From The Pop Culture Wires....

I suppose you'd have to be residing under a rock to have missed the news flash, but just in case...I'm thrilled to report the dismal economy has NOT negatively impacted the likes of Paris Hilton (well, at least, not that she's aware of.) Yes, the girl who has everything--including this snappy little Bentley custom painted to match her lust for all-things Barbie--just ordered a diamond-encrusted dashboard to be shipped from Britain and installed here in L.A.

Vive la recession!

What Could I Say--Part Two

Him: Did you do something to your eyes?

Me: Huh?


Him: Did you do something to your eyes?

Damn...the bartenders always know....(and while we're at it, wouldn't it be nice if I could grow some lashes??)

See, Here's The Thing

Recently, it came to my attention that a certain publishing house is currently acquiring a sub-genre of romance for which my fourth manuscript is a perfect fit. So, get thee to the post office, right? Um, not so fast. Without naming names, this is the publishing house that's had a partial of my first manuscript for over two years, and no--I have it on good authority, it's not lost--so, does it make sense to send them something else?

Should I also add that I heard--straight from an editor's mouth--that the house has all the authors they need in the sub-genre?

Conflicting messages.

Bottom line--I can sit here, making up reasons not to submit (and establish 100% odds of rejection--as in, you can't get a yes on something they haven't seen)...or...get in line with another manuscript.

What the hell. Nothin' to lose.

Here's An Observation

How weird is this? Yesterday, I started a blog post about The Bachelor, got distracted, wrote a note about it to some girlfriends....and lo and behold, the note to the girlfriends was infinitely more entertaining and better written. I hate when that happens. Guess I'm self-editing too much here.

Anyway, I abandoned the topic (yeah, I know, pass the handkerchiefs).

Not that I have anything else of substance to report on. Oh, wait. Except to say I'm still in the running at Karin Tabke's First Line Contest. (Yay, me!) In fact, I'm one of the 15 finalists (down from 100 entries). This sucker goes on and on, huh? I have to say it's been an interesting writing experiment, though.

Oh, and I got my comp issue of April's True Romance with "Leave It To Lucy" (they kept my title) on the cover, so run out and get yourself a copy.

Meanwhile, I'm back to working on JATAOMM which, by the way, turns out to be all messed up (ha, go figure). Remember, I actually semi-pre-plotted this manuscript (complete with fancy spreadsheet). Well, I've written about 75 pages and I'm supposed to be at chapter 7 and turning point one. Instead, when I properly formatted the pages, I had the 75, but I'm at chapter 11 and I still haven't reached the turning point. Yikes. Can you spell R-E-V-I-S-I-O-N-S (don't have to, I just did it for ya). I've no idea when this book took off on its own and left my control. The good news is that I'm FINALLY at the part I've been looking forward to writing--the fun and games part, as Blake Snyder puts it. (Hint: picture the roadtrip from hell with your ex while you're in the throes of menopause...okay, I guess the premise doesn't SOUND fun, but that's the challenge!)

Movin' On

I suppose, now that it's friggin' March, I should get back to the business at hand. After all, the site's called Randy Writes Romance, not Randy Indulges The Need To Share Every Last Intimate Detail About Herself. If and when the spirit moves me, I can always return to boring--I mean, MESMERIZING--y'all with the subject of my face lift, right? Cuz it's MY blog, and I make the rules. So there.

In the meantime, I'm trying to figure out the best way (yeah, I know--probably the labeling feature) to group the posts together. And at some point, I'll post the video in the sidebar, because otherwise it'll disappear into the archives.

Which brings me to answering a question someone must surely be asking...

...and that is: why? Why did I blog my face lift? Why did I post unflattering photos? (Why didn't I learn whether face lift is one word or two?)

Well, aside from being painfully honest (and, trust me, it's not a virtue--more like a genetic screw-up), I did it because I felt strongly about sharing info with other women (hey, and maybe men) who are trolling the internet, casting about for stories on cosmetic surgery.

But, like I say....time to move on. (Um, cross your fingers something writing-related magically turns up...)

Having Said That...

...don't get me wrong. There's definitely a downside to cosmetic surgery. Numero uno--the stiff, tight feeling. Like if you forget and turn too quickly, you might rip your face off. Ha. Kidding. Sort of.

Yesterday, I stumbled across a review site devoted to the "lifestyle lift"--a popular alternative to traditional cosmetic surgery. Yikes. Sixty percent (60%) of the commenters said the procedure wasn't worth it. Complaints ran the gamut from minor (no change, change didn't last) to horrific (pain, bleeding problems, ugly scars). Now, granted. Statistically, you have to discount how bad this looks at first glance. Presumably, people with negative experiences are much more apt to comment than those with positive. Plus, if you cast your net widely enough, you're probably gonna catch a lot of tainted fish (there's an odd analogy). Still...the stories definitely bear paying attention. And a lot of 'em will break your heart. Like I say, I'm no expert, but here's my take on it: the procedure itself is probably okay, but I'm gathering it's kinda been franchised out. Now, franchises might work for hamburgers, but our faces? Not so much.

Caveat emptor and all...

Hey, by the way...after inviting people to contact me via my profile, I've been informed that, duh. That doesn't work. I rrrreally hesitate to put my address in text here because who knows what the google gods will do with it, so try this: click on my website (in the sidebar on this page), and then click on contact. That should getcha to me.

Work-In-Progress, Take 2 or 3...or something

A Work-In-Progress, Take One

Well, crap.

I made this whole slide show extravanganza, but I wanted one that doesn't take you from the site to hawk its wares, and now I can't figure out how to see if there's another way to keep that from happening.

In the meantime, I'm re-thinking posting some of the more hideous photos.

Decisions, decisions.

Okay, Plan B.

I'll try Picasa.

What Was I Gonna Say??

Last night I took my new face to a local restaurant/bar where I ran into a guy I've known casually for about two years. He asked me to dance and we were chatting over the music when....

Him (peering intently): Is there something different about you?

Me: Um...my hair's blonder?

I hope men are that stupid.

97.1 KLSX -- RIP *Updated

Pardon me while we take a break from the face lift festival to pay tribute to the passing of an LA talk-radio station. Now, I can' t say I was a regular listener, but damn. I AM gonna miss Frosty, Heidi, and Frank on those rare occasions I find myself driving somewhere at noon. And, if I've heard the last of Tim Conway, Jr.'s "What the Hell Did Jesse Jackson Just Say" ...the world will hold a little less joy.

Kudos to the on-air talent (with the exception of Danny Bonaduce who's always kind of a douche bag, isn't he?)--they're handling their exits with grace and inspiration. (Of course, ever-the-cynic, I imagine they're all smart enough to know about bridge burning, but still.) Tom Leykis (on whom I run hot and cold) explained the situation succinctly: in a sucky economy, with ad revenue declining, switching formats from talk to music makes sense 'cuz the latter is less labor-intensive.

Sad, though.

And all I gotta say is this: Nobody better be messing with my Mark and Brian.

You hear me, KLOS?????

*Updated to include this link to Frost, Heidi and Frank's farewell video. Well done, guys.

Cosmetic Surgery--My Story*

*Titled thusly so as to show up in search engines--yep, just me, doing my usual public service!

