MaryJanice Davidson's Blog, page 8
March 28, 2012
My Sociopath Wins Over Another Reader
The fault is mine. I'm clearly not putting across how unpleasant George can be when he's not wearing ties that look like they were designed by the Manson family. My personal favorite: the bile-green tie with a background of mice eating cheese. Headless mice. Eating cheese. Hmm, there's a contest idea! Design a tie for George Pinkman, Special Agent of FBI's BOFFO, and win an autographed set? Hmm...
Anyway! The latest is from a very kind reviewer who wrote a very kind review, and makes no secret of her love for conscienceless bastards. It's pretty fun:http://readingandwritingurbanfantasy....
March 15, 2012
I Answer Questions About Unstable, Morons at the Movies, and Nicole Kidman
March 7, 2012
Bitches And Bells
When my husband and I changed our life for the better, I had no clue. Natch, since having clues is not something I am known for. My gifts lie in being shrill and bitchy, and also making really good fudge. (I stole, yes, stole my mom's fudge recipe and have never repented. And I never will. Cue evil laugh.)
I'd finally talked my husband into getting a dog. Because when there is a pre-schooler, a new baby, and a slooooowly thawing turkey in your life (it was Thanksgiving weekend), of course you want to throw an incontinent six week old puppy into that mix. A co-worker's neighbor was giving away a litter of half German Shepherd, half Border Collie puppies. Or, as Anthony saw it, half Awesome and half Awesomer.
So we went to the farm and picked the ball of fluffy black fur we liked best. But first we sympathized with the dog's owners. One of the owners. Apparently their German Shepherd was expensive and they'd been looking forward to breeding her for big bucks when the husband left the backyard gate open. Enter the neighbor's Border Collie, who was all, "S'up, gorgeous? How you doin'?" It was West Side Story meets Lady and the Tramp, with a side order of The Dog Whisperer. The Border Collie had his happy ending; the Shepherd and her humans, less so. That irritable bitch seemed pretty sick of her puppies when we saw her, and that was nothing compared to the wife. Because even then, half a year later, his wife was still mega-pissed that their breeding plot had been co-opted by a canine lothario. Strangers who only wanted to get a dog were able to pick up on this. Strangers. So: that poor man! Also: grab that puppy and let's get the hell out of here.
Was she gorgeous? Natch. Turquoise as an eight week old puppy was a ball of fluffy black fur, with big dark eyes and enormous ears: she looked like she had a pair of fuzzy black sails on top of her head. In time she would grow to be the size of her German Shepherd mother and would also inherit the pointed muzzle, the big eyes, the sharp white teeth, the fierce bark. She would come to be a scary-ass looking/sounding dog who was incapable of hurting anyone.
That was all in the future, though; our current focus was discouraging her love of shitting anywhere that was indoors and carpeted. We had an early warning system whenever she had done this; at the end of the day, cue my husband's breezy, "Hey, guys, I'm ho—aaaiiiggghhh!"
Smart? I'd never known a brighter dog. My husband had the idea of hanging a bell from the door we would open to let her into the back yard. Not even seventy-two hours later, Turquoise had made the connection between 'ding-ding!' and 'now I must poop outside'. Sure, there were accidents and positive reinforcement took time, but she moved in Thanksgiving weekend, and by Sunday was nosing the bell to go out. I was giving serious thought to hanging bells on the shovel: soon my husband would equate 'ding-ding!' with a neatly shoveled driveway. It worked! Fast-forward a decade, you don't even want to know where I'm hanging bells...
Sweet? You've never met a dog with a sweeter nature. Which was hilarious because she looked and sounded like she could leap upon you ("Rrroowwwll!"), sink her teeth in your throat ("Gggggnnnnn!"), then spit out your larynx ("Ptui!"). She'd belt out fierce booming barks and fluff out her fur to make herself look bigger; it was like being confronted by a bean-bag chair with teeth. But once she established that you weren't a serial killer, or at least a serial killer who didn't have dog treats, she'd let you do whatever you wanted. She'd scare children, then apologetically follow them around. And because she was part Border Collie, she'd try to herd them. A children's party, a Slip n'Slide, and Turquoise made for a diabolical recipe. Even today, when I see a Slip n'Slide I break out in a cold sweat and then crack up. (It's why I was discouraged from shopping in Target's toy section.)
