The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

 INSTANT DISCLAIMER: This entry is not about Christmas. 

It's about the recent trip the BHE* and I took to Italy. It's about the wonderful people who hosted us, the beautiful region we visited, the memories we made. I think I've left a little bit of my heart there, and I want to go back. Now. 

My husband is an illustrator. Several years ago he was one of the original artists who created imagery for a then-fledgling card game called Magic: The Gathering. The people who played this game created a worldwide phenomenon and collected cards not just for what they could do for them in terms of winning the game, but also for the unique and fantastic qualities of the artwork. The cards were produced in many languages and fans collected them into the thousands, and even now some of these cards can fetch amazing amounts of money in re-sale value. It is no exaggeration to claim that the lives of these early artists were irrevocably changed, in terms of fame, financial gain, and even in the directions their art later developed.

Fast forward two decades. The BHE was invited to go to a tournament in a place called Viareggio, a coastal resort town in Tuscany. I visited Italy years ago, and it was on my bucket list to get him to Florence -- a place I remembered fondly for its beautiful light and history and artwork. He would have to sit at a table for three days in Viareggio and sign autographs and create art alterations on cards for several hours a day. I might have begged, without him even finishing his explanation, to stow away in his luggage if necessary. Viareggio, according to Google maps, was twenty minutes north of Pisa and about an hour from Florence. When he mentioned to his host that I wanted to come along, the reception was incredibly gracious.

We took Italian lessons. I made lists of things for our children to do (or NOT do, depending upon the situation) while we were gone, including such statements -- in red -- along the lines of "Do not let the tortoise die. Remember to feed him".  I packed less than I might need to leave room for returning with Tuscan wine and olive oil, and picked clothing that would be comfortable on me and great cushioning for bottles that would be tossed around in my suitcase by airport handlers on the ride back. I tried to figure out train schedules and how to buy tickets online for the Uffizi museum. We listened to Pimsleur recordings for more Italian. I learned how to say, "I am an American and I don't speak much Italian" and finally, at the last minute, literally minutes before the car came to get us for the airport, the most important question for a 52-year-old traveling woman: "Where's the bathroom, please?"

What follows are some of the pictures I took of the places we went. Because he had to work sometimes until early evening, we saw some things at night -- very romantic and a very unique experience. We saw, for instance, the Tower of Pisa in the dark, all lit up in its majesty. We and our new friend Roberto were almost the only ones there. If not for the roving police, we might have touched it. We saw the walled village of Lucca and walked in the fog atop the parks there under streetlight, and roamed past ruins and cathedrals and ancient doorways, on stones laid by workmen hundreds of years before. We ate amongst the celebratory students in a piazza at Pisa, at a trattoria in Lucca full of boisterous friendly people. We talked with Roberto about the schools there, and employment problems and food and history. Roberto was a graduate in Physics from the University of Pisa, but he is working in England to earn a living, since there were no teaching jobs for him in Italy. We ate wild boar and chick peas and drank wine.

On the third day, Roberto's family invited us to lunch. I found myself speaking remnants of French, which I hadn't needed since college some 30 years ago, with one of his cousins, who was fluent in Italian and French. She translated between me and Roberto's mother, who was very sweet and welcoming and gentle but did not speak English. There were at least five courses of many kinds of fish, and despite the language barriers it was wonderful. Our Italian lessons (okay, our comprehension of our Italian lessons) left us only understanding a few words here and there, but listening, just listening, to the ebb and flow and emotion and joy in the conversation sometimes was enough. I remember at one point one of the women, in a flurry of Italian, stopped and looked at me and said, without any accent at all, "New York Cheesecake" and made a face of ecstasy. Who needed a translator with something like that between us? My husband is still missing the smoked swordfish. 

Throughout our time there, we were treated so beautifully by Michele, our initial contact, and some of the other organizers, Stefano, Megghi, and Simone, as well as a wonderfully warm receptionist at the Hotel Marchionni. Every day they did all they could to make sure we were happy, and their English was far better than our Italian, yet they never made us feel uncomfortable about not being able to speak in their language. I spent a lot of time looking up words in my phrase book, but I couldn't learn quickly enough. Even after the tournament had ended, they went out of their way to guide us and take us around. 

Michele took us up to Cinque Terre, to a little town near the lower point of five towns called Riomaggiore, which was his home. It was the most breathtaking day of all. We, along with another American artist Rob, and Stefano and Megghi and their puppy Muttley, ate lunch and took pictures and climbed all around the walkways in the cliffs and over the rocky inlet ("No, honey, you can't go into the caves"). We watched the moon rise and the sun set. We listened to the clock tower bell and talked with the old fishermen. We thought about moving there.

They took us to dinner at Simone's wine bar, where Megghi's mother had made a perfect lasagna. Now I know what I've got to do better with my own. The artists worked at heavy wooden tables to finish up cards for Michele and we drank local wine. Simone picked out some for me to bring back, since who better to trust with a decision like that than an expert? His place was called, of all things, Nebraska, and if you are ever in a little town called Camaiore you must go.  Sit near the fireplace, or in the room full of bottles, and be happy. 

