Why being a mother is like being a prosecuting attorney

While my daughter (the portrait artist featured below) is doing her math homework, I'll transcribe the conversation we just had.

DAUGHTER: Something happened at gym today that I think you should know about.
ME: What happened?
DAUGHTER: I got pulled out of the game for no reason. I had to sit out the whole time.
ME: No reason?
DAUGHTER: None.
ME: Why do you THINK you got pulled out?
DAUGHTER: I have NO idea.
ME: What's your best guess?
DAUGHTER: I don't know.
ME: Well, what were you doing when you got pulled?
DAUGHTER: Nothing!
ME: Nothing?
DAUGHTER: I wasn't doing anything.
ME: Were you talking?
DAUGHTER: No.
ME: If I asked your gym teacher what you were doing, what would she say?
DAUGHTER: She would probably say I was talking, but I wasn't. Well, maybe a little. And anyway, she didn't SAY we couldn't talk. It's not fair!
ME: Do your math homework.

My favorite portrait

By Emma, age 8.

"Spoonbill"By Leslie Van Newkirk

If you haven't read my friend Leslie Van Newkirk, you're missing out on something very special. Leslie is a natural and gifted storyteller. She creates unmistakable characters, placing them in smart, funny plots that are so engaging you don't even notice the subtle themes she slips in until you're done. And, she does it with zero pretense. Leslie wrote a wonderful book that I'll tell you about at the end of this entry, but first, here's a short story that will give you an idea of her talent.


"Spoonbill"
by Leslie Van Newkirk


“I’m not sure I want to go fishing with Ben.”

“Why not?” Walt asks. We’re at home before our shifts. Walt is watching a fight on television. I’m in the kitchen emptying the dishwasher. From the other room, I hear the slaps of gloves upon cheekbones and the crescendo of the crowd when one of the fighters is knocked out.

“It’s fine when we’re all at the bar together, but doesn’t he have some kind of criminal record?” I ask.

“That was years ago. Besides, it was a juvenile center. He was too young to go to Leavenworth.”

“But wasn’t it something severe like murder?”

“It was armed robbery and two assaults. You watch too many scary movies. The guy is fine.” Walt answers with a slight tone of condescension.

“Are you worried that he’s going to revert back to his old ways and steal something? Liquor? Money? Someone else’s tips?” I ask.

“Ben is as loyal as they come. I give him a little power, and he gives me complete devotion in return.”

Ben is one of the bouncers at my husband’s bar. He has dark hair, homemade tattoos, and the squarest jaw I’ve ever seen. I have to admit, when Walt first hired him, I had a slight crush on him. The way he called me “darling” and sidled up real close like a cartoon cowboy at a saloon. And at other times when I would catch him staring off into space, appearing lost, wounded, a sad lobotomy of a young life wasted on the penal system. And maybe that element of danger surrounding Ben held some sort of attraction for me at first. But now I’m not so sure.

Still, Ben isn’t an overlooked man. Lots of women gravitate toward him. On the nights he works, he stands by his black stool at the door, checking ID’s and jerking his head upward at friends. Knocking knuckles with them if they are particularly chummy. Women love to flirt with him – tall ones with matte vermilion lipstick, the grandmother kind that always needs a touch up because it seeps into the cracks of skin above your lips. Short women with those Betty Page bangs. Curly brunettes, stunning redheads, gangly blondes. One at a time they all stand by Ben, twirling the little, red straws in their drinks and trying to elicit a “hello, darling” from his mouth. But if Walt’s comment about loyalty were true, then Ben would never try anything the boss’s wife.

Previously, I’d only encountered Ben on my own terms: chitchatting about our deadbeat dads. Bumming a cigarette from him after I slammed the register till closed at two a.m. and turned the key to total the sales for the night. This fishing trip would be the first time that I’ll be with Ben on his terms, or at least without the safety net of being able to say, “Excuse me, sweetie, but I have tables to clear.” And up until the day that Ben, Walt, and I are to go fishing together I calm myself with the thought that my husband will always be near, and it’s silly to worry about Ben’s past criminal record.

We meet at The Phoenix at midnight. It’s a slow Tuesday, only a few quiet patrons sipping drinks, and I detect an annoyance on Walt’s part over this. He never stops thinking about business and is constantly devising new schemes to lure people in. Although I have to say that I rarely do either. After I found out two years ago that I couldn’t have children, the bar became my baby too. For Walt’s sake, I try to be a model employee. I’ll wash dishes, sweep the floor, empty the pinball machines – anything to prove that I’m a workhorse and am getting no special treatment. But once I bitched to Ben about Walt, and the fact that he was so hard on me sometimes.

“You should be treated better here, darling. You’re his wife,” he had said.

“Yes, but I’m an example for the rest of the employees. You know, I can’t slack like the rest of you.”

“If you were my wife, I’d treat you like gold.” He had winked and I winked back.

I remember how he’d explained one time that none of his adult teeth had grown in. This mouthful of baby teeth seemed an uncommon orthodontist phenomenon, and one according to Ben’s dad, that did not require fixing. So when he had smiled that night he showed a mouthful of tiny, rodent-like teeth.

When we arrive Ben is waiting at the door like a watchdog. “It’s an excellent night for fishing,” he says.

“Are we going to Perry or the Spillway?” I ask.

“The Spillway,” Walt replies. Good, I think. Closer to home. Perry Lake is almost two hours away.

We pile into Walt’s Bronco, the boys in the front. Walt talks about business for almost the whole ride. Ben stays quiet. Not an unfriendly quiet, but a deferential silence. Ben is a man who seems to respect his superiors, and I wonder if this is left over from the penitentiary place.

As we reach the Kansas River spillway, we notice three or four other cars parked, lines in the water on the bridge, but we have a special spot already picked out. It’s deeper into the woods. Walt drives the Bronco past the parking lot and onto a marked path, and although it’s dark, I recognize where we are because I’ve been here countless times during the day. The night itself is beautiful, and through the rolled-down windows, I smell prairie grass and the muddy silt of the river.

