The Lipstick Chronicles

The Zoo

by Nancy

My husband and I lace up our sneakers and spend Sunday mornings hiking the zoo. We do it for the exercise, mostly. It's much better than walking the mall with the AARP set (we'll get there eventually) or skipping around the high school track with the ladies in shiny warm-up suits yakking about the sale at Bed, Bath and Beyond. We're zoo members, so our admission is free, and the sidewalks are mostly uphill, so it's a good workout, plus the scenery's wonderfully entertaining. If you go early enough, the animals are perky and the people aren't obnoxious yet.

For a writer, there's lots to observe.

Like the crowd gathered around the tiger exhibit where three tigers (mom and two nearly grown cubs) were stalking a duck that had taken a liking to their pond. Watching the tigers plan and execute their attack was fascinating. (The duck was never in any real danger. When the tigers got too close, the duck flew to another spot on the pond.) What surprised us was how the crowd rooted for the tigers. Even two adorable, tow-headed todders were yelling, "Get him! Get him!"

Everybody wanted the duck to die.

Did we like the tigers better because they had cute faces? Because we could appreciate their desire for a snack? Their beautiful physical prowess? Because they were strong and the duck weak? Or did the crowd resent the duck's ability to fly? Or did we think the duck was taunting the tigers?

I had spent the previous day in airports where people watching is equally interesting.  I think there are a lot of widgets being sold in America, because all the salesmen are quacking on their cell phones at terminal gates while simultaneously checking their email and stalking seat upgrades for their next flight.

Since I am working on a book that's too challenging (which means I spend a lot of time....well, wasting time) I decided to spend my travel hours reading newspapers and magazines and talking to strangers to finally get my brain around what's going on in Iraq. (Great article in The New Yorker, by the way. And thank you to Greg, who was on his way to Harrisburg wearing a uniform with an "airborne" shoulder patch.) I read the Iraq Study report when it first came out and now--after my weekend immersion in all things Iraq--I'm going to read it again.  Have you read it yet?  It's bipartisan, so nobody's going to get offended, I promise. Just read the first 5 pages, really.

The best conversation I had during the whole weekend was with the young man who drove the shuttle van from the Doubletree to the Tulsa airport. He was a former Marine who hasn't decided what to do now that he's out of the service, so he's driving the shuttle for a while. He told me about his tour in Somalia and other nearby countries. (He had read the Iraq Study Report, by the way.) About the war, he shook his head. "Mistakes are being made." And he listed them for me. For a guy who can't be 30 yet, he was very wise. Articulate, too.  Nobody's mouthpiece.

I thought about what he said when I watched the tigers hunting down their elusive duck.

Are we the tigers? Or are we the duck everybody wants to watch be torn apart and eaten?

Anyway, this isn't supposed to be a political blog, so you can quit reading now if you're annoyed, because it's only going to get worse.  If you're more interested in American Idol than world politics click away now.

I'm just a novelist and tend to think in elliptical ways, so what do I know? But my conclusion so far is that there's only one person who is smart enough, connected enough, experienced enough, open-minded enough, humbled often enough, yet gutsy enough to be the next Commander in Chief. Yes, there are other candidates who say stuff we'd rather hear, who are good with quips and are more appealing public speakers. They can get all warm and fuzzy for the cameras with babies and smart-mouthy college students and blue-haired ladies of all races and creeds. There are candidates who've made fewer mistakes, too--maybe because they haven't really done much at all.

We're polite here at TLC, so we've allowed just about everybody to express their beliefs until it gets offensive. But lately I've wondered if maybe our tolerance has given our readers the impression that we don't care about politics.

Well, we do.

"I will never, ever read another book by you as long as I live," emailed an outraged reader a few months back when she was offended by an oblique reference made my one of my fictional characters about the mother of a president. "You are too rich and arrogant."  (I should have sent her a royalty statement. And if I can't get started on my current book, she'll be happy to know I'll never publish again.)

But novelists--even temporarily stumped ones--are allowed our right to free speech, too, and I'm exercising mine today. I'm not saying bad stuff about the other candidates. I'm only telling you why I like my candidate. Go ahead. Tell me what you think about yours. Today, for once, we'll allow a political discussion. But no name-calling.  In fact, try to limit yourself to telling us why you think your cadidate ought to be the next president without bashing the other egomani---er, candidates, okay?

Me, I think Hillary's the candidate who can get us out of the mess we're in.

> She's served actively on the Armed Services Appropriations Committee and just received a thumbs-up from Wesley Clark for her work there.

> She's served the state of New York domestically by dealing with details as well as the big picture.  (She was re-elected by a wide margin.)  Her grasp of grass roots minutia deserves everyone's respect.

>  She educated herself on health care as First Lady, but learned the hard lesson that she needs to listen to others and compromise in order to put her ideas into action. Her performance in the Senate has proved she has learned to work well with others. If you doubt her ability to make a considered change, read her autobiography, Living History.  It's not exactly a page-turner, but the look into her soul will surprise you.

