The Lipstick Chronicles

What Do Women Talk About in the Loo?

by Nancy Martin

Miss New Jersey says she's being blackmailed by someone who lifted "disgusting" photos of her from her own Facebook page. She says she's being told to rip the crown from her own highlighted head and give up her dream of competing in the Miss America Pageant.

She says, "It's really disheartening to think it (the blackmailer) might be another contestant."

Oooh, you may be disheartened, honey, but the rest of America is panting for the Movie of the Week.

The first runner-up in the Miss New Jersey pageant is Ronica Licciardello (could the casting be any easier?) who says, "I wish only the best for Amy and her family at this time."  (If Ronica and/or her nearest and dearest aren't part of this scheme--and I'm shocked--shocked!--to think you might consider the possibility--you're going to put your money on The Donald, aren't you?)

Whether it's true or not, you know most of America believes this is a story of shallow women competing in the ultimate catfight. We like to think beauty pageant contestants are women who formed their opinions about their own sex by sitting in the school cafeteria making cracks about how badly the other girls dressed. Of course, these "women" are 22 and haven't figured out that maybe your best friends aren't going to be beauty pageant officials or judges or even Matt Lauer and almost certainly not your big-haired, boob-taped, butt-sucked competitors.

I don't know about you, but here at TLC, we've come to firmly believe that the people who will carry you through life to the very end are your best friends--the women you confide in, the women you nuture, the women you start to love as much as your family because they understand we're all in this lifeboat together, baby, and that looking out for Number One makes for a lonely existence even if you get to wear a crown and earn "scholarship money."

I'm heading to a writers' conference this weekend.  (By the time you read this, I'm probably sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair at the airport) It ain't a beauty pageant, just a bunch of really great writers turned loose in the big city for a weekend of hijinks. I hadn't planned to go, really, because hanging around with successful authors can be exorbitantly expensive and, okay, occasionally disheartening. Especially when some of the authors have big egos and poor social skills. If you're not careful,  you can come home from a conference with a maxed-out credit card and your confidence shaken so badly  you don't write for weeks.

(I once attended a conference run by a totally different genre organization, and in the minutes before the banquet I moseyed over to a couple of authors I admired.  They were chatting and laughing in the doorway as people walked past them into the ballroom. When I approached, they said,  "We're making fun of what all the losers are wearing."  That wasn't the only moment that made me decide it would be my last convention with that particular organization, but it certainly contributed.)

But I took a look at the list of registrants attending Thrillerfest and realized I know half the people going! And the list is made up of people I like, trust and enjoy being around, dammit. So I signed up hours before the registration closed.

My husband looked over my shoulder as I whipped out my Mastercard and---clearly thinking about the hellishly expensive kitchen renovation we can no longer put off--he asked me. "What's the point of networking with other authors, anyway?"

This, spoken by a man who has colleagues lined up in offices on both sides of his hallway. He also talks by phone with customers a dozen times a day. He eats his lunch at a table with at least three other bankers! And he wanted to know why I felt compelled to spend time with my peers.

Sputtering over his question, I finally said, "Because other authors talk shop. They share their numbers. They help each other over small failures with jokes and drinks. They help celebrate the good stuff with jokes and drinks.  They use any excuse for jokes and drinks!"  When he continued to frown, I cried, "We're all in the same foxhole!"

The lightbulb went off.  If a sports analogy doesn't work, a war analogy will do the trick.  Upshot: We might not have granite countertops in the new kitchen, but so what? I don't really cook anyway. And he certainly doesn't.

To tell the truth, what I'm most looking foward to is time in the bathroom with my girl friends.

You know what I mean. After you use the facilities in a women's public restroom, you stand all stand in front of the mirror and consider whether or not to powder your nose, but mostly you talk, talk, talk to your best pals. You dish. You complain. If anybody rushes in and bursts into tears, an instant therapy session will bust out. You share. You listen. You bolster. Maybe you extol the virtues of waterproof mascara, but the issues are usually more important than that. I read somewhere once that men's brains are solution-oriented, whereas women's brains are process-oriented.  There's never a more clear example of the process than in the ladies' loo at a conference.

I'm guessing the mascara discussion is what happens in front of the mirror at the Miss New Jersey pageant.

Those girls don't know what they're missing. I can't even call them women because they haven't grown up yet. But they're young. They'll learn.

Yes, by the time you read this, I'll be on my way to New York. I wish all the Tarts were going to be there, but Sarah and Elaine are staying at home to mind the store.  Maybe we'll call them from the bathroom.

The F-Word

By Elaine Viets

I was watching "Divorce Court" on TV. A handsome young couple was eager to untie the knot. The soon-to-be ex-wife told the judge the terrible things her husband did: he ran around with other women, he didn’t have a job and, worst of all, "he used the F-word."