After we park, doors slamming shut, Walt goes around to the back to get the poles. Ben takes a leak out of the glare of the headlights, but close enough for me to see his shadowy back, his hands shake, zip, and wipe on the front of his jeans.

“Do you hear something?” asks Walt.

“I don’t hear anything,” I say.

“That’s what I mean. Where’s the water?”

Hearing us, Ben steps closer to the riverbank. “It’s dammed up tight tonight,” he says. And adds, “Tighter than a Sunday school virgin.”

“I can’t believe he just said that,” I murmur to Walt, but he gives me a dismissive look and trots toward Ben, bounding like a superhero.

I trudge behind them, not wanting to subject myself to anymore gross comments. As we walk up the path and reach the concrete ledge we usually fish off of, I realize what Walt means – there is hardly any water on the river’s floor. For whatever reason, most of it has been drained away.

“This is amazing,” says Walt, climbing down into the spillway, his feet crunching on gravel as he lands. Ben follows behind him.

“Is it safe?” I ask.

“Sure,” says Ben, grinning, his tiny teeth pure white in the moonlight.

“If you hear an alarm though, start running,” Walt says, chuckling. Now who is the one who watches too many movies? I think, as I find a flat part of the bank and scramble down. Even though I’m wearing jeans, I can already feel wet mud seeping through the back of them. The draining of the spillway is recent, perhaps because the water has risen too high with recent storms.
The boys are in explorer mode, ricocheting off in different directions. The moonlight is enough illumination as are the streetlights from the spillway bridge. Standing on the bottom of the spillway’s floor – where the usual inhabitants have gills and shells – feels like an invasion of some creature’s home. The gravel and rocks are vaguely lunar, and with the men’s dark hulking shapes flitting from bank to bank, I feel as though I’ve landed on another planet. It takes me awhile to forget that water may come rushing down the spillway at any time.

Perhaps Ben has seen my worried look because he comes up behind me and says, “Don’t worry, darling, you’re safe.”

I exhale too heavily. “I’m not worried.”

“Well, then let’s catch some fish.”

“Can we? I just don’t see a pool that’s deep enough.”

But as I drop my line into a puddle nearby, I notice how far down it sinks.

“I got a big one over here,” Walt whispers as loud as he can. The fisherman’s golden rule: no raised voices.

“Don’t worry about shouting,” I say. “The fish have no where to go.”

And they don’t. Most of them are trapped in water-filled chasms on the spillway floor. I wedge my pole between two rocks and walk over, Ben already ahead of me. Walt strains with his line.

“It’s a monster!”

“Are you sure it’s not stuck?”

“No, Kathleen. It’s not stuck.” He says my name as though it were a curse word.
We hear a snap. His line has broken.

“Damn. That sucker was big. I swear, must have been twenty pounds.”

“She’s right,” Ben says. “They’re all trapped.”

“This is like a fish bonanza!” Walt’s eyes are wide like a kid’s.

“It’s not going to be any fun, if they’re that easy to catch. There’s no challenge to it,” I say, hands on hips. Ben is so close behind me at this point, I can hear him breathing. I take two steps toward Walt, who playfully punches my arm.

“You saw that Frankenfish. Are you telling me he was easy to catch?”

“Well, no…”

“Hey guys, over here!” I hadn’t even felt Ben move, but there he is at the far end of the bank about one hundred feet away, by another long pool of water. I can make out something white and shark-like swimming back and forth inside. A dorsal fin, translucent in the moonlight, slides through the water.

“That’s one huge cat,” says Walt.

“It looks angry,” I say, noticing how fast it swims, as if it knows it’s ensnared. It reminds me of a pacing tiger at the zoo.

“Ain’t like any cat I’ve seen,” says Ben. And I believe him. At the bar, he’s passed around snapshots of the human-sized catfish he’s pulled out of the Kaw River. Jaws like a bulldog’s, Ben’s hand inside holding onto the line of a giant hook.

“I want to see it,” I say. “Close-up.”

"Me too. Ben, you can catch that sucker can’t you?” asks Walt.

Ben throws his line in, but the fish swims right by it. Walt does the same, but the animal is uninterested. Strange. A normal cat, trapped and starving in a pool of water would have taken his bait. The guys keep at this for twenty minutes. Finally Ben throws down his pole.

“I know what to do,” he says as he bends down near the edge of the bank and pulls out a long, flat piece of wood. It’s too dark to tell if it’s driftwood or just a plank. He wades right into the water. The fish makes a beeline for the other end. With one swift movement, Ben whacks it head on. Again. Then again.
We watch as he pulls it out and slaps it on the bank, as if he’s preparing to gut it. It appears to be three feet long, a catfish, but unlike any I’ve ever seen. Its nose sticks out past its open jaw, flat like a paddle, the kind that you see in fraternity houses along Greek Row. It resembles something prehistoric, its nose one of nature’s beautiful deformities. And now it’s bleeding from Ben’s attempt to stun it.

Ben lifts the plank to hit it again, but I yell, “Don’t!”

“Yeah, wait, man,” says Walt. “Let’s get a look at it.”

We all circle around it, Ben sighing and looking over his shoulder in a thwarted manner. It seems like he enjoyed the promise of blood lust and didn’t want to stop. He steps a few paces away, while Walt and I squat by the wounded fish.

After a moment, Walt says, “It’s a spoonbill.”

“Is that a kind of shark?”

“No, I think it’s a catfish. But it’s rarely caught because it lives on the bottom of lakes. It’s a vegetarian. You see it’s wide mouth? It shovels in plankton. God, I’ve only seen these in pictures. Won’t ever take your bait. That’s why it ignored our lines.”

“I can imagine,” I say. I’m momentarily impressed with Walt’s encyclopedic knowledge of wildlife, but then I examine the gasping catfish and am struck first with shivers. Then a profound sadness.

“It’s dying, I think,” I say.

“Yeah,” Walt says, glancing up at Ben who hacks at some reeds up river from us. “He really got it good.”

I’m silent, trying not to cry, but Walt hears my sniffling.

