The Happiest Place On Earth ** Updated

The Conejo Valley Shuttle (AKA Marty and Ann) departs chez moi around ten a.m. Saturday morning. En route, equipped with a new GPS system, we only get lost once (on a journey Marty’s made about a million times), detouring through Norwalk where Marty learns--to his delight--a Ralley’s Burger can be found on Imperial Highway.

We arrive at the Carousel Inn around 12:30 to find a beautifully updated 50’s style hotel worth every penny we shell out, and after dropping our stuff in the rooms, we hot foot it across the street to the park.

Decisions, decisions. Turn left into California Adventure? Or, right into Disneyland? We opt for the former since I’ve never been there. The line on this “newer” park isn’t stellar, so I’m not even that excited. But the instant we step foot inside, the sound of Bing Crosby singing “and I’ll make the San Fernando Valley my home” puts a smile on my face.

I’m ready for California Adventure.

To the strains of “Do You Know The Way to San Jose,” “California Dreaming,” and “Avalon,” we make our first stop at “A Bug’s Life.” Cute. You know. Just cute. Next we grab a fast pass for Soaring Over California and while we’re waiting for our “appointment” we check out some sort of roaring rapids thing (I forget the name). After getting thoroughly drenched, we hightail it back over to Soaring (where Ann gets her first case of “the pokies”) and I FINALLY get to experience a ride I’ve been hearing about forever.

Well, it’s okay. I mean, maybe it depends on which row you’re in. Personally, I’m a bit distracted by seeing the bottom of the screen and the row of feet hanging over my head. Whatever. It’s pretty cool.

Next, we wander further into the park where the “big girl” rides are. All along, I’ve been under the impression Marty will accompany me on “Screaming Over California.” Not so. The big chicken buck-bucks at the last minute. There I am, publicly committed to going on this ride, and my ego doesn’t let me change my mind.

I puff out my chest, assume an air of nonchalance I don’t feel at all, and march off to get a “single rider” pass. The closer I get to the front of the line, the harder and faster my heart pounds. Finally, I’m in the staging area. Courteously, I allow several riders to go ahead of me. Meanwhile, I’m nervously discussing the whole situation with strangers.

I feel so alone.

I feel like I do right before a pitch appointment.

The rational part of my brain starts in with you don’t have to do this. Just walk to the exit.

Another part of my brain—the part seldom heard from—says: think how proud you’ll be when you overcome your fears and successfully complete the ride.

Then a young nerdy kid—about ten years old with hair falling in his eyes and pants three sizes too big—says: “Can I give you a piece of advice?”

Yeah, that’s what I want. Advice from a ten-year old.

“The quicker you get on, the quicker it’ll be over,” he says sagely.

That does it. I take the next spot in line. Turns out I’m sitting next to a big, burly guy which somehow calms my nerves…like maybe he’ll save me if anything bad happens. The fact that his wife and kid are in the seat behind us and that he’ll likely save them first, I choose to ignore.

We prepare for takeoff.

I look up to see Ann poised to take a picture. I wave casually.

Zoom! We accelerate faster than…well…pretty fast. (Update: We're talking 0 to 55 in 4 seconds according to Wikipedia. Also, PLEASE NOTE all you Space Mountain fans: top speed is 32 measly miles an hour vs. Screaming's SIXTY-ONE. Wheeeeeeee!)

It feels…neat. Not scary at all. We climb and climb and I prepare for a sickening drop but instead we go into a banking curve and I relax. This is fun. This feels good. Seconds before we enter the loop, I feel a sense of eager anticipation.

Yes. Euphoria!

The ride is over before I know it. Adrenaline is pumping, I’m ready to celebrate. I meet up with Ann and Marty who are laughing hysterically at a screen with photographs taken automatically on the last drop. “Look at that lady!” they cry with tears in their eyes. “Look at her hair,” Marty says, pointing.

“Uh, guys? That’s me.”

Normally, I would NEVER post such an unflattering picture. Please, please, please, remind yourself that we’re talking g-forces here. Oh, hell…maybe I really look like that with my hair blown back. It’s not a comforting thought.

More tomorrow…

Back On Track

I'm sure it has something to do with the New Year, but MAN...lots of good writing news all around. So as not to out anyone who's not ready to be outed, I'll keep this generic. One crit partner got an excellent "pre-review" from an industry heavy-weight, AND this crit partner got some excellent news on additional books. Another crit partner got a request for the FULL manuscript from a NY publisher after submitting a partial the last week of DECEMBER. Talk about your quick turnaround!!!

I'm SO excited for these old, old, friends!

Meanwhile, I've put my new plotting tool to good use and mapped out the remaining chapters of the untitled WIP, so it's full steam ahead, dammit. I KNOW how to get from S to Z now. If only I could find time to do the actual writing.

Still...it'll be nice to have a fourth book to pitch at the upcoming Desert Dreams conference.

That is, if I ever come up with a title....that seems to be a requirement....y'know so that there's something other than the author's name on the front.

Just Livin' Life

To celebrate Marty's birthday last night, Ann came up with the bright idea of dining at Morton's in Woodland Hills. Now, I'd heard of this famous restaurant, but didn't know there was one within driving distance, and it turns out it hasn't been there for long. Opened in December and the smell of fresh paint competed with the scent of sizzling steaks.

A class act, that Morton's. First up, the menus. I didn't get it when Marty commented on them. Still didn't get it when he commented again. (I'm thinking, okay...they're paper, so what?) Then I looked again. Printed across the top: HAPPY BIRTHDAY MARTY! ! !

How COOL is that?

Next, the waitress arrived with her dog and pony show which consisted of a five minute spiel describing (and showing!) first, the various cuts of meat, second the vegetables...and last, but not least, the size of the lobster.

As she lifted it, Ann and I exchanged horrified glances. Is that thing MOVING?? Oh, yes it was. Sadly, as much as we both like lobster, we couldn't bring ourselves to utter the words that would amount to the little feller's death sentence. (And, I wondered how we'd have all felt if they'd paraded Bossie, the Cow through the dining room, too.)

Anyway, I ended up with my new system (detailed elsewhere on this blog). I shared a salad with Ann, then gobbled up garlic mashed potatoes (a HUGE portion, by the way), and two humongous clumps of broccoli.

YUM!

Afterward, rumor had it that some of our cohorts were partaking in adult beverages at a place called The Sugar Mill, and since we were in the neighborhood, we ambled on over.

Oh. My. God. Could there be anything more depressing than a roomful of seventy and eighty year old alcoholics singin' along to the oldies? I quickly remembered why I never go there. Eek. I'm still shuddering.

So by now you're thinking the Marty celebration is over, right? Wrong. It continues this weekend, and if you're predicting a gambling journey, wrong again.

Nope.

We're going to............................(wait for it).......................okay, all together now................

DISNEYLAND!

Resolutions*

Okay, it's official. I've decided ix-nay on the esolutions-ray. Don't get me wrong, folks--I gave it the old college try. Thanks to Microsoft word and nimble typing fingers, making the list was pretty damn easy.

Sigh.

We all know execution is another matter.

I found my list was so long, it immobilized me. Overwhelmed me. Scared me sh*tless. I mean, when I got to page two, my hands started shaking.

Besides. Somewhere (not here) I posted some writing goals (AKA resolutions) for last year, and guess what? I didn't come CLOSE to achieving the ones I articulated, but I reached ones I didn't even know I had!

So much for writing goals.

Okay, if I must confess, here it is: I committed to completing the untitled WIP (I SWEAR, that's the title I'm gonna use since nothing else is popping to mind) by the end of March. Only, guess what? The sucker's still not finished. On the other hand, I wrote 13 short stories for True Romance--and they weren't even on the agenda, so go figure.

And as long as we're laying cards on the table, let's just say the personal goals for this year outnumber the writing ones. By A LOT.

Talk about even MORE daunting.

I heard one of those media shrinks claim that adopting a new habit takes three weeks and incorporating it into your lifestyle another six months.

To hell with that. I say let's call a moratorium on resolutions altogether.

*better known as: Ways to Torture Yourself With Feelings Of Self-Induced Inadequacy

I Know It's Cheating, but...

