Nancy Martin's Blog, page 24

Why I Have TV Friends

Why I Have TV Friends

By Kathy Reschini Sweeney

First off, I know a lot of people who do not watch TV - no offense intended or taken.  Some think it's insipid.  Some think it's a waste of time.  Some think it is a sign that the apocalypse is upon us.  By the way, just in case the world does end on 5/21/11, it's been a great ride, my friends - I'm just hoping it happens after 4 pm Pacific Time so my Mom gets to see the Crown Prince actually married.

Which leads me to my favorite T-shirt of the week and the current photo on my Facebook page. 

You can substitute just about anything for the word "Italian" - but be aware that it does lose a bit with the opera reference.

When Tom and I first started dating, he would refer to our family dynamic by asking: "What's on the marquee this week?"  Hah, hah, hah.  What a witty fellow.  Too bad it's more truth than joke.

The Reschini-Kennedy Opera is now in full dress rehearsals for the Royal Wedding this coming weekend.  Every time I get a phone call or an e-mail, Ty grins.  "This is going to be redonkulous!" he says.  What the hell does he know?  He can just invoke the 'don't ask me, I'm just a child' exemption, even though he's already taller than most of the people in the family.  It is because of such exemption that he may be enlisted to garnish certain beverages with crushed-up Xanax.  Hey, when people expect you to fix things, they don't get to dictate the methods, right? I mean, it's not like it's poison or something.

This is why I have so many TV Friends.  Because Castle and Beckett can create major drama, but I don't have to worry about fixing them because (spoiler alert!) they don't exist in real life.  Not that I'm not concerned - I mean - Castle doesn't have a great track record with women, Beckett is completely closed off emotionally, and then there is the curse of Moonlighting, which says that if you spend seasons creating tension, and you finally put the star-struck-crossed couple together, the show will go right in the shitter.  (These are technical TV terms, so feel free to ask questions if you are confused.)

This happens to be season finale week on television, so the drama is very high.  I mean, if you are reading this after Wednesday night, then you already know about Red John and the Mentalist, for heaven's sake -  am I the only one who caught Director Birtram (political patsy extraordinaire)  spouting William Blake poetry? Plus, I am totally freaked about Van Pelt getting married to that guy when I know she still loves Rigsby - and there is something about Van Pelt's fiance that I do not trust.  

Know who else I don't trust?  Leon Vance, the director of NCIS.  He's hiding things from Gibbs.  I don't like it and if Ziva ends up hurt, there is going to be major hell to pay.  Bad enough we lost Mike Franks - but judging by the look of him in the last episode, he had some terminal disease any way. You don't need to wait for Ducky to tell you - take it from me.  I used to watch soaps, and I know that sunken eyed, sallow skin tone look means imminent death.

I am also upset with Alex Karev at Seattle Grace.  Man up, Alex, and stop being Mr. Buttinsky.  Yeah, your mother was a nutball and you constantly sleep with the wrong women - don't take it out on innocent patients. So she switched one tiny thing on a clinical trial - it was the Chief's wife, for heaven's sake and after what Meredith's mother did to that woman, it was the least Grey could do.

See how nicely this works?  I get to deflect all my familial tension to people who look real, and sound real, but don't suffer any real consequence.  Except, of course for the cast of Human Target, who just disappeared. I like to picture them at a big party with the casts of Studio 60 and The Nine.  I do love a tidy ending.

So don't mock me for my TV fixes.  Believe me when I tell you that my actual emotional life would be much less stable without them.  Did I mention that today is a full moon?  - as if we needed any multipliers for our crazy.

Your turn to share - what's your fix?

And for heaven's sake, hope for clear skies and fair winds in San Francisco on Saturday afternoon, in both the meteorological and the metaphorical senses.

Paradise

By Heather

One of the great benefits of living in South Florida is the Keys. Now, the rest of the state, the Keys change as you drive along them. Key Largo . . . ah, yes! You've left the mainland behind. You'll find dive boats and fishing charters, charming little mom and pop inns and bed and breakfast establishments, and ritzier accommodations as well. But it's still rather populated; there's a mammoth Publix (where shopping is a pleasure) and other stores, so . . . though you've left the mainland behind and you're all happy about that, you're still kind of close to the mainland and there's a touch of it that follows behind. But getting there was great--you either came by Card Sound Road or US1, and you passed signs that warned "Alligator Crossing" and "Lake Surprise" (were they surprised to find a lake?) and all the little road markers that told you where you were--countdown to 0, of course, when you reach the southern-most tip of the United States, Key West.

