The Lipstick Chronicles

Wedding Bell Blues/blacks/whites
By Harley

On Friday, I heard on NPR (my primary news source, along with STAR magazine at the grocery checkout line) that Jenna Bush was getting married.

“What?” I thought. “Why wasn’t I told? Why wasn’t I invited?”

Here’s why: I have nothing to wear. As you may remember, I’ve weeded out non-essentials in my life, including truckloads of clothes, stuff I’d kept for some oddball reason (I paid full price for it/had sex in it/wore it the day I encountered Al Pacino on the sidewalk.) Anyhow, what’s left in the dressy department are some loud floral numbers appropriate for Hawaii – and eight little black dresses.

The Hawaiian thing I understand—everyone needs something that looks good with a lei. But what’s with those eight little black dresses?

I have two theories. One: in a parallel universe I am Audrey Hepburn, living in New York, needing eight black frocks because at any given time 3 are at the drycleaners and there is always an impromptu cocktail party requiring my presence.

Two: it’s genetic. I’m Slovak/Scandinavian, with big families on both sides, and some ancient relative always at death’s door. One must be prepared. To illustrate (and stop me if I’ve told you this), my Aunt Viera in Pittsburgh, upon hearing Uncle Johnny cry out “Aaaggh!” one afternoon, was heard to say, “Dear God, there’s Johnny having another heart attack and me without a black dress.” (Uncle Johnny’s outcry, in fact, was from sitting on Aunt Viera’s pinking shears, left on the couch.) If there’s one thing Kozaks admire, it’s a woman who looks good graveside (men don’t count. Men have suits.) Think Jackie Kennedy.

So yes, I’m an excellent choice of guest for your funeral. But your marriage ceremony is another story.

I realized that this week during our own Nancy’s couture crisis. Nancy has to attend a Very Important Wedding, the details of which I am not at liberty to disclose (think Jenna’s friends) but she’s wrestling with Nuptial Dress Code. Is anything more complex? One seeks clues in the style of the invitation (font, of course, but there is also paper to consider: white or ecru? Hand-lettered calligraphy or computer labels?), the venue (Jenna’s non-Texan guests must have been driven mad with that pre-wedding barbecue), and the season, the religious convictions/conventions, and the exact relationship of you to the wedding principle (are you a sibling, a client, an old flame? Will you be in the wedding album photos?) And even if you’re confident you know what ballpark you’re in, you still have to find something that fits, that you can afford, that doesn’t make you feel like Pat Nixon.

And it mustn’t be black. Or white. There are 2 kinds of people in this world, those who consider this the 11th commandment, and those who didn’t get the memo. You don’t wear black to a wedding because it’s bad luck (even if you know the marriage doesn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell) and you don’t wear white because you’ll upstage the bride. Is this rule outdated? Yes. If you can ignore it, go for it. I can’t, anymore than I can wear white shoes after Labor Day. Legions of Dead Aunts would descend, tut-tutting and raising their ghostly eyebrows. I may as well wear clogs and a macramé poncho.

Nancy, good luck at the mall this week. Jenna, lovely dress—and big thanks for not sending ME down that long road to Macy’s, Neiman Marcus or Saks. Thank you for not inviting me to the wedding. Thank you for not knowing me.

Happy Monday.
Harley

Sell. Sell. Sell.
by Harley

I’m living a lie.

My house goes on the market this week, and I’m learning to disappear at a moment’s notice, while conveying the impression that I'm a homeowner with fabulous taste, ethics, and hygiene, whose septic tank has never given anyone a moment’s trouble.

For two months I’ve packed/thrown/given away 3/4 of my earthly possessions, based on what Melissa-the-realtor found unworthy. What remains is the crème de la crème, the art on my walls and the 7.8 million books in my built-in bookshelves. Plus a couple of vases (pronounced “vozziz.” The “vay-sis” went to Goodwill.)