...it's so much easier (and quicker!) to post photos instead of the usual fascinating prose. (And since I've decided to declare this a Brittney-free zone, I'm really at a loss.) Okay, first of all...when did I get to be the Amazon of the family, huh? That's sister-in-law Susan on the left, then Annie, then Pat's wife Sandy, and...er...some really tall person (and at 5'3-3/4", that tells you how teensy the others are). Second picture is step-bro Mike, Daddy, and Susan.


How cool is this flower arrangement?? And, YES...that IS a flower in the center, not a feather. Don't ask me the name of it...cuz...y'all know I'm horticulturally challenged.

New Year's Continued...

Now that New Year's is but a dim memory, it seems silly to recap the weekend, but I promised, so...

Let's see...where were we? Oh, yes. Randi and I arrived at the Wyndham Saturday afternoon...and promptly found our way to the Spa Casino where the highlight was a straight flush at 3-card poker. There, we also hooked up with Randi's old friend Jim who joined us for dinner at Las Casuelas. Afterward, we walked back to our room, Randi gave Jim a ride home, and I...fell asleep. At nine o'clock. (Yeah, I was proud, too.) Our first night in Palm Springs and I only gambled a couple hours and was in bed by nine. What a way to ring out the old year.

Sunday was better.

In need of new scenery, we drove to the Agua Caliente Casino where later we were joined by (who else?) the West Coast M & A's. As a bonus, our old friend Barbara (an occasional commenter here known as "Babs in the Desert") showed up for more fun and frivolity. Somehow we wangled a table at Agua Caliente's steakhouse restaurant where much reminiscing and laughter took place, then...um...I think...yeah, I'm pretty sure...we went back to the Spa for more gambling. That's where I hit my first four-deuces. I think.

Monday began at Sherman's Deli, a famous "must" for breakfast in Palm Springs, then a brief walk to the now-familiar site of the Spa Casino. Within a few short minutes, I hit my SECOND four-deuces. Felt weird to get lucky so early in the morning (and yes, the only kinda lucky I get is the gambling lucky, so get your mind out of the gutter). After that, things get a little hazy, but apparently, we spent the entire day there then rushed over to Agua Caliente to settle in for pre-New Years Eve gambling.

Which bring us to...where I was when the clock struck midnight. So sad. I was losing, losing, losing (yes, see...I DO admit there are times the Gambling Gods don't smile on me). Marty, Ann, and I were at some weird form of Texas Hold 'em table and I was SUCKING big time. And sooooo ready to get out of that casino. Anyway, the countdown went off, I'm pretty sure Marty and Ann kissed, and I folded with a three-seven unsuited.

Woo f*ing hoo.

Ha.

Actually, it was okay. We had a blast anyway. And Marty didn't even put up a fuss when Ann and I begged him to take us back to the hotel.

(And so, for the record, I was in bed by quarter to one on New Years. Not a bad start for 2008, huh?)

The next day, Randi and I didn't waste any time getting out of town which turned out to be a good call since Marty and Ann got stuck in some godawful traffic jam only an hour later.

When I got home, I checked my year-end account with Harrah's...and let's just say THANK GOD for that jackpot in New Orleans!

Oh, well...if you know me at all, you know it's not about the gambling. Sorta like people who take golf vacations...it's not about the golf. Okay, I suppose it IS about the golf, but you get my drift, right? If it weren't for gambling, I'd have never seen Lincoln City, Oregon...or Biloxi, Mississippi...or...what's next, Marty??

New Year's Weekend

Flash back to forty years ago.

Randi and I were Junior High buddies, two of a group of about eight girls with college, marriage, and parenthood still far away in the future. (Okay, so I'm only one for three. Whatever.)

Flash forward.

Driving down to Palm Springs last Saturday, at first I went through one of those mental conversations you have with yourself: Who could have predicted that a lifetime later, we'd be spending New Years Weekend together?

Then, I thought: Well, duh. Why not? Quit being so melodramatic.

Anyway, food for thought. So there we were, yakking and navigating our way down the 118 to the 210 to the 15 to the...uh-oh. What happened to the 10? Suddenly, nothing looked familiar. And we'd gone way past the three miles where, purportedly, we'd pick it up.

Norco? I don't remember ever going through Norco to reach Palm Springs. Oh, well. We were hungry anyway, so we stopped at a MacDonalds and got directions. Yes, we'd missed the 10, but a new and exciting route awaited us.

We didn't care. We were too busy catching up on lives, loves, and...well, you know. All that girly stuff. Plus, I can cross off "eat at the MacDonald's in Norco" from my to-do list.

Bonus.

Here's another bonus. When I went hotel shopping for this excursion, I limited my search mainly to places within walking distance of the Spa Casino (where I knew we'd be spending a great deal of time.) Click, click, click...suddenly, one of those annoying pop-ups shot out of the screen, asking if I'd found what I was looking for. Usually, I hit the x and move on but this time, for some reason, I got curious. Okay, annoying pop-up...I accept your challenge. Show me something to knock my sox off.

And it did! I don't remember how it all worked, but I ended up on a site called Skoosh and they were quoting $86 a night for the Wyndham versus $186 a night at most of the other sites. I figured it was some kind of trick; a lure to an unsavory site waiting to rip off my credit card.

Then I saw the same price quoted elsewhere.

So I researched Skoosh, concluded they're related to Priceline, and decided to take the risk. The total (prepaid--which made me a tad nervous) for three nights with tax etc. : $316.80. On New Years Weekend.

Still nervous, I called the hotel a few days later, confirming they had my reservation and that, yes...it was possible a wholesaler had purchased rooms at the cheap price.

Score! We'd already "won" and we hadn't even begun gambling yet! Not only that, but when we showed up, the hotel (not the booking agency, the hotel) had us arriving...um...next year--as in December 29, 2008--so they didn't have the exact room set-up I'd reserved. No problem. They upgraded us to a junior suite at the same pre-paid price. Another score!

And that's how the weekend commenced...more later.

Happy New Year Y'all!

Here's wishing you a mess of wild deuces in the coming year...

Okay. Twist my arm. If you look closely, I won $416 on that bet...then on the next day, I did the very same thing AGAIN!

On top of a straight flush at 3-card poker!

Cha-Ching!!

(Picture taken very discreetly using cell phone at the Spa Casino in Palm Springs.)

New Year's Luck??

Rumor has it the publishing industry grinds to a halt for the entire month of December.

That's why I was surprised to find a request for a partial in my inbox yesterday. Squee! Put the sucker in the mail this morning and so another waiting game begins. By the way, that cryptic post from a few days back? Well! At the prodding of my departing (sniff, sniff, sob, sob) editor at Dorchester Media (publishers of True Romance Magazine), I inquired as to the status of the partial that's been with their novel division for a year. (Yes, THAT submission.) Anyway, the news was pretty good--it's with an editor. More squee.

And while we're on the subject of writing...last night I finished up another story for True Romance using my new plotting tool. Still tweaking it (the tool, not the story)--and learning from it--but I'm encouraged. Have decided to practice writing shorts for awhile, then adapt the modified version to the long stuff. Keep your fingers crossed!

Ripped (off) From The News...

First, from the L.A. Times, a glimmer of hope:

MUSLIMS JOIN IRAQI CHRISTIANS 'TO PLANT THE SEED OF LOVE AGAIN'"

BAGHDAD -- Outside Mar Eliya church, not much had changed since last Christmas: Concrete blocks still surround the building and guards check the IDs of those entering.

But inside, hundreds of Iraqi worshipers -- Christians and Muslims -- were crammed into the overflowing Chaldean Catholic church Tuesday, celebrating the holiday and the fact that they felt safe enough to venture out of their homes to attend Christmas Mass.

"Last year was the year of misery, desperation and sadness," said Samar Jorge Gorges, 33. "But this year is better. So many people attend the Mass and you can see that their praying was joyful."

Read entire story here.


Second, how's this for a chuckle? It seems Chet Fitch (who died last October) was a man with a sense of humor. At Christmas this year, his many friends received greeting cards "from beyond" (in fact, the return address read "Heaven").

Inside, he wrote:

"I asked Big Guy if I could sneak back and send some cards. At first he said no; but at my insistence he finally said, 'Oh well, what the heaven, go ahead but don't [tarry] there.' Wish I could tell you about things here but words cannot explain.

"Better get back as Big Guy said he stretched a point to let me in the first time, so I had better not press my luck. I'll probably be seeing you (some sooner than you think). Wishing you a very Merry Christmas. Chet Fitch."

