REGULAR PROGRAM INTERRUPTION (Tara Taylor Quinn)

Okay, my blog for today is still here, you can scroll down if you want to read it. But I need HELP!!! I have a book due on Friday and this weird pen pal relationship where all they talk about (for fourteen years!!!!) is philosophical stuff. About five minutes ago a question was posed and I have no answers. (I'm brain dead and can't get any deeper than what's for dinner at the moment.)

I NEED ANSWERS!!!!!!

So...she asks him, "Do you think joking can go too far? If the jokester means absolutely no harm, can his or her words still be too harsh? Or, if all parties understand that it’s joking and someone’s feelings still get hurt, is that someone just being too sensitve?"

What's written in in response???

I've got copies of Sara's Son for the three answers I pick! (You'll need to provide snail mail privately.)

ttq

Standing Up (Tara Taylor Quinn)

For most of my life, with a few notable exceptions, I've been a head in the sander. When I was sixteen, and had my first checking account, if I had to write a check before the money was in my account (like I was being paid that same day and would get the money in there) I wouldn't post the check in my register until after the money was deposited. I couldn't bear to show a negative in my checking account roster - even for a few hours. So I didn't. Then, of course, came the time that I forgot to then go back and register a check, since I didn't do it the moment I wrote it, and ended up with a negative balance for real. That's what happens when you bury your head in the sand. You avoid the hard or potentially negative situation in the moment, but you make a larger problem for yourself for some future moment.

One of the many things I've learned over this past year of major change in my life is this very important truth. It's always better to stand up, to take things head on, to deal with them as soon as the present themselves.

Whether it be making an uncomfortable phone call, paying a bill, running an errand, telling a difficult truth, making an appointment, doing the dishes, confronting someone or going to bed. When it's time presents itself, it's best to just get it done. And when a mistake is made, admit the mistake, apologize immediately. When someone is hurt, listen to them, take accountability, and move on.

When you're honestly being mistreated, don't retreat. Speak up. Act.

And - this is a biggee - when you're being intimidated, stand up. It doesn't matter if you're small. It doesn't matter if the other person is louder than you are. Or stronger. Stand up anyway. Intimidation is wrong. Allowing it is wrong, too.

We've been having problems with our Verizon phones. They're PDA's and the Verizon sales people are very good at their jobs. They sold me this very expensive device, practically promising that it would cook and clean for me. I was happy if it would just get my e-mail, let me surf the net, and play a couple of games. Oh, and make an occasional phone call, too. Yeah, sure, it could do all that, but what they failed to disclose was that the technology for the device had a glitch. The battery power wasn't up to all of the things the phone could do. It's a smartphone but it's not that smart. It runs out of battery after just a few phone calls. It locks up regularly. It shuts off the phone, even when the device is on, so you're missing calls and don't know it. It syncs with Outlook sometimes, and sometimes it forgets to pick up your appointments, but it tells you it did.

I took the phone in. Did I mention that Verizon sales people are really good???? The guy pulls out his own phone - the same PDA and starts to talk about how great it is. Before I left that day, I'd spent another $100 on an extended life battery. It held less charge than the battery that came with the phone. When I took the phone back a second time, another Verizon sales guru got a hold of me. They replaced my phone for free, with the same model, told me again how wonderful it was. By the time I left that day, I'd purchased a second one of the darn things - at $400 a pop - for my husband. We now have two of these PDAs that lock up. That run out of battery within hours of minimal use. That turn off phones and fail to ring, and that sync on random tries.

We take the phones in. Upon noting that we weren't making these things up (their own techs determined the phones had issues) they offered to send us two new phones of the same model. I DON'T WANT IT!!!!!! I tried speaking this fact softly. Two days later, I was telling Verizon that I was going to send a newsletter to my international fan base telling everyone to stay away from Verizon. I've never ever ever said anything like that before in my life. I was that livid. And that determined not to bury my head in the sand, take my free $400 new phones that didn't work, and slink away.

I told Verizon that I'd be happy to settle for a lesser phone, but I needed on that I could rely on. I wanted them to send me the new phones they owed me, just a different model. It could be less expensive. They could save money on the deal. I was sent in circles, though it took careful questioning and noting to figure out their game. I was sent from Customer Service to Tech support and back three different times in a two hour phone call of refusing to back down. I could BE a Verizon salesperson at this point (I'm convinced that that's all every single Verizon employee is, a salesperson - they just SAY they're customer support or tech support.) I know every line - down to, when they put you on hold, every single one of them promises it will be for two to three minutes. No matter what you want. Heck, I could have told them I need them to drive cross country and they would have put me on hold for, you got it, two to three minutes. And the other thing - 'you're eligible for an upgrade.'

Now this sounds great, huh? Except that every single Verizon customer earns that upgrade eligibility after one year of service and all that means is that they allow you to spend another couple of hundred dollars to get a different phone if you want. If you try to switch phones before the year is up, it'll cost you $400 instead of $200. If I wanted to switch models, I could do so, for $200 per phone. Now let's think about this - I've spent $900 on phones that don't work, phones that they sold me and that they admit don't work and that they are going to replace for free because they don't work, but if I want a phone that works, I'm lucky because I can get them for $400 for both of them. Gee, why don't I feel LUCKY!!!!!?????

After the fourth person came on the line, I wanted to hang up. I almost did hang up. I felt myself draining down to the sand, starting to rub my head against it's warmth. And then I remembered my husband, and the way he's patiently and doggedly shown me to stand up. The way he's stood beside me and held me up when I couldn't find my legs to stand on my own. And I continued to argue my case.

In the end, with the sixth person (who I'm convinced was an angel just posing as a Verizon employee) I found out that Verizon has a policy that if your phone has been replaced once, Verizon will switch you to a new model at no charge. Can you believe it? All those people, two hours of run around and listening to the same policy jargon, and the policy existed all along. Our new phones - a different model pda smartphone - is due to arrive tomorrow. They sent me the fed ex tracking number. They were in Memphis last night. I'm paying zero dollars. As a matter of fact, after I stressed my complete and utter frustration, I managed to get a month of free service as well. (I actually tried for three and accepted one!) I don't have a Verizon bill next month. I signed no new contract. They didn't get me anywhere. I stood up.

This is only one example. There are many. And I'm here to tell you that in every single case, whether the outcome is good or not, I'm better and stronger for having faced them head on. The ultimate outcome is less stressful, less painful, and generally, though not always, resolved more to my liking. There hasn't been one case where burying my head in the sand would have been a better choice.

It's not easy growing up. Guess that's why I put if off for so many years! And I don't ever want to completely grow up. I'm still going to walk down aisles in stores with friends and put on goofy hats and take pictures. Or jump into a pool with my clothes on. I still want to wait until 5:00 to leave and drive until 2 or 3 in the morning sometimes, or decide, at one in the afternoon, to go to dinner someplace three hours away and just drive off and do it. I might buy another dog someday because he looks sad in a window, or stay a couple of extra days someplace just because I like being there.

I might even have the tendency, when faced with severe or not so severe conflict, to bury my head in the sand. But it's a tendency that I will fight. And I will win. I'm standing up.

Anybody else head in the sanders? Tell us about it. Come stand beside me. I promise you'll be happier.

Help Me Understand, Please (Suzanne Forster)

Do all men have hearing issues? And if they do, is this a genetic condition, something woven into their DNA and therefore, beyond their control? Maybe they just can’t help it. Maybe they’re born with trick ears.

I don’t have the answer, but I know from personal experience that the males in my life, from grandfather to grandson on both sides suffer from a condition called selective hearing. This is not a random scientific sample, of course, but I don’t think I’m alone. Most women—and a few men—will tell you that male ears seem to operate on a toggle switch, and it’s most likely to be switched off when the windows need washing or the garbage needs taking out. Of course, that varies from household to household.

Here’s an example from my house. Allan can’t hear right when it comes to blueberry bagels. Many other things, too, but blueberry bagels definitely flip his switch. I have no idea why, but twice now when I’ve asked him to pick up a half-dozen bagels, and even give him a list of the specific types, which includes in all caps NO BLUEBERRY, he comes home with at least one blueberry bagel.

