Or, Bitch Out Of Water, redux.
I apologize. I'm supposed to blog a couple of pages of Sleeping with the Fishes every day until Tuesday, the release date. But I've been up to my tits in gravy since Wednesday night, and have been broasting, broiling, boiling, basting, tasting, and baking since then. The good news is, the turkey turned out great. The bad news? The Thanksgiving Curse is SO still in effect. I'll talk more about that another day.
Anyway, to make up for my slothful blogging, here's a whole chapter instead of a couple of pages. Enjoy. Or not. I'm too busy shaking the confectioner's sugar out of my bra to care either way.
CHAPTER TWO
“It’s not as bad as you think, Fred,” the Defiler of Her Mother said, wincing when he moved the bag of frozen peas to better cover his lower back. He had, thankfully, put on pants. Said frozen peas were stuffed in back of said pants. Fred’s mom was still prancing around in the couch blanket, all “nature’s never wrong” and “be empowered, not embarrassed” and “you shouldn’t cover up God’s handiwork”.
Is there anything sillier than a grown-up hippy?
“I’m sorry you had to catch us in an intimate moment—“
“Bird watching Wednesday,” my mother said solemnly, then giggled again.
Fred groaned and looked around with a fork or a spoon or a gravy boat to gouge out her eyes. And ears. Because Moon Bimm was referring to the cardinal tattooed on her left butt cheek. Other mothers had laugh lines and wrinkles. Not animal tattoos.
She rested her forehead on her hands, strands of her blue hair brushing the table. She stared at the kelp-colored strands and thought, That’s it. I’m running away for sure. Again. Twenty-nine year-olds run away all the time It’s perfectly normal. It’s—
“Why,” she muttered, “did you call me over in the first place?” And why didn’t I come yesterday, when she actually called?
“Oh, that. Well...” Her mother fluttered about the kitchen, strands of the couch blanket making her look like a freaked out caterpillar. “We believe—your father and I believe—that is, Sam and I believe in full disclosure.”
“So I see,” Fred sniffed, eyeing the blanket.
“Lies and deception, they’re a bad trip, honey. A baaaa—“
“You want to talk bad trips? Cast your mind back, Mom. Your acid-fried mind. Remember ten minutes ago?”
Moon Bimm ignored her daughter’s sarcasm; she’d had almost three decades of practice. “Lies and deception, baby. They can make you physically ill. There’s science to back this up, hon. People get ulcers and high blood pressure, just from keeping secrets! And—“
“Mom. Will you cut to it, please? I have to go home and Clorox my eyeballs.”
“We’re going to adopt.”
Fred kept staring at her hands.
“Hon? Did you hear me?”
“If you’re adopting, why are you fucking?”
“Language,” her father said, squirming on the chair and groping for the bag of peas.
Moon “children should be allowed to express themselves however they wish” Bimm focused on the sentiment, not the verbiage. “So lovemaking is only for procreation?”
“When it’s your mother and your father, yes, lovemaking is only for procreation!” Fred screamed. She longed to toss the kitchen table through the dining room hutch. “I have seen some dark and wicked things, Mom and Dad, take it from me—you would not believe what lurks in the oceans deep. I have seen a shark barf out another shark and then eat it again. But nothing I’ve seen was as bad as my mother and father—“
“Except I’m not your father,” her father said.
“—as my mother and father—uh—doing dark and wicked things in the ocean—what?”
“Full disclosure,” her mother said, dramatically swooping about the kitchen, blanket flapping. “All this paperwork we have to fill out for the adoption, it got me thinking. And it’s time you knew the truth. Sam Bimm isn’t your biological father.”
“Yeah, Mom. I know.”
Her mom sat down across from her and took Fred’s cold (they were always cold) hands in her warm ones. Even now, Fred took comfort from her mother’s touch: how many times had those hands tucked her in, held her, rubbed her back? Her mom was like a walking, talking, jasmine-scented electric blanket.
“I know it’ll take some getting used to,” she said with touching earnestness. “And I’m sorry you had to live with the lie.”
“Mom. I know Sam isn’t my father.”
“And I’m so sorry I kept it from you!” Moon’s hands plunged into her blonde hair and made fists; for a minute she looked like a seventies version of Mad Ophelia. “But there was a stigma, even back then, and I couldn’t go home and even though it was perfectly natural, even though it’s what my body is for and it was beautiful and amazing, I was ashamed.”
“A shamed hippy?” Fred wondered aloud.
“And then there was Sam—“
“So, even worse problems?” Fred guessed.
Her mother frowned and continued. “And I was so happy to see him again and he—“
“—had a thing for knocked up blondes who puked in the morning?”
“Fred, I don’t think you’re—“
“Mom. I appreciate you getting this off your chest and all—“ Fred tried not to stare at her mother’s boobs. Fred wished the woman would get something on her chest, like a turtleneck. “But I had that one figured out by the time I was five. Not, by the way, that it makes it any easier to pretend his tongue wasn’t where it was ten minutes ago. But yeah, I knew.”
“You did?” Sam asked, shifting uneasily as pea water started to trickle down his butt crack.
“Dad. Sam. Whatever. Look at you. Look at me. I’m a mermaid and you couldn’t get a membership at the Y.”
Her mother threw up her hands. The blanket gaped. Fred stared at the ceiling. “And how such a wondrous creature can have such silly hang-ups is beyond—“
“Mom, ask anybody on the planet: would it weird you out to walk in the front door and see your mom on all fours? I guarantee: mermaid, human, blue whale, marmoset, pixie, leprechaun, zombie: they’ll all say yes.” She turned to her squirming father. “Remember that time you panicked in the tide pool and I had to get you out? I was seven, Dad, and the water was only up to my knees.”
“There were things in there,” Sam said, shuddering at the memory.
“Yeah, Sam. Minnows. It was the fourth or fifth time I’d had to save you, and I’d never had a swimming lesson in my life. Also, you have brown eyes and mine are the color of Brussels sprouts. Also, you have—had—brown hair and mine’s the color of the ocean. Also, you never grow a tail and you’re right handed; while I’m—did you get this?—a mermaid and a lefty!”
“No need to scream,” Mom sniffed.
“I hate it when you treat me like I’m freaking stupid.”
“Nobody thinks you’re freaking stupid,” her mom soothed in her I-think-my-kid’s-freaking-stupid voice. “Everyone in this room is a living creature deserving of our love and respect.”
“If you try to hold my hand and make a nurture circle,” Fred warned, “I will kill you.”
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Bitch Out Of Water, Part 1
Or, a sneak peek at my upcoming release, SLEEPING WITH THE FISHES. (Bitch Out of Water was my original title, but Berkley gently suggested it blew rocks, and so it was changed. Phooey.) I'll be posting a few pages from the book each day until next Tuesday, when you can get your bad self to the book store and buy it to read the rest. All part of my sinister plan...the first few fixes are free...then you get hooked...and you have to cough up the cash. Whee!
Caveat: This is from the manuscript on my computer, thus it hasn't been line edited or copy edited, so any mistakes you spot were, I hope and pray, fixed during the time between my turn-in date and the publication date.
* * *
CHAPTER ONE
The unbelievable horror began, if it ever really ended, when Fred walked in on her parents making love on the living room coffee table. Like all children (even when grown), her first muddled impression was that her father was hurting her mother. Or perhaps fixing her back. Her second impression was that the coffee table books (Alaska: The Last Frontier; Cape Cod: An Explorer’s Guide; The Black Sea: A History) must sting like hell on her mother’s knees. Her third impression sounded something like this:
“Aaaaeeeiiiiieeee!
Her mother slipped and National Geographic’s Seals of the Antarctic flew like a tiddly wink from the coffee table and hit the floor with a thud. Her father flinched but, unfortunately, did not fall off (or out of) her mother.
Fred darted across the room and, before she realized what she was doing, hauled her father off and tossed him over the back of the couch. She then yanked the puke-orange throw from said couch and threw it over her mother.
“Ow,” her father groaned from out of sight.
Her mother wriggled under the throw, sat up, and faced her daughter, her normally pale face flushed with wrath. Or something else Fred did not want to think about. “Fredrika Bimm, what do you think you’re doing?”
“Freaking out. Losing my mind. Thinking about snapping your husband’s spine. Squashing the urge to vomit. Wishing I’d died at childbirth.”