In reflecting on my cosmetic surgery experience, some of what I’m thinking is actually too personal to share. (I know! Shocking, huh? THIS from the girl that even confessed to wearing two left shoes on a blind date!) With that in mind, I offer the following...

One of the reasons I kept delaying the inevitable was that I dreaded putting my life on hold for what seemed like a huge chunk of time. Guess what? Life doesn’t stop just because you’re tied to your home recovering from surgery. At least for me, it didn’t. Crap, I had more visitors in one week than I’d had in the past five years. Talk about a non-stop party! It got to the point where I needed a vacation to recover from my recovery.

But oh, how I enjoyed it! Friends and family flocking to see me...entertaining chez Randy...no work or personal responsibilities of any kind...all I can say is, truly, one of the happiest periods of my life. (And after calling in sick only once in 25+ years, let's just say this “hanging out at home” was a unique experience—one I could get easily get used to.)

So, yeah. Life went on. And as a bonus, that huge chunk of time turned out to be...well, not so long after all. Hell, I went out to dinner (in public!) a week to the day after my surgery, and I only missed seven full days of work. A mere SPECK in the scheme of things...especially when you consider the months and years I’ll get to enjoy this new face. All in all, an extremely good deal in terms of the return on (time) invested. (Okay, and probably the money invested, too.)

Speaking of the financials, I can’t stress ENOUGH my feelings on the subject. If you’ve stumbled across my blog via Google cuz you’re trolling for cosmetic surgery stories, here’s your reward in the way of some free advice:

1. Don't pay for the zip code. I'm sure there are qualified surgeons in Beverly Hills; I'm equally sure there are lousy ones. In either case, the bottom line on your 90210 tab is gonna include a helluva lot of overhead.

2. I don't care how fancy the doctor is or how many of Hef's playmates he's done boobs for, what is his vision for you? (One doc I consulted was about as enthusiastic as a DMV clerk.)

3. Don't fall for false charm. Hate to say it, but the world of cosmetic surgery is full of good looking guys with great bedside manners. Make sure your pick has the skills to match.

4. Check out the surgeon's staff. Are they happy campers? If so, it's likely because they respect the man for whom they work.

5. It should go without saying, but I'll mention it anyway: survey the surgeon's previous work, either by looking at before and after photos on his website, or speaking to former patients. Use your gut to evaluate.

6. By the same token, measure personal recommendations against your good judgment, because we all have an inborn tendency to tout our own doctors--it's a way to validate our choice, not to mention our result. (In this respect, it's like choosing a hairdresser; ask a friend to recommend a stylist and she'll gush ad nasuseum about her own--and why you simply CANNOT even THINK about trying anyone but HERS--and yet, how often do we do precisely that and promptly move on to another one?

7. During the consultation, does he promise to make you look like Brooke Shields's younger sister? Run for the hills. (Realism happens to be a personal preference; your mileage may vary.)

8. Find the balance between experience and youth. What I'm saying here is that there are surgeons with longstanding reputations who...well, let's be honest...are doing the same old thing they've been doing for ages and, sadly, their patients reflect it. So sure, you want someone with a ton of procedures under his belt, but not if they add up to an assembly line mentality with Studebaker-era (or worse, Edsel) techniques.

9. And speaking of automobile analogies, let's add this one: Beware the surgeon who, in effect, "totals" you on the estimate. Ask yourself if you truly need the laundry list of procedures he's recommending. Trust me. You can always go back for more.

Hark! Still awake? I left the most important for last:


10. Just a theory, but I'm thinking a GOOD cosmetic surgeon possesses superior technical skills, whereas a GREAT cosmetic surgeon possesses, in addition, ARTISTIC VISION. (And, to tell you the truth, maybe I have those reversed.) At any rate, don't make the mistake of believing ALL surgeons possess both because, in my opinion...the simultaneous combo of left and right brain attributes is a rare occurrence.

# # #

So there you have it. My collected wisdom on the subject. In case you missed the link in earlier posts, my surgeon is Dr. Michael Schwartz and he's located in Westlake Village, California. Click here to visit his website.

And if you have any questions, please feel free to contact me either by leaving a comment, or via the email address in my profile section.

Up tomorrow (or when I get to it): More photographs!

Blog Gaps and What They Mean

Ever notice how sometimes I go on a tear, furiously blogging daily and then, suddenly...nothing? Well, guess what? This doesn't mean I'm out of stuff to say...on the contrary, it means that I wanna take the time to say it right. Y'know, like, with topic sentences...cohesive paragraphs...rigorous context.

Hey, you think that kinda writing comes easy?? Think again.

So, yeah. Before moving on, I want to wrap up the whole face lift process with all its life-changing reflections, giving the experience its proper due. Just haven't gotten around to it yet.

Stay tuned, though.

Re-Inventing Randy, Part VII

Quick fly-by since the "real" job is eating up my time today.

Over the weekend, my 1099 from Dorchester Publishing arrived in the mail, which got me to thinking...two years ago, I hadn't ever written a short story, let alone submitted one. Three cents a word, I scoffed...pffffft...who needs it?

Well, hm...guess what...turns out those words add up. Let's put it this way...I paid for roughly one-third of my face lift with proceeds from short story sales.

Squee, indeed.

Re-Inventing Randy, Part VI

You can't have a good sick-room without a doggie in attendance. Filling in for the late great Kody-Boy (best doggie in the world and infamous taunter of coyotes), was Kath's pup, Tucker.This guy was sooooo sweet. In the middle of the night, he'd trot into my room, hang for awhile, then meander back to Kath's. She said he was restless because of the high winds, but I knew better. He was coming to check on me. Okay, and even if we go with her theory, then I submit he sensed the difficulty I was having with the whole sleeping concept, and his presence in my room was a signal that we shared a bond.

Most of the time, he laid down right next to the bed, but on a couple occasions, he leapt onto the mattress and tried to spoon. No, really. I swear.

Or maybe his solicitous attention stemmed from some kinda beauty and the beast thing (me being the beast, of course).
Oops. Forgot to warn you that was coming! Hey, I've decided there are two sorts of pictures: 1) the kind that are awful but not scary because you're not looking at car accident injuries, and 2) the kind that are awful AND scary because, well...you just look ugly, surgery or not. Both of these fall into the first category, I think. Anyway, FYI, photo 1 was taken on about day 4. The yellow was a welcome sign because it's one of the final colors of the bruise rainbow. Photo 2 was taken on day 5.

Oh, and speaking of dogs (this segue would've worked better a minute ago), how about this year's winner of Westminster's Best In Show? Go, Stump!!!! Ten years old, which makes him 70 in people years....and I'm thinkin'...hm....maybe this will set a trend...maybe with my new face, the 2009 Miss America Pageant ain't out of the question....?

Re-Inventing Randy Part V

I have a theory about cosmetic surgery that I formed back in 1978 when I paid to have a power sander grind off several layers of my face in a procedure known as dermabrasion.

As favorable as the end result may be, you usually end up with something you didn't have before that'll bug you almost as much as the stuff you just fixed. I call this unforeseen collateral damage, and in that instance, it was a nifty set of scars along my jawline visible mainly when I got any sun. (So visible that, on occasion, people asked me what's that on your face? Yeah, subtle. And so polite.)

