Nancy Martin's Blog, page 10

Reality Check for Book Lovers

Reality Check for Book Lovers

By Kathy Reschini Sweeney, the Tart who is not a published author and thus can tell you the hard truth

For those with no attention span: BUY BOOKS.

It sounds so simple and so obvious, but apparently it is not sinking in.  Let's infer that everyone reading this blog loves books.  Let's also infer that everyone reading this blog loves at least one of the authors listed up there.  Heaven knows there is a bounty to choose from, no matter what you like to read.

The purpose of today's blog is to clear up some confusion.  If you already know all of this stuff, maybe you could print it out, or link it, or share it on Facebook, or otherwise pass it along to another book lover who is not similarly educated.  

Thus - some great misconceptions about published authors, like our own Book Tarts, who's smiling faces greet you at the top of the blog and who's stories delight, entertain and move you.

1.  They publish books for a living.  Not for fun, and not just to see their names on a shelf.  Many of these women have other jobs - some have full-time jobs - so they don't end up on food stamps while they pursue their career as an author.  I love this analogy: If I painted houses for a living, would you ask me to paint your house for free?  Of course not.  So why would you view their books differently?  Most of these authors are too polite to say no if you ask for a freebie.  Me?  Not so much.  Please don't ask for free books for yourself.  It's rude and frankly, it's cheating.

2.  They don't make big up-front money; they don't make any money unless they sell books.  Unless you are an author with enough juice to merit an initial print run that guarantees a best-seller, don't expect a big advance.  Maybe it used to work that way, but no more.  Plus, no matter how small the advance is, the author has to pay her agent, her expenses and the IRS. The only way these authors make any money is by selling books and earning out on royalties.  These are not trust fund babies who write as an antidote to the crushing ennui of bon-bons and pool boys.  These women write books in the style and form the publishers demand so they can sell them.  (Side note: if you think the best-seller lists are based solely on merit, think again.  But that is a subject for another blog.)

3.  They work hard.  No shit.  I can confirm this because I did write a novel once.  It was fun.  Got an agent and everything.  Then I got into the re-writes and editing.  No fun.  In fact, I wasn't even through the second chapter before I had a headache.  Like I need another source of those.  Since I already have a day job, and I try to avoid pain, rather than exacerbating it, that was the end of that. Writers write because they have to. Published authors edit because it's their work, not their recreation time.  Some of the book tarts have re-written entire books during the editing process. Plus, if I told you how many published authors hate their books by the time they are done, you would gasp.  It's like being in labor with no discernible end in sight.

4.  They don't make any money from borrowed or shared books.  This is a tough one, but since I have the liberty of not giving a shit whether you buy my book, I am going to tell you the unvarnished truth.  When you buy one copy of a book and share it with a dozen friends, that does not help an author unless some of those friends actually buy the next book.  If you buy a book at a used book store, it does not help the author.  Authors are only paid on original sales. If you wait for a book to be donated to your local lending pool, it does not help the author.  Think of the music business.  Remember Napster and how it was shut down because it was criminal - as in theft?  Why would you think books are any different? This is where people can get huffy and point out that books are expensive.  Yeah.  Everyone gets that you can't buy every book.  But at least if you get it from a library, you encourage the library to buy more books by the author.  Libraries actually buy books.

5.  A special note on author events and book signings.  I am just going to say it, so brace yourself.  If an author and a book store go to the expense of traveling and setting up an event - at their own expense - because publishers don't pay for tours any more - it is great if you go.  But you at least have to buy a paperback.  I mean it.  

In addition, if you do go to an event, keep in mind that the author is there to sell books.  She may be kind enough to indulge you while you ask questions about how to get published, or to even critique your book pitch, but have some common courtesy and don't do it while there are others waiting to meet her and to BUY HER BOOKS.  Every person that gets tired of waiting in line while you chatter is money out of the author's pocket.  Seriously.

And I've seen this a hundred times - if you have the stones to ask a professional to critique your work-in-progress, or share her hard-earned wisdom, and you don't even buy her book, there is a special place in hell for you.  Get a clue and some class.  

I have to throw in a pet peeve here.  I think it is really gauche to have an author sign a book just so you can sell it at a premium online.  That hurts both the author and the book store.There may not be anything illegal about it, but come on, these are good women.  Don't be greedy. 

WHAT YOU CAN DO TO HELP:

Buy Books.  I mean it.  If you like books, you have to buy some.  The industry is in a damn mess right now, through no fault of most authors.  They only way to be sure we'll continue to have good books is to make sure people buy them.

No one has an unlimited budget (Oprah, if you are reading this week, no offense, girlfriend) so ask for books as gifts.  As Mary Alice says, a candle never changed anyone's life.  Many men and women are tough to buy for - do your family and friends a favor and make a wish list of books. Birthdays, anniversaries, Mothers' Day, Groundhog Day (hey, if you live near Punxsy, this is big) and - oh look at the calendar - the holidays are just around the corner!  Do you really want another sweater or a pair of slippers with squeaky clown noses?  

