The Lipstick Chronicles

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

Botoxic
by Harley

All summer I’ve been plagued by a rash. It’s on my hands, a cross between leprosy and stigmata, like something out of a Dan Brown novel. And it itches.

“Good God,” one friend said, staring at my palms mid-conversation. “A spontaneous bleeding episode.”

I tried various home remedies, and ended up in the office of a dermatologist I’ll call Dr. Skin. A friendly guy, who told me I had a case of hand eczema.

“Very hard to treat,” he said. “Do you do factory work?”

“Uh, no.”

“Do any housework?”

Yes,” I said. “I find cleaning therapeutic.”

“Wear white cotton gloves,” he said, “and on top of them, rubber gloves. And I’ll give you a prescription for industrial strength fluocinonide cream. And some really greasy hand lotion.”

I did it all. Not the white cotton gloves, because where do you find those, outside of Doris Day movies? But the rest of it. My hands grew worse. Skin peeling, flaking off – the gloves, I began to suspect, were so that I wouldn’t scare people. Shaking hands was already an embarrassment. My kids were fascinated, but they’re at the age where “disgusting!” is a favorite word. (It is a fun one. Try saying it out loud. Go ahead.)

A doctor buddy of mine told me what I needed were strong sedatives, but then I wouldn’t be able to do carpool. Nelly, my babysitter, suggested olive oil and sugar (to rub in, not to eat), a remedy popular in El Salvador. It felt surprisingly good, but I’m not Salvadoran so it didn’t work.

I went back to Dr. Skin.

“Wow, that’s bad,” he said. “Are you under a lot of stress?”

“Who isn’t?” I said.

“What I’d like you to do is to spend about 3 weeks in Tahiti, doing nothing.”

But Blue Cross doesn’t cover prescription vacations, so Dr. Skin gave me a shot of cortisone. “That should fix it,” he said. “But don’t come asking for another one in a month. Weird things happen with too much cortisone.”

I nodded, having visions of giving birth to Martians . . . wearing tie-dyed T-shirts . . . thinking I could fly.

“Let me ask you,” Dr. Skin said. “Ever consider Botox?”

“On my hands?” I asked, startled.

“No, no, just here, around the forehead. You look like you’ve been frowning.”

“I have been frowning,”

“Yes, but why look like it?” He pointed to his own forehead. “See? I do Botox here, and—” He peered at himself in the mirror. “Time for a touch up.”

“Dr. Skin,” I said. “I don’t want to offend you, but I have a philosophical problem with Botox.”

“How so?”

“I used to be an actress, and—”

“Oh, my God, I do actresses all the time! Actors too. It’s part of their maintenance regime.”

“Yes,” I said, “but I always thought of my body, my face especially, as my instrument. My whole training was to make my outside more expressive of what’s going on inside. So if I numb the muscles and can’t express—”

“No, no, you keep the good expressions. You just cut out the bad ones.”

“Yeah, but it’s hard to do—I don’t know, Tennessee Williams, Greek tragedy—without frowning. Not that I act anymore, but . . .”

Dr. Skin looked at me blankly.

“Anyway,” I said. “It’s expensive. Right?”

He nodded. Here was a tragedy he could understand. A woman living in L.A. and unable to afford Botox. He stood, patted me on the arm, and told me to keep the gloves on.

So here I sit, absentmindedly scratching my palms . . .

Got cortisone?

Happy Monday!
Harley

Lotions & Gels
by Harley

I am a substance abuser.

It hit me this week, flying around on book tour, that I can’t go an hour without hand lotion and lip gloss. And, like many addicts, this has led to criminal activities: I am the scofflaw next to you at the airport security checkpoint, smuggling lotions and gels. I persist in my life of crime despite the kinder, gentler Baggie Rule that would allow me to transport my Sally Hansen Champagne Toast Diamond Lip Treatment openly.

If someone had told you, 10 years ago, that you’d be waiting in line barefoot and then issued a quart-sized Baggie and told to cough up your lip gloss in the name of national security, wouldn’t you have thought that George Orwell had taken over the FAA? Or Mel Brooks?

Me too. So I’ve got a bad attitude. I get a delighted thrill—me, who never went through an adolescent shoplifting phase—just by ignoring the Baggies and keeping quiet about my forbidden substances.

Yes, I know it’s no joke. And if I hadn’t known it, I’d have figured it out last week at the Seattle-Tacoma airport, where I and my fellow travelers were yelled at to “REMOVE ALL LIQUIDS AND GELS FROM YOUR PERSONAL BELONGINGS AND PUT THEM IN A BAGGIE OR YOU WILL WASTE EVERYONE’S TIME AND THIS LINE WILL TAKE FOREVER. PEOPLE, I AM NOT KIDDING. FLIGHTS WILL BE MISSED, AND NOT BY ME,” like we were 8th graders. But even at SeaTac, I took my chances and zipped on through.