But that's halfway there. Key Largo is the destination for many a Miamian out to pretend for the weekend that they really get to live among the icy drinks, tiki huts, sand, and sun. (Of course, some do!) Heading a bit further south, you find more great places passing Islamorada and other islands in the upper Keys. The further south you go, the further slightly more primitive it may be, excepting Marathon, a nicely populated area that hosts The Dolphin Research Center, and downtown area, and other features. All along are spectacular places where there are gorgeous birds and isolated areas where you can camp and swim and play. Onward . . . pass the little islands where if you're lucky, you'll see a little tiny key deer, Stock Island--yes, they kept stock there--and you wind up in Key West.

I went down for two reasons; a friend in law enforcement was giving me a hand with some Federal research, and to take a walk through Fort Zachary Taylor again. 

I've been heading there ever since I can remember. My dad was huge on water sports, swimming and diving, and so, when I was little, we always found the out of the way place with one little dock, fishing poles just handed to you by the old tar who owned the place, a spit of beach, and some laid-back time for my parents. But it always included history. Fort Zachary Taylor included. 

Yes, Key West is where folks come for bachelorette and bachelorette parties. Duval Street cranks it up every night with music, and this island--once, in the great days of salvage divers, the rich per capita city in the US--definitely makes half its money off the liquor sold. But, if you're thinking about coming . . .

Fort Zachary Taylor is now home to incredibly well-preserved cannons from the Civil War. The Union holding Zachary Taylor meant that the blockade squadron was able to stop supplies from reaching the Confederacy, and had a lot to do with our great divide coming to an end without a year of battle and a 100,000 deaths. But before that even, pirates had ranged the area, and when the Union went in with "mosquito squadron,' pirates became a thing of the past in the region. The richest per capita meant that there some of the most spectacular Victorian era houses to be found in a concentrated area, and when the Spanish American War erupted, Ft. Zachary Taylor came into use once again. 

I love Key West. No one can understand when I'm willing to take the Conch Train again for the umpteenth-million time, but I love the island. I love the history. I love studying about pirates, the Rebs and the Yanks, the salvage divers, and the Conch Republic itself. Yes, the island did secede on its own once; a blockade in the not so distant future was about to starve out the tourist-hungry island once again.

And when that's over, my God. There's the sunset. Amazing seafood, fruity drinks, a cool breeze, and a sunset to die for! You've got to come on down. Everyone there is your friend.

A few years ago, I wrote a paranormal/suspense/romance series Ghost Shadow, Ghost Night, and Ghost Moon.

This time, researching for a bit of Bride of the Night. (Civil War vampires, yes, really.)

And the new Krewe of Hunter series, starting next April, Darkness Falling.

~Heather

 

 

Helen Wheels

 
 

  

By Elaine Viets

Sonny Crockett drove a Ferrari in the old Miami Vice TV shows. Florida detective Travis McGee turned a Roll Royce into pickup truck, painted it purple and christened the mangled metal Miss Agnes.

In "Pumped for Murder," Helen Hawthorne needs wheels. She's a private detective in the tenth Dead-End Job Mystery. A car reflects the detective's personality. Kinsey Millhone's beatup VW bug was perfect. A "testosterossa" was the exactly what an undercover vice cop should drive.

No flashy cars for Helen. Her car has to blend in. Private eyes are not supposed to attract attention. She's been driving Phil's black Jeep, but it doesn't have air-conditioning, a Florida necessity. She also doesn't have time to look for a car. By day, Helen is undercover as a receptionist at a fitness center. At night, she helps Phil solve a cold case from 1986.

She asks Phil to find her a car. Helen says she doesn't care what it is, as long as it's air-conditioned.

Phil found her a deal on a PT Cruiser from Gus, a man who restored classic cars. On the way to pick up her new wheels, she wanted to know the color.

"That's a surprise," Phil told her.

"You won't give me a hint?" she asked.

"You'll find out soon enough," he said. "Besides, you said you didn't care as long as it had air-conditioning."

Helen hoped it was bright red or a vibrant blue. A wicked black Cruiser would be fun. Those looked  like bootlegger's getaway cars. Maybe she could put a fake bullet hole decal on the back window. Then she remembered their client's brother had died of a gunshot wound. Bullet holes were not funny.

Helen caught the first glimpse of her new car. It wasn't red, black, silver or even a cool blue. To her, older people drove cars this color. Even her landlady Margery, a woman who never showed her true years, had that one telltale sign of age.

"It's so . . . white," Helen said, hoping she kept the disappointment out of her voice.

"The official color is stone white," Gus said, proudly. He opened the door and started the engine. "The interior is slate gray. It's loaded with extras – bucket seats, air bags and tinted glass to make it even cooler in summer."