Buy books as gifts. Duh.  Just about everyone loves to read a good book.  If you're not sure what book to buy, get a gift certificate from your local book store.  Want to get something for a teacher, or hair stylist or delivery person or cleaning crew?  Paper back books cost less than half the gimcrack you've probably purchased in the past.  Also - just because you think some tchotchke is cute doesn't mean everyone else does.  But that is also a blog for another day unless you are someone who likes to buy trolls.  Those things are just plain creepy.  Ditto for grown men and ponies with pastel, comb-able manes.  Right, another blog.  Moving on.

Buy books as donations.  Want to support your local library AND your favorite author?  Buy a hardcover book and donate it to your library.  I would tell you it's tax deductible, but then I'd have to put a disclaimer to check with your own tax professional.  Who would probably love a book, by the way.

Use your words.  Talk about it.  Encourage your friends to support author events and your favorite authors.  Lend a favorite book to a friend in return for the promise that they will buy the next one.  Support your local bookstores.  And if you don't have one, you are always welcome at my favorite: Mystery Lovers Bookshop where the recommendations are priceless and the shipping is free!  

I'd ask the other Book Tarts to elaborate, but I don't want anyone to be offended.  So don't worry if they don't comment today.

As for the rest of the TLC community - what else can we do to help?

 

 

 

 

Boo! (Did that Scare You?) A pre-Halloween Contemplation

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

When I saw one dead squirrel on the highway, it was sad. Two dead squirrels, it was kind of...odd. But after seeing–and I'm not kidding—dozens and dozens of dead squirrels on the Massachusetts Turnpike, I knew there was something ver-ry weird going on. (This photo is of a plush animal.)

 I tried to take a photo, but it was too difficult. "What're you doing?" Jonathan said.

 "Trying to take a picture of all the dead squirrels," I said, window down, leaning out. "Can you maybe stop?"

 "We're on the highway! Going 70 miles an hour!"  (ed. note: she means 55.)

 "I know. Just thought I'd try it."   But it didn't work. I just got blur.

 Anyway, it's probably for the best that I can't get photos. I tried to Google photos of dead squirrels, just to –illustrate. But trust me, you don't wanna start trolling for  "dead animal" photos. I stopped after about two seconds. So, no photos of  real squirrels. (You're welcome.)

 But I immediately started thinking of reasons why this squirrel carnage would happen.  (Why did the squrrel cross the....er, try to cross the...)

(Other than that the squirrels are daring each other to get across the highway. Boastful squirrel says—"That guy's an idiot. I bet I can make it!" And on and on.)

 Anyway.  I thought: maybe it means  the plague is coming, or someone is doing experiments with some new psychedelic drugs and trying them out on the poor squirrels. Or a squirrel serial killer is on the loose. At Bouchercon, one author was saying that squirrels are incredibly homicidal—that if one person were killed for every murdered squirrel, the population of Cincinnati would be wiped out. In like, a month, or something.

 I stopped listening to the squirrel-murder stuff.  (Which you are probably now considering doing, too.)

 But the point is—whew, I hear you saying—it was scary. Really really scary. And I immediately started making up all the truly scary stuff that it could mean. If squirrels are throwing themselves like wacked-out lemmings across four lanes of treacherous highway, is this something that could happen to people?

 I mean, unlikely.  But why do we scare ourselves? Life is scary enough anyway, if your brain is wired that way. And I know some people's aren't. For instance:

 When Jonathan leaves the house to go do an errand or something, I always say: "Be careful!"

 And he's always baffled. "Of what?" he says.

 But the world seems threatening to me. (It might be because of working in TV news, when I see every bad thing that happens.)

 I remember the first really scary thing I ever saw: a movie called The Incredible Shrinking Man. I was maybe—ten years old. And I completely freaked. Do you remember that movie? Some sort of radiation (ooh, is that what happened to the squirrels?) washed over this guy, and it started making him smaller. And smaller. At one point, he was fighting a spider with a needle as a sword. SO SCARY.

 And Twilight Zone, remember? I was riveted. The one with the zoo? Where it turned out the earthling was in a cage?  And wasn't there one  which ended with the devil (dressed in a tuxedo) laughing evilly, and intoning  "This IS the other place!"  ? I can still hear that voice.

 Wizard of OZ.  Terrified. I assigned myself the duty of sitting in the wayback of the family station wagon (this is when I was, what, younger  than 10, probably)  and watching the sky for tornadoes. I was very very diligent about this, and  never told my parents I was the one protecting my family. I did a great job, apparently, since we did not die in a tornado. (Hey, it was Indiana. It could happen.)