Anyway, it's too early to tell what the collateral damage of this recent go-round will be as far as the face goes (although I have to say, I'm LOVING the progress--pictures soon!), but, geez. New theory. The propensity for the rest of your body to fall apart is in direct proportion to your age at the time of the procedure.

Because...first of all...my HIP is killing me. And unless I'm mistaken, the hip bone is NOT connected to any facial bones that I know of. No, the pain in my hip is from having to sleep sitting upright (which, nevertheless, I gladly did after hearing the horror story of an acquaintance who somehow neglected to follow this particular direction and ended up having blood pool to one side of her face, thereby causing all KINDS of complications). But, wow. No amount of pillows, arranged any which way, relieved the discomfort of my poor hip.

Permit me to compare and contrast:

















Fig 1. Correct Post-op Position

Now let's look at the way I USUALLY sleep:













Fig 2. Normal sleep position (aerial view)

I call this the Swastika position which, while unfortunate, is quite apt, as I think you'll agree, and serves well to explain the hip discomfort.

Oh, and guess what else? The borderline tweakiness in my wrist went completely wonky after a week of hoisting my poor hip on, off, and around the bed, so I'm wearing one of these.

But, hey...a small price to pay for the way I'm looking these days. (Sorry, you'll just have to wait for a current photo--meanwhile, content yourself with one from waaaaaaaaaaay back on Day Four.) Suffice to say, I've come A LONG WAY, Baby!

Re-Inventing Randy Part IV

You may have wondered why pre-op prep included the purchase of a 42" flat screen TV. See, here's the deal: I pictured a couple days of bed rest--maybe 48-hours of leave me the hell alone--during which poor Kath would find herself with nothing better to do than watch DVD's on a wonky downstairs TV where even Kate Moss came off looking like a gluttonous pig (the picture is squished into something resembling letterbox format, only it's not.)

So, yeah. I bought a new TV.

Did she watch it? Uh, not so much.

Because, in truth, we were busy upstairs watching cool stuff together like a marathon of America's Top Model episodes. Oh, and those skanky OC housewives. (Ugh. Imagine my dismay when one of the wives accompanied her mother to a face lift appointment. Yeah, thanks Bravo. I really needed the affirmation that I belong firmly in the aging mom category rather than the young hot housewife. I hate when that happens. On the other hand, thanks too for that expression on the daughter's face--the one prompting me to cackle yes my dear, your time will come soon enough.)

Anyway, I know. Meow.

Also on the agenda in the early going--namely the day after surgery--was a return trip to the doctor's office where I went from 'early mummy' to 'fashionable urban turbanista.'
(Geeez, am I sharing too much???? Wait until you see the photos that prompted a warning from my sister-in-law to cease and desist.)

Sidenote: I now realize I should have tried to post these memories in real time, to lend a sense of how quickly the days passed. Oh, well. Use your imagination.

Re-Inventing Randy (Part III)

In the last post, I promised...So there they are. While I lay clueless in the OR, Kath went to work at the condo pre-packaging snack-sized baggies half-filled with frozen vegetables--a truly handy item to have on hand!

Meanwhile, let me backtrack a moment because I kinda glossed over the hour immediately following surgery and since certain impressions stand out, perhaps they're worth observing. In particular, I remember how peas-ful and quiet it was. And how strangely comforting it felt to hear Liz going about whatever she does following a procedure (um, like, cleaning up residual Randy remnants?).

I'm not sure what flashback from my past I might be conjuring up. Maybe I'm recalling the story my brother tells of listening to his doctor bang out a real estate deal in the next office after an angiogram or something...anyway, as I lay there adjusting to a new reality, I have a conscious memory of relief at not being subjected to voices...nor of cabinets slamming shut without regard to the person with jangly nerves...just the sound of a professional going through her routine. Like I say, the efforts to make me comfortable didn't go unnoticed! And when Liz brought me apple juice (?) to sip through a straw...ah, heaven. (But an additional mental note: More straws! I need straws at home!)

Also during this time, Dr. Schwartz came in to check on me. He told me later he knew I'd be okay because I was so chipper which, of course, was a deliberate act on my part--never having been through surgery, I desperately didn't wanna be the drama queen, so I guess I achieved my goal? (Okay, to be honest, I DID complain of feeling, uh, shall we say...TENSE...but when Liz mentioned the word "Xanax" I relaxed immediately.)

Anyway, Kath showed up (yay, Kath!) and by the time she and Liz wheeled me down to the car, I felt 100 percent ME. Cheerful. Joyful. Ready to tackle anything.

At home, I easily climbed the stairs to my bedroom (my darling parents thought they'd be insurmountable, and for that reason had practically insisted my recuperation happen at their place--um, no--sorry, folks)...

At this point, I'd pictured being totally out of it, but no! Bring on the phones! Let's CALL people!

First up, of course, I called my parents. What a surprise (to me AND to them) that I sounded so normal, so like myself! Reassuring, I'm sure.

Meanwhile, Kath doled out the crackers and juice. A call was made to my brother and sister-in-law to bring straws, ginger ale, and to pick up a prescription for an inhaler (which I never needed but, owing to my previous breathlessness, Kath thought might be handy to have in case it returned).

And then...then...well, we just chilled, I guess. I suppose I slept off and on, but really, not so much. Besides, not two hours after getting home, my first guests arrived. As Kath let Barry and Polly in the front door, I made my way to the top of the stairs and announced: "The party's up here!"

Uh, I think I may have shocked them a bit...y'know...with the attitude.

Or maybe with how I looked? Ha. Two reactions stand out in my mind: Barry said I already looked 20 years younger (um, right...let's wait for the swelling to go down, 'kay?), and Polly said I didn't look nearly as scary as she'd feared.

But let's not rely on their assessment. You be judge:

(Are ya ready???)




Peas--they're the new rage in fashionable eyeglasses
Let the record show...no PAIN was experienced during the filming of these memorable moments! Truly!

Re-Inventing Randy (Part II)

So yeah, the fear factor I mentioned yesterday. I think you’ll be surprised how it figured in.

My FIRST fear was that I’d somehow miss the surgery appointment. Y’know, like, sleep through it. Especially since I don’t set an alarm EVER. Mostly because I wake up all night long anyway (thanks, menopause!!), and on the rare occasion I DO set the alarm, I usually screw it up by switching am for pm or vice versa.

Kathleen arrived from Laguna Beach the night before, which provided a great distraction. We did last-minute grocery shopping, bought giant salads at Gelson’s, and hunkered down to do some serious catching up. Before long, it was time for bed, with a plan to rise around 6 a.m.

As predicted, I woke long before Mark and Brian broadcast their morning hello’s. Bounding out of bed, I took one last shower, donned surgery-appropriate attire (sweats and a zip-up top), and urged Kathleen to hurry so we wouldn’t be late.

Promptly at 6:45 a.m., we entered the surgery center and rang the little bell, announcing our arrival. Seconds later, Surgical Nurse Liz ushered us inside.

No turning back now!

You’d think this would be when fear number two kicked in, but you’d be wrong. I couldn’t have been more relaxed. Kath and I cracked jokes, Liz dolled me up in a hospital gown and fluffy warm blanky, and soon I had an IV in my arm. (My first IV EVER!!!) Then we moved into the recovery room where I climbed onto a bed to await the next phase.

Dr. Schwartz came in minutes later. His opening words? Something like: “So, I see we’re doing a breast augmentation and a tummy tuck this morning, right?”