“It’s gorgeous,” I say. “Like a dinosaur.” I have the sudden urge to put my lips to its mouth and blow in air to keep it alive. But then I remember it has gills. And I’m not sure if it’s the oxygen or the wound that’s killing it, but it heaves, its eyes wild, its body convulsing. I don’t know how much fish can hear, feel, smell, or taste but this one looks as if it’s afraid to die.

“I can’t take this,” I say, standing. “Get rid of it.”

Walt pushes it into a nearby puddle of water with his sneaker. It floats lifeless for a moment. Then swishes its tail and is gone in a trickle of current.
Ben comes back, still holding the plank.

“I want to go home,” I say. I put my arms in that stance that I hope both men find intimidating – as if I’ve suddenly gotten PMS, a hormone surge, or any number of womanly things that have turned me into an instant bitch. In truth, I’m too embarrassed to tell them that I’m disturbed by Ben’s brutality toward the spoonbill and feel guilty as if my own craving to see it spurred him on. The men complain, but I shake my head stubbornly.

On the ride home, Walt asks if I want to stop at TCBY. As if fat-free frozen yogurt will erase my memory of the pummeled spoonbill.

“No thanks,” I say. I crane my head to see Ben’s face, but to see it without him noticing me. He sits, quiet, guiltless, stoned-faced. We drop him off at his bungalow, a strange shaped house, next to a turquoise rancher. I’ve been past that rancher before and have seen pit bulls playing side by side with diapered infants in the dirt.

All night at home I wonder whether the spoonbill lived or died.

The next night is more crowded at the bar, so I have little time to chat with Ben about our fishing episode. Truth be told, I’m not sure I even want to talk to him at all anymore. He sits at his usual post – the black stool - flirting with a skinny blonde who wears a tight, metallic shirt, a mini-skirt, and knee-high boots. Her legs are all sinew. Her wrists and hands, white stalks which hold crimson fingernails. She flips her hair, twirls her straw like the rest of them. But that night I question what Ben does with the girls he brings home with him, and the way this blonde is flirting, looks like she’ll get herself a ride in his pick-up truck later. I wonder if he ever beats them, the way he did the spoonbill. I wonder if he ever leaves them bloody, their clothing torn, their lungs heaving for air. I shudder, and just before looking away, Ben flashes me his small-toothed grin until I lower my head and wash a table in circular motions.

Late that morning, while Walt sleeps, I log onto the Internet and type “spoonbill” in a search engine. Reading information that tells me they are almost extinct, makes me feel even guiltier. I’m not sure why. I’ve caught and eaten plenty of fish. But something about the majestic beauty of this creature we weren’t meant to see, and then how Ben bludgeoned it, makes me feel sick to my stomach like that time I was a little girl and watched The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe and The Witch shaves all of the lion’s hair off and then kills it. I type two different words into the search engine next. “Infertility treatments.” Maybe I’m sick of bar life after all.

***
This story first appeared in Word Riot
***

The wonderful novel Leslie wrote is called Crush Dot Com, and here's what it looks like:



I know you can't read the blurb on the cover, so here's what it says:

"As lively as a singles bar at happy hour, Crush Dot Com will charm, delight and seduce you. Take it home! It's a date that won't disappoint."--Ellen Meister, author of Secret Confessions of the Applewood PTA

I'm proud that Leslie chose to put my quote on the cover, because it's such a great read. To order it, or to learn more about Leslie, check out her website at leslievannewkirk.com.

Meet Alison Pace!

I have to admit, today I'm blogging about a member of the Girlfriends' Cyber Circuit who has actually made me jealous. I don't usually get that way, but when I recently opened Long Island's huge daily paper, Newsday, and saw a full page article about her book, PUG HILL, I gasped. Then I turned a little green.

You see, the article focused on her book because it's partly set on Long Island.

Ahem.

So okay. Good for her. But that's not all. Today I found out she got a blurb from Elinor Lipman. Elinor Lipman! Do you have any idea how much I love Elinor Lipman? If I could one day get a quote from her I'd die happy. (If you haven't read her, you should.)

But here's the thing. It seems Alison wrote a book that kicks ass, and that's why she's getting all this great attention. So Alison, all is forgiven. You deserve the praise and the spotlight!

Here's a brief description of PUG HILL:
To get into the most elite spot of Manhattan’s Central Park, there are a few stiff requirements: you must have short legs, a round tummy, a pig nose, and walk on all fours—or at least know someone who does! Pug Hill is a place for pugs and pug-lovers alike to bask in the camaraderie that comes from owning (or dreaming of owning) one of the world’s most cherished and irresistible dogs.

Author Alison Pace has been to Pug Hill and she knows first-hand the joy and stress-relief that these tiny pooches offer. Now, the author of the hilarious If Andy Warhol Had a Girlfriend introduces readers to the congregants of Pug Hill in a novel that’s as full of love, humor, and heartwarmingly-awkward moments as the adorable dogs themselves.

And now, here's what critics and authors (including Elinor Lipman) have had to say:

A remarkably sweet and affecting tale of inner growth. --Kirkus

Pug Hill is all at once touching, witty, and so very smart. I love this nervous and self-deprecating narrator who makes low self-esteem not only funny and endearing but enviable. There’s a terrific comedic eye at work here and a tender heart—a most satisfying combination.
- Elinor Lipman, author of The Inn At Lake Devine and My Latest Grievance

Alison Pace isn't afraid to tackle serious subjects, even as she delivers a wry and witty portrait of a woman growing up and growing into herself at long last. The aptly named Hope has such charm and self-deprecating humor, I felt that she could be a friend of mine. - Joshilyn Jackson, author of gods in Alabama

To paraphrase Woody Allen, love is too weak a word to describe how I feel about this novel. I lurve it. I loove it! - Melissa Senate, author of See Jane Date and The Breakup Club

A delightful romp! Alison Pace's dry and breezy wit make this a delightful, funny read for pugs and humans alike. If Bridget Jones kept a must-read book list in her diary, Pug Hill would most certainly be at the top. -Wilson the Pug with Nancy Levine, authors of The Tao of Pug

Are you sold? I am! After I finish blogging I'm rushing over to Amazon to buy the book. You can also buy it online from Barnes and Noble, BookSense.com, Powells.com and other online retailers, or in person at your local chain or independent bookstore. For more information, visit Alison's website at alisonpace.com.