I said I didn't care how it looked, Helen told herself. I only wanted a car with air-conditioning. I didn't want to trudge around the used car lots. I got what I wanted.

Gus and Phil grinned, proud as new parents.

"Wait till you feel that cooling system," Gus said. "Sit down."

Phil virtually pushed her into the seat.

"It's cold as – " Helen began, as the arctic air blasted her face.

"It's a rolling igloo," Gus said.

Helen knew her car had been named.

"I have the only igloo in South Florida," she said.

Helen fell in love with the Igloo on the ride back to the Coronado. The white PT Cruiser rolled coolly down the highway, encasing her in a lovely chilled bubble. The car had lots of leg room and a cargo cover, so she didn't have to worry if she left something valuable inside.

Helen admired the Igloo's retro dashboard clock. The temperature gauge told her it was a sizzling ninety-six degrees outside. She waved at Phil, following in his open Jeep, his long silver hair tied back in a ponytail. The man wasn't even breaking a sweat.

At the Coronado, Helen parked in the spot where the Toad used to squat. The Toad was an ugly green monster she'd driven when she'd worked at the Superior Country Club. The Toad had been junked long ago, but the miserable creature had leaked nasty fluids in the lot, a permanent memorial to a moody, bad-tempered car.

Margery, in a gauzy eggplant caftan and lavender cage sandals, lifted a chilled glass of white wine in a salute the new car. "Like the new ride," she said. "Gives my white car some company. How is the Cruiser?"

"Cool, in all senses of the word," Helen said.                                                           

 

                                                                                            ***

"Pumped for Murder" is a hardcover and an e-book. Win a $50 gift card to your favorite bookstore. Click on Contests at www.elaineviets.com

 

Bringing Rudeness and Sarcasm to a Grateful World

Bringing Rudeness and Sarcasm to a Grateful World

by Brunonia Barry

I recently entertained some visitors from Colorado who, after a brief encounter with a local food service establishment, mentioned that they found New Englanders to be sarcastic. "You've got to be kidding," I said, smiling disingenuously.

New Englanders are a strange mix of propriety, humorous subtext, and open aggression, especially in the face of anything they find pretentious or dishonest. Growing up in New England, I came to discover that you can get along pretty well by resorting to your Emily Post or Miss Manners, but that when people really began to like you, they will mock and tease you mercilessly. If a person is always polite to you, it is never a good sign.

Now that my two novels have been sold in many countries around the world, I am in communication with the various translators, and I'm finding that 95% of their questions deal with sarcasm, self-effacing humor, and mocking understatements. Making translatable sense out of tongue-in-cheek remarks is challenging enough but even more so when a culture is devoid of multi-generational taunting. Do cultures like that really exist? If so, what do they do at family gatherings?

Trying to explain New Englanders to translators has made me think about the stereotypical behavior we ascribe to certain regions of the country and how different people really are when you live among them. I have lived in many other places during my life, but the ones I know best are New York and Los Angeles.

New Yorkers are the only people in the country consistently cited as rude by New Englanders. I didn't find them rude at all, rather I thought they were direct, which I appreciated. Once, when I first got to the city, I asked a young man for directions to Port Authority. He was patient and polite and very helpful. Then I went too far. I asked how to get to the New York Public Library. He smiled at me politely and asked, "What do I look like lady, a fucking road map?" That one had me laughing for weeks.

I have to confess that Los Angeles was a huge change after living in New York. Everyone smiled and ended their conversations with "Have a nice day." I'm not kidding. It was the late '70s, and that stereotypical expression was all the rage. Between that and the beautiful weather, I saw L.A. as a very welcoming place. Never mind that my New England and New York friends told me that just because someone tells you to have a nice day doesn't mean she's your new best friend. I didn't care. People seemed so happy and so nice. I wanted to stay. My "visit" lasted for fifteen years. Some of my most enduring friendships started with "have a nice day."

If you don't take them too seriously, these stereotypical images can engender a certain pride of place. We're not rude and sarcastic in New England, we're colorful, damn-it. We've worked hard on our image.  We're proud of it.

So I and several of my Boston and New York friends were shocked and greatly offended at the results of Travel and Leisure's latest poll citing Los Angeles as the "Rudest City in America." Are they kidding? New York slipped to the #2 spot, and Boston didn't even place in the top 5? Something was terribly wrong!

Obviously we are challenging the poll. Our reputations are at stake. With the exception of liberal politics, there isn't much that New Yorkers and Bostonians can agree upon, but we are united on this front. My New York friends are working hard to reclaim the top spot. And the embarrassed and ashamed citizens of Boston are practicing their best insults and sarcasm for the upcoming tourist season. The Freedom Trail will never be the same!