A census taker or child or vet could do anything with that dog. Our vet loved that she equated him with indignities like inoculations or heart worm tests or the like (She did not like having her temp taken. At all.) but was glad to see him anyway. In fact, our vet is the mildest of men who always has a smile for his patients, and the only time I heard him even raise his voice was over Turq. He was doing a blood draw, but when the needle went in his assistant's grip on the dog slipped. Turq didn't take the chance to pull away or snap or growl; she stayed put but made a sort of whimpering desolate cry that got to everyone in the room: the doctor grated, "I said. To. Hold her." Mental note: do not hurt animals when this guy's in the room.
Which brings me to our son, our pack, and the things Turq let him get away with. Maternal? This dog made the Octo-Mom come off as a sociopath. (That might be the wrong example.) Dogs see their humans as their pack, with a strict hierarchy, like on The Office. There was AM (Alpha Male), AF (one guess), and everyone else. Liam was six months old when we brought Turq home, so in her mind he wasn't my baby, he was The Pack's puppy. And when my son was learning to walk, I'd come in and see he was keeping his balance by gripping the couch cushion while standing on Turq's back. Or neck. And possibly sometimes her head. But never a growl, never even a whimper. Just what I took to be long-suffering good humor, as if to say, "Oh, there you are, AF. Nice of you to remember you're one of the parents around here. Say, not to change the subject but have you noticed the big fat white hairless puppy standing on my head? Because I have. FYI, I thought he was your standard fat white quadruped, but it looks like he's going biped. I guess it's a lifestyle choice. Anyway, glad you're back. Finally."
It took me years (Years; I am not the brains of this outfit.) to notice she followed us upstairs every night when it was my son's bedtime. My daughter, who loves all things canine including non-fiction tomes on same, explained: in Turq's mind I was the alpha female. The AF bangs the alpha male and pops out the puppies; the beta female guards the AF while she nurses the pups. When the AF finally gets off her fat ass and gets back to bringing home the bacon, the beta female basically runs the canine daycare. Which brings me to...
Protective? Bet your ass. Even a big sweetheart like Turq would occasionally be moved to do some ass-kicking on her puppy's behalf. One of our fave places to bring her was a dog park twenty minutes down the road. No leashes, and a field and woods to run through. Liam was a pre-schooler by then, and because it was winter he was doing his impersonation of a short Michelin Man. Remember that scene in A Christmas Story? Not the "you'll shoot your eye out" scene, the one where the little brother is so layered with snow pants and scarves he can't put his arms down? Like that.
Anyway, one of the dogs got a little aggressive and knocked Liam down and, more startled than hurt (he bounced like Silly Putty), he burst into tears. Which sealed the other dog's fate: Turquoise did the canine equivalent of "oh no she dih unt!" and took off like a streak of hairy black lightning: ears flat. Muzzle pulled back, exposing big white teeth. Totally focused on her target; we could read her intentions, and also her mind: "Biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitch!" The offender was bowled over so hard, snow flew like shrapnel; he picked himself up and fled. I think he's still fleeing; we never saw that dog again. And the other dogs gave off "holy crap, don't mess with that bitch's fat white hairless biped puppy!" vibes; nobody messed with Liam again, or got in Turq's way.
Turq was bad at physics, and acting her age: even at the end of her life she'd frisk around like a puppy. (An example: the weekend before she died she spent at our cabin up north, playing submarine in the snow.) So a few years ago, we started thinking we should get another dog so she'd have some companionship. Or, as we now think Turq saw it, "I've done something horrible. I can't remember what it was, but it was pretty damned awful because now this annoying thing is living in my house."