I didn’t record the conversation but it went something like this:

You mean he cursed you? the judge asked.

"I mean he called me fat," the young woman said.

Oh, that F-word. No wonder the wife was angry. That’s a terrible word for a young man to use on his wife. Besides, she didn’t look fat to me, and TV tends to add weight.

"I was just trying to encourage her to lose weight," the young man said.

Sorry, sir, but that’s not how you encourage the woman you love. Using the F-word will make her look at the fathead who said it and decide he could afford to buff himself up. Before you know it, the bride has eaten her way into the plus-size department.

I have known women who have lost weight, but their men were clever. They called themselves fat, not their wives. Consider Scott Lohse, the pastor of a church in Dittmer, Missouri. His wife, Lin Lohse, runs the local Curves fitness center.

"Since the first of the year I have lost 80 pounds and Lin has lost 52 pounds," Scott said. "I don't think we want to say what we weighed when we started but I could lose another 80 and still have a bit left to go. My real goal is before my fiftieth birthday to have someone ask me if I've been ill."

Scott didn’t complain that his wife was overweight. He took a look in the mirror first, which many men fail to do, and noticed he could use some improvement. Scott said at one point they padlocked the fridge after dinner, because that was their peak snacking period.

I’ve known husbands who said they wanted their wives on diets, but in their spare time, they sabotaged her efforts by making chocolate chip cookies "for the kids."

"Lin discovered Curves when we lived in Jackson, Mo.," Scott said. "I joined a gym and she joined Curves. When we opened our Curves it was a new idea. Now, seven years later, it is an international fitness center with more than 4,000,000 members. In the U.S. there is at least one Curves in every county. There were only two of the fitness centers in St. Louis County in 1999. Lin managed one of them for awhile and finally decided to open her own. That helped her maintain most of her weight loss but we both became 'unfit' over time.

"Our fitness plan worked for awhile, but then we fell off the wagon. What got us going again this time was turning 49 this year. I did not want to be fat and fifty and I had a year to do something about it.

"This time we are doing it together. We follow her Curves diet plan and become more active by exercising together. I use a home gym every morning and Lin does Curves and we walk every afternoon. At least we did until she decided to take a tennis lesson and fell, fracturing two vertebrae in her spine. We are still walking, though, and still losing even though she is wearing a back brace.

"My congregation has celebrated my weight loss but they also have been watching me like a bunch of hawks.

"Much of the time Lin and I have a friendly competition with the weight loss. Men, it seems, lose weight faster and so I usually win, but I have a deeper pool to draw from. I read today that Webster just made ‘ginormous’ an official word. I would like to not feel threatened by that fact by the end of this year.

"Most nights we watch TV in our basement recreation room because it is furthest from the kitchen and that discourages mindless snacking. We also just recently bought a lake house because we feel this will encourage us to be more active.

"I also enlisted the help of my new church by making a laminated sign which I hung in my office which reads, ‘Please don't feed the pastor.’ "

Between Scott and Lin, their marriage is 132 pounds lighter. They’ve lost a whole person and learned to deal with a weighty issue.

The Other MRS....

By Sarah

I was hard at work the other day crafting another book that would move readers to laugh and cry (hopefully at the right moments) when I was interrupted by a Very Urgent Phone Call from a Mr. Robert Snyder.

Now, I usually make it a point not to answer the phone during the day unless the caller ID indicates a family member, fellow Tart, editor, agent or Colin Firth. But I was bored and annoyed by Robert Snyder's numerous Very Important Messages about an Urgent Matter that could Decide My Future which merited my immediate response. When I returned his call, I was delighted to find that the fictitious Robert Snyder was from a collection agency: MRS Associates of Cherry Hill, New Jersey.

Oh, goody.

It had been years since a collection agency called and, gosh darn, I missed the give and take, the warm dialogue one finds while chatting with a stranger who alternately commiserates and shakes me down for money. The last time I had the pleasure was when a roommate, naturally, blew off her bills before skipping town.

And then there was the incident two years ago when the State of Ohio sent a collection agency after me because I had cashed a check from them in 1987 for taxes I had overpaid. Come to find out an audit conducted ten years after I left the state showed they had misread my return. I actually owed the state $25. But, as Ohio couldn't find me (I had moved, married, and then moved again 600 miles away) they just kept racking up the penalties and interest, the dears, until finally putting a lien on my name in some backwater county in the middle of Ohio. Unbeknownst to me, of course.

