atlantic City for a long weekend.” (You have to understand that just as some people choose their vacation destinations based on golfing, Marty travels from a gambling perspective.) I tell him (firmly, because Marty’s the kinda guy who doesn’t take no for an answer) that Atlantic City’s too far.

Knowing he won’t let the matter drop unless I come up with an equally attractive plan, I Google Indian gaming casinos and find a map pinpointing their locations across America. Then I check the Southwest route map to see where they crisscross.

Voila—Lincoln City, Oregon. Well, Portland, really. But I picked Lincoln City because its casino is on the coast.

I email Marty with the info and we start looking at hotels. Somewhere along the line, I receive an email from Ann: “Just when are you planning to go to Oregon with my husband?” (It’s okay. She’s kidding. We’re like the Three Mouseketeers.)

So, off we go. On the Friday after my birthday, we fly to Portland and pick up our rental car. Since I’ve done my research exceedingly well, we know ahead of time that Spirit Mountain (a—what else?—Indian casino) breaks up the drive nicely so we stop there for lunch. We don’t play much…just one slot machine for which we each contribute $10, walking away $20 winners. (See, we’re not candidates for Gamblers Anonymous, I promise.)

We reach The Seahorse Motel before sunset and take a nap (our flight left at 8:15 a.m. and if y’all remember, I’d been to a concert the night before). Check out the view from the hotel.





Oh, and here's a sign you like to see next to your door:

That night we go to the The Chinook Casino and learn, to our dismay, that Oregon casinos forbid mixing alcohol with gambling. I never understand this rule. (Okay, I’m aware that not everyone in the world is a drinker, but hey—the two just GO TOGETHER, don’t they?) Anyway, Ann and I opt for a couple cocktails in the nightclub while Marty hits the poker room.

An interesting crowd populates the old upstairs meat market…we have a hard time sorting out the genders. Do the girls like the girls? Or, do they like the guys? And vice versa. The puzzle makes for good people watching.

Finally, we decide we’ve imbibed enough fortification (two glasses of wine a piece) to try the gaming tables. That’s when IT happens (and, come to think of it, thank God we haven’t had more to drink).

You know that sign in front of escalators? The one that says something about baby strollers, sandals and…yeah, I’ve never read the whole thing either. Turns out there’s a reason for that sign.

As I place my foot on the first step, I hear a shriek beside me.

Ann.

Uh-oh.

We peer down at her foot and see a cut, a slice, a HUGE GASH, in her heel. No blood, though. Just a deceptive flap…the kind that makes you think, cool. It’s not gonna bleed…right before it starts to GUSH.

So, Ann bleeds all the way down the escalator, across the lobby, and to the information desk. There, she asks for napkins and a bandaid (she’s a trooper, our Ann) but the attendant says, “Do you want an ambulance?”

Hell, no.

A medic arrives in seconds and leads us into the bowels of the building (well, down a floor anyway) and to a small office. That’s when the legal mumbo jumbo starts. Does she need an ambulance? Does she want to go the hospital? Blah, blah, blah. They send for a digital camera and take photos. They have Ann fill out a mountain of forms. (Meanwhile, I’m dying to document the episode with photos off my cell phone but figure the idea will get an ix-nay from Medic Guy.)

After refusing anything but a bandage and icky ointment (even when Medic Guy recommends stitches—and don’t you just KNOW the whole thing is probably being recorded, if not on videotape, certainly audio??) we finally leave. Ann has no trouble walking and we take the elevator from then on.

Later, when we see Marty, I announce he’s this close to OWNING the Chinook (wink, wink).

The next day we went sightseeing down the Oregon coast (yes, I kow I just changed tenses). Oh, and we learned some new terminology: Senior Hiking. You see, senior hiking is identical to regular hiking, minus the foot movement and arm swinging. Oh yeah, and you do it from inside the car. Trust me, it’s almost the same.

