Dating

Psyche!

Not that kind of dating. I'm talkin' about slipping pop culture references into your manuscript that yank a reader out of the story because they've become anachronistic. Say, for instance, you're writing a contemporary romance and your character's carrying around a Pet Rock. Duh. Pet Rocks went out before stereo cassettes, right? (Not that I'd read a book in which the heroine EVER owned a Pet Rock, much less carried one around, but you get the idea.)

Yet...the perfect pop culture reference can pull readers in, too. Like if your quintessential chick lit book is set in downtown Manhattan, well then your characters had better hang out at the hip bars, right?

But hip Manhattan bars go in and out of style faster than Britney Spears changes her hair color (that is, when she has ANY hair).

So, speaking of the Britster, she's been on my mind lately because in Fit For Love, I describe a secondary character as a Britney Spears lookalike. Okay first, you have to remember I completed this manuscript--well, let's just say a WHILE ago. At the time, Britney was HOT. Hell, she was still HOT when I submitted a partial of the manuscript to a NY publisher 18 months ago.
Now, not so much, huh? (Although, to her credit, she might be on the rebound.)

Anyway, the point is...if and when that partial gets considered for real, I wonder what reaction the Britney Spears reference will get?

Who'da thunk she'd let me down?

Happy Release Day, Terry! !

One of my oldest critique partners (um, not that she's old or anything, we've just been in the same group a long, long, time) is celebrating the release of her book, Heart of the Wolf, today. Yay! Go, Terry!

I wanted to quote the Publisher's Weekly review here, but wasn't sure about the legal crap, so take my word for it: they LOVED Heart of the Wolf, and a rave review from PW is highly coveted!

Okay, so I know most of my readers may not be into the wolf thing. Usually, I'm not either. But if you're gonna try one, this is the one to try. Terry did her research; her characters stay true to the wolf mentality which makes the story a whole lot more interesting.

To find out more about Terry Spear, Heart of the Wolf, and Terry's other books, click here!

Been Slogging Lately

That's blog tech-talk for slackin' off on the old blog.

I don't know what's wrong. Either my life's going through a lull, my writing's going through a lull, or (see last post), I'm letting "fear of blogging" edit my material.

Hey, so let's throw caution to the winds, shall we?

Things I thought twice about sharing:

Had my face injected with Juviderme a couple weeks ago. Nice difference! Not-so-nice price! And yes, we discussed the eventual face-lift (and associated eye stuff). Got the estimate and everything. Now, all I have to do is schedule it for a time at which I will have quit smoking two weeks before.

Sigh.

I'm beginning to think I wasn't as vain as I thought. (Interpret that however you wish.)

Second, I got my scores back from a contest I entered. Blah. Got some perfect 5's, and a 3 and a 2. Ack. Never gotten a 2 before. But I understand. Some people detest anything that smells of chick lit, and guess what? Leftovers reeks. But, um...that's why I didn't enter it in a traditional romance category--didn't she notice??

Third, I sold another story to True Romance. I hesitated to relate the circumstances, but what the hell...the cool thing is that I finished it on a Tuesday night and on Wednesday morning I got an email from the editor saying they were struggling with the June issue and although I'm already in the June issue, did I have anything else "lying around?" Long story short (ha--there's kind of a pun there), they bought the one I had "lying around." I was flattered to be asked.

Lastly, I'm going to Phoenix this weekend for the Desert Rose Chapter bi-annual conference. Yippee!! A day off work...a desert setting...lots of buddies I haven't seen since Dallas last year...what could be better?? Oh, and of course that nasty editor appointment I have. Let's not even think about it until it happens, okay? Otherwise, I'll start sweating.

Nothing else new in Randyland except the Senor, Senora, and I went on a gambling run on Saturday. Let's just say an excellent time was had by all...!

Shh--Don't Tell

Everywhere I turn (well, every where I turn on the Internet), bloggers with advice for aspiring authors say over and over: BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WRITE ON YOUR BLOG.

I hate that. I hate having to censor myself.

DON'T write about politics. DON'T write about religion. But above all else, DON'T write stuff like hey, got my fiftieth rejection on Manuscript A from that bitch, Agent B.

Well, duh. That's just plain stupid. But, still. It' hard to know where to draw the line. Say, for instance, I've submitted a partial to Agent C, and she decides to check me out via my blog. Hypothetically speaking, a litany of rejections posted here might give her pause. (Hey Agent C--if you're reading this, please note I said hypothetically speaking!!) But again, where do you draw the line?

Sadly, sharing good news can be dangerous too because unanticipated jealousy can rear its ugly head.

Which makes keeping this blog a little tough sometimes.

Suffice to say, lately there's been writing news both good and bad.

How's that for being blogitically correct? (Oooh--I just coined a new term! Remember, you read it here, first!)

The Plan--Amended*

As punishment for not hitting the gym tonight (yes, faithful readers, we're into Month 3, and I'm keeping a pretty regular schedule--not that I have much to show for it), I'm gonna divide activities undertaken for the next couple of hours into two categories: writing and cleaning my closet. I know it's a Monday--hardly the day of the week normal people choose to Spring clean, but then we all know I'm not too normal, don't we?

So the plan is to write a page, clean the closet, write a page, clean the closet. (Haven't figured out yet how long each cleaning stint should be--guess until my back aches. Oh, wait. I already feel the pain coming on. Maybe I should stick to writing.)

NO!

I. Will. Clean. My. Closet.

Tonight.

If I can't keep a promise to my blog, who CAN I keep it to?

And, hm...the longer I make this post, the more time I can waste instead of cleaning...oh, hell...off I go.........

*Amended to incorporate unanticipated boredom with cleaning closet. So, here's the new plan. I want y'all to lean up real close to your computer monitors and yell, "It's clean enough!"

There! I heard you! All righty, then! If you insist...it's back to writing for me! (Doncha just LOVE a successful collaboration?)

Too Much Reality a Bad Thing?

In my case, I'm guessing yeah. OD'ing on reality can be harmful to your mental health. At minimum, it really screws with your carefully constructed schedule for completing the Great American novel.

Personally, I blame the writer's strike. How else to explain the current overload? I mean, we're talking:

Survivor
Big Brother
The Bachelor
Top Chef
Dancing With The Stars
and last, but by no means least, American Idol

And some of the above air multiple times a week!

How's a struggling writer (who uses nighttime hours) suppose to pursue her dream? (Please don't say TiVo--I refuse to spend any more $ on television.)

Anyway, so I've made concessions. For example, I'm barely watching Big Brother--which ain't a big loss cuz this season sucks anyway. Oh, and here's my theory on that: usually, BB airs during the summer when there's less competition. For some reason (hello! writer's strike!), CBS chose to move up its airdate and loaded it with a bunch of whiny, unlikable youngsters to compete (I assume) with American Idol's demographic. Wrong move.

