The Lipstick Chronicles

Early Man

By Elaine Viets

Because love is strange, chances are one partner in a couple wakes up at dawn. The other sleeps till noon. This marriage of late and early risers won’t lie down and go away. It leads to conversations like these:

"Are you awake?" Don asks me.

"Uhh?" I say.

I’m no live wire around the house at any time. But when I’m curled into a ball, my eyes are shut and I’m drooling slightly, that’s usually a sign I’m asleep.

Another sign is that it is 6:30 in the morning.

Unfortunately, Don is a morning person. "If you don’t want to talk, just say so," he says, with irritating cheerfulness.

"I don’t want to talk. I want to get some (bleeping) sleep."

"Okay," he says, "you don’t have to be such a crab."

I do. I do. Our wedding should have told him something. I wanted to get married on a Friday night. If I had my choice, I’d keep vampire hours, rising at sunset and sleeping at sunrise.

The first time I met Don should have given me a hint about him. It was 7:40 in the morning, at a college English course. Not only was he awake, he was teaching the class. (Yes, I was one of those. But I didn’t date my English teacher until after class was over and the grades were in.)

Our story is typical. For some reason, during the two hours they are mutually awake, late sleepers and early risers manage to find each other. Maybe it’s natural selection. Couples stay married longer if they don’t see each other so often.

Don and I have learned to respect our time differences. I don’t play Eric Clapton after midnight and he doesn’t discuss Michael Mann movies before noon.

But I must protest a poll I saw about early birds. It said some 56 percent of the 502 adults polled were early risers. Fine. But then they made more obnoxious claims. They said early risers have more energy and optimism and early birds eat better and exercise more.

Of course they do. Every morning, the early risers wake us late-night types at some hideous hour. We spend the rest of the day in a daze, too tired to eat or move. After awhile, it wears down our natural high spirits.

This biased poll didn’t ask the early risers the crucial question: Do you take a nap later in the day?

That’s their ugly little secret. They all do. Early risers sneak in a little snooze in the afternoon or sack out on the couch after work. They may brag that they’re first out of bed, but they don’t tell you they are also the first back in.

My own informal survey shows that 78 percent of early risers have a sadistic streak, especially if they have a position of authority. Corporations are infested with morning people. These sanctimonious pests like to call 7:30 breakfast meetings for the pleasure of watching the late show stumble in. Then, with all their colleagues backstabbed by 11:30 a.m., they go out for an early lunch and let the late risers do the real work.

You can’t convince an early riser, but there’s no virtue in waking up at the crack of dawn. For all we know, the early birds could be getting up at 5:00 a.m. to go through our wallets. In fact, no morning person has ever explained the advantages of getting up early.

Some mumble about the beauty of the sunrise. Yawn. A sunrise looks like a sunset, only backward. It’s not as much fun, either. If you have a relaxing drink watching the sun rise, it causes talk.

They also say, "If you get up at six, you can have your day’s work done by nine."

That way you can be awakened from your afternoon nap by people making legitimate daytime calls.

Morning people also tell you, "The early bird gets the worm."

Exactly. And the early worm gets the bird.

Do You Know Who I Am?

By Elaine Viets

"Do you know who I am?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Lucky them," Helen said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s when you know who you are.

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

Clubbing

By Elaine Viets

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(1) Plantation, Florida

Barnes & Noble Plantation

Time: 7:30 P.M..

Date: Thursday, May 22

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

(2) Fort Lauderdale

Literary Tea for CLUBBED TO DEATH, Broward County Main Library

Time: 2 P.M.

Date: Tuesday, June 10

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

(3) Delray Beach, Florida

Murder on the Beach Bookstore

Time: 7 P.M.

Date: Wednesday, June 11

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

(4) Houston, Texas

Murder by the Book

Time: 6:30 P.M.

Date: Tuesday, June 17

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

(5) Plano, Texas

Barnes & Noble

Time: 7 P.M.

Date: Wednesday, June 18

Barnes & Noble in Plano, Texas

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

(6) Westerville, Ohio

Foul Play Mystery Books

Time: 6 P.M.

Thursday, June 19

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

(7) St. Louis

Time: 7 P.M.

Friday, June 20

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

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

The Drag Gospel Brunch

By Elaine Viets

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you single?" the emcee asked him.

He was.

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

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

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

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

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

Murder with Reservations, the sixth Dead-End Job mystery, will be out in paperback May 1. This is the novel that won the Lefty Award for the funniest mystery of 2007 and has been nominated for an Agatha Award. "Murder with Reservations" is $6.99 from Obsidian, a division of the Penguin Group. The ISBN is 978-0-451-22383-8.