So I poured myself a Diet Dew and dialed MRS, mulling over its possible use in an upcoming chick-lit series (HE WORKED FOR MRS) when a man possessing an accent too thick and Southern for even Cape May informed me that MRS had contacted me on the behalf of the Cleveland Parking Authority. Was I aware that I had nine unpaid parking tickets from 1989 totaling $210 due immediately?

Was it wrong to laugh? Perhaps, but I couldn't help it. First of all, we're talking parking violations that are twenty years old - that is if they even existed. Not that MRS was willing prove they did or that I hadn't paid them. They had absolutely no paperwork to send me either way. Nothing. Nada. Zero in writing.

That was the first red flag.

What I needed to do was give him my Visa number over the phone or a debit card number or Western Union (how quaint) - as MRS did not accept checks - Right Away. Otherwise he would stamp my account "refused" and then I'd really be in trouble. I could face a lien or maybe a ding on my credit report. I might be turned down for loans for a house or to send my kids to college and ....Well, it'd be bad.

Two more red flags.

Finally, he agreed to knock off $10 per ticket for a total of $120. Another red flag.

The first point I stressed was that without documented proof I did not feel obliged to pay for anything, especially since the FBI investigated Cleveland's Administration for all sorts of wrongdoing including bribes and kickbacks during the period when my parking tickets were alleged to have gone unpaid. In other words, the City of Cleveland's word alone was not what one called golden.

I also did not trust some entity called MRS which demanded my Visa number over the phone though it could not send me legal, not to mention any, documents by mail. That's when our conversation took a turn for the worse. To prove MRS was legitimate, the only recommendation he could offer was that ultimately reliable source - the company's website.

Which was when I hung up.

Later that evening, I described all this to Charlie, a lawyer, who threw a minor fit that I had called them back, that I had engaged them in conversation. If they call again - and we know they will - I should direct them to my attorney. This is why I hate lawyers. They get all the fun.

Though, as Robert Snyder, or whatever the guy's name at MRS really was, did direct me to the Internet, I decided to stop by the Better Business Bureau on line where I found that not only was MRS not a member but it also had an unsatisfactory record with the watchdog organization.

Moreover, in reading over the Federal Trade Commission's Fair Debt Collection Practices Act, it appears that MRS's veiled threat that "it has happened that people's credit reports have been negatively affected" by unpaid parking tickets was kind of a lie in Cleveland's case and therefore illegal. In fact, I could very well sue them for up to $1,000.

Instead, I think I'll file a complaint with the Attorney General's Office.

The reason I decided to write about this is because of a friend's reaction when I told her my MRS saga.  Yes, she said, but did you see in the newspaper that cities are really cracking down on scofflaws? "You better pay it."

Which makes me wonder, if MRS can scare people like my well educated friend, what will deceptive companies like this do to the powerless and the ignorant? Not that our readers fall in those categories, of course.

Still.....What would you do?

Sarah

So what is Jason Starr, the mad genius of noir, who's regularly compared to Jim Thompson because of his bleak, searing vision of humanity, doing guest blogging at the formerly pink and always lighthearted Lipstick Chronicles?  For starters, he's a hottie, so shoot us if we like cute guys.  He also has better hair than any of the Tarts, and we're hoping he'll spill his secret. (Hate to break it to you, ladies, but it's good genes, not product!) And we can't fail to mention that his new book, The Follower, has a female protagonist and was described by Page Six as "this generation's Looking for Mr. Goodbar and a crackling hot beach read." Who doesn't want a book by a hot guy about women and sex?  Buy it here, and if you want to catch up with Jason, you can find him at his website, or at ThrillerFest this coming weekend in New York City.

Men Writing Women

by Jason Starr

                                                      

Hey, it's great to be guest blogging here today. I've been a big Lipstick Chronicles lurker for a long time and since Michele left Manhattan for greener pasters this has been the best way to get caught up on her life.  Ah, the good old days when Michele would meet me for a morning coffee at the Starbucks where I write.  I never reveal the location of "my Starbucks" in irrational fear that someone else will beat me to my quiet enclave and prized electrical outlet every morning.  Aside from my family, only Michele knows where my "office" is, and she's sworn to secrecy.

At ThrillerFest I'll be moderating a panel on New York City Thrillers where Michele will be the only woman panelist, so my first thought when she invited me to blog here was, Is this, like, payback?  But, seriously, I'm thrilled to be here, and I actually think it's very appropriate because in my new novel, THE FOLLOWER, I have -- for the first time -- a female protagonist.  Although the novel is told from several points of view, Katie Porter is definitely the star of the book.  And in the novel I'm writing now, I'm taking the female thing even further and am writing entirely from a woman's perspective.