Yes, he'd conspired for years with his barber, keeping her supplied with an updated mailing list and extra money when postal rates went up. This Fall he told her: "You must be getting tired of waiting to mail those cards. I think you'll probably be able to mail them this year."

Sadly, Chet was right; he died a week later.

I'm sure his friends were cheered by hearing from him one last time.

Merry Christmas, Y'all!

And,hm...don't think I'm not givin' the idea of growing a beard to hide my neck some serious thought. Oh, and hey...if you click to make the picture large, you'll be able to see how my eyes apparently belong to two different people. Good thing I'm not vain or anything.

Much.

(Like I'm not heading for the phone to see if plastic surgeons work on Christmas Day.)

Epiphany at 4 a.m.

So, you're probably guessing I woke up in the middle of the night thinking of last minute Christmas gifts I have to buy, right?

Wrong.

I woke up agonizing over my continued inability to move faster on my writing projects. Specifically, the untitled WIP (which I believe appears in last year's resolutions with a projected finish date of January 31--as in 2007), and a short story I'm working on for True Romance. Maybe the source of my insomnia also stemmed from writing friend Brooke's recent reminder that I once studied the snowflake plotting method.

I mean, geesh. What method HAVEN'T I studied?

Then, it came to me. I have to find my own method.

Period.

Perhaps a combo of the stuff I've found useful. Definitely something that attacks my deficiencies and weaknesses.

I have a bit of a plan in mind. (At least it looked good on the blank pages of my mental state with political pundits debating the upcoming primary race on "Morning Joe" playing in the background on MSNBC.) I'm gonna start with a plotting board but this time, instead of ending up with a big blank hunk of cardboard and four colors of post-it notes, I hope to have a computer spreadsheet that mimics it.

Then the hard part.

Figuring out how to make the instrument prod me for the story BEFORE the writing. AND, at the same time, how to get it to organically provide the proper structure and length. I'm convinced that if I can devise a scene-by-scene framework BEFORE I write, I'll increase my productivity by leaps and bounds.

Well, maybe just leaps, but at this point, I'll take leaps.

Hell, I'll take stutter-steps.

Stay tuned.

Ho Ho Ho

Notice the lack of exclamation points.

Is Christmas over yet???

Geez, I hate feeling that way...like Christmas is something to get through rather than enjoy. It's almost cliche, and I don't wanna be that bah humbug person. I mean how hard is it, really? For me, anyway. I do most of my shopping on-line (with a big chunk accomplished at Rite-Aid last night--yes, a drug store!), and I don't do any baking or cooking anymore for the office party (which we hold at a restaurant).

I don't even have to wrap a million little presents for kids.

So, WTF?

Christmas carols are playing from a CD on my computer...how come I felt more Christmas-y when I heard them at St. Lucia's version of 7-11 in late October?

Why is writing cards a chore instead of a wonderful opportunity to reach out and touch old friends and relatives?

What's it all about, Alfie?

Okay, I comfort myself, knowing that at some odd moment, the spirit of Christmas may overtake me when I least expect it. I also know that the moment will probably involve alcohol. Preferably a Bailey's and coffee.

Hm. Wonder if we have any in the office kitchen.

Britney's Gonna Be An Aunt, Y'all!

Lynn Spears, the mighty matriarchal figure to Britney and Jamie Lyn, got the bad news that her parenting book has been delayed indefinitely. This on the heels of her sixteen-year-old daughter's revelation that she's in the family way (and, man..."family way" takes on a whole new meaning when it comes to the Spears siblings, doesn't it?).

So what I'm wondering is, how did this book get contracted in the first place? Granted, despite the current media hype, it doesn't appear to have been intended as a "how to" book on raising kids. (The title, "Pop Culture Mom: A Real Story of Fame and Family in a Tabloid World" pretty much disputes that, doesn't it?) Still...what a sad state of affairs when a pop culture mom is an "expert" on ANYTHING.

I mean, what pearls of wisdom could we have expected? Chapters on How To Ruin Career(s) With Two, Now Three Fast-swimming Sperm? Adventures in Head Shaving?

I can't help but picture the family meeting over this, the Spears's last hope for cash cow offspring since Britney's career looks doomed. Lynn, with all her savvy experience in a "tabloid world" must have known a certain medical option held too much risk of exposure, leaving them with one choice (forgive the expression). So, Jamie Lynn, a child herself, is having a baby--one with plenty of cousins, thanks to her older sis.

It's enough to make a person long for the days of Madonna and Papa Don't Preach.

Can Waiting ACTUALLY Pay Off?

Seriously?

Honestly?

You're kidding, right?

That's all I'm saying for now. Don't anyone hold your breath. Don't anyone start counting chickens.

Just sayin'...

Kill Me Now...

Oh, wait...No. Kill me in utero.

I knew it would come to this eventually.

If, in the future, you happen to be browsing this site and the link doesn't work, feel free to email me to ask what this was about.

By the way, I left a comment...y'know, like, defending my LIFE. Maybe I'll blog about it later.

Waiting for Godot

Ha. Did y'all have to read that in high school? I did. Don't remember what the big "message" was, if there WAS any (which tells you something about my literary prowess), but I always liked the title.

Anyway....so...speaking of waiting...I'd given up on my submission to the Christmas Memories anthology. I figured the book must be out by now and I never received a copy, let alone a final contract.

BUT!

I should know by now that the writing/publishing biz works in mysterious ways. Got an email from the editor today saying the book has been delayed until 2008 and has been retitled "Christmas Through a Child's Eyes" and that although she hadn't seen the galleys, if I was receiving the email, I should be in the book.

Fun, huh?

But...geesh...2008? I have to wait until 2008???

I'd rather wait for Godot.

Whoever/whatever he/she/it turned out to be.

'Tis The Season...

...so I thought I'd fling a few flamingos your way...

Christmas at The Bellagio

Remember those cool pix I posted of the Conservatory at The Bellagio awhile back? (I'm too lazy to put the link in here, so use your imagination.) Anyway, on Sunday, Ann and I made a point of checking out the Christmas version.















The reindeer are made from pecans! The white flowers you see are carnations, and I don't remember the rest (yes, I make an excellent reporter).

Dear Harrah's:

Just a couple recommendations for improvement at your Flamingo Hotel property.

1. Please get with the program and remove alarm clocks from rooms. Waking up at 6 a.m. on Sunday morning was not part of the plan.

2. You know that crack security chick you had patrolling the floors around 3 in the afternoon? Try putting her on the schedule between 1 a.m. and 5 a.m. when all the crazies are out slamming doors, running up and down the hall, and generally keeping me from a good night's sleep.

3. That piece of tape substituting for the backing to the remote control doesn't work very well.

Other than that, thanks for the great time. Loved the view.

Fascinating

From dictionary.com:

Fascinating - "of great interest or attraction; enchanting; charming; captivating: a fascinating story; fascinating jewelry"

Let's compare the above with Barbara Walter's ten most fascinating people of 2007 to see how they stack up, shall we?

Hugo Chavez - Now I see where he would have been an obvious choice what with all the power-grabbing he's failed at lately. Not to mention how he called President Bush a donkey. But WTF? Barbara's interview showed him to be, in actuality, a boring schmoe. No charisma and truly no charm.

Don Imus - Personally, I happen to like Don Imus, and I'm glad to see him back on the airwaves. And, okay, the EVENT many months ago was fascinating, but I'm not sure that makes the MAN fascinating. So which radio station did he wind up on? Oh...wasn't it WABC? And which channel was Barbara's special aired on? Oh. I get it.

Katherine Heigle - If I were a betting gal (and y'all know I am), I'd place a hefty wager on the proposition that the majority of Americans have never even heard of this woman. Charming and attractive, yes. But fascinating? Hardly.

The Myspace Guys - Granted, news coverage of Myspace has amped up in recent months (probably because of the sale) but in truth this craze started waaaay before 2007. Come on, Barbara. You're a little late to the party on this one.

Jennifer Hudson - I don't mean to be politically incorrect, but if this is the token pick of color, in my opinion it's a little lacking. Don't get me wrong, the girl oozes charm and talent--I'll give her that. But so do a lot of other Blacks, Hispanics, and Asians. What? No Native Americans in the Top Ten?

Jason Timberlake - Hate to say it, but I rescind my earlier post on whether he's brought sexy back. He has. Plus, from what I gather, this is one down-to-earth, well-reared (no pun intended) guy. Good call, Babs.