When Melissa-the-realtor walked through my house last fall, I wept. How to offload 10 years of junk, with a looming book deadline? So Melissa sent over Julie-from-Scotland, who stormed my kitchen, and banished (for instance) the Mandoline (inherited from the French chef boyfriend) nine muffin tins and three spare turkey basters. When Julie was done, my kitchen looked great and Julie had persuaded me to consult Hazel-the-Witch, another Topanga neighbor, who works with Disruptive Life Patterns. But then came Christmas, so I blew off house-restoration.

But on Februrary 29 I finished my novel. And got a burst of energy. Cleaning out a closet, I thought, “gee, that was easy. I’ll keep going.” An hour later I said, “I’ve come this far, I may as well move.”

Then I started looking at houses. Yippee! Buyer’s market! Fun hobby! And here’s what I discovered: there are 3 types of “for sale” houses: empty, staged, and lived-in.

Empty: Irritating because I feel stupid when I can’t identify a room. If it’s a bedroom, why’s there a wet bar? If it’s a dining room, how come it’s wired for cable? (BTW, am I the only person who doesn’t care about wet bars?) Plus, there’s no hiding a dreadful chandelier when it’s the only furnishing.

Lived-in: Also not great. One house featured a surly teenage boy in boxers standing at the refrigerator drinking milk from the carton. I thought perhaps he hadn’t gotten the memo about the house being for sale, but no, he allowed us to see his room, done up in black walls and ceiling, covered with gangster rap posters. It took a lot of squinting to picture my daughter’s Barbie canopy in there.

Staged: this is the way to go. Yeah, it’s manipulative, even cheesy, with those cookies baking in the oven, but at least you know the piano’s gonna fit in the living room. After seeing a couple of staged houses, I went home to stage my own. I peeled the poetry off the kitchen cupboards. The “Finish the first draft!” affirmations. The Kwan Yin refrigerator magnets. I left a few personal items, like the skull on my desk, but only because Nancy Martin has one too; thus, it must be tasteful.

So now I am a minimalist woman with minimalist children, who has Windex and whisk brooms strategically placed, and empties wastebaskets with the zeal of a Four Seasons maid. A woman with new-sanded floors, -beige carpets, -white walls, -cleaned windows, -sodded lawn, thanks to Steve, Ruben, Lareto, Lemis, Diego, Carlo, Maria, Mercedes, Jose, Juan, Bo, Brendan, Ralph, Alex, Nelly, Dennis, Paul, and Melissa.

How long can I keep this up? Not long. Soon the new plants will die and the children will go mad and spraypaint the walls like tiny gang members. Say a prayer, would you? Light a candle, convene a coven meeting, send over a Feng Shui consultant or a statue of St. Joseph for me to bury in the backyard? Picture that sign saying “Sold, sold, sold”? Thanks.

Happy Monday!
Harley

Blog of Fear
by Harley

My son, as a baby, had a talking toy fire engine. And on occasion—in the middle of the night, often—the battery would go kaflooey and it would say spontaneously, VERY LOUDLY, over and over: “This is Grandpa. In case of emergency, dial 911.”

Never mind that I never understood that toy, and that twice I got calls from the Sheriff’s department, asking if everything was okay, since someone had just dialed 911. (“Sorry. My children think their grandfather is stuck inside a toy truck.”) What struck me was the scariness of a talking vehicle after dark. I’d wake up horrified and confused, hearing “Grandpa” on the baby monitor, then go hurtling downstairs to remove the batteries before he could wake the toddlers.

Last July it happened again, this time with a construction vehicle. I was sleeping in the playroom, due to a certain domestic crisis, and one night the vehicle called out,“Press forward or reverse action. Press forward or reverse action. Press forward or—”

Huh?

Due to the aforementioned crisis I was praying a lot, so it seemed reasonable to assume this was the Voice of God speaking through a dump truck. After removing the batteries, I lay in the dark wondering what actions I could reverse in my life. Eventually, having no clue (and no time machine) I opted for “Press forward.”