So what's the deal here, you might ask; is Jason trying to explore his softer, feminine side?  I don't think so, since both books are pretty intense thrillers.  It's mainly that I love pretending to be people I'm not; for me, that's one of the biggest pleasures of writing.  In my other books, I've had leading characters who are African-American and Puerto Rican, so why not a woman?  I also love challenging myself in my writing, doing things I haven't done before.

Many writers have written excellent cross-gender novels.  S.J. Rozan jumps to mind as someone in the mystery field who has done it very effectively.  Then, of course, there's Patricia Highsmith who frequently had male leads.  In my earlier books, I've had major female characters, just not in starring roles.  The closest I've come to having a cross-gender star is in the novels I co-write with Ken Bruen.  In BUST and the forthcoming SLIDE, we have Angela who is in many ways the star of the books.  She also happens to be my favorite character to write and I'm positive Ken would agree.  She's just so out there, so unpredicable and self-serving, that whenever we're writing we can't wait to do her scenes.

In THE FOLLOWER, I enjoyed getting into Katie's head, exploring the mind set of a young woman in her early twenties who's just moved to Manhattan.  It was also fascinating for me to look at my male characters from the female point of view.  The guys in the books have images of themselves thar are so wildly different from how Katie sees them, that this led to a lot of opportunity for humor and satire.  And, I must admit, I enjoyed writing sex scenes from the female point of view.  It was a blast putting myself in that position.  Er, um, so to speak.

So what do people out there think?  Can men write good women?  Can women write good men?  Is it possible to pull it off convincingly, or can men and women never really understand each other?

Stress Causes Fat. Duh.

By Rebecca the Bookseller

Last Monday, the Washington Post reported, with great fanfare, that researchers at Georgetown had made an amazing discovery - stress can cause people (ok, mice) to get fat! WOW! AND - there's more - stressed out people (mice) who eat Junk Food are even more likely to get fat. Stop the presses. It's like Jonas Salk all over again.

Please. Look, I'm a fat person, so I'm going to take this one. With few exceptions (and my heart does go out to those people) we already KNOW why we're fat, okay? We eat too much of the wrong things and don't exerrcise enough. Sure, you can blame stress or sloth or gluttony or a sore toe, or any number of things. But the real cause is our own lifestyle choices.

There is never going to be a magic cream or a pill (remember what happened with that Phen stuff? Even if you didn't spend your life wearing Depends, you had a ticket on CV Disease Express). Surgery is an answer, but not an easy one. We lost a dear friend to post-op problems from gastic bypass surgery.

Losing weight is extraordinarily tough, especially if you try to do it right. For a humorous look at the issue, read Sarah's The Cinderella Pact (now out in paperback).

I love it when people say - oh, sure she lost weight, but she had a personal trainer. As if said trainer did all the work. Granted, having a trainer, or a chef, or both, does make things more convenient, but the sweating and the pain and the craving are all on the person losing the weight. No matter how rich you are, you can't pay someone else to do that part for you.

But back to Science. Here is the thing that really troubles me about this. Taking nothing away from the scientists who toiled long and hard in the lab (at least I hope there was some of that, research is deadly boring otherwise) it's like that car that parks itself.

There are hundreds of subjects of research going on all over the world. The ones that get the funding are the ones that get the answers. So what does it say about us, as a society, that we are willing to allocate money to try to find a way to short-cut the weight loss process, but not allocate enough money to cure, oh I don't know, pick something - breast cancer? AIDs? The escalating problems with releasing mentally ill patients from treatment that is directly tied to our homeless problem? Infant mortality rates?

I picked those issues because the first answer one receives is: Obesity costs money in terms of lost production and health care. Yes. It does. So do the problems I listed. Obesity kills. Yes. If left unchecked, it leads to all kinds of things that can kill you. So do the others. But there is one big difference.

Look - I'd be delighted to have a magic wand that could change my physical appearance (I'd take more height, for starters, but I think we all know how that whole growth hormone/steriod thing turned out) but I'm willing to own the fact that I have the power, if not the will, to change my own weight. And in my case, I'm comfortable in my fatness. I'm otherwise healthy (blood pressure, cholesterol, etc). I'll spare you the details, but it didn't happen by accident, and I can live with that.

What I do not have the power - or skill - or education - or funding - to do is to find a cure for something that is beyond our control.

Kind of a bummer topic for a Summer Sunday, I know, but it's a holiday weekend, and nobody's going to be waiting for this blog to post, so I'm saying it.

Because sometimes, saying it, even if only one person hears it, is the best we can do. Slience is not always golden. In some cases, like many we face these days, silence is enabling the bad behavior to continue. Know what I mean?

Or, as Margie would say: Just Sayin'.

Magnificent Seven

By Me. Margie

Today is 7-7-07. It is one of the twelve times that will occur this millenium, which is a very cool thing. So here are seven things that are magnificent about the number 7:

1. 007. Need we say Moore?
OK, that right there? It's just to be clever, okay? It's still Connery, people.