Here's another way I'm freeing up the schedule: I don't watch the AI results show until 9:50. And I only flip over to Dancing With The Stars during commercials because, hey--I can always catch the video on youtube the next day.

And if I really, really, have to, I skip Top Chef because Bravo does the rinse, lather, and repeat thing several times a week. (Shh. That's when I sneak in their Supermodel show, too.)

Speaking of programs I don't watch, have any of you caught the new, East Coast version of those Orange County skanks, I mean, wives? Holy moly. Are they for real? Are they so dim, they don't have a friggin' clue how despicable they come across?

Not that I'm watching mind you. 'Cuz, y'know...that would take away from valuable writing time.

Manna For Thought

Women's magazine Marie Clare is having a contest, the details of which can be found here. The task? Write a 300-word letter to your younger self, reflecting on your life experience.

EEEEEK.

Cue violins.

Bring on the anti-depressants.

Kidding.

From The Now I've Heard Everything Department

According to reliable sources, my sheet metal guy is on a visit to his homeland (The Philippines)...only he's NOT on vacation. He's getting...are you ready???...

A face lift.

When did the world turn upside down?

In Case You Needed Additional Proof...

...of my schizoid tendencies, consider this:

I get home last night (from St. Patrick's Day festivities--hey, I may not be Irish but when the observance takes place at a Mexican restaurant, I'm all about multiculturalism), and I settle in with the premier episode of the latest American travesty known as "The Bachelor."

First, I'd like to go on record as saying, pip pip. Jolly good choice.

Tall? Check. (Six foot five)
Nice family? Check. (Youngest of five brothers)
Professional? Check. (Investment banker)
Looking for love? Oh, check. (The usual drivel about finding an amazing soul mate rolls of this guy's tongue with an English accent, making him even more believable than all previous bachelors 'cuz as everyone knows, anything said with an English accent must be true. Just ask Margaret Thatcher.)

Anyway, so I'm digging the bachelor, waiting to see the lovelies arrive, but we cut to commercial, so I flip on over to MSNBC...

...where I catch the beginning of "The Lockup"--a show about two guys in a maximum security prison somewhere in the south. In seconds, I'm hooked.

But then...wait! What about the lovelies?

I switch back.

At the entrance to the L.A. mansion, The Bachelor welcomes a couple dozen women, thanking them for coming and promising to catch up with them later inside. Although he's "blown away" by how far the contestants--excuse me, future brides--exceed his expectations, I'm left a bit underwhelmed. In fact, I honestly don't see a special sparkle in the bunch.

Over to The Lockup.

...and a guy who, when he was twenty, settled a debt in a most unique way. "I kept trying to get him to pay me back and one day he said 'over my dead body' so I got a rifle and and I killed him."

Back to The Bachelor.

...where one of the ladies has a special song for her potential mate. Um...let's just say she isn't American Idol material. Then, another one hauls out a case from which she produces and assembles a...yes, it's a clarinet. After pointing out the reed and describing how one needs to wet it properly or it doesn't work (said without any hint of double entendre) she serenades our hero with a short, melodic piece. He claims to be in awe, but I'm pretty sure he's thinking: WTF...?

Back to The Lockup.

The prisoner in question's been in solitary (oh, did I mention he killed another guy while incarcerated??--yep, a debt issue again), for something like 19 years. Yet, he doesn't come across scary or weird. Maybe a little bitter. A little angry. But mostly, what he wants is a transfer to a prison closer to his mother. An interview with Mom reveals a horrible childhood with lots of abuse (both of her and her son) on the part of a father/husband. She assumes responsibility for not having found a way to get the guy out of their lives, but claims she didn't have anywhere else to go. Now she tries to visit her son as often as possible but the distance, expense, and limited time off from work restrict her to twice a year.

Meanwhile, over at The Bachelor, a woman bites into an aluminum can, tearing off a piece for the future love of her life and he promises to keep it in a place of honor.

Prisoner guy screws up and doesn't get his transfer.

One of the ladies (?) donates a pair of panties to the Bachelor, and one passes out, snoring, on a bed. I'm thinking that by the end of the show, he may wanna trade places with the guy in prison doing life in solitary confinement.

A Double D-Day!

Not one but TWO envelopes in the mail yesterday with the Dorchester return address. Pretty neat. The first was a check for part one of a story that ran in February's issue of True Romance Magazine, the second was a contract for a story to run in June. Not that anyone's counting, but that makes a total of 14 sales since February of last year. Who knew, huh? They add up nicely!

How Cool Is This?

Okay, I realize this blog is s'posed to be about my journey to publication, but...well...y'know, sometimes that topic gets to be a snooze (even to me).

So...ever-the-harbinger-of-positive-cultural-trends, today I point you toward this fascinating phenomenon (courtesy of the L.A. Times): "Women-Only Buses Make Welcome Detour Around Unwanted Attentions."

Yeah, tell me about it. I had to blink.

I mean, what a concept, and here's how it works: First, we're talking Mexico City--a public transit system consisting of subways, buses and privately owned vans called micros. Subways already have areas restricted to women, children, and the elderly, but (up until now), not the buses. Too impractical.

So it turns out women were constantly getting groped and harassed. (Gee, there's a surprise.) But then apparently some forward thinking individual had the audacity to get approval for ENTIRE buses dedicated to women only. Can you imagine? This must be HEAVEN! (Not that I've been on a bus in...oh...shall we say decades? Still...)

Better yet, this phenomenon is not isolated to Mexico! Nope. They're following in the footsteps of Toyko, Rio de Janeiro and Cairo.

What an enlightened world we live in.

'Course it'd be even nicer if men could keep their hands to themselves.

Score!

Just got word that I'll be pitching to my number one choice at the Desert Dreams Conference in Arizona! Not sure I should name names here, so I won't. Suffice to say I'm thrilled, and the butterflies are already doin' the cha-cha in my stomach!

In other good news today, a little birdie told me to be on the lookout for a contract from TR for June. Yippee! Time to write another one!

I don't know about the rest of the country, but Spring is definitely in the air here in California.

Title-Free Zone (Updated)

The great title search is driving me to drink. (Okay, I confess--I didn't really need an excuse.) But while I squander what few brain cells remain, I'm resorting to photos for blog fodder. (Hm. Blog fodder--a possible title??? Yeah, it's an occupational hazard.) Anyway, here's Blogreader Joe with granddaughter Kayla and grandson Luke at the traditional "take the new grandoffspring to meet the Mariachis" event. (No, really? Your family doesn't celebrate that tradition? Go figure.)

Oh, fine. Blogger is PMS'ing and won't upload photos.

Check back in awhile...

Whew...Blogger got over whatever was ailing him (yes, I picture Blogger as a HIM). And, no that's not a typo on Luke's bib...he's already a huge fan of Duke University's basketball team. (Just goes to show how much infants know!! No doubt as he matures he'll see the light and switch his affections to the UCLA Bruins.)