What stereotypes does your area of the country engender? What are the people really like? 

 

My Condo Needs a Name

 
Manderly. Pemberly. Tara. Every house should have a meaningful name, don't you think? Especially every vacation home. The summer house of my childhood, which I've mentioned in this blog before, was named Su-Nan-To. Built by my grandfather in the twenties, he named it after his wife, Susan, his daughter, Nan and himself, Thomas. Although the house has long been out of our family, we talk about Su-Nan-To as if it had been a member of the family.  

My first husband and I shared ownership of a beach cottage in Duck, North Carolina. We called it Macaw Landing, which might sound like a strange name for a beach cottage unless you know that my ex and I and the couple we shared ownership with had both lived in the same house on Macaw Lane in San Diego (at different times. It's a long story!) 

Now I have a little condo right on a North Carolina beach. Somehow, it seems goofy to name a condo and yet everytime I'm there, I feel as though it needs a name. It was the success of one of my books, The Secret Life of CeeCee Wilkes, that allowed me to buy the condo, so I've been auditioning the name Sea-Sea, but that's not quite working for me.

 I love looking at the names of beach cottages and imagining the people who live inside. I thought I'd share some of those names with you. My personal favorite? Beach Potato. I mean, don't you love it?   

This is the house to rent if you want to bring your pups with you on vacation.

 
Then there are the names that give you clues to the owner's occupation.

I like the clever personalized names, too.     

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Then there's folks just expressing how they feel about their home away from home.

 

 

 

 
 

And then there are those that leave you scratching your head.

 

Last night, I dreamt I went to the Sea Rooster again. . .

I don't think so!

I'm going to have to go back to the drawing board for a name for my little condo. But how about you? If you have a home away from home, have you named it? Or if you only wish you had a home away from home, what name would you give it?

(My apologies to the amazing sign artists. I wish I knew who you were so I could credit your work!)

Bloated on Ice Cubes

 

 

By Elaine Viets

Every Dead-End Job mystery leaves its mark on me. Ever since I cleaned hotel rooms for "Murder with Reservations," I tip the maids. After I worked as a telemarketer for "Dying to Call You," I can't bring myself to yell at a telephone sales person.

For "Pumped for Murder," my lastest Dead-End Job mystery, I went to a women's bodybuilding competition. After I saw those strong, starving women, I ate a whole pepperoni pizza.

Here's how Helen and I wound up at a bodybuilding contest:

Helen and her new husband, Phil, have opened their own private eye agency. Helen worked as a receptionist at a fictional Fort Lauderdale gym, and wandered into the wonderfully weird world of women's bodybuilding.

You might laugh at those over-developed bodies, but Helen didn't. One gym rat told her, "These women are serious about this competition. Don't mistake it for real fitness. These are freakazoids. For some, it's the only recognition they'll get. They see themselves as athletes. They may look good onstage, but they starve and dehydrate themselves to get that look."

Check out Helen watching the Women's Open Bikini, Over Fifty Class, in "Pumped for Murder":

Six women, spray-tanned and leggy, paraded onstage in five-inch heels and sparkly bikinis. Helen figured they were wearing more shoes than swimsuit. Each had a white competition number button clipped to her suit.

Helen couldn't believe these women were more than fifty years old. They had the bodies of twenty-year-olds. No, they were thinner than twenty-somethings. The layer of fat under their skin had been stripped off, leaving lean, graceful bodies. They moved like gazelles in stilettos.

This audience was definitely spectators in the bodybuilding world. They stuffed themselves with food forbidden to bodybuilders – greasy pizza, cheeseburgers and fries. The thickset man on Helen's left was crunching through a tub of buttered popcorn while he watched the underfed women. The hefty teenage boy next to him sucked on a chocolate shake.

"Forty-two! Forty-two!" the crowd chanted as a long-haired blonde posed in front of the judges in a sparkly hot pink suit and clear high heels.

"That's my wife, Jasmine," said the popcorn cruncher.

"I can't believe she's over fifty years old," Helen said. "She looks fantastic."

"Seven percent body fat," her husband said proudly. "She really knows how to flare her lats."

"Face the back," the judge said in a flat voice.

Number Forty-two gave the judges her back view. She pulled up her long blonde hair to show her shoulders and thrust out her haunches as if she wanted the judges to mount her. Those weren't her lats, were they? Helen wondered. No, those were glutes. Sweet Gloria Steinem, why was this woman letting herself be judged like horseflesh?

"Great ass!" shouted the chocolate shake guzzler.