  In college, we were assigned to read  Dracula by Bram Stoker. "It's really intense!" The professor said. " Pish tush," I said, or something like that. It's a BOOK. What could be so scary?

 It was college, so I couldn't go get garlic or anything, and being Jewish, the wearing of a cross wasn't going to fly. But I admit to you. I had to do something because the book said vampires could come in through closed windows as dust motes on moonlight. Are you kidding me? I decided if I slept with my arms in the shape of a cross, that would do it. I guess it worked. (mwa ha ha.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 In my twenties? Rosemary's Baby. The book. YIKES! I read it on an airplane, I remember, on the way from DC to New York, and I almost got on the return flight without getting off.  Eating  "the mouse,'? And seeing where the paintings had been taken down from the wall? And the nice  doctor who turned out to be (spoiler alert) in on the  whole thing?  Then using the scrabble tiles to spell out "All Of Them Witches" from "Roman Castevet."  Wait, that doesn't work. What was the anagram again?  I'm too scared to remember.  

 Thinking about  this, as I've grown older, made up things are much less frightening  (Blair Witch? Showing me nothing..) and real life things take over.  But it's almost Halloween, the scary season, and once again we bring out our scariest things--since it's more fun to be scared by fictional scariness than focus on what's truly terrifying.

 What's the scariest thing you've even seen or read? Fictional, of course, I mean.

I'm sure we'll be talking about  Halloween costumes later. But word to the wise--maybe don't dress as a squirrel this year. You never know.

 

 

Tinkering with meals, music and murder, guest blog by Joelle Charbonneau

HANK:  So you know book conventions, right. Panels of authors talking about new ideas and new books and writing and reading and..stuff like: voice. But at Bouchercon in St. Louis a week or so ago, something very strange happened on one of the panels. "Voice" took on a whole new context.

The panelists...wait for it...SANG. SANG!  Would you have the moxie to sing your answers?  Joelle Charbonneau was a star performer..and singing isn't her only talent. She's hilarious, and  multi-talented--and a wonderful new voice in mystery world. Her books are original and wonderful--even reading her unusual and wide-raining bio
 is a treat. (Check it out.)

And we're so happy she's here today...

 

I have a major personality flaw.  (Okay, technically I have dozens of astonishingly large personality flaws.  However, for the purpose of this blog post and to keep my therapy and chocolate bill down to a minimum, I'm going to just pretend I have just the one.)  I like to tinker.  Okay – now you're probably rolling your eyes at me.  Lots of people like to tinker, right?  But, for me, tinkering is a major problem.  I feel the need to tinker with everything.

 

If I'm making Cambell's soup out of a can, I add garlic, pepper or sometimes even cream to it.  And if I make dinner from scratch (which more often is the case) I never make a recipe the same way twice.  I have to add a bit of this and a bit of that to see how it tastes. (This drives everyone who knows me nuts because I never have a recipe to hand them if they like what I make.  I can make a good guess, but I'm never totally sure I remember exactly what tinkering I did.)

 

I'm also a tinkerer around the house.  If my husband cleans the house (kind of a big "if" but it does happen), I always have to go around and fix what didn't get cleaned exactly right.  Books in bookshelves get rearranged frequently.  Knickknacks and picture frames are moved from place to place.  I'm no the best housekeeper in the world, but when I get into the spirit, I find myself fiddling with just about everything.

 

And don't get my students talking about the tinkering I do in voice lessons.  I'm a huge perfectionist with their tone and their dynamics.  During a lesson, I might stop them a dozen times during the course of just one musical phrase adjusting this and that until it sounds just the way I think it should.  And then I do the same thing with the next phrase.  And once the music sounds great I start to fiddle with their acting choices.  There are days I think my students are ready to deck me.  Thankfully, they haven't succumbed to the temptation – yet.

 

Yes.  When it comes to tinkering I am an "A" type personality.  Which is probably why it comes as no surprise that I tinker A LOT when I write.  There is always a word (or hundreds) that I can change and adjust and make better no matter what stage of the process I'm in.  This means I tend to fret and worry when a new book comes out that I didn't do enough tinkering.  Yes, I need professional help.

 

And I guess it is even less surprising that my characters can't help but tinker when murder and crime come to their towns.  I mean, who does that?  What person looks at a dead body and says, "I should find the guy who did this?"  Well, Rebecca Robbins did in SKATING AROUND THE LAW.  And now she's fiddling again in SKATING OVER THE LINE.  This time there are cars exploding around town and a band of scary dudes appearing on darkened street corners.  No matter how hard she tries to stay out of the mix, Rebecca gets sucked into the mystery.  She just can't help it.  I guess she comes by it honest because neither can I. 