The highlight of the day was our stop at a lighthouse and its accompanying interpretive center. Wish I had the name (which I do, I really do—only it’s on the videotape and I’m too lazy to haul it out to check and the still pictures are waiting to be developed). Maybe in a later post.

All I can tell ya is the Oregon coast is magnificent…majestic…a bunch of those ‘m’ superlatives. It puts the southern California coast to shame with its countless panoramic vistas of long, wide beaches and multiple sets of rolling waves.

‘Course we reminded ourselves that our visit probably coincided with the only three good days of weather they had all year.

On Sunday, we checked out early to leave enough time for a quick trip to the Columbia Gorge before heading to the airport. On the way, we discovered Shari’s. Ah, Shari’s--truly a find. I ask you, where in California can you go to a Denny’s style restaurant, sit in the bar and eat Denny’s style food, smoke cigarettes, drink beer, and PLAY LOTTO SLOT MACHINES? Not that this was a lucrative exercise, by any stretch. Still, it was a whole lot of fun.

I’d been to the Columbia Gorge before so I should have known better about how important the proper directions were. Long story short, we ended up driving along the river instead of the top. Oh, well. Multnomah Falls was pretty.

But not, according to the squeals coming from Ann and Marty, as exciting as our trip to Washington. Yes, we made the extra-special effort to make it a tri-state weekend by racing across the bridge and setting foot in Vancouver, WA before turning the car in.

Amazing how much you can cram into three days, huh?

And how expensive two free airline tickets can turn out to be?

!*?@& Words

I’m this close (pinching thumb and index finger together) to shoving my requested manuscript in the mail. It’s been a long, tough, haul—punctuated by birthday celebrations, weekend getaways, and a two-week bout with bronchitis.

But I’m almost there!!!!

Now, as a public service to my fellow writers, today I thought I’d offer this handy tip sheet of word substitutions for anyone submitting to a publisher that doesn’t allow the good stuff. Caution: some are contextually sensitive.

Instead of “Shit”…use…“No way” (I refuse to use “shoot”)
Instead of “Bitch”…use…“obnoxious”
Instead of “Crap”…use…“crud” or “stuff”
Instead of “Screw it”…use…“Forget it”
Instead of “Hell”…use… “heck”
Instead of “Damn”…use…“darn” (or delete altogether because who actually says darn?)
Instead of “Bastard”…use… “louse” or “pig”

As for body parts during sex…ha, no problem. The house I’m submitting to doesn’t allow premarital sex, so delete, delete, delete.

So, here’s an example:

Ava surveyed the room littered with Jess’s crap.
Shit. What a bastard.
Well, screw it. He could clean the goddamn mess himself.

Ava surveyed the room littered with Jess’s stuff.
No way. What a pig.
Well, forget it. He could clean up the mess himself.

Voila! Squeaky clean prose! (Although personally, I prefer the original version)

The Birthday Season

Boy, do I know how to milk a birthday, or what?

Officially, this year my birthday season kicked off a day early when Jovonna decorated my office and we had cake at work. Then I left the next day to celebrate in Ensenada and returned on the 19th. On the 22nd, I feted myself with the single ticket to Luis Miguel’s concert. Got home after midnight, rose at four the next morning and flew to Oregon for the weekend with Marty and Ann. The following Friday (this brings us to September 30th) a bunch of friends showed up with presents and cake at a nearby nightclub.

Here’s what I have left: dinner with Joe sometime this week; presents and cake with family on the 9th when we do a combo celebration for my dad, my brother, and myself; and last but not least, a party in Laguna with my college girlfriends. More presents, more cake.

Um, d’ya think I’m a little old for this?

Nah, me either.

The Winds Of Autumn

It’s always a bad sign when you wake up and your bedroom smells like the inside of a fireplace. Not an ashtray, mind you. A fireplace.

I switch on the TV and the first thing I hear is that the neighborhood next to mine is being evacuated. Hm. Not good.