It happened again last Friday when I had my brainstorming group over for a day of snacking and plotting books. I gave him my list, said two or three times, no blueberry, and you know the rest. The first bagel I pulled out of the sack was distinctly blue. My surprise turned to disbelief. I hit him with an incredulous look and said in a soft, slightly horrified voice, but this is blueberry.

His response: It was the only berry bagel they had. So he heard the berry part and somehow decided I had to have a berry bagel, even if was blue, despite what I had taken great pains to say—and write—on my list? Color me blue with confusion. I would never have come home with blueberry, but then, my hearing is great. Pretty much all the time, it’s great.

I didn’t pursue the conversation with him. I knew better. Instead, I went straight to my trusty computer and googled “men and selective hearing.” Luckily I found a web site called "Blogging With Cents" that featured a blog by cowboytf, who acknowledged right up front that the condition was genetic. He also had some suggestions for women on how to deal with the selective hearing of the males in their lives, and there was one tip I liked a lot. He warned women to be very careful about TMI (giving men too much information).

Here’s the scenario he described:

“Tip: A conversational commentary that gives a lot of information can be too complicated.

Example: (She says) I like most wines, especially the Spanish ones from Rioja or Navarra. However, I prefer the red wines and some rosé. I really dislike most Spanish white wine but enjoy most German white wines.

He may note that you like wine (especially if he does too). However, the ‘white wine’ may stick, resulting in him bringing you an imported bottle of it. After all, you did say something about Spanish wines and mentioned white wines twice.

This is the way you should have said the above…I really dislike white wine. I prefer the taste of red wine.

This is easy and short enough for a man to tune into. Had you made it more complicated or longer, then selective hearing would have been activated.

In closing, when speaking, do this frontally, establish eye contact and have a relaxed expression. Ask them to repeat what you said, and for very important communications, have a calendar at hand to annotate and affirm understanding. Have the male initial the entry. This will shorten future disputes. Ignore the offended look. Smile.”

I think cowboytf may have something there. Next time I write a bagel list it will say: egg, onion, cinnamon-raisin, cranberry and jalapeno. The word blueberry will cease to exist.

Okay, problem solved! However, I also came across a couple articles on selective seeing. One of them suggested that men are like heat-seeking missiles when zoning in on women with plunging necklines, but semi-blind when asked to vacuum the floor. They miss the dirt every time!

Are the men in your life selective at anything in particular? I can remember noticing the tendency in my son when he was in kindergarten. He couldn’t seem to hear me when it was time to pack up the toys and go to bed, but if I whispered "grape popsicle" at any time of the day or night, he was right there. And now that he’s grown, I’ve noticed he’s highly skilled at anything to do with computers, video games and remotely controlled devices, but he can’t seem to figure out how to turn on a dishwasher or a washing machine to save his life. What is that? Selective intelligence?

Know what I think? I think these guys are smart … smart enough to play dumb when there’s something they don’t want to do. And even if they’re born with the selective gene, I don’t see why we gals can’t adapt. We’re fast learners. Actually, I think I just forgot how to vacuum!

Suz

Everyone's a Critic (Judith Arnold)

(Anne Stuart’s away at Disney World—she’s probably spinning in a giant teacup as I write this—and she asked me to fill in for her. As always, I’m delighted to be here at StoryBroads.)

In a recent blog, a book critic named Chauncey Mabe, who writes for the Sun-Sentinel in Florida, took me to task for a review I wrote on the WritersareReaders website:
www.writersarereaders.com

Actually, he was attacking the entire website, which was established by novelist Katherine Stone as a place for writers to post reviews of recent books they’ve read. Mr. Mabe complained that the reviews dealt mainly with popular novels and were written by popular novelists (gawd, how appalling!) and that the reviews weren’t very critical. He applauded only one review, calling it “a beautiful example of the ‘faint praise’ review.” In other words, it was negative. The rest of the reviews he sampled at the website were too positive to be taken seriously, even though he took them seriously enough to devote an entire blog post to castigating us reviewers for…what? Saying nice things about books we like?

(He singled me out for what he called my “relenteless self-referentialism,” because I began a review by mentioning that I’d been introduced to the work of that particular author—Laura Lippman—through my book club and had been eager to read more of her novels. Shame on me! What was I thinking?)

When I accepted Katherine’s invitation to participate in WritersareReaders, I established a rule for myself: I would post only positive reviews. One reason is karma: I’ve been on the receiving end of a few nasty reviews in my life, and it ain’t fun. I don’t want to inflict that sort of unpleasantness on a fellow author, especially if it’s not necessary. And in this situation, it’s not. I’m not being paid or assigned specific books to review. If I read a book I don’t like, I don’t have to post a review of it.

The other reason I decided to post only positive reviews is that people are reading too few books as it is. Why should I say, “Don’t read that book. It sucks.” Doesn’t it make more sense to say, “Read this book! It’s wonderful!” I want to encourage people to read more, not less.

Of course bad books get published, and sometimes I get stuck reading them. However, as long as I get to choose which books I wish to write about, I don’t see the the point of ranting publicly about how bad a book is.

Professional book critics rant publicly about bad books all the time. Unlike me, they’re obligated to review whatever books their bosses assign them. Maybe they resent having to read and then write about books they loathed, and they can ease that resentment by spewing bile—or “faint praise”—about the book in a public forum.

But I think their indulgence in negativity is more complex than that. Even in the most laudatory reviews, most critics include at least one negative remark (usually in the final quarter of the review. Watch for those digs when you read a complimentary review. You’ll probably find them somewhere near the end.)

Why do professional book critics value negative reviews more highly than positive reviews? Maybe they think it gives them literary cred. Maybe they fear they’d be accused of lacking objectivity if they published only positive reviews.

Or maybe it’s a touch of schadenfreude—that base human impulse that causes us to experience pleasure at another person’s suffering. Maybe reviewers think: This author has done something many people dream of but few accomplish. She’s created a universe, she’s brought that universe to life through words, she’s found a publisher willing to pay her for her effort, and now she’s sharing her vision with others. She needs to be knocked down a peg.

So we have a world in which, far too often, critics say, “Don’t read that book. It sucks.” And potential readers are persuaded that a large number of books aren’t good, and they veer away from the bookstore and spend their entertainment dollars on a movie instead, and fewer books wind up being purchased, and fewer wind up being published, and not just authors but also book critics wind up out of business.

I prefer my world, in which I get to say about the books I love, “Read this book! It’s wonderful!”

Sunday Cat Blogging

You lookin' at me?





It's a long, empty space between breakfast and lunch.






Why dontcha come up and see me sometime?

Another Rant . . . (Patricia Potter)

More Ranting . . .


I’m still recovering from the great book finale and emerging back into the real world. I think I want to return to my fictional one.

My Mom’s in a nursing home. She’s 98, and her legs do not work at all which is why she’s in a nursing home. She has absolutely no strength in them, none at all. It’s as if they were pieces of spaghetti. She has so little strength in them and in her arm that she needs help merely to move from one side of the bed to the other.

But her mind is still good. Her hearing not so good. Her eyesight not so good, but otherwise her health is stable. It is not an altogether happy situation for her. She would much rather join my dad who died four years ago (Yes, I do have very good genes).

The nursing home is an excellent one, and we were extremely lucky to get her there. The waiting list currently numbers seven hundred, and the joke – really the reality – is that you have to sign up when you’re born. It’s a Jewish home, though Mom isn’t Jewish. If anyone you love has to go to one, I heartily recommend a Jewish one. There’s a certain reverence for the aged, a caring that I couldn’t find anywhere else. There’s a great patient/staff ratio, much better than most, and activities throughout the day. It looks like a fine hotel, and each wing has its own aquarium and song birds. There’s daily bingo and volunteer musicians and happy hour.

She can read but only for short periods, and she needs big print books. I'm always hunting for short, easy-to-hold big print books and, to my surprise, they are rare. To my surprise, my very large Barnes and Noble has only one tiny shelf of big print books and very few titles. I subscribe her to DoubleDay Big Print books but some, when they arrive, are too big and heavy for her to hold long. Someone is missing a huge market here.