“Oh, you say that when you don’t get a prize in your Lucky Charms,” her mother snapped. “What’s your problem, miss? You don’t knock anymore?” Her mother, a good-looking blonde with silver streaks and shoulder-length hair (and a disturbingly sweaty face), climbed off the coffee table with remarkable dignity, fastened the blanket to cover her chubby thighs, and went around the couch to help her husband. “You just barge in?”
“I have a key, I didn’t barge,” Fred pointed out, still revolted but regretting the violence. “And you told me to come over.”
“Yesterday. I told you to come over yesterday.”
“I was working,” Fred tried not to whine, or stare. “I couldn’t just ditch all the fish. Although they deserve it, the little bastards. Anyway, I couldn’t come.”
“Well,” her mother retorted, “neither could I.”
Fred again tried not to vomit, and succeeded for the moment. She peered over the couch, where her father was groaning and clutching the small of his back. His bald spot was flushed almost purple. His ponytail had come undone. “Sorry, Dad.”
“Sorry, hell,” he gasped. “I swear, I’ll never touch her again.”
“Oh, Sam, just stop it.”
“Not even if we’re married for another thirty years.”
Fred flashed a rare smile. “Okay.”
“Fred, stop it! You too, Sam.” Mrs. Bimm helped her husband to his feet and hustled him out of the living room. Then she turned on her daughter.
“Fredrika.”
“Mom, put yourself in my fins.”
“Fredrika Shea Bimm.”
“Mom, he was fucking my mother. He's a motherfucker! What would you have done?”
“Not tossed him halfway across the room,” her mother snapped, then puffed her bangs out of her face. “Not forced him to return to the chiropractor. What in the world is wrong with you? You’re almost thirty, for heaven’s sake.”
“And you’re almost fifty! Way too old to be—to be—yech.”
Her mother stuck a stubby finger in Fred’s face. Everything about Moon Bimm was short and stubby, compared to Fred’s long lankiness. Even Fred’s nose was long, and while Mrs. Bimm’s mouth was permanently turned up in a smile, Fred’s everyday expression was a scowl. If Fred hadn’t seen the birth certificate, she would have doubted any birth relation to Moon Bimm. “Violence. Language. Manners. All unacceptable.”
“I overreacted, okay?”
“Not okay.”
“I’m sorry, all right?”
“Not to me. To your father. Who is probably icing his back right this minute.”
“Hopefully he’s put some pants on.”
Moon pouted. “Spoilsport. Do I interfere with your love life? Such as it is, I mean?”
Ignoring her, Fred looked around the small living room, which was artfully decorated in Cape Cod Tourist. “Why here, Mom? Why next to the pleather chair? The Laz-E-Boy? Why not anywhere else?” Why not never? Never ever? “I mean...you’ve got a bed.”
“We are often strongly affected in the living room,” her mother said primly, then giggled (giggled! O Gods of all the Seas, kill me now and make it snappy) and marched out, trailing blanket fuzz behind her.
“Oh, fucking gross,” she muttered, following her mother.
Caveat: This is from the manuscript on my computer, thus it hasn't been line edited or copy edited, so any mistakes you spot were, I hope and pray, fixed during the time between my turn-in date and the publication date.
* * *
CHAPTER ONE
The unbelievable horror began, if it ever really ended, when Fred walked in on her parents making love on the living room coffee table. Like all children (even when grown), her first muddled impression was that her father was hurting her mother. Or perhaps fixing her back. Her second impression was that the coffee table books (Alaska: The Last Frontier; Cape Cod: An Explorer’s Guide; The Black Sea: A History) must sting like hell on her mother’s knees. Her third impression sounded something like this:
“Aaaaeeeiiiiieeee!
Her mother slipped and National Geographic’s Seals of the Antarctic flew like a tiddly wink from the coffee table and hit the floor with a thud. Her father flinched but, unfortunately, did not fall off (or out of) her mother.
Fred darted across the room and, before she realized what she was doing, hauled her father off and tossed him over the back of the couch. She then yanked the puke-orange throw from said couch and threw it over her mother.
“Ow,” her father groaned from out of sight.
Her mother wriggled under the throw, sat up, and faced her daughter, her normally pale face flushed with wrath. Or something else Fred did not want to think about. “Fredrika Bimm, what do you think you’re doing?”
“Freaking out. Losing my mind. Thinking about snapping your husband’s spine. Squashing the urge to vomit. Wishing I’d died at childbirth.”
“Oh, you say that when you don’t get a prize in your Lucky Charms,” her mother snapped. “What’s your problem, miss? You don’t knock anymore?” Her mother, a good-looking blonde with silver streaks and shoulder-length hair (and a disturbingly sweaty face), climbed off the coffee table with remarkable dignity, fastened the blanket to cover her chubby thighs, and went around the couch to help her husband. “You just barge in?”
“I have a key, I didn’t barge,” Fred pointed out, still revolted but regretting the violence. “And you told me to come over.”
“Yesterday. I told you to come over yesterday.”
“I was working,” Fred tried not to whine, or stare. “I couldn’t just ditch all the fish. Although they deserve it, the little bastards. Anyway, I couldn’t come.”
“Well,” her mother retorted, “neither could I.”
Fred again tried not to vomit, and succeeded for the moment. She peered over the couch, where her father was groaning and clutching the small of his back. His bald spot was flushed almost purple. His ponytail had come undone. “Sorry, Dad.”
“Sorry, hell,” he gasped. “I swear, I’ll never touch her again.”
“Oh, Sam, just stop it.”
“Not even if we’re married for another thirty years.”
Fred flashed a rare smile. “Okay.”
“Fred, stop it! You too, Sam.” Mrs. Bimm helped her husband to his feet and hustled him out of the living room. Then she turned on her daughter.
“Fredrika.”
“Mom, put yourself in my fins.”
“Fredrika Shea Bimm.”
“Mom, he was fucking my mother. He's a motherfucker! What would you have done?”
“Not tossed him halfway across the room,” her mother snapped, then puffed her bangs out of her face. “Not forced him to return to the chiropractor. What in the world is wrong with you? You’re almost thirty, for heaven’s sake.”
“And you’re almost fifty! Way too old to be—to be—yech.”
Her mother stuck a stubby finger in Fred’s face. Everything about Moon Bimm was short and stubby, compared to Fred’s long lankiness. Even Fred’s nose was long, and while Mrs. Bimm’s mouth was permanently turned up in a smile, Fred’s everyday expression was a scowl. If Fred hadn’t seen the birth certificate, she would have doubted any birth relation to Moon Bimm. “Violence. Language. Manners. All unacceptable.”
“I overreacted, okay?”
“Not okay.”
“I’m sorry, all right?”
“Not to me. To your father. Who is probably icing his back right this minute.”
“Hopefully he’s put some pants on.”
Moon pouted. “Spoilsport. Do I interfere with your love life? Such as it is, I mean?”
Ignoring her, Fred looked around the small living room, which was artfully decorated in Cape Cod Tourist. “Why here, Mom? Why next to the pleather chair? The Laz-E-Boy? Why not anywhere else?” Why not never? Never ever? “I mean...you’ve got a bed.”
“We are often strongly affected in the living room,” her mother said primly, then giggled (giggled! O Gods of all the Seas, kill me now and make it snappy) and marched out, trailing blanket fuzz behind her.
“Oh, fucking gross,” she muttered, following her mother.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
I Puke During A Signing
RT, continued. (This will be the last frivolous blog for a few days; the rest will be excerpts from SLEEPING WITH THE FISHES, continuing through Tuesday, 11/28, the release date. Wait. The excerpts are frivolous, too. You've been warned.)
The Romantic Times Convention, as I've said before, is a pretty good time. But it's also a stressful time. Good stress (meeting fans, signing books, speaking in front of 200 people, speaking in front of 5,000 if you win an RT award, meeting favorite authors and trying not to slobber all over them, etc.), but still stress. So it was no surprise that I barfed.