But last Wednesday it happened again. At 2:30 a.m. a stuffed horse neighed. I heard it on the baby monitor and this time I did not race to turn it off, because this time the kids and dogs were at their dad’s. And therein lies my problem: when alone (Dixie the Bunny doesn’t count), I am scared of the dark. Especially since I live in a “neighborhood” right out of The Blair Witch Project.

I knew, you see, that this was no defective battery problem, but the clever ruse of a demented killer, trying to trick me into unlocking my bedroom door (which I lock when alone). Like I’d fall for that. Instead, I turned off the baby monitor (left on even without the kids here, so I can call 911 when I hear the burglars talking) (not that 911 is taking my calls anymore). I didn’t seek a Spiritual Message in this neigh. Sometimes a horse is just a horse, of course, of course.

But it was a wake-up call. I’ve been single for 9 months and while I’m doing very well in most departments, there’s one big downside: I can’t do Scary anymore. No books, no films, no News at 11. I’ve got my friend Alexandra Sokoloff’s latest novel, THE PRICE, on my bedside table but it’s face down and unopened. Even the cover art terrifies me. Her first book THE HARROWING was too harrowing to read except in daylight while married, so what chance does this one have? Alex joins Gregg Hurwitz on the “Call If You Need A Blood Marrow Transplant, But Don’t Ask Me To Read Your Book” list. I have Gregg’s entire oeuvre, but the last one I read, there was a severed head in the freezer. Please. I’m still recovering from THE SHINING, 23 years later.

Don’t let’s bring up the Second Amendment, either. A gun, even if I wanted one, is no defense against the supernatural.

I would like to know, however, 1. what other scaredy-cats do alone in the dark, and 2. why things with batteries come to life of their own volition (or is this only at my house?) And 3. if everyone could please stop sending my children talking toys. Thank you.

Happy Monday!
Harley

Declaration of Blah Blah
by Harley

I’m in hell.

I’m facing my bête noir, that which is hanging over my head, worse than getting my teeth cleaned, worse than mucking out the rabbit cage (my 2nd grader is in Maui), worse than doing my taxes. I’m filling out a Preliminary Declaration of Disclosure, Schedule of Assets & Debts and Income & Expenses Declaration, with accompanying exhibits.

Or, as I lovingly call it, the Declaration of Blah Blah.

Why am I doing it? My divorce lawyer told me to. Honestly, why not just hand me a copy of Mein Kampf and a German-English dictionary and tell me to translate it? I’ve been working on this thing (i.e., staring at it) for weeks. I’ve filled out my name and address, which leaves only nine pages to go. I’ve written novels faster than this.

Life used to be simple. I worked. I paid off my credit cards every month, paid the rent, spent what was left, saved some, gave some away. When I graduated from waitressing, I found some scary guy in NYC to do my taxes. When I moved to LA, Scary Guy was replaced by Nice Laurie. One day Nice Laurie told me to buy a house and I asked her how much to spend and she told me and I bought one. Then I got married and sold that house and my husband and I bought a house together and he did all the money stuff and Nice Laurie was replaced by Husband’s People, and for a decade I had babies and cooked stuffed calamari and grocery shopped and wrote novels and forgot what a mortgage interest rate was. I was the Cautionary Tale on the Suze Orman show. So of course I came to a Bad End, staring into the black hole of the Declaration of Blah Blah.

“I shall reinvent myself!” I cried, and signed up for a Personal Finance class at UCLA. “I’ll read stock prospectuses for entertainment, and always know the Blue Book value of my car!” But my big challenge was staying awake, even though the teacher, a Bob Marley lookalike, was a personable guy who did everything but puppet shows to illustrate his points. I learned what a poison pill is, who Freddie Mac is, and what the deal is with junk bonds, but I have to consult my notes, which are lovely, lots of doodling and possible plots for novels, alongside memos to self, such as “Uh-oh!” and “Where’s the ELECTRIC BILL!?” and “Compare your co. toothers using index.” (no idea what that means.)