Happy Birthday, Bemco!

Ah... time flies, huh? Today is Bemco's 57th birthday. That's my brother and I showing off an SS30 Salt Spray chamber circa 1959. We still sell that model, and guess what? It hasn't changed much...too bad I can't say the same about me and my brother.

Click here to read up on the history of the company.

Not Another One

Anyone heard of the book "Love and Consequences" by one Margaret B. Jones? (I hadn't, but then I'm not always "up" on the latest literary offerings.) Anyway, according to the article here, in "a critically acclaimed memoir published last week, Margaret B. Jones wrote about her life as a half-white, half-Native American girl growing up in South-Central Los Angeles as a foster child among gang-bangers, running drugs for the Bloods."

Only one problem.

Ol' Mags made the whole thing up.

Not half-white.
Not half-Native American.
Didn't grow up in South-Central L.A.
Wasn't a foster child.
Didn't live among gang-bangers, running drugs for the Bloods.

What she did do, was she grew up in a whitebread section of the San Fernando Valley (a suburb of Los Angeles) with her biological family.

AND she had the nerve to attend the very same private school I traipsed through in ninth grade.

Oh, the shame!

The fine folks at Penguin Books are admittedly red-faced. They're recalling the books and canceling the author's tour. The editor who worked with Ms. Jones for three years is appropriately heartbroken. (Um...three years?)

And, get this: her own sister spilled the beans. Yep, as soon as she saw some publicity on the book, she just called up the publisher and said, "Nuh-uh." (Methinks the family might not be too close--or if it was, it ain't now.)

Ms. Jones claims she had good intentions. She wanted to forge a better understanding of race relations through relating experiences told to her by others.

(Yeah, and I'd like a little of that advance she got.)

Anyway, a word to the wise, Margaret: don't be showing up at Campbell Hall's reunions any time soon. I might wanna word with you.

News Flash--Big Ass Company Does The Right Thing

Gotta give credit where credit is due.

So on a Sunday in December, I had four employees show up at LAX for a 6 a.m. flight on Continental. Long story short, they spent almost an entire day at the airport with no luck. El plano el broken-o. By the time they figured they weren't gonna make it to Mississippi by Monday, our customer said to forget it. Come after the first of the year.

Meanwhile, I put in for refunds (complete with a handy little letter from the airlines confirming the snafu was mechanically related, not weather-related)...and scheduled the new trip on a different carrier.

Weeks later, a little package arrives from the original airline. Four individual vouchers for about 1/3 of the cost of the original tickets.

Er, thanks a heap.

I mean, first...not all these guys travel regularly. Second, sorry...but we hardly ever use Continental. Not because we have anything against them--we just rarely fly where they go. Third...by this time, we'd already completed the trip on another airline.

I wrote a letter.

Meanwhile, four more vouchers arrive (this time at my billing address) for $100 each. Nice, and all...but, again. Not so useful.

I wrote another letter.

And guess what!!! Today, I got a response! They're voiding out the first vouchers, refunding the tickets in the ENTIRE amount, and letting us have the second vouchers as a goodwill gesture.

Way to go, CONTINENTAL! Ya did the right thing!

Drum Roll, Please...

...and let's hear a big round of applause for...ME!

I did it! I typed 'the end' last night! Which--who knew??--is an extremely controversial act. Right up there with whether to type two spaces or one after the period at the end of a sentence. I dunno...to tell you the truth, I've never typed 'the end' on any of my other manuscripts. I guess I figured if the reader gets confused, then I've done something wrong. It just so happens that this book ends in a unique way (can't reveal details y'know, cuz then I'd have to kill you), so apparently I felt a need to give the reader a heads up.

In any event, squee, huh? Let's recap the novels I've written to date:

The Mystery In The Treehouse--Nancy Drew rip-off, written at age 10.
A romantic suspense whose title I can't remember, written at age 22.
Logan's Daughter, a romantic suspense aimed at Silhouette, written at age 40.

And in the post-modern era (AKA after I discovered RWA):

Fit For Love
Stealing Amy
Leftovers
Lights! Cameras! ...and whatever that third word ends up being

Now, to you non-writers out there, this may add up to one big heap o' failure, but trust me, it doesn't. Lights! Cameras! Whatever! (hey, maybe THAT's the right word!) is a far better book than Logan's Daughter which in turn was a far better book than The Mystery In The Treehouse (gee, ya think?). Seriously, though. With each book, I learn so, so, much. And all four of those could still sell...maybe.

Anyway, I'm basking in self-congratulatory cyber champagne today (cyber hangovers are snap to get rid of, in case you didn't know), and gearing up for the next phase: revisions, revisions, revisions.

Oh, and queries! LOVE crafting that killer query letter. (Not.)

Cross your fingers for me. This may be THE ONE.

Food For Thought

I'm having a good hair day, and I thought you should know.

Yesterday, it lay flat against my skull, aging me by decades. Today it's light and fluffy, kinda Farrah Fawcett-y but updated.

And, I got to thinking: why can't I be consistent? I mean, I go through the same steps, use the same tools, glop on the same product...so why is it one day I look like crap and the next I look...well, better?

Same thing with clothes. One day I wear a cute outfit, and the next I'm sure people are saying what was she thinking?

And my handwriting. Some days I write backhand, others straight-up-and-down, and still others...well, whatever you call normal.

Am I schizo?

Not the first time I've wondered.

Like Pulling Teeth

Geez. Even my blogs are full of cliches (see title).

Anyway, that's what finishing this book is like. Pulling teeth. If I were maternally-oriented, I'd offer up the birthing metaphor, but well...as y'all know, that's a foreign one to me.

The good news? The tooth is loose, it's hanging by a string, it's ready to fall out any moment. I know I've said it before (prematurely, as it turns out) but I swear to God, this time I'm sure.

Two. More. Scenes.

That's it. Plus, they're practically already written in my mind. All I have to do is get 'em to the page. As a bonus, over the last couple days, I worked in the completion of the hero's growth arc. (I know, tech talk.) AND, I've figured out a way to make the ending echo the beginning for that full-circle effect we readers know and love so well.

Yeah, pure genius.

Can't wait to type "The End"

...so that I can get down to where the REAL work begins.

Editing. Revising. Shoveling dirt into plot holes, cramming glue into character gaps.

Doncha just love the process?

Yep, as Jenny Crusie would say, I'm livin' the dream.

I Sneer In The Face Of Failure

Okay, I believe if we check back through the archives, we're well into week four (five? oh, who's counting) of the latest episode of "Randy Re-Joins The Gym."

And what do I have to show for it?

Um, nothing...far as I can tell.

Oh, I thought I saw progress. On Friday night, I even wore a pair of jeans that came out of the part of the closet known as the "pray first" area.

Alas, according to the scale: nada. (Which also explains the results of yesterday's post.)