Pearl joined us four years ago and brought all the enthusiasm a new puppy tends to bring. Annoyed at first, Turq tolerated IB (Interloping Bitch) and eventually grew fond of her, though she had some stern questions for us, so to speak. "Really? What, you guys thought having a dog who poops outside got boring? It's too quiet around here what with the warm house, steady meals, and calmly joyful interactions? So you bring in a new bitch? And I didn't get a vote why, exactly? Hey, you know what? Maybe I'll start pooping in the house without consulting you about it. See how you like it. Tables are turned, bitches! I hate you. Oh, fine, I love you again. But don't be having any more of these so-called 'family meetings' unless the whole family's there! You people!"
Pearl misses Turq, of course, and I think it might be worse for her than us; we at least know what happened. And she is a great comfort to us; the kids (including my husband, ahem) are letting her get away with stuff that they should not. (They think I haven't noticed our couch suddenly has an all-black fur coat. As if someone with black fur was on it. A lot.) And we'll probably get another dog in time, to keep Pearl company if for no other reason. But for now we're indulging the dog we've got left, and remembering "Biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitch!" and bells and dear friends who are gone but never, never forgotten.
March 5, 2012
Our Friend Is Dead; Long Live Our Friend
This was a tough week for my family. In addition to God-I'm-sick-of-winter shenanigans, book promotion, and school conferences, our beloved older dog, Turquoise, had to be put down.
It's always awful to lose a friend, but it was worse for my husband and our kids, who had never lost a dog before. As Turquoise slowly sank into sleep and then into death, my heart didn't break for them; it crumbled, it melted. He had grown up with cats. And cats are great, but they're different. Turquoise was the first dog he'd ever had, and she didn't come into his life until he was a husband and father. He didn't know about dogs. He only knew about cats.
(This is not an anti-cat diatribe. But this is most definitely a "dogs rock!" diatribe. To those of you who love cats: I'm happy for you. I like 'em, too. But dogs are different.)
My husband didn't know how astounding and wonderful were the rewards of being a dog owner. Sure, you have to feed them and shelter them. House-training takes months and when you're standing in the snow or rain waiting for them to finish their leisurely dump, you curse them under your breath (or, um, louder). You've got to be careful leaving good shoes around a teething puppy. You can't leave town for a day or two like you can leave cats; you've got to find a kennel or a really good friend to watch them. It's a pain in the ass. They're needy, sure. It's annoying sometimes, yep.
My husband had vague ideas about those things, but he believed me when I promised to take on most of those responsibilities myself. (And I did...mostly.) But he didn't know that if you love a dog, or even if you're just nice to a dog...he didn't know that every single day a dog you love, who loves you, she's so glad to see you come in the door. So glad. Every day. You want to take a walk? She's right there. How about a drive to the local DQ? Oh, yes. It could be Burger King or the used car lot or the car wash or the cemetery or the tennis court or the train yard. She doesn't care. She wants so badly to go with you. My husband didn't know those things. He was delighted to discover them. And I was delighted for him. As long as I could remember, going back to my earliest memory, there had been at least one dog in the house; often, there were close to half a dozen. I knew these things because I had grown up with them. He knew them because he was seeing them as an adult, and thought it was wonderful, that dogs were wonderful, that Turquoise was wonderful.
So to finally learn all those things, to realize what's been missing from your life, to become used to the wonderful thing that is having a dog in the family, only to hear that she is very sick, she is dying by inches, she has been in your life over a decade which is a long long life for a dog but that's all done now, and you must say good-bye...that's hard. That's kind of impossible to think about for long; it's so hard.
And still: my children. My husband. Losing a beloved friend, a pet, is wretched and it fucking sucks no matter how often it's happened. But the first time is the worst. My husband and my children were having their first time, and the only thing I could do was cry and cry. I had no words of wisdom. I had used Kleenex and swollen eyes and a red runny nose. My husband and I took Turquoise's death so hard, in fact, that the kids were worried about us. Role reversal sucks.