I do that a lot, actually. I'm plagued with wicked bad migraines (the trade-off, I think, for being able to crank out 6-8 books a year) and they can strike at any time, with no warning. I'm proud to say that I've puked in public places (and airports!) all over the country. In fact, I'm keeping a list of Airports I Have Thrown Up In. So far it's: Chicago O'Hare, La Guardia, Minneapolis/St. Paul, Atlanta, Kansas City, and Logan International. Most of the time I can make it to the bathroom, but once I had to grab one of those big rolling garbage cans the custodians push around. I lurched toward it (ignoring the poor girl pushing it), clutched the rim, leaned over, and tossed my cookies. Shouted at the floor. Spit yogurt. Spewed. Retched. Sicced up. Pick your euphemism.
The custodian, a tiny thing who came up to my tits, politely turned away while I yarked, then, when I finished and groaned, "Sorry," she turned back and offered me a clean rag to wipe my face with. Which I did. I thanked her and staggered to the boarding area (it was SUCH a fun flight).
Jessica was completely unsurprised when I puked at RT. It was during my breakfast signing, and there were lots and lots of people who wanted autographed books. Which I love. I love signing books and I love talking to fans. A little too much, in fact; Jessica will occasionally lean down and murmur, "Move it along or I'll shoot you in the face." Or something to that effect.
Anyway. The night before I'd had little sleep. To wake myself up, I gulped down a large (think Big Gulp size) cup of coffee. By the way, I hate coffee and never drink it. But I was nervous about the signing (I'm always nervous no one will come) so I didn't dare eat.
So there I am, signing away, my outraged stomach sloshing with coffee, and suddenly I started to get That Feeling. My stomach is kind enough to send me an "Abort, abort! Tilt!" message about thirty seconds before it's all over but the mopping.
I jumped to my feet. I clutched the sleeve of the startled RT volunteer. (I towered over her, as I tower over most women, so she was understandably alarmed.) I hissed, "Where's the bathroom?"
"Uh-oh," Jess murmured, recognizing the signs and getting the hell out of my path.
"Uh," Startled RT Volunteer replied, "over there."
I started from the table. Several readers reached out and tried to grab me: "Wait! I have a question." "Where do you get your ideas?" "Can you sign this for my second cousin?" "Why do you swear so much in your books?" "What's Laurell K. Hamilton like?" "Do you think the vampire genre is dead?" "Come back!" I shook them off (barely; they were a strong bunch) and marched, Frankenstein-like, to the bathroom. Behind me I could hear Jessica say, "Don't worry, she just needs a quick break. She'll be back in thirty seconds."
I shoved the door open. I barfed. (Luckily, it had been the door to the bathroom.) I washed my face and rinsed my mouth. I felt loads better. I marched back out to the table and finished signing books and chatting with readers. Jessica tossed a casual wave in my direction. (She knows better than to fuss over me.)
Later, I mentioned this to my friend, Michele Bardsley, who was horrified. She gasped, "You know, if it had been me? After I threw up the signing would have been OVER. Oh-VER. I can't believe you went back! Weren't you embarrassed to run out on all those people?"
I blinked. "Embarrassed? What is this, embarrassed?"
"Never mind," she grumbled. "I forgot you're not from this planet."
Later, I cheerfully informed Laurell K. Hamilton, who remarked that my color was white, even for me, that I had barfed earlier. She immediately backed up, but forgot about the wall behind her, so she only backed up about ten inches. "Please, please don't get me sick," she begged. "I cannot get sick."
"Don't worry," I told her. "What I've got, you can't catch."
That seems a good enough theme for my life, don't you think?
The Romantic Times Convention, as I've said before, is a pretty good time. But it's also a stressful time. Good stress (meeting fans, signing books, speaking in front of 200 people, speaking in front of 5,000 if you win an RT award, meeting favorite authors and trying not to slobber all over them, etc.), but still stress. So it was no surprise that I barfed.
I do that a lot, actually. I'm plagued with wicked bad migraines (the trade-off, I think, for being able to crank out 6-8 books a year) and they can strike at any time, with no warning. I'm proud to say that I've puked in public places (and airports!) all over the country. In fact, I'm keeping a list of Airports I Have Thrown Up In. So far it's: Chicago O'Hare, La Guardia, Minneapolis/St. Paul, Atlanta, Kansas City, and Logan International. Most of the time I can make it to the bathroom, but once I had to grab one of those big rolling garbage cans the custodians push around. I lurched toward it (ignoring the poor girl pushing it), clutched the rim, leaned over, and tossed my cookies. Shouted at the floor. Spit yogurt. Spewed. Retched. Sicced up. Pick your euphemism.
The custodian, a tiny thing who came up to my tits, politely turned away while I yarked, then, when I finished and groaned, "Sorry," she turned back and offered me a clean rag to wipe my face with. Which I did. I thanked her and staggered to the boarding area (it was SUCH a fun flight).
Jessica was completely unsurprised when I puked at RT. It was during my breakfast signing, and there were lots and lots of people who wanted autographed books. Which I love. I love signing books and I love talking to fans. A little too much, in fact; Jessica will occasionally lean down and murmur, "Move it along or I'll shoot you in the face." Or something to that effect.
Anyway. The night before I'd had little sleep. To wake myself up, I gulped down a large (think Big Gulp size) cup of coffee. By the way, I hate coffee and never drink it. But I was nervous about the signing (I'm always nervous no one will come) so I didn't dare eat.
So there I am, signing away, my outraged stomach sloshing with coffee, and suddenly I started to get That Feeling. My stomach is kind enough to send me an "Abort, abort! Tilt!" message about thirty seconds before it's all over but the mopping.
I jumped to my feet. I clutched the sleeve of the startled RT volunteer. (I towered over her, as I tower over most women, so she was understandably alarmed.) I hissed, "Where's the bathroom?"
"Uh-oh," Jess murmured, recognizing the signs and getting the hell out of my path.
"Uh," Startled RT Volunteer replied, "over there."
I started from the table. Several readers reached out and tried to grab me: "Wait! I have a question." "Where do you get your ideas?" "Can you sign this for my second cousin?" "Why do you swear so much in your books?" "What's Laurell K. Hamilton like?" "Do you think the vampire genre is dead?" "Come back!" I shook them off (barely; they were a strong bunch) and marched, Frankenstein-like, to the bathroom. Behind me I could hear Jessica say, "Don't worry, she just needs a quick break. She'll be back in thirty seconds."
I shoved the door open. I barfed. (Luckily, it had been the door to the bathroom.) I washed my face and rinsed my mouth. I felt loads better. I marched back out to the table and finished signing books and chatting with readers. Jessica tossed a casual wave in my direction. (She knows better than to fuss over me.)
Later, I mentioned this to my friend, Michele Bardsley, who was horrified. She gasped, "You know, if it had been me? After I threw up the signing would have been OVER. Oh-VER. I can't believe you went back! Weren't you embarrassed to run out on all those people?"
I blinked. "Embarrassed? What is this, embarrassed?"
"Never mind," she grumbled. "I forgot you're not from this planet."
Later, I cheerfully informed Laurell K. Hamilton, who remarked that my color was white, even for me, that I had barfed earlier. She immediately backed up, but forgot about the wall behind her, so she only backed up about ten inches. "Please, please don't get me sick," she begged. "I cannot get sick."
"Don't worry," I told her. "What I've got, you can't catch."
That seems a good enough theme for my life, don't you think?
Monday, November 20, 2006
My Kids Are Better Than Yours
Okay, so I try to limit my blogs to writing, anti-writer internet wars, writing about anti-writer internet wars, conferences, and book deals. However, my two children were in a self-defense tournament this weekend and, in different ways, THEY KICKED ASS. Repeatedly. There were small children lying all around them, semi-conscious, by the time the ass-kicking was over. Their desperate moans were drowned out by my cackling.
Back up a mo', I'm not a terribly involved mom. Not one of Those Moms. You know the type: "You weren't watching my precious angel and she scored twenty-eight points while you blinked! I demand your resignation!" "Ma'am, the judges are all voluntee--" "And yours, too!"
Naw. Life's too short, my kids can take care of themselves, and I'm phenomenally lazy. My son is 7, my daughter is 11. The days when they required my constant attention are long over. My daughter gets herself up in the morning, gets dressed, fixes her own breakfast, starts my car, then goes upstairs to wake me up. I shrug into clothes, zombie-walk downstairs, climb into my (warm) car, and drive her to school. Then I come home, wake up my 7 year old, go back to bed, he wakes me up again when it's time to leave, off we go. After two drives to two different schools, I'm finally awake and can get to work. (This was all their idea, by the way. They feel grown-up as they pour milk into their cereal bowls, and set alarms the night before.)
