The Lipstick Chronicles

Bad Mommy!

by Nancy

In my own defense, my children turned out great.  But during their formative years, I had moments that weren't exactly Mother of the Year material.

                              

Like the two days I made my 18-month old daughter walk on her broken leg.  Mind you, the x-ray didn't show anything at all--nothing!--so I assumed she was just whining.  Eventually she communicated that I was an idiot, so I took her back for more x-rays, and sure enough, the leg was broken.

I also Had a temper tantrum and quit packing their school lunches when Cassie was in 4th grade and Sarah in 2nd. (Hey, if they're old enough to see the top of the kitchen counter, they can drop a few items into a paper bag, right?)  I threw another hissyfit and stopped doing their laundry before they hit junior high.

My attitude is that kids ought to recognize that Mom is a person, too, not the automatic, always-cheerful deliverer of food, fashionable clothes and boundless emotional support, especially during the tiresome teenage years. The purpose of a mother is not to bring any creature comfort the kids can't reach from their prone positions in front of the television. (Yell for some Doritos at my house, and you'd be likely to receive them crushed and poured over your head.)  A kid who recognizes that she can't boss around her own mother is a kid who grows up into a thoughtful, giving adult.

Giving your kids everything can be . . . bad.

                                    

And a mother who's a door mat is only teaching her kids a lesson that's not going to turn out well.

But then, I'm in the minority.  I know women who have devoted their lives to serving their children, and I admire them for their devotion.  No, really, I do.  They are better human beings than I am.

But I also admire my own mother who taught us independence and resilience and how to catch a fly ball, wipe the tennis court with your opponent, be a gracious loser when necessary and how to iron our damn own shirts.

                              

Some dim-witted organization gave Lindsay Lohan's mother a Mother of the Year award this year.  I'm not bothering to Google it for you, because no intelligent human being who reads People magazine would acknowledge Mrs. Lohan is a good mother. (I did read one Yahoo search item that started, "...she skipped her court date to visit Lindsay in rehab..."  'Nuff said, right?)

But I'm thinking Mrs. Lohan has time to clean up her act.  After all, we've all made mistakes as mothers.  Most of those mistakes turn out to be okay for our kids in the long run. I mean, my daughter had never let me forget the broken leg episode, and I think that's healthy.--Children should recognize that nobody's without fault. (But, really, isn't it a little strange that she's kept the cast all these years??  It's still on a shelf in the bedroom!)

For your entertainment on the day before Mother's Day, here's The Bad Mother's Club.

How about you?  Made any embarrassing motherly blunders? Do you feel a little pesticide on the apple you give your kid every day simply strengthens his immune system? (If you make your own baby food, I'll tell you right now that we're going to blackball you from the TLC Bad Mommy Club.) If your bag of tricks, do you have a heart-warming tale of blessed motherhood gone terribly wrong?

Today's your day to dish. To cleanse your soul.  We won't tell your mother, honest.

Happy Talk

By Rebecca the Bookseller aka Kathy Sweeney

Today, I am declaring a moratorium on any subject that is not a happy one. If you have to ask why, then maybe you are one of the smart ones who doesn't pay attention to the news - something I am considering, by the way.

A couple of weeks ago, I had the great assignment of interviewing 23 authors. I thought it would be a cake walk. After all, I talk for a living. Plus, around here, it's normal to strike up a conversation with perfect strangers. Turns out, it's harder than it looks. I did a ton of preparation (that's what lawyers do - except we call it due diligence). Again - no problem, just time and focus. But when the time came - I was actually nervous, and believe me when I tell you, at this stage of the game, that just doesn't happen to me much. The happy part is that it went well. At least I thought so - and it was fun. It was fun to meet the authors and see them smile when they talked about their books and their characters. It was fun to see people in the audience smiling and laughing. Felt like I helped lighten things up, if only for a few minutes.

Because, people, we need to find more ways to lighten up. As a species, we are sleeping less, eating more, exercising less, and angsting more. Our levels of stress are through the roof. So today, all of us are going to help the world (okay, maybe just a couple of thousand people, but still) by sharing what makes us happy.

Plus, I am going to make a music compilation of songs that make me happy, and I'm going to carry it around.

So, here we go. Happy things first, then happy songs.

Watching Dancing With the Stars makes me happy. You see these celebs working to master something that is not in their comfort zone, and when they hit the floor, regardless of how their performance turns out, they are always full of joy. I've never watched any of these competition shows before, but my Mom got me started this season, and I'm hooked. (Plus, IYOCHFTS, hel-loh, between the costumes - or lack thereof - and the hot choreography - whew!).

Listening to my son and his friends when they forget I'm in the next room makes me happy. I never interrupt them, or bust them on the swearing (it's fabulous to hear them try out those new words). They're all taller than me now, but they still talk like boys, not men, even as their voices get deeper. I know that won't last much longer, so I savor it.

Reading good books makes me happy - I guess that one goes without saying on TLC, right?

Laughing makes me happy. In our house, and with my friends, we laugh a lot. I'll even admit that it may be a way of avoiding the sad and tragic stuff. We do support eachother in those ways too - but most of the time, we try to laugh. Laughing, it turns out, is good for you. No kidding - you can look it up.

Okay - I'm leaving the field wide open for the rest of you - what makes you happy?