Review of "Secret Confessions of the Applewood PTA"

Phew! I got a review from one of the most notoriously harsh trade publications and it's positive. Not only that, but really got the book and did a good job encapsulating it. Here's what they said:




SECRET CONFESSIONS OF THE APPLEWOOD PTA
Three conflicted housewives in Applewood, Long Island, long for something more fulfilling than what their families and their membership in the local PTA offer.

The Applewood elementary school is going to be the set of a George Clooney movie. Lisa Slotnick, Maddie Schein and Ruth Moss team up to make sure preparations go smoothly. The women find themselves pitted against a buff and blonde nemesis, PTA president Suzanne, who wants all the glory for herself. This leads to madcap escapades and silly sniping amongst the women. All in good fun. The juicy bits concern the women's lives outside the PTA. Each is trapped in a prison of family obligation and sexual repression. Ruth, whose husband suffered a debilitating stroke, is carrying on a steamy affair with the school's guilt-laden superintendent. Maddie, who is convinced that her beloved husband is sleeping with his cousin, decides to get him back by hooking up with her former best male friend from college. And Lisa is struggling to come to terms with her abusive and alcoholic mother, who has asked to move in with the Slotnicks while she attends rehab nearby. As each woman grapples with her emotions, the trio becomes closer in their attempt to bring the movie project to fruition and to thwart the wretched Suzanne. Ultimately, though, they succeed in the larger task of helping each other realize their dreams.

Comical yet poignant read without too much melodrama.

--Kirkus Reviews

"May Altar" By Maryanne Stahl

My friend Maryanne Stahl is one of the most gifted writers I know. She can sift the pain and beauty from nearly any moment, and cast a luminous light on it. Witness all she does with this very short but very full story ...

May Altar
by Maryanne Stahl


May is the month of Our Lady, the Virgin Mary, Mother of God, my namesake. May is flower beds blooming and tree branches greening and warm breezes through open windows on Saturday morning when my mother tells us it is time to air out our house. May is the buzzing of bees and lawnmowers; the cucumber scent of new-mown grass. May is sunlight on the sidewalks long beyond the afternoon, light still when he walks the streets from the train, light when he comes through the door, and I think that maybe light will make a difference.

I decide to make a May altar on top of the dresser, beneath the mirror, in the room I share with my sister. We don’t have a garden because my mother doesn’t have the time, what with five messy children and the stuff she does for the church and my father, but we have bushes that blossom, blood red azalea and lilac dripping purple.

I cut branches from the inside of the plant where no one will notice. I find a peanut butter jar in the trash; it takes forever to wash clean. I find an old torn slip of my mother’s in the bottom of the “poor bag” in the basement and carefully cut the lace from its hem. I take white candles from the junk drawer in the kitchen. Birthday candles. But we are done with birthdays until August.

My sister doesn’t question me when she comes up from watching cartoons. “That’s pretty,” she says. She likes everything I do. That’s why it is my job to protect her.

He has been taking a nap but suddenly we hear his roar. “What in blazes is this crap?”

There’s a place in my stomach that falls into the place where I pee, and that happens now.

My sister looks at me with animal eyes. I realize she must have left a mess of dolls or coloring books in the living room. We hear something crash, a shoe against a wall, maybe. My sister reaches for my hand, and I pull her to kneel with me before the bursting colors of our May altar.

***
This story first appeared in In Posse Review

***

If you're as taken with Maryanne's writing as I am, you'll want to read both of her published books, The Opposite Shore and Forgive the Moon. They go deep inside the human heart and you will LOVE them! Maryanne is a true artist. Visit her website at maryannestahl.com.

Happy Mother's Day to all!

Jim kissed Pam!

If you don't know what I'm talking about then you don't watch NBC's "The Office." This is a lot to admit, but the scene in question squeezed my heart last night and hasn't let go. He loves her so much! Waaa!

I know. I sound like a lovesick teenager, but his feelings are so palpable I've lost my mind. I can't even talk about them as actors. I'm lost in it. I am Jim. I am Pam. I cannot stop thinking about that kiss.

It's okay if you don't respect me anymore. Hell, I don't respect me anymore.

But you should really watch this:

Sun scream

For those of us in the non-burka wearing world, exposure to sunlight has become fraught with paranoia in recent years. And now that summer is approaching, I need to get something off my freckled chest.

What the hell is going on with SPFs?

When sunscreens first came out, they were mostly 2s and 4s. I thought that was pretty cool. You could lay out on the beach for four hours and only get as much suntan as you would if you were there for an hour. That sounded perfect.

Then they came out with SPF 8. I thought that was overkill, but okay. I understand that there are people who work outdoors all day and that kind of protection could be necessary.

The year after that, they came out with Waterbabies SPF 15. I thought only the most insanely overprotective mothers would buy something like that, but eventually I relented and started slathering it all over my kids, too.

But of course, a couple of years later you couldn't even find SPF 15 on anything marketed for children. They all bore a 30. 30? Thirty times your natural protection from the sun's rays? Isn't that the equivalent of wearing a sweatshirt?

I thought that had to be it. After all, how much protection could we possibly need? I mean, I understand that we've pretty much destroyed our ozone layer, but throwing a football in the backyard with your kid isn't as dangerous as exposure to plutonium, is it?

Apparently, some people think so, because for the past two years the most popular sunscreens have an SPF 45. And just a couple of weeks ago, a woman tried to sell me some makeup with the pitch that it has an SPF 50. I honestly don't think bomb shelters offer an SPF 50.

I'm curious to see how high the SPFs go next year. In meantime, maybe we should stay away from the beach and just go shopping.

Perhaps we'll find some cute burkas.

Meet Alana Morales!

Attention new moms! There's a wonderful new book on the market to help you navigate the madness of life at home with the kids. It's called DOMESTICALLY CHALLENGED, and it's written by Girlfriends' Cyber Circuit author Alana Morales. Funny and practical, this book tackles such tough topics as the myth of the Super Mom (hint – there isn’t one) and keeping the kids entertained without hiring a circus.