And yet, I persevere. (Well, what else can I do??) Even though (sob, sob) my favorite Monday high/low class has turned into (oh, the horror of it all) a hip-hop class. ::Sigh:: I gave it the old (operative word being OLD) college try...but as you might guess, this ancient white woman don't do no hip-hop.

Without a class to take, I headed for the machines last night. Naturally, the treadmills were all booked up, leaving me little choice but to...oh, no...not the ellipticals! More specifically, the NEW ellipticals! (Yeah, those machines that in order to maneuver successfully, one must imitate a Clydesdale. Those ellipticals.)

Two minutes in, I concluded...well, that two minutes were enough, so I stopped. But then, I dunno...something got me going again. Somehow--truly, I don't know how--I managed fifteen minutes. Then (whew!) a treadmill opened up. Man, the difference was like a surprise vacation.

Yes, fans...I soldier on. Tonight is "Abs and Assets," the toughest class of 'em all.

After last night, I even look forward to it. (Wait a minute. Did I type that out loud?)

Why I Hate Shopping--Reason No. 164

It's early Sunday morning, and I slide out of bed with a plan.

My mother has gotten it in her head that I should run-not-walk to Macy's to purchase an outfit she's seen in an ad. For extra special enticement, she's offered to PAY for it (never mind that I make plenty of money and can buy my own clothes). It's a sweet sentiment, right?

So off I go to the Mall.

Only I arrive to an empty parking lot. What? Malls don't open at 10 a.m.? Who knew? Already I feel like the foolish untrained shopper that I am.

Luckily, JC Penny's IS open. (Savvy execs, those Penny's people--snatching all the ignorant early birds.) I wander in and try on a few tops. Find one I could live with until I look at the tag. Pretty pricey for Penny's, in my humble opinion. I leave it in the dressing room.

I decide to investigate Part B of my plan which is to catch a showing of No Country For Old Men at the multiplex.

Only there IS no multiplex. Okay, so when did they get rid of the movie theater?

I kill a little more time, waiting for Macy's to open. Finally, they push back the iron gates and I enter, armed with the name of the department (Choices) and a vague memory of what the outfit looks like. (Long, black coat. Black pants. But, like they go together in a set.)

Meanwhile, I try on other stuff as I search for Choices (yeah, the irony is killing me). Today I'm feeling rather confident, thanks to the four weeks at the gym I've put in.

Only, nothing--and I mean NOTHING--fits.

I get seriously depressed.

Plus, no sign of Choices.

I move to head upstairs, but the escalators aren't working, which I interpret as a possible sign from God. I spy another set outside the store, make my way to them, and nearly trip over a toddler playing--yes, playing--on the first step. Clueless dad watches from above, laughing at his son's delight. Both seem oblivious to the potential for instant digit dismemberment. I wait until the fun's over, then climb past them.

Once I reach the second floor, I see the Choices sign beckoning from across the room.

Eureka, I think.

Only I find, like, four dresses hanging beneath it. Clearly not the pants and jacket in the ad.

I circle the perimeter, discovering more Choices departments along the way. Apparently, Choices isn't the name of a department at all...? Not certain. The only thing I'm certain of is that I don't see what I'm looking for.

At least, I don't think so...because by now, I have no idea what I'm looking for.

I haul out the cell phone and call. First my dad describes it, then my mother gets on the phone and gives me all the pertinent details: the designer, the white piping along the front, blah, blah, blah.

I still don't see THE OUTFIT anywhere, so I try on other stuff, the whole time wondering how ANYONE could LOVE to shop...I mean, let's face it: where are the perks to seeing yourself naked from every angle under harsh, unflattering light? And if I wanted to spend the morning hanging up clothes, I could have stayed home and cleaned out my closet.

Thoroughly frustrated, I abandon the quest, jump in my car, and head to Aaron Brothers for a picture frame.

Wait a second. Where did Aaron Brothers go??

I give up and drive home where at least I know where things are. Kind of.

Did I mention I detest shopping?

It's A Win-Win

Click here to watch a beautiful video and by doing so help a worthy cause. Kudos to my friend Melinda and her son JD who created it.

No, you don't have to send money. Just watch the video. Then watch it again...and hey--what the hell, might as well watch it again.

I did!

Sack-O-Crap

With less than a chapter to write on ye olde WIP, what did I opt for instead this past Sunday?

Why, cleaning out my make-up drawers, natch.

Ah, yes...a veritable treasure trove. Picture this: two skinny drawers, side-by-side, one deeper drawer below. Here are some the nuggets contained therein:

Eighty shades of blue, purple, and green eye shadow.
Assortment of leadless eye pencils
Approximately 12 compacts, all the wrong shade
Lonely earrings without their mates
Lighters long past their usefulness
Three term papers from graduate school (I know. In my make-up drawer.)
Signed escrow papers. (I know. In my make-up drawer.)
Tossles (tassles?) from three graduation ceremonies: high school, BS and MS. (When I found the first one, I got ready to toss it; however when I discovered the complete set, I figured I was meant to keep them--I mean, what are the ODDS I'd still have all three? I know. And in my make-up drawer.)
A bracelet made entirely of safety pins.
A million Q-tips.
Many, many, dried-out, used-up, tubes of mascara. (Okay, I know what you're thinking: why not get rid of 'em as I replace 'em? Here's my reasoning: sometimes the current tube gets so bad, you wish you had it predecessor 'cuz you're pretty sure it still had more goop in it. Ya just never know.)
Numerous baggies containing freebies--sample lipsticks, lotions, balms. (Toss, toss, toss.)
A receipt for the bus between airports in Argentina
A spiral notebook--blank except for three pages of notes from the first day of a vacation in 1995
Pair of mittens, still joined together by the plastic thingy
Random shoelaces
Exercise band
Binoculars

And last, but certainly not least--and my personal favorite, by far--a tube of prescription acne cream with a date of June 6, 1983.

D'ya think it's expired?

Lucky Thirteen

Today I got a contract in the mail for my thirteenth sale to True Romance. Squee! This one's tentatively titled "Temporary Wife" and it's about a scatterbrained career woman who hires a "temporary wife" to get her home organized in advance of her mother's pending visit. Of course the temporary wife turns out to be of the male persuasion and they fall in love and live happily-ever-after.

Just so you know. The scatterbrained, disorganized woman is NOT based on ME.

Oh, no.

Just so you know.

Tagged!

That byotch Carol tagged me.

Here's the way it works if I've tagged you:

1. Link back to the person who tagged you.
2. Post these rules on your blog.
3. Share six unimportant things about yourself.
4. Tag six random people at the end of your blog entry.
5. Let the tagged people know by leaving a comment on their blogs.