2. Seven is the lucky number to roll when you play Craps.
I'll admit it - I don't get Craps. I've never even tried. Because it's complicated and I need to save room in my brain for important stuff, okay?

3. Snow White had Seven Dwarfs.
We can call them dwarfs because they are cartoon characters and cannot file a discrimination suit. Somebody just told me a dirty joke about Snow and the little guys and it was funny, but I can't tell it here. OK, I'll tell part of it. What has seven little dents? Answer: It's a part of Snow White. hee.

4. Seven Brides for Seven Brothers is a great musical.
My Mom LOVES the musicals. I am the only one of my friends who, when we started watching Dallas on DVD, recognized Clayton Farlow.

5. The Magnificent Seven is a fantastic movie, and many people consider it their favorite western.
OK, Yul will always be The King (see the note above about the musicals) but he's good in this too. And somebody tried to get me to watch that idiot movie where he's a robot and forget that.

6. Seven is a prime number.
See, this is why people don't get math. Because when you hear the word Prime you think - oh, yeah, this is gonna be good. But not. Who really cares? Just saying.

7. There are Seven fabulous women who write this blog.
That's right, count heads again, doofs, and then you can add Me, Margie. Geez.

OK, your turn.

P.S. Oh, yeah - see - no bad words in this blog. That's two in a row, so certain people can get off my ass about the ratings bullshit. What a fucking joke that shit is. Oops.

The Emperor's New Nose

A Fable, by Me, Margie

This week, something happened that made Me, Margie, very very angry.

A Pissed Off Margie is not a good thing. So my new friend Patty Pugliese came over with Tequila and some special medicine. Why did she do this? Because she is a lawyer, and once a lawyer finds out you're planning to go batshit and hurt people - bad - they have to either try to stop you or turn you in. Which is good to know. Just saying.

After a couple of shooters - the drinks, not the ones with real guns, you stupes, I came up with this story so I could explain to my nieces why I was so mad. So here it is and I hope you like it.

Once upon a time, there was an Emperor. He was not the sharpest knife in the drawer, if you know what I mean. Which is okay. We all can't be brainiacs. Some people are street smart and some people are book smart, and some lucky people, like Aunt Margie, are both. But we all need to know our limitations. That is very important.

What are Aunt Margie's limitations? Hmm. Well, Aunt Margie cannot play basketball very well. This is why Aunt Margie would not even try out for the WNBA or even the Harlem Globetrotters. Yes, the ones who were on Scooby Doo, except in real life.

But the Emperor, well, he didn't know his limitations. For one thing, I think he was just too damn stupid to figure it out. Oops. We don't say that word, at least in front of your parents. Soon, you will be old enough to say lots of words with Aunt Margie, but they have to be our special words, okay? Okay.

The other reason the Emperor didn't know he was a dumbass -- oops -- there is another one of our special words. No more juice for Aunt Margie. I have to concentrate. Any way, the other reason was that people who were supposed to be his friends and his allies didn't tell him the truth. They told him what he wanted to hear. And no one wants to hear that they are dumb as a box of hammers, do they?

What are allies? Well, that's a funny word, now isn't it? In this case, you could just add an "L" and make two good words. Never mind.

It's like, you know when Aunt Margie's friends Dick and Jane came over and Jane had that really bad haircut? Yes, it looked like a crazy bird on her head, you are exactly right. So Dick and I told her it wasn't her best look and then we took her to the good Salon to see Kimmie and Jenn, and they fixed it all up real nice. We help our friends, don't we? That's what friends are for.

Well, the Emperor's friends - let's call them Dick and Jane just to make it easy - never told him the truth. They told him things so he would do what they wanted, rather than what was right. That is a very bad thing and an abuse of power.

What does that mean? Oh - that's like when a bully is mean and gets away with bad stuff - you know, like beating kids up and taking their money and treason and stuff just because he's bigger and stronger. Because he can get away with it. Yes, the teacher is supposed to stop him. You are right about that.

But even though the Emperor had 530-some people who were supposed to be watching him, they didn't do anything to really stop him. Which was wrong too. Yes, I know. That is a lot of people.

Well, one day, a Good Guy out in the middle of the whole Empire finally stood up and said: "Hey! This is not right! Somebody broke the law and I'm going to find out what happened." And so he did. Well, at least part of it. And he did a good job, even though the Emperor's people were not following the rules. And the jury decided that Binky, one of the Emperor's pals, did a very bad thing and had to be punished.