Where was this book when I first had kids?

I love the quote from Alana about why she wrote the book:

“When I was looking for books about being an at home mom, I found a lot that were either religious or talked about my spiritual journey through motherhood. It was 3:00 in the afternoon and my kids and I were still in our pajamas. I needed to know how to manage running the house full time, not a spiritual pep talk.”

Here are what other mom/authors have to say about DOMESTICALLY CHALLENGED:

“With quick wit and unending warmth, Alana Morales has created for stay-at-home moms a must-have handbook for traveling the precarious path of parenthood...and life!” -- Julie Watson Smith, founder of Mommy Hullabaloo and author of Mommyhood Diaries: Living the Chaos One Day at a Time

"In this humorous survival guide, Alana Morales takes the new stay-at-home mom (SAHM) by the hand, and leads her through the maze of myths and truths about what it's like leaving a job to be at home, full-time, with the kids.... any SAHM, whether newly arrived at home or not, will welcome her helpful advice!" -- Linda Gillian, amomslove.com

"Domestically Challenged is the ultimate compendium of motherhood support! Humorist Alana Morales writes with hope, wisdom, and charm from the heart." -- Cynthia Brian, home, garden, and parenting expert at ClubMom, author of Be the Star You Are! www.star-style.com

You can order DOMESTICALLY CHALLENGED at amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com, and other online stores. For more information, visit Alana's very cool website, alanamorales.com.

"Hello, Oprah?"

This past week came close to resembling what I had imagined life would be like as an author. And no, I'm not talking about appearing on Oprah. I'm talking about rubbing elbows with other writers, discussing publishing, and doing precious little writing.

On Wednesday I had the pleasure of addressing the members of Joe Levens's writers' workshop. (Joe is a wonderful short story writer and editor-in-chief of the outstanding ezine, Summerset Review.) I'd taken Joe's class a few times in the past, so it was a real treat to come back as guest speaker. It was an intimate but lively group of old friends and new faces, and I had a great time sharing what I've learned about the publishing business.

On Thursday, I got to meet an online acquaintance I've grown very fond of. She's Melanie Lynne Hauser, who wrote a hilarious book called CONFESSIONS OF SUPER MOM. Melanie was in town from Chicago, doing a Mother's Day push for her book (and it is indeed a great gift!), and I had the pleasure of having drinks and dinner with her and two of her other East Coast writing pals, both of whom are debut authors like me. Jackie Kessler just signed a THREE BOOK DEAL with Kensington (wow!), starting with a paranormal romance entitled HELL'S BELLES, due out next year. Lauren Lipton's first book,IT'S ABOUT YOUR HUSBAND will be out this October, and I can hardly wait to get my hands on it. All three were super-smart and super-funny, and it was blast to chow down on steak and vodka gimlets with these gals, while dissecting the publishing industry.

On writing front, things are less exciting. While I'm waiting for input on my finished draft of THE SMART ONE, I'm trying to make some headway with my third novel, as yet untitled. It's proving to be a bitch, because the set-up is so hard, and I've rewritten the opening paragraph about seven-thousand different ways. I know, I should let it go and move on to the next chapter, but I can't. I have to nail the opening first. I'm that anal. (That sentence should result in some interesting search engine hits.)

But okay. My writer pals have been circulating this Garrison Keillor essay about what a-holes writers are for whining so much, so I'll shut up now and take my kids to the school carnival and smile as politely as I can when friends and neighbors give me their most sage advice for promoting my book, which is always the same: "You should go on Oprah."

Prizeless Contest #4

Can you identify the person in this photograph?

Prizeless Contest #3 - now with a hint

Can you identify the person in this photograph?



Hint 1: She was once in a movie with Rob Lowe

Prizeless Contest #2

Can you identify the person in this picture?

Prizeless Contest #1

Can you identify the person in this photograph?

New look

Do you like the new look? I got tired of that green. Besides, it's all temporary. Once I get my website up and running, the blog with have graphics to match.

ETA: OH NO! MY LINKS ARE GONE!!!!!!! Ack! Do you have any idea how long it took me to get all that coded in?
*bangs head on keyboard*

Sneak peek at my website

Coming soon: ellenmeister.com. Here's a peek at what the home page will look like:

May Horoscopes

HOLY CONSTELLATIONS! My Astrology Zone Scorpio horoscope for this month is amazing! Here's the opening paragraph:

Scorpio

What a magical month you have in store! Travel, romance, and partnerships will all likely move to priority status in your life, and with the dazzling aspects you have, you'll really enjoy everything on tap for you. In fact, what happens this month could well turn out to be life changing in many ways. For the first time in a long time, you will have powerful cosmic help from planetary placements that may just catapult you into a new lifestyle and help you to feel a whole new confident attitude.

Read yours here.

Meet Natalie R. Collins!

Now here's something exciting. You may have heard me flap my gums about the fact I wrote a funny and serious book about a group of sexy surburban housewives before ABC launched a funny and serious television show about a group of sexy suburban housewives. Well, Natalie Collins is in the same boat. She wrote an intense and inside look at the closed world of the Mormon Church before HBO lauched their Big Love TV show, which, as you probably know, is an intense and inside look at the closed world of the Mormon Church.

Interesting timing, no?

Anyway, her book, WIVES AND SISTERS, was just released in paperback and I'm buying it because it looks like the kind of character-driven drama that will wrestle me to the ground and hold me there until I turn the last page. Here's the synopsis:

Set in the closed world of the Mormon Church, WIVES AND SISTERS is the gripping story of a young woman on the run from evil, powerful men. It opens with a look back at the sudden disappearance of Allison Jensen’s best friend, who was kidnapped while playing in the woods near home. One moment her friend was beside her; then she was gone. When no leads emerged, she was given up for dead. Now, years later, trying to fill in the gaps of a patchwork memory, Allison still gets no answers from the Mormon community in which she lives. She is stuck in a world where she does not fit with a father who tyrannizes and torments her as the self-appointed messenger of God. Why is she being fed half-truths? When a brutal attack makes her desperate to escape Mormon bonds, Allison finds herself on a collision course with community leaders as they cover up the steps of a sexual predator.

