The Lipstick Chronicles

Ode to the Recliner

Ode to the Recliner

By Nancy Martin            

My husband and I have decided to indulge our inner rednecks. 

For Christmas, we're buying ourselves new furniture for the TV room.  Wait till you hear what kind of furniture.

Right now, the TV room is the other half of my office, which is floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and currently furnished with very large, putty-colored leather sofas . . . sofas which were once elegant in a manly sort of way, but are now twenty years old and finally showing the wear-and-tear of not just the weight of our large behinds during Masterpiece Theater and neighborhood Super Bowl parties, but the rough-housing of the mobs of teenagers who came to hang out in our house while our girls were in high school.  (Oh, did I ever imagine I’d miss those mobs of teenagers who watched movies for hours, ate every morsel in my pantry, drank every drop in my fridge, tied bows around the necks of my dogs and tracked who-knows-what all over my carpets? But I do miss them. I really do.)

The old sofas are now rump-sprung and give us backaches. And . . . there’s this weird smell. So we went shopping at a local furniture store that was advertising a big sale. We met Dean, the salesman, who took us around and showed us everything and left us alone.

Left alone? My beloved and I edged our way over to the recliners. 

Shall I rhapsodize about recliners here?  I bet I don’t have to.  What comfort! What luxury!

But to me, buying a recliner is admitting you’re getting old.  I think of old ladies napping during soap operas, old curmudgeons barking at the news. And recliners are not pretty.  I like a pretty house, maybe more than comfort, which is wrong and shallow of me, but I like pretty—there, I said it. And visions of Dan Connor lounging in my TV room with a beer in one hand and a bowl of popcorn in another—well, it wasn’t a pretty mental image. 

So I resisted.  And resisted and resisted.  Until I sat in one in the furniture showroom—sinking down into the soft leather with a sigh of pleasure.  My husband sat in another—emitting a groan I haven’t heard outside our bedroom since---well, never mind.  (That's a shout-out to those of you who OCHFTS.) We sighed and blinked and grinned at each other across the built-in cupholders.

Why argue that a TV room is used for any other purpose besides watching TV?  So why not a recliner? Or two? Or…..several? What about a whole gigantic, wrap-around recliner with multiple seats with cupholders and cushy cushions?

Dear reader, we bought it. 

Imagine it, double the size of the thing pictured above. Not only does this behemouth recline, it holds beverages!  It has a drawer for the remote clickers and magazines!  It has heated seats!  With Magic Fingers massagers!  

And . . . . . . . . . . cue the celestial choir . . . . . it has a built-in beer cooler.

Why the hell not? Why not throw pretty decorating to the wind and indulge our most basic creature comforts?  Why not give up the old, and try something new, dammit?

See where I’m going with this?

Yes, it’s time to turn off the lights here at TLC, but that doesn’t mean the end. It’s time to try new stuff.  Stretch your boundaries. Find the new! That’s my mantra these days.  I’ve been in a rut.  There’s a lot of good stuff to explore, and it’s high time I put on my Indiana Jones hat and did some seeking and finding.

This week and next, we’ll be posting a lot of information about where you can find the Book Tarts once we close the TLC offices. Holly’s working on a new website for me, so I hope you’ll come check it out when it’s ready for its close-up. I have a paperback coming out in February. And a new hardcover Blackbird mystery coming in August.--My first beach read! Isn't the cover pretty?

So we’re moving on.  All of us. We’re allowed to miss all those teenage boys climbing on our sofas, but we can look forward to good stuff in the future, too. Like lounging in our fabulously tacky new recliners to watch some new stuff on TV. Like Homeland.  Have you seen Homeland? Great stuff.  And I can’t wait for the new season of Justified!  Picture me with a cold beer in one hand and a bowl of popcorn in my lap.