Bwahahahahahahaaaaa.

Gotta love a surgeon with a sense of humor (although, I DID inform him that the boobs are next. Not that I want them bigger, mind you, just...well...more MANAGEABLE.) He proceeded to draw all over my face with some kind of purple marker, creating guidelines for the actual procedure. Kath got to watch the whole thing, lucky girl.

But alas, it was time to send Kath on her way, and then Liz escorted me to the operating room. Like clockwork, the anesthesiologist (my first EVER anesthesia!!) joined us. And still no fear! (Not even the one where you get put to sleep...forever.) In fact, we quickly discovered we went to the same high school five years apart (yeah, GO CHARGERS), and the last thing I remember was asking if he’d known Mr. Miller which, when you think about it is just the strangest thing, isn't it? I mean, WHO KNEW back then, that as I walked out of American History for the last time, that the NEXT time I mentioned the teacher's name it would be moments before...

....zzzzzzzzz....


...and then the second fear.

See, I DREADED ‘coming to’ g-r-a-d-u-a-l-l-y...where I’d slowly, slowly, realize...WHAT THE HELL DID YOU JUST DO TO YOURSELF?? And I was afraid of the resulting panic.

But it didn’t happen that way.

Somehow, I went from Sleeping Beauty forever-after slumber to full awareness. (Is this how anesthesia works??) I knew exactly where I was and why, so no panic.

Well, no panic from THAT source.

I have to admit, I felt a tiny bit claustrophobic. Apparently because of the oxygen mask. And when they took it away, I felt a tiny bit breathless. As in, put that thing back on. I remember informing Liz that my dad suffers from sleep apnea--ha--I guess to make sure shew knew that just because I was supposed to breathe, didn’t mean my body was on the same wavelength.

Whatever.

Apparently, I was breathing fine, and waking up all mummified didn’t faze me in the least.

So much for the fear factor....


Coming up next: Frozen pea packs.

Re-Inventing Randy (Part I)

Shall we cut to the chase?

I did it!!!!!!!!

Last week, at this very moment, I slipped into la-la land (well, let’s face it, more like SNOOZE CITY) in a last-ditch attempt to regain my youth...Ha. Kidding. I’m under no such illusion. Actually, the simple truth is that after a year of peering at myself in the mirror each morning and thinking I don’t wanna go through the rest of my life looking like this woman who’s become a stranger, I plunked down an obscene amount of money and scheduled a face lift plus upper and lower eyes.

Yay, me!

See, it’s not ALL about vanity, although (raises hand), there’s obviously a component in there somewhere. For me, more importantly, the decision to lose my surgenic virginity (yeah, I just made that up), boiled down to two issues: one, my friggin eyebrow muscles were exhausted from the effort of hoisting up my eyelids when I wanted to do stuff like...oh, I dunno...SEE; and two, the whole saggy thing going on with the rest of my face translated (in my mind) to sloppiness. (Longtime blogreaders will recall my love/hate relationship with sloppiness−I’m some sort of recalcitrant Virgo.)

Anyway, then this weird chick started showing up in my photographs. She wore her hair the same way as I, and she visited the same vacation spots. But I didn’t recognize her face−namely, her smile−and then it came to me. That poor smile has to prop up those big fat bags under her eyes−no wonder her lips are straining. Of course, that girl was me.

Lastly (okay, I guess I lied−we’re up to four issues now, aren’t we?), it came down to that lonely but necessary task we women face (no pun intended) every morning of our lives. I’m talkin’ about staring into that lighted make-up mirror−the one with the magnification so that our aging eyes catch those rogue hairs sprouting from our chins. (More lying−I don’t own the kind with the magnification but the lights are bad enough.) I mean, is that any way to start out a perfectly good day when you’re 55 years old? You’re practically doomed before the coffee cools off.

So, yeah. Cosmetic surgery was definitely on my radar and the blips were growing in frequency and decibels.

But first, as you know, I had to quit smoking. Major stumbling block, and it took months getting around to. Trust me, I get it. When it comes to healing, you definitely want your oxygen carrying blood guys firing on all pistons, and guess what−nicotine (and all the rest of the crap in cigarettes) tends to screw with the efficiency of that whole system. So, yeah. First up, I had to quit smoking.

Then, of course, I had to schedule time off. Hey, January’s as good a time as any.

Finally...well, let’s just say, business turned around mid-way last year, allowing me to feel comfortable spending a chunk of money on....ME.

I’d already done my research and in-person consults back in April, so I knew the name of the surgeon I wanted wielding the knife. He came with the added bonus of being local (between my driveway and his office, there are only two turns!−okay, spread out over about 5 miles, but still...), and he’d performed surgery on a friend of mine. (Total coincidence! I found him first! I found him first!)

Anyway, so that part was easy, and on a Wednesday in January, I found my fingers punching out the numbers to his office where the lovely Nicole suggested a date not even two weeks away.

Gulp.

“Okay,” I said, “let’s get ‘er done.” (So, see? Remember all that stuff I blogged about−the switching of the beds, the upgrading of the TV, etc. etc.? Ha. That was my version of pre-op prep!)

Also high on the prep list was securing the services of lifelong friend Kathleen. A respiratory therapist by profession, I knew that if she were available, she’d be here in a heartbeat, ready to hold my hand and take care of the yucky stuff. Little did I know that having her on-board would also make the experience...er, dare I say it...FUN?

Coming up tomorrow...oh, who knows? I haven’t written it yet. Maybe something about fear. Yeah, that’ll be good. What do you suppose my two greatest fears were?

(Note: I have no idea how many posts this’ll turn out to be, but I promise pictures at the end!)

First Line Contest -- An Update

Hey, all...remember that contest I entered awhile back? I'm still in the running, so how cool is that? In case you've forgotten, it's at author Karin Tabke's blog, and it's where you add a line from your manuscript each week until you get axed by the judge. Here's my entry thus far:

Looking back, my mid-life crisis began on a Tuesday in March, right there on aisle twelve of the local supermarket between the laxatives and the condoms. That’s the day I confronted an assortment of tampon boxes and wondered if my diminishing egg production warranted the forty-eight count economy size. See, I worried about a future when the half-empty box, now faded and kinda tattered around the edges, still sat beneath the sink ready to mock me every time I reached for a hair dryer or fresh roll of TP.

“Can I help you find something, ma’am?”

“Yeah, could you put out an APB on my youth?” A rhetorical question, but when the kid gasped and made a move as though to summon the men in white suits, I dredged up a reassuring smile. “Just kidding,” I lied, vaguely trying to pinpoint the moment in life when I’d gone from miss to ma’am.

This is from my current WIP--the one mysteriously titled JATAOMM for now. I've written about 70 pages and read it through just the other night. Looks like that month-long stall I've been in is nearly over (go, ME!).

Meanwhile, be sure to look for tomorrow's post. I'm working on a marathon entry about last week's doings (astute blogreaders--well, plus friends and relatives--you guys know what I'm talkin' about.)

Losing Count

Yay! A contract in the mail for April's issue of True Romance. I think that makes...22??