But Costco is my undoing. My fatal flaw. The Declaration of Blah Blah insists I itemize expenses into groceries, clothes, gifts, eating out, but it’s all Costco! Costco! The only thing I don’t buy at Costco is my lawyer and my hair colorist and I have no receipts, only totals. So shoot me.

Here’s what else I don’t get: if a million divorces are underway this year, why is no one else whining about their Declaration of Blah Blah? Where is my tribe? My people?

Anyway, I’ve called in my brilliant friend Margaret, who’s coming over this week to wade through boxes of color-coded files (I find filing soothing) whilst I weep and eat chocolate.

BTW: my daughter has left a note on the bunny’s cage. There’s a fee schedule for holding or petting Dixie; one dollar for siblings, a nickel for parents; no charge for friends. By the time she returns from Maui, I’ll be $.90 in the hole. What budgetary category does that go into?

Happy Monday!
Harley

Dark Bunny
by Harley

My friend Claire Carmichael has this theory: Add the word “Dark” to any noun and you get an instant noir title. As in, Dark Shadows, Dark Victory, Dark Angel, Wait Until Dark, Dark Side of the Moon, Darkness on the Edge of Town and in my case:

Dark Bunny.

You see, I’ve acquired a rabbit. Some of you are thinking, “little bundle of cuddliness” and others, “boiling water in ‘Fatal Attraction.’” I’m in the latter group.

Here’s how it happened. Rather than screen “Fatal Attraction” for my second-grader, like a smart parent, I foolishly raised her on “Pat the Bunny,” “Knuffle Bunny” and the Rabbits, Peter and Velveteen. Then last fall we spent time with friends who had a bunny, and that was it. “Chloe has a bunny,” my daughter said. “Angus and Fiona have them. Everyone has them.” Was she to be the only rabbit-less child in her school?

Why not? Other families have lots of things we don’t have, like Lamborghinis and putting greens and backstage passes to Hannah Montana concerts. Our family has dogs. Rescued dogs, so we don’t know their breed or their childhood traumas, but we do know they once brought down a deer. (There were witnesses.) Also, our dogs are suspects in the disappearance of our cat, April, but the evidence is purely circumstantial and we never found a body. It’s like living with the Corleone family. Gut-wrenching, yes, but late at night when one dog’s snoring next to me in bed, and the other’s downstairs guarding the children, comforting.

Unless you’re a bunny.

My other problem, as I explained 67 times to my daughter, is that caged animals distress me. But my daughter was on a mission. She checked out library books on rabbits, researched them online, and haunted Petco. I suggested that her father could have an unexplored love for bunnies and might like one at his house. I e-mailed him. He e-mailed me back. “Bunny: terrible idea.”

However, there was talk of guinea pigs and hamsters and shared custody arrangements, but then the rabbits made a comeback and suddenly—don’t ask me how—on the day my daughter turned 8, there was an enormous hutch on my deck and inside, Dixie. A full-time resident. Harley, suckered again.

I’m trying to see this problem as an opportunity in a bunny suit, but it’s an uphill battle. Chloe’s dad confessed just yesterday that their dog ate the guinea pig they bought to keep their rabbit company. Angus’s mom says a coyote broke into their hutch and took out an entire family, leaving behind only fluff. Our own Nancy Martin suffers from leporidae PTSD (too distraught to share details.) And for what? For a ball of fur whose biggest talent is that it can be taught, with painstaking effort, to use a litter box. Woo-hoo! Bring on the marching band.

If this were a children’s book, Dixie would somehow save our lives (perhaps from an attack by a giant, mutant lettuce leaf) and I would cry, “I’m sorry I made fun of you and complained that all you do is poop.” But this is Real Life, so here I sit waiting for the other shoe--uh, bunny slipper--to drop. The dogs lick their lips. Dixie quivers. One day I expect her to hurl herself over the deck into the canyon, leaving behind emptiness. Dark Hutch. Dark Litterbox. Dark Carrots.

If you can offer any advice, please do. Otherwise, heed this cautionary tale. It’s too late for me, but if I save even one reader from a hare-raising experience, I am at peace.