"My son is proud of his mother," Mr. Popcorn said.

He was cheering for his mother's rear end?

"Amazing," Helen said.

"You should have seen Jasmine last week," Mr. Popcorn said. "She was perfect. Then she started drinking water. She knows better: no carbs and no water before the competition. Too fattening and bloating. But she wouldn't listen. I caught her sneaking downstairs to the kitchen at two in the morning to suck ice cubes. I should have put a padlock on the refrigerator." He stuffed his mouth with more popcorn.

"I think she looks terrific," Helen said.

"The judges don't look at her the way you do," her husband said.

Helen focused on the emaciated beauty bending her body into absurd poses in her skimpy, sparkling suit. She wanted to kidnap Jasmine, take her out for a good meal and then give her a body image lecture.

"She's not smiling," Jasmine's husband said.

Jasmine was definitely the crowd favorite. They were indifferent to Numbers Twenty-eight and Thirty.

They were actively hostile to Thirty-three, another gazelle in a gold sequin suit.

The crowd heckled that poor creature: "Get a Twinkie!" yelled a woman whose massive breasts nearly wobbled out of her tube top. She'd obviously followed that advice.

"Bring back Forty-two," the crowd screamed.

Number Thirty took third place. Number Twenty-eight looked disappointed with her second-place medal.

"And the winner is . . ." The announcer paused dramatically. The audience moved like a restless beast, waiting to roar approval or disappointment. Would the winner be the dislikable Number Thirty or the popular Forty-two?

"FORTY-TWO!" the announcer cried, drawing the two words out.

"Smile, dammit," screamed her husband. "You won!"

                                                                                     ***

"Pumped for Murder" is a hardcover and an e-book. Win a $50 gift card to your favorite bookstore. Click on Contests at www.elaineviets.com

 

 

Letters and Diaries

by Margaret Maron

 I recently finished reading an advance copy of Twelve Drummers Drumming by C.C. Benison, which will be published by Delacorte in October.  One of the book's delights (you heard it here, first) is that some of the action is revealed through frequent letters written by a gossipy housekeeper to her elderly mother.  Just when you begin to think that the letters are meaningless padding and that there's no need to pay much attention, Ms. Benison slips in a vital clue.  The book is set in an updated version of St. Mary Mead and it reminded me all over again how much I have enjoyed such epistolary novels as The Color Purple, The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, The Color Purple, Flowers for Algernon and Up the Down Staircase.  

And not just fiction.  I like historical diaries and books of letters such as those of Abigail and John Adams, Flannery O'Connor, Edna Millay, Raymond Chandler, Robert Frost, and E.B. White, to name just a few.  I have a huge cache of Craig Rice's unpublished letters, which make fascinating if somewhat depressive reading.  And who could resist 84 Charing Cross Road?  There's something so immediate about watching a life unfold through the day-by-day writings of a real person.

Not that the form always works perfectly.  I've read that the reason Pride and Prejudice quotes so many letters is because Jane Austen first cast it as an epistolary novel much like her Lady Susan. (Thank goodness, she didn't leave it that way!) 

Nor didThe Documents in the Case, Dorothy L. Sayers' collaboration with Robert Eustace, work for me and that wasn't solely because Peter Wimsey wasn't in on the case.

I have huge holes in my education, so I would love to know if there are any more mystery novels written in this form?  Surely there must be?  Some of them may even be good.  Any suggestions?

I also know that most diaries are written with one eye toward publication and the other on presenting one's self in the most flattering light.  Samuel Pepys is the only historical character I can think of who really seems to have written for himself alone and who was as hard on himself as he was on his contemporaries.

My own mother kept a diary for most of her adult lift, but she seldom wrote anything personal.  It's mostly an account of the weather, what she was planting in her garden, what she was canning or freezing, or who was visiting.  Never a word as to what she thought about the visitors or the life she was leading.  It was almost as if she feared someone would sneak a look at it and tease her or be upset with her if she wrote anything too personal.  (I've gotten pretty good at reading between those noncommittal lines, though!)

You know whose diary I'd really love to read right now?  Not Osama Bin Laden's, but that of his wife who hadn't left that compound for the last few years.

What about you?  Whose unexpurgated diary would you like to read? Whose exchange of brutally honest letters?

 

The Cult of Virginity

By Sarah

Coming of age in the late 1970s, teen horror flicks had just hit their gory stride when I turned adolescent. In the beginning there was The Exorcist, of course, then Are You in the House Alone, Halloween, Magic and who could forget Attack of the Killer Tomatoes?

But nothing kept me up at night like that 2,000-year -old blockbuster of the Virgin Birth.