> She voted in favor of the war when we were all given the impression that weapons of mass destruction were at stake. But now I believe she's got by far the superior grasp of international politics and the support team (Madeleine Albright!) to enter into the kind of serious and educated diplomacy as urged in the Iraq Study Report.  The Palestine/Israel stuff is so complicated, I think we need someone with her intelligence and determination to fathom it all.

> Yes, she has some issues in her personal life that some of us might find distasteful, but if she were a man, would our vote be swayed by this? I don't think so. Besides, her kid turned out great, and some of us feel that's the best measure of a life, right?

Lastly, I think we're leaving the era when people refuse to elect her because she's a smart woman. I used to think she wasn't electable, but now---after spending some time in the south and midwest--I think people are more open-minded than I first thought. Or maybe they've read The Iraq Study Report.

I'm not a politician or a lawyer, just a citizen--who--full disclosure--was once a Young Republican just like Senator Clinton--and I'm not interested in talking about Survivor or Dancing With the Stars anymore. I want Hillary Clinton to be my president.

Go ahead. Tell me who you like.  Ducks or tigers? And if you have suggestions on where and how to start this damn book, I'm taking notes.

 

How to get your husband to eat healthy

By Elaine Viets

Recently, I went to a lecture about healthy eating, and returned fired up with the Gospel of Good Food. I burst into the house flinging facts around like confetti.

"The American white bread-white sugar diet is a killer. We should eat colorful foods," I told Don. "Studies show that if you eat red, blue, yellow, orange and green food, you can stave off the onset of Alzheimer’s disease, and have a healthier heart."

"I eat colorful foods," Don said. "I love spicy Doritos. They are bright orange."

"But that’s not a natural color," I said.

"How long does it take for this health-food kick to wear off?" Don asked, as if I’d been stricken with a disease.

Don’s idea of a balanced diet is a 12-ounce steak, a six-ounce baked potato and a slice of garlic bread the size of a brick. Fiber is something techs find at a crime scene. Omega-3 oils belong in a Buick. Vegetables and fruit are best in drinks – cocktail onions, olives, cherries and lemons. Don nearly punched the bartender who slipped a tiny Brussels sprout into his drink. He thought it was an abomination. He does get lots of legumes. He likes salted bar peanuts.

Don’s mother was Irish, and most of the food she served was white or gray. I once ate a boiled tenderloin at her house, and thought I’d be chewing it for the rest of our marriage. Her pies were scrumptious, but her vegetables had been boiled to mush.

I figured there was no point in lecturing my husband on healthy eating. Had I ever listened to my mother when she said, "Eat your carrots. They’re good for you"?

Don acted like I was smuggling in something illegal when I brought home soy milk and ground flaxseed. I’d simply have to show Don the healthy way to eat. What was the point if I lived forever but was all alone? I’d be spending my declining years being hit on by geezers. Since I have all my teeth, I am a hot babe in Florida.

Instead, I made him a fruit smoothie. I got the recipe at the lecture and sort of tweaked it. I gave him a taste of the first smoothie. "Not bad," he said. "But it needs rum."

I didn’t give him more statistics on the joys of healthy food. Instead, I started making a smoothie every day around 11 a.m. Soon Don was hanging around the kitchen whenever he heard the blender, like a cat that rushes in when he hears the kitchen cabinets open.

"Got any extra?" Don asked.

He drank the whole thing.

His morning smoothie has become a daily ritual. I never mention it’s full of flax seed and soy milk. He manages to overlook its healthy properties.

Now I can’t wait for him to try my whole wheat martini.

Don’t tell anyone it’s healthy fruit smoothie8 or 9 oz. soy milk

2 cups of fresh or frozen strawberries, blueberries, bananas, peaches or other summer fruit, sliced

2 cups of ice cubes

1 tablespoon ground flax seed

1 or 2 scoops of protein powder

Cinnamon to taste (I like a lot)

Whip ingredients in a blender until smooth. Makes two to four thick smoothies.

The Writing Process: What Success Has Taught Me

By Sarah

This blog is entitled The Writing Process: What Success Has Taught Me and if you were under the impression that we were going to be talking about my success, then I humbly apologize. No, I'm talking about the success of others, about what makes a good book versus a blah book. In other words, what is the secret to said success. To which I can only answer - beats me.

This is the issue on which I'm once again focused as I round the corner to another deadline. And, as always, I'm amazed by what new lessons I've learned despite having written, I dunno, maybe ten books. Yes, Nancy has written like fifty and Elaine writes five a year, but for me, ten should be enough to be qualified as a pro. Yet, it is not. I am still a writing dolt, though I have long stopped considering that a bad thing. In fact, it's good because only the truly idiotic think they are fantastic writers. At least, that's the theory that gets me to sleep at night.

With this disclaimer over, let me plunge into the newest lessons I've learned about writing. Honestly, they're so obvious you might ask if I've just been released from remedial writing class. But this is a writer's mystery. The simple is so obvious and yet impossible to achieve.

Lesson #1: Get to really know your protagonist.

How is it that I can draft an outline, pitch it to my agent and editor, have everyone totally enthusiastic and still, fifty pages into it, wonder what the hell my protagonist is doing? Who is she? Why is she? Why would anyone want to read about her? What makes her winning?