Happy Monday.
Harley

Hey, Babe, What’s Your Type?
by Harley

I’m taking an online class. I knew it was my Destiny, because it began on Saturday morning, exactly one day after I turned in my current novel. The second reason I knew it was my Destiny is that the instructor asked us to play a little game to get to know one another. She asked us to take the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator personality inventory.

Myers-Briggs! Why, by strange coincidence, in my current novel I created a guy who likes to Myers-Briggs everyone he meets. So I’ve had Myers-Briggs on the brain and happen to know already that I’m an INFP. (As I'm sure you've guessed.)

The test, FYI, has been around since 1942, but I first heard of it when my big sister Mary was in graduate school studying psychology. Mary tested the whole family one Christmas, thus giving us a scientific excuse for losing at Scrabble, or eating too much stuffing. Prior to that, we’d had to rely on the old, “I can’t help it, my Moon’s in Capricorn.” Or it could be that I'm confusing the Myers-Briggs (MBTI) with the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory (MMPI), which Mary also liked a lot.

What’s the difference? Allow me to enlighten you! (Blogging as a way to use up research leftovers.)

The Myers-Briggs simply tells you which Jungian personality type you are, in a “nobody’s better than anyone else, we’re all just different, so group hug” tone. It defines how we absorb information and reach conclusions. Ever wonder how you can watch a presidential debate and think, “I wouldn’t trust that moron to open his own breakfast cereal box” while your next door neighbor is out putting up yard signs with the moron's picture on them? Myers-Briggs can explain it. Plus, the short version can be done in minutes, which makes it suitable for picking up people in bars. (“hey, baby, what’s an ESFJ like you doing in a place like this?”) The questions are simple and to the point, as in, True or False: It’s difficult to get you excited.

The MMPI, on the other hand, takes hours and will tell you if you’re a sociopath. It can also diagnose mental dullness, brooding, interpersonal suspiciousness, gastrointestinal complaints and being misunderstood (all of which happen to me when I need a nap.) The MMPI is not so good for hitting on people in bars, because hearing a “yes” answer to the following questions will often discourage flirtation:

“I see things or animals or people around me that others do not see.”
“I commonly hear voices without knowing where they are coming from.”
“At times I have fits of laughing and crying that I cannot control.”
“My soul sometimes leaves my body.”

To me, these tests are simply a more scholarly version of the old Cosmo Girl Quizzes, like, “Are You in The Right Profession? What Your Hair Tells You About Your Secret Passions” or Dr. Phil’s “Ten Ways To Know If Your Husband is Cheating.” I cannot resist them. I even want to take the free Scientology Personality Test, but I fear being told I have none. (Catholics don’t require personality tests).

Okay, and not to brag or anything, but I share my INFP status with Mr. Rogers, Princess Diana and Homer (not Simpson; the other one). Also Shakespeare, Mother Theresa and Saint Luke. Apparently we all answered yes to the question, “I feel involved when watching TV soaps.”

So, babe – what’s your type? To find out, go to:
Typology Test

(Oh: what online class am I taking? Can’t tell you. I'm an introvert.)

Happy Monday!
Harley

Dr. McDream On
by Harley

I got this letter from my doctor recently. Not a “please call re your Pap smear” letter. Less sinister. More puzzling.

Dr. Welby, as I shall call him, told me what a valued patient I am, how crazy he is about me, and how he’s eager to fill me in on the exciting changes in his life. (He’s going bald? Leaving his wife?) He then invited me to a meeting on a Tuesday night to find out all about it.

Call me crazy, but an 8 pm rendezvous with my doctor does not sound like a raucously good time. Not that I don’t love Dr. Welby (he cured my pneumonia) but I have a book deadline. I chucked the letter.

Then came the phone messages. Eager voices assuring me that I’d DEFINITELY want to be in on the Big Changes going on in Dr. Welby’s life (short-listed for Surgeon General? Nominated for an Oscar?) and to PLEASE call the toll-free number.