Sex & Sessalee: Hard Lessons Learned as a Blogger

By Sarah

My third-grade teacher Mrs. Cafferty once told my mother I was destined to go through life learning things the hard way. (Have I mentioned this before? Seems like I'm always repeating myself on this blog.) Anyway, Mrs. Cafferty had blue hair styled like Marge Simpson and she was a cruddy teacher, though for all my badmouthing I seem to have taken her bleak words to heart. One of her more accurate prognostications was that  I needed at least three tries at a task to get it right. So it is with writing books.

So it was with blogging.

There have been several times over my six + year stint here where my idiot blogs have landed me in major trouble. I mean BIG trouble.

For example, Sessalee Hensley. Sessalee Hensley chooses the fiction for Barnes & Noble and she's been doing it forever. A push from Sessalee can make or break a book. Sessalee can launch careers, transform lives, make tuition affordable for the children of struggling writers, clear your skin, improve your handicap and add oomph to your souffle. And what did I do right here on TLC? I dissed her.

Well, not HER exactly. Before THE CINDERELLA PACT came out, I learned she hadn't been a fan and, of course, being a large-mouth frog I broadcast that on the blog. My blog sisters, being a supportive lot, chimed in with a Who Needs Her and so did some of you. The result? Poor Sessalee was picked on by people who, until that day, had never heard of her existence.

Yeah, not good. 

I never meant for Sessalee to get picked on. I was just kind of pissing and moaning about the process which places your career in the hands of one person. Anyway, Sessalee was actually pretty stand up about it. Gracious, is the word. And, as it turned out, B&N did a really nice job of promoting THE CINDERELLA PACT which became one of my more popular books, especially after it was turned into a Lifetime movie, LYING TO BE PERFECT.

Still. It's a mistake I'll forever regret. Sessalee, I'm sorry. That's all I can say. Mea culpa.

A big mea culpa, too, to Jennifer Weiner. Though this story is kinda bizarre.

It was a blog about fat girls and chicklit. (What was up with me and THE CINDERELLA PACT?) I blogged that I was not crazy about the ending of GOOD IN BED - which just so happens to be one of my favorite books of all time - because Carrie lost a lot of weight by walking and then got the doctor. At midnight that night, Jennifer Weiner - not one to hold back her opinion - sent me a blistering email explaining that the point of Carrie losing the weight was to show that, even thin, her life was not perfect, ya moron. Her hangup with weight was all in her head.

And, you know, I never thought of it that way before. Weiner was right. Funny how authors can known their characters, huh?

Still, let's just say that if she had a Christmas card list, Jennifer Weiner wouldn't be sending me any photos of her family with the dog, though I remain her loyal fan on Twitter. What can I say? I love a good Tweet. And you gotta admire a writer who takes on sexism at the New York Times and incest among reviewers and authors. If Betty White were here, she'd say Jen Weiner has one hell of a vagina.

Speaking of vaginas, another one of my questionable decisions here was documenting my daily sex life in an ongoing blog about whether Charlie and I could keep up with some fundamentalist Christians who'd vowed to have sex every night. That's the kind of thing that SEEMS like fun...but when you do it, and when you BLOG about it, turns out not so much. 

My big error was forgetting that people I know and see everyday in the grocery store, the post office, at school, read this blog. So it took me awhile to figure out why they were smirking or shaking their heads or gripping my arm and in plaintive tones saying, "But what do your children think?"

That wasn't the worst part. The worst part was, er, keeping it up, so to speak. Strangers - STRANGERS mind you - would come up and ask me with a wink "how's it going? How many days has it been now?"

I suppose I should have been more wary of a medium that allowed my impulsive brain to transmit its wacky thoughts instantaneously ad infinitum. As Ricky said to Lucy, "You gotta biiiiig mouth." Then again, that's where the fun is, no? If I'd installed the filter on my words long ago - as Mrs. Cafferty would have wanted along with better penmanship - chances are I would have ended up as a corporate spokeswoman instead of a writer of any sort of genre you can name.

Which would have been a shame. As would have been missing out on not bonding with my sisters here at TLC and with you, the most awesome and intelligent readers in the blogosphere. Many has been the time when I've been humbled by your observations or your personal stories. It has been a privilege to hear how you've overcome poverty and teenage motherhood, scared away would-be murderers (Toni?), survived rape, ditched a crummy ex or supported a dying child. 