Even with a book, though, she’s lonely, and I try to go over every night. We visit, then watch TV together, thus the coming rant.

Unfortunately my only real complaint again against the nursing home is its television service. Twenty stations only and most of them are really, really poor ones. There’s the major networks, a college sports station, two cable news stations. the game channel, a religious channel and little else of interest.

And the major networks really, really sucks these days.

True, my mother has a difficult time with fast moving dramas such as E.R. and “Lost.” She loves baseball, but we can’t get major league baseball, and the rest of the offerings? Dismal. We have “The Bachelor,” which offends me no end. Nothing is worse than watching twenty women standing there to see who isn’t going to be picked. They wait with stiff, hopeful smiles while one man humiliates them one by one. We watched it once, and that was it.

Then there’s “Big Brother House” or whatever it is. A bunch of twenty somethings that act like they’re twelve. And “Super Nanny” who straightens out disfunctional families, at least for the hour they’re on television. There’s “Survival” where people lie and cheat and scheme, and the mindless “Deal and No Deal,” and, well, shall I go on? There’s always “Are You Smarter than a Fifth Grader?”

There’s comedies, but most are raunchy and not very funny, and there’s twenty-four hour cable news stations, but after hearing the same sound bites over and over again, we sigh and turn it back to TV Land and watch forty-year-old episodes of “I Love Lucy” and wish for the return of the glory days of network television.

It’s kind of pitiful when the best show on television, as far as we’re concerned, is the “Antique Road Show.” The rare gem is “Masterpiece Theater” on PBS. "Lost" lost me a long time ago, and Mom was lost immediately.

I do have more choices at home, and I dearly love the “Animal Planet,” “Discovery” and “National Geographic.” But I yearn for the great mini-series of the past, the classic comedy and the “can’t miss” series like The West Wing.”

They tell us that the writer’s strike proved that reality shows are cheaper to make, and we can expect more and more of them. I really don’t know how many more I can take. I really can’t figure out why more people aren’t reading these days.

So do you have a favorite program today you can recommend? Or a favorite one from the past.

Or – horrors of all horrors – am I just becoming an old fuddy duddy?

On the happy side, it's a beautiful day in Memphis. A good friend from Florida is giving a seminar at my local RWA chapter, and I'm really looking forward to a full and happy day with writer buddies.

As I Was Turning a Corner . . . (LynnK)

. . . I ran into a wall.

After three days of feeling pretty good (and sleeping at night!), I let myself think the Shingles had about finished having its wicked way with me.

Seems not. Yesterday they slammed me again, and I’m back to where I was...in pain, sleepless, and useless. Bummer.

I’d even made a list of things I could finally do again. After six weeks away, I meant to go to choir rehearsal last night. Couldn’t make it. I wanted to call Earthlink and Time Warner to straighten out a problem. Can’t say I mind putting that off.

And as warm weather settles over us here in San Diego, I intended to start in again with water aerobics. Not the high intensity classes, though. Not yet. When I’m up to it, I’ll begin humbly with the morning group until I’m back in shape.

One side effect of this miserable experience has been virtual immobility, which has led inevitably to ze gaining of ze weight. I certainly haven’t been indulging myself overmuch, but the pounds have crept upon me and must be whittled off with exercise. That, too, it seems, will have to weight . . . er, wait.

Yesterday I tottered next door and took a picture of the "progress" underway at the Construction Project from Hell (2004-2008 and counting).

They’re actually building something now, the new rooms that will be part of the Bed and Breakfast when/if the place ever gets finished. Meantime, the Historic Building at the center of this preservation project looks pretty much as it has for the past four years, at least on the outside. I heard they installed an elevator.

Today I’m feeling kind of like that derelict building, boarded up and decrepit. All around it, the world goes on, but its own existence never improves. And yes, I’m feeling mighty low this morning. But I’ll scramble up again. As the Philosopher reminds us, "Oh, well."

I do have work that can’t be put off. Next Thursday I begin teaching a two-week online writing class, and lessons must be prepared. This will keep me out of trouble for a while.

And to lift my spirits, I think I’ll zap over to Kiva and fund another microloan.
http://www.kiva.org/

Kiva’s motto is: "Loans that change lives." So while I can’t do much about my own life at the moment, I’ll go to work on someone else’s!

Lying Liars and the Lies they Lie (Maggie)

I had some pics to post with this one, but Blogger won't upload them for me today. Very odd, it just happens sometimes. I'll try again later, so if you read this with no pics, check back tonight to see if any have been added.

Anyway....here's my blog.

“Don’t worry,” the insurance adjusters told me, when, about 48 hours after the fire, while I was still in shock and grieving over my dogs, they decided it would be a great time to walk me through the rubble of my burned out home asking me what was there, brand, make, model, color, cost, etc. You know, easy stuff like that. And they kept saying, “You don’t have to worry. You’re really well covered. You have full replacement value on everything. Now how old was this sofa?”

Eventually, I thought to ask why they wanted to know how old everything was. And the adjuster said, and I quote, “It doesn’t really matter. You have full replacement value. I just need it for my records.”

Liars lie, you know. They lie a lot and they do it well. And then they wonder why the people they lie to get upset and blow a gasket when they learn the truth.

The truth, in this case, is that every single item I lost is covered. Minus the depreciation. Which is A LOT. I estimate I had about $70,000 worth of wonderful, glorious stuff in my house. Stuff that burned or was ruined by smoke and soot and the firemen’s hoses and boots. The insurance company estimates $37,000 or so, but they have to, are required by law to, are bound by the very rules of life and death to, withhold part of that money. The depreciation. (And I was being sarcastic. They don’t have to. They can, legally, so they will, but they don’t have to.)

On a practical level, what this means to me goes like this. They wrote down 800 bucks for the value of my sofa, but it was a few years old, so they’ll only give me $200. I’m supposed to come up with the other $600 on my own, go buy a sofa, and send them the receipt. Then they’ll pay the difference. Multiply that by everything I owned and you’ve got the general idea. There is a time limit, of course—180 days from the fire. Anything I haven’t bought by then, I’ll never be paid for. So in addition to buying things with money I don’t have, I’m supposed to buy them right away, before I even have a house in which to put them. Not to mention that to replace all I had, would take me months of doing nothing but shopping. And one does need to work.

I yelled and argued and got very angry, but it didn’t help. I phoned the NY State Insurance Commission, and was told this is perfectly legal, though very unfortunate.

So when you’re buying homeowner’s insurance, ask them exactly how replacement value works, because I was flat out lied to about it. Some companies might behave in a more ethical manner, though. I think not all of them do this.

Anyway . . . . it totally blew my positive attitude for the space of about 24 hours. I was going for 21 days straight without being negative or feeling bad about anything, and I made it to day 13 before this set me back. (I started over. I’m on day 2.) =)

Still, I managed to grab hold of myself, and steer my focus back to the positive. Lots of nice things happened this past week. The plumbers and electricians are done for the moment, and the next phase of work can begin soon. So that’s good. Insulation and sheetrock are next I think.

My son in law, Mike, actually came to my house and picked up my malfunctioning riding lawn mower. He took it to his place, fixed it, and brought it back! (And it’s at least a 35 minute drive each way.) And I didn’t even ask. That was really a wonderful, happy, positive thing. Plus Jena came with him so I got to visit with her, and little Sean came both times, and we played with the puppy together.

I had a great session with my critique group and best friends. I love the women in my life!

Oh, another nice thing—Dozer and Glory have decided to be friends. That’s a real plus. He’s growing like a bad weed, though. I can’t get over it.

The weather has been beautiful for a week straight. I’ve been running outside again, which I love. I’ve done a ton of lawn work, and it’s looking very nice around the house, despite the dumpster in the driveway and the plywood over the windows. Oh, and here were are on April 24th, only five days before the release date of LOVER’S BITE, and I haven’t seen it in stores yet. That’s VERY good news. The closer to the release date it actually begins selling, the better for me.

There are lots of very good things. I’m going on a quick, fun, overnight jaunt tonight, to a lodge up on Black Lake. Then next weekend, I head to Altoona, Florida for the biggest Pagan festival I’ve ever attended, where I’m one of the main speakers. How cool is that? So letting that one Very Bad Thing ruin a day that I’ll never get back was a waste of time and energy.