On the last day we went to Florence. I have to say that by that point I had come down with a terrible cold. My husband suggested I stay in the hotel, but I had come all this way. Our discussion over whether or not I should rest rather than attempt the trip was ended by the opera-singing workman on the scaffolding outside our window and his ever-present drilling and hammering. 

Florence was. Here I got to use my (desperate, by that point) necessary phrase -- "Dove il bagno, per favore?" We walked through the Uffizi and through Medici history, saw works by Fra' Filippo Lippi and Da Vinci and Michelangelo and Caravaggio, then went out into the streets and met Michele and Rob and Stefano once more. After lunch Rob and my husband went up to climb around and photograph an ancient fort ("let's just keep going until someone stops us") and I walked through the street market with Michele and Stefano. They bought me dessert and Michele and I both went through our translation lists (he on his phone, me in my book) for the word "almond", which wasn't, in the end, in either place, and didn't ultimately matter since the flavor I'd meant was mascarpone. Stefano found out that this particular bistro served over 3,000 espressos a day during Christmas. We walked through the diamond vendors on the Ponte Vecchio and along the Arno River to the car.  We ate dinner at a little restaurant along the boardwalk of Viareggio, a sleepy little place where no one rushed us out even though it was late. We talked about our homes (Rob is from Portland, but originally Toronto), our work (Michele is an architect), and our families. Countries, and cultures, are not so different as people might often think.  We went back to our hotel for the last time, walking along the street that edged the sea, through chilly December air. 

The fact of the matter is that you can meet some people in your lifetime that come and go, and some that you feel are old friends even in a small space of time. There was a moment at the airport when we said good-bye to Michele where none of us seemed to know what to say -- you realize you have made this connection and you wish it could go on -- and you hope to god it will. If any of them were to ever come to the States, we would urge them to come to us, as our friends, as a new part of our family -- just the way they treated us. 

Like I said at the beginning, a little part of my heart remains there--in Riomaggiore, in Viareggio--with the places and with the people who made it the most wonderful time of the year. 

Merry Christmas With Love, everyone.




*BHE, in case you've forgotten: Best Husband Ever, (c) 2012, Various Milliner, Ltd. What else could you call the man who takes you along on an Italian holiday?


 

Romance Writers, Look... Just... Please... Don't.

Okay, I'm going to start with the disclaimer that I've recently cut my hair short and all of these cowlicks I didn't have two weeks ago are now making me look like a rejected Muppet. So it's possible I'm just having a bad hair day and I'm cranky.
That being said, I wanted to mention some things that I've noticed a few Romance Writers doing that are driving me, and a few other editors from whom I gathered a consensus, up the metaphorical editorial wall. We've come up with a couple of topics:

1. Quit with the hair tucked behind the ear thing already. It's a tender gesture, and many heroines have unruly gorgeous hair (without f-ing cowlicks, I bet). But probably more than 30 of the 40 romance stories I've worked on this year have had a moment where the hero tucks that stray strand or lock of the heroine's hair behind her ear. To this I must say: There are other gestures you could use! How about that little brush of the backs of his fingers against hers, or the gentle nudge of a knuckle to her chin, or the way he tips his knee forward to tap hers? How about he leans in and just whispers by her cheek? I had a boyfriend who used to tuck my hair behind my ear (he also liked me to tilt my ankles a certain way and he later became a shoe salesman, but that's a different story...) and it drove me crazy. So maybe this one's just me, but then again, maybe not...

2. Location, Location, Location, or Sex on a Horse. Second disclaimer: I have honestly only read of people having sex on top of moving horses three times, and of people having sex on a camel once. Personally, however, I think that many times is really too many. If you ride horses, you know that there's a certain rhythm to the different gaits, and two people in the midst of lovemaking will have to really concentrate to match that, not to mention staying balanced and holding on to the horse, since it's a long way down. Having never tried to "go equestrian" myself, I could be wrong, but I do have a friend who damaged her lover just by being overly vigorous on a downward move, and they were on a completely non-moving bed. If nothing else, think of the poor embarrassed horse, having to face his horse friends' snickers the next day. How would you feel if two horses were entangling themselves on your back? 
The point is that if you are going to put lovers in unusual situations, please think about the logistics. I read a story where the desperate lovers were robbing a bank and got carried away back in the vault. I couldn't focus on the romance because I was worried they'd be locked in there by the quick-thinking bank manager and suffocate. One love scene placed the couple on a boat in the windy Puget Sound in early Spring -- I kept thinking "Not on the deck! Not on the deck! Go into the cabin, for heaven's sake, before you freeze off your important bits!" I read one fantasy where the lovers were riding off on a unicorn-like creature. Fine, I thought, maybe he floats. That could work. 
Let's not even discuss camels. 

3.  Just stop talking and do it. Communication is good. Especially between two people who are intimate with each other. Sometimes dialogue can make a love scene, or even just a quiet private moment, explicitly hot or passionate. Good stuff. But speaking during intimate encounters should not derail the tension and intensity a good love scene should have. If your characters are lovers in a romantic suspense, for instance, and they're in the midst of that driving force that takes their breath, neither of them should be thinking, or talking, about the terrorist or murderer they're trying to thwart: "pant, pant --'I really hope we catch Marko the Devilish tomorrow' -- moan, pant..." . If your heroine is a hometown girl working things out with that long lost sweetheart and everything depends on the success of the fund-raising picnic the next day, don't have her express her distracted thoughts, in the middle of their doing something spectacularly hot, of having enough sandwiches on hand in case his grandmother brings her knitting friends along. Even if Gran's sweet as pie and the reason they've been thrown together in the first place -- here's the Golden Rule: No Granny in the Bedroom. Ew. 

