A Tough Nut To Crack

Yesterday's mail brought my 3rd (4th? 5th?) rejection from Women's World. (Sorry, it's so easy to lose track of submissions. Guess I could check my handy dandy spreadsheet, but who really cares anyway?)

For those not in the know, Women's World can be found at your local grocery store's checkout stand. It's a weekly magazine loaded with pieces on health, beauty, family...yada, yada, yada...and two items of fiction: an 800-word romance and a 500 (?)-word mystery. I don't know about the mysteries, but the pay for romance is $800. (Up until recently, they required 1,000 words for--yep!--$1,000. One thousand words translates to about 4 manuscript pages, so the moola is nothing at which to achoo.)

Anyway, so yeah. I've been trying my hand, but so far, no luck. Yesterday, for the first time, the form rejection included writer guidelines. (Ha. I'm thinking they said: "Geesh. Get a clue. Here, study up.") After reading them, the light bulb went on. Y'see, I've been writing these sweet little stories with nice 'ahas!' at the end, but...um...no 'relationship dilemma.' (Hm. Just re-read the story I posted below--it's not ENTIRELY devoid of relationship dilemma. Oh, well.)

What the hell...enjoy. (And excuse the funky formatting.)

My family meant well when they surprised me with a two-month old cocker spaniel for my birthday, but I had reservations. “Who’s gonna take care of this little guy all day?”

“You’ve got a safe backyard,” my mother pointed out, “and a nice park up the street where you can walk in him the evenings after work.” She patted my arm. “The exercise will do you good.”

I groaned, but the fluffy ball of fur with the lopsided ears enchanted me. Without warning, he jumped into my lap, his forlorn eyes begging for approval. Beside me, my sister Molly laughed. “See? A match made in heaven, Ellie.”

I knew what they were up to. Mom longed for another grandchild and Molly yearned to become an aunt. Since I’d squelched their schemes to find me a man, they’d resorted to man’s best friend. Peering into soft velvet puppy eyes, I could hardly fault their reasoning.

Two days later, Max made his official debut at the local doggie park. At first, I stood on the sidelines as a handful of fellow owners performed an assortment of tasks with their pets. One woman jogged around the track, her sleek black lab preceding her with a stately gait. In the center of the park, a teenage boy tossed a Frisbee while his black-and-white mutt repeatedly lunged after it.

Suddenly, Max growled.

“What is it, boy?”

From seemingly nowhere, a dog off its leash−and no owner in sight−bounded toward us, teeth bared. With my heart in my throat, I scrambled to grab Max.

“Brutus!” A man emerged from behind a hedge, cradling his own small dog. “Brutus, stay,” he warned.

“He’s yours?” I asked, my voice quivering.

“No, but I’m familiar with the way his owner flaunts the rules. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen his dog off-lead.”

The menacing animal sniffed at the air, then trotted away, presumably in search of more interesting prey. I breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks for the rescue.”

“No problem. The name’s Michael, by the way. And this is Buster.”

“Hi. I’m Ellie, and this wriggly mass of fear is Max.”

He tousled Max’s right ear, chuckling. “Cocker spaniel?”

“Yes, and yours?”

“Same,” he said, beaming. “I see we have something in common.”

As we discovered over the next couple of weeks, Max and Buster’s breed wasn’t the only thing Michael and I shared in common. Foreign movies, popcorn with real butter, and roaring logs in the fireplace made the list as well. One day I suggested we get together for all three, but he instantly stiffened, yanking unnecessarily on Buster’s leash. “Maybe,” he said. “I’ll have to let you know.”

The vague response set off mental alarm bells. “Michael, are you married?”

His eyes widened. “No, of course not.” We continued walking in silence, then he paused. “I was married,” he said, his jaw twitching. “Sally and I divorced five years ago.”

Instinctively, I touched his sleeve. “I’m sorry. Any kids involved?”

“No. My ex didn’t want children.”