Change Enough Sheets and You’ll Change Your Mind

By Elaine Viets

I admit it. I never tipped hotel maids. If I was paying $200 for a room, I was shelling out enough money. I wasn’t going to be nickeled to death.

Then I started researching "Murder With Reservations." In that book, Helen Hawthorne works as a hotel maid. I trained as a chambermaid at the Holiday Inn Express in Highland, Illinois. I put on a name tag and a yellow smock and pushed a cart.

How hard could this job be? After all, I clean my house.

This isn’t like cleaning a house. It’s like cleaning fifteen houses. In one day. I never worked so hard in my life.

I cleaned as many as seventeen rooms and made thirty-eight beds. Yes, we do change the sheets, unless you put out that little sign. And those bedspreads are heavy. My back was killing me.

I also cleaned toilets. I’m painting targets on those suckers. Gentlemen, learn to shoot straight or sit down. When I walked into a hotel room and saw a heap of beer cans tossed at the wastebasket, my heart sank. I knew someone’s aim would be off.

People are slobs. I’m not talking about throwing a few towels on the floor. One guy spit sunflower seed hulls in the drawer next to his bed. (It’s OK, the drawer was cleaned and disinfected.) Honeymoon couples used whipped cream, chocolate and strange fruit in the Jacuzzi. Even the cleanest people shed hairs and dropped towels on the floor.

Who are the biggest slobs? Parents with small children. Businessmen who smoke: cigarette ash settled on everything in their rooms. School soccer teams: those boys would trash a room with toilet paper, Silly String and shaving cream, and not leave a tip. Where was their adult supervision?

What was my biggest tip?

Two dollars and thirty-eight cents and a chicken pot pie. The maids take home the food you leave behind in the mini-fridge if you leave the packages unopened. Ditto for the beer, soda and cans of peach nectar. If you open the shampoo and lotion and leave it behind, your maid can take that, too.

Most people didn’t bother to tip, no matter how big a mess they left – just like me.

The maids I met on the job were women with families to support. They weren’t afraid of hard work and they liked their independence. They had a lot of freedom in their job.

I asked one maid how much she would like people to tip.

"A dollar a room would make a big difference in my life," she said. "I’m trying to stay off welfare and I want my children to be proud of me."

One dollar. That’s all it takes to make a difference in someone’s life. I encountered one maid on her day off. She was at the local bookstore, buying books for her daughter.

Cleaning those rooms and changing sheets changed my mind. I came to understand, with every muscle in my aching back, that this was a hard job.

Now I tip the hotel maids at least two dollars a day.

I never realized a little money made such a big difference.

The Viets Family Recipes

By Elaine Viets

I’m still giggling over the Recipegate scandal. Cindy McCain, John McCain’s wife, has been accused of recipe theft.

What is Cindy’s heinous crime?

Three recipes supposedly lifted from the Food Network were posted as "Cindy’s Recipes" on the McCain campaign Web site. One more McCain family recipe may have been borrowed from Rachel Ray with minor changes, according to reports. The McCain campaign is now telling the press that the whole thing "is the work of an intern."

So what?

Cindy McCain is rich. The woman is every man’s dream – a beautiful blond with a beer distributorship. Do you really think Cindy ties an apron around that size two waist and whips up ahi tuna and Napa cabbage slaw in her kitchen? Or makes passion fruit mousse with her own manicured hands?

Are voters really that gullible?

Please, please say you’re not. Our nation has to elect a new leader this year.

What’s with the family recipe routine? When a man runs for his party’s presidential nomination, does that mean his wife has to cook up something for the voters?

That’s so last century. Nowadays, many men I know cook more often than their wives – and they cook better.

Cindy McCain missed the chance to be an inspiration our nation’s youth. What if a candidate’s wife said: "The only things I make for dinner are reservations. Here are the phone numbers of my five favorite carry-out restaurants."

She’d get my vote – and the vote of restauranteurs everywhere. Besides, doesn’t the White House have a chef?

My mother had four hungry kids, a husband who wanted dinner on the table at five-thirty every night, and no interest in cooking.

In the Viets family, Chef Boyardee was the culinary equal of Emeril. The man canned terrific ravioli and spaghetti, and never once said, "Bam!"

The Viets Family Recipes would include lots of Campbell’s canned mushroom soup. Tuna casserole included a can of tuna, a can of mushroom soup with crushed potato chips for crunch. For a real gourmet touch, Mom would throw in an extra can of sliced mushrooms.