Now - Songs that make me happy. They can be any kind of song - country, rock, gospel, folk, whatever. They don't even have to be about happiness. But there are some songs that cheer me up and make me smile. I'm sure you have some too, and at the end, I'll put together a compilation of TLC Happy Songs. Here are a few of mine:

I Wish by Stevie Wonder

Hot, Hot, Hot by Buster Poindexter

In the Mood- my current favorite cover is Bette Midler

Alive and Amplified by The Mooney Suzuki

Angelina/Zooma Zooma by Louis Prima

What Was I Thinkin'? by Dierks Bentley

Favorite Song of All by the Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir

Happy Working Song by Amy Adams from "Enchanted" (the lyrics are priceless)

I'm A Believer - currently, it's the Smash Mouth version from Shrek

Birdhouse in Your Soul by They Might Be Giants

I Can't Help Myself by The Four Tops

Beyond the Sea - Bobby Darin or Pittsburgh's own George Benson

Okay, your turn - let's make some happy! Can I get a witness here?

First Apartment

by Nancy

My first apartment was in a Victorian mansion on a street nicknamed Millionaire's Row that hadn't seen a millionaire in fifty years. All the crumbling big houses had been carved up into apartments for students at the nearby community college or local drug dealers who wanted to live conveniently close to their customers. The landlord thought I'd love the campy 3rd floor hideaway which had beads hanging in all the doorways instead of doors and a bedroom with a round, Poconos-style honeymoon bed and a open porch in the turret--very cute, if a little dingy because none of the windows had been washed since Eisenhower.

But the apartment also sported bloodstains on one wall. The landlord hadn't gotten around to washing up after an undercover cop shot and killed a stoned dealer in the apartment, and the splatter remained. The landlord was surprised when I declined to rent the place.

On the other hand, the 2nd floor apartment had big rooms and lots of light and some very elaborate, if wobbly furniture and no blood. It was located only a short drive from the junior high where I'd been employed to teach. I rented it on the spot because, frankly, I'd come by myself and didn't know where else to look.

The place was kinda grungy Mary Tyler Moore, except with marijuana.

                                       

The main thing was that it was cheap. Fresh out of college and on my own financially, I needed a bargain. (In those days--the recession of the mid-seventies--graduates moved to where the jobs were.  We couldn't be picky about location.)

For months, I wondered why the neighborhood drug dealers avoided me, because they were certainly persistent with everyone else. Finally, a long-haired neighbor (who took me under his wing when I agreed to share my cable TV service with him--ahem) told me that all the neighbors were keeping their distance because my boyfriend--who came to visit every other weekend--drove a stripped-down, dark blue Chevy with a federal parking lot sticker. He also wore a raincoat with epaulettes, so they thought he was a cop. Actually, he was a bank examiner for the Federal Reserve, and he was pleased to be feared by somebody other than branch managers who didn't keep good tabs on their tellers.

I can still remember that apartment's faded cabbage rose wallpaper and the two-burner electric stove and the tiny refrigerator that I never bothered to defrost. The independence of having my own place was thrilling. My mother made sure I had a screwdriver, a hammer, two Revere saucepans (which I still use---the need for cheap has stayed with me) and some cleaning supplies, an ironing board and a flash light. I inherited somebody's vacuum cleaner that did more vomiting than sucking, but I felt I was all set for life on my own. I wasn't prepared for the nearly constant heavy-breathers who called on my telephone, but--several hundred miles from my parents and their style of countrified gracious living---I toughened up. 

By contrast, my husband's first apartment was in a high rise building in Cleveland (home of the Federal Reserve) facing the formidable great lake. Every winter, his windows froze up with ice, and the parking lot often drifted shut with stunning amounts of lake-effect snow. His neighbors were mostly elderly ladies who received their lunch via Meals on Wheels. He was the youngest person who lived in the building, and he was frequently asked to carry heavy packages for his neighbors.  His mother gave him a blaze orange vinyl recliner and a dinette set (remember those?) with aluminium tube legs--ugly as all getout, but functional.

                           

I remembered that orange recliner and dinette set when it came time for my daughter to move into her first apartment. I decided her move was not an opportunity for me to get rid of ugly furniture or old vacuum cleaners. We helped her into an efficiency that was probably smaller than the smallest bedroom in your house. I couldn't believe anyone could live in that tiny cage--only one window, and it had security bars!  We managed to fit all her needed furniture into one minivan, if that helps give you a mental picture of its size.

                        

If there were drug dealers in her building, I would have moved heaven and earth to get her out of there, but--like me--she might have chosen not to inform her kind-hearted parents of situations she felt she better learn to handle on her own.

On the other hand, when my sister moved into a first apartment, she telephoned my mother (three hundred miles away) for help getting a squirrel out of the living room.

Living in an apartment in New York appeals to me now, but only if I could afford one of those $17 million penthouses with a view of Central Park and a rooftop garden like the one in the movie Green Card.

Now, of course, my husband and I live in a house that requires endless maintenance that no landlord can be called at any hour to take care of, but then, through various emergencies large and small we've learned to manage.

Do you remember your first apartment?  And the adventure of starting your own, independent life? Did you grow up? Learn to cope?

Good grief, I just Googled my old neighborhood and found a photo of the house!  It's become an official historic neighborhood. I love when buildings are preserved, but I wonder if the tV cable is still spliced.

Do You Know Who I Am?