Weeks from now, days from now, we'll be laughing again. Remember the time she...? And then when she...? And remember how when she did all that we...? Right now it's hard to think about the Turq-less time ahead and feel anything but leaden dismay. My husband and I, at least, have the adult perspective; we can say to ourselves no, really, in time the pain will fade. It's a lesson our children are learning now.
We miss our friend, terribly. We hope to see her again. And we're sorry for anyone, anywhere, who had to lose a dog, ever.
March 1, 2012
I Reveal Another Perversion
Ahem. Anyway. Check it out if you're up for the horror: http://www.heroesandheartbreakers.com...
Never pretend I didn't warn you. :-)
February 28, 2012
YOURS MINE AND OURS Released Into The Wild
February 25, 2012
I Expose Myself (Sneak Peek at YOURS MINE AND OURS)
You can also win a copy of the book itself! I dunno about you guys, but I devour free books like they were cupcakes. Even with how trendy cupcakes have been, I still devour the l'il frosted buggers. Mmm...trendy pastry...
February 23, 2012
I Explain Why My New Book Is Perfect If You Hate Betsy/I Explain Why My New Book Is Perfect If You Love Betsy
(What? It's not like the government didn't come up with even dumber plans in real life.)
YMO is about three very different women who live in the same body. ("Once upon a time, there were three very different little girls who grew up to be three very different women. But they have three things in common.") So yeah, YMO is Charlie's Angels meets Sybil. BOFFO employs people from all walks of sociopathy/neuroses/manias, like "set a thief to catch a thief", and their clearance rate is pretty terrific (much to the annoyance of just about everyone else in the BOFFOverse). My editor calls their various quirks (a crime scene tech who is a kleptomaniac, a field agent with mirrored self-misidentification syndrome) their super powers, which I thought was hilarious. And apt!
(A side note which is not hilarious: the research I did for this book was terrifying. I'll be blogging more about mirrored self-misidentification this week, so be prepared to have the living crap scared right out of you. Even as I'm thinking about SMS the hairs on the back of my neck aren't just standing up, they are leaping up and trying to escape.)
The heroine, Cadence, is the core personality; she is warm and engaging and naive. Her "sisters" are Shiro (weapons expert and chilly antisocialist) and Adrienne (crazycrazycrazy and crazycrazycrazy). When Cadence isn't trying to find the right Secret Santa gift for a colleague, and Shiro isn't making the range master cry and cry, and Adrienne isn't adopting garden gnomes (which she steals, shelters, and then blows up), they try to catch bad guys. In this case, an unbelievably awful killer who kidnaps and kills a fourteen year old boy every June...and has for decades.
Since it's hard enough keeping track of the weirdness in that series (Cadence's sociopathic partner, George; her issues-with-phallic-objects boss; her OCD-laden best friend; her boyfriend the baker...) there is not a drop of the paranormal to be found anywhere. Just easily angered government employees with access to Haldol.
So! I have readers who are kind enough to read my paranormal books even if that's not normally their thing ("But you're funny, so I kind of force myself to get through them." "That's great! But you don't have to force yourself. Just buy 'em; nobody said you had to read them."), this is vampire/werewolf/zombie free.
For those of you who like my paranormal stuff but hate what I'm doing to the UNDEAD series, there's no Book of the Dead, no Ancient Betsy, and no unfortunately-deceased pals (no matter how temporary their death actually is) to be found anywhere in YMO. You can read it safely!
For those of you who like the paranormal books and love the direction the UNDEAD books have taken, while you're waiting for UNDEAD AND UNSTABLE (June 2012) to come out, there are no UNDEAD spoilers in YMO, though there are murders, secret dogs ("I can't have a dog in this apartment, so we have to keep her a secret."), and also bakers. You can read it safely!