Bill Clinton - Oh, can we say YAWN? What makes him fascinating THIS YEAR? Just because he happens to be married to a woman running for president? And oh--by the way--doesn't that make HER more fascinating than HIM?

David and Victoria (AKA Posh) Beckham - Okay, worse than yawn-inducing, we're talking coma time. Truly, I can think of no more boring couple. She has zero personality and doesn't smile. He's at least cute if you can get past all the tattoos. Fascinating? Nuh-uh.

J K Rowling - I buy the notion of her being fascinating, but not for 2007, so it's a timing issue. How about when the Harry Potter phenomenon really got underway...say about five years ago??

So, there you have it. The Top Ten Most Fascinating People of 2007 according to Barbara Walters--who's what, about 102? In an interview with Fox's Bill O'Reilly, she confirmed the selection process was less than scientific. In fact, there WAS no process. Oh, she says she discussed (argued about) them with her producer, but she had the last word.

Which probably explains the omission of Rosie O'Donnell from the list, huh? I mean, if Don Imus makes it, doesn't the ex-View detonator qualify?

Now that I've dissed Barbara's choices, you're probably wondering about mine. I'm workin' on it, okay? Stay tuned.

How Much Fun Is THIS??

Click here for holiday cheer.

For The Writer Who Has Everything...

Unfortunately, a little pricey. Otherwise I'd be ordering this in a HEARTBEAT.

Desperate Housewives

No, not me. Hahahaha. Although, if I WERE a housewife, I'd probably be the desperate kind.

I'm talking about the television show. I love love love when I learn about storytelling from a medium other than books. In this case, the lessons are abundant, including HOW NOTs and HOW TOs.

'Cuz one season (last season?) the show just sucked big time. Too many tangents, too many characters we didn't grow to love. Besides the whole mystery of the guy in the basement getting tedious, somehow they lost what they do best: combine comedy and drama.

This year, they've got it back in spades.

I may be biased, but to me it starts with the writing. From good writing comes great characters. From great characters comes riveting stories. Check it out:

There's:

Ditsy Susan--the TSTL (too stupid to live character) who redeems herself with a substance abuse storyline.
Manic Mom Lynette--the least-likely-to-be-a-mom-yet-has-four-kids character gets the cancer storyline
Bree--the Stepford wife character--gets the heartbreak of disappointing kids storyline
Gabriella--the simpering high-maintenance beauty character--gets the passionate-yet-impossible-love storyline
And last but not least--Edie--the woman who flaunts her sexuality and isn't afraid to use it as a tool--gets the unrequited love storyline.

I'm just saying. Being hooked on Desperate Housewives defines the meaning of guilty pleasure.

Nano Wrap-Up

Hm. By the looks of my calendar, NaNoWriMo ended at midnight on Friday...and...um...well, I guess I didn't make it to 50,000, did I? Not sure what the final total wound up at...nor whether I wrote more than I ordinarily would have. Bottom line, I wrote the beginning of one story, two entire short stories, the beginning of a third, and (hold your ears against the cymbal crash), about 750 words on ye old Untitled WIP.

Oh, and when I really slammed into the proverbial writing wall, I wrote queries. Actually sent them out, too.

Y'spose that counts?

Big Accomplishment This Past Sunday

So, I bought new tennis shoes.

Sadly, a humbling experience. See, the last time I procured footwear for the purpose of exercise, the year began with a one instead of a two.

Anyway, I go to the mall, I find the directory, and immediately locate Lady Foot Locker--figuring at least I won't mistake the men's shoes for the women's. Then I trot on down there (well, no...I walk since, y'know, I'm not wearing tennis shoes), and survey the display on the wall.

A zillion models of various shapes and colors are stacked in columns, all basically looking the same.

I decide to go with what's recognized the world over--the Nike swoosh. Now, you have to understand that to me, there's no such thing as a "cute" tennis shoe; nevertheless, I pick two of the cute-est and solicit the assistance of a clerk.

"Can I see these in an 8-1/2?"

"If we still have them in that size," she says, regarding me doubtfully.

While she disappears to the back, I contemplate whether it's the size she doubts, or my choice.

She returns with an apologetic smile. "Sorry. We only have them in a six or a nine." Again, the doubtful look. "You're a runner?"

"Uh, no."

Relief. "Those are for hard-core runners. What'll you be using them for?"

For taking up space in my closet. "Uh, aerobics. Y'know. Working out at the gym." And if I can't even tell the difference between a running shoe and an aerobics shoe, I'm obviously a sham. I wanna slink out of the store.

But I persevere. Swallowing my slacker shame, I allow her to choose a couple styles, I try them on, and in the space of ten minutes, I'm outta there, carrying my new workout shoes plus a brand new gym bag.

The hard part is over, right? I mean, 90% of fitness is just getting off your butt to get the appropriate shoes, doncha think?

Ugh

You never know from whence inspiration will spring, do ya? In my case, it comes from the fabulous news that writing friend Brooke made the finals of RWA's New England Chapter's First Kiss contest. Her glee reminds me of the scattered moments I myself have enjoyed during this arduous writing process--the ones that made me feel like, hey, maybe I CAN write!

Somehow (and this is really kinda cool), her excitement was contagious 'cuz it sent me re-visiting the WIP I haven't worked on in...oh...let's just say a WHILE. I mean, how can I continue to write (and sell!) story after to story to TR (by the way, sold a 2-parter this month--part 1 appears in February, part 2 in March), but have so much trouble cranking out the novel-length crap?

I'll tell ya why. (Even though you didn't really ask--it's okay; I can HEAR you wondering.)

The answer is (drum roll, please)...it's the story, stupid (thanks, Bill and Hillary). Trust me on this. Thirty pages versus four-hundred is...sigh...need I explain?

Particularly for a pantser/quasi-plotter. (Oh, who'm I kidding? Almost TOTAL pantser.) So tonight, I did what I should have done...maybe eons ago...certainly months. I took the time (ah, so boring) to enter onto a spreadsheet, chapter-by-chapter summaries of the action thus far. 'Cuz here's the deal: I've written 258 pages of a 360 page book. It was time to see how the plot hangs together, whether the turning points (if any!) are in the right place...what we're building up to and where the big bang(s) should be.

And when I was finished...well, it'd be really cool if I were to write: DING DING DING! Epiphanies galore!

Didn't happen.

When I was finished...I faced the same dilemma that probably made me pause in the first place. I don't know whether to proceed in a linear fashion...or (I'm shivering as I type this) to play around with re-ordering some of the scenes. Okay, I know big-time authors do it constantly. I KNOW editors (who tend to see more clearly) suggest this kinda thing all the time. Definitely a skill to learn no matter what.

Doesn't mean the thought doesn't scare me sh*tless.

It's hard enough to write a book from A to Z. Now I'm considering rearranging Q R S T so that it's more like STQR...which, understandably, will screw up U, V, and possibly N or maybe L. Frightening.

And obviously, why I decided it was time to blog tonight, huh? Trust me, if I hadn't already checked in on every website I monitor, I'd be doing that, too.

Hm. Did I ever solve that last game of Free Cell?

Postscript: Just did the math. I've written 12 short stories this year, averaging 30 pages a piece. Yep. 360 total pages. Enough for a whole BOOK.

Contrary To The Lyrics...

Shari and I are sitting at the bar chatting with a man we haven't seen in quite some time, when I notice the telltale signs in his eyes. A stranger is approaching.

The woman stands between us, her attention on the man. "Is your name Tony?"

"Excuse me?"

"Sorry. I thought you were someone I knew. Tony."

"No." He shakes his head with a smile. "Not Tony."

She disappears.

"I get that all the time," the man tells us.

"I'm surprised more people don't mistake you for someone they used to hang out with at a bar," I say.

"Oh, I get that, too."

I ponder what it's like to walk into a bar where everybody should know your name, but doesn't...and then Shari went to dance with the star.

Reasons To Query Widely, Query Often

1. Partial sent to Publisher X November 2006.

- A year later, no word.

2. Query sent to Publisher Y November 2006.

- A year later, no word.

3. Query sent to Agent X March 2006.

- 8 months later, no word.

4. Full sent to Agent Y August 2006.

- Three months later, no word.