What could be scarier? Virtuous teenage girl becomes pregnant through no fault of her own. Boyfriend dumps her, then takes her back but ONLY because an angel told him to. Mostly, she's an outcast right up until the birth itself when she's relegated to the straw and manure and stink of a barn. Later, her son causes trouble around town, starts throwing tables in the temple and gives her serious lip, even calling her "woman" instead of "mother." Finally, as if all the years of hand wringing weren't bad enough, he gets crucified and she is there to watch right to the bitter end.

Lock the doors!

In all fairness, at fourteen I didn't think much about what happened after the birth of Jesus. I was more worried about the Immaculate Conception part. The way I figured, if it happened once, it could happen to any one of us virgins again, right? Only, who was likely to believe in 1977 that a fourteen year old virgin had been knocked up by God?

I could just see trying to explain this to my mother who already had a number of issues about sex. (I'd been instructed a) never to believe a boy when he says I couldn't get pregnant because he had a cold and b) if packed into a car requiring me to sit on a male lap, a layer of newspapers between us should prevent any "accidents.")

Clearly, despite my mother's lifelong devotion to the Episcopal Church, there'd be no buying this virgin birth business. After all, she didn't believe the original story, not really. She believed it had been invented merely to compete with the local pagans with their "divine" gods and "semi-divine" mortals and whatnot.

Still, I wasn't so sure. What if it had really happened? How could I guarantee I wouldn't be next?

The answer, obvoiusly, was to have sex and thereby get myself disqualified from Potential Holy Virgin status. But I wasn't about to risk that, either.

I'm sure the authors of the Gospels and all those hymns glorifying the "virgin womb" didn't stop to think how they were messing with minds of the rest of us thousands of years later. But to this day it is difficult for me to sit through a Christmas Eve or Easter service without cringing over the glorification of a bodiless uterus. In fact, my daughter and I play a game at Christmas tallying the number of times "womb" is mentioned. Last year was a good year. There were only fifteen.

I'd all but forgotten my old phobia until the death of Osama bin Laden and I was reminded of another culture that glorifies virgins. Isn't obsessing about the power of "untouched" girls kind of, uhm, sick?

Yes.

Which got me to thinking about Buffy the Vampire Slayer, our modern commercial equivalent of the Holy Virgin. Both were seemingly normal teenagers until they discovered they'd been chosen for a higher calling that required innordinate suffering and public ridicule. Both bore their responsibilities with resigned acceptance and, in so doing, saved the world for all humanity. 

There must be something about this archetype that appeals to us and, especially, to men, since every millenium or so another virgin is chosen to fulfill divine prophecy. Mary. Joan of Arc. Buffy. 

If I had to guess, I'd say they like the idea that even the most powerless can assume the most power. Or, perhaps it has something to do with admiring their bravery and courage. But I don't get why  a bunch of crazy guys would willingly kill themselves and others because virgins were in the offing.

I hope for the sake of girls and women everywhere that we've devalued the currency of virginity. We're not cars, for Pete's sake. It's not like once you drive us off the lot we lose half our value. And as a Christian, I welcome the day when we can drop virgin off the name of Holy Mary and instead meditate on the fact that this poor young woman suffered through an incredibly difficult life thanks to a job she didn't want. And, yet, she never lost faith.

Kind of like Buffy.

Sarah

 

 

Just Ducky

    "Be like a duck. Calm on the surface, but always paddling like the dickens  underneath."                 

                                                                                                                     **Michael Caine  

            
      HANK:   We've known each other for a while now, right? So you know about the ducks. I'd say—"our" ducks, but they're wild duck, mallards, so they don't belong to anyone but themselves. But they discovered us, our backyard pool at least, and every year—since gee, I bet 1997? They've arrived in the spring.

 The crocuses come, and then the tulips, and then the ducks. Every year. (Jonathan took this nice photo Sunday.) 

We have a (not glamorous) swimming pool in our back yard. It gets covered wth a dark green tarp for the winter. The tarp fills with snow and slush and gunk, and then the gunk melts. So, I guess from a duck-eye view—above and below and even on the surface, it looks like a pond. 

The ducks come every year. The same ducks.

And astonishingly, I was clearing out the photos in my camera recently, and found the duck-arrival-photo from last year. And it was dated, March 14. This year the ducks arrived on March 14.

I ask you.

How do they do that?

We named the first couple the first year they visited. The male, Flo. The female, Eddy. (Flo and Eddy, I thought, was kind of watery sounding.) More ducks arrived, we named them Not-Flo and Not-Eddy. And then Evil Duck, Spot-Front and No-Neck.( We're not that good at naming ducks. ) (No-Neck has no white ring around his neck. Evil Duck is always biting, and Spot-Front has a--well, you can figure that out.)