By Elaine Viets

"Do you know who I am?"

Do you know how many times I heard that question when I researched my seventh Dead-End Job mystery, "Clubbed to Death"?

For that novel, Helen Hawthorne and I worked in customer service at a country club. It was a lovely place with tennis and afternoon tea. The sort of club I could never enter, except in a uniform.

In "Clubbed to Death" Helen’s ex-husband, Rob, reappears and gives her more grief. She also has to deal with Rob’s scary second wife, the Black Widow. Then a club member is murdered and Helen’s life goes downhill.

Here was the real mystery: Why did the country club members ask the staff: "Do you know who I am?"

This may be the saddest question on the planet. If you have to ask it, then you know the answer: You’re nobody.

The President never has to ask, "Do you know who I am?" Neither does Madonna, Oprah or the Pope. They know. We know. They know we know.

There were big names at the club. Even if you got your news from MTV, you’d know who they are. The big guns never asked, "Do you know who I am?" In most cases, the more important the people, the nicer they were – even to us underpaid clerks.

But we encountered way too many country club members who made impossible demands, and when they were refused, they’d ask: Do you know who I am?

If I had a dollar for every time I heard that, I could buy the country club.

Margery, Helen’s 76-year-old landlady, had a theory about why people asked that question. "They aren’t asking you," Margery said. "They’re asking themselves. They don’t know. They’ve never had the chance to find out who they are. You’re the lucky one."

"Oh, please," Helen said. "These people have everything. I have nothing. I know who I am – a failure."

"To fail," Margery told her, "you have to try something first. They’ll always be cushioned by mummy’s money and daddy’s lawyers. If they screw up, their parents will rescue them and find them a safe place in the family business. They can’t even fail."

"Lucky them," Helen said.

Many of these club members had houses the size of hotels, new cars and no money worries – at least not by our standards. But the staff used to wonder how people with so much could be so unhappy. They lived in paradise.

A coworker known as Jackie in the book explained, "Adam and Eve weren’t happy in paradise, either. We have two groups of members here. The young ones, the trust fund babies, have no concept of work. They inherited their money. They are rude, arrogant and demanding.

"The old ones earned the money. They’re usually in poor health. Their spouses are either sick or old, or divorced and living with someone younger. Their children are gone. Their choices are gone. Their families are sitting around waiting for them to die so they can get the money.

There’s nothing left for them to do. That’s why they spend all day quibbling their bills and complaining. We shouldn’t envy these people."

"I don’t," Helen said. "They’re so unhappy. I always thought I wanted to be rich. Now I realize I just want enough money."

"But when do you know you have enough?" Jackie said. "That’s the key."

That’s when you know who you are.

CLUBBED TO DEATH: A Dead-End Job mystery by Elaine Viets is $21.95 from NAL/Obsidian. The ISBN is 978-0-451-22394-4.

The Amazon Kindle/Am I Dead?

By Sarah

Forgive me Mother Mary Alice for I have purchased an Amazon Kindle.

Look, I'm not happy about the direction books might - and I say might - be going, either. I love everything about The Book. I love the intriguing covers and typeface and font. I love the glue-and-paste smell of books, the cracking of the spine, the way a paperback looks when it's been read to death. (Gone with the Wind/Glass Castle.) A book is humanity recorded and captured in a once-living medium. I also love the thrill of stepping into a bookstore and marveling at the thousand directions my life could take depending on which book I choose as well as the camaraderie I share with my local booksellers. (Except the one where, uh, they all hate me.)

That said, my fear is the book is on the way out. Not the stories, mind you. Whether they've been told around fires or illustrated on cave walls, stories will always exist. Like John said: In the beginning was the Word...And now it is instantly downloadable with one click.

But wait...there's hope for books. Real hope.

First, you should know that the Kindle is a handheld reading device that's very light and very weird. If you live in a Sprint EVDO zone (Here's the map to find out if you do) it is possible to turn on the wireless button in the back and be instantly online to ....Amazon. Natch.

This is the genius part and in making it so easy Amazon has acknowledged, finally, that not everyone likes to tinker with Wi-Fi settings and channels, especially nerds like me who've been too busy reading to care.  Flip on the switch, wait a few seconds and that's it. I have to drive about three miles to get to an EVDO zone because I live in the mountains. But tiny Montpelier is covered, so chances are your town is, too. (Unless you live in Kansas. Big controversy there.)

When it's on, you can download thousands of books and newspapers for a fraction of the cost with no wireless fee or subscription. (The New York Times costs .45, but looks better on my computer.) It's a heady prospect, the idea of waiting in a doctor's office or in an airport and having any book at your disposal. And that, in a nutshell, is the major problem with the Kindle and why bookstores may win this war, yet.

Anyone, it seems, can get their book on Kindle. And browsing for what you want simply sucks. Yes, there are categories (Fiction - 119,000) and subcategories. (Including erotica, naturally, but not women's fiction.) Our very own Nancy Martin is prominent in mysteries - good move, Nancy. But it's no fun to look around as though one were in a store. Even "Editors' Picks" are limiting and feel canned.

In contrast, when I go into Bear Pond Books the children's bookseller knows me and my kids, knows about my son's reading difficulties. (She has one just like him.) And, so, she's recommended Bone and Gregor the Overlander and other greats. It was at Bear Pond Books where I asked the then children's bookseller for something funny to hold my daughter's interest. She held up a book and said it was the strangest thing. It had become such a phenomenon in Britain that adults were disguising it in adult jackets so they could read it, too.