The whole book revolves around this chick - or your chick or your "dude," as Susan McBride used to say. I cannot stress how important it is to set aside some thinking time to pause and reflect on the nitty gritty of who your protagonist really is and what makes her/him breathe, think, act the way he/she does. I find that doing the dishes, doodling, mindlessly eating Cheetos over the sink and taking multiple baths are excellent ways to prompt your subconscious to figure this out for free. Of course, you will have to pose this question to your subconscious in the first place and that is, strangely, hard to do because often your subconscious is preoccupied with other stuff - like sex.

The reward is a book that flows. If you know your character right down to the insecurities and neuroses, to what kind of cereal she likes and whether she cuts people off in traffic, your plot will follow. Other characters will react accordingly. The prose will sing. The humor will be spontaneous. So remember to take some "character retreats" now and then. Stop. Think. Is this really what Joe Protagonist would do?

Speaking of spontaneous....

Lesson#2: If it feels forced, scrap it. You're off track.

My lord, how long did it take me to learn this lesson? I can go back to my earlier books and see exactly where I struggled, where I "forced" the character to move, act, talk in a way she wouldn't have. It's painful to read. Worse to be the author and read it.

The advantage of being ten books in is that I get a creepy feeling whenever I start writing one of these  forced scenes. I think, "Uh, oh" and find I'm Googling mitten patterns and investigating the advantages of Blu Ray versus HD DVD. These are serious procrastination techniques and like suspicious moles should be acknowledged as alarming.

The solution? Step away from the computer and go outside. Think about your character. Think about what you're trying to say with this book. Free flow ideas. Random thoughts. "Maybe Miss Marple gets a sex change and moves to an Evangelical compound in Colorado?" No. This won't end up in your book. (Let's hope not!) But you'll be surprised how throwing around ideas sparks other, better ideas. I guess this is the theory behind a writer's group, only without the brownies.

Lesson #3: Don't write the book linearly.

I once read an article that women don't clean their houses in an orderly fashion. My mother used to have the outside-to-the-in approach (living room to kitchen). But I find that when I pick up I might do a bit in the living room, take things upstairs and do a bathroom, throw stuff down the laundry chute to the basement, toss in some laundry, clean the TV room, wipe up the kitchen. In other words, I'm all over the place. Why? Because cleaning the house is boring and proceeding from room to room would drive me nuts.

Ditto for writing. Aside from the first 50 pages which I firmly believe should be a block of solid concrete around which you pour the rest of your book, there is no reason to write chapter after chapter in a linear fashion, especially if you outline. (Which I do.) The point is that some days you feel inspired to write a humorous, light bit. Other times, intrigue. Or maybe you're sad and could do an excellent job of bringing on the waterworks. If possible, write to fit your mood.

I've found that if I essentially understand where a chapter is going I'll jot down a couple of notes and move on. Think of it as an expanded outline. This allows me to come up with snappy dialogue for unfinished chapter 3 while in the shower though I might be on chapter eleven. I like to think of artists who sketch and then pencil and then fill in with paints adding landscapes, sunsets, mountains, minor characters as they go.

This is my most important lesson to date - abandoning the linear model.

Finally, the last and most obvious -

Lesson #4: Write from the heart and from your experience.

Trends will come and go.There's no point leaping onto a trend now for a book that might be published in a year or two. So write what you want, what feels real. We are largely a homogeneous society which means you can trust that your experience is your readers' experience. The bottom line is that nothing can beat an aura of authenticity. Art is in the everyday. Plus, readers can detect phonies.

And while this is not a lesson, more of an observation, I have to say that I am repeatedly flummoxed by  the influence of Muses. When I'm struggling - and I find I struggle more as I push my expectations - there is inevitably a moment of bright light when I say, "Yes! Yes! Why didn't I think of that sooner?" I like to think this epiphany is sort of divine. Maybe it's  just a flicker of intelligence breaking through my congealed layers of stupidity.

So ends my annual writing blog. I promise that next week I'll return to Britney Spears, OJ Simpson, how to quit smoking, best TV shows ever, desserts on the fly and sock patterns. But we're writers here, all of us (no matter how little we write), so I'd love to hear what your advice is, too.

The Fat Whisperer

by Michele Martinez

                                          

I'm not here to talk about body image or the pressure on women to look a certain way or anorexic starlets or who does or doesn't need to lose weight.  I'm not here to talk about whether I need to lose weight.  Just take it as a given that, ever since I returned from Canyon Ranch last spring I've been pretending to be on a diet.  I paid an excellent nutritionist good money to design this diet just for me.  I then proceeded to cheat on it every single day, while acting confused about why it wasn't working.

My husband was not confused.  "Are you seriously allowed to eat that salad?" he'd ask.  "With all that cheese, and the nuts you put on top, and the half bottle of dressing?  That salad is bigger than your head." "Hmmph.  That's all you know," I'd grumble. But as time went on, I couldn't argue with the results -- or the lack of them.  My husband didn't really care if I lost the weight or not, but he sure got sick of hearing me complain.  "Of course it's not working," he'd say, exasperated.  "You have no will power."