4. You said that already. I know this one's hard to avoid, especially since it's virtually impossible to write an entire novel at a single sitting, and also to remember every word you put into your story. But many writers have a tendency to re-state the back story, or elements of their characters' descriptions, again and again. Please remember to re-read your work, from beginning to end, after you've let it sit for a week or two, or have someone you trust read it, so they can tell you if you've written phrases like "He was doing it all for the men in uniform, who deserved the best he had" or paragraphs that start "She had always wanted to help the children of the town by ..." over and over, or even if you've just repeatedly described a character as having "piercing/intense/sparkling (choose your adjective) blue/green/hazel eyes." 

5.  You could have finished this thirty pages ago! She loves him but there's a Big Misunderstanding. He loves her but there's another Big Misunderstanding. She apologizes, and even though he loves her he can't forgive. Then he apologizes but even though she loves him she can't forgive. Both of them spend pages regretting how things turned out. They want each other like nothing else, but then they avoid each other like the plague. There are at least three black moments.
Look. People have conflicts. Resolutions make for stronger relationships. The bigger the comeback from the deeper the black moment, the happier the ending. But don't make your characters bounce too much-- don't make them so intractable or clueless that their actions become implausible, or worse, so repetitive they become frustrating to the reader. You never want a reader to think, "Jeez God, Jake's/Amanda's/Luke's/Chloe's so stupid! How many times can they go back and forth? Why don't they just talk about this?!" Try seeing the highs and lows of your story, keeping in mind whether the peaks and valleys in the relationship help the story progress or just put your hero and heroine through a tangled up obstacle course.

And finally:
6. Stop naming your heroes Luke and Jake. What. You think I'm kidding? You try reading 40 romance novels a year and you'll see what I mean.

Do you have any pet peeves that you've noticed when reading certain types of stories? Are there any plot points or too-often-used character traits that make you cringe or groan? 

Confused by Vampires, or, ee-eye-EE-EYE-OHHHH.....

I was speaking with my colleague Francesca Bousquet the other day. Perhaps you've heard of her: she's an established and respected editor of many genres, a bit of an expert in some areas of the profession at a level I can only hope to someday achieve.  The subject of vampires arose.

Chiefly, we agreed that the legendary traits have lately been screwed with. There are some basic traditional characteristics that define what makes a being a vampire, and based upon our vast combined readings of horror, romance, adventure, and historical fiction, here's what we came up with:

1. Vampires are undead, i.e., they are no longer living in the sense that they have a pulse. They do not have beating hearts, and therefore do not have circulatory systems, and are rather pale and cold to the touch.
2. Vampires do not respire; that is, they don't need to breathe.
3. Vampires can move extremely fast, and are superlatively strong.
4. They cannot go out in sunlight, where they tend to make an unsightly mess by turning into ash, sometimes rudely, right in the middle of an otherwise delightful conversation.
5. Vampires must suck blood out of living creatures in order to survive. Sometimes these living creatures are small, such as rabbits. Sometimes they are large, such as cows, or humans.
6. Vampires, when taking blood from their human subjects, incite great lust in their victims. This, since the most powerful vampires are reportedly the ones of great age and the best victims youthfully luscious females, is an example of the ultimate, albeit unfortunately brief, May-December romance. This, also, despite the fact that early stories of vampires did not portray them looking like Brad Pitt, but more like foul-smelling hobos with cracked skin and no-longer-fashionable evening wear. Neither Francesca nor I has ever read of any instance of aroused bovines, by the way, but we did agree that there might be some extraordinary moo-ing, so really, who's to say?
7. Vampires may be killed by a wooden stake to the heart, beheading, sunlight, or having a blessed cross placed upon their person. Once attacked thus, they are utterly vanquished. If you are going to kill a vampire indoors by any of these methods, make sure you have a working vacuum, since once again -- ash. (This week, since the belt has snapped on my month-old Hoover and we're waiting for the replacement part to come via FedEx, I would appreciate it if no one decided to conquer any undead bloodsuckers in my living room. We already have several days' worth of lint built up.)