This has been going on for 2 years. My plan to phase myself out of my children's lives has very nearly succeeded. I've also been teaching my daughter to cook, and at least once a week I say, "Christina, I didn't get shit done today. Will you please make everyone scrambled eggs and toast while I finish chapter eight?"
This self defense thing was their dad's idea. (He's studied aikido for years.) He thought it was a great way for them to learn discipline, respect, and how to shatter kneecaps. I have supreme indifference to all sports (mostly because I find it annoying that an NFL player earns millions, while school teachers are barely above the povery line) and had no interest in the kids learning self-defense. Then I read the sheet and a big part of their training is how to deal with bullies, and how to get the hell away from an asshole trying to yank them into their car. (Excluding me, I mean.) I changed my mind instantly. I pictured my children opening a can of whip-ass on a pedophile, and grinned for an hour. Also, their father promised to take them to every single practice. Which means every Saturday morning, for years, I've been able to have the house to myself or sleep in. Or both. Bliss. Great. Yay, self defense!
Fast forward a few years later, my daughter has a brown belt, my son a green belt. (It goes like this in their discipline...I think. White, yellow, green, purple, brown, red, black, and each belt has a stripe, e.g. yellow belt green stripe, so my son has successfully studied and passed 6 levels; my daughter, 10.) This means that I refused to help them practice since 2004, when my daughter nearly blew out my kneecap when I played Menacing Pedophile, then nearly cracked my ribs as I fell, writhing, to the floor. I was proud of her, but I had tears in my eyes as I gushed praise (and blood). And since their dad takes them to all the practices, and since I'm phasing myself out of their lives (remember the goals: sleeping in, writing), I have't really seen what they can do.
Fast forward to Saturday's tournament. An all-day event, I agreed to Family Time and the four of us went.
And my jaw dropped and pretty much stayed down all day. At these tournaments, several matches go on at once, and so the hundreds of people in the gym almost never pay attention to just one student. They're all watching their own kids.
Enter MY kid. You know Kill Bill, Part 1? That deranged Japanese girl with the meteor ball, that wicked steel thing studded with razors that Uma Thurman had to keep dodging while it gouged huge holes out of wooden posts? My kid knows how to do that. She IS the deranged Japanese girl! (Her meteor ball is a hard rubber ball attached to a rope about eight feet long.) She steps up, she's whipping this thing all over the place. She steps back and ducks; it wraps around her neck four times; she steps forward and it untangles and shoots out eight feet; she yanks and ducks, it sails harmlessly over her head, she spins on the ball of her left foot and the rope harmlessly wraps around her chest and stomach. This went on, almost flawlessly, for five minutes. The flaw was when her glasses fell off her face during a wicked head-whip, and she effortlessly caught them and went on with her routine. She kicked everyone's ass with ONE HAND TIED BEHIND HER BACK.
The gym was dead quiet, except for the occasional gasps. The applause was loud when she finished, but not so loud the fifty people around me didn't hear me shrieking, "That's my daughter! THAT'S MY DAUGHTER KICKING EVERYONE'S ASS!"
Ahem. So, she gets first place. Natch. Because...have I mentioned this? SHE KICKED ASS. Then she did her Open Hand thingamabob (a complicated kata that looked almost like a dance, a dance that can shatter noses and legs and clavicles) and nailed second. Then she did sparring.
I was worried about the sparring. These kids spend a lot of time running away from the blows and kicks (okay...dodging. but it looks like running) and so the judges put a 3 minute time limit on each round. Otherwise the sparring matches could conceivably go on for an hour. Each. Ugh. So I figured I was looking at a nearly ten minute round, times however many kids are in the group. Where was my book? Ah! There you, are, HUNT FOR RED OCTOBER. Haven't read you for at least--
My kid steps up. The judges signals Go. Bam! Point. Bam! Point. Launched kick (the kid's three feet in the air, I swear to God), whap! Point. Match over. Second place: Christina. (The red belt she fought beat her 3-2, gaining a well-deserved first place.)
"That's my daughter KICKING ALL YOUR KIDS' ASSES!" I delicately suggested.
The annoying part? Some of the judges were sloppy. Some of them lied. And one of them was wearing a thong so tight I swear it cut off her circulation (I saw the thong flash during her long, complicated kata...and whoever heard of a petite blonde sensei?). Because when my son was sparring, he immediately scored a point...which the judge didn't see. Which set off a chain reaction resulting in him losing. And all the kids must stay through the entire event, elminated or not. So my son, eliminated first, then sat there for half an hour, watching other kids sparring and knowing he was out of the running. I understand the logic behind this: it's respectful to watch all the opponents and not leave the ring until everyone's finished. It's just hard to watch your little boy sit still for half an hour after a sloppy judge eliminated him.
So what did he do? He watched for his sister and cheered and clapped, and when they FINALLY let him go he came running to me and gasped, "I hope Christina gets another trophy!"
That's when I thought, "I have two champions. Thank God I distanced myself from their upbringing, or they'd be jerks like me."
Even worse, for the Wu-Shu events (meteor ball, fan, open hand) they didn't divide the kids by belts. They did it by ages. 11 and under, junior Wu-Shu. 12 and up, senior Wu-Shu. Which meant that both my kids were competing against an 11 year old black belt. And my kids were competing against each other.
THAT was hard. I suppressed my initial parenting instinct ("Go, kids! Fight each other for your parents' love!") and just clapped. My son was, of course, eliminated...if Christina hadn't had such a major head start on him with her purple belt, the black belt sure as shit did. My son went from being an older kid with a high belt in his group (last year, when he took home trophies of his own) to being a younger kid with a lower belt in every category. So how did he handle this? By cheering for Christina. By tugging on the sleeves of strangers and saying, "That's my sister." By asking for candy (which I bought him by the bucketful).
The only other annoying thing was waching Christina in the kata event. She was up against red belts and a black belt, so I instantly assumed she had no chance. I could see her raising her hand before they began and asking Thong Sensei some questions. And I could see Thong Sensei getting annoyed (senseis don't much care for questions, at all). And then they began. And it went on. And on. Then the judges explained there was a tie. So Christina was asked to do her kata again. And again. And one more time. Each time, she was perfect. Meanwhile, the red belt pulled a total Tonya Harding: started, got confused, stopped, asked to start again. Started AGAIN, stopped, asked to start again.
My husband's fingers sunk into my arm like claws. "She's got second or third. The black belt's got first. They're trying to decide who's second and who's third." This got ME excited; I'm all, "Day-amn! Kidz got some maddd skillz!" Except I said it in English.
Finally, they were finished. And the judges picked the three winners and brought them to the trophy table. They did not pick Chris. They picked the black belt, a red belt, and the Tonya Harding red belt. I nearly fell off the bleachers. "Oh my God!" my husband hissed. "The red belt? THAT red belt?" Then he turned to me. "It's because Chris asked questions. They hate that." And I was all, "Wait a minute. They're gonna penalize the one who did her kata perfectly four times but who had the nerve to ask questions, and reward Tonya Harding who needed three starts to get it right but kept her mouth shut? No way. NO way."
"No way what?" my husband asked.
"No way do we teach that lesson to Chris. That it's better to be a mealy-mouthed coward scared shitless to ask questions. NO WAY. Also, SHE IS KICKING ASS ALL OVER THE PLACE TODAY."
Off my husband went to take more pictures. I stomped down the bleachers to the gym floor. The other sensei judge, Snooze Boy (stalwart partner of Thong Sensei) was lecturing the, for lack of a better word, losers. I folded my arms across my chest. I glared. I tried to set Snooze Boy on fire simply by the force of my will. He released the kids, I heard Tonya Harding get second place (SECOND PLACE FOR NOT KNOWING HER KATA), and Chris crossed the floor to me. Head high, eyes forward, not shamed in defeat. Then she saw the thunderous look on my face, my stiff and angry stance, and her step faltered. "Mom, are you mad at me?" she almost whispered. "I did the best I--"
"Do you know what 'robbed' means in the context of a tournament?" I interrupted. "It means THAT IDIOT RED BELT HAS YOUR TROPHY. It means you DID A FUCKING GREAT JOB AND THAT'S YOUR TROPHY. It means YOU WERE ROBBED."