So I’m back. I even feel bad for being mean and rude to the insurance people. Not that they didn’t deserve it, but it’s just not me. I was supposed to meet with the insurance guy today, but I think I’m going to cancel it. I’m still gathering receipts and ammunition for my claim, and I’m intending to get that amount up to where it belongs and argue yet again, that depreciating my stuff is unfair, unethical, unnecessary, and dishonest. Though it is legal. I’d rather write and exercise and pack and go on my overnight trip without that meeting interfering with my day. Dozer’s going with us, so it’ll be twice the fun.

This is a really excellent example, though, of how one very bad thing can distract you from a dozen very good ones. It’s all where you focus. This mini-vacation should be exactly what I need to put the nastiness completely out of my mind.

I’ll report back, and I intend to have some photos of the lake for next week.

Maggie

Back in the Saddle (Tara Taylor Quinn)

Okay, so maybe I've been listening to a little too much country music! Saddle? I haven't been on (or in) a saddle in more years than I can count. Never did spend all that much time there, although I loved (and still love) horse back riding. Looks like I'm soon to be riding a different kind of saddle, though. My husband wants a motorcycle. We're going to take long rides with our rollerblades in the saddlebags until we find someplace to stop and skate. I can already feel the bliss of freedom - a healthy freedom. I knew that freedom before. A long time ago. My older brother had a bike. Some big thing with trunks on the side. He and I spent the day on it once - traveling to some park that was miles and miles of wooded roads. I was afraid to do that again. But I'm back. We've been looking at bikes for several weeks now. And we'll keep looking until we find just the right one.

I used to ride the music saddle. I loved discovering new (or new to me) singers. New music. I'm not all that particular to genre. I'm particular to lyrics. They need to speak to me. And the musicality is important - there have to be chords that grip me. My favorites stretch from Colin Raye to Led Zeppelin - Helen Reddy to Carrie Underwood, Jim Nabors and Barbra Streisand to Rascal Flatts. I love the Eagles. And Kansas. Styx. Supertramp. And, of course, Pink Floyd. I've seen Neil Diamond in concert more times than any other performer. I've seen Kenny Rogers, Carole King, Anita Baker, John Denver, Barbra Striesand, Helen Reddy, Steve Miller Band, Journey, Eddie Money, The Eagles, James Taylor, Chicago, Air Supply, Linda Davis, Jean Luc Ponty, Gordon Lightfoot, various Windham Hill artists in joint concerts, Kenny G, Kenny Loggins, Trans Siberian Orchestra, and the pop series of the Phoenix Symphony Orchestra. To name a few. Somehow, along the way, I fell off the saddle. I haven't 'discovered' anyone new in months. This week, I'm back. His name is Jeff Buckley. He's become famous in the past weeks because one of the contestants on American Idol performed a Buckley rendition of an older song. That song, the Buckley version, just hit as the number selling digital recording of all time. Until a week ago, I'd never heard of this performer. Today, I own the one full length, polished cd he ever cut. I don't actually have it in my possession yet - it's on it's way to me - but I bought it! It's called Grace. I'm going to have to get enough of a Buckley fix out of it because he won't be making any more music. He died, tragically, at age 31. He died at the top of his game. But he lives on through his music. It's incredible. So much so that ten years after his death his my space page gets many many comments a day from fans.

And...I'm back in another saddle, too. I spent 18 years of my life alone all day every day with a girl child. I loved those years. I loved being a mom. I loved the chatter and the joy, the emotion and the discoveries. I loved being with a young woman who had insight and innocence all rolled into one. I loved the hope and the idea that the future was all ahead, filled with magical wonders that would unfold one at a time. I was comfortable there. Confident. Fulfilled. I believed I was contributing something great to the world - and to her - doing the job that God had given me to do. Raising this special soul he'd loaned to me. Today, after a long drought, I get some of that again. My sister-in-law is being kind enough to loan me her fifteen-year-old daughter for the afternoon. We're driving about an hour from here to an outlet mall (envision Coach, Gap, Levis and four sections of other stores) to shop. Just me and her. It's my niece's birthday and this is our gift to her. I feel selfish, though, because it's turning out to be more of a gift to me. I'm looking forward to it so much! It sure feels good to be back.

Here's another one - softball. I played as a kid. Not that great. I wasn't big enough, strong enough. But I played the whole game every game. It was a city league. I was a catcher. And I caught okay. I ran bases real good, too. The problem was my batting. While most people assume a position to bunt - I didn't need to do that. When I hit the ball, it dribbled out to the pitcher. Every time. I just couldn't get enough power behind the bat. I made up for my lack of umph in the running though. Pretty much every time I hit the ball, I made it to first base before the ball did. Beyond my own efforts, I also spent my youth at the little league field. After years of being the most faithful spectator known to man, I was finally given an official position. Scorekeeper. I mean it. For real. I loved that job! I loved watching ball. And I'm back again!! Four nights or more a week right now. I love being back at the field. Watching the strategy. Angsting over mistakes and feeling the rush of adrenalin over victory. I LOVE hearing the kids cheer and rally. I love watching how hard they try. And how talented they are! I'd love it even more if I could watch the person I most want to see play, play every inning. But at least I'm back at the field. Learning the players. Knowing who hits best, who pitches best, who I can rely on in the outfield to catch the ball. Having confidence that when number 7 is playing first, the play will almost always go in our favor.

One more saddle - it's black leather, just like the horse saddle and the bike saddle. This one is from Troy Bilt. I rode it for hours this past weekend. All over my yard. I had the easy part - the riding mower. My man cheerfully took the non-saddle version and pushed the little mower around all the places I couldn't get. And then we installed exterior lighting. I can now do that on my own if I ever need to. I dug the trenches for the cords. I plugged in the light bulbs. He did the electric - but I watched. I know how it's done! I weeded the garden. And what a garden! Everyday there's another treat as flowers that others before us planted are coming back to greet us. We have gardens that stretch all across the front of the property - and across the back, too. And along the side of the driveway. I was going to buy a bunch of plants, but so much is coming up that I don't have room to put things! I'm not even sure what we're getting, but the colors are magnificent. Pansies for sure. And some day lilies, I think.

Here's one that you probably won't believe, but I have to say it anyway because it's really true. The laundry saddle. Do you know there's something integrally satisfying about caring for the clothes of those you love? I love doing laundry. I love feeling the clothes in my hands as I fold them. Smelling the fabric softener. Seeing the drawers full of clean, nice clothes. Knowing which day and to which function a particular shirt was worn. Remembering the week's activities. Or how someone looked. I lost that satisfaction for a long time, but it's back. I get to do laundry again. I don't have to. My husband's willing to help. I WANT to do it. I love the way it makes me feel. I'm a wife. A nurturer. A caregiver. This is a saddle I don't think I'll ever take for granted.

I'm in the writing saddle, too. I heard this week that Sara's Son - a RITA finalist - is also a finalist for the National Reader's Choice Award. As is another book I had out last year, The Night We Met. Double finalist! And right now, my brain is so busy pushing me I'm getting twenty to thirty pages a day as I sit here at the computer. Things are clicking. Coming together. James/Craig likes himself now. I like him better, too. Marybeth, his heroine, always did like him.

Saddles...they come in all shapes and sizes and colors. Some are literal. Some are figurative. But thank goodness they're here, supporting us, giving us places to land, to fit - giving us grounding as we go about the business of making our way through this world. I took my saddles, the things that I love, that make me me, for granted. Until I started to lose them. This week I've paid particular attention to them. Looked for them. And right there they are. Waiting for me to come sit a while.

I'd love to hear about your saddles - it's a great way to get to know each other.

The Bugs are Back (Suzanne Forster)

Let me apologize in advance because today's blog is going to be reduced to a few paragraphs of whining. At least it will be brief. I'm coming down with something. I just hope it isn't the full-fledged crud again. I went to sleep with a half-finished blog and woke up with a sore throat, a fever, the shakes and no voice.