Disagreement over the validity of some newer versions of these creatures we've both discovered has created a slight professional rift between Francesca and I. Eventually we decided to open it up to discussion, and we agreed I would ask anyone who read, wrote, or mused about the nature of vampires to perhaps reconcile the following:

1. Here's a biggie (no pun intended and we might as well get it out of the way): how do male vampires get erections? We've both read stories of vampires making voracious love during their conquests, creating incomparable ecstasies that keep their increasingly wan female lovers coming back for more (okay, okay, Fran says that pun was definitely intended). But without a beating heart or a circulatory system, how does that work? We've both read stories written by contemporary authors that mention all of the vampires' blood going south, the heat generated within this particular part of the anatomy. Without a functioning circulatory system, heat cannot be generated. And really, especially if the story's set any later in the year than October and any further north than, maybe, Virginia, or Spain, who wants to cuddle up with a block of ice?
2. (and 3.) If vampires don't need to breathe, and they can move quickly and are in possession of superior strength, how come none of the vampire writers out there have put one of them on a fictional Olympic swim team? You could conquer the sports-horror-erotic-romance genre! You could make the whole team up of vampires, and sell a series! Get going! Don't some swim teams have to use community pools before dawn, before they're open to the public? When it's DARK? Really, it's obvious to me -- I just haven't had time to write it. Somebody, I'm doing you a favor...
4.  Sunlight? Ash? Really? How does one explain Edward in Twilight? Or the vampire I read about recently who spent his nights making love with his human and his days out solving crime? Francesca knows of one story where the vampire drank a special potion that made his skin immune to the sun's detrimental rays. She wonders if his breath smelled like Coppertone.
5. Blood-sucking -- in addition to draining their living victims dry in order to "live" themselves, some vampire stories now indicate that a young vampire can gain strength by overtaking and draining an older vampire of its blood. Some other stories indicate that this practice can cause the younger vampire to go insane. But once again, if there's no blood in the first place -- because they're dead -- how would this work?
6. Neither Francesca nor I want to think about aroused cows. If you are a writer that's thinking this might be a good subplot, please close down your screen, put down your pen, and stop it right now.
7. Personally I'm a fan of the classic death-dealing methods, but I've read of vampires that were dispatched with poisoned blood, golf clubs, electric shock, Italian food (anaphylactic shock due to a severe garlic allergy), and a vampire snake. I really, at this point, would not want to have to face a vampire and make an uneducated guess as to what would work best. What should I do, should one of these fearful, lust-inciting, soulless entities show up in my house and all I have to defend myself is a spatula or a plunger? Besides get him off my rug before I win?

Communication, or More Appropriately, the Lack of It

I've been somewhat remiss about making timely, monthly blog entries. It isn't that I haven't been thinking about it -- I do, all the time. I get topics in my head -- "How Come I'm Always Stuck Behind a Landscaping Truck on the Road of Life (Not Necessarily a Metaphor)?", "Smart Girls Can Have Kinky Sex, Too (which is actually not about me, even though I am, I think, no slouch in intellect, and whatever I may choose or not choose to do otherwise is none of your beeswax, by the way)", "Five Gestures Romance Writers Think Are Sexy But Should Quit Using Already (do NOT get me started)". 

But the fact of the matter is that if I don't actually blog or write or even speak, if I keep all these ideas somewhere in my cerebellum (or forebrain, I forget which is right), it doesn't matter if any of the ideas above would knock the socks off the world. Nobody knows about them but me.

In any case, I've been a tad overwhelmed and underblogged. At least it feels that way. Things are a little spiral-ly here at the home office. And whether you picture that as an upward spiral (as in tornado) or a downward one (as in drain), neither picture's all that pretty. Things are busy, lines get crossed, messages have slipped.

It's possible this sensation's acute in part because we've gotten another dog. If you ever want to feel as if you're vocally peeing into the wind, get a puppy and try to train it when you've repeatedly only had about three hours' sleep the night before. I do not know why I continue to be surprised when I say, "Raven, don't poop in my flower garden", and she DOES IT ANYWAY.  She seemed pretty smart at the pound, so I don't know if all she's hearing is "Raven, blah blah blah" or if she's just being spiteful because I didn't feel like throwing her thirteenth tennis ball (they keep turning up from the last dog, and now you know I never, ever, clean under the hutch in the dining room) for the six thousandth time. I told a neighbor after we got the dog how pleased I was that she'd quickly learned to use the bells we hung on the back door to let us know she wanted to go out. I thought we'd trained her to do something useful. My neighbor said (bless her heart, and you North Carolinians know what I really mean when I say that), "Oh, you mean she's trained YOU to get up every time she rings those bells." 

I guess it's a matter of ... interpretation. 

Let's try to relate this to writing. Or life, if you're not a writer. Whatever works. 

When you write, or even when you speak, you have to assume that the other person reading/listening has no idea what the hell you're talking about. It doesn't mean (you know who you are) you have to speak to someone as if they're stooopid, only that you might be better off providing some context in your story, or saying more than "hunh, almost out of milk". You have to remember your audience.

In the case of writing, you have to picture the scene, present the scene, think of what's going on around your characters and in their heads. You may have to remember what they're wearing, for instance -- I can't tell you how many sex scenes I've edited where the clothing being removed (or not, duh) changed from one moment to the next. I've read characters who take each other out for a meal and then never eat. Like, over multiple days. And not just because they were rushing to remove assorted pieces of clothing -- although that's, you know, possible. One of the characters may seem to get inexplicably cranky, but who can blame them? They're starving.

A common mistake writers make when they read aloud in critique or to their family or friends is to feel compelled to explain something when the other person(s) doesn't get it. You won't be able to do that if you sell the book, or hopefully many books, to complete strangers. You have to write it. If you find yourself saying "I meant this", that means you didn't put it on the page.  If you end up repeating yourself, you can always take it out, but if the information isn't there at all, you leave your reader or listeners confused. You leave them in a blank space with characters going "Raven, blah blah blah".