Being Prepared

Change light bulbs too high for me to reach...Check
Fix switch in kitchen so lights work...Check
Turn valve on furnace to "on" position for heat...Check
Swap Queen-size bed for Full size bed...Check
Do lots of laundry...Check
Buy 42" flat screen TV...Check
Get rid of old cabinet...Check
Buy bookcase...Check
Assemble bookcase...Check
Stock with myriad of books currently littering floor...Check
Clean up patio...Check
Clean out refrigerator...Check
Clean out pantry...Check
Manicure/pedicure...Check

Probably a million other things to do...but good enough for now.

Tomorrow I'm getting a new car. Oops. Sorry. I meant a new face.

Stay tuned...

Uber-Cool...Watch Until The End

Ye Olde Silver Lining

As a public service to myself, I thought I’d assemble in one coherent little speech the benefits I’ve observed thus far from giving up cigarettes.

It goes without saying, of course, that the health benefits are plentiful. (Contrary to what nonsmokers believe, smokers are not ignorant in this regard. Many of us have deep-seated, very complex motivations for continuing to smoke in the face of all the evidence.) Anyway, so let’s skip the physical aspects and get right to the rest.

1. I no longer worry about running out of cigarettes which, extrapolated, means I no longer worry about stopping to buy them on the way to an engagement. (Corollary: I don’t worry about having to stop on the way HOME either.)

2. When I arrive at a restaurant, I no longer immediately scope out all possible smoking venues. (Corollary: I also don’t have to pre-plan the timing between cocktails at the bar and being seated at the table, nor how I’m going to politely excuse myself after dinner to duck outside.)

3. Not smoking opens up the dating pool by wide margins.

4. In public, when I’m sitting next to a stranger, I don’t have to worry about offending him or her with the scent (stench?) of cigarettes from my clothes. (Although, let the record show I’ve always LOVED the smell of smoke—stale or otherwise. Even an overloaded ashtray doesn’t gross me out.)

5. I don’t have to feel like the marginalized second-class citizen California has made smokers into.

6. By not purchasing cigarettes, I can save enough money to pay for an additional week-long vacation per year.

7. In order to keep my mind off smoking, I busy myself with chores around the house I may have ignored before.

8. It’s a fascinating lesson in proving to myself that I can be modestly successful at something I didn’t think I could achieve at all.

9. I'm allowed to have cosmetic surgery. (Just sayin.’)

Having listed the above, here’s what I miss about smoking:

EVERYTHING.

Reflections On A Milestone

Okay, confession time. I’m feeling overly-saturated by the news coverage of the inauguration, the pre-inauguration and the pre-pre-inauguration. Don’t get me wrong—I’m all for celebrating the occasion on which the first African American takes office. But (to paraphrase Peggy Lee), is that all he is? The first Black president? I, for one, am hoping for much, much, more!

Like, I’m hoping he’s as bright, thoughtful, and serenely confident as he appears-- whether he’s green, black or purple. To get all caught up in his ethnic heritage is, to me, disrespectful (besides being only half-accurate). It vaguely implies that perhaps his color is the ONLY reason he got elected—like, the American electorate finally got hip enough to accept someone other than a white man. As though you could have substituted ANY African-American candidate this season because—whew, thank God, America’s finally ready for it.

No, it wasn’t timing. And, in my humble opinion based on nothing but gut instinct, our country elected the MAN, not the African-American...and THAT’S what the celebration should be about.

Name That View

Give up? Okay, I'll give ya a clue. There's wagering involved, but the place isn't owned by Indians (um, that sounds politically incorrect, but they ARE called Indian casinos, right?). Anyway, after a long, long, weekend spent avoiding cigarettes (meaning, I went NOWHERE and stayed away from the computer), Ann called on Sunday, suggesting we hit a movie.

Okay, I said. (Yes! I can sit in a dark theater without threat of giving in to the evil smoking demons!)

But then, as I primped in front of the make-up mirror, I heard the Real Housewives of the OC in the background and the bitches, I mean LADIES (hey, will someone tell those chicks that putting a hat on your head doesn't make you classy?) were at the racetrack.

Ding ding ding!

Quick call to Ann.

About an hour later, we traded a darkened theater for The Derby Club in Ventura, arriving in time for a late lunch and the 5th race (on which I won a medium longshot Exacta thankyouverymuch!)

I love it when a last-minute plan comes together.

Just An Observation...

When I take my mortgage payment to the bank, they practically throw a parade...

(See, this is precisely the kind of post that Twitter's good for.)

Signs I'm Over-analyzing

If it were humanly feasible (and it probably is, I just haven’t tried hard enough), I would eat from the moment I woke up in the morning till the moment I laid my head on the pillow at night.

No bullshit.

Moreover, in a perfect world, I’d consume nothing but junk food—a lifetime smorgasbord of nachos, fries, chex mix, and cashews, minute by minute, hour by hour.

Of course, I’d be as big as a modern-day zeppelin, and my arteries would need a case of Liquid Plummer, which is why, alas, I restrain myself. Yes folks, I do. Every day of my life, I count calories, I eat Lean Cuisines, I skip meals—I DEPRIVE myself.

But at least with the whole food thing, there’s no saying: “I will NEVER eat again.”

Unlike with the whole smoking thing.

Knowing the difference makes quitting a lot tougher.

I mean, no matter what—I’ll ALWAYS be able to eat another donut. Eventually...even if it’s far off in the future.

Blogless in Simi

Geez folks, I don't know what's up these days with my blog. Mostly, I just can't think of a topic worthy of more than one line.

Like this:

Try www.pandora.com for a cool way to discover new musicians in your preferred genre.

Or this:

If you miss being able to phone the time lady to get the right time, go here

But I'm also having trouble stringing words together.

Like this:

Blah, blah...literary vs. genre fiction...blah, blah...the difference.....

Do you suppose it's too much oxygen to the brain?

Not Your Mother's Pravda

I did my morning Internet run-through a few minutes ago, starting with The Drudge Report. Dutifully, I clicked on the headline about how the world is heading for a new Ice Age because, after all, I'm nothing if not hot and cold on the whole climate change issue. Global warming...Ice Age...It's all a toss-up, isn't it? Anyway, I figured I'd check out the latest doomsday prediction.

Naturally, I was quickly distracted by yet another headline on the cover page, this one titled "Hollywood Stars Disappear As They Try To Lose Weight."

Sign me up! I LUVS me a series of before and after photos of ridiculously thin movie stars! So I click on picture after picture, slightly nauseated by the standard set by our society for "beauty." And saddened for these ladies that they live this way.

But then I'm distracted yet AGAIN.

I'm reading this where...??

In PRAVDA? As in...THE Pravda? The one in Russia?

Sure enough. Only I'm reading the English version.

Okay, so when did we f-up the Ruskies with our tabloid-style version of journalism...?

Every Culture Has Its Pancake

Think about it.

Mexico...has the tortilla
France...has the crepe
China...has that mung bean thing, better known as moo-shoo

And Norway has LEFSE.

This holiday season, being of Norwegian heritage, I had a hankering for some, which led me to Google which led me to Mrs. Olson's in Minnesota. Clickity-click and bam! Minutes later, a supply of lefse was winging its way across America, headed for ME.

So what is lefse, you ask? All you really need to know is that it's made from potatoes. (I mean, seriously. Potatoes. What could be better?) To see the process, click here. Traditionally, you throw a little butter on it and maybe some sugar. Me, I added some cinnamon to the mix. Mmmmm. Plus, one day I found my self without store-bought bread, so I tossed a bunch of shredded cheese into the center of a slice and made...you guessed it...a Norwegian quesadilla.