For some reason, I don’t rush to get dressed. My only explanation for this is that I’m a native Californian. Wildfires happen more often than rainstorms. Or maybe I just don’t trust the media anymore.

Anyway, I decide to do a little reconnaissance mission of my own. As the garage door rolls up, I see the odd glow in the morning sky and the grey snowflakes fluttering to the ground. (Note to self: another reason not to wear white after Labor Day.)

By the time I get a half-mile from my house, a panorama of clouds and smoke obscure the rocky peaks I should be able to see. Still, like I say, I’m a veteran so I know fires are deceptive. What looks like it’s about to burn your house down can be miles and miles away.

When I get to my local grocery store, I pull into the parking lot. It’s then I notice flames on the hillside across the intersection. Now see, I interpret flames as indisputable proof the fire is close. Satisfied, I return to my house.

My next-door-neighbor is standing at the end of our cul-de-sac and I inform her you can see flames from Lindero and Kanan. She tells me she can see flames from where she’s standing. I suffer a moment of quiet embarrassment, as though I’ve let down native Californians everywhere for misjudging the distance.

While I video the fire, she disappears to pack up and another neighbor takes her place. Then a third woman emerges. This poor lady is totally freaking. Turns out, she’s been at UCLA Med Center all night where her husband is waiting for a friggin’ LUNG TRANSPLANT, so she hasn’t had time to pay attention to the fire. He’s scheduled to begin surgery in two hours and she doesn’t know if she should evacuate or get back to the hospital. We calm her down, help her to think rationally, and offer assistance. Oddly, the three of us agree we don’t care about the one thing people always take: namely, pictures. I venture the opinion it’s because we’re vain—we don’t want remembrances of when we were young and pretty. We laugh.

I go back inside, trying to decide whether to go to work or wait to be evacuated. In the process, I mull over what to take. My computer had crashed the night before so it’s already in the car anyway. I don’t have children so there are no precious photos that only I would have. Packing jewelry seems too materialistic. I settle for tossing a change of clothes in the car. In the event I can’t get home later, I don’t wanna have to shop in a dress and heels.

So, I take off for work, and I pass about ten giant bulldozers being ferried into my neighborhood from the opposite direction. Fire trucks stalk the cul-de-sacs nearest the hillside, taking up defensive positions. Low-flying helicopters plot, plan, and map ahead of the advancing flames.

Some might find these sights alarming—but remember, I’m no rookie. If you wanna see bureaucracy work for a change, check out the way a California wildfire is fought.

At the office, I keep an eye on the constant coverage being provided by local TV news. Once in a while, based on their reports, I almost jump in my car to go home, but then I call my friend Shari who lives closer to the fire than I do, and she assures me she hasn’t been evacuated.

I talk with my parents who live fifteen miles from me on the east flank of the fire. They’ve been on voluntary evacuation alert since having received an recorded phone call at two in the morning. (How cool is that?)

At the end of the day, I trot on home and find things have quieted down in my neck of the woods. No more flames. Fewer fire trucks. A lot less smoke. Turns out the onshore winds have kicked up, sending the fire back against itself which is lucky for me, unlucky for the eastern flank. At six-thirty, I hear on the news that residents in the western half of my parents’ neighborhood have been told to GET OUT NOW. But an hour later, the order is rescinded.

The only thing predictable about wild fires is their unpredictability.

P.S. Cool picture, huh? Snapped it on the way to work.

Only in L.A….and probably NY, Chicago…

What’s a person gotta do to get a good concert seat in this town?

Last week, I learned paying beaucoup bucks on Ebay isn’t the answer. See, as a birthday present to myself, I bought a FRONT ROW ticket to see Luis Miguel at the Universal Amphitheater. Only, when I arrived, it was not the “front row seat” of my dreams. Oh, sure. It was in the front row of the PERMANENT seats. But there was a wide aisle plus eight rows of FOLDING CHAIRS in FRONT of my FRONT ROW seat.