Mom’s recipe for chocolate chip cookies came straight off the Hershey’s chocolate chip bag, and she never acknowledged the source. Mrs. Smith baked our pies. Our Friday fish were courtesy of Mrs. Paul. Those women didn’t get any credit, either.

I’ve inherited my mother’s interest in cooking. I like good food. I appreciate those who cook it. But I don’t have the skill.

My grandmother was a splendid southern cook of the old school. Everything was either fried, sugared, or fried and then covered with sugar. Unless she made gravy. If I cooked like her, I’d weigh 300 pounds.

Still, as a kid I watched her cook, hoping I could absorb her kitchen technique. Grandma never wrote down a recipe. She never used a measuring cup. She’d throw in a few hand fulls of this and a pinch of that and produce perfection on a plate.

Grandma’s biscuits were light, warm little pillows that could be smothered in gravy or slathered with melted butter. I struggled to reproduce her biscuits, and baked something that looked like hockey pucks.

One Sunday, I asked Grandma for the family recipe for biscuits.

She brought out a yellow box of Bisquick and said, "Use this. That’s all the family recipe you’ll need. Now, go do something important."

Cooking is important. For those who love to cook, thank you for the comfort and joy you provide. But don’t fake your love. If you can’t tell a Napa cabbage from a Beverly Hills bagel, say so. Then, as my grandma said, "Go do something important."

Better yet, do something you enjoy.

Geritol Jezebel

By Elaine Viets

Kathy’s mother is living in sin. She is a widow on Social Security. Kathy is shocked. She’s also furious.

She's not mad because her mother is having an illicit affair.

Kathy is mad because Mom kept a teenage Kathy to strict standards – standards her mother no longer honors. Kathy was what used to be called a "nice girl." That meant Kathy missed a lot of fun.

"When I was dating my husband, Sam, I lived at home," Kathy said. "My mother gave me a rigid curfew. If I got home late, I was grounded for weeks. Funny, my two brothers didn’t have the same restrictions. They got to do anything."

Kathy did not. "Nice girls behave themselves," my mother said. "We have morals in our family. We have standards."

"She didn’t care about me," Kathy said. "She cared about the neighbors. Mom would ask, ‘What will the neighbors think if you’re out till all hours of the night?’

"When I got engaged, I wanted to see Sam at school in Florida. My mother wouldn’t let me. She said nice girls didn’t do that, either."

Once again it was, "What would the neighbors think? An unmarried girl flying across the country to see a young man. Disgraceful!"

Kathy and Sam got married, which the neighbors thought was lovely.

After their trip down the aisle, Kathy and Sam settled into a life of responsibility. "We both work," she said. "We have kids and debts. Meanwhile, my mother, the woman who insisted I stay a nice girl, is happily living in sin."

What do the neighbors think?

"My mother says, ‘They think he’s so wonderful, and they want me to be happy.’ She ignores the people who disapprove. My friends think Herman is weird."

These lovers would never make the cover of a romance novel. Herman is skinny, bald and his upper plate flaps when he talks. Kathy’s mom is a sturdy woman with iron-gray hair.

Kathy learned not everyone was thrilled with her mother’s behavior one Sunday at church. "I met one of my mother’s friends on the sidewalk outside. She said, ‘How is your mother?’ "

Kathy was puzzled by this question. The church lady could – and did – peer out her window several times a day. She could see for herself how Kathy’s mother was.

"I haven’t seen your mother at church lately," the woman said.

Ah. Now Kathy understood. The church lady was asking after the state of Mom’s morals. Kathy’s good angel pleaded with her to maintain a heroic silence. Her bad angel urged her to tell the truth.

Kathy thought about those warm summer nights when she had a hot man in the front seat of the car and an angry mother waiting at the front door. She decided to tell the truth.

"She’s shacking up with Herman," Kathy said.

She felt better as soon as she said it. She savored the deliciously shocked look on the church lady’s face.

But Kathy still has to live with her mother’s morality. The happy couple nuzzle and smooch when they visit Kathy’s home, and she sends the kids outside so they won’t see Grandma in the throes of polyester passion.

When Kathy talked about her mother, it was hard to keep from snickering.

"Go ahead," Kathy said. "Joke if you want. You won’t think it’s funny if it happens to you."

This could be the final revenge on my generation. We’ve switched roles with our parents. We’ve grown gray and proper, tamed by work, debt and children. Meanwhile, Mom and Dad are living wild and free.

Kathy, normally a generous woman, knows she sounds as judgmental as her mother used to be. She faces every woman’s nightmare:

Kathy has turned into her mother.