I decided to discuss the situation with Elvis, my trainer.  He's a serious guy who knows everything there is to know about fitness, and I figured he might have some insight.  "You want to lose weight," he said, "stop eating.  I can't help you with that.  All I can do is get you in shape."

Damn, I thought, you, too?  But I couldn't keep lying to myself.  It was obvious --I needed help.  I needed an outside influence, a source of motivation.  Weight Watchers and Jenny Craig crossed my mind.  But I'd already had the perfect diet plan, and I'd ignored and insulted and cheated on it.  What was to stop me from doing that again?  I needed more.  Somebody on the scene.  Somebody who couldn't be deceived.  Somebody who would force me to unlearn my self-destructive behaviors.  I needed . . . a Fat Whisperer. 

There was one obvious candidate for the job. 

"I'll only do it if you listen to everything I say," my husband said.  "You eat only what I give you.  No cheating.  And no backtalk."  "Backtalk?  Who?  Me??"

So this is the deal we made.  Thirty days, I eat what he says, no cheating.  If I stick it out, I get a nice prize, whether or not I lose one single pound.  You heard that right.  There is no specific weight loss goal, though he's convinced he can get me to lose big-time. What's in it for him?  Obvious.  He gets to tell me what to do.

The psychosexual politics of this diet are beyond. I'm letting my husband tell me what to do.  And not just about any old thing.  About what I eat, everything I eat, all day, every day.  And what I drink!  "Alcohol has a lot of calories," he says.  "You can have wine if we go out for a special meal."  NO WINE??  The "no backtalk" rule went out the window immediately.  The arguments are continual and not pretty.  But when push comes to shove, I back down.  After a particularly brutal one, where I took the disputed item and put it on my plate and swore up and down I was quitting the diet, eventually I calmed down and came to the table without it.  "Good," he said, "you blinked."

Have I mentioned that I've tried to trade sex for food?  But he refuses.  His reputation is at stake, he says.  (I think he's secretly writing a diet book.)

So why am I sticking this out?  Why haven't I quit and shoved the plate of dry salad greens back in his face?  As much as I hate to admit it, it's working.  We've been at it twelve days, and I've lost seven pounds!  So what do you think?  Could you go on the Husband Diet?

                                                                                                                       

   

Madeline L'Engle

By Rebecca the Bookseller

This week, the literary world is saying good-bye to a star. Madeline L'Engle died at age 88. She left a legacy of 60 books - sixty books! Some people will live their entire lives without reading sixty books, let alone writing them.

Like many book lovers, "A Wrinkle in Time" will always have a place on my all-time favorite books. My daughter read every Madeline L'Engle book we could find, and they still take up precious shelf space on her book shelves.

For more on this wonderful author, here is a link to her website: Madeline L'Engle's Website

In her memory, her website encourages all of us to Read a Banned Book - and here is the link: ALA List of Banned Books

What better way to honor a woman who inspired and entertained so many!

Twist Phelan writes the Pinnacle Peak series, legal-themed mysteries featuring endurance sports. Her latest, FALSE FORTUNE (Poisoned Pen Press) is out this month. Twist has paddled the open ocean, bicycled across the country, and roped steers. But she's still scared to light the barbecue.

Sometimes it's not the destination. It's how you get there.

I like doing hands-on research.  After deciding that paddling would be the featured sport in FALSE FORTUNE, I took off for Unnamed South Pacific Island to attend a surf ski clinic.

Let me start by saying it's always nice to be able to blame someone else for your own mistakes. I'd like to say Chris was a bad guy who led me astray with malice aforethought.

But he wasn't. Chris was just a nice Australian surfer who was trying to be helpful

"Going to Famous Beach?" he asked when he saw me at the station. Famous Beach is known as a paddling and surfe destination. As I was carrying an eight-foot long carbon fiber paddle, this wasn't a bad guess.

"Surf ski clinic," I said. (Surf ski:  think sea kayak, but longer, thinner, and tippier.)

"Train station's a far bit from the beach. Got a ride?"

"I was going to take a taxi."

He gave a low whistle. "That'll set you back some change."

Uh oh. I had only  a few coins and bills of local currency, having relied mostly on my credit card during my trip. It was early Sunday morning, and the money changes, banks, and every other store other than the newsstand were closed. This wasn't New York--a cab wouldn't take plastic.

"Like how much?" I asked.

Chris named a figure that was almost the amount in my pocket. My worry must have shown on my face.

"You know, you can get off the train one stop early and walk. Fifteen,  twenty minutes tops."

In retrospect, I don't know why I took travel advice from a total stranger. Maybe it was the earnest look in his eyes. Maybe it was because he recognized me as a paddler. Maybe it was because even though the amount in question was less than twenty dollars American, after many years of travel, I am unable to resist the insider's tip on how to save money.

"Thanks," I said.

I didn't bother to double-check Chris's advice. Instead, when the conductor announced the last stop before Famous Beach, I grabbed my paddle and duffle and jumped to the platform. Had I bothered to do so, I would have discovered a critical difference between local trains to Famous Beach and express trains.

Oblivious to the distinction, I walked through the station to the road, where a man was selling fruit. I bought a mango and pointed north.

"Famous Beach?"