Okay, I'm not sure what unimportant means...trivial maybe? Anyway, here goes:

1. I appeared on a game show in 1978.
2. I read seventy-five library books during the summer of 1967.
3. I sleep with... my remote.
4. People think I'm tall, but I'm not. It's the ever-present 3 to 4" heels.
5. I can't donate blood because I picked up hepatitis in Mexico (the cooties are gone, but still...no one wants my blood and I'm tellin' ya, my blood's a little pissed about it.)
6. I wrote my first novel-length manuscript when I was nine years old.

Whew. Fascinating stuff, huh? Now I'm tagging Brooke...and...um...hm...Reagan (as soon as I figure out her blog address)..and...well, if I think of anyone else, I'll come back and add them.

This and That

We'd all be better served, I think, if I were to take a day each week and write one really good blog. One with a lead, a middle and end, and ostensibly something worthwhile to impart.

Well, too bad...today ain't the day. (Nor the week.)

Anyway, for some reason, blog topics--and their associated openings, zingers, and life-shattering epiphanies--usually pop into my head at night when I'm busy working on the novel stuff. Of course, if I were an anal, post-it note keeper, I'd have a stack of material at my fingertips just waiting for the free moment in which to assemble the little gems into fascinating prose.

But anal, I'm not.

And, see, here's what else happens: Little snippets of ideas flash through my mind. Not enough for a full blog post without taking a little time and effort, but worthy ones nonetheless. Like this: Men, please don't buy your ladies slutty lingerie for Valentine's Day. That's a present for YOU, not HER.

Sigh. Yes, Valentine's Day deserves a lot more attention than the above one-liner but, sadly, I don't have the time to figure it out, so you'll have to make do.

Oh, and I stumbled over a huge new pet peeve this morning which I instantly filed in my mental storage cabinet...only to lose it in the shambles I call my brain.

A shame, really.

But what bothers me most are all the writing discoveries burning a whole in my gut and dying for expression. Oh, hell. Indulge me. Allow me to spew without conscious regard for form and structure.

So I was writing a scene in which my heroine is walking across a studio lot on her way to a new position--the one she's dreamed of all her life. I portray her as apprehensive, a little scared at what the future holds because I knew in advance how it would end: with disappointment that the reality of our dreams isn't always what it's cracked up to be.

I could have left it at that.

Then I remembered what Robert McKee has to say about positive and negative values--that, for instance, if a scene starts on a negative, it should end on a positive, and vice versa. Following his advice, I knew I had the scene wrong. It went from a negative to a negative. So instead, I went back and portrayed my heroine as bursting with optimism. Excited at the prospects of her new future.

THEN I slammed her head-first into reality.

Positive to negative.

A better scene, I'm convinced.

Which leads me to something else I've been thinking about a lot lately. Robert McKee insists that just because you've read a million books, doesn't mean you can write one. Likewise, just because you've been listening to music all your life, doesn't mean you can sit down and whip out a symphony. You have to study the craft. Now, I know I'll get arguments from authors who "pants" (write by the seat of their pants), and it's true that I believe some aspects of craft sneak into the subconscious by virtue of constant exposure to the structure. But, here's what else Mckee says: when a writer relies on those skills and to the extent they result in a satisfying story, guess what else happens? The work is imitative.

Sadly, I think his conclusion is borne out by much of what passes for movies and novels marketed to the masses these days.

Craft is everything.

Need A New Word

While driving home from the gym (yes, the gym!) last night, I was rehearsing my upcoming agent/editor pitch. It started with something like, "I was the girl..."

Hm, I thought. Maybe I'm kinda outta the "girl" category.

Okay. "I was the woman..."

That didn't sound right, either. More mature than I give myself credit for.

Which is when I started running through the synonyms.

Lady? Too prim and proper.

Gal? Too forties.

Female? Too clinical.

Chick? Too young, hip, and probably used only by men.

Broad? Ditto that last part (and I'm sure there are a variety of other alternatives used by men we don't need to consider).

I tell ya, I'm stymied.

Booked!

No use cruisin' onto smokinggun.com for the latest mug shot, 'cuz we're not talking THAT kinda booked (although this post DOES involve a GETAWAY).

Yep!

Finally.

An end-goal after all. We scoured the websites and checked all the deals and at long last, the Senora and I have finalized plans for a five-day trip to Puerto Vallarta.

Squee!

Approximately nine (count 'em, NINE) weeks to zero hour...and y'all know what that means...stayed tuned for diet reports.

Let's All Just Shut Up

So here's the exchange:

DAVID SHUSTER: Bill, there's just something a little bit unseemly to me that Chelsea's out there calling up celebrities, saying support my mom, and she's apparently also calling these super delegates.

BILL PRESS: Hey, she's working for her mom. What's unseemly about that? During the last campaign, the Bush twins were out working for their dad. I think it's great, I think she's grown up in a political family, she's got politics in her blood, she loves her mom, she thinks she'd make a great president --

SHUSTER: But doesn't it seem like Chelsea's sort of being pimped out in some weird sort of way?

Okay, aside from the questionable logic of Shuster's inquiry (meaning, I see absolutely nothing wrong with Chelsea calling whomever she pleases in support of her mother)--his choice of words got him suspended and forced to join the 2008 mea culpa tour.

Give me a break.

And check your urban dictionary.

QUOTING:

"As an adjective: If somethin' is pimpin', it's pretty darn cool. It's probably something "normal" that's tricked out ghettolicious and gawdy. Basically, you look very ghettofab and blingbling.

However, as a verb
1.) to pimp something out is to *make* it look very ghettofab and all that nifty stuff in the above paragraph.
2.) to pimp is to advertise (generally, in an enthusiastic sense) or to call attention in order to bring acclaim to something; to promote.
Somebody buys some hideous plaid pants and then adds about five pounds of metal chains ... well, that's pimpin'.

A friend creates a collage of ... Angelina Jolie's various tattoos ... you pimp the collage to others, so that they'll see her work."

In this Myspace world, we "pimp" our myspace pages at sites like www.pimpmyspace.com.

We watch a TV show called "Pimp My Ride"--and, guess what? It ain't about men selling women's bodies.

So, let's all relax, huh? Let's not ruin another career over two words that didn't mean what y'all are thinking...and get back to the more important stuff like...I dunno...what's Britney up to today?

Every Girl's Nightmare

...that is, every 21-year old idiot girl's nightmare.

So, I happen to be in the front office when one of those annoying coupon-book-for-charity morons shows up at the window, interrupting my conversation with a co-worker. She starts yapping about free pizzas, cheap lube jobs, blah, blah, blah...all for the low, low, price of a tax-deductible twenty bucks.

I'm not in the mood so I foist her on the company upstairs.

A few minutes later, she flounces out the front door, a sour look on her face. I notice her trotting away and figure at least she's enthusiastic about her crappy job.

Cut to: An hour later...

I happen to be in the front office again, and I notice a bulging purse sitting by the reception window. "Whose purse is that?" I ask another employee.