How to Marry Julia Roberts

By Elaine Viets

How did a geek like Lyle Lovett marry Julia Roberts? That's a question that drives men mad.

OK, the marriage lasted less than two years. But he did walk her down the aisle.

I can explain, sir. The answer was in an Esquire magazine interview. Lyle told the writer, "There are universal truths about women."

"Oh, let me hear one," the writer said.

"Women like to eat outside," Lyle said.

Now there’s a man who understands women. As soon as the weather turns warm, we women sigh restlessly and look for a romantic cafe. We’ll settle for six plastic tables on the sidewalk.

Many men don’t have these feelings. They love air conditioning. They think air, like beer, should be kept cold. No amount of sweet reason can convince these men to eat outside.

"Let’s sit outside," she will say. "It’s too nice to be indoors."

"Do we have to?" he’ll ask. "It’s too hot."

"This is what real air feels like," she’ll say. "We’ve been cooped up inside all winter. Why don’t you want to sit outside?"

"It’s full of bugs," he’ll say.

"So is that bar you like so much," she’ll say. "At least if I see the bugs outside, I can pretend they are passing through."

"What is it about eating outside?" he’ll ask.

"It’s romantic," she’ll say.

"Breathing bus exhaust is romantic?"

I could go on, but it’s too painful. The man understands he has failed to pass another test. He just doesn’t know what it is. Many men are comfortable in caves. Remember his bachelor apartment? It was done in cave colors – gray, brown and black. Men’s bars are dark caverns. Some even have Neanderthals.

Women like light and sun. We are creatures of imagination. We imagine that if we sit on a parking lot under a Cinzano umbrella, we are closer to nature. If the restaurant puts out six pots of sunbaked petunias, we think it’s romantic.

Most men can’t imagine why we like this. Only if he is desperately in love – or lust – will he eat outside. So during the couple’s courtship, he will take her to an outdoor restaurant.

She thinks it’s because he’s a romantic who likes to do the same things she does. He thinks he’s impressing her with his daring. It’s the same instinct that makes small boys hang from trees so little girls will notice them. But a guy doesn’t have to hang from a tree branch forever. Once the girl is impressed, he can let go.

So most men believe once they have done the daring deed and eaten outside, that’s enough. They’ve proved their love. They won’t ever have to do it again. Surely she won’t make him spend the rest of his life eating outside, trying to hold onto a plastic glass and paper napkin in a gale-force wind?

Besides, eating outside makes a man feel ridiculous.

This last argument won’t impress most women. We know he is not afraid to look ridiculous outside. We see men put on lime green pants and spiked shoes and stomp around the golf course. We see men in short pants and sweaty T-shirts running on the city streets. We know men who sit in cold damp duck blinds at four in the morning.

But these same men complain that sitting in a garden restaurant on a spring day is uncomfortable. A woman wonders what’s wrong. Doesn’t he love her any more?

She doesn’t get it.

He doesn’t get it.

Only Lyle Lovett gets it, which is why he got Julia Roberts – at least for a little while.

Strip development

By Elaine Viets

My dentist has an office in a 1960s tower in Fort Lauderdale. It’s true mid-century architecture: spacious, wasteful, and a little weird.

Slapped on the glass front door was something I’d never seen there – a sheriff’s order demanding that a business vacate the premises.

"What happened to your neighbor, doc?" I asked.

"He’s been evicted for not paying the rent," the dentist said. "He has that big space on the second floor."

Ah. The real estate black hole, sucking money and careers into nothingness.

"Another failed restaurant?" During the time I’d lived in the neighborhood, at least four restaurants had died there.

"Uh, not quite. He wanted to open a strip joint."

On the second floor of a mostly medical building? "You’re joking, right?" I asked.

"No. The guy owned another strip club. The building owners tried to write it into the lease that he couldn’t open a club here, but that was illegal. Something about zoning and freedom of speech."

Well, if we were all disrobing in doctors’ offices for major money, I supposed the guy had a valid complaint. Though I doubt we had much entertainment value, showing off our bunions and bad backs.

"Instead, the building owners said if he opened a strip club he’d have to pay triple rent. You know what? He paid rent on an empty space for one solid year."

But even the wages of sin are not bottomless. The man decided it was time for his strip club to take off. His rent was tripled and he was out – lock, stock and G-string.

Now I’m worried about the quality of Florida sleaze. Our state’s sex entrepreneurs have always been clever. They know you can make more money here taking off your clothes than leaving them on.

But a strip club in a doctors’ building?

You can practically smell the ether in the halls. After you get a root canal or have your bad knee examined, would a man be in the mood to watch semi-naked women?