Hey, don't laugh. This morning I stumbled across this darling lunch place called The Lefse House, located in (of all places) Alberta, Canada. Look what I found on the menu!!!!

Norwegian Nachos ~ $ 8.95
Crisp flatbread chips covered with
your choice of cheddar or gjetost
cheese, with sour cream, salsa,
and chives.

Okay, am I in heaven or WHAT? Norwegian Nachos, for God's sakes! These people are friggin' BRILLIANT! (And why can't I turn of the italics???)

Crap. Now, I'm hungry and I've exhausted my lefse supply...off to do some more clickety-clicking. And the italics is driving me crazy.

Read 'Em And Weep

Stumbled across these sad, sad, statistics on the blogs of Agents Kristin Nelson and Jennifer Jackson for 2008.

Queries Received

Nelson -- 35,000
Jackson -- 6,500

Full Manuscripts Requested

Nelson -- 88
Jackson -- 10

New Clients Signed

Nelson -- 2
Jackson -- 6

I'm not even gonna bother doing the math. Y'know...come up with percentages and stuff that'd really make my eyeballs bleed. The numbers kinda speak for themselves.

Now let's look at my submissions for the year, shall we? (Get ready: this could be equally scary.)

Looks like I sent out 16+ queries last year--a mixture of one-page letters and partials for both Leftovers and Lights! Camera! Love! From those, I got four requests (3 for partials, 1 for a full). Considering most "experts" say you should query 100 agents before giving up on a project, I'm thinking I should, um, amp up my efforts for 2009 (although, based on the above agent stats, you can forgive me for feeling like why bother.)

Sigh. That's why this biz ain't for the weak-of-heart, boys and girls.


*Sidenote: (I also submitted and sold about 10 stories--averaging about 35 pages each--to True Romance last year, so I'm not quite the slacker I appear. Ha.)

Blog? I Own A Blog?

Oh, yeah. That thing on the Internet. My blah-blah-blog.

Kinda reflective of my blah-blah-life (as of late). I mean, COME ON. I didn't even drink a COCKTAIL on New Year's Eve. What sort of start to 2009 is THAT? Sad, I tell you. Simply pathetic. Don't get me started on the rest of the New Year's weekend. It wasn't pretty but for very different reasons.

In news of a more positive light, I'm still in the running over at Karen Tabke's first line contest. How fun is that?

And in smoking updates...well, let's just say it's been over three weeks since I had a cigarette at work and leave it at that, shall we? (Practice. This stuff takes PRACTICE.)

As for New Year's Resolutions.......are ya kiddin' me?

118-210-57-71-91-15-163-5

Nope. Not winning lotto numbers. Only the freeways it took to get to last weekend's reunion get together in San Diego with my kindergarten/junior high/college chums.

The good news? TONS of blogable material!

The bad news? We're all so OLD, none of us can remember any of it!

Oh, well. Here are pictures:

This one's the view from Nancy and Kathy's CORNER room at the Manchester Hyatt. (Yeah, corner room--what a score, huh?) And considering the hotel was teeming (no pun intended) with Oklahoma State folks on tap for the Holiday Bowl, we were surprised to get upgraded. Well, at least half of us.)


Here I think I can safely interpret some confusion over a gift...? Nancy appears slightly afraid. Either that, or they're both trying to hide their hands so as not to give away their true ages for the photo. Ha ha.














View from the ninth floor. Now, does this look like cold weather to you? Right. It wasn't. All those sweaters, jackets, boots and gloves? Totally unnecessary. Sigh. That's California for ya.














We had LATE lunch at this cute place in Seaport Village before heading off to yet another venue, this time for alcoholic libations cuz, y'know, we hadn't had enough the prior evening.










And last but not least, for your viewing pleasure, an obscure shot of the guy I drooled over during cocktail hour. Don't worry. I didn't make it too obvious--I cropped Kath out of the picture.

Merry Christmas

As I traipse off to the annual Christmas luncheon to partake in traditional fare like tacos and enchiladas (not to mention margaritas), I urge you to consider one thing:'Tis the season to SPEND, SPEND, SPEND...so get out there and do your patriotic duty.


Oh, and have a happy holiday.

A Progress Report

I'm sure a few of you are wondering how I'm doing on the smoking thing. Mostly, I'm amused by the vast spectrum of reactions from my friends and relatives.

To some, even one cigarette means I've totally failed.
To others, 12 cigarettes in a week's time is nothing short of miraculous.

Let's just say there's a special place in my heart for 'the others.'

The positive:

I went two entire days (yes, 48 hours) before my first cheat. You may think that sucks, but hear me out: The last time I went even 24 hours without a cigarette was 1982.

So I'm getting better at it.

After the first cheat, I didn't have a cigarette on the following day. Yes, I had to stay home on a Friday night, avoid the computer, and go to bed early to achieve that milestone, but I figure if that's what it takes...

I would have done better on Saturday if I hadn't discovered two leftover cigarettes in a pack I'd thought empty. Turns out I'm not gonna be one of those people who can leave cigarettes lying around just to prove I'm above temptation. Still...I only smoked one of them right then and there.

I haven't smoked a cigarette at work in over a week.

I haven't smoked a cigarette while getting ready for work in over a week.

I haven't smoked a cigarette while driving to or from work in over a week.

By the way, did I mention I'm taking the drug "Chantix?" (Yeah, that's the one airline pilots are prohibited from using because suicidal thoughts are a possible side effect, although the whole process of trying to quit smoking is so stressful, I'm wondering how you can tell the difference.) Anyway, it's supposed to block the receptors in your brain from experiencing the God-given pleasure that nicotine brings. Now, logic makes me note that you have to SMOKE for this to work, don't you? Guess that's why they say it's okay to cheat during the first month. Plus, I'd swear that sometimes I THINK about smoking and those little nicotine receptors perk up (I picture them as puppies pawing at the air for treats) but because of the Chantix, nothing happens. They're left bereft--like at the airport when you see people waiting at the gate for a dearly-loved relative who doesn't show up.

So sad, it makes you wanna weep. (Yeah, for the airport people, too.)

Is It January Yet??

Geez...it was one festive event after another this past weekend. I'm exhausted, and I think I've already done the 7-lb. holiday upload.

I only took pics at one event, and here they are (well, some of them...the good ones--i.e., none of the photos taken of ME--ugh, wince, gag.) We begin with the traditional "first photo with the Mariachis," so that's 10-month old Evan with mom Tanya (Blogreader Joe's niece). Evan looks fascinated, doesn't he?

Old hands Travis (l) and Trevor (r) are future-Mariachis-in-training.
Aw...cousins...give little Evan a couple more years, and this trio will no doubt instill terror in the heart of Mom/Aunt Renee.

Finally, for your listening pleasure, something from violinist Miguel.

Just A Regular Thursday--Not

It was early, it was freezing, and I hadn't had a cigarette in over 24 hours.

These are my excuses for what you're about to read.

I was running late, and as I tore out of the bedroom, I spied a bottle of water and tossed it into my purse. Okay, now flash forward to a vision of me driving along Highway 23, enjoying the snow-capped mountains in the distance. Instead of having a cigarette, I decided to pop open the water.