Sneak peeks will follow over the next few days ("Don't threaten us, Davidson!") and I hope you'll get a kick out of them. Regardless, I'm once again reminded of this charmed life I lead...I feel so lucky to even have the chance to put something like YOURS MINE AND OURS out there. God bless editors...and readers. :-)
February 7, 2012
We Avoid A Slow Death And Manage Not To Chop Up the Kids for Kindling
My point: Massachusetts only thinks they have cold weather. I can remember my first year there and seeing locals bundled into parkas and titanic moon boots, shivering at the bus stop in frigid November weather. I'd hear them wonder aloud if the #71 bus to Watertown would show up before hypothermia set in: it was a brutally cold fifty-five degrees! That's what we Minnesotans refer to as tank top weather.
Minnesota, now. Minnesota is cold. Which brings me to our heater breaking down yesterday. The temp inside our house was sixty-two degrees and dropping; the temp outside was twenty degrees, also dropping. Even someone as bad at math as I was could see that, assuming I didn't forget to carry the remainder, it was cold and getting colder. It was also almost midnight.
(Cue haunting wolf pack howling at the full moon. Yep. It was a full moon. "Hoo-hoo-hooooo!")
We called the repairman, whose company offered a wide range of services: heating/plumbing/electrical repair/bingo calling ("P10, P as in Plumbing!"). I might have made that last thing up. They're an efficient company in nearly all ways, which is why their inefficient greeting is hilarious. "It's a great day at One-Hour Heating and Air-Conditioning Benjamin Franklin Plumbing Mr. Sparky Electric, my name is Deb, how can I save you time today?" (I have changed Deb's name, which is not Deb, to protect Deb, and also myself.)
Seriously. They go through that whole thing every time they answer the phone. I was taught (in vain, but I have some vestiges of King Al's upbringing) it was rude to interrupt, but "It's a great day at One-Hour Heating and Air-Conditioning Benjamin Franklin Plumbing Mr. Sparky Electric, my name is Deb, how can I save you time today?" is a long time to wait when your line is, "Our heater's broken; we're slowly dying."
To our delight, they offered to come straight out. We weren't surprised they wanted to help...their phone greeting ("It's a great day at One-Hour Heating and Air-Conditioning Benjamin Franklin Plumbing Mr. Sparky Electric, my name is Deb, how can I save you time today?") made their stake in this pretty clear. But they were willing to come out at midnight, which my husband and I thought was pretty nifty.
I explained the problem, and was then asked if we wanted a call back within the next ten minutes, or an e-mail. Wow, you can make this phone call take three times longer than it should, and clog up my e-mail, too? Double threat! Awesome. Um, thank you very much and the former, please.
I hung up and told Tony what was going on while I kept an eye out for zombies. Our basement looks like it came straight out of any number of black and white zombie movies: crumbling cement walls, spider webs, the sound of dripping from somewhere, rumbling machinery, evidence of mice, the skeleton of my crazy dead grandma, and zombie-sized nooks and crannies. We've lived here nearly a decade, and I can still count on both hands how many times I've been down there. And not only was I down in that creepy hell-hole, but I was making calls from said hell-hole...and not to S.W.A.T.! Could the evening get any stranger?
Why do I always ask that stupid question, since it sure could, and nearly always does? Because to make things really exciting, we were flat-out of firewood, so we couldn't put the living room fireplace to use. Then I had my brain storm. I hate staying up late. So I suggested that if I ventured forth into the frigid night and brought back some firewood, I could then go (back) to bed and Tony could wait up for the 'It's a great day at One-Hour Heating and Air-Conditioning Benjamin Franklin Plumbing Mr. Sparky Electric, my name is Deb, how can I save you time today?' guy.
Yes! So off I went. We normally buy half a cord of wood at a time from a local company, but in a pinch, most of the local gas stations sell little bundles of firewood. The first one I tried, though, was out! Can you imagine? A gas station out of wood? The world doesn't make sense anymore. The clerk could see I was out of sorts and tried to be helpful, but for some reason she wanted to sell me gasoline. I left, and tried the next one. Jackpot: a whole pallet stacked with tidy piles of wood. I loaded five of them into my car, and when the last one fell forward a few inches just as I shut the lift gate, I told myself that when I got home, at least one the bundles was gonna fall out and pulverize my foot, so be extra careful. It's the little things that make life easier.