My heart ached for Michael. Especially since I could tell by the way he handled Buster, he’d make a fabulous father.
He smiled wistfully. “Sometimes you have to accept what Fate has in store for you. Becoming a parent wasn’t in the cards.”

“Nonsense. You’re young. You’ll fall in love again.”

The next afternoon, Michael and Buster didn’t show up for our daily walk. Sadly, Max and I trudged through our usual routine, but our hearts weren’t in it. “Sorry boy,” I told my canine companion, “guess I scared him off.”

An entire week passed, then suddenly there they were−waiting for us as though no time had elapsed. Michael wore a wide grin and even Buster seemed to harbor a secret. I didn’t hold back. “We missed you,” I said as the two dogs exchanged slurpy greetings.

“Same here,” Michael said. “A lot.”

I lifted my chin. “I guess you were busy?”

“Uh-huh. With obedience school. I should have told you but it slipped my mind.” A twinkle rose to his eye. “You’ll never guess who we ran into.”

Clueless, I shrugged.

“A dog breeder by the name of Bob Turner.”

“Sorry. I don’t think I know him.”

“No, but your mother does. When I mentioned you and Max, Bob remembered selling a puppy from Buster’s litter to a woman for her daughter’s birthday.”

I blinked. “You mean...?”

Michael nodded, his smile stretching from ear to ear. “Buster and Max are brothers. Which makes you Mom...”

“...and you Dad,” I finished, matching his grin. “We’re parents.”

“Must be Fate,” he said.

And a perfect beginning.

Has It Already Been A Year??

Long-time blog readers are painfully familiar with my take on pitch appointments at RWA's national conference. Been there, done that--got the damaged heart tissue to prove it. (Kidding. At least, so far as I know.)

Seriously. As you'll recall, last year I concluded that nothing--certainly not my health, nor my happiness--is worth the agonizing torture of a ten-minute period wherein I'm to hawk my manuscript (and perhaps myself) to an industry professional such as an editor or agent. The looming event hovers over my entire conference experience like a huge shroud of doom.

So yeah, sayonara pitching.

But then an idea hatched. First, my reasoning was that if (IF, mind you) I were to entertain the notion (merely the NOTION, mind you), of signing up for an appointment, I'd go for an editor because, after all, the majority of editors are unapproachable in any other way without an agent. So, there. Perfect justification for choosing an editor appointment over an agent appointment (or for electing to make an appointment at all).

Next (ah, and here's the genius), I decided to sign up for a group appointment. Y'know, something about safety in numbers and all.

Once I decided to go after an appointment, I felt a small sense of elation. Hey, every little conference benny grabbed helps justify the big bucks I'm shelling out to attend.

Anyway, this is all MOOT because I couldn't even log-on to the RWA site this morning. Yes, as usual, the whole process apparently went haywire, and by the time I could view the list of participating editors still available, forget it. The ones seeking the stuff I write were already snapped up.

Okay, so maybe this was God's way of looking out for me....?

Is That A Rat I Smell?

Oy.

You just KNEW the whole trip-to-Mexico-cancellation debacle was gonna turn into ongoing blog fodder, didn't you?

Ding ding ding. You get the gold star.

So, today I receive an email from Travelocity with a subject line saying: "How Did We Do?"

Well. (See, I'm figuring it's one of those automatically-generated messages--you know the kind--"Dear Randy, we hope you enjoyed your recent trip to blah, blah, blah..." Followed by: "We hope you'll turn to Travelocity for ALL your future travel needs, yada, yada." So, I'm rubbing my hands together in glee, ready to TELL THEM EXACTLY HOW IT WENT.)

Only one problem. Apparently, they had a different (more diabolical, I'm sure!) reason for dropping a note, cuz this is what the email said:

Dear Randy,

You were recently contacted by the ProCC team at Travelocity because of a swine flu update associated with your trip. We value your opinion and invite you to share your feedback by answering the following short survey that should take less than 3 minutes to complete.