"Oh, the people upstairs brought it down. That girl selling the Dare books left it behind."

But that was an hour ago, I think. And it comes to me: by now the chick must realize she's lost her purse, and she doesn't have a clue WHERE.

I picture the hysteria. The panic. How will I go out this weekend without my I.D.? What am I gonna do for money? Where's my Lascivious Lavender lipstick?

Her cellphone chirps and I unearth it from the bottom of the purse, hoping she's had the sense to call herself, but no. The missed call is from the wrong area code. Oh, and additional chirping indicates a low battery. If I'm gonna do something smart, I'd better do it quick.

I browse outgoing calls for one with a name instead of a number, figuring this fledgling entrepreneur has mostly friends on her contact list.

Preparing for an awkward conversation, I call someone named Bernie. "Okay," I say, "bear with me here. I have Nicki's cell phone because she lost her purse. Do you know her? Can you get in touch with her?"

A little confused, young Bernie nevertheless rallies. "It'll take some work, but I can probably track her down."

"Great," I say. "Give her my phone number and tell her she left it at..." I recite the address.

Another hour goes by with no Nicki. I picture myself losing sleep over this poor young girl who can't hit the clubs this weekend. I start wondering whether I'm more worried about this turn of events than she is.

Nicki's phone rings and I pick it up, instantly cognizant of how terrifying it might be for the caller to reach a stranger rather than their daughter/sister/friend. I immediately identify myself with something catchy like, "Hi, I'm the person with Nicki's phone."

It's her dad.

He doesn't sound too worried, so apparently Bernie (the hero in this story!) has gotten a-hold of someone who's gotten a-hold of Nicki. Sounding a little sheepish--like he's expected to reach Nicki but now realizes his error--he confirms the address and hangs up quickly.

Next, Nicki calls. "Where did I leave it?" she asks breathlessly.

Like, she still doesn't know? Didn't Bernie tell her? I rattle off the address, emphasizing that her battery's about to give out. This is a one-shot deal.

A half-hour later, she's shows up with a carload of gal pals, all sipping on Diet Cokes (well, I'm assuming the diet part). She thanks me profusely and off they go.

I'm thinkin' that tonight, across a crowded dance floor, some young stud's gonna spy Nicki and muster up the courage to buy her a drink, maybe flirt a little, and get her phone number. They'll date (under the watchful eye of Nicki's dad, of course), they'll get engaged, they'll get married and have a family.

Yep. That's me. Saving one person's world at a time.

News Flash--Art Imitates Life!

Or vice versa. Not sure.

Anyway, so I'm at the gym last night (uh-huh! again!) and I stumble into the locker room after a "body blast" class (hence the stumbling), and I catch a glimpse (a mere glimpse, mind you) of a woman in street clothes brush past.

Hm, I think. Why did that nano-second of visibility provoke a memory of Sally? I mean, I haven't seen Sally in nearly thirty years.

Now, usually, I'd shake it off, walk out to my car, and let myself wonder for eternity. But this time something stopped me. Maybe because the book I've been living inside of takes place in a setting similar to the one in which I knew Sally.

So, I go for it...fully expecting that slightly quizzical (and faintly apprehensive) look you get from strangers when you ask the question. "Is your name Sally?"

She turns, affording me a full view of her face, and before she can even answer I think, hey...this really could be Sally.

Pause.

"Yes," she says with a tentative smile. "You look familiar."

I state my full name, instant recognition appears in her eyes, and we embrace.

It is Sally. The same Sally I first met when I was 25 years old and a newbie on the lot at Golden West Broadcasters (Gene Autry's company at the time and home of KTLA-TV and KMPC radio plus a bunch of production companies). Hell, I'd even been to Sally's wedding to the guy who directed the show I worked on in 1980.

We lost touch circa 1982. Twenty-six years ago.

At one point, during all the catching up, Sally says: "That seems like a lifetime ago."

"It is," I point out.

Yikes.

Okay, so back to life imitating art etc. etc....see, like I said, "Lights! Camera! Love!" (okay, that's probably not the final title) has some very autobiographical components. Running into Sally helped me re-experience in a visceral way the stuff my protagonist feels.

Too cool.

Oh, and may I just point out that the fact Sally and I recognized each other proves we both still look fabulous?

Speaking of Restraining Orders...

...shouldn't we all try to restrain ourselves from tuning into the continuing circus known as Britney Spears?

Okay, I confess. I'm guilty of checking TMZ for the latest. But at least I stopped poking fun at her. I mean, sure, it was entertaining when we all thought she was a spoiled pop star doing the diva thing. But now that we know she suffers from a mental illness, isn't it plain rude to keep jabbing at her?

Do we make jokes of someone diagnosed with cancer?

On the radio station I listen to in the morning, the hosts were asking people to call in with their theories of WHY we pay attention to any of this. Well, here's MY theory: we love to witness proof that money and fame don't guarantee happiness.

And, man...if Anna Nicole wasn't proof enough, take a look at Britney.

Oh, Sure...You Love Me NOW...

Hell, you can't get enough of me...calling all weekend long...leaving messages...

...but what about tomorrow night when the clock strikes eight?

Y'know...after the polls close? What then?

Do I have to wait till November to hear from you again?

(It's a joke, folks...equating politicians with inconsiderate lovers...get it?)

I'm So Jazzed

I'll bet you thought, what with all the photos and crap I've been posting lately, with nary a WORD about my writing, that I was SLACKING.

Well, you'd be wrong!

I've actually made great strides, thanks to an email challenge I received mid-January. Yes, indeedy, I'm not only racing for the backstretch, I'm ON the backstretch and heading for the wire. Only about 50 more pages to write!

Uh-oh.

Suddenly, 50 pages sounds like a whole helluva lot of words...not to mention butt-in-chair-hands-on-keyboard time. Still...

I'm jazzed.

Oh! AND, ladies and gentlemen, are you ready? I have a working title!! Yes, at long last...something to call this sucker other than WIP...or "that piece of crap I've been working on."

Are you ready?

(Drum roll, please)

"Lights! Cameras! Love!"

That's it. That's the title. Too schmaltzy? I think it may be too schmaltzy. But so far, two writing friends have given me the seal of approval.

Then, my imagination ran rampant. Hmmmmm...I thought...the partial with an editor at Dorchester? That's Fit For Love.

Love, love, love (hey, if it's good enough for the Beatles, it oughta be good enough for me).

Then, I thought...maybe I should change "Leftovers" to "Leftover Love."

Three books. Three loves.

Am I onto something?

Not An L.A. Girl

I may live thirty minutes from downtown L.A., but this is my morning commute. Yes, that's snow in the background! (And yes, picture me doing 70 in "rush hour traffic" with one hand on the wheel and the other on the camera...hey, at least I wasn't talking on a cell phone, too.) P.S. If you double click on the photos, they look better.