You guys have been with me - and all of us - through some real lows, too. You helped me deal with teenagers and the passing of my father. You've taught me to be a better writer and a more careful thinker.

But most importantly you've taught me that we're not so different, you and I. We want. We love. We laugh. And, yes, we make mistakes. 

So thank you for reading me every other Tuesday. I'm sure we'll meet again at booksignings or FB or wherever people of like minds and passions come together.

The pleasure has been all mine.

 

 

 

Unsolved Mysteries

By Harley

Holiday mysteries abound: how’d that holy oil last for 8 nights? What star was it calling to the Wise Men like a celestial GPS? Whence comes the sinister fruitcake?

 

This year, I have mysteries of my own.

First Holiday Mystery: Lately, when I use my cell phone to call certain friends, my name shows up on their caller i.d. as . . . Donald Jackson. This didn’t use to be the case. I used to be known as me, Harley. I don’t know anyone named Donald Jackson. I’ve Googled him, and there are many of him, including a British calligrapher, a Canadian figure skater, and a sports attorney. But which of these is my Donald Jackson and what is he trying to communicate through my cell phone?

Second Holiday Mystery: Two weeks ago, I was awakened at 2 a.m. by the sound of frantic thumping in the rabbit hutch outside my bedroom window. I went to investigate, accompanied by my dogs, and we discovered a raccoon the size of a moose trying to kidnap our bunny Dixie. The dogs chased the raccoon into the pool, but he turned on them, ready to fight, so I, half naked in the moonlight, spent 20 minutes dragging my two large dogs back into the house so as to avoid carnage and a trip to the animal ER. For two hours I stayed awake until Mr. Raccoon climbed out of the pool and over the wall into my neighbor’s yard. Then I brought Dixie into the house, where she’s spent every night since. Three days later we discovered a dead rabbit—not Dixie!—lying headless on our diving board. Ewww. Now, I have my suspicions about whodunit. The question is: why? Why decapitate a wild rabbit? Why on the diving board? Why leave the corpse behind?

Third Holiday Mystery: I was sitting in my kitchen, when I heard a loud THUMP that sounded like a bowling ball being dropped onto the carpeted floor upstairs. Or perhaps a 200-pound man falling off a bunkbed. Thirty seconds later it happened again. I yelled to my kids, “What is going on up there?!” then realized my kids were downstairs with me. Uh-oh. The THUMPS continued, the walls were shaking, my 11-year old daughter burst into tears, and her best friend, who was over for dinner, burst into tears too, they screamed, “Let’s get out of here!” so we fled to the neighbors'—who could hear our THUMPS from their house. They came with us to investigate, but within minutes the thumps stopped, as suddenly as they’d begun, never to return. Wha—?

Fourth Holiday Mystery. I was hiking with the dogs in a nearby canyon at sunrise when I came around a bend and saw four white horses coming at me. Pure white, except for the manes and tails, which were subtle pastel shades of pink, blue, green and purple.  One horse had a rider, a middle-aged woman, who nodded at me and then rode on silently, the other three horses trailing her. A moment right out of Middle-earth.

 

The final mystery is how it was that what began as a marketing tool to sell books ended up creating a family. I’ve read other blogs that are as smart as ours, as funny, as poignant, but nowhere have I read comments that are as consistently sensitive, hilarious, insightful and bighearted as the comments that come from you. What made TLC special was its backbloggers. It has been my good fortune to be among you.

And you? Any holiday mysteries we can solve for you? Any theories about mine?

Happy Monday . . .

 Harley

 

Other Things to Be Mad About

Other Things to Be Mad About

By Me, Margie, who has investors 

Yeah, the blog is shutting down. Don't ask me, I just work here.  I mean worked here.  Apparently the artiste authors seem to think that writing books is their actual career.  Yeah, I know it is, but the Mancini's always respond with anger first and sort it out later.