If it is the crud, I got it the same way as last time. The dh works part-time for the Boys and Girls Club and those adorable kids who call him the Computer Guy are coming down with the crud right and left this year. So, last week the dh began to sniffle again and spent a couple nights coughing. Optimistically I asked him if it was his allergies. He said no, he had a cold. Again, optimistically, I told myself I wouldn't catch it. WRONG.

Now, as before, he's fine, and I have some really icky symptoms. How to solve this? Well, first I have to get better and then I have to figure out how to quarantine him every time he comes home with the sniffles. Allergies be darned. I'm going to assume the worst from now on!

Okay, enough moaning and groaning--and back to sucking on throat lozenges, popping vitamin C, gargling hot salty water, and drinking hot tea by the gallon. Any other tips for battling the bugs would be much appreciated. <>

Suz

Me and My Nano (Anne Stuart)

I'm heading off to Disney World next Monday (no post next week but a trip report the following) and I'm trying to figure out what to put on my iPod, since I'm (gasp) not taking my computer.

First I thought I needed a little soulful music. I've just discovered Jimmy Lafave, and I adore him. It doesn't hurt that he looks like my favorite cousin, and he's got a great voice. Just what I need to be listening to to get me in the mood for SILVER FALLS (the new book).


I also downloaded one of my favorite cartoons, What's Opera, Doc? iTunes didn't have much Disney available -- I'm a sucker for Silly Symphonies but they only have The Old Mill, which is lovely but not necessary. So What's Opera, Doc? will have to do. The only problem being that I tend to start singing "Oh, Bwoonhilda, you're so wuvwee," "Yes I know it, I can't help it" in the appropriate voices.

Other stuff: Right Here by Staind, Benedictus by the Strawbs, Dir en Grey, J'ai Perdu Mon Eurydice for Ofeo et Eurydice by Gluck, Richard Thompson (always), White Stripes, the Proclaimers, Radiohead, Gnarls Barkley, Van Morrison, Tim Buckley, Jeff Buckley, and the oddest combination of music you've ever heard. I just threw everything on that I'd been listening to recently -- not the same as a soundtrack. Once I get back I'll finetune my soundtrack for SILVER FALLS -- I've already got a good base for it but I'll need more. Definitely more Jimmy Lafave, some Teddy Thompson as well as Richard (if you ever need a generic songtrack for my contempories Richard Thompson would be it). I may toss a bit of Nic Cave in there as well.

I don't know if there's a form of music I don't like. Name a genre of music and I can name a song I love. Maybe I'll have to upload some Disney hits to put me in the mood, but you know, I don't think there's any way I can not be in the mood.

When I come back I'll be older and wiser and probably fatter, and I promise a great trip report.

In the meantime, if anyone has any suggestions for new music to put on my iPod (affectionally known as Big Silver), please post them. I'm a vampire for new music.

Happy B-Day to the Bard!

Not today, officially. But Shakespeare’s birthday, celebrated on 23 April (Wednesday this week) is a matter of conjecture. We can’t be sure when he came forth from the womb, but his baptism is recorded on 26 April 1564. And scholars tell us that back then, three days was an average interval between birth and baptism. Not to mention that Shakespeare conveniently died (at age 52) on 23 April, sparing all of us from memorizing too many dates.

One thing for sure. William Shakespeare understood popular fiction and what his audiences wanted: Passion. High stakes. Deep emotion. Laughter. Realism. Love and death, triumph and terror, anticipation and dread. The poetry and wisdom were icing on the richest literary cake in history.

But in real life, and he did have one, he was both a mystery and a perfectly normal man (who happens to have been a genius). At age 18, he got a woman of advanced age (26!) pregnant. We know her name, Anne Hathaway, and her cottage has been preserved. At the time, this would have been considered a substantial residence.

Theirs may have been a shotgun marriage, or they might have been truly in love. A daughter soon followed, and two years later, twins (boy and girl).

We hear nothing more about Will’s life until ten years later, when he is active in London’s theater scene. But he never lost ties with Stratford-upon-Avon, where he bought a fine house when success let him afford it. A few years before his death, he retired there, still married to Anne and, we want to assume, close to his daughters Susanna and Judith. His son died at an early age.

We romance writers often wonder about his relationship with his wife (especially after his affair with Gwyneth Paltrow in Shakespeare in Love!). Some men do stray when far from home.

In fact, it’s been presumed that Will fooled around a lot in London, and that his amours included both women and men. One bit of “evidence” relates to love sonnets that appear to be directed to another man. Could be. Then again, males back then were not hesitant to show affection and admiration for other males, no homosexuality involved. Especially when said men were rich noblemen and patrons of one’s poetry and theater company.

The key “evidence” of estrangement between Shakespeare and his (supposedly) long-in-the-tooth wife is the bequest to her in his will of his second-best bed. This has been read by some as a spiteful insult.

In fact, Anne would have received by law the normal inheritance of a wife, which required no specific mention. Was the reference to the second-best bed just a parting shot, or did it have special meaning between them?

Poet Carol Ann Duffy provides a remarkably erotic and satisfactory answer for the romantics among us:

Item I gyve unto my wife my second best bed
(from Shakespeare's will)

The bed we loved in was a spinning world
of forests, castles, torchlight, clifftops, seas
where we would dive for pearls. My lover's words
were shooting stars which fell to earth as kisses
on these lips; my body now a softer rhyme
to his, now echo, assonance; his touch
a verb dancing in the centre of a noun.
Some nights, I dreamed he'd written me, the bed
a page beneath his writer's hands. Romance
and drama played by touch, by scent, by taste.
In the other bed, the best, our guests dozed on,
dribbling their prose. My living laughing love -
I hold him in the casket of my widow's head
as he held me upon that next best bed.




Whatever the truth of your life, Master Will, we hope you were happy.

And thanks for the poems and the plays!!

The Wonder Of Spring . . . And Indolence (Patricia Potter)i

As I reported last week, I just finished the preliminary stage of my next book. Now I'm on pins and needles awaiting the verdict of the editor and her suggestions for revisions. I like revisions. Another voice. New ideas. A chance to perfect work after several weeks of being away from it. It always improves the book.

At first, you never think so. At first, your reaction is, "Say what?"

The second is, "You're going to ruin my book."

The third is, "Hey, maybe she has a point."

The fourth is: "Gee, I'm glad I have a good editor."

So now I'm in that purgatory of waiting, and am enjoying a certain indolence while doing so. Indolence: "Adverse to activity, effort or movement."

I feel it's well deserved after the mad marathon dash to deadline. Indolence feels good.

It particularly feels good in spring.

Nothing is as beautiful as Memphis in spring. I often think I would like to move to the coast, or the mountains, or the desert, but then I experience Spring in Memphis and all such notions flee. It is very good to be indolent in spring in Memphis. I can take a leisurely walk and gaze with delight at all the blooming azaleas, and dogwoods and peachtrees. There's hardly a home that's not surrounded by red and pink and yellow blooms. And I love all the budding trees and new growth. My Crepe-myrtle in back appeared dead five days ago; now it's alive with tender green leaves. I watch with wonder.

I did rouse myself enough to venture to the garden store and purchase any number of Impatiens and Geraniums, but I'm too indolent to plant them at the moment. Instead, they decorate my patio with color. I think I'm going to spend the day out there, reading the first book in a month, and just enjoying the many birds -- robins and blue birds and wrens --that visit me.

There's lots of stuff to do after weeks of sixteen-hour writing days. And I did do some of it this past week. I haven't been a total slackard. I straightened my desk which was piled two feet high with discarded chapters. I paid bills, some of which -- alas -- had been lost in said pile. I bought some real food, along with late birthday presents. I shoveled out the house. But this weekend is devoted to nothing. And so now I'm going to return to that state of indolence. By the way, the dictionary says it also means "Inclination to laziness; sloth."

I'm very good at being slothful.

But in the meantime, since I've been singing the praises of springtime in Memphis, what is it that you like best about the place you live?

And do you have these wonderful moments of complete and utter laziness?

Notes from the Underground (LynnK)

Yes, that’s me down here, still laid low by pain and sleeplessness from shingles. Woe is I.