And so Binky was supposed to go to a place like a kennel. But for people. Most people thought Binky was really just taking the blame for someone else. Even so, the people thought it was a good thing that someone was at least getting in trouble, instead of all of them running around, breaking stuff and coloring on the walls and starting fights and generally making a big huge mess and never even getting a Time Out, or even missing snack time.

So while Binky and his pals were arguing with the Good Guy about which kennel, and how long, and what kind of other pets would be in the general population of the kennel and want to, you know, play with Binky and be his special friend, and I think Binky was getting ready to sing like a bird, what do you think the Emperor and his friends Dick and Jane were doing?

You know, I thought the same thing. I thought they would behave themselves and learn a lesson from what happened to Binky. But they just did the equivalent of that finger thing that Aunt Margie does in traffic sometimes and did even more bullying and lying and other bad stuff. And the regular people in the Empire were starting to realize how bad the Emperor and his friends were, and the poll numbers were dropping like a stone - a big, big stone.

But did the Emperor pay attention to his people? No he did not. In fact, he just got up one day and said: "I am the Emperor and my friends don't have to follow your rules or your 'peonas or anything else. And Binky doesn't have to go anywhere plus we're not giving you any papers." And they all laughed that evil laugh - you know the one.

Yes, that is rotten, isn't it?

So you know what happened? Three ghosts came to visit the Emperor's palace. Yes, just like happens on Scooby Doo. But instead of the creepy caretaker wearing a mask, it was three men named Thomas, Benjamin and John, and they all had wigs and short pants, like Uncle Joe sometimes wears when he goes golfing. Yes, he totally looks like a big goofball.

The ghosts came and got the Emperor and his friends Dick and Jane and Binky and all the others, and "POOF!" Suddenly they were all working min wage jobs and saying things like: "Hey, bubba, you want that supersized?" And they had no health insurance and they had to rely on spotty public transportation that kept getting routes cut and they were very, very sad. And just to make sure they didn't get away with the lying and bullying stuff ever again, Benjamin gave them the same curse that happened to Pinocchio.

Yes - Wow! A lot just happened there, I know. I was wondering where the new nose part was going to come in myself.

Then the people decided an Empire wasn't really the best way to run things, so they took a look at some old papers that the three ghosts had written a long time ago (because the ghosts were waving them around saying "Hel-loh? Anybody Home?" ) and the people said: "Hey, this is a great idea. Let's do this!" And so they had real elections where everyone got to vote - and the votes were all counted right and everything.

And they lived happily ever after. The End.

The Zombie War

by Nancy

This is a blog about putting aside your natural taste and trying something new.  And I'm not talking about those flavored condoms, Margie. Summer is about trying all kinds of new things.

On a hot summer night in the early 1970s, my sister and I were dared to see George Romero's Night of the Living Dead by our equally underaged friend, Beth Coon. The three of us squished into the front seat of my Plymouth Duster, and we went to the local drive-in theater which was not a place that showed Important French Films. It was a hangout for kids like ourselves who didn't come for the action on the screen, if you get my drift. The three of us might have picked up some refreshments from our usual over twenty-one whackjob source (he could deny my sister nothing) so we were---uh, well lubricated when the hot dogs stopped jumping through the hoop and the movie started.

For the next couple of hours, it rained (thunder and everything) so we had to keep wiping off the windshield to see the movie.  And there was a lot of screaming in that car.  The slim story--a couple of people pursued by decaying, yet animated corpses who wanted nothing more complicated than to kill and eat the people--was not nearly as intellectual as this article would have you believe. It was filmed (oh, so badly!) not far from where we lived, so we recognized a lot of the landmarks, which just made the story more . . . personal? More vivid? Anyway, the MD 22 aside, we were hellishly scared. And entertained. But not enough to go back for more zombie movies. Seen one, seen 'em all.

Jump ahead 30 years--give or take--and you have me doing a book signing at a wonderful bookstore in Lexington, Kentucky, where one of my favorite booksellers (I hope you're happy now, Craig) is showing me around his store and telling me about great books. Last year, he suggested Shadows of the Wind, and if you haven't read that one yet, you should. It's a book that will make you forever trust the person who recommended it to you.

This year, Craig said, "Do you like science fiction?"

Me:  "Uh, not really."

Craig, kindly:  "Do you trust me, Nancy?"

Yes, I did trust Craig's taste implicitly, so I let him tuck a copy of his favorite book of the year into my bag.

World War Z.

He shouldn't have told me the book was about zombies.

Because of the "z" word, I took the book home and immediately dropped it on my night stand, where it languished for several months. But I had to give a talk at a writers conference on the subject of high concepts in the book biz, and before I prepared my notes, I figured I'd better read a few pages of the zombie book because if nothing else, it was high concept.