Mark Peterson is trying to live a life of impeccable standards, dictated by Mormon tenets, and when he fails, the consequences are deadly, as he will do almost anything to protect his standing in the community of Saints. Allison is determined to bring Mark and those who didn’t stop him to justice, before they stop her from piecing together the tragic past that has haunted her for so many years.


I don't usually link the author's website until the end, but if you've read this far, please click here for a link to the best book trailer I've seen. It's so simple yet so effective. Bravo, Natalie!

And now, here's what people are saying about this book:

“A dark, powerful debut novel. Natalie Collins pulls no emotional punches crafting this searing tale of one woman's search for justice.” ---Lisa Gardner, New York Times bestselling author of The Killing Hour

“Natalie Collins' Wives and Sisters is a journey through heartbreak, tragedy, and self-discovery with a courageous woman who dares to think for herself in a dogmatic society. This is a story for anyone who has ever questioned what they've been taught all their life; anyone who has ever doubted their self-worth, and everyone who loves to cheer on the underdog and watch them triumph in the end. You'll be glad you took this journey with her.”---Tina Wainscott, bestselling author of I’ll Be Watching You

“Please warn your readers, this is not a book that can be put down. It’s so compelling, so dramatic, with strong suspense and mystery elements, that I had to find out what would happen.” ---Perri O’Shaughnessy, New York Times bestselling author of Unlucky in Law

“Wives and Sisters is indeed a suspense novel. It is not a condemnation of a faith, but rather those who follow blindly. It makes the reader think. Can you have faith without deceit? Can religion have too many rules? Read the novel for yourself. Make up your own mind.” ---The Clarion-Ledger

“…the author brings authentic color and gripping detail to her book, which underscores the very real mentality of protecting the Church at all costs, thus allowing offenders to abuse their victims over and over again without consequence.” ---The Tucson Citizen

“Well-written, fast-paced, Natalie Collins’ Wives and Sisters is suspense filled satisfaction with a bone chilling, thought provoking similarity to recent events.” --- About.com

“Wives and Sisters is a gripping tale oozing with skillful feminist commentary about the patriarchal nature of Mormonism, which may earn Collins disparagement in her home state. A spirited decision for a newcomer, and it earns her the status of a voice to watch.” ---Riverwalk Journal

“…fans will be stunned by this tense thriller that condemns extremist religious and social moral behavior at the cost of any segment of society." ---Harriet Klausner

“Don't be surprised if you devour this book in one reading. Natalie Collins has captured the essence of a page turner by giving us a three dimensional characters, plenty of action and a healthy dose of controversy.” ---Midwest Book Review

“Author Collins excels in developing Allison, an extremely complex character. She is, at once, filled with rage, yet still compassionate and loving - rebellious, but loyal and ready to lend a hand when needed, even to her father, stepmother and family who have so wronged her.” ---Mostly Fiction.com

"Wives and Sisters is a raw, emotional story that never gives into sentimentality. It puts a plain, unvarnished face on the secret workings of the human soul and the price of blind faith." ---The Celebrity Café.com

"This is a book written with skill and passion and I suspect it will resonate with women who have never set foot inside a Mormon church. These problems are too widespread to pin down to one place, one time or one institution." ---The Washington Times

"WIVES AND SISTERS is clearly one of this year's best books; riveting, painful at times, realistic always, and completely unforgettable. It not only makes you cry, it makes you think, which is my personal hallmark of an excellent read. Natalie R Collins has emerged as one of the finest new authors I've ever had the pleasure of reading. Brava, Ms Collins! Brava!" Rendezvous Review Magazine “Rosebud of the Month” winner

WIVES AND SISTERS is available at your local chain or independent bookstore. To order online, visit amazon.com or barnesandnoble.com.

Attention American Idol fans ...

I've said it before, but it's worth repeating. If you're not reading Susan DiPlacido's hilarious observations and opinions, you're missing the best view in the house.
Susan's blog

Home from vacation

Despite the unpacking and mountains of laundry and difficulty in cramming everyone's clothes back into their drawers (do garments expand on vacation?), it's good to be home. For me, it was a restorative vacation, mostly relaxing by the pool in my parents' backyard, with Florida's cloudless sky reminding me to let go of my stress and appreciate my blessings. The kids splashed around in the water and enjoyed the lavish attention of four starry-eyed adults who think the sun, moon and earth revolve around them.

On the publishing front, I did a reading in Boca Raton, arranged for me by my south Florida publicity team (thanks Mom! thanks Dad!). It was well attended by folks who struck me as real readers, so I'm hopeful that at least a few of them will buy the book when it comes out.

My father, above, introduced me. Since he's notoriously Republican, he started off the festivities by pretending he thought he was at a George Bush fundraiser. Ha! First thing I did when I took the podium was to make sure the crowd knew that I was not there to support Dubya. Heaven forbid.

I got the feeling more of the crowd were on my side of the political spectrum, but it's Florida, so what difference does it make? Even if I took a vote, George Bush would somehow win.

I also popped into a few local bookstores to introduce myself and leave behind a flyer about SECRET CONFESSIONS OF THE APPLEWOOD PTA. So for the warm reception I got, big thanks to the folks at the Barnes and Noble in Boca Raton, the Borders in Boca Raton and the Books-A-Million in Delray Beach (and sending all good wishes to the folks at the Books-A-Million in Deerfield Beach, who are busy getting the hurricane-damaged store back in shape).

And now the relaxing stops. This week, I have to do one last edit on THE SMART ONE before sending it off to my agents and editor. Then I have to start working on my third book for real. It's a high concept story and I'm in a bit of a panic about whether or not I can pull it off.

Meet E. Lockhart!