"Famous Beach," he repeated, and cackled. At the time I thought his laugh meant "You clever foreigner, you know the short cut!" Even when the beach didn't materialize after fifteen, twenty, thirty minutes, I was not fazed. It wasn't until a hot spot on my heel, harbinger of a blister, forced me into a small shop about an hour later that I realized what the laughter had meant. That is because I heard it again when I asked how far it was to Famous Beach.

"Famous Beach?" said the shop proprietor in a thick French accent. He barked a laugh. "Very far."

"How far?" I said. I could hear the desperation in my voice.

He laughed again. "Twenty minutes."

Relief flooded through me. A Band-Aid on  my heel, and I'd be good to go.

"In a car," he added.

My heart sank. It would be dark by the time I got to the hotel. Dark in a country with pythons, poisonous spiders, and other creatures.

"My son has a motorbike," the shop proprietor announced. I followed him around to the back of his store, where a dusty blue bike leaned on a kickstand, a white helmet hanging from one handlebar. There was a dent in the helmet.

"Forty," he said.

Double the cost of the taxi ride I had done so much to avoid. "I don't have that much."

"Do you have American money?"

So much for need local currency.  "Yes."

He beamed. "Forty dollars."

Even with a bad exchange rate, it should have been closer to twenty. The French must still be mad at us.

"Twenty," I said.

"Forty."

"Thirty."

In the end, I talked him down to forty, with my paddle riding free. And I got the helmet.

Twenty minutes, thirty. I tapped him on the shoulder and he pulled over.

"I thought you said the bike ride would take only twenty minutes?"

"On a motorcycle. This is a scooter."

A dust-inhaling, bone-jarring thirty minutes later we pulled into the hotel's driveway. My shoulders ached from holding the paddle--its scooped blades caught the air and threatened to flip me backward off the bike every time we picked up speed. My face was bruised from being hit with so many bugs.

The surf ski clinic was wonderful. I improved my paddling techniques and got in some good training. Of course, I wish someone with more experience in these things had told me that the sign: "Warning: barramundi" actually means "Warning: fish will leap out of the water and bite your bare foot, leaving behind a tooth that will become infected." And despite a lifeguard's belief to the contrary, ice, not urine, relieves the burn of jellyfish stings. But these are small quibbles. The denizens of Unnamed South Pacific Island are wonderful people.

Like the hotel clerk who checked me out five days later.

"Where are you going?" he asked, handing me my receipt.

"Catching the train back south. Are there cabs in front?"

He eyed my battered travel clothes. "You should take the bus. It's much cheaper, and there's only one transfer.  The stop is--"

"I prefer a cab." I picked up my paddle and duffle, walked out the hotel's front door and into the lone cab at the curb.

"Train station, please."

The cabbie looked in his rearview mirror at me.

"Twenty dollars," he said, his tone a polite warning that this wouldn't be an inexpensive ride.

"Make it thirty," I replied.

Meet My Cousin, Rocco

By Me, Margie, who has lots of cousins but only one is guest blogging today

Hi. It’s me, Margie. Today, I have a special treat for you. My cousin Rocco is here and he’s helping me blog. I just love Rocco. Say hi, Rocco.

Rocco: Hi. It’s me, Rocco. lol. That’s Margie’s salutation. Mine is Ciao, Bella! Because everyone is beautiful, am I right?

Me, Margie: Yes, honey, everyone is beautiful. And you look stunning, by the way. Are those new glasses?

Rocco: No, doll, they’re new eyes. Well, new contacts. They’re bright blue and they are fabulous. You should try going blue.

Me, Margie: No sex talk, Rocco. Not your first blog.

Rocco: Right. Like your first blog wasn’t about sex. Face it, Margie, one way or another, everything is about sex. But whateve. Okay, you should go violet – like Elizabeth Taylor. The great beauty of her age, no?

Me, Margie: I don’t put things where they don’t belong, sweetie. You know that. I can’t even put in eye drops. The last time I was at the eye doctor, it took three of them to hold me still for the drops.

Rocco: Oh, Margie. You’re so silly. They weren’t holding you down for the drops.

Me, Margie: Rocco!

Rocco: Sorry. Can I talk now? Good. I am so delighted to be here on TLC – I’ve been a lurker forever, which is so totally not me. I’m usually on the other end of the view, y’know? It’s a Mancini family trait. But now I’m here and I am very excited about it. So, let’s get right to it. Today I want to talk about secrets. Skeletons and whatnot in the closet. We all have them, don’t we? Some people have so many secrets that their closets are bigger than their bedrooms. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean, people. Don’t you think we’d all be better off if everyone was honest? I know what you’re thinking - then what would they talk about in all the gossip rags? Plenty, that’s what. Because people will always do something more stupid than you expect. So even if we just cover the reality, it’ll still be a hoot and a half. Take this whole Brittany thing at the VMAs. No secrets there, huh? It was all right out there front and center. And I don’t just mean her flashing at the after parties. She was right out there – no place to hide anything, really (and Britt, sweetheart, next time someone tells you to wear the corset, wear the corset, ‘kay?) and we still had a scadload of things to snip and snap about.