How many ways did this suck? Let me count them for you.

1. Constant traffic passing to and fro. (Where are these people going? Why are they so busy? Didn’t they pay money to see a concert too?) Naïve me. I truly thought by buying a FRONT ROW seat, I’d be er, close to the friggin’ STAGE, not at the edge of the cattle pen.

2. After a rousing opener, Luis slowed things down with about twenty minutes of ballads which he chose to sing from a seated position onstage. Better to bond with the FRONT ROWS, I guess. Me? I had to watch the big screen TV in order to see anything at all. (Did I mention I spent an obscene amount of money for this seat???)

3. My seat was also an aisle seat, and because I was in the FRONT ROW, a security guard was stationed inches away to prevent the hoi polloi from rubbing elbows with the elite. He stood, squatted, stood, squatted, stood, squatted…sometimes having lengthy conversations with scantily clad tartlets trying to brazen their way closer to the stage. Can you spell d-i-s-t-r-a-c-t-I-o-n??

Grrrrr. Never again. Lesson learned.

Let's Play "Name That Wine Region"

Napa? Nope.



Tuscany? Tsk tsk.



Guadeloupe Valley? Gold stars for you!

Yep, Mexico has it’s very own wine country about 20 miles northeast of Ensenada. You reach it by turning away from the ocean onto the Ruta de Vino (also known as Highway No. 3) and traveling inland. Along the way, “vinacolas” (vineyards) are clearly marked, but be prepared to pull off onto the shoulder to let the constant big-rigs pass on this narrow, two-lane road sometimes bordered by steep cliffs. Then, once you leave the main road, it’s a long, dusty haul to your destination. This wouldn’t be so bad, but if you’re suffering the aftereffects of the previous night in Ensenada…well, you get my drift.

Because of said aftereffects, we arrived in the valley late—which means after noon (most of the public tours and tastings shut down around 1:00 p.m.) and ended up at L.A. Cetto (pronounced shetto). Turns out these Italian settlers have been brewing up the vino since 1926, and they’ve got a pretty decent international reputation. In fact, much of Mexico’s wine (85% is produced in the Guadeloupe Valley) is beginning to get a good name. A couple of barriers have worked against them: 1) an indigenous culture who, when they drink at all, are more focused on tequila (I can hardly blame them); and 2) barriers to exporting. Apparently, that’s why the new push to spruce up the valley as a tourist destination.

When we arrived at L.A. Cetto, we went (where else?) straight to the tasting room. Unfortunately, it was clogged with tourists (predominantly Mexican), and short of knocking over sweet little old ladies and small children, we couldn’t edge our way to the bar. Although most Mexicans speak English way better than I speak Spanish, I kept getting misinformation about how the place “worked.” At one point, we traipsed after a tour, only to discover it was the “tour en Espagnol”. Thank goodness we figured it out--I can’t think of anything less fascinating than hearing how wine is made in a language I don’t understand. Then, while tracking down the “tour en Inglese,” we realized the tasting room had cleared out, so we ditched the tour idea and made a beeline for the bar.

An adorable, young Italian-looking man served us. I’m ashamed to admit the writer in me didn’t get his name, but I could swear he was a descendant of the original guy from Italy. Anyway, he oozed charm and even brought out “the big guns,” prefacing the presentation with, “I’m not supposed to do this, but I thought you’d like…” (fill in the exotic grape). I’m no wine connoisseur (can’t even spell it without spellcheck) but I liked what I tried, so I bought a bottle of Nebbiolo. When I Googled the word, I learned nebbiolo is a very closely held grape from Italy, and that few countries grow it successfully because it’s sort of the diva of wine grapes. Can’t wait to see if it’s as good as I remember!

Sigh. So many vineyards, so little time. We didn’t even scratch the surface. Plus, there are a couple of highly recommended restaurants to try.

Oh, well. Maybe next trip.