Don't worry about Me, Margie. I have investors all lined up for a new venture.  I will have to move, because for some reason, the TLC lawyers don't want to sublet to me and my cousins. Something about an indemifyer bond or something - which you would think might be a fun thing but it just involves money and insurance.  I'll bet if they hired our new company for their next money insurance convention, we could teach them all kinds of fun bondy things.

There was no new blog up today so naturally, I had to FIX it and everything, which I ALWAYS do.  Plus, I don't like going to the new Mass with the Aunts.  They are threatening to go back to saying the whole thing in Latin and Father Oldschoolio, who is about 117 years old, might just do it.  Because the young priests just could not handle a bunch of angry Aunts in church.  Those poor kids don't even understand half the Italian that's already been directed at them.  Although, I think some of them may have watched "The Sopranos" because 'stunad' came through loud and clear.

The Aunts are ticked off in a big metaphysical-type way because they didn't like the change from Latin to English and now they are being told to change again.  I get that.  I personally like change, but I'm young and I think commando patches are great plus you can carry them in your purse and change them whenever you want.  Underwear-type things should be changed.  A lot.

Other things, not so much.  Like this blog.  I'm mad that it's ending.  This was one cushy job and we are going to have to be pretty damn creative to get everything out of that supply room.  I mean, lucky for me that I have so many friends in the packing and delivery business to help me move things at night.

This is a last-minute blog thing, so no story - hey - it's Saturday night - I have my own stories to act out. I mean make up.  Speaking of make up, that Geisha crap is like putty - next time I'm forgetting the authentic and just going with the white clown makeup.  Ahhhh - I know you are going to miss these important life tips.  Now I will have to write them down myself.  

Enough already - the sun is out and it's the last Sunday of Advent - and they are repeating that Michael Buble special on Wednesday night because my Uncle Sal accidentally deleted it when he taped some boxing thing and he is in the freeze zone with Aunt Toni until it comes back on and I think he actually went out and bought a whole new TV and DVR thing just for her because if there is one thing that makes him really mad it is no sex.  Which I can totally understand.

See how this works? We vent.  We don't keep things bottled up in our family - okay we do, but that's all in the wine cellars, and it is really just another anger management tool but that is a whole different story.

Your turn, my friends in cyberspace.  What makes you angry?  Also, I am looking for ideas for a business plan.  Apparently "Special Delivery Special Services" raises some kind of red flags for people.  Stunads.  How are we supposed to be job creators if we can't use our very special skills?

The Cuginas Mancini will be back before they change the locks - I think on New Years Eve.  Which will NOT be a live blog for obvious reasons. I mean just getting the national security clearance for all those SEALs would be a nightmare!

Mi manchi, cari amichi.

 

 

 

The Party's Over

All Good Things Must Come to an End

by Nancy Martin                 

Get out your hankies, folks.

We started The Lipstick Chronicles in May of 2005 when Harley Jane Kozak, Sarah Strohmeyer, Susan McBride and I met at the Romantic Times Convention in St. Louis and decided we’d band together to create a smart, witty, entertaining blog that might attract readers to our books.  Since then, we’ve written, laughed, added new bloggers, said farewell to a few others. Behind the scenes, we’ve become sisters. (On the masthead we might call ourselves the Tarts, but at the water cooler, we refer to one other as blogsisters.)  But most importantly, we found you, dear readers.  With you, we’ve shared life, death, divorce, sickness, weddings, new babies, new books . . . and a lot of laughs. We’ve traveled long distances to meet face-to-face.  We’ve had lunch, thrown a party or two, and even opened our guest rooms to each other. We created a community. A family. And we’ve had a wonderful run.

But after nearly 2400 posts, two and a half million pageviews, and almost 83,000 comments . . . well, the band is packing up, the bar is closing and the clock is striking midnight.  Her, Margie is putting on her glass slippers and heading out the back door with her prince(s) charming.

Yes, it’s time to turn out the lights at The Lipstick Chronicles.