 

Joelle Charbonneau has performed in a variety of operas and musical theatre productions across the Chicagoland area.  She now teaches private voice lessons and uses her stage experience to create compelling characters in her books.  The first of the Rebecca Robbins mysteries, SKATING AROUND THE LAW (Minotaur Books) was called "Sexy and funny" by Kirkus Reviews.  The second book in the series, SKATING OVER THE LINE, will hit shelves on Sept. 27th, 2011.  The first of her newest series, MURDER FOR CHOIR, will be published by Berkley in July, 2012.

 

Welcome Our Newest Tart: Amy Hatvany!

Our newest Tart, Amy Hatvany, is a talent destined for greatness. Her latest book, BEST KEPT
SECRET, about a woman overcoming alcoholism in order to retain custody of her young son, kept me riveted and I wasn't the only one. Jennifer Weiner recommended BEST KEPT SECRET as a summer read on the Today show and the kudos have just kept on coming. A recovering alcoholic herself, Amy writes from painful, joyful experience and from her heart. Her prose is top notch, her characters fully fleshed (in more ways than one) and her pacing is impeccable.  And she's funny!

We are so lucky to have her here and I know you'll feel the same. So please give Amy a warm Lipstick Chronicles kiss and welcome her to the community. She'll be blogging every third Friday of the month...what a treat!

Sarah (Amy's biggest fan!)

By Amy Hatvany

I am not a high maintenance gal. I get my hair cut four times a year and rarely spend more than six bucks a bottle on shampoo. I don't visit the make-up counter for Bobbi Brown blush or Le Mer moisturizer; I'm good to go with Maybelline and Cetaphil. In fact, it takes exactly twenty minutes for me to shower, primp, and get out the door.

Now, before you're impressed by my apparent lack of consumerism or think that I'm taking some kind of moral stand against the objectification of women in the media, you should know that my minimalist approach to a beauty routine has less to do with political commentary than it does with laziness and thrifty Hungarian gland.  It's not that I don't like to look pretty (I do), it's that I can't stand extending more energy or money than is absolutely necessary to make that happen.

Considering this aspect of my personality, it didn't come as a surprise that my daughter, Scarlett, has more than just a bit of a tomboy in her. Up until this last year when she turned eleven, she could rarely be bothered with brushing her wildly curly mop or wearing matching clothes. She preferred rambunctious flips on the trampoline and wrestling with our dogs to sitting down and painting her nails. Since I tend toward telling her how incredibly smart she is versus how incredibly pretty (though in my completely jaded opinion, she certainly is both), we were fine with our mutually relaxed attitude toward our appearance.

So a few months ago, when she came to me and asked if I would take her to get her eyebrows waxed, I was more than just a little taken aback. "I have Dad's eyebrows," she said. Her brown irises were shiny and her bottom lip trembled. "All bushy and icky. Can we fix them?"

Despite the fact that she was right - she does have her father's thicker, slightly fuzzy caterpillar brows - my first inclination was to say no. She's eleven, for god's sake. She doesn't need to start this craziness yet. What's next? Latisse? A padded bra? Or - heaven help me - a bikini wax? Aren't little girls allowed to be little girls anymore? Is this where early sexualization and eating disorders begins - with the eyebrows?  Warm embers of sociological outrage began to burn in my belly.

"My friends are making fun of me," she added, and suddenly, I am eleven-years-old again, standing at the corner bus stop. It is a misty autumn day, and the boy I have a huge crush on is telling me to go lose a hundred pounds; his friends are laughing - some of them make "mooing" sounds. Even today, almost three decades later, my throat still floods with tears. 

The memory impales me, and I look at my daughter, now, who is tender and sweet and funny and dear, and I know I would do almost anything to protect her from this kind of pain. I think of how small a gesture getting her brows shaped actually is, and how huge a difference it might make for her. I can always set boundaries about what else she might ask for, but this…I can give her this. 

It's a fine line I walk as a mother, trying to teach my daughter to nurture and value her soul while she navigates these preteen years when everything is about beauty and blending in. We talk a little about the difference between self-care and vanity, and when I start to ramble on about the importance of basing her self-worth on who she is versus what she looks like, she sighs and rolls her eyes. 

"I know, Mom," she says. "Being pretty is fine, but being smart and kind is more important." She takes my hands in hers and squeezes them. "Relax. They're only eyebrows."

One can only hope.

  
Amy...

 

CJ Lyons Guest Blogs

Busted By My Playlist

by CJ Lyons    

I live in a rural area and anytime I go for a long drive I often have to rely on my mp3 instead of car radio. Which is fun because I throw my songs on there, hit shuffle, and off we go…at least that's how it's supposed to work.

Twice in the last month I got busted by my playlist.

You see, I like kickass rock n' roll. Doesn't matter if it's old or new as long as it has attitude. Which makes for some rather un-politically correct, not safe for work, non-kid-or old folk-friendly choices.