True, there’s been lots of Quality Time with the cat, who—being ensconced on the highest level of the cat tree at the moment—could care less. And I have flowers, first from my neighbor/friend Thea’s eclectic garden and now some purple tulips from author Carolyn Thane, who is/are really author Carol Prescott and her music-expert husband Thane. The florist wrote on the card what she thought she’d heard.

As for myself, I am useless. Except that I’m the perfect test case for the futility of sleep-deprivation as a torture technique for wrenching information from a victim. Believe me, we sleepless zombies have nothing to offer. We can’t even remember what we were doing twenty minutes ago. Anyone who tortures with sleep deprivation is just being mean.

Sitting here, looking around the room that is my living area and work-space, I see the remnants of a dozen projects begun in earnest and abandoned in indifference:
A basket of laundry washed and dried on Tuesday;
A stack of file folders filled with stuff not looked at since 1995;
A pile of socks waiting to be paired or tossed;
Innumerable websites added to my “Favorites” file because I care, and yet I don’t;
An assortment of old makeup beyond salvage, and yet I cling...
Well, you get the picture.

I need to keep busy and feel useful. Instead, I start things with vigor that lasts about half an hour. Then I lose interest or energy. Even food, a treat when the body is mostly not feeling so good, can’t make the leap. Today I decided to roast a chicken with garlic, meaning to use the leftovers for chicken pot pie (sans crust). Went out and bought what I needed. Noshed instead on pita chips, a pear, grapes, macadamia nuts, and a couple glasses of already-opened wine. At present, simplicity is everything.

Under the circumstances, did you expect I’d show up with a coherent, interesting blog post?!

But I do want to share what author Sue Kearney brought to the attention of some friends today. Scientists have been examining the nature and sources of happiness, in this case using women as test subjects.

Turns our my buddies have been discussing the selfsame thing. What does it mean to be happy? How is happiness achieved? What are the barriers to happiness? (In the last case, I nominate shingles!)

Early on, someone mentioned the “famous” Abraham Lincoln quote:“Most people are about as happy as they make up their minds to be.”
Or words to that effect. Further investigation disclosed that Lincoln is not on record as saying anything of the sort. But if asked, I suspect he’d have agreed with the concept.

Should you have the time, check out this short article on web.md about a research project conducted right here at the University of California at San Diego: "Five Things Happy People Do."

http://tinyurl.com/3lyqwd

As did the faux Lincoln quote, this puts us all square in control—more or less—of our own happiness. It also offers ways to slip happiness in our lives when it seems there is none to be found, if only because we’ve wedded ourselves to an ideal of happiness that can never be. As with me and George Clooney in a hot tub, for example. Or when the happiness goals we thought we’d achieved fall apart.

Post your stories and opinions. Lots of people will be interested in your own experiences. And God knows I need some worthwhile distractions right now.

I still can’t sleep or do any useful work. And sock-sorting has lost its glamor. So, help me out here! What is “happiness” to you? What might you change, or do, to bring more happiness into your life?

Raindrops on Roses and Star Trek on DVD (Maggie)

Oh, hell, I know it’s sickening. Poor Lynn is sick with the damned shingles and poor Tara is needing to vent her frustration with a hundred irritations poking her like angry little pins. And here I am, arms open wide, spinning beneath a wide blue sky in a mountain top field of wildflowers, signing about the hills being alive, yada yada yada.
I’ll bet a bunch of you would like to sock me right in the eye.

(And even that thought made me grin.)

Okay, so what have I got to be so damn happy about? I owe the IRS a fortune. My insurance money isn’t going to cover all the work needed on my house, or so they’re all trying to tell me. (I know that’s not possible. It’s covered. I paid my premium. They have to pay me enough to fix my house. Period. Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm has a dark and dangerous twin sister, and she can and will take charge when called for.) (Visualize Willow when she went evil, remember that?) My car is back from the body shop, only to be headed to the mechanic’s where it needs over 600 bucks worth of wheel bearings. The rebuilding of my house has only just barely begun. Money’s tighter than tight. What on earth is wrong with me that I feel so good?

I know it’s odd, but the worse things get the better I know they’re going to be, and besides, I’m happy. Every day of my life, I get to do just exactly what I want to do. Every day of my life, it’s up to me to be exactly who I want to be. And I’ve reached a whole new level of understanding that. But that’s not what this post is about. This post is about my favorite things. And here they are in no particular order.

1. Dozer. This great little puppy running around, playing, barking whenever there’s a strange sound on the television and just making me laugh out loud, often.

2. Aforementioned puppy is learning potty rules and all kinds of other things at an impressive and gratifying pace. He’s going to be one heckuva dog.

3. Aforementioned puppy and Glory, the Demon-Goddess-Cat, have made friends at last! I adore my cat. She is so smart. She laid the law down without putting even a scratch on him. She did bat his nose a few times, but she kept her claws in. Isn’t she something?

4. I love nice weather! I spent the entire day today, outside! I got my pages written by ten a.m. and spent the rest of the day working on my lawn and in my flowerbeds. The sun was shining so brightly I had to apply sunblock several times. It was warm, mid-sixties. I love that. I also love when I can get that many pages written in that little time!

5. The entire time I worked outside, I had my Iphone in its sound dock, blasting my favorite songs, and I was singing my brains out, not giving a crap if the neighbors could hear me. I love singing my brains out.

6. My heart’s deepest dreams are coming true, bit by bit, gradually, but for sure, right before my very eyes. And all I had to do to was stop doubting, and start believing. I love when something I want starts to come to me!

7. And I love Star Trek.

Life’s pleasures, it’s all so simple, really.

So things are starting to fall into place. The building permit arrived. The contractor is getting things underway. The plumber and electrician are here right now, and starting their work! I'm so excited. The rebuilding of Serenity has actually begun, today, Thursday April 17th, exactly 8 weeks after the fire, if I'm counting right. That's 56 days. which breaks down to 11, which is a magickal number. In tarot 11 is The Wheel of Fortune, a very auspicious card, and if you break that 11 down, it's a 2, which is The High Priestess, another excellent sign. 8 (for 8 weeks) in Tarot is Strength. I can read a whole lot into those three cards and numbers, but I'll save that for my journal and get on with the post. I’m just glad things are on the brink of beginning.

I have a new book coming out in less than two weeks. LOVER’S BITE hits the shelves April 29th, and I just know it’s going to do well. The current book is going great, too. And really, all is just well with the world.


But there’s one other great big reason I’m in such a happy mood, and that has to do with the present I bought myself, which arrived in today, and which is the topic of this post. STAR TREK, the original series, on DVD; all three seasons and a bunch of extras. Oooooh, Star Trek. It was such a part of my life (and no, I’m not old enough that I saw it when it first aired, but it was still in re-runs in my day, and I loved it.)

So today’s blog is about Star Trek. Sort of. It was so ahead of its time. We have scientific terms based on Star Trek terminology. But it was socially ahead, too. And all of that has been discussed and will continue to be.

My favorite thing about the series is the characters. And the relationships. And the emotions (or lack thereof.)

When I was a young girl, my first serious crush was on Mr. Spock. And I think I’ve dug into my psyche enough now, to understand why. Mr. Spock had no emotions, because Vulcans just don’t. Now, we do learn eventually that he’s half human, and part of the payoff of watching Star Trek is that we see glimpses of those allegedly non-existent emotions every once in awhile. Tiny hints that he really does feel something down deep.

To me, though I probably didn’t know it at the time, the attraction was the challenge. If I could make Mr. Spock fall in love with me, then it would validate me in some odd way. And I was sure I could, if I ever grew up and met him and stuff. I adored Spock. From the time I saw that episode where Nurse Chapel went off the deep end due to some alien disease, and confessed her passionate love for him, and he just said he was sorry and walked away, I knew. If it had been me, not her, he’d have gone for it. He could experience emotions. He just needed the right woman to kick them into gear.

I never could figure out why all those women on all those planets were always going all ga-ga over Captain Kirk. Don’t get me wrong, I adore Shatner, and I think Kirk is a character who will live on for centuries in the hearts and minds of one and all. I just didn’t want to jump his bones, that’s all. And I wasn’t sure why all those other women or females of various species, did. I think it must have been an attraction to the power. He was the Captain. It must have been the same thing that made Bill Clinton so attractive to so many females of various species. (They were all human, you say? Who knew?)