And if somebody says "hunh, almost out of milk" in your house, you should probably ask which one of you is going to go get some and when. Otherwise nobody's happy when it's coffee time or there's a hankering for Frosted Flakes in the middle of the night. I'm just saying. I'll stay away from other, more serious, words left out. Hopefully you get what I mean. 

Or do you.

So how do you ensure that what you say gets across, that you've painted a clear picture, that you won't run out of milk? 

I'll check back in after I let the dog out. She's ringing those bells again.

The Things We Do For Authenticity

"So I need you to put me in a choke hold and pull me backward while I throw this nail polish at a big piece of cardboard." This I asked of Kevin, our son's friend, who'd been staying with us for several months, up until yesterday when he left for the Navy.

He looked a little aghast. "Uh, no." He laughed uncomfortably because he realized I wasn't kidding. "I can't do that; why can't you have someone else do that?"

"Because you're the right height. You're tall like my murderer and I need to see how the victim's nail polish splatters. I couldn't find the right pattern on Google images."

Now, the fact of the matter is that generally, young men do not like to put their friends' mothers in choke holds. Even if the favor is requested so that she can get the description right for a pivotal clue in her humorous suspense novel. I could've asked my brother, since he's also tall enough, but he lives an hour away and the last time he did that (it was to show me a self-defense move) I dislocated my jaw because I did not realize at first I was supposed to stand still until he explained the move. So I was hesitant to go down that path again. I like my jaw right where it is.

For this particular book, I've had to seek some unusual references: which military units worked with the CIA in Viet Nam (twelve books on desk, and several discussions with surviving cousins of family members who served, and one or two guys from the VA), how prosthetic limbs work and how to put them on and take them off (thanks, AmputeeOT on YouTube, and countless other videos and articles), how arsenic works, and what counties in California might not have medical examiners (had to make one up).  Oh, and there was the call to Honeywell about how low you could make a thermostat to chill a dead body (I had to promise I wasn't going to do that myself). And whether a Tazer makes noise or needs warm-up time (I have yet to work that into a conversation with the local police, who carry them, and they're illegal in my state so I can't just buy one and find out. And who would I tazer anyway to try it? Kevin's no dope; he left for basic training, which will probably be easier on his nerves.).

I recently read about an author who got her pilot's license because her heroine flew and she wanted to be able to describe doing so accurately. I have a friend who worked in an animal shelter to see what was involved so she could write about it. And another who asked to swim with sharks so she could describe how their skin felt. I'm not there yet. Although the animal shelter thing's my speed, and we do need a new dog. 

So I started to wonder about how other writers handle making things feel "true": What's the oddest/craziest/most daring thing you've ever done to research a particular aspect of a story you were working on? Did you end up using what you learned or have to try something else? Was it something you continued to do, like flying or knitting... or tazering?

She's Leavin' on a Jet Plane, or, The Finer Points of Parental Denial

Child number 2 is about to embark on an adventure. In case you are not one of the people I told, over and over again over the past six months, that my daughter is an exchange student, I'm telling you now. It's a short-term thing and she'll stay with the family of her exchange partner for three weeks, then she and her partner will come back here for three weeks. 

Are we nervous? Well, hell, yes. But up until this point I was the queen of denial -- "Sure, we're sending our kid across the ocean to live with people we've never met in a place we've never seen. It's going to be terrific!" This from the same woman who even last night told her she should not walk home alone from her friend's house around the block. In two days we're going to hand this kid her passport, some money, enough stuff to wear for a month (they said pack for a week, but we're overachievers that way), and watch her walk through the security gate at the airport. 

By the way, creepy bad people in the world? Thanks for making it so I can't even walk my kid to the gate. I'm just going to have to stand there pathetically while she takes off and puts on her tough-girl, scuffed leather boots, and hope she picks up everything she put down for the security check. I'll be thinking, "What if she forgets her purse? Her computer? What if she can't find the gate? Or if she can't sleep? What if there's turbulence? Or a drunk? What if the airline pretzels are stale?" 

Ever since we made this decision, I've probably told any person who will listen that my daughter's going to be an exchange student. Part of it is because my daughter is braver and more adventurous than I am, and I am proud of her for having these qualities. Another part of me loves it when those people I tell inevitably say something like "That's Great!" Which helps convince me, the worried mother in me, that it is. 

I am sure we are not the first parents to ever send a child off somewhere new without them. We've already had to do this sort of thing with child number 1, but that was only Baltimore. We can drive to Baltimore. My daughter will be over 4,000 miles away -- we won't be able to hop in the car if she needs us. We have to trust that the people she encounters, and the people she lives with, will be careful with our baby. So here is the list I've made for them (perhaps you've noticed from earlier blogs that I like lists):

1. Take good care of our daughter. You'll be her parents over there.
2. Don't let her have ice cream for breakfast -- even if she tells you we do, which we don't. 
3. Tell her to make her bed, even if she tells you we don't make her, which we do (occasionally). 
4. Hug her if she needs it. We do. 