We feed them, duck food, although the Audubon Society told us not to. (So sue us. The ducks clamber out of the pool and waddle to the back door when they see me, so who could resist that?)

 But the point of this--and I bet you're glad to hear there IS one—is that we have learned a lot about human nature, and just nature, I guess, from watching the ducks. When Flo and Eddy arrived, they swam around, explored, floated, lumbered to the side of the pool and sat in the sun. Sometimes they sleep balanced one one foot, head tucked under a wing, which is pretty funny. And seems very difficult.

 But all in all (except for some duck sex which is kind of hard to explain) they were peaceful.

 When I came out to feed them, Flo would protect Eddy, making sure she got food first. It was very sweet, and made me think about true love.  Then one day Flo and Eddy arrived, and soon after, Not-Flo. Another male. T-rouble. Not-Flo bugged Eddy, followed her around.

 Flo just went crazy. Biting, swimming fast, hopping up on the side of the pool and standing on his little duck feet and flapping his wings. Eddy would fast-waddle away from Not-Flo (they're fast swimmers, very lithe in the water, but they are really bad walkers.) Sometimes she waddles so fast she has to fly a little, to get ahead. It's pretty funny.

Finally, Flo just attacked, quacking like mad and snipping at Not-Flo with his beak. He eventually drove Not-Flo, flapping and hopping, away. To celebrate his victory, Flo stretched full out in the water, almost standing on the surface, lifting his neck to its full length, making himself as big as possible, and beating his wings in victory.

We came outside, and Not-Flo was ON THE ROOF of our house, looking down. You haven't laughed until you've seen a duck on the roof of your house.  It's something about the webbed feet on shingles, or something. It's just so unlikely.

(The photo shows Flo and Eddy on the roof. They now go up there all the time.)

Jonathan and I--devoted to duck-watching--began to learn about duck habits.  Kind of like E.O.Wilson and the ants, only not so erudite, and we didnt write anything down about it. 

For instance. When there are two or more ducks together, and one of them wants to fly away, they for some duck-reason have to make sure everone else wants to leave, too. So they do something with their necks--uh, let's see. Remember Walk like an Egyptian? Do that head-move, poking out your chin and neck.

That's what they do. So one duck will do the neck-bill move, kind of fast, and then see if everyone else does it, too. When they are all bobbing their heads in exactly the same rhythm--they ALL take off and fly away. At exactly the same time.

And I've seen it happen. One will start doing the head thing, and the others look at him (it's always a male who starts it) and ignore him and swim away. Duck number one stops. Later, he'll try again, and sometimes the others are ready to go by then. Duck one will NEVER leave by himself.

When there's a male and female alone together, fine. The swim, they dive underwater, they sun on the side  of the pool. When they're just floating, they stick to the exact middle of the pool, farthest from the edge where marauding squirrels and cats may hover. (We chase the cats away. I love cats, but these are from next door, and they shouldn't be around the ducks.)

More pretty interesting duck sociology:

Where there are two females together, they're fine and they swim around.  This is very rare, though, to have two females. They always look kind of--worried, scanning the sky and never sleeping. Until the male ducks arrive. I don't think I'm inmagining this. (Someday my prince will come?)

When there are two males and one female, it can get ugly. As y u saw with the arrival of not-Flo. And if I bring food out when there are three? The dominant male will do anything to keep the second male from eating. The domaint male will attack the other male INSTEAD of eating. He'd rather keep the other guy from the food than eat his own.  (Better to starve than be submissive? You can always get dinner later when the intruder is conquered.)

However! If there are just two males? The same two, Flo and Not-Flo? They're fine together. They swim, the float, they sleep, they share food, they're dandy. Best buds. Peaceful and serene. As long as there's no female duck. (Women are always the prize?) 

When the female arrives in male-duck world, all hell breaks loose. She's attacked and, well, duck-banged.  (No comment. I keep telling her--you can fly, sweetheart! If you really want to get away, you can do it. No reason to stay in this abusive relationship. But she doesn't fly. Again, I ask you. What can we learn from this?)

Three males and a female? That's a different deal. The two males hang together, the duck couple hangs together, they're peaceful. And they share food.  (Dinner party.)  Three males and no female. Fine. Good buddies.Five males--which is often who come to visit--all happy and pals. (Fraternity.)  One male is always the dominant one, its very clear, and he's the one who decides when to leave. (There's always a boss.)

And where there are two males and two females, it's very clear who the couples are. And they stick together. Share food. And leave together. (Double dating is a good thing.)