(Yes, I'm walking with a slight limp today. Shut up.)
I went inside to pay, and the attendant asked me which pump I'd used. I explained that I had gotten no gas, just a load of firewood. Why else would I be at a gas station, for God's sake? Sometimes I wish people would think before they ask these things.
Meanwhile, while I was doing my impersonation of a bitchy six foot tall part-time lumberjack (love those flannel shirts!), my husband had texted me, to wit: "Where are you?" Sure, my ten minute errand had taken over half an hour, but it wasn't my fault. It took longer than I thought what with gas stations out of wood trying to sell me gas, and also to pick all the splinters out of my foot. What am I now, a lumberjack moonlighting as an oracle? Nobody could have seen that coming.
Once back home, I made several trips to lug all the wood into the garage, then had trouble shutting the door leading to the wood bin. I finally got that done, gave up trying to brush the wood chips off my coat, then tried to go inside only to find that door locked. By the time my husband opened it, I had my hands on a small split log that would have shattered the living room window and alerted my husband to my freezing, splinter-laden, limping, pissed off presence, but because I throw like a girl, it fell two feet short and by then he'd decided to let me in.
He thanked me very sincerely, and I thought it was sweet how he thought I'd grabbed the chunk of wood to, of all things, throw on a fire. As he began to build a fire, I asked, "Is the 'It's a great day at One-Hour Heating and Air-Conditioning Benjamin Franklin Plumbing Mr. Sparky Electric, my name is Deb, how can I save you time today?' guy here yet?" Nope, but would be in the next five minutes. So I figured I'd go (back) to bed. But his question stopped me in my tracks. Okay, that's not true, I was halfway up the stairs before what he'd said penetrated: "What's our plan if the 'It's a great day at One-Hour Heating and Air-Conditioning Benjamin Franklin Plumbing Mr. Sparky Electric, my name is Deb, how can I save you time today?' guy can't fix the heater tonight?"
That's what I like about my husband: he's always after a plan B in case we end up dying or loaded with overdue library books or trapped in a basement with a zombie and can't remember S.W.A.T.'s direct line. So I thought it over and suggested that we sleep in the living room in shifts...someone can keep the fire going and someone can sleep. And my husband, who felt bad that his attempt to lock me out so I'd stop borrowing his socks failed, offered to take the first shift. We also decided I'd tell the kids that if they woke up and were too cold, they could sleep in the living room. As I climbed the stairs I noticed it was getting really, really cold; I knew I'd have to borrow at least two pairs of Tony's socks. But I figured my poor hubby had enough to worry about without wondering what persons unknown had done with his socks. Because that's the kind of thoughtful spouse I am: always putting my husband's needs ahead of my own.
"Say hi to the 'it's a great day at One-Hour Heating and Air-Conditioning Benjamin Franklin Plumbing Mr. Sparky Electric, my name is Deb, how can I save you time today?' guy," I said, and headed to the bedrooms. I stopped at my son's room first and nearly wept, because I knew what was about to follow would be traumatic for both of us.
"Liam? Hon?"
"..."
"Liam?"
"..."
"William."
"..."
"William!"
"..."
"WILLIAM DAVIDSON ALONGI!"
"..."
"Wow, no response at all? Seriously?" I jabbed him in the ribs. Hmm, the boy was gonna have to lay off the pound cake, he had no muscle tone and was just a big bundle of flab, which--no, that was his stuffed seal. Stupid poor night vision! "WAKE UP BEFORE YOU FREEZE AND DIE!"
My shrill voice must have penetrated, as his fight or flight instinct kicked in: "...ten mmm...minutes..."