Why?  Well, this blog was intended to find new readers for our books, and we’ve accomplished that—many times over.  But our hits have stagnated, even started dropping.  Most of us have moved on to other forms of social media.  Blogs seem too long to read now. We’re forging new relationships on Facebook, Goodreads, and Twitter. And even more tech innovations are coming. To us, it seems as if the era for blogs has passed. 

And, truth be told, authors are stretched thin.  Used to be, we could write books, and once a year we’d pack a suitcase and go on a book tour to meet readers. Some of us sent out newsletters and postcards. (Seems quaint now, doesn’t it?) But travel got expensive--postage, too--and everybody decided it was easier, cheaper, and more efficient to reach out virtually. Blogging started out as a wonderful way to connect with readers. But blogging grew into so many other time-consuming online ventures that authors just can’t keep up anymore.  We can’t do everything---blogging, tweeting, keeping tabs on Facebook—and still write the books we want to write (and hope that you still want to read.)

So we’re closing the offices of The Lipstick Chronicles on January 1.

Between now and then, we want to make the most of our time together. We want to hear from you, dear backbloggers.  Although our mission has been different from other writer blogs—not to teach you how to write or to sell you our books, exactly, but to show that we’re writers who can provoke a thought, crack a joke, and entertain—we hope to guide you to other bloggers who will continue our tradition.  And we want to make sure we can still find each other once we power down. We’ll help you locate our FB pages and our Twitter names and our Goodreads links. Many of my blog sisters have new ventures to announce, but I’ll let them do the honors in the coming weeks. Trust me, there won’t be any shortage of places we can continue to meet.

In other words, it’s not the end.  It’s a new beginning. The party’s just moving on.

  

Great Books for Christmas

Books For Christmas!

Who doesn't love receiving a book on Christmas day?  Today the Book Tarts are sharing great ideas for those last minute gifts on your list. Something for everyone---we hope. Please add your contributions in our comments section.  We always want to hear about good things to read!

When did the tradition of memorizing poems die out? Re-kindle it this year! For children, how about the book of poetry collected by Caroline Kennedy? A FAMILY OF POEMS make a delightful gift. 

For mystery lovers, how about the new PD James, Death Comes to Pemberley? A blend of classic mystery and--yes,  Jane Austen!

Catherine the Great by Robert Massie is a terrific biography for any feminist on your list.

Any writer--poet, fiction, non-fiction or postcards---is going to love Stephen Sondheim's examination of his own writing process in FINISHING THE HAT. This book includes photos of his notes to himself, and it's brilliant.  An intimate look at a complicated man's writing process:

100 Dresses by Hal Rubenstein.  A terrific coffee table book with great photos . . . and some slyly entertaining text, too.

 

 

For mystery readers, what could be better than a riveting story about a young man who picks locks?  Naturally, it leads to trouble.  Try THE LOCK ARTIST by Steve Hamilton. (Have we mentioned that Mystery Lovers Bookshop offers free shipping? What could be easier?) 

In the mood for some fascinating non-fiction?  I keep having to replace my copy of "Incognito: The Secret Lives of the Brain"  by David Eagleman.  This is because everyone who picks it up wants to take it with them.  It's about the workings of the subconscious brain.  A great gift for men and women both.

Here is the link to buy it from Mystery Lovers: http://www.mysterylovers.com/index.php?target=products&product_id=59089

 

 

What books would you add, dear readers?  Fill us in! What books will fill your stockings this year?

 

 

 

How about a cute book of essays? The always fabulous Lisa Scottoline and her daughter have a new one just in time for the holidays!

It's called  "Best Friends, Occasional Enemies" and it is the perfect gift for the mom, daughter, sister or friend on your list.

Here is the link: http://www.mysterylovers.com/index.php?target=products&mode=view&product_id=59025

My Shot at Chic

By Elaine Viets

I was not going to spend another Friday night parked in front of the TV watching a DVD from the library. Not when I could do something chic.

Don and I were invited to the opening of EVOO Market in downtown Fort Lauderdale. EVOO stands for Extra Virgin Olive Oil, and the market at 1239 East Las Olas sells fine olive oils, balsamic vinegars and fashionable sea salts.