The book, of course, was Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire.

Back to the Kindle. What I found myself doing was going to Amazon online at home, scrolling for books and downloading them to my computer and then to the Kindle. (BTW - Amazon stores all your purchases in cyberspace lest anything should happen to your device, like an inevitable upgraded version.)

I also found myself doing something very encouraging. As I browsed through books, I'd find one I liked, read the review and download a free sample. (Great idea, Amazon!) When I was done with all that, I debated whether to buy the book on Kindle or buy it on paper. Call me old fashioned, but the paper book was far more appealing. As a result, I went to the bookstore to buy the actual book even though it was more expensive. In other words, Amazon sold me two books - Three Cups of Tea and The Benedict Society - at Bear Pond. On Kindle, I bought Jack Handey's What I'd Say to the Martians and I Was Told There'd Be Cake. I downloaded loads of free samples, too. All of which qualify as disposable fluff I didn't care to keep.

I did not buy "Cherry the Rent Girl," one of the too many self published ebooks on Kindle. (Amazon has  been touting that big time.) Nor did I bother to examine the difference between the five different versions of Pride and Prejudice. (Ahh, the value of an expired copyright.) Jeff Bezos take note: too much unfiltered text will weigh down your beloved toy.

So, bottom line? The Kindle and all handheld devices will be ideal for "disposable" books that would end up at the school rummage sale anyway. And they're great if you're into Project Gutenberg. But not so great for the books you'll want to keep and give. Books are not CDs or albums, which look ugly in your living room. Books are beautiful. When they're on your shelves, they make a room cozy and can spark a conversation.

Not, ironically, a Kindle.

Sarah

PS. I almost forgot - this weekend I received the following email from an Alert Reader in the Midwest:

"Absolutely no offense intended, but I was at a book store today where the bookstore owner told us that Sarah Strohmeyer had suddenly passed away. If this is true, will someone respond by telling me when and how or anything. She will be sorely missed. If it is not true, I will immediately call the bookstore before anyone else is told the same thing.  Thanks."

In the words of Monty Python: "I'm not dead, yet. I think I'll go for a walk!"

Are You a Bubba or a Bobo ?  Take Our Culture Wars Quiz

by Michele

We're not going to talk about the actual election today.  Talking about the actual election could lead to unpleasantness.  The unpleasantness might go something like this.  I have a candidate.  You have a candidate.  If your candidate is not the same as my candidate, then you are wrong.

Luckily, we don't need to talk about the election, because we have people called pundits to talk about the election for us.  These days, especially on Fox News, most pundits are blonde and have 36-double Ds.  (Real?  I think not.) Some people think this is okay because pundits are so vacuous anyway that they might as well look the part.  Personally I prefer to get my news from somebody with a brain. Such as:

  If I want somebody with a brain who is also gorgeous, I pick:  . (And yes, I know he'll never love me back.)

Even though most pundits are brainless and annoying, for some strange reason it's hard to stop listening to them.  Maybe that's because wherever you go, there they are.  On the radio, on the t.v., in the newspaper, in your house and your car.  They're all saying the same thing.  They're saying that how you vote depends on who you are.  That it's all demographics.  Here's a relatively well-written piece from The Times that makes the demography-is-everything argument.  (Actually, the exit polling does support this.)

When we at TLC learned that voting is all demographics, we got worried that we might be supporting the wrong candidate.  What if we mistakenly voted for someone who is not cool to others in our age and education cohort?  That would be as upsetting as wearing the wrong shoes to an important event.  To address this critical problem, and to help others who might be facing it also, we devised a simple quiz. 

Step One: Answer the questions below to determine which side of the culture gap you fall on. 

A.  My beverage of choice is:

1. A nice cold Budweiser
2. Red Bull
3. A glass of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc
4. A Venti Skim Latte

B.  I prefer to tote:

1. An AK-47 and extra ammo
2. A gas can for when the tank runs out
3. An Hermes Kelly bag
4. A "green" grocery bag

c.  My idea of a good time is:

1. Hunting
2. NASCAR
3. gardening
4. windsurfing

D.  The degree that added the greatest number of zeros to my income is:

1. the GED
2. the B.A.
3. the M.D.
4. the MRS (Ladies, given recent statistics on backsliding in wage equality, you might want to think twice about this one).

E.  I prefer to cling to:

1. guns
2. my teddy bear
3. the ACLU
4. George Clooney

Now it's time for the moment of truth.  Add up the number of points and correlate your score to your candidate using the simple chart below. (Warning: Write-in votes or drafting nominees at the convention may be necessary.)

• 0-5 points -- Charlton Heston (so what if he's dead?)
• 5-10 points -- Ron Paul
• 10-15 points -- Al Gore
• 15-20 points -- Sean Penn

Voila!  Voting couldn't be easier. 

Metrosexual vs. Retrosexual

by Neil Plakcy, who writes compelling mysteries about Hawaiian detective Kimo Kanapa'aka, struggling to fight crime as he comes out as a gay police officer.