So I called. More ad-copy spiel about Dr. Welby’s fabulous future. Then: “Did you know Dr. Welby has 2000 patients? And wants to cut back to 600?”

“How much?” I asked.

“Excuse me?”

“How much will it cost me to be one of the six hundred?”

“There’s an $1800 annual fee, but you’ll be guaranteed next-day appointments—”

“Thanks, can’t afford it, bye.”

See, I’ve been down this road before. That’s how I found Dr. Welby—my previous physician, Dr. Kildare, had “gone boutique.” Or “concierge.” His annual fee was higher, but that’s because he’s younger, cuter, practices in Malibu, and offers mood music, aromatherapy, and designer chairs in his office. If money were no object, I’d still be with Dr. Kildare. But when I go to a boutique, I want to come home with new shoes. And to me, a concierge is someone who gets you tickets to “Blond Bond: The Musical,” not someone who hands you a plastic cup and asks you to pee in it.

Don’t get me wrong: Dr. Kildare and Dr. Welby are smart, dedicated, and empathetic. Great guys, the kind you’d want at your deathbed, or delivering The Worst News You Ever Got. They’re People Persons, working in a system that says they can spend 12.5 minutes with each patient, regardless of her/his problems. They have to run ragged, talk fast, placate sick folks who’ve been waiting an hour+, and, in Dr. Kildare’s case, still pay off medical school bills. They’re not demanding their inalienable right to a third vacation home or 18 holes of golf every Friday, they just want to earn a nice living and give their patients humane care.

And that being the case, despite the sales pitch that sounds like he’s selling time-shares, I might’ve paid up if Dr. Welby’s next big announcement weren’t going to be, “I’m retiring.” Instead, I’m doctor shopping now, while I’m healthy and (relatively) young and can live with “Tell me your symptoms, make it quick, no adjectives or adverbs. Go.”

But my bigger question: is physician-on-retainer the Next Big Status Symbol? Worse, will the day come when it’s Drs. Frankenstein & Mengele (We Take Insurance!) versus Drs. Boutique & Concierge?

If so, here’s my wish list for my annual full-fee physical:

Fluffy bathrobes instead of paper gowns.
Candlelight in the exam rooms. Plus blankets & pillows so I can nap.
No scales.
Male nurses who look like extras in a Zeffirelli film.
Valet parking. Free.
No Fox News on the TV in the waiting room, ever.
Complimentary pedicures, psychic readings, and Godiva chocolates.

Happy Presidents Day!
Harley

We Interrupt This Blog—
by Harley

So there I was writing a blog on the Federal Reserve, when Larry King came on. Discussing UFOs. I know, we’ve already chatted about aliens on TLC—I think Sarah started it—but it’s an election year, and we need to revisit some issues.

Here’s what happened: recently, a bunch of folks down in Stephenville, Texas saw a silent low-to-the-ground well-lit spaceship. These were solid citizen types, not yoga instructors or professional clowns. They didn’t appear to be on drugs. One of them was the county constable.

Yes, I believe these guys. That’s not even an issue. I can think of a lot of things less plausible than interplanetary travel, and the fact that they landed in the Lone Star State suggests a sense of humor. Larry King brought in a professional skeptic who wrote off the sightings as “sun dogs” in a peevish tone of voice, but what got my attention was the science guy that said the Air Force has been holding out on us for 60 years, and that presidents always just clam up and do what the Air Force tells them.

Which answers the question, “why would anyone in his/her right mind run for president?” (Because the winner tours Area 51!)

Picture this: it’s the day after the Inaugural Ball. You’re the new president. You’re hanging out in the Oval Office, there’s a knock on the door and in walks the USAF Big Cheese.