And since I keep my mp3 on shuffle, I never know what's gonna come out of the speakers next. It could be Led Zeppelin or the Stones or Buck Cherry doing the "dirty" version of Crazy Bitch.

Yeah, crank that over your speakers as you drive into the courthouse parking lot, ready to report for jury duty. Then park between a sheriff's cruiser and a Cadillac that probably belongs to a lawyer or judge.

 Worse? Forget the sunroof is open and sing along at the top of your lungs.

 (If you don't know the song, practically every other word is the F-bomb.)

 Those dirty looks were nothing compared to the tongue-lashing one of my friends gave me as we were driving together and Nickelback's Something in your Mouth came on.

 (yes, THAT is what the song's about…one of Nickelback's favorite themes)

 She's a true blue feminist and felt my choice in music was a betrayal of the cause, setting back women's rights fifty years.

 I had no defense other than, "it's got a good beat."

 "It's misogynistic."

 "Not as bad as their Figured You Out."

 She hit the fast forward button. Saving Abel, The Sex is Good. Scowled at me, hit it again.

 Saved by the Stones, Sympathy for the Devil.

 I relaxed, steered the conversation to a safe place. Of course that's when Puddle of Mud's Control came on.

 Otherwise known as the "smack your ass" song.

 What can I say? I gave up, and sang along. Heck, if you're gonna be busted by your playlist, you might as well have fun doing it.

 So you tell me, when has your choice in pop culture led to you being busted?

 C'mon, you know what I mean--that hidden DVD with the best of Gilligan's Island, the tattered, well-read copy of Mad magazine, the Sonny and Cher album you can't bear to part with…. 

As a pediatric ER doctor, CJ Lyons has lived the life she writes about in her cutting edge Thrillers with Heart.  In addition to being an award-winning, New York Times Bestseller, CJ is a nationally known presenter and keynote speaker. 

CJ has been called a "master within the genre" (Pittsburgh Magazine) and her work has been praised as "breathtakingly fast-paced" and "riveting" (Publishers Weekly) with "characters with beating hearts and three dimensions" (Newsday).

Her newest project is as co-author of a new suspense series with Erin Brockovich.  Learn more about her writing on her website, cjlyons.net    

A Crunchy Orange Goodbye

By Nancy Pickard

Ready? Set! Throw your Doritos, fellow Arch West admirers! 

You've already heard the news of his death, right?  So you know what an important person he was to all of us!  It was he who created the Dorito, and it is upon his funeral urn that his family plans to toss their chips down into the grave. 

"He'd love it," his daughter says."He'd think it's hilarious." 

"He was a character," says a son.

We understand. We Dorito lovers--the crunchy, salty, tangy lot of us--love him, too. We raise our orange fingers in a fond orange wave of goodbye. And then we lick them.

Mr. West got the idea for his crunchy crack when he ate  some chips at a food stand in Southern California.  I could love Southern California for this, alone.  Also, for Harley.

Frito-Lay wasn't interested, so Arch, that scamp, conducted a little R&D on the sly.  Guess who laughed last?  Dorito sales are now around five BILLION dollars a year. So far I haven't found an estimate as to how many chips that might be. I did find a pair of hilarious young women who dumped all the chips in a 13.5 oz bag onto the floor and found out that when laid  chip cheek by chip jowl, the carpet of chips measured four square feet! Then they neatly put all the chips back in the bag, and left the bag for anybody who might happen by. If you want to read all about their "scientific" experiment, here you go: http://www.cockeyed.com/inside/doritos/doritos.html

Another statistic:  a "serving" is 17 chips.  That's a lot.  Why can't I stop with 17?

You want to know about calories or nuitrition? You have come to the wrong blog.

This whole thing has got me thinking. . .if my family decided to toss stuff into my burial pit, stuff that says "Nancy" in no uncertain terms, would might they throw? I'm thinking it would have to be my iPad and a plate of shrimp risotto from "Story" restaurant in Prairie Village, Ks., because those are my current addictions. And if they also wanted to toss in a bottle of sauvignon blanc, there would be no grumbling from the ground beneath their feet.

So. . . which is your favorite orange chip?  And what would your friends and family want to toss on you, lovingly, of course, if you were as dearly departed as Arch West?

DORITO CASSEROLE
 



2 lb. hamburger
1 c. onion
1 can cream of chicken soup
1 can cream of mushroom soup
1 can Rotel tomatoes, mashed
1 c. evaporated milk
1 med. pkg. cheese Doritos, crushed
2 c. Cheddar cheese
Brown and season hamburger, onions, drain. Mix all ingredients, slightly grease casserole. Bake 30 minutes at 350 degrees. Sprinkle with grated cheese. Put back in oven 2 minutes to melt cheese.