5. Full sent to Publisher Z took 13 months to get the Ix-nay.

Okay, there ARE exceptions. Email queries usually get a pretty quick response. Partials and fulls, understandably, take awhile...but a year's kinda hard to stomach, ain't it? (Oh, and let's be clear: none of the entities referenced are in the camp who don't respond if they're not interested.)

The GOOD news is that by the time anyone reads my stuff, my genre may be back in action.

Ha. One can hope.

P.S. These "stats" are for different manuscripts.

'Twas the Night Before Thanksgiving...

and all through the house....oh, wait. Wrong holiday.

Anyway, was contemplating the upcoming evening, feeling odd about not having plans. Must be a hangover from college days when this was a night to celebrate--the end of mid-terms and a long drive home to family I hadn't seen in months.

Instead, this year, the highlight of the Wednesday before Thanksgiving will consist of a stop at the market for old lady spinster food (Lean Cuisines) and a spot in front of the TV for Project Runway.

Geez. Is my life circling the toilet, or what?

Kidding.

So, Shoot Me

How rude. My computer died, taking with it, all but the title of my original post. Now I'm too bored with the topic to resurrect it. Trust me, though. It was full of original thought, persuasively presented, and charmingly flip.

Why, Why, Why...

…do I get so, so, so, much pleasure from eating the wrong food? I mean, it’s some sort of curse, right? Or, maybe I’m one of those people who went AWOL while God was handing out the nutritious eating gene.

Whatever.

So, last night I’m sitting next to my step-brother (not the one from Peru/Chile, but the one from Santa Fe, New Mexico who I haven’t seen for eight years, and oh yes—he’s a health nut), and he asks me if I like asparagus.

The question causes me much soul searching.

How do you tell someone like him that the only vegetable you’re likely to consume comes in the potato variety, preferably French fried?

“I don’t eat fruits and vegetables,” I mumble pathetically. Then I add, kinda desperately, so he’ll know I’m not an idiot: “I’m gonna die young.” But just to take the edge off my comment—maybe fool him a little—I eat two spears of asparagus along with the chicken and salad.

Then I follow it all up with chocolate pecan pie and frozen yogurt. And for good measure I continue nibbling on crackers and salmon/cream cheese pate.

::Sigh::

Wait...uh-oh...did someone just open a bag of Fritos in the front office???

Watch me lay rubber down the hallway...

I Could Use A Course On Photography

It Kinda Works

When NaNoWriMo first kicked off this month, they didn't quite have their act together on the stuff fondly known as widgets. Well, the one I picked isn't the one I remember from last year, but it'll have to do. I mean, to my mind, the optimum would be a bar thingy showing progress toward the goal, and this one just makes it look like writer friend Jacqui Jacoby has finished, when in fact, she's just beating the hell out of me...which, I guess, may be the point.

Off to get my ass in gear....stay tuned.

Our Long National Nightmare Is Over

Oh, wait. I think that was what Gerald Ford said about Watergate.

Maybe I shouldn't equate it with the Triskelion debacle. Anyway, here's the deal: An epublisher named Siren bought the Triskelion contracts at auction for $1500, and in a gesture of good will, anounced its intention to release all rights back to the authors.

Now, I'm not sure if I need to do the Snoopy dance or what, cuz on Exhibit A in all the legal mumbo jumbo, there was a release date across from my name, so I think I was already "safe." Still...I'm thrilled to pieces for authors who had multiple works tied up in this mess. No doubt, they will find new cyberhomes for their books.

As for me, I'm done with the epub route. Finito. Finished. Not my thing. No offense to those of you making a career from it, but when you write straight contemporary nonerotic romance, epubbing isn't the place to be.

Did I gain anything from the experience? Uh, no Not really. It was a huge drain on my time with very, very little return--monetarily or otherwise.

Would I do it again? Uh, no. See previous paragraphs.

Am I sorry I did it? Uh, yes. At the time I signed the contract, I had a request for the manuscript from Dorchester. Knowing they take at least a year to read and respond--and that even then, the chances were slim of an acceptance--I went with the epub. For the instant gratification, you might say--always a questionable basis on which to make a decision.

Worse, though, is that I moved from Pro status to PAN status in RWA's eyes...which means, I can no longer compete in all the contests for unpublished authors...which, in turn, means I cut off one of the few avenues to editors and agents that exist.

Plus, ya think a New York publisher would touch an epubbed book even though it had only been on the market for a couple months? Uh, no. Probably not. So Stealing Amy basically goes in the trash heap.

Ah, well. Live and learn. Er, or not.

Tell Me...

Why, why, WHY do they do it?

I’m talking about bull shitters. (And let’s be clear—there’s no such thing as a bull shit artist, because if he were an artist you wouldn’t know he was bull shitting. Um…did you follow that??)

Anyway, last night, the lovely Anna Margarita de la Cruz and I are sitting in a fine dining establishment, enjoying the first cocktails of the evening, when a man recognizes me from across the room and drops by to say hello.

Now, I’ve known this guy for years—okay, as well as anyone can know a bar acquaintance--I see him a couple times a month, I’ve met his wife, I know his friends—hell, I even dated one of them way back when.

So, why, why, WHY does he proceed to spend the next twenty minutes boring us with what he does, what he owns, where he travels, and what a hot shot he is? Permit me to pick a few words and phrases at random to paint the picture: my driver…my limo…I’m the guy they call…Vegas for four days…and (my personal favorite, said no less than five times) I’ll be out of the country.

I mean, what’s wrong with saying I’ll be traveling? I’ll be going out of town? And, trust me…this guy has NO limo, NO driver.

Oh, wait. The best part? Supposedly, he’s dropped by the restaurant because he’s “bringing some bands in” (although he’s, um, basically an insurance agent)…and he’s “consulting” with the owners, “helping them figure a way to rearrange the layout so that music in the bar area doesn't bother guests in the dining area.”

And, get this: when a policeman or firefighter goes down, this guy’s the first person they call.

Huh?

Wow…talk about a jack-of-all-trades.

Except that I know the truth. Speaking of jack, a friend of his once told me this guy has jack to his name (big surprise).

Grrr. It seemed he’d never leave. Our wine glasses sat empty, the waitress too polite to interrupt. Then he left, and she appeared instantly. Anna Margarita, never having met the subject of this rant before, questioned her about the guy’s relationship to the restaurant.

“None,” she confirmed. “No offense if he’s a friend of yours, but I don’t like him.”

Later, we got the same response from the bartender.

So, again…sigh…I ask, what for?? Why the need to impress—especially, when he must KNOW I KNOW the truth?

::Shuddering::

It’s creepy, that’s what it is.

Pathological and creepy.

And, yes. A bit sad.

Where Have I Been?

14. Justin Timberlake - He may be bringing sexy back but so far, from what I can tell, it hasn't shown up yet.

13. Will Yun Lee - Who?

12. Adrian Grenier - Granted, he's got bedroom eyes and the tousled hair, but if we're going Entourage, I pick Jeremy Piven

11. Ben Affleck - Tired. Really. Just tired.

10. Shemar Moore - Who?

9. Javier Bardim - Who?

8. Will Smith - Okay, this choice makes sense

7. Dave Annable - Who?

6. Johnny Depp - I'll give ya sexy, but are we sure he bathes?

5. James McAvoy - Who?

4. Brad Pitt - Again, tired. Very, very, tired. And I've never been able to see past the chipmunk jowls.

3. Ryan Reynolds - Who?

2. Patrick Dempsey - Okay, I get it. Grey's Anatomy, which I don't watch. McDreamy, right? Can a man truly be sexy with such a stupid nickname?

And now...drum roll, please...this year's sexiest men alive....is....


1. Matt Damon - HUH? Come on, People. I don't THINK so. I mean, nice guy and all. Loved him in The Talented Mr. Ripley...but sexy? Here's my new litmus test: if I can't picture a guy in a romantic comedy, he's not leading man material.

Now, it's entirely possible I'm either old or out-of-touch, probably both ...'cuz this year's list baffles me. I've never even HEARD of half of them, and the rest don't do a THING for me (with the exception of Will Smith). I mean, whaddya think, ladies?

No, No, NaNo

Some of you may have noticed the NaNoWriMo logo I added awhile back. You're probably wondering about my progress.

Well, let's just say...I suck.

See, here's the deal. I'd planned to use vacation downtime to do some plottin' and plannin'. Y'know...like during airport layovers...while sunning on deck...time when I could let the muse work her magic.