Mind you, my usual taste is something like Falling Man (by Don Delillo, and it's wonderful, brilliant, heart-breaking!)  and because my interest in zombies pretty much began and ended with Michael Jackson's Thriller video, I was prepared to toss the zombie book after 3 pages.  (Which is all I'm giving any book these days.  Don't tell me you read every book you start to the bitter end.  Life is short, folks.)

But I was hooked on page one. Even before I finished World War Z, I started raving about it to my friends and family.  I pestered the Tarts to buy it. I kept shoving the book at my husband until he finally caved. I talk about it at every signing, every writers conference.

Why?  Maybe I found the book compelling because it's an apocalypse story, the first of which I read was Stephen King's The Stand. (The first half:  brilliant.  The second half?  Not so much.)  In the end-of-the-world-as-we-know-it genre, the unspoken narrative question is: Could I survive an apocalypse? Which is pretty compelling stuff.

For fun, go here.

World War Z is also written in a riveting (to me) style.  In the future, a dispassionate interviewer supposedly records the oral histories of forty characters who (mostly) appear once and never return to the narrative. (Of course, I have a special affection for books written in the epistolary style, so this isn't much of a leap.) Those of us who take a lot of time to create a really interesting protagonist to tell a story are blown away by the different storytelling voices this author creates for so many characters.

But the zombie stuff?

Okay, I understand the metaphor in vampire books, which are so popular now.  (And who isn't a Buffy fan?) I even kinda get the werewolf books. (I prefer my erotica without bestiality, but then, we all know I'm the conservative one around the offices of TLC.) But it took me a while to decide if the whole zombie genre is actually based on some kind of metaphor that would make the book palatable for anyone with an IQ over 100, or if it's just a dumb, scary story.  Maybe somebody better in tune with this sub-genre can further enlighten me on this subject?

Meanwhile, here's what I think: World War Z is a book about a terrible pandemic like ebola or bird flu and what each of us might do during such an event. It's also about American politics and geo-political issues that I don't understand completely, but I'm making a greater effort to do that after reading this book. It's also about human nature and the war on terror and profiteering and world health issues and lots more.  It made me think about what kind of usefulness I bring to the human race, if any. Which is a question I thought our TLC regulars might enjoy pondering. Plus, despite tragedy and horror and gruesome violence that has given my dear, gentle-hearted husband nightmares, the book is funny from time to time. The bit about Camilla Parker Bowles is a hoot. 

Thing is? Although this is a complex book with lots of material to think about and it's going to bug you for weeks after you finish, it's all tucked into a story with a high concept premise that most of us find . . . well, stupid. But it's a great book. No kidding. If you can force yourself to think of zombies as a metaphor for the great dangers we may all face in the coming years, the book is more than palatable. It's un-put-downable.

Nancy sez: Put aside your natural prejudices and give it a shot. I dare you.

(And then there's the whole subject of the author, which we're going to have to address in the comments section because I'm running long here, but believe me, it's killer info.)

As you might have guessed, I'm trying to thrash out a new idea for my own next book right now, so I'm looking around at popular culture and trying to decide what I find interesting and if anyone else might find it interesting, too. (Yes, this is my answer to the "where do you get your ideas" question.)

Who's read the book?  And what did you think?  And if you haven't found Falling Man yet, that's also on my top ten list for the summer. What are the rest of you reading this summer that's new and challenging and fun? 

What we did on our summer vacation

Our family went on a trip to the Ozark Mountains this time every summer. Anyone who talks about old-fashioned family values has never been in a car with four kids.

One summer my mom, dad and grandmother shared a one-room cabin with four kids under ten and a tarantula. I never understood why Dad didn’t abandon us at a gas station and keep on driving to California.

The Ozark Mountains in the late 1950s were not the glitzy vacation spot they are now. We’re talking unair-conditioned cabins in towns named Lesterville and Branson. The little rustic cabins had homemade signs that said, "Roll-away beds, fifty cents extra."

The scenery was beautiful and the babbling mountain brook was soothing. Country diners served up platters of fried chicken and homemade gravy. We never saw a vegetable for a whole week.

The family vacation began at dawn. By the first rest stop, we’d finished playing License Plates. We’d counted all the cows, sheep and pigs. War had broken out between my brothers and me, and the car had been subdivided by imaginary lines.

"Mom, he’s got his hand on my side of the seat."

"Do not."

"Do, too."

And so on, for several hundred miles.

It would be dinner time when we finally reached the cabins, which had screened-in porches lit with yellow bug lights. Mom would tour the place, mourning the ancient two-burner stove, rusting refrigerator, sagging beds, mismatched plates and dented cooking pots. "How am I going to cook on that?" she’d ask the moths committing suicide by flying into the porch lights.

Dad would take us all out to the local diner.