Man + Boat + Foreign Country = Opportunity for Single Ladies

As a public service to Southern California’s unattached females, I offer the following advice: get thee to the Hotel Coral y Marina in Ensenada, Mexico. Here’s why:

Buying an expensive boat involves a hefty luxury tax but, as usual, Uncle Sam has left a loophole. In this case, if you take possession offshore and dock it in a foreign country for a year (the law just changed—it WAS 90 days), you get to skip the tax.

The downside is that you have to visit your newly purchased pride and joy. Sorta like a weekend custody arrangement.

The result is a bonanza for hotel guests of the female (and single) persuasion. Nothing but rich guys visiting their boats! Now, when it comes to their marital status, you’re on your own--I can’t vouch for whether they’ve slipped that ring to another finger or stashed it with the life preservers--but it’s worth investigating.



View from hotel looking south (morning)


View from hotel looking north (afternoon)

(Sorry for the poor quality pix; I’m too lazy to buy a digital camera so these are off my cell phone—can’t seem to find a setting that prevents the mushroom cloud in the background.)

Let’s get one thing straight. This is NOT a milestone birthday!

But you wouldn’t have known it, judging by the way my office looked this morning. The girl pictured at right is the guilty party. You know the type: 22-years old, tiny, gorgeous, and DECEPTIVELY sweet?

Here are a few pix of her decorating prowess.





Okay, Jovonna. Paybacks are a bitch. Your day will come. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

OUCH

That’s what I have to say about the editing process.

For each blessed word sent to the crapper, I think: “If it’s expendable now, why’d it seem necessary the first time around? The second? The third?”

Trust me. As a writer, this is a humbling experience.

Here’s my Progress Report:

Manuscript page reduction: From 385 pages to 320
Word count reduction: From 96,250 to 80,000

You do the math.

Never mind, I’ll do it for you. I still need to find 40 pages to chop. Are you thinking what I am? That in its previous form, this manuscript must have sucked??

The First Cut Is The Deepest....

So, as reported, I got a request from a publisher who shall remain nameless.

I knew when I queried them, my manuscript was longer than they allow. I also knew they don’t permit graphic sex scenes. No problem—I could use the extra word count, plus, as my dad said, “You mean I’ll be able to read it?” Yeah, bonus.

Anyway, so this weekend I started hacking. First off, I realized my book was 10,000 words longer than I’d remembered. For you nonwriters, that translates to forty manuscript pages. Bottom line, I needed to cut about 100 pages, or a fourth of the book. A lot more than I’d anticipated.

I thought yeah, right. Impossible.

Then I got a tip from a writing partner. Get rid of instances where a line on the page contains only one or two words. Likewise, when a page contains the last couple sentences of a chapter. So I’ve been going over the manuscript, paragraph by paragraph, and guess what? I’ve lopped off about a “page” or two per chapter. At this point, I’m guessing that by the time I finish this part of the process, I’ll have reduced the manuscript by fifty pages.

So where am I gonna find the other fifty?

Should I even try? Part of me says: If the story you wanted to tell took 400 pages, so be it. At 300 pages, it’s not the same story.

Maybe so. Maybe that’s a lesson I need to learn.

What scares me even more is how poorly I’d edited this manuscript to begin with. I mean, I truly thought I’d polished it to a sheen. And as I’ve gone over each paragraph with a fine tooth comb, looking to see what I could cut, I’ve found dozens of unnecessary words, repeated concepts, banal conversation…yikes.

So even if this submission disappears into that vast wasteland of publishing house limbo, my writing will have improved.

That’s the important thing to remember during this agonizing process.

Another Katrina Screw-Up

I hear that viewers of last Friday’s Price Is Right rerun got quite a shock when the showcase featured an all-expenses paid vacation to...New Orleans.

Now, really. Come on, guys. Can’t you do better than that?