Me, Margie: Geez, Rocco – you told me you were going to blog about fall fashion.

Rocco: I lied. This is better. Fall fashion is a snoozer. Brown-black is the new pink. Feathers. Stark white all year ‘round. Ho-hum. And really, the crop pants? Spare me already. So few men have the calves to pull that off. So, we’re talking secrets. I am loving this plan - and what better place to do it than here on TLC, which is like a big party except you don't have to worry about getting anything on your white carpet. Some people are just pigs. Margie, you go first - tell a secret.

Me, Margie: Are you freaking kidding me with this Rocco? I have no secrets. Have you MET me?! Have you read the blog? I’d have to make up a secret to have a secret.

Rocco: Not so fast, there, Miss Transparent. I know a few things about you that I’ll bet your readers don’t know.

Me, Margie: Rocco, you really do not want to go down this road.

Rocco: Actually, I do. In fact, I just passed you in a hot rod on this road – see me waving? Bye-bye, Margie – remember that summer you used that hair dye in a bunch of places and you turned orange? You looked like a walking cure for scurvy until I fixed it.

Me, Margie: Good lord, Rocco, we were in junior high!

Rocco: Yes, and I remember it just like it was yesterday. Good times, cuz. Or how about the time you called me from that hotel bathroom in Vegas and asked me about the pearl necklace? Or the time when you were learning how to talk and one of your brothers taught you the word ‘dildo’ and you yelled it in the middle of Sunday dinner at Nana's? That is such a fabulous word, dildo. You know, we could…

Me, Margie: Okay, that’s enough sharing time, Rocco. Say goodbye.

Rocco: Ciao, Bella! Not to worry, I’ll be back.

Me, Margie: That remains to be seen, smartass. And if I show up for Sunday dinner and so much as one person makes a crack about citrus fruit, you are a dead man. Just saying.

Rocco: Wait! I didn’t tell my secret: I’m gay.

Me, Margie: Rocco, that hasn’t been a secret since you were ten years old and you wanted to change your name to Coco.

Rocco: I know that, and you know that, but the rest of the TLC party people don’t know it. See, even if some people know, it can still be a secret to other people. So now the rest of you can share something that most people don’t know, okay? It’ll be fun. Go ahead now, tell Rocco your secret. And you can call me Coco – we’re all friends now.

Blondes Have Way More Fun

by Nancy

The worst part of a head wound isn't the bleeding or the pain or even the looks I get when the breeze blows my hair and reveals the bright blue stitches that trace the map of Australia---er, Austria--across my scalp.

No, the very, very worst part of a head wound that won't heal is . . . I can't dye my roots.

And since I'm among friends here, I can admit that my roots are no longer dark. They're white.  And I don't mean gray or even salt-and-pepper, my roots are white. It's the curse of the Scots.  Or the Irish.  Either way, I'm doubly whammed.

I wish I could tell you my head wound is the result of a stray bullet in a convenience store or maybe I fought off a rampaging killer as he bludgeoned me with a ball peen hammer---what mystery author doesn't appreciate a little first-hand research?--but the nasty lump on my noggin is actually a cyst removal gone bad. It's itchy and annoying but not life-threatening, although I've made five trips to the doctor since the initial operation to have the stupid thing cleaned, packed, re-stitched and generally clucked over. ("Don't stop taking your antibiotics until all the pills are gone!" Who really obeys that directive? Well, I'm telling you now, don't stop until all the pills are gone, done, finito!  Really icky stuff can happen.) But infection lurking within millimeters of your brain isn't the worst part.

It's these damn roots.

I am astonished--and a little unnerved--by how differently I am treated because I haven't been able to touch up my dye job for the last six weeks. Suddenly, I'm a senior citizen--with all the repercussions.

Proctor and Gamble says 65% of all American woman now color their hair. In case you're wondering, that's up from only 7% of women who dyed their hair in the 1950s. When I was a kid growing up in a small town in the 60s, I remember my mother making scornful remarks at traffic lights. "Who does she think she's kidding?" Mother would cry as a particularly vivid redhead sashayed the crosswalk in front of our Chevy station wagon. (A big behemouth with tailfins and no seat belts.) By contrast, my mother was pleased when she first developed a few dramatic tufts of white.  And she was tickled when I sprouted a few in my late teens.  (I don't believe I was ever carded in college.)  My Dad's WWII military ID card lists his age as 21 and his hair white.  (6"2" and 140 pounds, too.) So it's genetic, see? We took family pride in white hair.

Now, though, times have changed.  I'll tell you what gave my attitude a complete 180 in a minute.

Some of the most intelligent, assertive, confident, socially aware and otherwise powerful women I know are far more meticulous about their hairdresser appointments than about keeping their resumes updated. Letting your hair go "natural" isn't a feminist flag anymore. No, we all want to stay competitive in our youth-oriented culture.  We still want to be taken seriously when we're over fifty and people assume we'd rather be at home baking snickerdoodles for the grandkids than pounding the gavel as Speaker of the House. (Do you really think Nancy Pelosi's hair is naturally that lustrous brown? Or for that matter--is Bill Frist's?) People assume you'd prefer to crochet antimacassars than wrangle the feisty new crop of co-hosts on The View. (Who is the genius colorist who touches up Barbara Walters?) Your career ain't over until other people start thinking you're ready for assisted living, baby.