I don't like to admit failure. But I just can't seem to get the metrosexual thing down. I can't give up my Hawaiian shirts. I can't be bothered to get my hair cut until it's so shaggy it blows in my face, and I can't muster much interest in grooming products. Surfing the internet recently, though, I found the term that seems to define me: retrosexual, "a man with an undeveloped aesthetic sense who spends as little time and money as possible on his appearance and lifestyle."

That seemed a little harsh--but sometimes the truth hurts.

I don't know the difference between mauve and fuchsia, and I don't care. I don't know what my skin type is, I think plucking your eyebrows is needlessly painful, and I don't like facials, manicures or pedicures. (I know, having tried one of each as a part of a desperate attempt to make myself more presentable when I wa dating.)

But am I ready to go the other way--to be a retrosexual? Time for a little self-examination.

"A retrosexual not only eats red meat, he often kills it himelf."  I love a good piece of prime rib, but I'm not going to kill the cow for it. That's what restaurants are for.

"A retrosexual does not order a green apple martini at a bar." Do Cosmopolitans count? I do like a good microbrewed beer. But a retrosexual probably sticks to Bud or Miller.  Guess I fail on this count.

"A retrosexual should know how to properly kill stuff (or people) if need be." I'm a mystery writer. I kill people all the time. Thumbs up.

"A retrosexual should have at least one good wound he can brag about." I've got a few scars--but am I going to brag about slicing my foot open on a bicycle pedal when I was nine? Don't think so.

"A retrosexual man is not ashamed of his body nor the sounds and smells that might emanate from it. He understands the theraputic value in a well rendered belch. In public or not." I'm not sure that this is one I should admit to, but you know what they say, if the shoe fits...

"A retrosexual will have at least one outfit in his wardrobe designed to conceal himself from prey." Hmm... I guess aloha shirts don't count.

"A retrosexual man can use a knife. His preferred pocket knife is the Swiss army knife." Hey, I've got a knife like that. Mostly I use it for trimming my nails, but at least I've got the possibility of scaling a fish or sawing a small branch.

"A retrosexual man doesn't mind getting dirty. Men lived for thousands of years without washing their hands every fifteen minutes." Amen, brother. I make sure to wash my hands after using the restroom, or picking up the dog's poop. Anything after that is gravy.

Finally, my favorite: "A retrosexual does not let neighbors f--k up rooms in his house on national TV." No problem there. I remember one show in which the decorator covered one whole wall with moss. Here in Florica, we call that hurricane damage, not interior decorating.

The actual retrosexual code is a lot longer, and easy to find online. On balance, I'm about fifty percent retrosexual. If I was still single, I'd get my hair cut more often, and I'd watch my manners, too. But being happily partnered, I figure I'll live by what I consider the essence of the retrosexual code: just deal with it. Deal with who you are, and that'll make you happiest in the end.

Neil Plakcy's Kimo novels are fast-paced, emotionally compelling reads about a police officer coming to terms with his sexual identity while solving complex mysteries in the exotic Hawaiian setting.  You can check out an excerpt of Mahu Fire here.  But we know TLC regulars will want to explore Neil's foray into erotica.  Check it out here.

Clubbing

By Elaine Viets

There it is – my new baby, the seventh Dead-End Job mystery, CLUBBED TO DEATH. Quite a handsome little hardcover, isn’t it? CLUBBED weighs 14 ounces, tucked into its pink and green cover.

Publishers Weekly liked it, too, which is always a relief. The review and the first chapter are both on my Web site at www.elaineviets.com.

For this book, Helen and I worked at a country club. If I had a dollar for every time I heard, "Do you know who I am?" I could have bought the place.

CLUBBED TO DEATH will be published May 6. That makes it the perfect gift for Mother’s Day on May 11. If you’d like a free personalized bookplate for yourself or your mom, email me at eviets@aol.com

If you’d like an autographed copy, send me an email and we’ll work out a private signing. Or you can order pre-signed copies from Mystery Lovers Bookshop at www.mysterylovers.com

or from The Poisoned Pen at www.poisonedpen.com.

Belong to a book discussion group? You’ll find reading discussion questions for CLUBBED TO DEATH and all my other books at www.elaineviets.com Just click on the book covers.

I may be coming to a city near you in June. CLUBBED TO DEATH tour cities include Houston, Dallas, Westerville, Ohio and my hometown, St. Louis. Here are the tour stops. Further details are posted on my Web site.

(1) Plantation, Florida

Barnes & Noble Plantation

Time: 7:30 P.M..

Date: Thursday, May 22

Barnes & Noble Plantation, 591 S. University Drive (that’s University Drive and I-595). Join the Mystery Lovers book club and Dr. Chris Jackson for a discussion of CLUBBED TO DEATH. For information, call 954-723-0489.

(2) Fort Lauderdale

Literary Tea for CLUBBED TO DEATH, Broward County Main Library

Time: 2 P.M.

Date: Tuesday, June 10

CLUBBED TO DEATH is set at a country club. So it's only proper that we have a literary tea to celebrate. This one is sponsored by the Florida Center for the Book at the Main Library, 100 South Andrews Ave. Leave your white gloves and hat at home, but make your reservations for this exclusive mystery lovers event at the Broward County Main Library. You'll love the price -- it's free. For more information, contact the Center for the Book at 954-357-7401.

(3) Delray Beach, Florida

Murder on the Beach Bookstore

Time: 7 P.M.