Others are not so lucky. In June, my kids and I flew to Pennsylvania. The day before, we’d gone to Target to pick out junk from the one-dollar shelf for the trip. My son, a sybaritic child, had chosen a tiny bottle of lime green bath gel and, unbeknownst to me, squirreled it away in his Superman backpack so he could hold it and admire it on the plane. And so, at 5 a.m., at the LAX security checkpoint, a single bloodcurdling scream could be heard, followed by heartrending sobs as his bath gel was confiscated. The security personnel looked sheepish, but rules are rules, and no doubt there are in fact Axis of Evil madmen cleverly disguised as Kindergartners.

But this begged the question of why lime green bath gel is okay if it’s in a Baggie and dangerous if it’s not. It is the sort of question better left unasked at the airport, where many of the TSA employees are hired for their crabbiness. So back in L.A., I checked the TSA website.

The Transportation Security Administration cleverly dodges the Baggie question. “These measures,” it says, “will continue to assure that our aviation system remains safe and secure. Travelers should go about their plans confidently, while maintaining vigilance in their surroundings and exercising patience with screening and security officials.”

I’m nothing if not patient, because I always have a waiting-in-line book, like Sarah Strohmeyer’s THE SLEEPING BEAUTY PROPOSAL, so engaging that you’re even okay when they cancel your Seattle flight. It’s maintaining vigilance that gives me pause. When the P.A. system encourages us to report “suspicious activity” I always wonder what constitutes “suspicious.” Perhaps a woman applying lip gloss every seven minutes?

Good news from the TSA, though: the ban on KY jelly and gel-filled bras is now lifted (along with bone marrow and blood products), and you’re not even required to stuff these in your Baggie.

The TSA sums things up with, “We ask that you try not to over-think these guidelines.”

No problem. In fact, let’s all try under-thinking today.

Happy Monday!
Harley

GOOD QUESTION
by Harley

My new book is out! No more puttering around the house in my p.j.’s, consumed with e-mail and the best way to murder someone on a mountaintop for chapter 19 of Current Opus. At 7 pm tonight I’m on an airplane, thrust into the madcap world of Book Tour.

For 2 weeks I must perk up, dress up, and dust off my brain, preparing to be articulate. Half the work of book tour is talking/being interviewed. (The other half is finding comfortable shoes that don’t suggest a day job at Denny’s.)

I like interviews. Ask me a question, I’ll talk until you fall dead asleep. The problem during Book Tour is, you get the same questions over and over.

“Where do you get your ideas?”
“How much of your protagonist is really you?”
“Why did you decide to write funny murder mysteries?”

And the ever-popular, “What’s your book about?”

These are fine questions. But when you hear them five or six times a day for weeks, you begin to feel like your Aunt Hildegard, endlessly repeating stories of your liver ailments as people quietly flee the room. Your brain freezes as you try to recall if you’ve told this EXACT SAME ANECDOTE three days ago or three minutes ago. You have newfound respect for Hillary, Barack, Mitt, Rudy et al and even identify with them, shaking hands, kissing babies, doing the stump speech, wondering what town you’re in and whether anyone will honestly vote for you—uh, buy your book—no matter how entertaining you are. I mean, it’s $21.95 plus tax. Times are hard. Gas prices are high.

At some point I’ll feel the urge to spice things up, say old things in a new way, talk about someone else’s book—say, The Sleeping Beauty Proposal, or Murder with Reservations, or turn the tables on some on-camera host and open the interview with, “but enough about me—what about you? What’s your sign?” Sometimes this works. More often, these deviations from “the script” result in a strange silences (radio in particular hates silence) or a journalist who suddenly remembers a previous engagement. Other times, the deviant isn’t me, it’s them—like the charming TV hostess who repeatedly called my first book “Dead Men Walking,” to which I had no comeback. (“yes, it’s the story of Sister Helen Prejean after she left the convent to become a greeting card designer.”)

Next week, when I speak at my old high school in Lincoln, Nebraska, this won’t be a problem; teenagers (esp. the troublemakers) ask the substantive questions. Is my last name “Davidson”? How much money do I make? Can I get them a signed photo of Lindsay Lohan? That’s assuming they’re awake. A certain percentage of students use assembly time to sleep. I certainly did. I don’t take that personally. I’m there for the 3 or 4 English geeks in the front row, hanging on every word, taking notes.

On the chance that you, dear reader, are in the vicinity of San Francisco, San Diego, Seattle, Portland, Miami Beach, Houston, Phoenix or Lincoln, I have a short wish list of questions I’d prefer to “How come no one’s turned your books into movies?” and “if they did, who should play Wollie?” Here they are:

1. Do fish have feelings? (I learned the answer to this Saturday on NPR)
2. What form of birth control do Wollie and Simon use?
3. Thoughts on No Child Left Behind: is it working? Yes? No?
4. What’s your favorite Star Trek episode?
5. Who did you love most, Spock or Captain Kirk?

Happy Monday!
Harley