Way back when, during a previous life, I managed the commercial advertising for The Richard Simmons show which we syndicated to something like two hundred stations across the country. We made our money by retaining 2-1/2 minutes of commercial time and shipping the show with the spots built-in.

Anyway, I came back to work after the Thanksgiving weekend on which Natalie Wood had died and thought, damn. We’ve got one of her Noxema commercials running for the next four weeks. Worse, in the spot, Natalie said something charming like, “I’ll never use another moisturizer again.”

You see my dilemma.

Well, in those days, we didn’t have fax machines or email, for God’s sake. So I spent a couple hours on the phone reading the physical addresses of all two hundred stations to Western frickin’ Union to send (you guessed it) TELEGRAMS (remember those?) with instructions to substitute whatever the hell the program director wanted. Just DON’T RUN NATALIE.

So, I’m thinking if I was able to spare the viewing public Natalie’s fateful words, couldn’t someone have pulled the plug on a Price Is Right rerun??

Remembering September

I can still see this time of year through a child’s eyes. For me, growing up, the month of September was about clean slates and everything new.

New school clothes.
New classroom.
New teacher.
New schoolbooks.
New friends.
New desk uncluttered (yet) with my debris.
New doodle-free notebook with fresh lined paper just waiting for my wisdom.
New opportunities.

Yes, I loved everything about September.

I loved the thrill of anticipating the unknown.

Now the unknown just scares me. Now September is just about managing to get another year older without having found Mr. Right. To make matters worse, this particular September, I have to renew my driver’s license. Yep, I’m finally gonna have to carry around picture I.D. on which I look my age. (By the way, should I cut my hair? Leave it long?)

Anyway, I think one of the reasons I started writing was to give myself an unknown that could simulate the thrill of September all year long.

With a couple submissions floating around at various agencies and publishing houses, there’s a chance something GOOD will happen.

So, the above thoughts flitted through my mind during my drive home from the gym tonight. I pulled in the garage, then went to the mailbox. The first letter I saw bore the unmistakable look of the reply envelopes I use for submissions.

Guess what? Based on seeing three chapters and a synopsis, a publisher has requested the FULL manuscript of FIT FOR LOVE!!!!.

Ah, yes. I LOVE September.

Life As A Plotter--Progress Report

Along with forgetting what my goals are, I don’t keep track of my writing progress. If it weren’t for my blog, I wouldn’t even know when I started my latest WIP, and I don’t have a clue how fast or slow I’m progressing. Which is a shame, because it would be nice to know whether my efforts at plotting beforehand are bearing fruit. Something tells me they are.

I’m here to say I’ve witnessed one advantage right off the bat. Usually when I finish a scene (let alone a chapter), there’s this huge writing lull afterward while I flounder around figuring out what should happen next. By contrast, I closed chapter four yesterday and wrote two-and-a-half pages of chapter five today, so there’s a good sign, right?

On the other hand, I ran into a highly dramatic scene in chapter four, and since I usually write stuff that’s pretty light and fluffy, that slowed me down. Still, I’m kinda jazzed that a difficult scene comes so early in the book—maybe another good sign that I’ve got more tension going on than usual.

Some writers don’t like to plot beforehand—they say it ruins the surprises along the way, and that if they know where they’re going, they get bored by the journey. Not me. What I can’t stand is finishing page thirty-five, seeing that vast gaping hole between me and the finish line, and wondering how the hell I’m gonna fill up 350 more pages.

Which brings me to the current WIP. Remember I wrote an outline that I liked? So far, it’s working. And, rather than getting bored by knowing what happens, I’m anxious to tell the story. Another good sign, n’est-ce pas?

Plus, I’m at that point in writing manuscripts (3 down and counting) that I’m far less worried about whether what I’m working on is marketable, aligned with the rules, or anything else. I like the story, period.

Or, at least, that’s what I tell myself. ‘Cuz that’s when you sell for sure, right?

The Pink Index Card

...or why it’s good to write things down.