Today I'm proud to introduce you to a Girlfriends' Cyber Circuit writer who somehow knows how to write the kind of magic that lights the imagination of teens. Her new book, FLY ON THE WALL, looks like something I would have devoured in my younger days, with or without the munchies. Here's a description:

Fly on the Wall: How One Girl Saw Everything is about a girl called Gretchen Kaufman Yee who goes to a wacked-out art school in New York City. She's a collector of plastic Chinese food and odd figurines, a passionate comic-book artist, and a crazy Spider-man fanatic. She's also completely freaked out by the opposite sex -- in particular, the Art Rats, a group of guys in her drawing concentration. One day, she wishes she could be "a fly on the wall of the boys' locker room," just to find out what the heck guys really talk about.
And the next thing she knows... she is.
A fly.
On the wall of the locker room.

Damn. I would have died to get my hands on that when I was a teenager! Here's what some reviewers and others are saying:

"The stylish text (rendered nearly multivocal by the periodic font changes) combined with Gretchen's frank fascination with the oddity and then the humanity of the male body and psyche are a rare treat." -- The Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books

“A super-smart, super-sweet, and super-fantastic read.” -- Sarah Mlynowski, author of Bras & Broomsticks and Milkrun

"Narrator Gretchen Yee will grab readers from the first page with her snappy commentary." -- Publishers Weekly

"This unexpectedly sharp comedy charts its own metamorphosis -- from teen angst ("Life as an Artificial Redhead") to surreal wish-fulfillment fantasy ("Life as a Vermin") and beyond ("Life as a Superhero"). Gretchen Yee, a well-intentioned but self-absorbed teen smarting over her parents' sudden divorce, wishes she could be "a fly on the wall of the boys' locker room" -- and then has to deal with the consequences when her wish inexplicably comes true. Stuck in observer mode (upon pain of squishy death), she learns to consider others' perspectives, enabling her to mend fences with her father, play matchmaker for her love-struck best friend, and connect with her own crush upon her return to human form." -- The Horn Book Magazine

FLY ON THE WALL can be found at your local chain or independent bookstore. To order online, you can visit Amazon or Barnes and Noble. Don't miss the chance to send your favorite teen to E. Lockhart's incredible website, theboyfriendlist.com.

Azizan Pesach and welcome Micaela!

I have a new niece! Born today, right on her due date!

Of course, this means my brother and his wife won't be joining us for tonight's Seder, but you can bet they'll be as loved and celebrated as possible.

Wishing everyone as much joy as we have on this Passover!

The best American Idol blogger on the net

My friend Susan DiPlacido.

Separated at birth?

Is it my imagination, or do Kevin Covais and Melissa Etheridge look like twins?

Right Hand DiamondsBy Susan DiPlacido

Susan DiPlacido is one of those rare individuals who's as smart, generous and funny as she is talented. As far as I can see, her only fault is that she can't take a compliment, and is going to want to send me a present for saying all this about her. But Susan, sit on your hands and let me finish ...

Susan DiPlacido is a natural storyteller with a gift for merging setting, plot and characters in a way that grabs the reader and doesn't let go. With two books already published and a third sure to make a hit soon enough, it's clear she's going to have a huge career as a novelist. But right now, you're lucky enough to have the chance to read one of her gems for free ...



"Right Hand Diamonds"
By Susan DiPlacido

Her first comment isn't, "Welcome home."


She rakes her sharp gaze over me, halting at my throat as I say, "Hi Auntie." So I put my arms around her frail shoulders to give her a weak hug. She bristles but manages to pat me on the back. But as I pull back, there's no cordial "hello" or "good to see you" greeting. And though her frame is slight and thin, she's still a formidable presence as she stands firm, not stepping aside to welcome me inside.



She purses her lips, immaculately painted with a slightly rosier than flesh-tone as her eyes focus again at my neck. She doesn't comment on my suntan or my hair. Instead her mouth slits open and with her bottom row of teeth showing, still glaring at my neck, she asks, "Is that real?"



I say, "Well, if you can see it, it's not imaginary."



She tsks.



This woman, she is my family.



She is my great aunt. She was my grandmother's sister, and since my nonna's passing she has been the de facto matriarch. Married 60 years to the same man, she keeps him alive through a strict regimen of low-fat sauces, vegetables and lean meats. They never had children of their own, and as the queen of the family, she is afforded the respect, if not affection, that is due to her position.



She takes a step aside and allows me entrance. I hand her the box of pannetone I brought back for her and my uncle. She sets the box at the entryway with a curt, "How thoughtful," and immediately dusts her hands off. Turning her back and walking briskly inside, she says over her shoulder, "I see you ate your share of the local cuisine, dear. I hope you didn't bring back extra for yourself to snack on."



"No," I tell her as I tug on my shirt. "I just thought Uncle Ted would enjoy it."



"Oh that's way too fatty and sugary for him," she says. "Come now, get inside and close the door."



Though they are clean, I slip off my shoes so I don't trample her cream-colored Berber carpet and she leads me to the parlor and directs me to a stiff-backed chair. I say, "Italy was gorgeous, Aunt Marie, you'd have loved it."



"I've been there. I was born there, dear, I know what it's like," she says as she takes a seat on her plush divan.



Of course.



"But Bellagio," I say, "I've never seen such a gorgeous place."



"Hmph," she clucks as she neatly folds her hands over her knees. "Those northerners, they're so lazy and indulgent."



"Mmm," I just sigh, not sure how to respond, how to proceed. I glance around the meticulous room with its carefully positioned knick-knacks, all of them tight and tiny, a wash of light and airy hues, with Aunt Marie's shock of tight-curled preternaturally black-dyed hair the only contrast, besides me. Feeling as though I'm going to sully the upholstery of the chair, I shift and cross my legs, try to make myself smaller by folding my hands over my knee the same as she does as I straighten my posture in this unforgiving chair.



Auntie says, "Don't you have better things to spend your money on?"



"Oh, um, it wasn't that much, really," I tell her. "I got a good deal on the airfare and I didn't stay on Lake Como the whole time. I went to Milan and the hotel there was less…"



"Not the trip," she says, cutting me off. "The bauble on your neck, dear."



I reach up and finger it lightly, as if to reassure myself, though that makes no sense, considering it's obviously in place because she's noticing it, she's talking about it.



"It wasn't all that much," I say.



It's a lie.



It was a lot. It was an awful lot. And of course I have better things, more important things, to spend my money on. Retirement savings, mortgage payments, Ricky's nest egg, cancer research, health club dues, taxes, Christmas presents, charitable contributions, makeup, condoms, liquor, clothes, car, whatever.