Date: Wednesday, June 11

I've signed every one of my mysteries at Murder on the Beach, and this year, I'm delighted to return to South Florida's foremost mystery bookstore for CLUBBED TO DEATH. Please join us on a Wednesday evening in Delray Beach, a terrific place to shop, dine -- and buy mysteries.
Murder on the Beach is at 273 Pineapple Grove Way. For information call 561-279-7790.

(4) Houston, Texas

Murder by the Book

Time: 6:30 P.M.

Date: Tuesday, June 17

Murder by the Book always has extraordinary signings. One of my favorites was for MURDER UNLEASHED, where the members of Caring Critters showed up with their service dogs. I've never had a signing before where I had my makeup licked off. Last year, when I was sick, mystery authors threw a "tour by proxy" signing for me that I’m still hearing about. I’m hoping to be there in person this year, though I understand that Bill Crider makes a funnier me than I do. Please stop by Murder by the Book for my newest Dead-end Job Mystery, CLUBBED TO DEATH. It’s at 2342 Bissonnet Street. For information call 713-524-8597.

(5) Plano, Texas

Barnes & Noble

Time: 7 P.M.

Date: Wednesday, June 18

Barnes & Noble in Plano, Texas

Texas has some of the friendliest readers. I hope you'll come to the Barnes & Noble in Plano, 2201 Preston Road (that’s northeast Dallas) to say hello and talk about CLUBBED TO DEATH. For information call 972-612-0999.

(6) Westerville, Ohio

Foul Play Mystery Books

Time: 6 P.M.

Thursday, June 19

Foul Play is a charming gingerbread house with thousands of books and a real cat or two. The place is packed for signings, and we always have a good time. Please join me at this cozy mystery store at 27 East College Ave. For information, call 888-257-2343.

(7) St. Louis

Time: 7 P.M.

Friday, June 20

St. Louis County Library, 1640 S. Lindbergh Blvd.

I wind up my tour with a visit home at the main county library to talk about CLUBBED TO DEATH. Looking forward to seeing you all. For information call 314-994-3300.

The Penis News Network

By Me, Margie, who is doing an audition tape for a new satellite radio channel, and this is the transcript

Welcome to the Penis News Network. It's Me, Margie, filling in for your regular host, Dick Hancock, who is still recovering from that bit of nastiness he picked up on the Virgin Islands. Just keep taking the antibiotics Dick, and you'll be back to fighting trim in no time. Hang in there, buddy - we're all pulling for you.

Now, the news. Here are the Penis News stories making head lines today: Halliburton is still screwing stuff up over in Iraq, but their billing system is top notch. In politics, efforts to shut down all the jagoff talking heads by wholesale decapitation was met with some fairly firm resistance, and in weather, it's too damn hot for April. Stock up on talc, boys. Seriously.

What? A Jagoff? What do you mean I can't say that? Are you fuh-- I mean, are you freaking kidding me? Whateve. I'll put the F back in FCC around here, bub.

Back to the news. Last week, Dikipedia inducted Eddie Murphy. I can't compete with the writers over there at Dickipedia, so I'll just read you the entry and you can check out the rest on their website.

Edward Regan “Eddie” Murphy (born April 3, 1961) is a former foul-mouthed comedian, current “family” actor, and can be considered a fallen star in both categories. He is also: a famous frequenter of transsexual prostitutes, apparently a non-fan of condoms, and a dick.
Somehow ranked as the number one grossing actor in history, Eddie Murphy has appeared as a James Brown wannabe, a discontented prince, and a talking jackass. He has also played those roles in film.

Hey, I don't write the news, I just report it. So if you think Pluto Nash is the greatest movie ever made, don't come whining to me, okay?

Now, a word from our sponsor - "Remember, friends, it's better to be safe than sorry. Use Troganz. Troganz: Where There Is No Size Small."

Next up, our Top Story. Which reminds me - for those of you who always wondered why we never talk about the Bottom Story, I have found the answer. It's on a different channel - I think it's called the BFN, but I'm not positive.

Our Top Story is a very troubling tale out of Africa - thanks to Reuters News Service for grabbing this story and not letting go until it's over.

Panic hit the Congo capital city of Kinshasa this week, when rumors of Penis Snatching hit the sheets. Streets. Police arrested 13 suspected snatchers and 14 purported victims. "We had to bring them all in" said a police official, who asked to remain anonymous because he didn't want anyone checking out his privates, "the only way to get to the root of this is to put everything out on the table and evaluate the evidence." A wise man, no doubt.

I mean, no one wants a repeat of what happened in Ghana ten years ago, and I think you all know what I'm talking about there. And that mess up in Chad in the '80s? Please. Those poor people are still in therapy.

Now - no one is telling you this, but like all good reporters, I have a source. This latest round of Penis Panic all started when a group of innocent people signed up to attend a Lorena Bobbit Motivational Seminar. Hey - I have nothing against Ms. Bobbit, although I will say that one difference between her and Me, Margie is that with her, at least they found the remnant. Just saying.

So - a group of men showed up to protest the Bobbit Seminar, and the promoters of the seminar, who already had a fortune tied up in T-Shirts, came out to respond, and some harsh words were exchanged. Next thing you know, the promoters (who are also the inventors of that Whack-A-Mole game, which makes total sense) are bringing in witches, and the rest just snowballed. When asked about their role in the chaos that followed, the promoters referred us to their official spokesman, Craven Moorehead, who had no official comment.