“Madame/Mister President,” he says, “I’m here for your flying saucers briefing. Yes, it’s true: we’ve got them in special underground parking lots, except when they go out for night rides and pick up research specimens. We’re very strict about the abductee quota, which is based on current census figures, and we keep it low: no more than .2% of registered voters. They’re careful about wiping out the memories, but sometimes you get citizens—Iowans and Nebraskans, mostly—who’re immune to the erasing procedures, and end up blogging about it. We’ve suggested a cattle-for-humans swap, but the Department of Agriculture is already upset about Crop Circles, and the aliens aren’t going for it anyway. BTW, in the interest of national security, what you hear in the Oval Office stays in the Oval Office. No one must know what I’ve just told you. Especially the spouse. Jackie didn’t know, Lady Bird didn’t know, Laura was definitely in the dark. Nancy Reagan’s astrologer told her, but we discredited her. We think Betty Ford knew.”

Unlikely? Well, if we at TLC are a representative sample, one out of three of you finds nothing odd about this scenario. Especially if you’re William, Tom or Josh. According to a 2005 Harris poll, more women than men believe in God, miracles, heaven, hell, the Virgin birth, angels, the devil, ghosts, astrology and reincarnation. But more men believe in UFO’s and witches.

And get this: Republicans go for God, heaven, angels, the Devil, Hell, Virgin birth, ghosts and witches; Democrats like miracles, UFO’s, astrology and reincarnation. And the Independents? Not so religious. But stronger than Republicans on UFOs, astrology and reincarnation, and more into witches than the Democrats are.

There’s a way for the presidential candidates to exploit these facts—e.g., if you’re going for the Female Independent, brag about being Capricorn with Leo rising. Want Republican males? Get tough on Wicca. At the very least, it could lure people into the voting booth, because this stuff’s a lot more fun to research than Prop 92 and 93.

Put me down as a YES on everything but Hell and The Devil.

Happy Martin Luther King, Jr. Monday!
Harley

A DEADLINE YOU CAN’T REFUSE
by Harley

I’ve been AWOL for a long time from the blog, while my blog sisters have interrupted vacations, deadlines and comas to bring you fresh posts each day. But I’m back. The reason for my absence was that I was trying to make up for time lost to divorce (a hobby that’s kind of like cleaning out closets, training for a marathon, watching all six seasons of The Sopranos, doing several years of back taxes and spending untold hours in therapy, in a constant rotation, while having a dentist drilling in your mouth. Not uninteresting, but you know—time-consuming) and finish my current novel.

I failed. I missed my deadline. More than once. In fact, I’ve had more extensions than—(hey, there’s a new Japanese movie called Ekusute about murderous hair extensions!) Never mind. My generous editor will go to heaven for the patience she has shown me this year. And I must not let her down. I must make this deadline.

But here’s the good news: eight minutes ago I finished the first draft of A DATE YOU CAN’T REFUSE. At 458 pages and 105,165 words, it has way too many characters, dozens of loose ends, excessive yakking, a surfeit of implausibility, a paucity of logic, too much information all thrown in at the end, no pacing, little suspense, only sporadic humor, endless clichés, stuff I thought I’d explained that’s nowhere on the page, and stuff I wrote in chapter 4 that also appears in chapters 13, 47 and 52. The ending made me cry and not in a good way. There are entire paragraphs that appear to have been written by my 7-year old (who is, naturally, gifted, but still . . . ) And somewhere around 100,000 words, my spellcheck informed me it was just plain tired and was quitting. No reason given. Just – boom! – “I’ve had it. I’m outta here.”

So now I have to coax and wrestle it into readability. To that end, I’m throwing myself on the mercy of you, the Commenters. Just like I did with my last novel, DEAD EX, I’m sharing a few of the 197 items on my To Do List. Can anyone out there give me help with:

1. Russian. I need a native speaker of Russian, Belorussian, Ukrainian, Romanian, any of those wacky languages. Where is Mary Czarnetzki, our childhood cleaning lady now, when I really need her? (Well, dead.)
2. Steroids. Do you or someone you love abuse steroids?
3. Arteries. Ever severed an artery? Ever given medical treatment to someone who has?
4. You know how people are futzing with their cars to run on olive oil or I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter instead of gasoline? Can you do this to a Suburban?
5. FBI i.d. badges. What do they look like up close?
6. Agoraphobia. (we can talk online. Don’t have to meet at the mall or anything.)
7. Slavik Soul Party – the band. Anyone a fan?
8. one-way glass
9. bullet-proof glass
10. mud wraps at the 4 Seasons
11. wiretaps
12. ITAR (international traffic in arms regulations)
13. painting with chalk (solid, not liquid)