Except things didn't turn out that way. I spent the airport layovers in bars chatting with strangers. I spent the time on deck comparing war stories with my young pal, Ali.

It seems the muse went on vacation, too.

Oh, don't get me wrong. In a moment of clarity the morning we hit St. Maarten, I wrote a 1200-word story for submission to Cup of Comfort for their next Christmas book, so the cruise wasn't a total lost cause in the writing arena.

But I came home with nothing, nada, zilch in the way of what to write for Nano. Then, the night before, I suddenly remembered an idea I'd had for a series. Kind of a Stephanie Plum meets Elle Wood meets Desperate Housewives thing. Even came up with a cool opening.

So, on the first day of November, I cranked out 2,000 words in true Nano fashion. The next day, I hit a wall. I kept writing, but I quickly lost enthusiasm for the idea. It just wasn't working.

That's the problem with doing Nano for the fifth time. Veteran blog readers may remember my first foray into crash-and-burn writing. Spit out 50,000 words (that's 200 manuscript pages) in 3 weeks. Ah...to return to the "ignorance is bliss" era. 'Course the output was out-and-out crap, but still...last year, I managed 36,000 words of a book I'm still trying to finish.

Anyway...so on day three of NaNo, I decided screw it. I'll use the time to work on short stories for True Romance. By NaNo standards, I should be able to spew out five or six.

Or, two.

Bottom line--it's day 13 of the novel writing frenzy month, and my total is currently about 8,500 words--far short of the 21,658 I should be at. Writing buddies keep saying things like, "hey--that's 8,500 words you hadn't written before," to which I say: "But I probably wrote 8,500 words in the same period of time last month."

In short, NaNo is a bust.

Homage to the M's and A's

Kathy Griffin may have "her gays", but I've got my M&A's...one set on the West Coast, the other on the East. Today's post pays tribute to them.

To the A's:

Thank you for not having a jealous bone in your bodies and for knowing romance isn't about the amount of time spent alone with your guy

Thank you for not getting upset when I accidentally know more about upcoming plans than you do

To the M's:

Thank you for lifting my heavy luggage and handling the taxi drivers

Thank you for not rolling your eyes when subjected to all the "girly" conversation

To all four of you:

Thank you for not adhering to society's rules that people oughta come in couples

Thank you for never making me feel like a third wheel

Thank you for never pressuring me to round out a threesome into a foursome

Thank you for sharing your zest for adventure and making it possible for me to experience mine

I feel blessed to have y'all in my life!

Marty and Ann








Marty and Ali

We Now Return You...

...to our regularly scheduled program. AKA Randy's normal life.

So, let's see how many of you are seasoned readers, shall we? Let's pretend we're back in college and it's SAT (GRE/LSAT/GMAT whatever) time, and your score depends on the proper answer to one--and only one--multiple choice question.

Here goes:

A. Randy got home from her cruise, went to bed, and unpacked the next day after work.

B. Randy got home from her cruise, unpacked and did laundry, then went to bed.

C. Randy got home from her cruise, unpacked what she needed for the next day, then completed the process when she had time over the following week.

D. Eight days after her cruise, Randy's open suitcase is blocking the front door, with clothes spilling out all over the foyer, and shards of broken mirror sparkling on the tile.

Okay, show of hands. Who picked A, B, or C...?

BUZZ. ROOKIES, ALL OF YOU!!

Longtime blog readers know D is the correct answer.

And, for extra credit, the essay question: WHEN and HOW will the situation described in option D change?

Ding Ding DING!

Right. The maid comes tomorrow.

Which means Randy will rise three minutes early, stuff all the crap back into the suitcase and throw it in the closet.

Class dismissed. (Gold stars for those who answered the essay question correctly.)

Don't Try This With Dial-Up

More cruise highlights. And if I could figure out what happened to the utility I had that allowed me to capture video from my videocam, this would be Oscar-worthy.

Cruise Shots

See, here's the thing. I really should have taken notes each night, because I've already forgotten the details of yesterday, let alone last week. So, let's rely on the pictures, shall we?

Oh, and I just uploaded them in reverse order. Geesh. And now what I've written isn't where it's supposed to be. Ack. Bear with me on the spacing.

Anyway, Ali and Marty on our first formal night. We were (where else?) at the casino bar just before dinner.


Next is a shot of some of our Boston friends. I believe that's Claudia on the left, then Sandy, Margaret, and Jimbo. If I were ever stranded on a desert island, these are the three I'd choose for partners, and here's why: Sandy would supply the food and the box of wine, Margaret would keep us in shape with line dancing, and Jimbo would entertain us by singing Red Beans and Rice!












Then there's me...trying out the self-timer in my stateroom. Trust me, it took several shots to get a good one. My cabin guy (who I met only once--guess the fawning service went out with the advent of prepaid tips) was a little towel animal-challenged. They all looked like elephants.

Sunset, first night out of Ft. Lauderdale. Not sure I saw another one the whole cruise, but I always like sunRISES better anyway. And, yes...despite the late nights, I got a bunch of good ones, particularly coming into St. Maarten and St. Lucia. More on those later.

Firsts

Frog legs (yep...just like chicken)

Rueben sandwich (omigod, y'all...why didn' t anyone tell me about these???)

Missed a formal night

Accessed the internet at sea

Conversed with a cross-dresser (and maybe got hit on???)

First time on St. Lucia

First time I didn't visit the photo gallery to see pictures (especially after the sour look on a new friend's face who reported coming across one of me and Ali)

First time I didn't purchase ONE souvenir on the ship

First time I didn't eat ONE breakfast (okay, that's a lie--but a spoonful of scrambled eggs hardly counts, does it? Oh, and unless you count pina coladas as breakfast--which, as a matter of fact, I do)

First time sailing through a storm that had a name (Noel--figures it'd be a guy)

And, now...for your viewing pleasure...Miss Ali on board the Carnival Miracle, accompanied by Larry The Piano Player with assistance by Buster.

Back To Reality

While waiting for brain cells to reassemble and for the time to sort out and upload pictures, I thought I'd take a moment to make some random comments about what it's like to come back from an 11-day vacation.

First, in spite of living in a hooked-up world (and my meager efforts to obtain news first in Ft. Lauderdale and then on the ship), you can still miss a whole lot of what goes on. Maybe that's a good thing?? I dunno. But I'd hate to be the stupid one at the cocktail party who speaks of Robert Goulet as though he's still alive.

See, here's the thing. Our cruiseship had lots of network stations--only they came out of DENVER, so I'm all up on local Colorado news, but not so much on the rest of the nation. (Oh, and did you know Amelia Earhart is alive and well doing helicopter traffic news? Yeah, she looks pretty good for someone lost at sea decades ago). As for national stuff, well...Carnival skips right over that by giving us CNN international news. Let me just point out that there's a big old world out there, much of which I could care less about while I'm trying to figure out how close Tropical Storm Noel is to our ship (VERY close, for the record).

Don't even get me started on the SoCal fires. I'm STILL trying to figure out where they were...and weren't.

So, coming back to work is like waking up from a 10-day coma and trying to piece together what I missed. Thus far, I've gone through about 1000 personal emails and about 2000 business ones. Good thing I put some of my writing groups on "digest" or there'd be another 1000. To tell you the truth, I just deleted the jokes. At one time, I would have painstakingly opened them all--not daring to miss a gem--but these days, life's too short to read ONCE AGAIN what George Carlin supposedly said about today's America.

Do I sound cranky?

I am.

I wanna be back on the Caribbean with friends Marty and Ali...rain or no rain, I don't care.

Blogging From The Caribbean

So far I've met three guys...who are gay (not that there's anything wrong with it)...and five who are...crossdressers (not that there's anything wrong there, either)..but geez...not boding well for a shipboard romance on this end, that's for sure!

Meanwhile, California burns, and all I've got is the local Denver news which isn't very helpful. Especially since it gives me the wrong time. Oh, and CNN Headline News, but seeing Qualcom Stadium over and over doesn't tell me much about what's going on in Del Mar Heights, Fallbrook, or Santa Clarita. (Oh, and note to the CNN newsperson--I'm pretty sure an ember from the Malibu fire did NOT fly all the way to Santa Clarita to start that one).

Okay, time is money in the old ship's internet cafe, so signing off for now....

From Ft. Lauderdale...