Only, I couldn't get the cap off. Even when I pressed in the two little indented thingies.

Struggle, struggle...ah! Finally.

I went to take a swig...

One of those weird, split second thoughts flashed through my mind--how did I manage to get nail polish remover around the rim of the bottle?--before I filled my mouth with this:

Instead of this:
Not good, folks. Trust me. But what could I do? I was driving! Couldn't just spit it out all over myself. Couldn't swallow it. To tell you the truth, the next few minutes are a little hazy. I think I found a breath mint to add to the lacquer-like taste. Then I grabbed some old receipts out of the glove box and performed a swabbing maneuver.

Ugh. Yuck.

Fortunately, I then (miracle of miracles) happened to notice a REAL water bottle in the passenger seat--hm, no safety cap, shoulda been a clue--and downed it in three seconds (no doubt spreading poison throughout my system).

Anyway, it's been a couple hours, and I haven't gone into anaphylactic (sp?) shock or anything, so I think we're cool.

But, remember: Indented side thingies on water bottle are probably a BAD SIGN.

Day One

Not making any promises.

Just sayin'.

Where There's A Will There's A Won't

I remember the day I discovered that some of the jobs I thought of as belonging to men were, in fact, things I could do. (Actually, I owe this epiphany to former roommate and lifelong friend, Kathleen. She was a whiz around the house.) As I recall, picture hanging was the task in question. I thought you needed men for measuring and hammering and such. Turned out, no. You didn't.

I was so proud.

But as the years went on, I learned there were limits to my handiness. BIG limits. Like not knowing anything about wiring and electricity. Like not being physically strong enough. Add to those limits an innate laziness, and well...you get a picture of how much stuff there is around my house that needs doing.

Sometimes, though, corners can be cut. If you're creative enough, you can sidestep actual skill and come up with alternatives.

Sometimes, though, the best efforts fail.

So, ya might have heard about the arctic blast currently hitting southern California. B-r-r-r-r. Time to crank up the old heater, right? 'Scuze me. That would be the NEW heater that accompanied the new air conditioner I purchased over the summer.

Only, guess what?

No heat.

Lots of nice, cool air streaming from the vents, but no heat.

Oh, I could have called 'the man,' but that would be too easy, doncha think? Instead, on Sunday, I hauled out a space heater and lugged it into my 'office.' Then, I consulted my 'go-to' guys at work. The consensus is that my gas valve is turned off. "Follow the gas line to the little valve and give it a twist," my brother says. "But if the heat doesn't go on, be sure to turn it back off."

See, it's that kinda talk that scares me away from giving that little valve a twist.

Nonetheless, tonight when I got home, I dutifully opened the door to the closet in which the furnace resides. I didn't see any little valve. I DID see, however, lots of warning signs and cautions.

These made me feel a touch queasy.

I concluded that the little valve thing might be inside the the front panel, but knowing I didn't have the courage to give it a twist, I didn't bother popping said panel off. Besides, my sister-in-law loaned me a SECOND space heater--one guaranteed to 'heat up the whole room', so truly, this whole electric heater deal wasn't sounding so important.

Satisfied, I decided to get some exercise, so I turned on the TV and hopped on the treadmill. I'd only gotten through one replay of the Bush shoe ducking debacle, when

Pffft.

Silence.

I also came to an abrupt halt.

Hm. No TV. No treadmill...sure enough, also no computer and no space heater in the office.

Blown circuit breaker.

I trudged outside, held my cigarette lighter up to the electrical panel and threw all the switches. Eureka. (Okay, I lied. The truth is, I had to do this twice because the first time I BELIEVED the labeling and only flipped the one marked 'lights and outlets'. On the second trip, I flipped them all. Voila. TV is back on and--obviously--so is the computer.)

Hey, at least I knew the location of the box and what to do with it. So what if it's 48 degrees inside? That's what sweats are for, right? And planning vacations to Puerto Vallarta?

P.S. to Blogreader Mindy--if you're still at a loss as to a Christmas gift, you may wanna consider buying me a flashlight. Preferably one with batteries that work.

Blackjack!

Ha. Funny how I always think in gambling terms, huh? This time, I'm referring to the number TWENTY-ONE...as in, I received CONTRACT NUMBER TWENTY-ONE from True Romance Magazine yesterday. Woo hoo! So far, I'm in the first three issues of 2009. Think I can go 12 for 12 next year?

It's more work than you'd suspect. And getting harder to come up with ideas. Usually I start with what brings the hero and heroine together. A singles bowling league...shared custody of a dog...a party (wow, thinking back, parties have figured prominently in several sales). Then I look for a conflict between them. Opposites sides of the track...competition for a goal. Whatever. Sometimes I start with nothing but a scene heavy on dialogue and hope for the best. Usually, about halfway through, I start looking for a twist--a surprise--that will carry the story through to the end. Oh, yeah...and I start figuring out what makes the two characters fall in love. This is, after all, a romance. Anyway, it's that halfway point where I stall--where my fingers start typing so slowly, I fear I'll never reach the end. One of these days, I swear I'm gonna find a way to know the story from A to Z before I even start, so I can whip that sucker out so fast, my head'll spin.

Yeah, and pigs will fly, too.

Fun and Frivolity for the Holidays

Not sure WHAT'S got into the writer world this past week.

First, there's Karen Tabke's First Line Contest which I blogged about here. And yes, I entered my first line. Would you like to know what it was? Here goes:

Looking back, my mid-life crisis began on a Tuesday in March, right there on aisle twelve of the local supermarket between the laxatives and the condoms.

I had to go look it up on the blog because I think I already revised it for:

Second, there's agent Nathan Bransford's crazy (possibly suicidal) 1st paragraph contest. Crazy because, last time I checked, there were over 1000 submissions. Happy reading, Mr. Bransford!

For that one, I submitted:

Looking back, my mid-life crisis began on a Tuesday in March at the local grocery store, right there on aisle twelve between the laxatives and the condoms. That’s the day I stood before an assortment of tampons, wondering whether my diminished egg production warranted the forty-eight count economy size. See, I worried about leftovers—about a future when the half-empty box still sat under the sink, mocking me every time I reached for a hair dryer.

Ha. And when I got home last night, I rewrote THAT version, which may make it into:

Third, Firebrand Literary Agency's Query Holiday. For this spot of Christmas madness, agents at Firebrand have opened the submission process to ENTIRE FIRST CHAPTERS for the period of one month, commencing December 16. So if you write a crappy query letter, this one's for you.

How Fun Was Palm Springs Last Weekend?

Short Answer: A blast!!

Although, I have to say, it's not my favorite drive. I swear, the older I get, the more I detest L.A. traffic. Maybe it's all the big rigs...maybe it's that everyone's in such a friggin' hurry...or, maybe I'm best suited to a rocking chair these days. I dunno.

But the truth is, if Palm Springs were closer, I'd be there more often. First, the weather. Perfect. Balmy. In November! Second, the architecture. The design aesthetic I regarded as kitschy and hokey in the 50's now fills me with fond nostalgia.

So, we checked into the Hilton (so conveniently located!) and were given a lovely poolside room with shuttered sliders to a patio complete with table, chairs and chaise. As much as we loved our little room, we had more on our agenda than lazing about--namely, casino visiting!