That’s it. Not too onerous. Not like the ham radio questions of two years ago. Anyway, I’m happy to be back and thanks, Nancy, Sarah, Elaine, Michele, Rebecca-the-bookseller and oh—Margie? I used up all the diet coke over the weekend. And at one point I took a nap in the supply closet, which is why the coffee filters are kind of crushed and have mascara stains on them.

Happy Monday!
Harley

HAPPY 5768
by Harley

It’s a strange and significant weekend, the Autumnal Equinox plus Yom Kippur, Day of Atonement, the most important holiday of the Jewish year (the year 5768). Here in Topanga Canyon there was a sudden storm last night, with THUNDER, so rare in Southern California that the dog panicked and the kids asked, “what IS that?”

“I think it’s God,” I said.

I decided to jump on the Day of Atonement bandwagon, because I love the idea of fresh starts and cleaning out closets. I realize it’s a little late, that Yom Kippur ended Saturday at sundown, and the book is closed, but hey – I’m not Jewish. Neither am I Pagan, outside celebrating the Equinox at 2:51 a.m. (too cold). No matter. Here at TLC, we’ve been known to get a little sloppy about deadlines, so in the spirit of the season, here’s what I’m atoning for:

The times I missed a chance to look a loved one in the eye. There are a few people I saw this year that I’ll never see again, and I wish I’d taken a long look, a mental snapshot and found the changes in the face so dear to me. At the risk of adding to my eccentricity, in 5768 I want to stare at people the way I stare at my children. Just, you know, noticing their beauty.

Oh, and while we’re at it, I’d like to go back a little farther—1984, to be exact. I met a woman in a locked ward in Bellevue Hospital (she was a patient, I was a visitor) and one day she told me she was getting released, and I told her I’d come in a cab and accompany her across town the next morning, when she got out. And I didn’t. I overslept. Marnie, I’m sorry. I hope you got home okay.

This from Elaine: “Before I wrote mystery novels, I did a humor column for a newspaper. About 20 years ago, when those plush "conversion" vans were popular, I interviewed a high school student who had one. It was quite a sight inside—leopard print seats, smoked glass mirrors, all the high-'80s luxuries. The kid mentioned the van was terrific for dates. I believe the phrase in the story was "rolling bedroom" but I can't remember if he used it or I made it up. Either way, it was in the story and it embarrassed the boy. I suspect his school friends teased him. He called me up and said, "Why did you do that?" I'm not sure why it embarrassed him, but my best guess was he was dating a very special someone and didn't like their romance being the subject of snickers.

Anyway, I felt bad. I tried to apologize, but it was too late. I wished I could print a retraction, but that would only make it worse. And since I was a geeky kid in high school, I had some idea how bad he felt. There was no way for me to atone for my actions, but I regretted them all the same.

I like writing fiction a lot better. I get to make it up.”

Elaine, I’m no rabbi—or priest, or Wiccan goddess—but if it were up to me, I’d absolve you in The Matter of The Rolling Bedroom Story. Go forth and greet the autumn with a clear conscience . . .

Rebecca the Bookseller says: How many words do I get? Okay, seriously, I need to atone for making snap judgments. Like the guy who was so rude at the first Parent Meeting at school. Didn't like him, and then I saw him in the parking lot wearing black socks with sandals in August. That was it. So sorry, guy. Maybe I just need to get to know you. Does atoning mean I have to try to get to know him now? I also need to atone because there are relatives I should call, but I keep putting it off because they tend to make me crazy. Those are probably the people who need the contact the most. Geez, Harley, now I feel worse. Kidding. This is therapeutic and I'm going to shut up now.

Anyone else? Confessions?

Harley