At the store’s grand opening, singer Laura Parker and guitarist Jaime Guiscafre serenaded us while we sipped vinegars and tasted olive oil.

That word "sip" is important. I don’t come from olive oil sippers and balsamic vinegar tasters. My family used white vinegar on their salads and on their floors. It also made a dandy spot remover and toilet bowl cleaner.

So I felt incredibly sophisticated standing around tasting balsamic vinegar. Thanks to the wonders of Wikipedia, I knew that aged balsamic vinegars were made from Trebbiano and maybe other grapes from the Italian provinces of Reggio-Emilia and Modena and aged in oak, chestnut, juniper, cherry and mulberry casks. A good 18-year-old balsamic can run 40 bucks a bottle. A 25-year-old balsamic can cost more than $100 for two ounces.

The balsamic vinegars from the supermarket might look like the upscale balsamics, but they have all the signs of poor relations. They are thin, sour and pretending to be something better.

"Tasted straight from the bottle, there was no contest between supermarket and traditional balsamic vinegars," Cooks magazine said. "Even the best of the commercial bunch - while similarly sweet, brown, and viscous - couldn't compete with the complex, rich flavor of true balsamic vinegar. With notes of honey, fig, raisin, caramel, and wood; a smooth, lingering taste; and an aroma like fine port, traditional balsamic is good enough to sip like liqueur."

I focused on that "liqueur." I was about to have the Baileys Irish Cream of the balsamic world.

Again, I missed the word "sip."

I started tasting the oils first, to lay down a base, dipping cubes of crusty Italian bread into olive oil with shallots, then garlic, then sun-dried tomatoes. Butter-flavored olive oil and bacon olive oil beckoned as healthy alternatives to real bacon and butter, but I resisted.

Instead, I checked out the balsamic vinegars infused with cranberry, with black currants and with oranges. Yum!

Next I tried strawberries sprinkled with chocolate balsamic vinegar.

KASOWI!

Fifteen calories an ounce and a rich chocolate flavor. I could feed my chocolate addiction without the fat.

I hung out scarfing up chocolate vinegar strawberries and making low moaning sounds, which attracted a helpful saleswoman.

"Would you like to taste our 18-year-old balsamic vinegar?" she asked.

I nodded. I couldn’t talk. I was distracted by the chocolate balsamic vinegar strawberries and didn’t focus on that word – taste.

The saleswoman filled a tiny paper tasting cup – about the size of a pill cup – with the thick rich balsamic vinegar. It was dark as Hershey’s syrup.

I slammed back the whole cupful.

My throat snapped shut, my eyes watered and then bugged out. The balsamic vinegar streaked straight down my throat and socked me in the gut.

"What do you think?" the saleswoman asked.

I didn’t think anything. I couldn’t. My brain shut down. I’d just tossed back a shot of balsamic vinegar. I couldn’t even talk.

"Hhhhhhhhh," I wheezed.

That’s when Don reappeared. "I can’t take you anywhere," he said. "I turn my back and you’re knocking back shots. Do you want to stay longer?"

At last I could talk again. "I’m ready to go. I’ve had my shot at being chic."

 

Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy

Margaret Maron

Samuel Taylor Coleridge defined “poetic faith” as “that willing suspension of disbelief.” He was referring to the reader’s complicity in joining the writer in the writer’s imagined world, but it could also refer to the magical creatures of childhood, the ones the under-10 set believe in despite all the knowing smirks from classmates or older siblings.

Children so technologically savvy that they can reprogram the family’s telephones or figure out how to TIVO their favorite programs can also look up at you with worried eyes and wonder if the Tooth Fairy will find them should that wiggly tooth comes out while having a sleepover at Grandma’s house. (An emphatic yes!)

This is probably the last year our younger granddaughter will believe in her. Probably the last year for Santa Claus, too. It’s hard to ride a school bus and not have such beliefs shattered by the time you’re nine or ten.