And let's not even mention trying to stay sexually appealing for as long as possible, okay? My kids read this blog. But what woman with a heartbeat doesn't like to think she's still got that certain something?

When I traveled to Seattle last spring to promote A CRAZY LITTLE THING CALLED DEATH (which is still available in bookstores everywhere, in case you were wondering) and to attend an outdoor wedding in Humboldt County, CA (still the marijuana capital of the world, and surely the home of more rusted VW vans than anywhere else except maybe a junk yard outside Stuttgart) I noticed that a lot of young western women forgo the Miss Clairol route. They wore their gray hair long and wild. Cowboy boots, broomstick skirts and a tangle of long gray curls was the fashion statement among a lot of women named Sierra and Luz.

But take a walk about midtown Manhattan. How many gray-haired execs do you see who aren't of the male persuasion? And among LA celebrities? You're much more likely to spot an aristobrat using her Get Out of Jail Early card than find a single strand of gray in Wolfgang Puck's place. No, I think every woman except those outdoorsy, I'm-Authentic, middle-aged babes on the west coast---and a scattering of feminists who proudly flaunt every year they've managed to survive and conquer--monitors her hair color more carefully than the NASDAQ.

None of us wants to admit even to ourselves that we're getting older or weaker or less attractive, less competent or less ambitious. And our appearance is one major way people judge our vitality.

Even my mother--she, who sneered at the improbable redheads--now says the one regret she has in life is not starting to color her hair when the white strands first began to appear.

"Are you still writing?" a longtime friend asked me last week after a doubtful glance at my snowy roots.

My aunt, the shrink, looked across the lunch table at me with concern.  "Are you feeling okay? You look depressed."

Even the guy running the backhoe in my driveway (yes, if you're keeping track, we're entering Week Three of the Driveway Extravaganza) shut off the roaring engine and leaped down to help me lug two measly bags of groceries from the trunk of my car to the front door. (Which we're forced to use BECAUSE THE DAMN DRIVEWAY HAS BEEN UNDER CONSTRUCTION FOR---okay, deep breaths, Nancy.) The point is, he acted like I was a doddering old lady who ought to be placing an order with Meals on Wheels any day now.

Jeezus! What happened to fifty-is-the-new-thirty?

Like a flaming arrow to my heart, the hair color issue hit me a few years back when, at a family wedding, the photographer innocently pointed to my husband and asked if I was his mother. Which would have been humiliating enough if not for the smirks of his relatives. The following week, I went straight to my hairdresser and endured a 5-hour marathon (I envy you single process girls) with foils and baking under a nuclear-powered dryer and a blow-out that sent sweat pouring off my brow as if I'd gone ten rounds with Laila Ali. Thereafter, I make frequent trips to the Nice n'Easy display where I buy #103B in multiples.

I'm damned if I'll let anyone mistake me for a depressed, washed-up has-been with tailfins and no seat belts.  No, this girl has a lot of get-up-and-go left in her.

As soon as the stitches come out, I'm dyeing my hair again.

Compromising Photos

By Elaine Viets

Victorians dreaded the "compromising" photo. Lives and marriage prospects could be ruined if men or women were photographed with the wrong person, even if they had on their clothes.

The compromising photo was the key to a Sherlock Holmes story, "A Scandal in Bohemia." The King of Bohemia had been foolishly photographed with the scandalous Irene Adler. Irene had the photo, and the king feared this indiscretion could ruin his chances of marriage to an innocent princess.

Now we have a modern-day version of this Victorian dilemma. Vanessa Hudgens was photographed nude (gasp!) and the picture was plastered all over the Internet.

Vanessa’s representative told reporters, "This was a photo which was taken privately. It is a personal matter and it is unfortunate that this has become public."

It’s also proof that Vanessa is almost as innocent as the character she plays in Disney’s "High School Musical." She’s only 17, for heaven’s sake. Tell me you never did anything stupid at that age.

Vanessa is young enough to believe that the girls who sign her yearbook are her "best friends 4-ever" and boys who say they love her really mean it. She hasn’t acquired that protective layer of adult cynicism yet.

When I was a lot older than Vanessa, but not much smarter, I worked at a television station. The big scandal of the day was that a certain bigwig had accidentally returned a tape of her and her lover to the local video rental store. We never did figure out if this was an urban legend or a true story, because the reporter who broke the news wasn’t exactly Woodward or Bernstein.

But you can bet the so-called indiscretion was a hot topic all over the city.

"Jeez," I said at lunch one day, "who’d be dumb enough to photograph themselves having sex?"

There was a loud silence, and I realized everyone but me had done exactly that.

"My ex-wife made the return of all photos and videos I shot of her the condition for our divorce," one said. "She ran them through the dishwasher."

"Don’t you want to see what you looked like when you were young and beautiful?" asked another.

"I can’t imagine anything more depressing than viewing my young self when I’m a saggy, liver-spotted eighty," I said.