"WAKE UP BEFORE YOU FREEZE AND DIE AND I KILL YOU!" A firmer jab in the ribs, and he made a sort of slurry squeaking nose. "I know you're waking up, I just heard--oh." Stupid stuffed snake who squeaks when you poke it in the head. "We're kind of in crisis mode, so wake up before I water board your stuffed animals."
"What...? Nnn? Mom? Hnn..."
"Yeah, sorry to wake you up, I guess, but listen..."
"Don't want...hot chocolate...nnn..."
"I did not go to bed and then get out of bed and then notice we had no heat and then drive to two gas stations to not get gas so I could come back upstairs after midnight and make you hot chocolate!"
He was squinting one eye at me. "Well, okay, I don't want it and you don't..." He yawned like a grizzly bear. "...what's th'problem?"
"It's not about hot chocolate, how's that? Listen, the heater's not working, but the 'It's a great day at One-Hour Heating and Air-Conditioning Benjamin Franklin Plumbing Mr. Sparky Electric, my name is Deb, how can I save you time today?' is on the way."
"Who?"
"Never mind. But he might not be able to fix it tonight. So if you wake up and can't feel your limbs, or if you can see your breath, you can come sleep downstairs."
"..."
"Okay?"
"..."
"Close enough."
Next I went to my daughter's room. She was a little more alert as her bedtime was later than Liam's, and groggily listened while I explained what was going on. "...or if you can see your breath, you can sleep downstairs."
"Nn-kay."
"And please shut off the fan."
"Why?"
"Uh...why? You don't know why? Okay, here's why. It's stupid to have a fan blowing when it's twenty degrees outside and the heater isn't working. So shut if off, please."
"It's mostly for noise," she said, not budging.
"It's mostly asinine to have a fan running at full speed in the winter when the house is slowly turning us into living [opsicles." I won't deny it; my temper was running pretty ragged by then. "So, darling daughter, my inner light and the delight of my eye, SHUT THE FAN OFF."
I turned to leave, and heard, in the tone every teenager masters the day of their thirteenth birthday: "And a very good night to you, too, Mother." To indulge in an overused phrase: Oh no she di'unt!
I turned back. "Thanks, but I'm not going to have a good night. The heater's broken, the 'It's a great day at One-Hour Heating and Air-Conditioning Benjamin Franklin Plumbing Mr. Sparky Electric, my name is Deb, how can I save you time today?' guy might not be able to fix it before morning, my foot has swollen to the size of the bundle of logs I dropped on it, gas station employees keep trying to sell me gas, your dad tried to kill me again by locking me out, Liam may or may not want hot chocolate, and my daughter thinks I'm a fascist because I made her shut off the fan that she, by her own admittance, doesn't use to keep cool. But I forgot the best part: your dad and I are gonna be sleeping in the living room in shifts. So you and your brother don't die. Because that's how we roll, kiddo, we try to make it so you guys don't die. So, no! I'm not having a good night!"
"..."
"Dammit."
I stomped to my room and glared at our two dogs. Both declined to start a rumble, even though the Alpha Female smelled enchantingly of wood and blood and fury. And what...wait. What was that odd feeling in my stomach? I could almost...dammit! Now I wanted hot chocolate. Curse you, son who can sleep through my screams, for putting that idea in my...wait. Was that rumbling my stomach or something bigger?
The heater was on! Just as I realized, I heard Tony call from downstairs. "Hon, the 'It's a great day at One-Hour Heating and Air-Conditioning Benjamin Franklin Plumbing Mr. Sparky Electric, my name is Deb, how can I save you time today?' guy was able to fix it...took him barely five minutes! He says it's a temp fix but they'll come back first thing in the morning and figure out what's blocking the in-flow pipe and take care of the whole thing."
In-flow pipe? Whatev. At least it was a quick fix and not too weird or gross.
"He thinks maybe leaves got stuck in there...or a bat...or a dead squirrel. Isn't that great?"
Super great. But I stayed positive as I realized all the things I had done in anticipation of the heater not working took longer than it took the 'It's a great day at One-Hour Heating and Air-Conditioning Benjamin Franklin Plumbing Mr. Sparky Electric, my name is Deb, how can I save you time today?' guy to show up and fix it. That kind of customer service is pretty hard to beat.