The Ladies' and Gentlemen's

MargaretMaron

Today's text is from humorist H. Allen Smith's Life in a Putty Knife Factory, ©1943.  In describing where he liked to take out-of-town friends, he didn't talk about the Empire State Building or the Metropolitan Museum or the Statue of Liberty.

"I want them to see the gents' room at the Radio City Music Hall.  Here is one of the most noble prospects in the Western Hemisphere.  It is, beyond doubt, the biggest and most magnificent can on earth—a veritable Taj Mahal of toilets.  Looking at it for the first time, a man's credulity is put to test.  It is almost too purty to use."

Sooner or later (and it's usually sooner), you will find yourself away from home and in desperate need of the "facilities."  If you're a man in the woods, the nearest tree will do . . . or a dark alley in town.  Yes, there's a device that accords a women similar privileges, but you'll have to Google the topic because that's not what this post is about. They say "any port in a storm" but it would take a hurricane to induce me to step inside a portable one.  Instead, let's talk about the most elegant public restroom you've ever used.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I've used the facilities in the White House and in our own Governor's Mansion.  Both feature classic architecture and tasteful wallpaper.  Both have monogrammed paper towels. (And yes, I snitched one from each.) 

For sheer opulence, though, nothing quite matches the public restrooms in 4- and 5-star hotels. As long as you don't look like a homeless drunk, no one will lift an eyebrow if you approach an employee and ask where the nearest one is. Usually, they are clean and usually they are adequate, but some are minimal while others fall in Smith's Taj Mahal category.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I have never visited the Longwood Gardens in Pennsylvania, but if I'm ever in the vicinity, it's on my list because of this recent comment by Michelle Gervais, Associate Editor of Fine Gardening:

"I visited Longwood Gardens down in Pennsylvania late last week, and one of the things I was most excited to see was, believe it or not, their new public bathrooms. When I was there late last summer they were just completing them, and even then, during a sneak peak when I had to duck under scaffolding wearing a hard hat, they were spectacular. They're even better now! This underground corridor is attached to one of the rear corners of the conservatory, and it's a huge living wall under a glass roof, with individual bathrooms evenly spaced along each side. Inside each bathroom is a domed ceiling topped with a small, round skylight that pokes out of the grass above. It's truly a spectacular destination."

 
         Did you know that there's a contest for America's best restrooms?   http://www.bestrestroom.com/us/

Here's last year's winner, The Fountain on Locust, a vintage ice cream parlor in St. Louis, MO.  

According to the contest rules:   "Nominees must meet two criteria: The restrooms must be clean, and they must be memorable."

Do you have a nominee? 

A Different Kind of Reading

By Sarah

I've never quite figured out how Salem, Massachusetts, became a magnet for witches. Yes, yes, I know about the Salem Witch Trials, the cautionary period in American history that we have been doomed to repeat in our xenophobic paranoia of others.    And there's no gainsaying that Salem does have a witchy feel, especially in autumn when dying leaves fall to brick sidewalks outside the delightfully old clapboard houses and the briny fog rolls in from the harbor, shrouding the town in mist.

It's hard not to get in the mood even, as in the case last weekend, when the atmosphere was almost tropical thanks to a strange warm weather pattern. 

Still, the way I see it, witches would want to avoid Salem at all costs. Not only were their predecessors ill treated here, but there's the whole question of what caused the persecution to begin with: a bad winter, short food supply, last grasp of Puritan hold, fermented rye? All of these are possibilities. But witchcraft? Nah. I don't believe it.

So why did I fall under its spell and have my Tarot cards read?

I blame the Salem Literary Festival co-hosted by our own fabulous Salem resident Brunonia Barry. Brunonia is one of those writers who gives back to the community, cheerfully and lovingly. She supports the local bookstores and brings in new writers, including Erin Morgenstern a Salem native whose book, The Night Circus, is rocking the shelves. Plus, she's really nice and warm and generous and just...yummy.

Brunonia wasn't the only Tart there. Joshilyn Jackson cracked up a room with the story of how she found her agent. Hank Ryan, beautiful and poised as always, winged - just winged! - a job as moderating the Lipstick Chronicles panel and just when things were getting dull, Cornelia Read would stir it up with a few comments about her love of Prozac.

We're an odd buch, we Tarts. Like crazy aunts who carpool to Thanksgiving, cackling all the way.

But I have to admit to feeling a little intimidated. There was a lot of talent there last weekend - Julia Glass, Jenna Blum, Joss, etc. A girl can get to feel, well, lost. So, after the panel was done on Sunday,
I took Joss and Brunonia's advice and went to see a Tarot reader because, hey, I was in Salem and where else are you going to find witches willing to work before noon on a Sunday.

The witch I saw - if you can call him that - was hardly what I'd expected. Richard arrived riding a motorcycle, helmet under his arm, gray ponytail dangling down his back, tude galore.  I booked him for a half hour, but he ended up giving me 45 minutes.