When I see entire workshops devoted to ‘goal setting,’ I shake my head and think what’s the big deal? You set a goal, you strive to achieve it, and bingo—you either succeed or fail. Plain and simple. Why overanalyze? Why turn goal setting into some mysterious ritual full of hocus pocus psychobabble?

So, at the RWA National conference in Reno this past July, we arrived at one of our lunches to find pink index cards on the table. Enough for each of us. Turns out they’re the bright idea of multi-published author Debbie Macomber, our speaker that day. She instructed us to take the pink cards home and use them to write down five writing-related goals for the coming year. Then she called out the names of several authors in the audience who stood and waved their pink cards triumphantly. Recipients of Debbie’s advice in workshops past, they’d followed her advice and achieved their goals.

Well, I may not believe in hocus pocus, but I’m all about being superstitious. So, I toted that pink index card home (mindful that just any ol’ index card wouldn’t do—it had to be the one I got in Reno) and wrote down five goals. The first two were long-term best case scenario kinda things, and the others were stepping stones.

By the end of August, I had started to believe in the magic of the pink index card. Instead of my usual half-assed effort, I’d methodically mailed out several submissions—to agents, editors and contests. Feeling smug, I dug out my pink index card to mentally tick off what I’d accomplished.

Guess what I discovered?

I hadn’t remembered them correctly. I hadn’t even completed one of the stepping stones which, trust me, were quite do-able. This, after even writing them down!

So, it just goes to show you that 1) it’s not enough to store your goals in your head, and 2) it’s not enough to write them down.

I’m tacking that little pink card on the wall next to my computer.

Perspective

In the moments immediately following the disaster that struck Southern California on January 17, 1994, my first thoughts centered on my personal safety. That’s okay. Self-preservation is the bottom rung on Maslow’s hierarchy of needs.

I knew instantly we’d had an earthquake because I’d been through them before. None had included the sound of glass breaking, eerie flashes of light, nor instant loss of power and phones.

So, when all the noise and the shaking stopped,and I stood in the doorframe waiting for the next big jolt, my thoughts turned to guessing where, logistically, I fit in. Was I directly over the epicenter? If so, good. I had experienced the worst of it, and I was fine.

But, what if the epicenter were ten miles away? Thirty miles away? Hundreds of miles away? If so, a lot of people were in deep, deep trouble.

Without electricity and phones, there was no way to know.

I longed to get in my car and drive to my parents, but what if the freeways had collapsed? There was no way to know.

In a relatively short time, the phones were restored in my neighborhood. My niece called from Maryland and held the phone up to the TV so I could hear what CNN was reporting. Only then was I able to gain some perspective. As awful as the news was, I knew we hadn’t suffered “The Big One.” But I also knew that what had happened didn’t just happen to my house, my block, or even my neighborhood. An entire metropolitan area had been effected.

My point is, as I watch the coverage of the horrific disaster on the Gulf Coast, and witness the overwhelming anger, disappointment and abandonment the victims feel, I have to remind myself they have no perspective. Without electrical power, phones—without modern communication—they have no concept of how vast the destruction is, nor how complex the relief effort must be. The people trapped in the convention center believe they’re at the epicenter; the thousands in the Superdome believe they are; and likewise the citizens of Gulfport and the people trapped in attics. All believe they've been forgotten. The only thing they know for sure is that they haven’t eaten, they have no water, and no one is coming to help.

I have less compassion for those who know what the score is but are focused on blame. As in, the police aren’t doing enough...the Mayor’s not doing enough...the President’s not doing enough...the government’s not doing enough.

Maybe we’ve become a culture who too readily expects to be taken care of. Maybe we’ve bred a generation of citizens accustomed to being bailed out. Maybe we’ve come to believe that government officials, like doctors, are gods who can fix anything.

They’re people, after all. People doing their best in a calamity of unprecedented proportions.

Thoughts on Katrina

Click here to read Peggy Noonan's thoughtful essay.