Way To Go--Keep Me Honest

Since I know y'all are DYING to hear...the answer's a resounding YES! ! ! I've been to the gym THREE TIMES this week! And you know what struck me about it today? This is the first time in FOREVER that a PLANNED VACATION isn't at the goal line. But I can't figure out why I haven't lost fifteen pounds yet...y'know? I mean, come on. Three times in one week. It happens all the time on The Biggest Loser.

(Uh-oh. We interrupt this blog to report disheartening news: Marty just called with an enticing invitation to meet him and Ann at Monty's Steakhouse. Oops--bye-bye step class. See? I totally BLEW IT OFF without a thought--so much for determination.)

Wait, dammit. See paragraph one. I've already worked out THREE TIMES this week. I DESERVE a night out!

P.S. Today's blog was going to be about something else but Blogger ate it, chewed it up, and spit it out. BAD Blogger. :(

Picture Me Determined

So did y'all rush on over here to see whether I kept my word about going to the gym?

Oh, ye of little faith...

Not only did I go through with it, I kicked ass for 45 minutes in a high/low aerobics class. I am gym-goer, hear me roar!

Okay, a slight exaggeration. I paced myself. And it goes without saying that I hid at the back of the class...y'know...just in case. But I did it. All 45 minutes plus some abs and assorted other muscles.

And, you know what?

I didn't hate it.

I really didn't.

And when I got home, I wrote two pages on my WIP, so it's not like I took away from writing time. Oh, and get this: I fell asleep easier, SLEPT THE NIGHT THROUGH, and FELT better this morning.

Bonus.

So, bear with me faithful blogreaders. I know we've been down this road before, but this time...this time...

...things are gonna be different.

Cue Dramatic Music...

Yep...today, I return to the torture room--er, excuse me--the gym.

::sigh::

The neat thing about having a blog is that I can search through the archives to see when my last appearance took place.

The suck-y thing about having a blog is that I can search through the archives to see when my last appearance took place.

Some things are best left undiscovered.

And, dear readers, some things are meant to be attempted in incremental steps. To wit: I purchased the new tennis shoes back in...what...November? December?

And I re-joined the gym (ha--kept that one a secret, didn't I?) about a week ago. Only a bout with the bubonic plague has kept me away thus far, but time has run out. I can put it off no longer.

I came across some photos circa 1999 this weekend, and...well...let's just say they were a stark reminder of the me I used to be. Or, to put it more aptly, the less of me there used to be. Back then I worked out three or four times a week. I told myself it was for health reasons, not vanity...but you know what?

I'm as vain as it gets.

This time it's all about cute clothes and the body to wear 'em.

A Rainy Sunday

Oops. Not such a clear picture. Well, give me a break. I took it from my cell phone through a window that hasn't been washed in...well...awhile.

Hey, that's what rain's for.

Anyway, this is the view from my office window this rainy Sunday afternoon. I've got Linda Eder on the stereo downstairs, the wordcount on my WIP is rising...what more could a girl ask for?

Oooh. I know! Bailey's and Coffee! Hm...off to rectify the situation.

Quit Laughing At Us

Okay, I know folks to the north, east, and south find our rainstorms a big snooze, but I just have to blog about ‘em. Sorry. Next time you guys have an earthquake, I’ll listen. Promise.

Because you just have to laugh at what went on last night. Picture this: I’m driving home from my parents on the infamous 101, eyes peeled for those invisible lakes that have the power to catapult a car into instant spinville. Already, some weird dashboard light has blinked on and off—announcing, I guess, that my anti-skid system is in fine shape and ready to do battle.

Luckily, everyone’s slowed to about 35 mph—a safe and sane way to drive on roads that haven’t seen significant moisture in over a year (thereby allowing a treacherous amount of goo to accumulate).

Anyway, so I’m relatively relaxed. And then the alert blares from the radio. At first, I think yeah, yeah, yeah…flash flood warning. What else is new? Unless you’re one of the homeless living in the Ventura River bed, nothing to worry about.

But, wait. What’s this? Something new??

A TORNADO ALERT? What the…?

Yes, last night southern California went on tornado watch which turned out to be an occasion fraught with amusing possibilities.

By the time I got home, it was all over the TV. A constant banner running along the bottom of Celebrity Apprentice. Here’s the gist of what it said: “Five miles south southwest of Malibu, a cell was spotted with rotation capability. The cities of Pacific Palisades and Malibu should be on alert for tornadoes until 9:30p.m.” (Here’s the really good part): “If you are in a mobile home” mobile home?? In Malibu?? (Okay, to be honest, there IS a mobile home park right on the beach), “evacuate. If you are in a home, go to the basement” (basement? What do they think this is, Kansas?). “If you are in car, find a ditch to lie in” (right—I’m picturing Courtney Cox, Mel Gibson, and the rest of the Malibu clan, driving home from a night of cocktails in the city, suddenly abandoning their Mercedes on PCH and diving for a ditch—see what I mean about this being an amusing event?).

But the best part? We’re talking THE BURN AREA. (Y’know, from those firestorms we had in November.) Something tells me that taking cover in a low-lying ditch when we’re also on FLASH FLOOD ALERT ain’t the best option.

Whatever.

As it turns out, the tornado never happened. Well, not in Malibu anyway. But something called a tornado or a waterspout (depending on who you listen to) tore off the roof of a hangar in Pt. Mugu, so I guess that’s something.

The storm coming in tomorrow is supposed to be even stronger, so there’s hope for additional excitement.

Stay tuned for more snickering.

Musings For A Rainy Morning

My mind wanders while watching television. A lot.

Last night, a commercial came on where the characters were riding bicycles (probably to show how well Alleve works for their arthritic pain or something), and I realized I hadn't been on a bike in years.

Then the electrifying thought: maybe I'll never be on one again.

Which led to...how many things have I already done for the last time without even knowing it?

Hopscotch quickly came to mind. I mean, what are the odds I'll ever play that again? I may not know the when, but I do know the where the final event would have occurred--on Diane's blacktop between her lawn and her horse corral. At one end sat a tether ball (never liked tether ball--couldn't care less when that last time happened) and at the other, a permanent (as in painted) grid for hopscotch. I can still picture my six-year-old self, leaning as far as I dared, to land my chain (or rock, or whatever else was handy as a marker) in the appropriate spot. Neither chilly afternoons nor encroaching darkness lured us away.

But something did, for eventually we stopped playing Hopscotch.

Now a feeling of wistfulness washes over me--sadness that in that last moment I hop hop hopped my way to the finish, I didn't even know it was time to bid farewell.

Makes me wanna run out and chalk up a sidewalk. Maybe play another game of Hopscotch to prove there are no last times. Ever.

Take that, Life.

Somewhere...

What I'm Reading...

Long ago, back when I was still dating material, I went out with a reporter who's now the weekend editor of a prestigious newspaper. (In other words, the guy was bright.)