Suddenly, my husband was back at my side. "Honey. You're screaming."
"AND swearing," my daughter reproved (ironically, given my gigantic potty mouth, she disapproves of foul language).
"Okay, okay." I tried to calm down. "Out of curiosity, what did you ask Thong--uh, the sensei?"
"I wanted to know if it was okay to add stuff to our kata. I studied some red belt stuff and I thought I might try to add it in."
"And what did Th--what did she say?"
"That they were looking for pure perfection."
I lost it all over again. (I am my father's daughter, complete with his temper.) "Then they LIED, Chris, they LIED. They gave the trophy to Tonya Harding, who by definition is not perfection! YOU were perfection. You were ROBBED, ROBBED, ROBBED." People were staring. Like I gave a ripe fuck. I was completely lost in my rage; I had turned into one of Those Moms. "You did great, Chris, you did fabulous, you were wonderful. They were wrong, and they lied about what they were looking for, and that twit has your trophy." I looked around for Tonya Harding Mealy Mouth. "I bet you could take her. Let's find her and get your tro--"
"Honey. You're scaring the small children and setting a terrible example for, um, everybody."
"But she can take Tonya Harding!"
"Can I have a Snickers?" my daughter asked, completely unmoved by a) my irrational foaming rage and b) being robbed.
"Have a Snickers. Have ten. Robbed. Stupid Tonya Harding."
After my blood pressure had dropped to a less lethal range, we took the kids out for sushi, their favorite. I had two vodka sours. I checked my teeth: not ground to nubs, for a pleasant surprise. We congratulated both kids on winning: Chris for the trophies, Liam for being the World's Best Good Sport. My husband told our son that he would prefer Liam had zero trophies and a good attitude, than three trophies while acting like a little shit. We toasted that one.
The moral of the story? My kids, at 11 and 7, are far, far better people than I was, am, or ever will be.
Blame their father.
Back up a mo', I'm not a terribly involved mom. Not one of Those Moms. You know the type: "You weren't watching my precious angel and she scored twenty-eight points while you blinked! I demand your resignation!" "Ma'am, the judges are all voluntee--" "And yours, too!"
Naw. Life's too short, my kids can take care of themselves, and I'm phenomenally lazy. My son is 7, my daughter is 11. The days when they required my constant attention are long over. My daughter gets herself up in the morning, gets dressed, fixes her own breakfast, starts my car, then goes upstairs to wake me up. I shrug into clothes, zombie-walk downstairs, climb into my (warm) car, and drive her to school. Then I come home, wake up my 7 year old, go back to bed, he wakes me up again when it's time to leave, off we go. After two drives to two different schools, I'm finally awake and can get to work. (This was all their idea, by the way. They feel grown-up as they pour milk into their cereal bowls, and set alarms the night before.)
This has been going on for 2 years. My plan to phase myself out of my children's lives has very nearly succeeded. I've also been teaching my daughter to cook, and at least once a week I say, "Christina, I didn't get shit done today. Will you please make everyone scrambled eggs and toast while I finish chapter eight?"
This self defense thing was their dad's idea. (He's studied aikido for years.) He thought it was a great way for them to learn discipline, respect, and how to shatter kneecaps. I have supreme indifference to all sports (mostly because I find it annoying that an NFL player earns millions, while school teachers are barely above the povery line) and had no interest in the kids learning self-defense. Then I read the sheet and a big part of their training is how to deal with bullies, and how to get the hell away from an asshole trying to yank them into their car. (Excluding me, I mean.) I changed my mind instantly. I pictured my children opening a can of whip-ass on a pedophile, and grinned for an hour. Also, their father promised to take them to every single practice. Which means every Saturday morning, for years, I've been able to have the house to myself or sleep in. Or both. Bliss. Great. Yay, self defense!
Fast forward a few years later, my daughter has a brown belt, my son a green belt. (It goes like this in their discipline...I think. White, yellow, green, purple, brown, red, black, and each belt has a stripe, e.g. yellow belt green stripe, so my son has successfully studied and passed 6 levels; my daughter, 10.) This means that I refused to help them practice since 2004, when my daughter nearly blew out my kneecap when I played Menacing Pedophile, then nearly cracked my ribs as I fell, writhing, to the floor. I was proud of her, but I had tears in my eyes as I gushed praise (and blood). And since their dad takes them to all the practices, and since I'm phasing myself out of their lives (remember the goals: sleeping in, writing), I have't really seen what they can do.
Fast forward to Saturday's tournament. An all-day event, I agreed to Family Time and the four of us went.
And my jaw dropped and pretty much stayed down all day. At these tournaments, several matches go on at once, and so the hundreds of people in the gym almost never pay attention to just one student. They're all watching their own kids.
Enter MY kid. You know Kill Bill, Part 1? That deranged Japanese girl with the meteor ball, that wicked steel thing studded with razors that Uma Thurman had to keep dodging while it gouged huge holes out of wooden posts? My kid knows how to do that. She IS the deranged Japanese girl! (Her meteor ball is a hard rubber ball attached to a rope about eight feet long.) She steps up, she's whipping this thing all over the place. She steps back and ducks; it wraps around her neck four times; she steps forward and it untangles and shoots out eight feet; she yanks and ducks, it sails harmlessly over her head, she spins on the ball of her left foot and the rope harmlessly wraps around her chest and stomach. This went on, almost flawlessly, for five minutes. The flaw was when her glasses fell off her face during a wicked head-whip, and she effortlessly caught them and went on with her routine. She kicked everyone's ass with ONE HAND TIED BEHIND HER BACK.
The gym was dead quiet, except for the occasional gasps. The applause was loud when she finished, but not so loud the fifty people around me didn't hear me shrieking, "That's my daughter! THAT'S MY DAUGHTER KICKING EVERYONE'S ASS!"
Ahem. So, she gets first place. Natch. Because...have I mentioned this? SHE KICKED ASS. Then she did her Open Hand thingamabob (a complicated kata that looked almost like a dance, a dance that can shatter noses and legs and clavicles) and nailed second. Then she did sparring.
I was worried about the sparring. These kids spend a lot of time running away from the blows and kicks (okay...dodging. but it looks like running) and so the judges put a 3 minute time limit on each round. Otherwise the sparring matches could conceivably go on for an hour. Each. Ugh. So I figured I was looking at a nearly ten minute round, times however many kids are in the group. Where was my book? Ah! There you, are, HUNT FOR RED OCTOBER. Haven't read you for at least--
My kid steps up. The judges signals Go. Bam! Point. Bam! Point. Launched kick (the kid's three feet in the air, I swear to God), whap! Point. Match over. Second place: Christina. (The red belt she fought beat her 3-2, gaining a well-deserved first place.)
"That's my daughter KICKING ALL YOUR KIDS' ASSES!" I delicately suggested.
The annoying part? Some of the judges were sloppy. Some of them lied. And one of them was wearing a thong so tight I swear it cut off her circulation (I saw the thong flash during her long, complicated kata...and whoever heard of a petite blonde sensei?). Because when my son was sparring, he immediately scored a point...which the judge didn't see. Which set off a chain reaction resulting in him losing. And all the kids must stay through the entire event, elminated or not. So my son, eliminated first, then sat there for half an hour, watching other kids sparring and knowing he was out of the running. I understand the logic behind this: it's respectful to watch all the opponents and not leave the ring until everyone's finished. It's just hard to watch your little boy sit still for half an hour after a sloppy judge eliminated him.
So what did he do? He watched for his sister and cheered and clapped, and when they FINALLY let him go he came running to me and gasped, "I hope Christina gets another trophy!"
That's when I thought, "I have two champions. Thank God I distanced myself from their upbringing, or they'd be jerks like me."
Even worse, for the Wu-Shu events (meteor ball, fan, open hand) they didn't divide the kids by belts. They did it by ages. 11 and under, junior Wu-Shu. 12 and up, senior Wu-Shu. Which meant that both my kids were competing against an 11 year old black belt. And my kids were competing against each other.
THAT was hard. I suppressed my initial parenting instinct ("Go, kids! Fight each other for your parents' love!") and just clapped. My son was, of course, eliminated...if Christina hadn't had such a major head start on him with her purple belt, the black belt sure as shit did. My son went from being an older kid with a high belt in his group (last year, when he took home trophies of his own) to being a younger kid with a lower belt in every category. So how did he handle this? By cheering for Christina. By tugging on the sleeves of strangers and saying, "That's my sister." By asking for candy (which I bought him by the bucketful).