Huh? Exactly WHEN I was contacted by the ProCC team (whatever THAT is), and by what means did they supposedly contact me? Inquiring minds wanna know. (Oh, you mean the email that was a RESPONSE to MY email? That one?) Funny, how reading the above doesn't imply what truly transpired, isn't it?

Even funnier--when I clicked on the so-called "survey"? Only one question! That's it! And here's what it said (paraphrasing):

"Do you remember receiving an email from Travelocity warning you about potential problems with your scheduled trip to Mexico?" (Like I say, this is from memory because the link to the survey no longer works.) Honestly, I clicked on "no" because I truly didn't believe I had...until I went back and re-reread THEIR RESPONSE to my QUESTION. Now I'm thinking they're gonna use that to protect themselves from something. Especially cuz, what an ODD question, huh--"do you remember...?" Maybe if I'd read their emails with an Indian accent...?

Anyway, interesting. All I know is that I spent hours and hours on the phone, trying to reschedule, and finally gave up.

THAT part is CRYSTAL CLEAR in my memory.

Brenda Novak's OnLine Auction For Diabetes Research

NY Times bestselling romantic suspense author Brenda Novak is holding her annual auction for diabetes research the entire month of May. Since this is her fifth year, she's really got the whole auction thing down to a science--both in the way it's organized and in the quality of the items up for grabs.

There's something for everyone, of course, but in particular, she's rounded up some really special treats for writers and readers. Like, who wouldn't wanna have lunch with Janet Evanovich? Or, how about a night at Nora Roberts' Inn?

There are fabulous getaways (hello!!! African safari!!!) on down to autrographed books. Like I said, something for everyone. Check out the whole auction here. Oh, and bring your digital checkbook and prepare to drop some serious coin 'cuz it's for a great cause.

P.S. And, yep. Jacqui Jacoby talked me into donating something...click here to see what it is. I'm so stoked that EIGHT bids have been made!!!!

So, It Wasn't Mexico...

...it was the good ol' U S of A--Long Beach, to be precise--but rest assured--Kath and I crammed four nights of partying into one.

What can I say? It's a gift.See, remember, we were SUPPOSED to be in Puerto Vallarta (sob, sob) but the world went crazy and everything shut down. Restaurants, bars, and businesses (oh, my). Not conducive for a fun-in-the-sun vacation.

Still...we decided to soldier through the sad experience by meeting in downtown Long Beach for one night. I arrived at the hotel, dropped my stuff and headed back to the bar in time for "My Old Kentucky Home," whereupon I made an imaginary bet on...you guessed it, the horse that won. (Sidenote: did you know this horse showed such little potential, that he'd already been gelded?? I mean, if I'm not mistaken, that means no stud farm for him, right? Yikes. Talk about a missed opportunity.)

Kath showed up soon thereafter and we made our first bar stop. Um, not sure of the name, which kinda tells you how the rest of the night went. It's where E joined us, that much I remember. And we sat outside. And I drank a Vodka tonic. Or two.
Then, E pointed out the Sky Room--a joint I've read about forever but had never been to, so YAY! Something to cross off the 'to-do' list, y'know? It's one of those old, old, old, landmarks above what I guess used to be a hotel but E says are now condos (hey, big surprise there, huh?).

On the way to the elevator, we stumbled upon a wedding chapel and, um, we took pictures which Kath and E would kill me for posting, so you'll just have to use your imagination. It was all pretty funny. At least to us. At the time.
Here's the guy that escorts you to the top of the building on the elevator. Quaint, huh? Note I'm already looking a little the worse for wear and the sun hasn't even set yet. Eek.

As you can see, the ladies room offered more photo ops. Again, I'm self-censoring!From the Sky Room, we headed back up the street for dinner to a place called Allegro. (Yay! A momentary return of my memory!) Mmm, mmm, good. On your next visit, get the pasta. I promise you won't be disappointed--and, oh yeah--the bottle of Sangria went down pretty easy, too.