But here is the list I'm giving her: 

1. Remember we love you, no matter where you are. 
2. Make the bed. No, really. 
3. Don't forget the kisses I'm sending to the moon to bounce off and find you. I'll work on the angle. You do too.
4. Twizzlers, if they are available there, are still not a food group. 
5. Remember we love you.

I would love to hear from you if you've ever had to send a child off on an adventure -- how you coped and how it went. But no scary stories, okay? Remember, I'm still a little in denial...

The Inconvenient Side of Superpower

So there I was this morning, once again bemoaning the fact that I can't fly.

I mean if there was anything I'd want to do that was extra special, it would be to defy gravity and float places so I never hit traffic or ruined the heel tabs on my Kenneth Cole knockoffs.

Think of the benefits: you're at a crowded party and stuck talking to someone you'd rather not be talking with. You're trying to be attentive and polite, but really. So you do that thing some people do, where you pretend you've suddenly seen an old friend -- "Oh, my goodness, is that Jenny?!?" -- and your conversation partner turns to look as you lift your arm to wave. Unbeknownst to this annoying guest, lifting your arm is the best way you know to avoid sludging through the other partygoers to get out of listening to one more anecdote about his toe corns. Kablam! You're aloft! Before he can turn around and wonder where you've gone, you're out the door and on the way to Baskin Robbins for a little Gold Medal Ribbon ice cream. You don't even have to remember where you parked the car.

Or suppose the kids get a frisbee or a hula hoop stuck in a tree. (I've seen the hula hoop thing happen. You don't want to know how it got there, but try not to judge.) You'd become the coolest parent on the block if you could retrieve tree-snagged frisbees. Maybe there's a precariously swaying tree limb hanging over your patio from your neighbor's back yard and your husband going up a 30-foot ladder with a chainsaw makes you want to check his insurance policy and light a few candles. Shazam! "Honey, I've got this. Just stand back." If that's not a romance starter, I don't know what is. 

But I bet there's a down side. Think of Superman, the ultimate flyer. Of course, he was an alien, so he could defy gravity because he was from another planet and the gravity there was presumably different. I mean, so he could lift off, but what kept him on the ground the rest of the time? Did he just think heavy thoughts? "Today I am totally feeling like a hippopotamus..." Maybe he played Wagnerian opera in the mornings when he got ready for school or later, for work.

And what about when he first started flying? Was it something he inherently knew how to do? Or were there multiple scenes in the fourth grade where Clark finally got multiplication and would eagerly raise his hand and... "Oh, dear, Clark, not again," his teacher would say as she called for the custodian the third time that month to come repair the ceiling. All of Clark's classmates would tug him out of the rafters, wood bits and plaster dust raining down upon their little towheads. I would bet there was an interesting learning curve.

Later, what about all those suits left in phone booths? I used to worry about that, watching the old episodes when I was a kid. I was that kind of kid. What happened to his clothes after he left the phone booth on a Lois Lane-saving mission? Maybe there was a news story, a sidebar by cub reporter Jimmy Olsen, detailing the odd phenomenon of a lot of well-dressed hobos stumbling around Metropolis. Maybe only the hobos that could fit 46-wide. The citizens would see them standing on street corners, arguing: "No, I know I look good, but I could still use your change. I'm starving here."

In some recent werewolf books I've read, organized packs keep lockers in different cities for when their members wake up naked after an episode of werewolfishness (not really a noun, by the way). It's part of the membership fee: you go out running on a full moon and wake up in Kansas City or Miami or Vancouver, and there's a U-Lock-It place with a combination only paying members know so they can grab a pair of jeans, a nice pressed t-shirt, and some Keds.

But Superman operated solo. He never came out of an alternate state in his birthday suit, but he couldn't really go back to the phone booth to pick up his trousers and tie. So what happened to his stuff? Did he have this account over at Brooks Brothers where he'd go once a month and they'd hand him a thirty-day supply? "Mr. Kent, the way you spill soups on things is just unbelievable..." And he was a reporter! How much could he have possibly earned? He wasn't independently wealthy like Batman or Iron Man. I don't ever remember anyone handing him a check for saving the city from doom. Ever. His credit card payments must have been enormous. I can't even imagine how the ladies at Motor Vehicles felt about him showing up, looking all sheepish, having "lost" his driver's license again from leaving his wallet behind in his pants pocket.

 Maybe he had a snug backpack under the cape that we never saw. It wouldn't have been aerodynamic, but it would've solved a lot of wardrobe problems. It wasn't as if he could call up Jimmy Olsen and say, "Buddy, could ya go grab my things from that booth over at the corner of 72nd and Madison? I've gotta go tangle with evil  again," because he was operating in secret. Maybe the whole operating in secret thing was part of the problem. If people knew who he was, he could've left lockers all over the city labeled Property of Clark (Superman) Kent, with a combination only he knew.

Perhaps my ability to fly would have its downsides, too, even if I didn't use it to save the world, but only to get to or out of places more easily. Nobody would ever believe my excuse if I was late. My hair would always be tangled. I'd have to shop for a decent cape, and you know, from the previous blog, I'm not big on clothes shopping. I'd have to weigh these problems against the plusses: being able to go whale-watching without the whole diesel-fumed, "how-high-are-those-waves", 5 hours of seasickness boating experience; or helping construction workers who were putting attenae on top of skyscrapers to make sure they were in perfect position. Never getting lost in the woods or in a corn maze.