Anyway, we were sitting at the Sagebrush Cantina having dinner and discussing--what else?--the South's perspective on the Civil War. At one point, he said something to me that I've pondered ever since (obviously, since I'm recounting it now). He said: "Sometimes I think you understand the abstract better than you do the concrete."

Well, I didn't know whether to feel praised or berated--that's how bright I was--so I settled on flattered, grateful he'd analyzed me at all (that's how young I was).

And I never forgot what he said.

Because unlike people who aren't as smart as they think they are, I'm painfully aware that I'm not as hip to stuff as I'd like to be. ::Sigh::

Which brings me to the book I'm reading (yes, there's a point to all this). Robert McKee's infamous Story: Substance, Structure, Style, and the Principles of Screenwriting. All I can say is, wow! (Yeah, and I fancy myself a writer.) Seriously, I wanna click click click over to Amazon and shove ten copies in my shopping cart for my writing friends. I mean, this thing is in a league of its own.

Why, you may ask, screenwriting? Am I switching paths? Nope. But STORY isn't only about screenwriting, it's about, er, STORY. More importantly, McKee ferrets out the philosophy behind good storytelling which, as I've said all along, is not my strong point. I've read about a quarter of the book, and I now see writing in a whole new light.

How COOL is THAT??

The good news is that I already unconsciously incorporate various storytelling techniques in my writing--some because I've been an avid reader all my life, others because I have indeed studied the craft. But it's knowing why these techniques work--and learning to consciously include them that will undoubtedly not only improve my writing, but make it less fraught with self-induced torture.

And yes...I daresay it's the abstract way in which McKee presents his material that's causing all the epiphanies.

I hate it when men are right about me.

Ain't the Internet Grand?

I mean, look: Now you can experience California Screamin' without even having to leave your desk! (Okay, it's not quite the same...) Hm. Do you suppose that copyright thing at the end means anything?

Miles of Smiles

I thought there’d be moments of bittersweet nostalgia. Y’know…like those memories that sweep you back to the days of being a three-year old kid, all innocent and full of wonder, tugging at your daddy’s hand, begging to be taken on the tea cups.

Didn’t happen.

Not sure why. God knows the days of my youth are so indelibly printed on my brain that almost anything can trigger a flashback. Maybe because this trip to Disneyland wasn’t the first as an adult (although it was the first in almost twenty years). Maybe the three year-old child has faded from memory more than I knew. Maybe my parents didn’t take me often enough for it to become ingrained in the fabric of my mental make-up?

In a way, failing to have this sense of deja vu was a relief, to tell you the truth. Moving on.

After the triumphant ride on California Screaming, we finally crossed over to Disneyland and took the train to New Orleans Square for a ride on Pirates of the Caribbean. (Sidenote: for future reference, do the baby rides BEFORE the grown-up ones; this seemed sooooo tame after California Screaming, but okay…I get it. It’s not about the “thrill,” it’s about the…um…the animatronics? Whatever.)

Things get a little hazy from this point. I believe Splash Mountain was involved (another note to self: for future reference, do NOT sit in the front seat!!). I finally got to see Phantasm (or whatever it’s called). Kinda cool.

And the spectacular fireworks (further note to self: there are better places to see this from than New Orleans Square).

(Taken with my cell phone--how cool is that?)

Eventually, with our dogs barking like hounds from hell, we rode the Monorail over to Downtown Disney (who knew??) and made up for lost time with two cocktails and Nachos at the Rain Forest Café. More cuteness, of course. Growling gorillas and honking elephants. Oh, and the near fatal incident when Ann tripped going upstairs, nearly strangling herself on some rope (reminiscent of the infamous escalator incident of 2005). Then a cab ride back to the hotel.

In the morning, we checked out and got to the park around 12:30, instantly recognizing we weren’t the only southern Californians who’d gotten the news flash about the great weather. The line in the parking structure was a zillion miles long. Not to worry. While waiting, Ann and I drank champagne and munched on Triscuits with Cheese Whiz. (Hey—we’re like the Boy Scouts: Always prepared.)

Once we got into the park, to our great dismay, long, long, streams of humans greeted us everywhere we went. In fact, for the next couple hours, we only managed two rides: a repeat of Pirates (go figure) and Indiana Jones. Our Fast Pass for Space Mountain scheduled us for HOURS later, so we trudged over to California Adventure to knock a few items off our list, namely lunch and Twilight Zone Tower of Terror.

Speaking of which, I have to give kudos to Ann, here. What a trouper! (Or a raving scaredy-cat, depending on your point of view). She waited in line with us…then took a hike out the exit! Meanwhile, Marty and I got strapped in and he started with the “regret” talk. Something about having promised himself he’d never do this ride again.

Man, I’m gonna have to find some new amusement park companions!

Anyway, what a blast! VERY short, but a real kick. I highly recommend it.

Next we zoomed back over to Disneyland in time for our appointment with Space Mountain. Again, y’know…cool and all…but doesn’t hold a candle to California Screaming. Oh, and once again, Ann did her disappearing act, and just as I’m about to step into the seat, Marty says: “I may have to bolt, too.”

I mean, COME ON, PEOPLE! These are NOTHING compared to Magic Mountain and Knotts Berry Farm! And you call yourself Disney fans???

Okay, so by now it was dark; probably time to hit the freeway, but no…it occurred to us that the 6:30 parade was about to start which left…hmm…no lines at Splash Mountain! Y’see, in our earlier logging forays, we’d failed to get a good picture, so this time we rehearsed: Ann and I would lean right, with Marty in the middle leaning left.

We didn’t count on the two big guys who scrambled into the seats in front. Oh, don’t worry. They didn’t spoil the picture. But they nearly capsized us! Poor Ann…soaked. Poor Marty…soaked. Me? High and dry in the back, thanks! (Which might explain the smile on my face and the "look, Ma--no hands" pose.)

With that, our journey came to an end (after a brief stop where Ann bought sweats for the drive home). Here are my final thoughts:

Um…all those backpacks gave me the shivers. Especially since the people checking them don’t exactly appear to be TSA trained…

The Fast Pass system is truly inspired genius. Ditto for the single rider passes.

Picking up your ticket at Von’s saves you mucho dinero. In my case, a two-day park hopper cost $91 versus $132 at the park. Take heed!

Disneyland is for all ages. (Caveat: unless you have problems walking.)

Hey, speaking of walking, check it out: I wore my shiny new pedometer, and guess what! We walked the equivalent of ten miles BOTH days (I’ve got the aching calves to prove it.) What you have to understand here is that Marty is the anti-exercise guy (which I’m sure he’ll dispute, but trust me on this) and there he was on DAY TWO—actually, EVENING TWO—SKIPPING down Mainstreet. Yes, SKIPPING. And with a SMILE on his face.

Which just goes to show…MAGICAL things happen at The Happiest Place on Earth.

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.)