Yes, just steps across the street (so conveniently located!), we found ourselves at the Spa Casino, where we spent a couple hours MAKING MONEY until we met up with Randi's friend, Jim. Then, it was off to more lofty pursuits--dinner on the patio of a Mexican restaurant, followed by the annual Palm Springs Christmas parade (which is, ostensibly, what drew us there for the weekend--oh, no it wasn't the casino, don't think that it was). With coffee-to-go from the restaurant (enhanced by a bottle of Bailey's in my purse), we cheered on the home crowd of marching bands, decorated fire trucks, and mini-celebrities. Talk about getting in the Christmas spirit!

Later, we re-visited the gambling spirit...

How.Much.Fun.

I took some slot winnings to a 3-card poker table and spent...oh...maybe four hours there? You kinda lose track when you have such a fun table--not to mention a handsome guy (YOUR AGE) sitting next to you. (Okay, warning about Palm Springs: make sure your gaydar's in calibration before visiting or else you'll wonder all night whether that guy your flirting with is even on your team. P.S. I never DID find out.)

Anyway, I teetered back to the hotel around 2 a.m. to find it empty. (No big surprise--getting Randi out of a casino is harder than getting Blogreader Joe INTO one.) Suffice to say, she showed up around 5.

In the morning, we walked to our favorite deli (did I mention the Hilton is conveniently located??) for breakfast, did a bit more gambling, than beat the pending storm back to L.A.

Here now, for your viewing pleasure, is some video I took of the parade. I know. It sucks. You really had to be there.

'Tis the Season...for Writer's Cramp

Time to do Christmas cards.

Is there a more annoying or boring task known to womanhood? Each year, I try to streamline the process--y'know...print out labels...write a generic letter I can "tailor" to each recipient. Unfortunately, this year I've managed to complicate things to the nth degree because...yes, I'm sending a slew of lucky friends and relatives a copy of the Christmas Anthology in which my story appears. Cool though, huh? Christmas card AND a present! But I have to keep track of who gets the bonus and who doesn't. And I have to pray that the nonrecipients don't read my blog and wonder why they didn't rate. Oh, and I have to make sure I don't send a copy to someone I've already given one to.

Meanwhile, do they make Christmas-themed bookmarks? How expensive are they? (It's already costing a whopping $2.98 just to send the damn book. Bah, humbug.)

Plus, I can't just stick the thing in the mail without some sort of explanation; hence, the obligatory Christmas letter...which I have yet to write. (Do I have to put it on Christmas-y paper?) Conveniently, when it comes to recapping the year, I have my trusty blog for reference. But I just perused it, and guess what? I didn't do much of note over the past 12 months (hey, there's a surprise). A couple weekend getaways here and there. Several sales to True Romance. I don't think anyone cares to hear about my epic switch from Earthlink to Time Warner, though. Nor the rejections for my latest manuscript.

Maybe I'll make up something fabulous (I AM a writer, after all). A three-book deal, perhaps. Or a movie option.

If you get such a letter from me, pretend it's all true, 'kay?

Because Nothing Says Christmas Like a Couple Dressed-Up Doggies

Just Call Me MacGyver

Doncha hate it when you've gotten off the freeway, you're halfway home from work, and something's RATTLING around in your engine? Yep, me too.

Oh, and doncha hate it when you've left your cell phone at home on the charger THE ONE TIME you really need it? Yep, me too.

So......I pull into a grocery store parking lot, making sure to choose a well-lit spot. My first instinct is to head for a public phone, but I'm wondering if maybe they've gone the way of the 39 cent stamp, so I re-think, and go back to the car.

Could be some strange foreign object's taken up residence in the engine. Could be it just needs a well-placed nudge to dislodge it.

I start up the engine, pop the hood, and peer inside.

Part of the fan belt is flapping round and round. Well, that can't be good, I think to myself.

I shut the engine back off, peer under the hood again, and lift up the strip of rubber for proper examination. It's about 1/8" wide and two feet long, and I try tearing it off.

The strip lengthens by about a foot.

At this point, I sense a male presence passing by, and I probably shoot some helpless female pheramones in his direction, because he stops and asks if there's a problem. I explain and ask his opinion of my plan to buy scissors to cut off the strip. He apologizes for not knowing anything about cars, but says he has a tool we can use. (Sidenote: how sweet is that? The guy offers assistance with something he knows nothing about? Is this is pick-up, then?) Anyway, he even has a tiny flashlight and performs the surgery on my behalf.

He then wishes me luck and we part. (So, no. I guess not a pick-up.)

I crawl home with one eye on the temperature gauge and one on the road.

Tomorrow, when I coax the poor thing to the office, at least I'll have my cell phone to call AAA should disaster strike.

Did I Miss A Memo?

I've been under the impression that ratings for awards show are at basement levels. Mostly because there's too many of them. I mean, come on. Oscars, Emmys, Golden Globes, People's Choice, AMA, CMA, SAG, Director's Guild, Independent Spirit awards...just to name a few off the top of my head.

So now there's a show just to announce nominations? That's right. Last night the Grammy Awards devoted an entire hour of TV time to read off the finalists in categories from best pop duo to best newcomer. Sure, they threw in live performances by people like Mariah Carey and Christina Aguilera. Even dusted off the Foo Fighters.

But, man. Talk about anticlimax. It was like: "And the nominees are" (insert five acts I've never heard of here) "and tune in on February 15th" (or some such date) "to see who wins." Huh? Delayed gratification to the nth degree.

But speaking of acts I've never heard of...who the hell is L'il Wayne? Eight nominations? Seriously?

I need to get out more.

Or quit listening to talk radio.

Maybe lose about forty years off my age.

Probably all of the above.

Babysitting!

Look who I'm babysitting at the moment! It's niece Mindy's sweet little dog, Kipper. No, he's not a Bichon like Kody, but a relative of some sort--Havanese. And yes, I've already called him Kody several times--just like the doddering old fool that I am.

As I write this, Kipper's sitting on my lap, weeping a little 'cuz his grandma and grandpa went to lunch. Sadly, I'm a poor substitute for REAL relatives.

Opening Lines

No, I'm not talkin' pick-up lines, although I DID catch the finale of some reality show called "The Pick-up Artist." Man, is there NOTHING I won't watch on TV? Has anyone seen that Chain of Love show? How about Sharon Osborne's charm school for the Rock of Love skanks? I'm tellin' ya, if these shows are broadcast throughout the world, it's no wonder we're hated far and wide.

Anyway, the title of this blog post refers to author Karen Tabke's annual "First Line" contest. Best to go to the site to get instructions, rules and regs if you wanna enter, but in a nutshell, you post your opening line next week. One sentence. One (hopefully) HOOK-Y sentence, that makes the cut to the next round. If so, the following week, you add a second sentence. And so on and so forth. Strikes me that if you wrote an entire novel with that much concentration on each sentence...well, can you imagine?? (Yeah, you'd probably slit your wrists.)

But it's a fun contest to watch...and I'm thinking of entering with my WIP. The prize? Five lucky finalists get to send their first 20 pages to Amy Pierpont, a Senior Editor with Grand Central Publishing.

As Jeff Probst would say on Survivor, "Worth playing for?"

Uh, yeah. DUH.