The only other annoying thing was waching Christina in the kata event. She was up against red belts and a black belt, so I instantly assumed she had no chance. I could see her raising her hand before they began and asking Thong Sensei some questions. And I could see Thong Sensei getting annoyed (senseis don't much care for questions, at all). And then they began. And it went on. And on. Then the judges explained there was a tie. So Christina was asked to do her kata again. And again. And one more time. Each time, she was perfect. Meanwhile, the red belt pulled a total Tonya Harding: started, got confused, stopped, asked to start again. Started AGAIN, stopped, asked to start again.
My husband's fingers sunk into my arm like claws. "She's got second or third. The black belt's got first. They're trying to decide who's second and who's third." This got ME excited; I'm all, "Day-amn! Kidz got some maddd skillz!" Except I said it in English.
Finally, they were finished. And the judges picked the three winners and brought them to the trophy table. They did not pick Chris. They picked the black belt, a red belt, and the Tonya Harding red belt. I nearly fell off the bleachers. "Oh my God!" my husband hissed. "The red belt? THAT red belt?" Then he turned to me. "It's because Chris asked questions. They hate that." And I was all, "Wait a minute. They're gonna penalize the one who did her kata perfectly four times but who had the nerve to ask questions, and reward Tonya Harding who needed three starts to get it right but kept her mouth shut? No way. NO way."
"No way what?" my husband asked.
"No way do we teach that lesson to Chris. That it's better to be a mealy-mouthed coward scared shitless to ask questions. NO WAY. Also, SHE IS KICKING ASS ALL OVER THE PLACE TODAY."
Off my husband went to take more pictures. I stomped down the bleachers to the gym floor. The other sensei judge, Snooze Boy (stalwart partner of Thong Sensei) was lecturing the, for lack of a better word, losers. I folded my arms across my chest. I glared. I tried to set Snooze Boy on fire simply by the force of my will. He released the kids, I heard Tonya Harding get second place (SECOND PLACE FOR NOT KNOWING HER KATA), and Chris crossed the floor to me. Head high, eyes forward, not shamed in defeat. Then she saw the thunderous look on my face, my stiff and angry stance, and her step faltered. "Mom, are you mad at me?" she almost whispered. "I did the best I--"
"Do you know what 'robbed' means in the context of a tournament?" I interrupted. "It means THAT IDIOT RED BELT HAS YOUR TROPHY. It means you DID A FUCKING GREAT JOB AND THAT'S YOUR TROPHY. It means YOU WERE ROBBED."
Suddenly, my husband was back at my side. "Honey. You're screaming."
"AND swearing," my daughter reproved (ironically, given my gigantic potty mouth, she disapproves of foul language).
"Okay, okay." I tried to calm down. "Out of curiosity, what did you ask Thong--uh, the sensei?"
"I wanted to know if it was okay to add stuff to our kata. I studied some red belt stuff and I thought I might try to add it in."
"And what did Th--what did she say?"
"That they were looking for pure perfection."
I lost it all over again. (I am my father's daughter, complete with his temper.) "Then they LIED, Chris, they LIED. They gave the trophy to Tonya Harding, who by definition is not perfection! YOU were perfection. You were ROBBED, ROBBED, ROBBED." People were staring. Like I gave a ripe fuck. I was completely lost in my rage; I had turned into one of Those Moms. "You did great, Chris, you did fabulous, you were wonderful. They were wrong, and they lied about what they were looking for, and that twit has your trophy." I looked around for Tonya Harding Mealy Mouth. "I bet you could take her. Let's find her and get your tro--"
"Honey. You're scaring the small children and setting a terrible example for, um, everybody."
"But she can take Tonya Harding!"
"Can I have a Snickers?" my daughter asked, completely unmoved by a) my irrational foaming rage and b) being robbed.
"Have a Snickers. Have ten. Robbed. Stupid Tonya Harding."
After my blood pressure had dropped to a less lethal range, we took the kids out for sushi, their favorite. I had two vodka sours. I checked my teeth: not ground to nubs, for a pleasant surprise. We congratulated both kids on winning: Chris for the trophies, Liam for being the World's Best Good Sport. My husband told our son that he would prefer Liam had zero trophies and a good attitude, than three trophies while acting like a little shit. We toasted that one.
The moral of the story? My kids, at 11 and 7, are far, far better people than I was, am, or ever will be.
Blame their father.
Monday, November 06, 2006
I Make Cindy Cruciger My Bitch
RT, continued.
After the thrill-o-fest of my LKH/Charlaine panel, but before the vomiting started (more on that later), I terrorized colleague Cindy Cruciger (REVENGE GIFTS.COM).
Cindy, the silly darling, had gotten the idea into her head that I was insane. Dangerously, foamingly insane. Apparently she had the impression that someone who thought up a vampiric secretary who loved shoes and having sex upside down in the deep end of the pool (UNDEAD AND UNWED) was dangerously unhinged. She had seen me from afar at another conference, and my gangling, six foot four soccer mom facade didn't fool her a bit. She knew we would both be at RT at the same time, and began gnawing her knuckles at the thought of meeting me.
Foolishly, she posted this on her blog. Where I, harmlessly Googling "MaryJanice" and "dangerously insane" read it when it popped up.
So when I saw her at an RT workshop, I charged right over to her and her cute friend, Renee. "Cindy, darling!" Air kiss. I pretended not to notice her flinch. "So nice to see you again!" I complimented her on her book cover. I told a self deprecating joke ("Isn't it hilarious how humungously fat my ass is getting?"). I did everything I could to put her at ease, noticing with glee her friend was giving Cindy "you exaggerate everything!" glares.
While Renee got herself a cup of water, I leaned over and hissed in Cindy's ear, "If you come near me EVER AGAIN I will stab you in the throat with a shrimp fork." Renee got back just in time to see all the blood fall out of Cindy's face. I pooh-poohed her concern for her friend, saying, "Oh, Renee, honey, don't you want to sit down? We've got to take care of that baby, you know." I filled her hands with free bookmarks and, while she settled herself, turned to Cindy and murmured, "I can kill you with a rifle from two hundred yards."
While Cindy tried to sidle away without making it seem she was abandoning her pregnant, helpless friend, I said, "Renee, DARLING, you simply must come to my little soiree in my suite. We'll be giving books away, and t-shirts, and all kinds of things and I'll be simply distraught if you don't come. Please do come, darling!" While Renee shot Cindy a trimphant "told you she wasn't crazy!" look and wrote down my suite number, I leaned over to Cindy and whispered, "I will drip poison into everything you drink in my room, after which I will slam all your fingers in my bathroom door." Then, louder: "Tah, girls!"
It was a grand party, though for some reason Cindy couldn't seem to relax and enjoy herself. I have no idea why. Renee sure seemed to have fun.
After the thrill-o-fest of my LKH/Charlaine panel, but before the vomiting started (more on that later), I terrorized colleague Cindy Cruciger (REVENGE GIFTS.COM).
Cindy, the silly darling, had gotten the idea into her head that I was insane. Dangerously, foamingly insane. Apparently she had the impression that someone who thought up a vampiric secretary who loved shoes and having sex upside down in the deep end of the pool (UNDEAD AND UNWED) was dangerously unhinged. She had seen me from afar at another conference, and my gangling, six foot four soccer mom facade didn't fool her a bit. She knew we would both be at RT at the same time, and began gnawing her knuckles at the thought of meeting me.
Foolishly, she posted this on her blog. Where I, harmlessly Googling "MaryJanice" and "dangerously insane" read it when it popped up.
So when I saw her at an RT workshop, I charged right over to her and her cute friend, Renee. "Cindy, darling!" Air kiss. I pretended not to notice her flinch. "So nice to see you again!" I complimented her on her book cover. I told a self deprecating joke ("Isn't it hilarious how humungously fat my ass is getting?"). I did everything I could to put her at ease, noticing with glee her friend was giving Cindy "you exaggerate everything!" glares.