Best part (besides not freezing to death): our bed has lots of thick warm blankets to snuggle under; the only thing needed to guarantee my rest was an unguarded sock drawer. And since my poor husband was stuck downstairs until the fire died down, there was an unguarded sock drawer in this very room. Socks! Socks for everyone! Hell, sock PUPPETS for everyone!
* * *
An addendum: a few minutes ago, Tony texted me that O'Connor had left a voicemail asking if we were satisfied with their service, and would I mind calling them back?
No problem. I called their number and heard the greeting I'll probably hear in dreams for the rest of the week: "It's a great day at One-Hour Heating and Air-Conditioning Benjamin Franklin Plumbing Mr. Sparky Electric, my name is Deb, how can I save you time today?"
A greeting I'd been giggling about was now, just hours later, music to my ears. Thanks for everything, OHHACBFPMSE. (They probably should stick to saying the whole thing; that acronym is not helpful.) It was a great day, and you saved me all sorts of time. And hey! Thanks for asking.
February 6, 2012
I See London, I See France, France Will See My Underpants
Which is why I love being invited to speak to writers/readers about the awesomeness that is me. In a single speaking engagement I can satisfy all my dark desires. Even after years of hitting best-seller lists, I'm always surprised and pleased to be invited...well...anywhere!
Which brings me to France. My French publisher (Betsy is slowing taking over the world; the UNDEADs are published in over a dozen countries) invited me to the Imaginales conference and, after the conference, to a few days in Paris promoting my books. There's also talk about me nipping across the channel to Great Britain as well. My agent is still working out the gory details: how I'll promise not to start a food fight on the train (note I specified "the train" not "all trains"), channel Inspector Clouseau by speaking in a horrible accent and tripping over everything in sight ("Wax? What wax?"), continually ask to speak to the queen, pretend to be one of Madame Tussauds wax museum exhibits, gloat about how America won the Revolutionary War, or try to cross the channel while furiously pedaling a Swan Boat.
(All these rules and regulations; international travel can be complicated, am I right? Also: I was fudging when I promised not to gloat about the war.
In all seriousness, I was thrilled to be invited and not just on my own behalf. I am blessed in my readers; there are always requests for me to visit their home towns/states/countries. And I hate having to say anything but "as a matter of fact, I *am* going to be in Romania next week!" So, to my French readers who have asked: as a matter of fact, I *am* going to be in France!
Which brings me to my Chicago readers: as a matter of fact, I *am* going to be in Chicago this spring. Specifically, at the Romantic Times convention, my favorite time of the year. Here are all the ways RT is awesome: strangers like to tell me I'm swell, I don't have to share my ice cream, I get to meet lots of readers, take home tons of free books, and this year host a party just for readers: "Screwdrivers and Smoothies". While high on a combo sugar/booze buzz, I'll inundate them with MJ propaganda, share book spoilers about upcoming projects, and talk about something we've always got in common: our love of books. Anyone who sensibly wishes to avoid seeing me and hearing my shrill Midwestern accent ("Where's the bar-er? Why do they always hide the bar-er? That's not such a good deal for me then.") should avoid Chicago this April.
Which brings me to: June 20-24 in Gatlinburg, TX, for the RomFest. I'm giving the keynote speech (picture all those poor people trapped in a large room where someone has given me a microphone to emphasize my shrill vanity) and, after the speech, shown to the city limits with a polite request I never return.
Which brings me to: New Orleans this August for the Authors After Dark con. See RomFest above for the chain of events I'm confident will happen.
There are more to come, and I hope to have more news about more travel very soon. There are all kinds of months to fill. Yippee!
So: the moral of this week's blog. You cannot outrun me. You cannot avoid me. I AM EVERYWHERE. If you start now, you should have just enough time to change your identity and leave the continent. Never say I didn't warn you.