Now, I'll admit right off that I am the least psychic person on the planet. I can't move a Ouija thingamajig or a dowsing rod no matter how hard I concentrate. Richard begs to differ. It's not that I'm not psychic, apparently, it's that my energy is all blocked up mostly - if you believe his reading - by my family.

Let's just say that hit home. Then again, what 48-year-old woman asking about her career would NOT be surprised to find that her great creative energy is trapped by laundry, dinner, tuition bills or, to put it in Richard's parlance, "psychic vampires." I knew exactly what he meant as soon as he said the phrase. Psychic vampires are people who suck your time and creative energy until you're left dry. I protect my family from them so, hey, yay for me!

But now it's the time in my life to tell them to wash their own socks and make their own sandwiches. My energy is unblocked and it needs to come out.

Oddly enough, this reminded me of another article I just read in The Atlantic about the power of menopause by the hysterical Sandra Tsing Loh. Message? Women losing their estrogen are really just coming out of the fog of fertility and losing the urge to polish silver and fix three-course turkey dinners. We can say to our loved ones, it's been great doing business with you, but now you're on your own. We can now lie around on Sundays reading the paper instead of getting the family ready for the work week ahead. No clean underwear? Not my problem. I'm writing a masterpiece.

So, there you go. Two messages from two sources: The Atlantic and Richard from Artemisia Botanicals.

I think I have my permission to, as Richard says, turn inward. About time!

Sarah

 

12 questions, 36 answers, and no sex

by the 3H's

1. When do you know it's really truly fall, regardless of what the calendar says?

HANK:  There's a thing that happens when you touch a wool dress in the summer--it's unthinkable to put it on. But then, one day, the air is different...and that wool dress seems--just right. Also, flip flops feel inappropriate. Sigh. The dahlias are in their last burst of colors...And you think about sweaters.

HEATHER: I wind up out of town with my usual sandals and knits and realize I'm freezing. What? Summer's over? Ah, hell! Or, someone says, hey, hurricane season is over. Do you think the hurricanes know that?

HARLEY: When we can all stand to go upstairs at night without air conditioning. Hallelujah!

 2. Any fall rituals?

HANK: We have a couch in our sun room--we change the slipcovers from white duck to taupe suede. It's so funny--instant fall. Big bins of chrysanthemums on the porch. And it's our wedding anniversary! We'll get out the photo album, and look at the pictures, and have champagne.

HARLEY: I can't believe I'm admitting this here, but I change the dinner plates. From delicate red and white polka dots to heavy brown and red square plates. I sound awfully Martha Stewart, don't I?

HEATHER: The zoo. There's that little jingle, "all the animals in the zoo are jumping up and down for you!" No, no, not really. Not until the temperature slacks off. Fall arrives--and you can go to the zoo. It's a huge misconception that we don't have seasons. We have hot, hotter, not so hot, and wow, actually almost mild and pleasant! Fall is not so hot, and animals get frisky. 

3. What will you be happy to say goodbye to about summer?

HANK:  Um, I like summer. And it went by too quickly.

HEATHER: Me, too, Hank. I love traveling in summer--it's so easy, carry-on and a computer bag. Fall means more luggage and waiting at MIA to get it back. Oh, wait--I'll be glad to say goodbye to hurricane season, tho it straddles a bit into fall.

HARLEY: Wet beach towels.

4. What will you be sad to say goodbye to? (Heather, dollars to donuts your answer is going to be "Chynna" . . . )

HANK: It's less about the season, and more about how the time is just--GOING BY. So fast! They just discovered that neutrinos can go faster than the speed of light. Well, I think the days go faster than the speed of light.

HARLEY: I'm kind of missing those polka dot dinner plates.

HEATHER: Chynna. 

5. When do you bring out the winter clothes (and where do they live all summer)?

HANK: Gradually! And they live on the third floor, in a room that I snagged for a big closet. (Don't tell.)

HARLEY: They live in the "guy" closet. This is one of the happy side effects of divorce: closet space.

HEATHER: What are winter clothes?

6. Favorite season?

HARLEY: This one! Fall! Woo-hoo!

HANK: Ah. I have reasons for liking them all. Is that too sappy? Fall is good!

HEATHER: I love them all. Summer has always meant family travel. Spring is Easter and a family and friend get-together known as East-over because close family friends are Jewish. Christmas--more family. And fall gives us Halloween, a favorite holiday, and no matter how old I get, I'll dress up and I love to take out the kids, big or little! And St. Patrick's Day is in spring, which is a big day when we all celebrate in honor of my mom. I love them all.

7. Are you itching to put up your Halloween decorations or are you thinking "what Halloween decorations?"

HEATHER: Most people believe that we have our Halloween decorations up all year. Our tastes are a little on the weird side. My sister told me once, "Who ever thought you'd grow up to have the Addams family house?" We are eclectic.