While Renee got herself a cup of water, I leaned over and hissed in Cindy's ear, "If you come near me EVER AGAIN I will stab you in the throat with a shrimp fork." Renee got back just in time to see all the blood fall out of Cindy's face. I pooh-poohed her concern for her friend, saying, "Oh, Renee, honey, don't you want to sit down? We've got to take care of that baby, you know." I filled her hands with free bookmarks and, while she settled herself, turned to Cindy and murmured, "I can kill you with a rifle from two hundred yards."
While Cindy tried to sidle away without making it seem she was abandoning her pregnant, helpless friend, I said, "Renee, DARLING, you simply must come to my little soiree in my suite. We'll be giving books away, and t-shirts, and all kinds of things and I'll be simply distraught if you don't come. Please do come, darling!" While Renee shot Cindy a trimphant "told you she wasn't crazy!" look and wrote down my suite number, I leaned over to Cindy and whispered, "I will drip poison into everything you drink in my room, after which I will slam all your fingers in my bathroom door." Then, louder: "Tah, girls!"
It was a grand party, though for some reason Cindy couldn't seem to relax and enjoy herself. I have no idea why. Renee sure seemed to have fun.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Back, But Still Bad
Or, the return of an Author Behaving Badly
Yesterday I received an e-mail from a fan who recently found my blog. "I noticed you haven't updated since last summer!" she wrote. "And I sure can't blame you! If people said the mean things to me they said to you (the week your grandpa died, even!!!) I wouldn't blog ever again, either!!"
I appreciated her sentiment, excessive exclamation points notwithstanding, but she was incorrect. I hadn't updated my blog, not because of the torrent of venom spewed by self-righteous bloggers, but because I'm a lazy-ass blogger and have to be cornered like a rat and forced to do it.
(Boy, I hate self righteousness, don't you? Luckily there's none of that on THIS blog, she sneered.)
So, I'm back. I figured I'd do an essay, the sort they made all of us do in school: "How I Spent My Summer Vacation". And I'm aware that it's now November, and that it's a little on the stupid side to yak about the summer of '06, but I never promised intelligent blogs. I never promised anything.
Actually, we're going to start in the spring, with the Romantic Times convention. It was held in Daytona, Florida, and my sister, Jessica, and I flew there first class. No reason; I'd just never flown first class before and wanted to try it. Also, Jessica hates to fly. As in, she must visit her physician, visit her pharmacy, and then medicate herself before getting on a plane, any plane. She used to break out in hives when her son would wave a toy plane in her general direction. So I thought first class might make it a little easier. (A word on Jessica: she's myPR guru, but not a blood sister. That is, my father and mother didn't give birth to her, like they did my other sister, Yvonne. Jessica is the sister I chose, as opposed to the one my mom gave me when she skipped her Pill.)
An uncouth, bitchy slob reared in a trailer park shouldn't be allowed to fly first class, no matter how much money she has, or how ill gotten her gains. Certainly I didn't deserve the roomy seats, free booze, and extra leg space. That didn't stop me from guzzling a few glasses of champagne (it was noon somewhere, even if it was only 8:30 a.m. in Minnesota), wiggling my large white ass to get comfy, and sticking my long, gangly legs out as far as I could (I'm so tall that while my butt was in 4B, my feet were under 1B). While I was doing this, and pretending not to notice the horrified gasps from the flight attendants, the other passengers filed past. And then one of them said, "Hi, Jessica!"
This was not a surprise in any way. Jessica is related to half the state. And on a nodding acquaintence with most of the planet. It's impossible to go anywhere without someone hailing her. More people recognize her than me at conferences, which is as it should be as I'm unpleasant to talk to. So I wasn't surprised because this has been happening as long as I've known her...over twenty years now. And it didn't surprise me when Jessica recognized the good looking, tall, tan fellow and started chatting with him.
What did surprise me, a few seconds later, is that I had gone to high school with Tall Tan Fellow.
I slurped more champagne and pretended I hadn't noticed Jessica chatting him up. Tall Tan Fellow sauntered back to coach and Jessica turned to me and said, "You have no idea who that was, do you?"
"Shut up," I replied automatically.
"That was Mark Dalton."
"I know."
"From our high school."
"I KNOW."
"You saw him just about every day for five years."
"I did? I mean, I know! THAT was Mark Dalton? But he was so tan. And so nice!" And he saw us in first class. (And me on my eighth--or was it ninth?--mimosa, but never mind.) That was not such a terrible place for Mark Dalton, who was mean to me through most of our high school years, and who chummed with my arch enemy, the antichrist (known to Cannon Falls residents as Jeff Dawson) to see me. Us, I mean. No indeed. The week was off to a fabulous, drunken start.
And it only got better. The hotel was on the beach. Not near the beach. Not with a view of the beach. ON the beach. As in, if you fell out the back door (say, under the influence of fourteen mimosas) you could drown. Our suite was gorgeous, with a breathtaking view of the Atlantic. And romantic, with a king sized bed and a gorgeous bathroom. What a pity I was stuck with Jessica, as opposed to someone with a penis. But oh well. I wasn't going to let Jessica's lack of a penis put a damper on my conference-going experience.
We got to work almost immediately, assembling what I assumed to be ten thousand tote bags full of books I had to sign. After a few minutes of this, we fell into bed at 5:30 a.m. for a restful ninety minutes of sleep.
Then it was work-time; I had to moderate a paranormal panel with me, Charlaine Harris, and Laurell K. Hamilton. This was problematic, as I had lied like a rug to all my readers pretty much from the moment my first book came out. Because although I had told my readers I attend RT to connect with them and garner publicity for my books, that was a BIG FAT LIE. I go to RT because I am a humungous fan girl, and because of the free food. So as a fangirl, it was a dream come true to have control of the mike and be sitting between Laurell and Charlaine.
Although I have come to know Laurell, her huggable husband Jon, and her assistant Darla (also huggable) and found them to be delightful, that's not why I'm so fond of them, or why I like hugging her husband. I'm fond of them because they were nice to me when I was struggling in e-book obscurity, when I had a contract with Berkley but my books weren't out yet. They were nice to me when I was so far below Laurell's best-selling radar I was as a bug. Don't get me wrong; plenty of people are nice to me. And lots more are nice to me now that I've been on the USA Today and New York Times best seller list multiple times. But I especially cherish the ones who were fond of me when I was a nobody with straw in my hair and cowshit on my heels.
Then there's Charlaine, a fiendish talent who's also just about the sweetest, funniest lady you'd care to meet.
And I, the unworthy Midwesterner, was sitting high up in a dias. Between them. With a mike in my hand, because I was the moderator. A grown-up should have been the moderator. Not someone with a C average in high school who never went to college. I was afraid I was going to hold the thing all wrong and talk into the wrong end.
But there I was. Introducing NYT best selling authors. Pretending to take control of them and a room full of two hundred people. Pretending to be adult, mature, and in charge. Furtively touching Charlaine and Laurell on the shoulders and then pretending I was brushing off lint. Laying my head down on Charlaine's shoulder for a snuggle while pretending I'd simply passed out from alcohol poisoning. Patting Laurell's hand while pretending to brush off non-existant bugs.
Although startled, Charlaine and Laurell rallied and pretended I wasn't totally CREEPING them OUT, I'm sure they were startled and uneasy to find the moderator fondling them between taking questions from the audience.
Oh...questions. I opened the discussion by promising the audience they could ask the three of us anything they liked...only to be talking to air. The mike had disappeared! Had it teleported? Had I eaten it out of nervousness and blocked the memory? No; Laurell, who has the reflexes of a crack-addled mongoose, had snatched it out of my hand and said, in reply to my giddy "ask us anything!" policy, "No no no no no NO NO NO NO NO. No." While we all gaped at her (and I kicked her gently, yet firmly, in the ankle, and then higher up on the thigh) she elaborated. "You may not ask me about my sex life, if you can be in a threesome with my husband and me, if you can have sex with our nice friend..." She nodded at her security guard, a magically delicious fellow with an interesting bulge at his hip, beneath his jacket. "...or if you can watch us have sex. You may not ask if you can be in the next book. You may not ask if you can mail me nude pictures of yourself. You may not..." This went on for five minutes, simultaneously horrifying me (people actually ASK HER these things?) and making me sleepy (damn, I was up late last night with those damned tote bags).