Finally, after dinner, we wound up at some random nightspot (names? who remembers names?) boasting live Latin music which, y'know, sold me right there. I even made E dance. (Oh, wait. Did I make Kath dance, too? I mean, with me???) More picture taking ensued but the results are kinda blurry (go figure).
Alas, all good things must come to an end. Don't ask me what time it was, cuz I wouldn't know. Don't ask about the walk back to the hotel, because it's a hazy memory.
Yep. These two girls should definitely call it a night.

Dear Travelocity

Now that my phone is permanently attached to my ear (oh, wait--for some people, this is probably a reality)...I mean, that's what happens when you're on hold for 1-1/2 hours.

Sob.

With nothing resolved.

See, I guess my first mistake was booking a package on-line through Travelocity, because here's the deal: now that the sh*t has hit the fan, I can only deal directly with them. And, for some reason, changes have to be made via telephone which, you may be surprised to discover, ain't very convenient.

First, you call the toll-free number, WAIT FOR A HALF-HOUR, during which they play the MOST ANNOYING music, then you get one of those cheerful but useless guys from India on the line. You tell him your problem.

Okay, I'm sure you've all heard the airlines are being real generous--waiving the penalty to change flights into and out of Mexico--but, it turns out this isn't the problem. Because...well...you need a date to change TO, doncha? Like, I dunno...a week from now? Two? How about four months? Oh, and there's this little rarely mentioned (and less understood) caveat: you have to pay the difference in class if the class you purchased is no longer available (and guess what--somehow, it's a CINCH it's no longer available).

So Sahib puts you on hold to contact the airline and check on the date you've grabbed out of the air--your birthday in September. When he comes back, he informs you that you only have to pay an additional $229 to change the flight. (See? So much for waived penalties.)

Next, he puts you back on hold in order to contact the hotel. (This is after you've already been on hold off and on for an hour and a half.) Comes back to say the hotel reservation people are at lunch, and you'll have to call back later...putting you at the ass-end of the line again. (I'm really not understanding why these agents can't use computers.)

Anyway, I decided to try Citibank.

After all, they have a big old sign on their website that says I automatically qualify for trip cancellation/interruption insurance. So I call their gal in India--only I discover that in fact I'm NOT automatically qualified for these benefits. (I guess because the planes are still flying and, technically, I can still take the trip I'm scheduled to take.) Anyway, from what I gather, they WILL however cover that pesky $229 addition...and maybe even the change in the hotel (if I knew what the hotel adder would be). The scary part of this is that I priced the exact same trip for September on Travelocity this morning, and...yikes...it came out to $1400 MORE than I paid.

Meanwhile, my traveling partner sells pre-paid legal insurance. Yep, we're covering ALL the bases.

I just read an on-line article in which would-be travelers to Mexico reported full refunds from Expedia.

Hm. Travelocity, are you paying attention??

Adios, Puerto Vallarta

And this little piggy stayed home...

(At least that's the plan. I mean, when you discover that the governor of Jalisco has closed all the bars and nightclubs of your vacation destination, well...time to find somewhere else to go.) Any suggestions?

It's Always Something

So, I don't know about you, but when I'm getting ready for a vacation, a couple worries come to mind. Namely, stuff like airplane crashes (*knocks on wood*), missed flights, and lost luggage.

Rarely do I think of
Oink? More like Oy.

Suddenly, the afternoon headlines are filled with stories of possible border closings, the nationwide shutdown of public facilities, and the very real potential that, along with bathing suits, I oughta be packing surgical masks.

Yep.

Picture me in Mexico next week:

(And no, that's not supposed to be a beard.)

The Boss Comes Through

Bruce Springsteen, via the Dream Foundation, made my friend Karen's wish come true last Wednesday night. Read more about his amazing generosity and Karen's indomitable spirit by clicking here.

George Will Reads Harlequin

What could be better, huh? If you watch all six minutes of this video, I promise you won't be disappointed. George Will, reading from a Harlequin novel. Be still my beating heart.