HANK: Too soon, too soon...!

HARLEY: I'm looking at my watch, thinking, "isn't it time yet?"

8. What is your favorite scent of fall?

HANK: Cinnamon. Burning leaves! Remember when everyone used to burn leaves?

HEATHER: Mount Trashmore doesn't smell quite as badly!

HARLEY: Here's my least favorite: brush fires. The curse of California and the smell is one you never forget. You wake up in the morning and say, "Oh, shit" and then you turn on the local news to see how close it is and how much to worry.

9. Are you starting your Christmas shopping, already finished Christmas shopping, or reading this sentence and thinking, "are you people nuts?"

HANK: Are you people.... :-) But I must say, I have thought about it. With much terror.

HEATHER: No. I don't Christmas shop early. I've tried it, and then Christmas rolls around, and I can't find the things that I've bought.

HARLEY: Same here. I forget all the hiding places. Hopeless. 

10. Do you care about the World Series?

HEATHER: Sure. That's baseball, right?

HARLEY: Yes, I think it is baseball.

HANK: Yes! Yes I do. I do. Go Sox. Sigh. They are absolutely tanking, and my poor husband is distraught. But Boston is really fun when the Sox win--there's a great spirit and sense of community.  Although that hasn't happened recently..sheesh.

11. Do you really change the batteries in your smoke alarm when the time changes?

HEATHER: Um, okay!

HANK: This year we will, yes, good idea.

HARLEY: I can never find the smoke alarm until the batteries die and it starts beeping. 

12. Would you even consider wearing white shoes between now and next Memorial Day?

HARLEY: What, are we savages? Barbarians?

HANK: You know what? No. That's so sad.

HEATHER: I think I have white sandals.

We regret that we neglected to consider the IOCHFTS crowd. Please feel free to include sex in your comments.

The Encounter

Elaine Viets

I won't deny it. I can't. There's a record. Dozens of people knew about it.

I saw him June 13. Soon he learned the inner workings of my heart. He quickly plumbed the depths of my wallet.

But I never expected this:

I got a bill from this cardiologist and it says: "Encounter 589569 for Elaine With Drake, Patrick MD."

I'm not using his name because I still owe him $21.87. Soap fans will know Dr. Drake's name from "General Hospital."

And speaking of soap operas, Doctor, did you have to call it an "encounter"? What ever happened to plain old "office visit"? Or "exam"? And when you number it like that, it seems so impersonal. Just another episode.

After I opened the bill and finished laughing – which is good for heart, by the way – I wondered how I would explain this encounter to my husband.

I didn't have to. He got a bill from a GI doc for another "encounter."

If that GI specialist had been honest, he would have billed Don for a "total reaming," not a simple encounter.

These medical encounters are an alarming trend. They're pretentious. They're ridiculous. And if anyone ever sues Dr. Drake for sexual harassment, it plays right into the hands of the prosecution.

I can see a lawyer waving that tell-tale bill in court and thundering: "Do you deny, Dr. Drake, that you had an encounter with Ms. Viets? That you made her lie down? That you examined her chest?"

Dr. Drake: "I did, but there was nothing improper about our meeting."

Lawyer: "Then why did you call it an encounter?"

Dr. Drake: "That's the new term. I have a modern practice and I wanted to be up-to-date."

Lawyer: "Let me go back to plain old-fashioned English, Dr. Drake, the kind we're used to speaking. Webster says an encounter is a 'particular kind of meeting or experience with another person, a romantic encounter.' Is that what you had with my client?"

Dr. Drake: "No. Of course not. It was completely proper."

Lawyer: "Even though you saw my client in bed?"

Dr. Drake: "That was for a test. And she was wearing a hospital gown. Angelina Jolie wouldn't make any hearts beat faster in those gowns."

Lawyer: "This is not the time for levity, Doctor. I'm trying to define this encounter. Was it this definition: 'To meet as an enemy or an adversary.' Is my client an enemy?"

Dr. Drake: "On June 13, no, she wasn't."

Lawyer: "Then why did you do it, Dr. Drake?"

Dr. Drake: "I wanted to get away from the old-school image of doctors with black bags back when medicine was more . . ."

Lawyer: "Affordable?"

Dr. Drake: "Less advanced."

Lawyer: "Ah, hah! You admit you made advances to my client."

Let me reassure yout that the real cardiologist was a model of good behavior, and there's nothing wrong with me – nothing that cardiologist can fix, anyway. And I don't believe that the language should never change. Only dead languages, like Latin, stay the same.

But this change was enough to send me off to the local restaurant – which advertised "hand-built cocktails."

Hand-built? As in made by little elves?

Usually I don't see little green men until at least two or three drinks. They come right before the pink elephants.