I can hear the doc now: "Uh, sorry there, George, but it looks like shoulder surgery for you. But if you want to watch body parts that really work, the strip club is two floors down."

This wasn’t the first Florida sex-based business in an odd location. My local chain bookstore had a hooker set up business in its coffee shop. We’re not talking feathers and fishnet stockings. This working girl was rather matronly.

She’d nurse a cup of coffee and thumb through magazines she never bought. Men wearing jeans and belt buckles the size of dinner plates would sit down at her table. The next thing anyone knew, the couple would be out the door.

After awhile, the woman would reappear. The gentleman would not. She’d resume her watch over her cooling coffee until another book lover showed up.

If you thought about it, the location was brilliant. What woman would be suspicious if her husband said, "I’m going to run to the bookstore for the new Field & Stream. Can I pick you up a copy of Martha Stewart’s Living?"

Except that’s not how it worked. If this woman’s gentlemen friends had actually bought books along with sex, she might still be at her post in the coffee shop. But no. They were too cheap. Soon the store manager figured out what was going on and asked the woman to conduct her business elsewhere.

This was one time when a prostitute should have been booked.

Man Sandwiches

By Elaine Viets

I found out about the major difference between men and women on the fourth day of our honeymoon. Don and I were staying at the Plaza Hotel in New York, before it was Trumped.

The night before, I’d polished off a bottle of champagne mixed with four bottles of Guinness stout. Don called this concoction a Black Velvet.

It went down smooth and wicked. It woke me up, mean and nasty. At two in the morning, I didn’t feel like I’d been drinking Black Velvet. I felt like I’d been eating old carpets. My stomach heaved and churned like the storm-tossed North Atlantic. A gale of acid indigestion was going on down there.

I crawled into the bathroom and lay down on the cool tile floor. The hotel housekeeper would find me in the morning, dead. I could wear my wedding dress in my coffin. Right now, I just wanted to throw up and die.

Don poked his head in the bathroom and said, "Are you all right?" He was repulsively cheerful.

"Uhhhh," I groaned, like a creature from a freshly opened tomb.

"Reuben’s deli is open all night," he said. "Can I get you something to soothe your stomach?"

It wasn’t fair. The man drank more than I did, and he looked like he’d spent the night swilling soda water. I summoned the strength for a deathbed request.

"Just a little white meat of turkey," I said. "On a slice of white bread."

I put my head on the rim of the cool white commode and fell asleep.

Next thing I knew, Don was back with a disgusting, smelly, paper-wrapped mound. He had an innocent, proud look, like a retriever that had just brought a dead rabbit into the living room.

In this case it was a dead turkey. A full pound, covered with pickles, onions and sour cream, all of it swimming on a raft of Russian rye. My stomach lurched.

"You beast!" I screamed. "How could you do this?"

"You said you wanted turkey," he said, looking puzzled.

I slammed the door to the bathroom. The sandwich smell was so strong it invaded the whole room. While I lay dying, Don not only ate his pastrami, he also ate the monstrous turkey, onion and sour cream sandwich.

The next morning, I nibbled soda crackers for breakfast and wondered if it was too late to have the marriage annulled. I’d been married five days and I’d made a terrible mistake. Any man who would bring a sandwich like that to a dying woman was too insensitive to be married.

That was my awful intro to the man-made sandwich. From what I could figure out, a man-made sandwich has nothing to do with the sandwiches that women make. We prefer dainty creations made with healthy whole-grain bread, lettuce, watercress and other vegetables, free-range chicken and white meat of turkey, and when we’re feeling reckless, fat-free mayo.

A man-made sandwich looks like the guy cleaned out the fridge and put it on bread. It may have leftover pot roast, barbecue, chicken, pork chops, cole slaw, or potato salad. Pickles, relishes, onions, red pepper, black pepper and strange objects floating in vinegar in the jars on the side shelves are acceptable. Real mayo is a must. Hot sauce, hot mustard and spicy ketchup will do. Butter is always better. Deep-fat frying, in the finest Elvis tradition, is the making of a man’s sandwich.

Lettuce belongs in a salad bowl. Whole grains are for rabbits. Rye and dark bread are good, but should be used sparingly. They could be borderline healthy. Spongy pillow bread is ideal.

Back when I did television, I ate a pig-ear sandwich on camera. That’s a deep-fried pig’s ear, covered in barbecue sauce and potato salad and served on a white bun.

"I can’t eat that thing," I told my agent.

"Shut up," she said. "People have eaten worse to advance their careers."