(As an added bonus, you also get the likes of Wolfgang Puck, Paul Rudd, and Seth Rogan. Wow. Harlequin goes mainstream pop culture, baby.)

Anyway, guess this appeared on Nightline, although it's more like shameless advertising. I have to admit, I haven't read anything from Harlequin in years, maybe decades, despite the title of my blog.

Obviously, I need to get with it.

And Now, For Something A Little Different...

So I'm listening to my voicemail on Saturday afternoon, and I hear, "Let's get together later."

But by the time I return the call, the potential participants have lost interest. "Phone us if you come up with something," they suggest half-heartedly.

A couple hours later, I conjure up the perfect plan. I mean, we're talking so perfect, I go ahead and do the shower and shampoo thing before I even bother to call and put it on the table.

Sure enough.

Chi Chi's Pizza followed by bowling meets with resounding approval. Yep! That means I BOWLED last Saturday night.

Actually, what you REALLY need to know is that I KICKED ASS on Saturday night.

One-twenty-five...One-fifty-three...One-thirty-seven.

I ROCKED IT.

Okay, so what if two hours of bowling is like two hours of lunging...which means I also ache like a sonofabitch?

Doesn't matter. I'm basking in my reign as Bowling Queen.

Woulda Shoulda Coulda

On Mark and Brian this morning, the boys brought up a fun discussion topic--namely: was there a musical event you should have been at but, for whatever reason, you missed?

Gah.

Two instantly come to mind. Here's the first (and as I write about it, trust me, I'm almost hyperventilating).

Check out the lineup:In case you can't read it, we're talking The Doors...The Jefferson Airplane...The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band...

Now, picture this: the concert took place on the athletic field of a friggin local high school. I mean, crap--look at the cost of the tickets! THREE BUCKS! In fact, every time I've told this story in the past gazillion years, I always thought I made up the part about The Doors being there. Wasn't sure until I googled it (and stole this picture). According to the person who posted the photo, only about 100 people were in attendance, but sh/e has to be wrong about that. (Sidenote: I swear, anyone I've ever met in the last decade who's roughly my age CLAIMS to have been at the infamous Birmingham concert.)

Anyway, so my story isn't a hundred percent tragic. I DID make it to the concert. In fact, my girlfriends and I arrived early enough to get space on the grass about ten feet from the stage. Nirvana, huh? I remember the anticipation in the air...the sun going down behind the warm-up bands.

We all just wanted to see Jefferson Airplane and The Doors.

Only one problem.

The concert began to run more and more behind schedule, and as the clock crept closer and closer to...um...ELEVEN, I grew increasingly nervous.

Ya see, my DAD was picking us up at eleven and, God knows, this was eons before cell phones, so I couldn't exactly just call and tell him to delay (not that he would have anyway because, as you can see, we were...what, about twelve? Thirteen?)

So, sadly, I dragged my reluctant girlfriends from our primo spots, whining all the way, to where we met up with my dad...

just as The Doors took the stage.

And that's why I missed seeing one of the iconic rock stars of my generation.

*Further evidence of my decrepit memory: I'm pretty sure we DID see the Jefferson Airplane...for some reason, although they WERE the headliner, I think they went on before The Doors....but then again, maybe not.

Sometimes I Write

...bet you were wondering, huh?

Well, as proof, I have a sale to report. Yep. Another story to True Romance Magazine, this one for their July issue with a tentative title of "Summer Soul Mates." So far, I've only missed May this year. Darn. And for anyone keeping track, we're up to 24 sales total over the past 16 months. May not seem momentous to some, but guess what? Word by word, sale by sale, the bottom line on my spreadsheet is starting to add up to a nice chunk of change (as in $$).

By the way, check out the new "Trues" website by clicking here. It's updated daily and contains all kinds of fun features and tidbits.

Vegas, Baby

Blink.