I can remember believing in the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus. Especially Santa Claus. I do NOT remember when I stopped believing, so it was not a traumatic event in my young life. An informal survey shows the same for most of my friends. One year they believed implicitly; the next year they did not, although one friend’s older brother told him he wouldn’t get any presents if he didn’t believe. “I was like the Cowardly Lion,” he told me. “Only instead of witches, I put myself to sleep those last few weeks of December chanting ‘I DO believe in Santa Claus, I Do believe in Santa Claus!’”

The worst reaction to hearing the truth came when a child in my extended family came to her mom in tears. Someone had told her there was no Santa and she demanded to know the truth. She didn’t want it sugar-coated. “Is there a Santa or isn’t there?”

Her mother explained it as gently as she could -- about the love that lets parents pretend, etc. The little girl was appalled. “No Santa Claus? No Rudolph? No elves at the North Pole?” She fled to her hidey-hole behind the couch in tears.    

A few minutes later, still sniffling, her small head poked up from behind the couch, “What about the Tooth Fairy?”

“I’m sorry, honey.”

More tears.

”And the Easter Bunny?”

Loud sobs from behind the couch upon hearing that the Bunny was make-believe, too. Then came a small trembling voice, “What about God?”

How did you learn the truth about the iconic myths? Was it traumatic for you or your children?

The Year of the Epic Fail

The Year of the Epic Fail

By Kathy Reschini Sweeney

I am a sucker for the year-end lists.  Love them.  But it's only the 13th of December, not the end of the year, so today we are going to take a walk down 2011's lane and revisit some of the stupidest things ever.  Let's face it, my friends, humans are dumb.  As in moronic.  Just when you think you've seen the most idiotic public behavior possible, here comes Charlie Sheen.

We really need to start with him.  The Tiger Blood - the Vatican Assassin- the hookers and the blow - it was a real circus.  Months later, nobody cares, the guy is in a fight to spend time with his own kids, and he lost one of  the sweetest gigs an actor can have.  Verdict:  Massive FAIL.

More recently, we had the Kardashians.  This whole family's "celebrity" is still puzzling to me.  I guess when people finally got tired of Paris Hilton (good riddance) there was a void to be filled with vapid egocentrism.  The apex of the greed and self-indulgence was some kind of multi-million dollar product-placement funded joke of a wedding. I've had sinus infections that lasted longer than this sacred union.  And they had the gall to seem surprised when the TV people cancelled their Christmas Special.  Verdict:  Artificially-enhanced FAIL.

On to politics.  Really, Herman Cain?  Did you think none of your hanky panky would become public? Nobody gives two hoots who you have sex with, dumbass, but people care very much about the lying. Just as well, because frankly, I don't think people who quote Donna Summer lyrics from a Pokemon movie need to be anywhere near the secret nuclear codes.  Note that I am limiting my politician fails to this one.  That is because there are plenty to go around and your comments are always funnier than the blog. Herman Cain Verdict:   Stupid FAIL, with extra cheese, hold the candor.

Let's talk about bizarre pseudo-religion.  According to some whackjob on the radio, May 21, 2011 was the End of Days.  But wait, he didn't mean that actual day - that was just the beginning of a very long day that lasted until October 21, 2011, which was the for real end of days.  Nice going, Nostradumbus.  I'm no biblical scholar, but I don't think the Bible is a giant sudoku puzzle either.  Verdict:  Fire and brimstone FAIL.

It was also a tough year for maniacal dictators - and thank God for that.  I have to highlight one of the best lines ever in this section of the year's news: "Quaddafi said he will fight to the death; I'm cool with that."  Verdict:  Fittingly humiliating FAIL.

Before I turn the TLC Community loose on this topic, I have to mention one more - ladies and gentlemen, I give you the 112th Congress of the United States, who's motto seems to be "Shutdowns and Stalemates R Us".  I'll let you fill in the blanks (the Super-committee: Unconstitutional and Inept all at the same time!) but I am not kidding when I say I've seen a group of babies who do not yet speak any language whatsoever solve toy-related problems and the equitable distribution of Cheerios with more class, ease and maturity than these asshats in Congress.  Verdict:  FAIL to be remembered in subsequent Novembers.