I so admired Lieutenant Uhura. She was beautiful, smart, good at her job, and held her own on that bridge with all the men. Ahead of her time. I got to meet Nichelle Nichols once, and it was the thrill of my life. You know, she’s still beautiful. Maybe even more beautiful than she was in 65.

Anyway, I’m really looking forward to sharing this cultural phenomenon with someone who’s young enough to have never seen it, and I cannot wait to get his feedback. Maybe it’s not as good as I think it is. Maybe it just means something to me because it represents an innocent time in my life, a time before any of the really bad things happened. Maybe it’s context and not content that makes the show mean so much to me. But either way, it does, and having it at hand makes me feel even more happy than usual. And part of that is because it’s just a story. It’s just a story that some storyteller decided to tell, and it became a part of a great many lives. I’m a storyteller. I can do that, too.

Do you have TV shows like that? Shows that became so much a part of your life or childhood that they ended up being incredibly important to you? Tell me about them. What do you think it was about them that touched some chord in you?

And in the meantime, don’t worry, be happy. =)

Maggie (ducking)

The Venting Board (Tara Taylor Quinn)

Do you ever just get in one of *those* moods. You know, there's nothing specific prompting it, though, if asked, you could list a hundred things that piss you off. Because when you're in *that* mood pretty much everything pisses you off. You aren't mad at anybody, but you can think of reasons why you could be. And you do think about them.

Did you ever wish there was a place you could go to just vent? To actually say whatever it is that is running through your head during *the* mood?

You don't? Okay, now that *that's* done. Today's blog is about sunshine and blue skies and darling babies and cute puppies. Rose gardens and orange blossoms.

Blech.

You might not need a venting board, but I do. And I'm a great manifester. Wala! Here it is. A venting board. Thank goodness.

The bathroom tile is half laid. It's going to be perfect. I love the promise it shows and can't wait to get grouting in and rugs down. But in the meantime, it's squares of ceramic vastness with these pokey white spacer things all over it - leaving room for the grout while the glue dries - making it difficult to walk in the bathroom without pain. And every time I have to use the room has become a tense experience as I don't want to inadvertantly slip a carefully laid tile out of place. And to make matters worse, Jerry, my rescue demon who isn't well trained because I can't bear the look in his eyes when I yell at him (the same look that called out to me when I saw him in such bad shape at the place where we got him) has developed an immediate fondness for said white spacey things. Any chance he gets he darts into the bathroom and steals another one. Mostly he eats them, but leaves little white plastic residuals on the carpet. I have developed into a residual white plastic piece picker upper. Just what I always wanted to be when I grew up.

And furthermore, tile cutters don't cut tile. What a fricken' disappointment that whole thing was. They say tile cutter right on the box. They lied. Tile cutters SCORE tile. And then you have to break them along the score and sometimes they break well and sometimes they don't play well with others at all. Sometimes they chip or break outside the line. Maybe we should all sue.

And Taylor, she's here, being her loving, sweet, supportive, demanding self. For two days she refuses to take a breath unless it's on me. She's developed this need to lay her head on my arm as I type. Ever try typing with a poodle head hanging over your wrist? It's challenging. I move. She moves. I slip my arm out from under her neck, she puts it back. What's up with that? It sure as heck can't be comfortable.

And I can't not type. The current book is past due. Really past due as I had to put it aside to finish another one. It's got to be done within the next week or two. Which means typing. Alot. Every Day. Taylor doesn't seem to get that. And neither do these darn people who are with me in our own little world who are supposed to be my current best friends. These friends, otherwise known as Marybeth and Craig and James, are supposed to be my heroine and hero. I've got this schizophrenic hero. Sort of. He plays two parts in this one. A pen pal, and a visitor at a bed and breakfast. He's both. One and the same. And I have to keep him apart. To make matters worse, yesterday, he told me that the story I'd mostly written didn't make him very heroic. His motivations didn't fly. He insisted I change the ENTIRE thing. Yeah, like it's that easy. Has he ever been a writer? Other than the whole pen pal thing, which, excuse me, I actually wrote those letters!! I mean, has he ever tried to create an entire book? It's not easy. Do people GET that???

Writing books isn't easy. It's not a game or a hobby or a pasttime. You can't get up tired and just sit at your desk and push pencils around paper and call it a day's work. You can't ever go on automatic pilot and just do the work for the pay. No way. Writing is HARD. I dare any one of you naysayers who know who you are to shut up and try it. And then try to actually get paid for it. Yeah now there's a concept.

My editor, when I told her about the problem with Craig and James, said she trusts my instincts. Make the changes. GET TO WORK! Can someone please explain this to Taylor???

Did I mention my back hurts? It's been hurting on and off for almost ten days. I'm damned tired of it. It's fine when I sit here with a heating pad on it. But wait until I sit without one. I stiffen up and then if I dare try to actually use the thing, you know, bend over or twist, it shoots bullets from the inside out. What the hell! I've been good to it these many years we've been together. I exercise it. I don't put tons of extra weight on it. I allow it to lie on an expensive mattress every night. I clothe it and bathe it and lay it in the sun. I've taken it for massages, and then provided it with a live in massuese. I even take it on vacation with me and let it play at the slots machine. It turns its back on all of that and shoots me. What's up with that?

And don't even get me started on the posts and phone calls and e-mails and texts that I send that are unanswered. Yeah, you who are The Unanswerers, you know who you are. You're so lucky, the recipients of my undivided attention, of my time and completely valuable love, of my fabulous writing talent and you deign to ignore all that? Who the hell do you think you are???? I'm a person here, just like you, as worthy as you. (Whew, wiping the sweat from my brow. That felt great!)

Then lets talk about the IRS. No. I guess not. They were good to me and I'm on a rant. I'm sitting at a venting board. Letting it all out. Spitting nails. But...thank you, IRS for being kind and at least leaving me this board.

If I hear one more word about McCain or Obama or Clinton, I'm going to scream. It's politics, folks. They all say what they have to say to get elected and they change what they say if they think what they have to say to get elected changes. It doesn't mean anything. How many promises do they actually keep once they've met their goal of getting elected?

Come to think of it, I might scream anyway. I did it a few weeks ago. Just let out a horrible sounding scream. For no reason other than that I was being coached to do so. Just to let it out. Get it out. Force it out. It was supposed to make me feel better, but did it? Oh no. Not me. It just left me with a sore throat.

And feeling stupid. And not sure what to do next. I hate that feeling.

Flowers are good and all, but they die. I got some from my publisher to celebrate my RITA final. They were lovely. All different kinds and colors. A true spring collection. They smelled wonderful. And then they just sat here in the middle of my kitchen table and slowly, one by one, wilted and died! Right in front of me! The nerve of them!!! They were a gift! Didn't they get that?

There's this softball coach that is really ticking me off. I get that she has a job to do. Don't we all? And that her job is harder than it looks. And that she's probably doing her best. But her best isn't good enough. There. I said it. People act as though my best isn't good enough often enough so I just said it back. This woman makes mistake after mistake and I really just want to tell her so. My gosh, some of this stuff is so obvious. Mostly, what I can't stand isn't about the coaching, or the game, it's about the cruelty. Kids have to try out for the team. They have to be good enough to make it. Then they pay to play and game after game she makes the same kids sit on the bench. And the ones playing do NOT have a winning season. Now I hand it to these kids. They sit cheerfully, (literally they cheer so loud the sky can hear them) though they know damn well that it's wrong that they're being made to sit there. I can't speak about them too much because this is a venting place and completely improper to speak of admiration and love so back to the coach. I want to spit at her feet. (Can't quite get to the point of getting it on her. Venting board or not.)

I hate dust. It's the unending taunter of 'you'll never win.' You can get rid of it, but does it get the hint? Hell no. It just comes right back. Every single time. No matter what. I threaten. I cajole. I attack. I destroy. And there it is again, lying around on every available surface, laughing at me and this isn't a laughing with you laugh. There's no mistake about that. It's a laughing at you laugh. And does it stick to just one surface? Or a few of them? Nope. It's gotta take up space every single where. Even on the venting board. Reminding me. I'll never win.