That's how quick the weekend jaunt to Las Vegas took. The proverbial blink of an eye.

First, I boarded a Southwest flight in Burbank Friday afternoon. Sources of amusement everywhere! From behind me, two women (grown women! speaking in polysyllabic words, mind you!) puzzling over the lack of First Class. It's usually in the front, one woman claimed, and it's partitioned off. Their conclusion? That only LAX does it that way. (I'm like, hello! Ever heard of an airline called Southwest??) Then, a guy in a business suit (a business suit, mind you!), gets on and asks the flight attendant where he's supposed to sit. I mean, seriously. Rookies abundant!

Uh, I might add here that Southwest has gone cashless. (Me=rookie) Luckily, I had a stash of drink coupons in my purse. (As Blogreader Joe always says: plan well for no surprises.)

Touched down in Las Vegas around 3p.m. and cabbed it over to the Rio to check in. How FUN was it to plop my initials next to the $0 rate? Exceedingly fun, that's how much.

Caught up with Ann and the rest of the wedding party to do some gambling...blah, blah, blah...somehow it got to be around 1 a.m....or was it two...?

Spent a lot of Saturday chilling in the room, which ain't too hard when there's so much to watch outside your window. Don't ask me who bathed the Strip in the eerie blue wash. Not sure what happened, except to say something bad may have occurred to my camera when I tried to snap night photos while under the influence.

Luckily, my camera recovered the following evening to take this fabu shot of the bride and groom, Richard and Stephenie.And this one during the ceremony...
But with the battery icon blinking (hm, could've SWORN I charged it), I had to get picky with the shots--hence, um...not so many to post here. (In fact, I just shot my wad, except for the piece de resistance--AKA Marty dancing with his daughter.)

Have We Been This Way Before?

Long story short, last night I stumbled across something on the Internet that gave me pause-- namely, old versions of my website. I mean, REALLY OLD versions. Complete with antiquated navigation bar, former color palette...and (gasp) OLD content.

Who knew??

And how do I get rid of it?

Case in point, click here to see the collage I put together while writing Lights! Camera! Love! Kinda cool, huh? Although Tanika ended up as Alisha and Taylor morphed into Josh. Can't say I ever referred to this stunning piece of art again, but I like to think the process helped stir the creative pot.

Which, hm. Maybe I should trot out the idea again for Jen's book. (We're talking MY version of collaging...no glue sticks, no poster board. Just point, click, and copy.)

But, meanwhile...guess I'd better see about expunging (am I using that word properly??) out-of-date stuff running around loose on the Web.

Has It Been Another Year Already??

Eeek. Yep. It's that time again. Time to wish the Senora happy birthday. Where does the time go? In honor of the occasion, I'm dying to post the immortal video I took of her flying backwards off the boat. (Who can forget that blood-curdling scream?) But I've sworn (kinda) to keep it to myself. So it's not on Youtube or anything. Don't think for a moment it is.

Cough.

The best I can do (in the interest of maintaining my current state of robust health) is this photo, culled from the video. Yes, in case you can't tell, those are the Senora's flailing feet as she plummets below the surface. (No living beings were harmed during the filming of this episode.)

And, trust me. This is only ONE of the many memorable moments of our history together (see this post for another.)

Here's to zillions more..............

More Proof Of An Addled Brain (Another Duh Moment)

I got a request the other day (yay, me!) for a partial of my manuscript, Lights! Camera! Love! Sent it off promptly on...oh, Wednesday, I guess.

So this afternoon, I peek in the mailbox and see an envelope with my handwriting, and instantly I cross my fingers that it's one I've been waiting for from Women's World. I check the return address and instead I see the literary agency's name--the one I just sent the partial to.

Wow, I think. Quick turnaround. Must be a rejection.

I look inside and find nothing. Nada. Zippo.

Hm, I think. Now what do I do? Email her and ask what the answer was?

Then I notice something else on the face of the envelope. In the lower right-hand corner, it says: Received unsealed without content at Oxnard blah, blah, blah...