Police were at a loss to comfort the men who claimed to be victims. "I'm tempted to say it's one huge joke," the Police Chief said, "but I've seen these guys, and you just can't use the word huge. Just saying."

Indeed. Just listen to what one observer had to say: "It's real. Just yesterday here, there was a man who was a victim. We saw. What was left was tiny," said 29-year-old Alain Kalala, who sells phone credits near a Kinshasa police station.

Here in the U.S., the story was met with both panic and empathy. "I knew it!" said one man, who consented to be identified only by his nickname, Peanut, "when I was in high school, this bitch invited me to a dance, and I said no, and she cursed me. Now at least I have some hard evidence to back me up. I'm going to start calling lawyers."

When contacted, a local class action lawyer was already setting up a hotline. "This is an epidemic - it's the dirty secret no one wants to talk about - but now, those witches are going to pay, or my name isn't Jack Meoff".

And that's it for this edition of Penis Update. Stay tuned for our live radio drama, Penis Puppet Theater, up next.

***

So - whatd'ya think? It's pretty good, but it needs work - I need hard news for this tape, so let me know about other Penises in the News, okay?

Here Comes the Bride

by Nancy

Submitted for your approval:  A wedding isn't memorable unless somebody misbehaves.

At least, that's my theory now that it's been thirty years since my own wedding, and I've attended so many nuptials that they all blur together in my mind until I sort out at which one did the best man have to duck out of line at the altar, dart out the side door and could then be heard upchucking into the bushes because of bachelor party excesses?

And which one was the wedding where one inebriated reception guest (female, who made an unfortunate choice in outfits that morning) climbed onto a table to sing I Will Survive along with the band?

Well, here's a wedding that--er--takes the cake:  Please click on this link, because the photo of the bride emerging from jail in her wedding gown is priceless. I'm only sorry the online version of the newspaper didn't include the photo of the groom with his black eye swollen shut.

Ain't liquor a terrific addition to any wedding reception?

If I attended your wedding, let me say right away that it was lovely. I cried a delicate tear during the vows and enjoyed the reception fare and even sneaked an extra piece of cake because it was so delicious. And the music was divine. There was never a more beautiful bride or a more handsome groom. The flowers were exquisite. I had such a nice time.

But the other 127 weddings I've attended over the years were . . . forgettable.

Really, now, don't you remember the tacky ones best? The silly mistakes? The offensive behavior of a boorish groomsman? The incredibly self meltdown of the MOB?

There are certain people who attend every wedding:

There's the overtly sexy woman who looks much more sophisticated than anyone else on the guest list.  Maybe she's newly divorced or somebody's ex-girlfriend, or the sexy cousin, but you know who I mean. Her dress often has a slit up the side. And she smokes.

There's also the groomsman who gets drunk and a.) trashes the mens room or b.) wrecks his car or c.) supervises the shaving cream spraying of the bridal bed.

There's the little girl in the adorable pink/yellow/lavender satin dress that is quickly smeared with jello or Kool Aid or cake frosting, and she ends up bawling by the end of the evening. She was briefly considered for the role of flower girl, but "you know how she gets sometimes."

The father of the bride who won't leave the bar.

The bridesmaid who really wasn't on the A-list, but somebody ele dropped out of the wedding party and she's the fill-in, and she knows it. She did not bother to diet to squeeze into the $565 satin dress with ruching the bride insisted she buy and will never wear again.

The uncle who wants to dance with all the bridesmaids.

I'm sure you know more of the guest list regulars.  Since we're approcahing wedding season, let's see how many we can identify before you even zip your dress.

We all want our weddings to be perfect.  It's only natural.  But perfect can be boring.  After a couple of decades, isn't it more fun to re-play the mistakes?  The drunks? The hissyfits? How many times can that awful Karen Carpenter song be played and the audience be expected to take it seriously?

C'mon.  Share your most memorable wedding moment. I bet it wasn't hearts and flowers.

The Drag Gospel Brunch

By Elaine Viets

I don’t know what you heathens did Sunday, but I spent three hours with Sister Mary Rebecca and a divine group of Gospel singers.

Sister poured champagne. The Gospel singers were drag queens in sequins and choir robes.

Fort Lauderdale, the city with cutting edge sleaze, has a Drag Gospel Brunch. The brunch is at Lips, the "ultimate in drag dining." Check it out at www.jumponmarkslist.com/bars/lips.htm

The show is fast, funny and mostly lip-synced. Most of the music isn’t traditional Gospel, although the folks at my table hadn’t been in a church for so long, we wouldn’t know Gospel music if it walloped us in the key of G. But Sister Mary Rebecca did a lively lip-sync of "This Little Light of Mine."

The glitzy emcee was hilarious, and strayed often from the path of good manners and good taste. She told one blond female, "You’ve got more roots than Alex Haley." She asked another woman in a baseball cap ("my little dyke tyke") if she’d change her car’s oil. A visitor from England was asked, "Don’t they have enough queens there?"

The audience sang along to: "If you’re gay and you know it clap your hands. If you’re gay and you know it, then your fashion sense will show it . . ."

The straight version was: "If you’re straight and you know it, then your Kmart clothes will show it." There was a lot of hand clapping and each table got tambourines to shake.

The question everyone asked was, "Were the drag queens beautiful?"