The next day, we kids would be up at dawn to use the swimming pool, while our parents fumbled around and tried to make coffee in a percolator with one piece missing.

After a few days of sightseeing, including a trip to Elephant Rocks and a cave tour, we kids would amuse ourselves trying to drown one another in the pool.

One morning, Dad and Grandma decided to go fishing. Unfortunately, Grandma kept the sharp-edged fishing line retriever in her pocket. When she reached in for her Salems, she cut her hand down to the bone. She needed stitches.

Grandma’s bleeding hand was wrapped in towels and ice. We drove twenty miles on twisting mountain roads, looking for a doctor. The only one we could find was drunk.

"Why don’t we just go the vet and have her stitched up?" my dad said. This struck me as a sensible solution, but Mom was insulted.

"Is that what you think of my mother?" she said.

Mom and Dad made coffee and tried to sober up the doctor so he could stitch up Grandma’s hand.

It was late afternoon when we returned from that adventure. There was still time to get in a little swimming.

In those days, women’s swimming suits had built-in shapes. Mom’s black suit with the jutting cups was no exception. She pulled it off a nail on the wall (no closets in this cabin) and had it halfway on when a huge hairy tarantula crawled out of one cup. Mom let out a slasher-movie scream and whipped off the suit. She was still beating it against the wall when Dad ran in.

"It’s just a harmless spider," he said, but Mom wasn’t impressed by this nature lesson. Grandma smoked on the porch and pounded down pain pills. We kids hid under the sagging beds.

The vacation ended the next day. Dad drove home in the heat on a Sunday. My brothers and I were too tired to fight. We had one last meal of hamburgers before we resumed a wholesome, balanced diet.

Monday morning, Dad was up at 5:30, ready to go to work in the hundred-degree heat. He drank his coffee, grabbed his lunch box and was out the door by six. This enthusiasm was taken as a sign that he was rested and relaxed from his family vacation.

By Elaine Viets

EVERYDAY ADDICTIONS

By Sarah

So, this weekend Charlie and I dropped our eleven-year-old son off at a rustic summer camp in Canada where there is no electricity, no hot water and ipso facto, no hot showers. I almost plotzed.

"It's okay," the counselor said, carefully sitting me down on a rock. "Kids don't even miss hot showers. They don't care."

Sure, maybe not kids - they're dirty, unkempt urchins - but I would go into serious withdrawal. Without the soothing, soapy relief of warm water running over my head in the morning and, I must confess, the night, too, you'd have to chain me to the bed as I fought my demons worse than the Skid Row dunk being denied his Mad Dog. Because I am a shower addict.

This is why I can't camp. Oh, I suppose I could camp if I had to, like if I were part of a singing family being chased by the Nazis over the Alps. But choosing to march into the wilderness for days of grimy living? No thanks. I'm an addict, a junkie, a fool for the tool. I got it bad, man. I gotta have my hot showers.

It's not only long hot showers I'm addicted to. I have tons of everyday addictions including, but not limited to, the following:

* Blistex. There are tubes scattered all over my house and I panic if my lips start to dry and I can't find one.

* Starbucks French Roast Coffee. Worse part about being on the road? Can't trust the coffee in the  hotel/restaurants. I swear, Starbucks must lace this stuff with heroin because I start jonesing if I go longer than 24 hours without it. And Italian Roast or Espresso won't do, even if they are so called "extra bold."

* Apricot facial scrub. Once on a book tour I forgot it and ended up leaving the hotel after a cross-country flight in search of a substitute. Found a tube at a all-night drugstore. Then I had to figure out how to get back because I was completely lost, also jet lagged.

* General Hospital. Why? I dunno. I'm stupid. The plot lines are horrible and boring. The characters are either insipid or criminally moronic and men walk around in suits and ties even if they're mowing the lawn. What is that about? But the soap opera industry got me hooked early and now I'm sunk. I no longer "watch" it, but keep it on mute while I work so I have no idea what's going on. Still, if someone suggests we meet at 3, I instinctively freeze. That's my GH time and I can't go a day without it.

But, listen, before you get on my case about the showers and GH, I'd like to point out I'm not the only one with everyday addictions. I know perfectly healthy, otherwise normal adults who are addicted to an online game called War of Warcraft in which you gather herbs and fight gnomes or something.

We have British friends, really smart, educated British friends, who are addicted to Big Brother, even though they pretend they watch it only for the social value. Our daughter is addicted to Buffy and Angel (preferably together) along with Louise Renison books, and most consumables involving chocolate.

There. That felt so good to get off my chest. Now, maybe, the healing can begin.

Okay....tell me I'm not the only one with Everyday Addictions. Come on. I know you're out there!

Sarah