Needless to say, it's always a bad sign when friggin LIFTING INSTRUCTIONS are attached to your bag. Hey, at least I handled the carry-on, and have the pain in my thighs today to prove it.

Anyway, with grey brows plucked and support garments packed (and on 3 hours sleep--gotta love it when your alarm clock goes off at 3:45 a.m.), I made it to Ft. Lauderdale yesterday. Met fascinating people along the way, including a professional weight lifting female who'd been on the Gulf Coast helping the reconstruction effort with her church group.

Met up with old cruise buds Marty and Ali at the Airport Hilton--the scene last night of a Homecoming Dance for the largest high school (5,000 students!) in Florida. Eight hundred kids converged on the hotel in the most stunning gowns seen this side of Oscar Night in Hollywood. And, MAN...so many hot young chicks! Poor Marty, I'm afraid his libido went into overdrive.

Had dinner at the Rustic Inn about a mile away. Large portions and my third meal of the day, but hey--I'm on vacation. Plus I did all that working out with the luggage today....

Okay, off to monitor the fire activity in my hometown. Geesh. Winds+October=some pretty frightening television coverage. Stay safe, Malibu!!

Oops

The day of departure approaches, and I keep a wary eye on my nails. Is one about to break? Are they too long to make it through the week?

Impulsively, I find a nearby nail salon that takes walk-in appointments. When I arrive, I like the looks of the place. All Asian men.

Right away, I'm seated in one of those spa chair thingies. One old Asian guy goes to work on my feet, the other starts massaging my back.

I'm in heaven.

All I can think about is how five minutes before, I was staring at a computer and now an old Asian man who I've never met is touching me more intimately than any man has touched me in years. (Okay, to be fair, NO man has touched me in a long time, intimately or otherwise.)

Thoughts race through my head at the wonderfulness of it all. I think about a friend of mine who does this on a weekly basis--although, let's be honest, she's one of those freaks of nature who actually reaches (um, shall we say...a sexual peak?) during a manicure. Then I worry about the fact that I'm thinking about my friend's sexual proclivities when I should be concentrating on making my next appointment. I'm also worrying about how this is all going through my mind as one long blog post.

Anyway, I get the whole ball of wax. The shoulder-back-arm-hand-finger-calf-ankle-foot-toe massage.

And it's bliss.

When it's all over, I look at my nails.

They're gone.

I mean, literally, they couldn't be any shorter.

Somehow "take them down to half"--his words, not mine--translated to "slash the suckers down to the quick."

I AM SO BUMMED.

Lesson learned: Asian men/massage = good; Asian men/manicure = not so much

Random Thought On My Way To Work

About a year ago, an attractive single guy moved in next door. (Yeah, imagine the excitement chez Randy.) Anyway, it occurred to me this morning that in all that time, we've exchanged "hi's" on precisely two occasions.

Is it me, or is it him? Or, is it just L.A....?

Come to think of it, I've lived in my townhome for over 25 years and not ONCE have I received an invite to someone's house. (Okay, conversely, I've never asked a neighbor over, either.)

Is it me, or is it them? Or, is it just L.A....?

Hot Babes

Amazing to what depths I'll sink for a post, huh? Does it count that one of the ladies pictured below celebrates a birthday tomorrow??

Ah...sixth grade...I remember it like it was yesterday. So many firsts. So much newness. In mid-year, we got transferred to a brand new school, so we got to choose stuff like our mascot (go Mustangs!) and our school colors (blue and silver). I was elected editor of the first school newspaper and (in quite the coup) got to assist the L.A. Superintendent of Schools with the ribbon cutting ceremony when we opened. (Yeah, I'm thinking I may have peaked in 6th grade).

For some reason, my posse and I decided we needed a cheerleading squad, although I don't recall there being a team to root for. (Note the homemade pom poms and the freakishly long skirts.)

In the back row, from left to right: Rhoni (check out the stylish glasses), Cynthia (happy birthday, Cynth!), and Lori (check out the sexy hair swoop).

In the front row, from left to right: Me (eyes closed, pre-braces, and no boobs--yet), Debbie B. (who I never, ever ONCE saw without her hair in a ponytail--not even at sleepovers), and Debbie W (keeper of the flame and owner of the original photo).
















We were inseparable that year and so, so busy. Concerts, boys, shopping at this new thing called a mall, boys, going to the beach, boys...oh, and did I mention we were crazy about boys?

This is probably the only existing photo of the six of us because, by high school, we'd morphed into different human beings. Cynthia moved to Seattle, Lori went to a private school, and Debby B. went to a different public school. I still see Rhoni and Debbie W, have a sporadic email association with Cynthia, and I hear Debbie B. lives close by but I don't know how to reach her. Lori, last I heard (and this was decades ago), was an opera singer in Australia.

Man...those were the days...when a girl could eat whatever she wanted without gaining an ounce... ::sigh::

Don't Try Building This At Home, Folks

One big-ass test chamber. I'll let y'all know when it ships so you can get off the road and out of the way.

The Infamous Bankruptcy Update

News flash: our government wastes an amazing amount of money on bullshit. But, you know what? WE, the so-called people make them do it.

That's my big epiphany regarding the brankruptcy filed by the ebpublisher with whom I was briefly involved. I've lost track of how many letters the court has sent me. Multiply that by about 117 authors, and you end up with a lot of postage, copying, and paper, not to mention high dollar billable rates (paid by--guess who? Yes, us taxpayers).

For what?

To protect everyone's rights, including but not limited to: the authors who have contracts tied up, authors owed royalties, miscellaneous creditors, and indeed the rights of the debtors themselves.

But if you ask me, no matter how you slice it, we all get screwed.

Meanwhile, as courts do, the trustee is trying to auction off assets. Well, guess what the assets are? Right. The author contracts, some software, an inventory of print books, and some miscellaneous furniture. I mean, we're not talking Donald Trump, here. Nevertheless, a whole lot of disgruntled authors kinda resent not having control over the books they shed blood, sweat, and tears over. Especially those of us who have letters from the publisher reconveying our rights!

So, along comes a white knight in the form of another epublisher. They've issued a press release stating they intend to bid $1500 for the contracts. Presumably they would then fulfill their end, i.e., publish the books under the original terms. To their credit, this publisher has publicly stated they will work with the authors, letting anyone go who so desires.

Meanwhile, a group of authors has hired an attorney to fight the good fight on moral grounds, hoping to set precedent establishing the rights of authors to their intellectual property. Let's just hope this particular effort doesn't end up prolonging the whole mess.

Stuff to Pack

Phone charger
laptop charger
wireless mouse
retractable phone cord
videocam charger
videocam/TV communication cord
digital camera charger
USB cable
iPod docking station
laptop
videocam
digital camera

And this is just what goes into my carry-on luggage. Whatever did we do before the electronic age?

Packed a lot lighter, I guess.

One Week From Tomorrow! ! !

Shoot. Blogger just ate my post and shut my computer down, and I'm too lazy to resurrect the whole story. Suffice to say, here are the infamous Ali and Marty--with whom I'll be sharing mucho de quality drinking time in the VERY near future.

SOCIAL!!!!!

(Ya had to be there.)

Number Nine...Number Nine...

(God, I hated when the Beatles went all weird, like on that song...)

Anyhoo, yesterday I received my NINTH contract from True Romance! Squee! This latest is tentatively scheduled for December's issue but it's not Christmas-themed. (Hey, I'm no dummy--I figured there'd be waaaaay too much competition on those.) My working title was "The Man and The Mountain"--or something like that (I can barely recall)--but no doubt it'll have a better title in the end. Needing a winter setting, I dredged up a story about a woman caught in a horrific storm who takes refuge with a handsome mountain man. (Blah, blah...yadda, yadda.)

Never Too Late

This morning, I decided to change careers.

Okay, I know what you're saying to yourself. But, Randy. You're 54 years old. Kinda late, isn't it?

To which I reply: When you discover your true calling in life, you have to follow your heart. And that's why I'm submitting my application to the MLE.







Yep, as you can see by the logo, I plan to become the Michael Jordan of competitive eating. I mean, how hard can it be? I'm pretty sure I possess all the qualifications.

And I'd elaborate on them here, but my brain is busy directing traffic to my digestive system in an effort to process all the FOOD I consumed yesterday at my brother's 60th birthday party.