Yes. They went for the heavy glam that many women liberated themselves from long ago, except on special occasions. The queens wore sky-high heels, heavy eye makeup, chandelier earrings, false eyelashes, and gowns cut down to there. Most had a pretty good "there."

They walked and talked like women, and I suspect some had had their Adam’s apples altered. I didn’t see much evidence of that telltale drag queen giveaway. The only figure fault was that some were a tad chunky around the waist. But then, so were some of the genuine women in the audience. I was relieved when the kitchen ran out of Hollandaise sauce for my eggs Benedict.

The drag queens wore some fabulous gowns, and since I’m a tall person, I began to wonder how I would look in bias-cut fringe. I had to keep reminding myself, "Those are men."

The most amazing feat (or maybe that’s feet) was when a performer stepped off the stage – a distance of maybe two feet – wearing four inch heels. Even on a good day, I might have killed myself trying that stunt.

A young man who was visiting Lips for his birthday was brought onstage and seated in a chair covered with crystals and sparkles. The performers serenaded him with "Miss America."

"Are you single?" the emcee asked him.

He was.

The emcee plopped herself in the lad’s lap and said, "Then you want me. Because when I take off this drag, I’m a man, and that will make you happy. But I look like a woman, which will make Mommy and Daddy happy."

The Drag Gospel Brunch price is $25 for the brunch, show, tax, tip, and unlimited mimosas, champagne or bloody Marys. You can also shower the performers with tips. As one said, "It takes a lot of money to look this cheap."

The only bad thing about the brunch was it’s over about three p.m., and I had to stagger out into the merciless Florida sunlight.

Lips drag dinner theater is in three cities: New York, San Francisco and Lauderdale. It’s open six days a week and has a variety of shows, including drag karaoke.

I plan to honor my religious roots. I was brought up Catholic. I’m tempted by the Bitchy Bingo night. www.jumponmarkslist.com/MSFL/friday/2007/Lips_Bingo_large.jpg

Why Women Lie

By Sarah

Apparently, real women lie. Not real women like Harley, who, as she explained yesterday, lives a lie by keeping a meticulous, apple-pie-smelling house. I'm talking about about serious stuff such as extra marital affairs and money and whether or not his bald spot is growing. (It is.)

Now a book by Susan Shapiro Barash called "Little White Lies, Deep Dark Secrets: The Truth About Why Women Lie," claims women lie much more than we know. To prove this, Barash interviewed 500 women who answered her Craigslist (Craigslist??) ad and this is what her questionable research found - that 60% cheated on their husbands, 75% lied about money as in how much they made and how much they spent (well, duh) and a whopping half lied about their feelings of motherhood. For example, getting up three times a night to breast feed or tuck in a crying toddler or soothe a nervous teenager might not be as blissful as they claim to the playgroup.

Okay, I admit women lie and for that I say, thank heavens. I write chick lit, women's lit, whatever, and two of my stories - The Cinderella Pact and The Sleeping Beauty Proposal - are predicated on the protagonists' lies. It's no accident they've done well sales wise, I suppose, since women love to read about themselves. And look at soap operas. Some woman's always lying about the paternity of her darling new baby or whether she bludgeoned David Hamilton to death with a statue of Two Lovers. Women lie like carpet in fiction, hearkening back to Grimm's Fairytales (Rumplestiltskin) and Hansel and Gretel (it's Gretel who convinces Hansel to stick out the chicken bone instead of his arm.)

Which brings me to one reason why women lie - survival. I think this is Barash's premise, too, in part, but since this is my blog, not hers, I'm going with it. As girls, there's so much more pressure on us to be good. Boys can get into minor mischief, break a few windows and, when they reach adolescence, experiment with sex without suffering the condemnation of society. Whereas girls, of course, are still stigmatized for sleeping around. Hey, no one's paying them to lose their virginity by their eighteenth birthday and in some cultures it could spell their execution.

So perhaps that's why women are practiced at lying and why they resort to it when they get older and their problems surmount. As a reporter, I covered a number of cases - a surprising number, actually - of  women caught embezzling. Trust me, these were not women zipping around in fancy cars with fabulous wardrobes and diamond tennis bracelets. These were women trying to make ends meet.

The New York Times has reported that between 1993 and 2002, the number of women embezzling increased by 83%. Unreal. Sometimes gambling is to blame. (Porn. Gambling. Why is it that vices are the first edge of new technology?) Sometimes outrageous medical bills - but that's for another blog.

The women I wrote about were secretaries, bookkeepers and town clerks. They embezzled very little on the grand scheme - it was, after all, Vermont - but enough to get them a felony conviction and even time in the slammer. In almost all the cases, they intended to pay the money back and they stole because they needed to pay family bills. That, to me, sums up female lying at its most desperate core.

Women also lie to escape the wrath of their husbands who might hit the roof when they rip open the credit card bills. They lie to paint a more perfect image of themselves to their children. (The evolution, I suppose, of when they lied to paint a more perfect image of themselves to their parents.) And sometimes women lie because, what the hell. It's more convenient than telling the truth.

The bottom line is women lie because they lack power. And, like Brer Rabbit outsmarting the fox, they need to find the upper hand, even if that means sneaking around the back and getting a lift up.

Okay...so what have you lied about? (FYI, email addresses won't be posted and names can be aliases.)

Sarah