I'll have to rethink this superpower thing, though. Maybe the better superpower, for me, would be psychokinesis -- you know, making things happen with my mind -- that way I could wash the dishes, do the laundry, write this blog, and finish writing my novel all at the same time.... 

Sigh. No More Skinny Jeans, Ever Again.

I weighed 87 pounds when I got married. 

Now, not to say that this had been a goal -- the BHE and I did all of the nuptial planning and there were some extraordinary family circumstances, plus daily 2-hour commutes to our jobs, downstairs neighbors in the throes of a noisy, adulterous breakup, and a pet dachshund that needed surgery after he ate a superball in the back yard ten days before the wedding. There was a lot going on. I was five-foot-two, eyes of blue, so thin you could nearly see right through. 

The adage is a pound goes on per year. So... twenty-two pounds. 109. Plus two kids. Okay, so say five more per. 119. And a change to a freelance job near my kitchen where I sit a lot. This is the part where I stop with the math, already.

And maybe some chocolate and some pasta. Because there are days when nothing lifts the mood like a good plate of ravioli and meatballs and some hearty red wine. 

The thing is, I recently had to buy pants. Not yoga pants (see last September), mind you. Real pants. To wear in a professional environment. This is generally a nightmare in any case -- since I am on the petite side, longitudinally, I can never find pairs that aren't clumped up around my ankles or hanging over and off my feet like a bad bridal gown train. It is more depressing for me to shop for pants than it is kidding myself I am still perky enough to brave Victoria's Secret, then actually going into Victoria's Secret and being taunted by the snarky mirrors in there.

I gathered up my courage, sucked in my gut, and headed for the mall, armed with the encouraging words of  child number 2 ("You are not fat"), and a kiss from the sympathetic hubby.  I was determined to find at least three pairs, something flattering and comfortable, perhaps shaping and not requiring me to hem anything. Because as my family can tell you, I tend to procrastinate in the hemming department (just ask the BHE about the pair of pants we found 13 years after we bought them on our honeymoon, still unstitched) and I didn't have that luxury -- I needed something appropriate to cover my uber-pear-shaped-ness by the following Monday.

In the end I found seven pairs I thought might do the trick. Not bad, but honestly I'd picked a few different sizes and colors of the same styles. I found a dressing room with those accessible aluminum bars (because when you find yourself in pants slogging off you like a bad bridal train, you need something to grab before you go down trying to take a step) and a bench (because when you are trying to take off pants that are far too small for your "I still feel 27" disillusioned self, you need a place to rest while you play tug of war trying to remove something made with "comfort fit" lycra). Feeling grateful that the only other occupants of the dressing room were two teen girls so self-absorbed in trying on skinny jeans that they wouldn't hear me groan if I got stuck in something, I confronted my inner fashion demons and went at it.

I won't go into graphic details here. You might be getting ready to eat, or maybe you're just a sensitive soul.  Let's just say that when the Wii Fit last measured me for my fitness program, I watched in horror as it made my avatar what one might call a little dumpy. You know things are bad when your avatar goes plump before your eyes. And then shakes its finger at you from the screen. Great. Victoria's Secret mirrors aren't enough; now I have cartoon characters making me feel guilty and doughy.

I will say this. It is painful to try on clothing that says it will slim you, only to find that its method for doing so is to squish everything that doesn't fit into its confines up, so that you look a bit like someone overfilled the cupcake bin and when the batter rose it splurged out over the top. When I was younger I wanted to be a little bustier, but trust me, nothing the slacks pushed up went that high -- even though the bust has tried to compromise in recent years by traveling down. Frankly I got a little nauseous from having my internal organs compressed into my armpits.  

"Those look good." This came from one of the girls when I stepped outside my stall  to see myself better in the larger aisle mirror. She was perhaps seventeen, thin as a rail and snugly poured into a pair of pants I might safely fit one arm into. I would've appreciated the compliment except I was in a pair of elastic-waisted trousers I used to see my grandmother consider. "Holy shit I'm huge!" she complained to her friend, then disappeared back into her own cubicle. 

I stared at myself in the mirror. I was never going to look like that kid again. I'd had a family, I liked to cook, I'd had life experiences that the girl in the other stall had yet to have, and here's the thing -- the pants I had on did look good. For me. 

I chose two pairs. I went home. I got another kiss. 

I have to admit I made myself a salad.

*** I have two announcements to make: 

1) I've been asked by the Long Island Writers' Guild to be one of four Featured Readers at their LIWG Reads! event on May 11th, at the East Meadow Library, 2-4 p.m. I'll be reading sometime during that first hour. Stop by if you can -- if not to hear me read something of my own, then for the open mic at 3. Refreshments will be served.

2) The Long Island Romance Writers are putting on their annual fabulous Editor/Agent luncheon at the Fox Hollow Inn, Woodbury, New York on June 7, noon to 4. You can get more info and register at www.lirw.org. Twenty-six Agents and Editors have signed on and you'd have hours to meet and pitch, plus there's a nice lunch. Seating is limited, but it's definitely a worthwhile and fun event. 