Hey, when you're a part of the MLE, you're in training 24/7. Tough, but I think I can handle it.

News Flash! I Finished Reading A Book!

Returning from the RWA National Conference in New York back in 2003, I almost had to pay the surcharge for overweight luggage because of all the freebie books I picked up. Ever since then, I’ve been a whole lot more discriminating when I browse the publisher signings. I even sift through the goody bag and leave behind the ones I know I’ll never read.

That’s because my bedroom is now a shrine to stacks of unread books. And we’re not talking TBR (to be read) piles; we’re talking NTBR (never to be read) and NTBF (never to be finished) piles.

So when Jessica Barksdale Inclan (remember when I met her at the conference in Dallas this year?) graciously offered to send me a book, I accepted but with little hope that it wouldn’t end up suffering the same fate as all the rest.

Well, I was wrong.

Yep, ladies and gents. Not only did I START the book, I FINISHED the book. . .because, FOR ONCE, I discovered a true gem.

I have to admit, my initial impression didn’t bode well. First, because I read mostly romantic comedy and right off the bat, we learn one of the characters has breast cancer. Second, because I favor fast-paced, snarky writing, and Jessica’s voice is more ponderous. . .but so lyrical I couldn’t put the book down.

I’ve never written a review, because I don’t know how to do it without spoilers. Plus I fear my interpretation may not be what the author intended. After all, as readers, what we get from a book is personal and subject to our own life experience, no?

Let me just give you this much: The Instant When Everything Is Perfect is written from three points of view: there’s Mia who’s been married 20+ years to a man she loves, yet craves to fill a void she can’t even define; there’s Mia’s mother Sally who, now that she’s facing mortality realizes she stopped living after her husband died; and Robert−a man afraid to connect.

See? I’m afraid I didn’t do them justice, because all three are so complex, they defy my meager stab at describing them. Take my word for it. You have to read the book.

Lucky for me, Jessica sent TWO freebies. While I go dive into the other one, click here to read an excerpt of The Instant When Everything Is Perfect.

The Mixed Bag Of Google

Tracking down long lost friends on Google is one of my favorite time killers. It's kinda like playing Nancy Drew from my desk and cheaper than hiring a P.I.

Blog readers may remember earlier scores like finding my old friend Cynthia up in Seattle. Conveniently, she came complete with a picture and email address at the place she worked. Then there was my childhood friend, Diane. She took a little more effort since she goes by a married name, and it's changed a few times because her husband's a radio personality. I emailed him at the station and voila! Diane responded minutes later.

On both occasions, a flurry of emails ensued, catching up on a lifetime of marriages, divorces, kids...even (gulp)...grandkids.

Sometimes, like adopted offspring discovering birth parents who didn't wanna be found, locating people who somehow slipped from your life doesn't work out so well. Take my ex-boss, for instance. Susan and I worked together for a couple years in the late 70's/early 80's. I was in my twenties, Susan was in her thirties. Both of us just starting out in life. We produced several TV shows together and practically lived in each other's back pockets. I mean, seriously. One time, we worked in a darkened editing room for three solid weeks, only taking off to run home, catch 3 hours of sleep, shower, and return. In her acceptance speech at the Los Angeles local Emmy awards, she said we spent more time together than most married couples.

Cut to thirty years later. I tracked her down at some obscure political website she'd signed a petition on. Off went the email.

A month went by.

I finally decided the address must have been old, when lo and behold, there it was: a response from Susan. Reading between the lines, I detected the unhappiness. The frustration. A career begun with so much potential in the 70's somehow stalled and faded away. Still with the same guy but seemingly mired in a relationship now cracked with age and unfulfilled promise. She didn't seem happy at all.

I wrote back, suggesting we get together some time.

I never heard from her again.

C'est la vie, y'know? No biggie. More importantly, I was glad to have caught up with her. In a sense, I felt (cliche alert) closure.

Which brings me to the other kind of Google search. The one that leads to unexpected places.

Over the course of the seven years I spent in Irvine (college days), I shared apartments with an assortment of roommates. Most I'm still in touch with, but one of them slipped the noose. Naturally, she was on my Google radar, but I'd never found anything.

Until this week.

I clicked on the site without really noting what it was. Even when the Duluth newspaper showed up, I didn't pay attention to its content because--hey, I'm no rookie at this--I know Google's spiders catch the oddest things in their web.

Using "find on this page" to zoom to her name, there it was: Val's obituary.

I was stunned.

I had to read the opening line several times to confirm what it all meant. She'd died nine years before at the age of 45. Married, the mother of four children, and a faithful member of her local Catholic church. Employed for ten years at a beauty salon. Preceded in death by her sister, Gabrielle.

How. Could. This. Be.

To put it mildly, the news blew me away. I shot off an email to our third roommate (another Susan) instantly. Over the years, she'd been looking for Val, too.

Moments later, my phone rang. Sue calling from Houston. We commiserated, expressing a sense of bewilderment that didn't stop with a phone call. For several days, we exchanged emails, trying to get to the bottom of our emotional response to the death of a woman we hadn't seen in nearly thirty years. It felt odd to mourn 9-year old news.

She died so young, we lamented to each other. Was it suicide? Alcoholism? The fact that both possibilities surfaced in our brains says a lot about the Val we knew in our twenties...which made us sad in itself.

Sue suggested calling the hair salon where Val had worked to find out what happened. Meanwhile, I tracked down an address for her surviving sister. I think mostly, we wanted to know what sort of life Val had gone on to live.

Was she happy?

Did we really want to find out?

It's funny how some people exit our lives, and we could care less. Others we don't mean to lose--who, no matter how many years go by, we figure to catch up with one day.

Only, we don't and then it's too late. Suddenly, they're forever frozen in our memory--like the vision I have of Val in her faded purple shorts, high-heeled sandals, flawless complexion...the Nordic beauty belying a severe case of low self-esteem. I remember how she worked a full-time department store job while attending beauty school at night in order to make something of herself. I remember her shame when our apartment managers discovered Val's alcoholic parents living in our parking lot and using the rec room facilities to shower in.

I remember her laugh. And her unquestioning help if you needed her. Sounds trite, I know, but it's true.

I'm still not sure whether Sue and I should delve for more information. Maybe it's better not to know.

Another One Bites The Dust

An agent recently told me that because of its content and length, Leftovers is suitable for one-- AND ONLY ONE--place: Harlequin's NEXT line.

Well, guess what? Word came down yesterday that NEXT is folding. Yep. Harlequin's foray into category-like boomer lit is no more as of January.

Hate to say it, but I'm not surprised. NEXT was supposed to be about women in the next stage of life--y'know...empty nesters, late-in-life-pregnancies, women starting over after their marriages fell apart...a noble idea, to my mind. Only one problem: I picked up a freebie at the RWA conference in Dallas and was underwhelmed by the writing.

Which (I hate to say this even more) is how I feel about most books marketed as romance. The honest-to-god truth is, out of the hundreds of books I've picked up at the conference, I've read--as in gotten to the end of--about........two. Maybe three. I'm ready to admit this says more about me than the books. But then, since lines seem to come and go faster than new sitcoms, perhaps its a combo. Flipside, Duets, Bombshell, Everlasting...all category lines gone by the wayside.

And it's not just category...chick lit imprints have dwindled, too.

In fact, the only "romance" doing well seems to be the stuff that appeals to the younger demographic, e.g., erotica, paranormal, sci-fi, urban fantasy, and so forth.

I'm sorry, but yuck. Just not my thing. So forget writing and searching for markets, what's a girl like me gonna read?

Blog Topic Anyone?

I'm at a loss (yes, ME!) for blog a topic this week. Oh, sure. I COULD talk about the Saturday gambling trip--and how I spent approximately EIGHT hours in the car, but after that, you'd pretty much know the whole story.

Or, I could caution my readers about carrying your ancient dog outside to do her business lest you fall down the stairs and break your ankle in three places--well, but that pretty sums up THAT story too, doesn't it? (No, not me...Juli in San Diego)

Hm. What else? Happy Birthday to my dad who turned 85 yesterday and had to suffer through a family get together that was noisy and obnoxious...but fun.

Um...let's see...in writing news, I got a rather flattering request via email...and that's all I'm gonna say on THAT subject.

And far be it from me to jump on the Britney bandwagon. Talk about an easy target for bloggers!

So...until the news breaks, th-th-that's it for now ffffffolks.