Finally, she was done. The audience seemed respectfully cowed. I'd had a refreshing cat nap. Charlaine looked pleasantly amused, as a well brought-up Southern lady would even if she was watching cows being herded into a slaughterhouse. I snatched the mike away from Laurell and we began. Again.
The hour flew by and we apparently entertained, because for the rest of the conference I had people coming up to me and raving about our panel. Given my odd, overly touchy nature with my fellow authors, and Laurell's Sexual Laundry List Of No-Nos, this seemed strange, yet welcome.
I was also able to torture another colleague, Cindy Cruciger (REVENGE GIFTS.COM), and that was worth the registration fee alone.
Yesterday I received an e-mail from a fan who recently found my blog. "I noticed you haven't updated since last summer!" she wrote. "And I sure can't blame you! If people said the mean things to me they said to you (the week your grandpa died, even!!!) I wouldn't blog ever again, either!!"
I appreciated her sentiment, excessive exclamation points notwithstanding, but she was incorrect. I hadn't updated my blog, not because of the torrent of venom spewed by self-righteous bloggers, but because I'm a lazy-ass blogger and have to be cornered like a rat and forced to do it.
(Boy, I hate self righteousness, don't you? Luckily there's none of that on THIS blog, she sneered.)
So, I'm back. I figured I'd do an essay, the sort they made all of us do in school: "How I Spent My Summer Vacation". And I'm aware that it's now November, and that it's a little on the stupid side to yak about the summer of '06, but I never promised intelligent blogs. I never promised anything.
Actually, we're going to start in the spring, with the Romantic Times convention. It was held in Daytona, Florida, and my sister, Jessica, and I flew there first class. No reason; I'd just never flown first class before and wanted to try it. Also, Jessica hates to fly. As in, she must visit her physician, visit her pharmacy, and then medicate herself before getting on a plane, any plane. She used to break out in hives when her son would wave a toy plane in her general direction. So I thought first class might make it a little easier. (A word on Jessica: she's myPR guru, but not a blood sister. That is, my father and mother didn't give birth to her, like they did my other sister, Yvonne. Jessica is the sister I chose, as opposed to the one my mom gave me when she skipped her Pill.)
An uncouth, bitchy slob reared in a trailer park shouldn't be allowed to fly first class, no matter how much money she has, or how ill gotten her gains. Certainly I didn't deserve the roomy seats, free booze, and extra leg space. That didn't stop me from guzzling a few glasses of champagne (it was noon somewhere, even if it was only 8:30 a.m. in Minnesota), wiggling my large white ass to get comfy, and sticking my long, gangly legs out as far as I could (I'm so tall that while my butt was in 4B, my feet were under 1B). While I was doing this, and pretending not to notice the horrified gasps from the flight attendants, the other passengers filed past. And then one of them said, "Hi, Jessica!"
This was not a surprise in any way. Jessica is related to half the state. And on a nodding acquaintence with most of the planet. It's impossible to go anywhere without someone hailing her. More people recognize her than me at conferences, which is as it should be as I'm unpleasant to talk to. So I wasn't surprised because this has been happening as long as I've known her...over twenty years now. And it didn't surprise me when Jessica recognized the good looking, tall, tan fellow and started chatting with him.
What did surprise me, a few seconds later, is that I had gone to high school with Tall Tan Fellow.
I slurped more champagne and pretended I hadn't noticed Jessica chatting him up. Tall Tan Fellow sauntered back to coach and Jessica turned to me and said, "You have no idea who that was, do you?"
"Shut up," I replied automatically.
"That was Mark Dalton."
"I know."
"From our high school."
"I KNOW."
"You saw him just about every day for five years."
"I did? I mean, I know! THAT was Mark Dalton? But he was so tan. And so nice!" And he saw us in first class. (And me on my eighth--or was it ninth?--mimosa, but never mind.) That was not such a terrible place for Mark Dalton, who was mean to me through most of our high school years, and who chummed with my arch enemy, the antichrist (known to Cannon Falls residents as Jeff Dawson) to see me. Us, I mean. No indeed. The week was off to a fabulous, drunken start.
And it only got better. The hotel was on the beach. Not near the beach. Not with a view of the beach. ON the beach. As in, if you fell out the back door (say, under the influence of fourteen mimosas) you could drown. Our suite was gorgeous, with a breathtaking view of the Atlantic. And romantic, with a king sized bed and a gorgeous bathroom. What a pity I was stuck with Jessica, as opposed to someone with a penis. But oh well. I wasn't going to let Jessica's lack of a penis put a damper on my conference-going experience.
We got to work almost immediately, assembling what I assumed to be ten thousand tote bags full of books I had to sign. After a few minutes of this, we fell into bed at 5:30 a.m. for a restful ninety minutes of sleep.
Then it was work-time; I had to moderate a paranormal panel with me, Charlaine Harris, and Laurell K. Hamilton. This was problematic, as I had lied like a rug to all my readers pretty much from the moment my first book came out. Because although I had told my readers I attend RT to connect with them and garner publicity for my books, that was a BIG FAT LIE. I go to RT because I am a humungous fan girl, and because of the free food. So as a fangirl, it was a dream come true to have control of the mike and be sitting between Laurell and Charlaine.
Although I have come to know Laurell, her huggable husband Jon, and her assistant Darla (also huggable) and found them to be delightful, that's not why I'm so fond of them, or why I like hugging her husband. I'm fond of them because they were nice to me when I was struggling in e-book obscurity, when I had a contract with Berkley but my books weren't out yet. They were nice to me when I was so far below Laurell's best-selling radar I was as a bug. Don't get me wrong; plenty of people are nice to me. And lots more are nice to me now that I've been on the USA Today and New York Times best seller list multiple times. But I especially cherish the ones who were fond of me when I was a nobody with straw in my hair and cowshit on my heels.
Then there's Charlaine, a fiendish talent who's also just about the sweetest, funniest lady you'd care to meet.
And I, the unworthy Midwesterner, was sitting high up in a dias. Between them. With a mike in my hand, because I was the moderator. A grown-up should have been the moderator. Not someone with a C average in high school who never went to college. I was afraid I was going to hold the thing all wrong and talk into the wrong end.
But there I was. Introducing NYT best selling authors. Pretending to take control of them and a room full of two hundred people. Pretending to be adult, mature, and in charge. Furtively touching Charlaine and Laurell on the shoulders and then pretending I was brushing off lint. Laying my head down on Charlaine's shoulder for a snuggle while pretending I'd simply passed out from alcohol poisoning. Patting Laurell's hand while pretending to brush off non-existant bugs.
Although startled, Charlaine and Laurell rallied and pretended I wasn't totally CREEPING them OUT, I'm sure they were startled and uneasy to find the moderator fondling them between taking questions from the audience.
Oh...questions. I opened the discussion by promising the audience they could ask the three of us anything they liked...only to be talking to air. The mike had disappeared! Had it teleported? Had I eaten it out of nervousness and blocked the memory? No; Laurell, who has the reflexes of a crack-addled mongoose, had snatched it out of my hand and said, in reply to my giddy "ask us anything!" policy, "No no no no no NO NO NO NO NO. No." While we all gaped at her (and I kicked her gently, yet firmly, in the ankle, and then higher up on the thigh) she elaborated. "You may not ask me about my sex life, if you can be in a threesome with my husband and me, if you can have sex with our nice friend..." She nodded at her security guard, a magically delicious fellow with an interesting bulge at his hip, beneath his jacket. "...or if you can watch us have sex. You may not ask if you can be in the next book. You may not ask if you can mail me nude pictures of yourself. You may not..." This went on for five minutes, simultaneously horrifying me (people actually ASK HER these things?) and making me sleepy (damn, I was up late last night with those damned tote bags).
Finally, she was done. The audience seemed respectfully cowed. I'd had a refreshing cat nap. Charlaine looked pleasantly amused, as a well brought-up Southern lady would even if she was watching cows being herded into a slaughterhouse. I snatched the mike away from Laurell and we began. Again.
The hour flew by and we apparently entertained, because for the rest of the conference I had people coming up to me and raving about our panel. Given my odd, overly touchy nature with my fellow authors, and Laurell's Sexual Laundry List Of No-Nos, this seemed strange, yet welcome.
I was also able to torture another colleague, Cindy Cruciger (REVENGE GIFTS.COM), and that was worth the registration fee alone.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