Huh?

That's when I realize that instead of enclosing the self-addressed stamped envelope with my submission, I friggin' must've MAILED it. To myself. Because I'm pretty sure the literary agent didn't send me a blank.

The only consolation is that the aforementioned message is STAMPED on the envelope--indicating this is a common occurrence. Which kinda makes me wonder...what're all you folks doing sending unsealed empty envelopes for??

A Sure Sign That I'm Older Than I Think

Setting: My driveway

Time: About 11:30p.m. on a Friday night

I see my neighbors standing by their car, and I greet them.

Guy Neighbor: You just getting home?

Me: Yep. What are y'all up to?

Guy Neighbor: We're just going out. Funny, huh? You're already home, and we're just going out.

Yeah, funny. I slink off to change into robe and bunny slippers, then slather on the anti-aging cream.

No More Change, Mr. President

Please.

I've had it up to here with change.

I mean, come on. First of all, The Guiding Light? Seriously? After shining brightly since 1952 (and even earlier on radio)? Oh, I see the writing on the wall. The rest of them aren't long for this world either. The Young and The Restless...All My Children. Soon, our afternoon soaps will go the way of...

Newspapers.

I mean it, Mr. President. Please don't let them take away my newspaper. It's already a pathetic version of it former robust self, but geez....so much tradition there. From the stereotypical reporter who spends his off-hours knocking back shots at the bar down the street to the Sunday edition spread out over the breakfast table. Have you ever tried to spread your computer on the breakfast table? Trust me. Doesn't work.

Last month, I lost a whole slate of radio shows when KLSX went Top 40, but I'm tellin' ya, Barak (can I call you Barak?), if KLOS ditches Mark and Brian in favor of some pre-recorded c-rap (get it?--it's a play on crap and rap--sometimes, I crack myself up), anyway, I'll have to throw away my transistor radio.

I want you to know, Mr. Obama, I don't blame you or the economy. I mean, okay. Sure. Unlimited financial support would help, but all the money in the world's not gonna make up for the people I really blame.

Yep, I'm talking about the youth of today.

If I can paraphrase the immortal words of that well-known philosopher, Linda Ronstadt, who said: "When I got older, I realized that my generation committed a horrible crime against our parents. We literally filled the airwaves with rock 'n' roll, and STOLE their music from them."

You hooligans with your iPods, your Myspace, and your texting. Quit hi-jacking the culture and leave my entertainment alone.

Brad Pitt Eat Your Heart Out

God, I heart the Internet. Look what the HELL I found last night....!In what universe can you locate a photo of your dad's 1940 high school basketball team with just a few clicks (and...okay...EXPERT searching skills) ????? (Yes, I'm still fanning myself over the discovery.) And while we're at it...CHECK OUT the come hither stare...and the swoopy hair. By the way folks, we're talking a tiny town (I mean, TINY) in North Dakota. Not exactly headline making stuff, here.

Unbelievable.

Forgot To Post A Pic

Did I mention a road trip? Last weekend, high school buddy Randi and I darted up to Santa Ynez for an overnight stay at--where else--the Chumash Casino and Resort Hotel. As we headed for the VIP/Guest happy hour, these cows (not to mention the green, green, grass) caught our attention, so I snapped a photo with my cell phone.

Guess they were on their way to happy hour, too.

Ah, To Be Born With Talent

Find out more about Naturally 7 here.

Children and Art

According to Stephen Sondheim (Sunday in the Park With George, sung by the character of Dot), we can only leave two things behind--children and art. I've already screwed up the first part of that equation, and I'm not doing so well on the second.

Yeah, feelin' pretty guilty on both counts.

Especially when I'm reminded that during my childbearing years, I shoulda ponied up 2.1 kids to keep average. Oops!

But what of this other stat recently released by the Feds: Last year, 40% of all births were out-of-wedlock.

Yikes.

Seriously?

Is it me, or is that just plain sad?