We have seen no ducklings. Like any good parents, we are WAITING to see some ducklings.  Maybe next year.

So  have you learned anything from your animals? My cats taught me that sleep is good, and that you CAN provide food for yourself, but if you can get someone to make dinner for you, all the better. How about you?

WHAT DOESN'T COME NATURALLY

HANK:  Hi Mom! And thanks for everything. Even the thighs. But we'll talk later.  I just got to do a really fun thing. Many weeks ago, I invited my dear pal Avery Aames to guest blog here at TLC, and she was eager to do Mother's Day. Because Avery is a lovely person. (I promise you this has a point.)

Because Avery is also astonishingly organized, she wrote her blog a few weeks ago, and sent it to me.

Because the universe is an amazing place, and you never know what wonderful thing will happen next, turns out Avery's biography changed between then and now.

In the one she sent, it said Avery's book was nominated for the Agatha for Best First Novel. 

Aha. Last week, Avery's book WON.  Hurray and congratulations. And I just got to change Avery's bio. I'm sure her mother is now even more proud than ever.

 

M others make the memories

U nderneath the memories:

M orning's undertow.

 By Avery Aames

It's Mother's Day. How I wish my mother had given me one of her talents.  She aspired to be a journalist, but she set her life on hold for other things that became more important: family.  But she had a gift.  She could write with such ease. I wish I had her gift. I do have her love of the language. {Thanks, Mom.}

But let me say in all humility that I'm not a natural writer. It does not come easily to me. I work hard; I take classes. I know some people can simply crank out a good book in no time flat, but I stress over every sentence, every plot point, and I never feel it's good enough.

All my life, I have written. Little stories, fantasies, plays that I could put on if I rented a barn. I attacked everything with abandon. [My mother kept a few in my baby book. She thought I was pretty good.]

But then in 7th grade, things changed. My writing dreams were dashed.  Here's the story.  We were assigned a creative writing project. I wrote "The Girl with the Pearl Necklace."  I loved what I had written. I presented it proudly to the teacher…who ripped it to shreds and said if I was considering becoming a writer, I should give it up. [My mother consoled me, but to no avail.]

 Gack.  As if that critique weren't enough, I had another teacher in college who railed at my treatise on Shakespeare and the use of eyes in his work.  Okay, maybe I'm not a full-blown intellectual, but it was a decent paper. And he gave me a B, for heaven's sake!

 But alas, I left my young years behind and decided I could never be a writer. Never.  Luckily, I also enjoyed acting and put all my efforts into it and I was good. I worked. I made a living. But if I wanted to get ahead in the acting world, a good script to star in was required, so bravely I wrote a screenplay. Though I won a few awards, I could not get the attention of agents. I wrote a treatment for a TV sitcom and sold it, but even that didn't open doors for me.

 When my husband wanted to move out of Los Angeles to further his career, I moved willingly.  But I was a creative person. Even far from Hollywood, I needed to put my creative energy into projects. I loved reading mysteries and thrillers. I always had. So I turned from writing screenplays to novels.

 Guess what happened? You bet. As I faced rejection after rejection from agents, that little voice from my 7th grade teacher came back to haunt me. "You can't do it; you'll fail." I had to prove him wrong.  Had to. And I did.  I'm now published. But even with success in the past year, I continue to feel that I'm at the precipice and might fail. After all, I'm writing under an assumed name. Doesn't that make me a poseur?

 Okay, if you're a writer, have I got your attention? Are any of you feeling like I do/did? Now, I'll do what I do best.  Cheerlead.  Yep, I'm a cheerleader (and I'm good at it) because I have learned in this life to never give up. If you're a "late bloomer" as David Seidler, the screenwriter who won the Oscar  for "The King's Speech" this year, called himself at the youthful age of 74, keep trying. If you're just starting out but there are voices in your head telling you that you're no good, tell them to take a flying leap. If you're in the middle of your career and you've taken a few headers, as an old song says, "Pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and start all over again."

You can do it!

So what was the worst thing a teacher, mentor, parent said to you? And do you still believe it?

 

Three commenters will win copies of LOST AND FONDUE. 

 

Bio: 

Avery Aames is the author of A Cheese Shop Mystery series.  The first, The Long Quiche Goodbye, is a national bestseller. Avery just won the Agatha Award for "Best First Novel." Avery blogs at Mystery Lovers Kitchen, http://www.mysteryloverskitchen - a blog for foodies who love mysteries. And some of her characters show up on the Killer Characters blog, http://killercharacters.com  You can order LOST AND FONDUE here: http://www.averyaames.com/book_sellers.html