Okay - your turn.  And yes, I will take the pledge to forever ban the term "epic fail" as of January 1, 2012. Unless the world ends before that.  I can't keep track.

 

 

 

 

 

The Gift of Stress

by Heather

Ho, ho, ho! Christmas is on the way. 

I was in a family therapy group where the discussion was on avoiding stress when the woman next to me noted that Christmas was two weeks away. 

I immediately felt tremendously stressed.

This was not because I don't love Christmastime or the holiday season. With the many different friends we have, we sometimes call get-togethers Christma-kuh or Hanuka-mas. It doesn't matter; most of us see a higher power or a God, and whether we're worshiping Christ or not, for those of us who are Christian it's a season where we remember his love for all men, and his message of peace. 

But, no way out of it, it's become a commercial holiday as well.

And I am not known for organization. 

I'm finishing up a book I promised for next week. I don't break my work promises. But, wait! Why aren't there more hours in the days leading up to Christmas? I also need to decorate! Whoops, wait, I need to clean before decorating. Kids are coming in from out of state and I can wait to see them, and I want the rooms and fresh and clean and the shopping done . . . . and darn if the dog doesn't want to go for a walk, too. 

Yes, Christmas can mean stress!

So, I heard a charming story that may or may not be entirely true. The basic facts are true, but how much is also romanticized, I don't really know. But I do love the concept that out of stress, we can get great things. So, here's the story . . . . 

Once upon a time in Oberndorf, Austria--December 24th, 1818, to be more specific--the holiday was about to be celebrated at the Church of St. Nicholas. Priest Father Joseph Mohr was distressed because music was such a part of the Christmas Eve service--beautiful music, in honor of God and Christ and all the angels--and he had a broken organ (some say it rusted; others say it was mice-chewed).  Now, they did have guitars. And two years earlier, he'd played around writing some lyrics.So Father Mohr went to headmaster and musician Franz Gruber who quickly composed music to go with Father Mohr's lyrics. The song was performed that Christmas Eve, and came down to us through history as one of most beloved Christmas carols--Silent Night.

Would the song have been created if it hadn't been for the stress cast upon Father Mohr by the fear that he wouldn't have the beautiful service he wanted to honor Christ? Maybe--perhaps even probably at some point he would have gotten around to finding a friend to put music to his words. But I like to think that stress--created by wanting all our loved one to be happy and joyous for the season could bring about really good things. Was the organ really broken? The first time that version of the story was told was in a book entitledThe Story of Silent Night published in 1965 in American and written by John Travers Moore. Or so it is believed.

I love the story, and I love the concept, and most of all, I love the song. And I love Christmas. If I really have one wish for this Christmas, it would be that we all remember the message of the season. Whether we believe in Christ as a savior or a prophet or an historical personage, one thing is irrefutable--he message was about love and peace. 

So, how do you feel about the season? Stressed out, joyous--or ready to smack the woman who stole your parking space while you were being kind and decent and waiting for the elderly man with a shopping cart to slowly move out of the way so that you could slide in? Will it mean family, a big dinner, Christmas Eve Mass, Christmas day mass . . . a movie! Christmas carols, time for all, and maybe a little Hanukah-mas or Christa-nukah? Lots of presents, homemade presents--baked goods? 

Whatever it may be, may it be stress-free or stressfully productive! As we come closer and closer, I'd like to wish Silent Night, Holy Night to one an all. Or, the happiest of the holidays, in whatever way you comprehend God, peace, and goodness.  

PS--Thanks to my dear friends Kathleen and Jimmy Pickering and Florida Romance Writers and Mystery Writers! My first impression of horrible stress was greatly relieved by the fantastic party at the Pickering house that fateful day I realized we had two weeks to go. A good lesson in just how wonderful it can be to share the season with friends and family! Things--even a clean and decorated house--can never compare to people, friends and family, and the one gift we can give and use and never have enough of--time.

~Heather