We gotta combo of situations influencing this trend. One, after a steady decline, teen mom birth rates were up. And two, more women in their 30's and 40's chose to become single parents. Finally, lots of happy couples just didn't bother to tie the knot.

Toto, we're not in Kansas anymore, that's for sure.

Hard to believe that in the 50's women not only married their "baby daddies,"--they also had, on average, FOUR children a piece. ('Course the 50's were also famous for the rise in popularity of stuff like Miltowns--forerunner to Valium--which is probably the only way to survive four kids with your mental faculties intact, but I digress.)

Anyway, I guess the good news is that we're having enough babies to replace ourselves...but hell, OctoMom covered that with one pregnancy, didn't she??

Contract's In The Mail...

That's the heads-up email I got this morning in response to my 24th submission to True Romance Magazine. This one's a wedding-themed story for the June issue. Meanwhile, the 23rd submission hangs in limbo--hopefully, only for a short while before it too garners a contract since, after all (as my editor duly noted last month) they've bought everything I've shoved their way thus far! (Wow--just could NOT figure out how to punctuate that last sentence. Go for it, Blogreader Joe.)

Even better (okay, just a TAD better), than receiving the contract notification, was the arrival of a check in the old mailbox yesterday. Somehow, the payment for one of my October stories had gone astray but now it's back where it should be--namely, in my bank account. So the cool thing is, I still have another one to go for this month--January's payment.

Which means...come on, people...you KNOW what it means when the writing $$ actually appear to add up to something....don't you?

Right! Time for a getaway!

Ahhhh..................sunny Puerto Vallarta......and I. Can't. Wait.

From The Life's So Short Department...

What age do you have to get before you start scanning the obituaries with more than casual interest?

Whatever it is, I'm there.

Not that I peruse the entire alphabetized list...you know, the freebie section. But I DO check out the ones set apart by pictures and column-length copy framed by heavy borders.

So on this particular Sunday, it was a photo that initially caught my eye. I gave the face only momentary attention, not registering a connection with the dark curly hair, the horn-rimmed glasses, nor the smiling moustached man staring back at me.

Next, I read the name--not a particularly unusual one--and the age: 70. In other words, obviously not in the realm of someone I'd have known.

But, wait.

I studied the photo again...combined it with the name...let the subconscious do its thing...and CRAP.

Sure enough.

An old boyfriend. Someone I'd dated back when I was about 28 to his 43. Yikes. How'd he get to be 70? Worse, how'd he get to dead?

I was curious about how his life had unfolded over the years. Had he married? Had children? Been happy?

In order to gather pieces of the puzzle, I put Google on the case. Bottom line: yes, no, and yes. Most fascinating of all? He'd become a thoroughbred horse owner--to the point where he went back to school in his mid-sixties to obtain formal training. I even came across a post of his on a site devoted to Seabiscuit--the passion in his words were both inspiring and sweet.

Anyway, a life well-lived, I think. Good for him.

New Blog!

Came back from my 6-week check-up with Dr. Schwartz and had this thought: why not consolidate all my cosmetic surgery posts onto one blog for...I dunno...posterity, I guess. So, ta-da. Here it is: www.re-inventingrandy.blogspot.com

(They just make it so easy to create a blog, plus it's free, so why the hell not? I could create blogs all day!)

Anyway, Dr. Schwartz says I'm healing well (good news!), and that I should feel free to exercise (BAD news!). It's amazing to me that he maintains I'm still not where I'll be six months from now--that the funny stuff I feel behind my ears is NOT bunched up hidden skin but merely SWELLING. And that the area under my chin will continue to firm. I'm tellin' ya, the human body is...well...like I said, AMAZING. Especially when you consider this PARTICULAR human body is in its sixth decade. (Okay, HOLD ON...think about it. Age 1-10, FIRST decade. Age 11-20, SECOND decade...that's how you can be in your fifties but your sixth decade.)

Geesh.

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.)