I want my old vehicle back. It's a gas hog. Impractical. Too big. Too many miles on it. And I don't give a darn. I want it back. I don't like driving small vehicles. I need a truck. I need to be able to see. To feel big. The car is frumpy and I will not ever, no matter what, settle for being frumpy. Frumpy is fine for those who like it. It wears well on them. It's an admirable, valid, loving choice for some. Not for me. I just don't love the car.

And I want the carpet cleaned.

What's with those people who drive five or worse, ten, miles under the speed limit on a two lane country road laden with hills that make passing a suicide game? I mean, okay, it's fine if they have no place to be, but there are those of us who do have to get somewhere. What right do they have to slow me down? Speed limits are there for a reason. To ensure that I get where I need to be in the time allotted. So speed up, folks! I'm not asking you to break the law - just get up to speed. Or...because this is a venting board, I'll just say it. Get out of my way!

Speaking of laws, what's with these people who can't follow them??? They're written clearly, in black and white, in plain and not so plain English so you can take your pick, and some people just refuse to get it. They think they're above the law? That because they don't like them or don't agree with them or don't think they're fair that they don't have to follow them? I say, read the words!!! They're right there. And follow them. It's the law.

I have to go write about love and romance now. Regretfully I must leave my venting board to you all. I hope it helps you as much as it helped me. Really.

A Matter of Taste (Suzanne Forster)

Confession time. I’m a sucker for those instant personality quizzes that you find online and in magazines. You know the ones that tell you which one of the Gilmore Girls you’re most like. So, of course when I saw a new quiz on AOL News the other day, I had to stop and check it out. But as it turned out this one wasn’t about personality. It was about taste buds. Yep, taste buds are the latest way to separate the foodie haves from the have nots—and in this case it’s how many taste buds you have that makes you special.

The privileged among us who were born with mega taste buds are Supertasters and the unfortunates who are taste bud-challenged are Non-tasters. Anyone in between is a Medium Taster—but really, who wants to be medium? Sounds too much like average to me. However, initially I wasn’t as interested in my taste bud designation as I was in the luscious piece of lemon cake that was pictured alongside the description of the quiz. The way I was salivating over that cake, I had to be a Supertaster. And I was just eight questions away from finding out.

Here’s the quiz. (The key’s at the bottom, but don’t peek!)

1 - Setting diet regimen aside, what’s your dessert preference?
A. Lemon cake with vanilla frozen yogurt
B. Fudge brownie sundae with rocky road ice cream

2 - A bottle of cabernet with dinner?
A. Sure, and I probably drink more than my share.
B. Just one glass and I probably won’t finish it.

3 - How about a stiff drink?
A. Yes, and make it neat.
B. No, thanks, that stuff tastes worse than medicine.

4 - What do you prefer as a side of vegetables?
A. Corn
B. Brussel sprouts

5 - Health concerns aside, which are you more likely to devour in its entirety, grilled chicken or steak?
A. Chicken, I don’t like the fatty texture of marbled meat.
B. The steak, there’s nothing like a thick, juicy cut.

6 - What describes you most?
A. I could lose several pounds
B. I’m pretty thin.

7 - Did you suffer severe ear infections as a child?
A. No.
B. Yes.

8 - How do you take your coffee?
A. With milk and a bit of sugar.
B. Black—or at the other extreme, with cream and 3 packets of sugar.

Here’s the key: 1A, 2B, 3B, 4A, 5A, 6B, 7A, 8A

All eight correct? You may be a Supertaster. Supertasters have more taste buds than Non-tasters, and because of this physical difference, sweetness and bitterness can seem more intense.

Three to seven correct? You may be a Medium taster. Medium tasters have taste bud counts (and therefore taste experiences) that fall somewhere between super and non-tasters.

One to none correct? You may be a Non-taster. Non-tasters are more likely than Medium and Super-tasters to like foods that are extremely sweet, as well as fattier textures.

Joanne Chen, the author of the quiz and a book entitled The Taste of Sweet, offers a bit of insight into the quiz and what the results might mean. She says that “researchers have detected a link between overweight subjects and non-tasting tendencies. They also found that severe ear infections may cause less intense taste experiences.”

Chen also adds that “biology isn't destiny, and much of what we eat results from culture and learning. So while the quiz offers a good idea of your taste profile, sensory specialists can provide a better assessment by running taste tests, analyzing your tongue, and counting your taste buds."

So, how did you do? I took the quiz twice and changed one answer after I thought about it. The first time I got six out of eight. The second time seven. Both times I was a Medium taster. Apparently you have to get all eight correct to be a Supertaster. With the veggies question I got my first INCORRECT when I chose Brussels sprouts over corn. I love sprouts! And with the drink question, I got my second INCORRECT. I chose martinis over medicine. My actual answer was: “Yes, and make mine neat” as opposed to “No thanks, that stuff tastes worse than medicine.”

To digress for a moment, I must admit that I really did dive in off the deep end when it came to drinking. I remember when I turned twenty-one, two girlfriends took me to a local pub and I ordered a stinger. I’m not sure how many I had, but suffice it to say, I’ve never had another stinger since. I can’t even think about them without risking a stomach ache.

For my next foray with spirits, I tried a martini, and medicine would be a complimentary way to describe it. Kerosene is more apt. Martinis are really just dreadful, but I’m living proof that it’s possible to develop a taste for them, if you’re very very determined. You’re probably wondering why anyone would want to. In my case, it’s a strange story. Since childhood I’ve had a fixation with green olives, the kind with pimentos inside. My girlfriend Johanna and I exchanged gifts at Christmas, and I always got her the biggest bottle of maraschino cherries I could find. She returned the favor with green olives.

As an adult, given my penchant, it followed that anything with a green olive in it had to be good. This didn’t prove out with martinis, but so great was my passion for olives that I kept trying. In the beginning I would order up to four olives and leave the drink, but eventually the heady combination of kerosene fumes and the rich tang of the olives worked its magic, and to this day, I still enjoy the occasional martini.

What do you bet Supertasters don’t like olives any more than they like martinis, or medicine?

For me the real test of taste bud strength came this weekend when the dh and I went out to dinner on Sunday night. We had Italian food, and I decided to forgo lemon cake for dessert and just have coffee. My taste buds were pretty satiated with the rich pasta and Italian sausage dish I’d had. So, I ordered coffee, which came in one of those lovely thermal containers that’s equivalent to a small pot.

I was happy. I love coffee, and the first rich black cup I poured looked wonderful. Unfortunately it didn’t smell quite right. I tasted it and got the distinct flavor of tea. But how could that be? It had come in a coffee pot and it looked exactly like coffee, not at all like tea. I took several more sips and then doctored it with cream and sugar. It was still too much like tea for my taste. Actually it was ghastly. I asked Allan if it tasted like coffee, and he took a sip. “Yeah, bitter,” he said, making a face. He’s not a coffee lover, but he’s had enough to know it when he drinks it, or so I thought.

Allan hadn’t taken the Supertaster quiz, but for several reasons I harbored suspicions that he might be a Non-taster. Now, this strange brew was making me wonder about the taste-worthiness of both of our buds. I continued to try and convince myself that I could drink it, but finally I called the waitress over, and feeling foolish told her that my coffee tasted weird, almost like tea. “Oh!” she exclaimed, “I’ll bet they put in the wrong pod.”

Pod? I’m still not sure what that meant, but when she came back with the next pot, it tasted exactly like coffee, and was I glad I hadn’t forced myself to suffer through any more tea as thick as crank case oil and black enough to be coffee. Apparently they brew coffee and tea in the same machine, but changed the pods accordingly?

Allan, the Non-taster would have drunk the entire cup and taken it as proof that he really didn’t like coffee. He didn’t distinguish the tea flavor that my medium-sized plethora of taste buds was able to recognize. I wonder what a Supertaster would have tasted. Please, if you are one, speak up. Some of us would love to know what life is like for a Supertaster.

Meanwhile, score one for the Medium tasters!

Suz