Ginger Gets the Last Word

I lost my executive assistant this weekend.

She'd been with us for over a decade.  We got used to each other's habits, frustrations, and joys. She left her toys and sweaters lying around and I sometimes tripped over her cushion on my way through the living room, or over her pretty much anywhere in the kitchen. Or on my way out of the bathroom. Or getting out of bed. I left stuff lying around too. Ginger never complained.

For a month or so we thought she might have a virus, or maybe she'd gotten some bad kibble. But once we took her to the doctor, things were made painfully clear.  She had numbers on her liver enzymes that were higher than any all three vets had ever seen.  When I asked if there was anything I shouldn't feed her, thinking of her carrots and her propensity for tasting anything we made, I was told, "You give her anything she wants now." It was the "now" that did it.

We didn't even have three weeks after that, but even up to the last day, she managed a small wag when we came in. She came to have her ears scratched, or her back rubbed, even though those things might have hurt against her failing body. I really believe she did those things for us; that she knew we needed that contact.

On Sunday my husband took her outside. After a few wobbly minutes she just lay down in the yard. She closed her eyes and took in the sunlight. 

We called the vet. We wrapped her in her blanket and put on classical music in the car (because she liked classical music -- trust me), and put her on the big front seat in the Camry.

We have always told people she was the smartest dog we ever had. She grasped almost everything we said, I think.  It was probably just a matter of anatomy that she couldn't talk back. We all figured out ways to communicate.  We said our good-byes to her, hoping she understood what we had chosen to do, and the vet came. Ginger went to sleep with her head in my hands and her heart under my husband's. It took us a little while before we could gather ourselves and go back outside.

"Look at that," my husband said as we came out into the bright Sunday afternoon light. Without our dog.

A few feet away, there was a car.  The license plate read "ILVMIPIT." I love my pit.

She knew. It felt like an answer.  It felt like she'd found her own way to say she got it. She loved us too. 

I'm a Looo-oo--oo--ser... Not!

I know: What an optimistic way to start the year, right? I've had this Beatles song running through my head for a couple of weeks now.

But hear me out.

Waaaaay back in ... I think it was September, I entered a writing contest. I have this story I've been working on for a couple of years, and I took twelve thousand words and tightened them into exactly the seven thousand required, and I sent it out. I like this story, and apparently I'm not the only one: of the possible 300 points I could get in the first round, I scored 299. My husband took the call from the lovely and generous coordinator, who informed him that I was a finalist. The winners (category and then best of the best) would be announced at a conference, to which I was invited, in February. In Houston.  After several weeks' debate and then with the encouragement of the BHE (see November's blog for copyright here), I booked flights.

Since child #2 is getting ready to be an exchange student, and since she's also a budding writer and pretty much fun to be around, I asked her to come along with me. This guaranteed two things: She would get a dress rehearsal of handling airports and airplanes, which she hadn't done in about ten years, and I would have a travel buddy -- I wouldn't have to walk into a room full of people I didn't know, or eat alone or see stuff alone. We'd never been to Texas and we needed a shot glass for our collection, which has one for every place we've ever visited.

Let's cut to the chase. By the title you can tell I didn't emerge with a publishing contract, a giant bouquet of roses and a trophy that would need to be checked into cargo for the return trip. I got back the scores from the final round judges (one agent and one editor) and they were pretty mediocre.

But here's what was great:

1. I got to spend a whole weekend with my 15-year-old daughter. We reveled in a 17th-floor hotel room (we could see for miles!) and we went to the Galleria (which is a mall on mega mall steroids, sort of) and we ate out and we visited the museum of Natural Science and the Zoo. We bought stuff and we laughed and when I didn't win, my daughter said to me, "Don't worry, Mom. Just think of J.K. Rowling." Because, you know, J.K. Rowling never won this contest, and she's doing just fine. My daughter is a wonderful human being. Even when I got lost on the way to the museum area and spent equal amounts of time arguing with the annoyingly unflappable GPS and the equally imperturbable Onstar, and when I hyperventilated on the giant ramps on the giant highways throughout giant Houston, she kept calm.

2. We got to meet writers from Houston, and let me tell you, the West Houston RWA chapter is full of fine, creative, thoughtful and professional people. My coordinator Sarah made us feel so incredibly welcome, and we owe her and her fellow chapter mates a huge thank you. They gave me a beautiful Honorable Mention certificate. They epitomized the way everyone we encountered in Houston behaved. We even got invited back for the rodeo next year.

3. I found out I've grown a tougher skin. I knew I wasn't going to win, but I was a bit bummed by the final judges' remarks. Then I recalled the comments from the  first-round judges, two of whom were published writers and writing teachers. And I recalled that I had faith in my own ability of expression with the written word.

So, final cost of trip? Let's just say monetarily it was not exactly a bus ride. My ego was a little bruised, but only for a little while. The six-hour delay of our transfer at the Philly airport was no picnic.

But the benefits, the winnings? As they say in the commercials, priceless.

Plus we got this cool shot glass with a plastic longhorn on it.