"You have to remember," said another, "the camera is our life."

And that is the truth. The camera is our life. There’s no escaping one, whether we argue on a street corner, flash at a Mardi Gras parade or get drunk at a party.

Nearly everyone has a camera. People carry them like Texans claim to carry guns.

More careers will be comprised as camera use in increases. How many ambitious people will be barred from running for public office because they toked in college, kissed someone of the same sex, or wore an outrageous outfit?

I am relieved that no photos exist of the pink hot pants and silver platforms I wore in the 1970s.

We all do stupid things, but nowadays, we’re more likely to wind up shot – with a camera.

And that can be more deadly than any bullet.

On How Little Could You Live ?

By Sarah

If you lived on food stamps, could you and your family survive?

I've been thinking about that question lately as a family of five runs a daily diary in our local newspaper journalizing their efforts to take the Food Stamp Challenge, a program heralded by politicians, religious groups and social organizations to raise awareness about the pathetic compensation of the food stamp program. A family of four, for example, gets approximately $88-$120 a week in food stamps based on a formula that hasn't changed since the 1960's.

Shoot. That's how much I spend on coffee alone!

Today, for example, I spent $88 for a couple of days' worth of groceries. It's easy to do with French roast coffee, wine, dog food, organic chicken and a pint of Ben and Jerry's. But it hasn't always been this way and maybe that's why I'm so, well, frivolous. Also, currently guilt ridden.

When Charlie was in law school and I worked for a small New Hampshire daily newspaper that paid me half of what I made at the Cleveland Plain Dealer - $26,000, thanks guys - we survived on about $1,600 a month, if I remember correctly, not including our savings. Out of that we paid for our small apartment ($675), daycare for Anna ($320), gas for work, electricity, clothes, insurance and groceries. The years were 1992-1995 and, fortunately, the student loans hadn't kicked in.

Charlie and I shopped once a week and kept our food bill under $100. It was tough...but also easy because we knew it was temporary. Plus, we'd made a choice to live like this - in green Vermont, on a beautiful campus, learning the law. Some of my happiest memories were created back then, though I might be romanticizing. And after a year, Charlie worked and went to law school, so that helped. (Though I can't say it was easy on him.)

Now, after years as an assistant attorney general, Charlie's in private practice at a highly respected law firm that feels more like a family than a business. I've got a successful book career going (did you hear my knuckles rapping on my desk?), the student loans have long been paid off and about the only serious debt we have is the prospect of eight years of education we've got to bankroll for our kids and to that I say maybe yes, maybe no. Paying for your own education has tremendous advantages. (Yeah, harsh.)

Had we not had that end of the tunnel to look forward to, however, I might have ripped out my hair in desperation. And I guess that's what I find slightly annoying about these food stamp challenges. A) They're being undertaken by people who aren't on foodstamps, as if those who are on foodstamps are too inarticulate to get the point across and b) they're temporary. You can survive anything for a week, even a month. It's the interminable misery with no hope of change that causes insanity.

Oddly enough, some of the letters to the editor of our local newspaper have been from coupon-clipping maniacs who love the  food stamp challenge because they're obsessed with discount limbo - how low can you go? I've read of people like this. Remember the Tightwad Gazette? It was put out by Amy Dacyczyn, who retired to Maine at the age of 40 having saved all that dough. That woman was so frugal she made Halloween masks out of dryer lint. When she appeared on the Today show, she wore a dress she'd gotten off the rack at Goodwill and, man, did it look like a dress off the rack at Goodwill. Think potato sack with a rope belt.

Anyway, there are people out there who have made a game out of the weekly grocery bill, who clip coupons religiously, buy only items on sale and who can squeeze a penny out of a stone. My mother was one and, I swear, never bought anything that wasn't discounted. Plus, she took advantage of triple coupon days at Shop Rite and could make a cheap beef flank last through three meals. I could do this, I think, if I had the time and no November deadline. But as I'm too lazy, too spoiled, too busy, I'm copping out.

Though maybe I should try. I mean, is there any better way to stick it to The Man than by not buying his stuff? Got a problem with Exxon's record-high quarterly profits? Ride your bike. Want to screw over Archer Daniels Midland, perhaps one of the world's largest suppliers of high fructose corn syrup? (And see me if you don't know how evil that stuff is). Don't buy Kellogg's cereals, Capri Sun, Pepperidge Farm Whole Wheat bread, Oscar Mayer Luncheables and a thousand other items. Sadly, the cheapest food is loaded with high fructose corn syrup, thereby explaining obesity rates and diabetes in indigent populations.(That's The Man for ya!)

The thing is that I have the feeling we might be headed down this road to forced frugality whether we want to or not. The mortgage crisis is becoming a financial Hurricane Katrina, leaving families homeless, flattening schools and, in the case of Maple Heights, Ohio, destroying entire towns. And word is the ripples could extend from Ohio to the world.

So I guess the question, On How Little Can You Live?, might be more than just a blogging fad. Soon, it could be the question we'll ask each other around the kitchen table. And in the grocery store. And in the unemployment line. Or worse.

Go on. Tell us how you get by and what your tricks are. Let's stick it to The Man.

Sarah