This, this thing around my neck, it's useless. It's frivolous and extravagant. It doesn't do anyone any good.



"Do you really need something like that?" she asks me.



But it's pretty, this thing dangling from my neck. It's sparkly and shiny. When I tried it on, it made me feel special.



"I wanted it," I tell her, dragging my fingers away before they tarnish its shine.



"So it is real, then," she nods. "You kids. You want everything without having to earn it. A diamond, dear, is a symbol of love. Not a vanity piece."



My cheeks go hot, and I pin my gaze on her hand, the one primly folded on top of the other, resting on her knee. On her ring finger, on her right hand, is a sparkly rock. It's my nonna's engagement ring.



I can't hold my tongue, but I measure my words carefully. Nodding at the ring, saying, "Then what exactly is that symbolizing?"



This woman, my great aunt, she is not to be trifled with.



Her eyes flash and her lips go narrow as she hisses, "It's a remembrance of my sister. And I told you to never mention it again."



I'm a rotten niece. I'm rotten because I'm pleased that it upset her. I'm rotten because I know she's so defensive because she knows she's wrong.



My grandmother was plump and lush in her body, and she was soft and sweet in her soul. After my mom died, my nonna helped my dad take care of us. She made us rigatoni every Sunday and when she was getting older she took me aside and told me stories as she opened up her photo albums and jewelry box and showed me pictures of my grandfather and the ring he gave her when he proposed. Holding the ring, Nonna told me, "I want your brother Ricky to have this when I'm gone."



And I asked, "Why Ricky?" I wasn't mad and I didn't feel slighted. I just wondered why him instead of my older brother Gianni, since he was closer to marrying age anyhow. Or me, I guess, cause I was a girl. Ricky was just a little kid.



And she said, "Gianni has your mother's ring. And you, someday a man will fall for you the way your grandfather did for me. The way your father did for your mother. And then you'll have your own. But Ricardo, he's just a bambino. He needs to remember his family. He needs it the most."



That was my grandmother. That used to be my family.



My grandmother knew her sister could be prickly, but she wouldn't like me causing dissent or ill-will, even if Auntie is wearing what was meant to be my brother's ring. My face flushes again, I drop my eyes and apologize. Backpedaling, "I didn't mean it like that, Aunt Marie. I just meant that it doesn't have to be about a romance, that's all."



"No, but it's a token of love," she says. "If you bought it yourself, that devalues the whole idea."



I don't bother to tell her that the intent, or lack thereof, sure didn't cut me a price break -- the value is still pretty damn high according to Tiffany & Co. I just finger it again. It's a one carat round solitaire pink diamond. It's a contrast to the three stone white diamond ring I wear on my right hand. And the white bracelet I have. I haven't taken the necklace off yet.



I bought the three stone ring after Jack broke my heart by cheating on me. I got the bracelet after Vince told me it wasn't me, it was him – and then he got engaged and subsequently married six months later to another woman. The necklace, this necklace that Aunt Marie's riled up about, the one I can't stop touching, I just got it a couple days ago in Milan. His name was Romeo, this guy who inspired this new luxury purchase.



I met him on the beach in Bellagio outside the Villa Serbelloni. It was magic hour, that luscious time of day between sunset and dusk. That twilight time that lingers briefly, where a divine light glows with soft edges and misty rapture. The Italian Alps framed the background as he strode out of the azure lake, water skimming off his taut muscles, dripping from the ringlets of his shaggy dark hair.



I knew he was trouble right away.



He dropped to his knees in front of me. In a Milanese dialect he said, "Bella regazza. Sempre sarò triste se con me Lei non avete pranzo."



This guy, Romeo, that's what he said to me.



In English, that roughly translates to: "Pretty lady. I'll be unhappy forever if you won't have dinner with me."



And in my American, 30-year-old, single-girl jaded dialect, it translates like this: "Nice tits. Wanna fuck?"



At that moment, I felt lucky that genetically I got Nonna's plump curves instead of my aunt's trim efficiency.



Oh, Romeo. Yes, they actually have guys in Italy named Romeo.



I didn't go there to meet a man. But what the hell, I was on vacation, he was charming. I went to dinner with him. Halfway through the meal, as his mouth poured impromptu poetry, extravagantly laced with glowing compliments to weaken me, I told him the deal straight up. I said, "Romeo, you're very handsome. You're very sweet. But this isn't necessary, you don't have to sweet talk me. I'll sleep with you anyhow. I'd prefer it if we kept it honest like that."



He frowned and said, "You Americanas. You've all forgotten romance. I say these things not to have sex with you. I say them for they are true."



I knew better. I knew the lavish compliments weren't sincere, they were just a means to an end. But even though I have that hard, wise shell outside, inside I'm still soft and sweet. And stupid.



Inside, there's still that glimmer of hope.



So I asked him to stop but he poured the wine, saying all the right things. Saying all the wrong things. Saying things to make my head spin and face flush, kissing me to make my heart flutter, going slow with his hands and making my pulse race.



Repetition works, and it wasn't long before that glimmer sparked and I started to feel the shine of possibility, though I was careful to keep my mouth shut.



When he leaned over me and growled in my ear, "A woman like you, cara mia, I could die for you," I knew better. I didn't ask it aloud, but still I had a fleeting thought: Yes, Romeo, but could you live with me?



And I thought briefly, maybe, someday, he could be my family.



Romeo, Romeo, I'd have slept with you anyhow, Romeo. But I've since figured out that Italian men don't court the same as American men.



But they leave the same as American men.



That translates this way: Romeo dogged me a couple days later. No note, no arrivederci, no nothing. I saw him frolicking on the beach later that afternoon with a new, thin girl. I waved to him and he turned away and whispered something in her ear.



That's what he did, that guy, Romeo.



This is what I, the 30-year old jaded American girl, did. I got what I needed at the local farmacia, and when I spied Romeo and his bony blonde having dinner that night, I tromped right over. I didn't take a seat. I just stood there and pulled the package of lice shampoo out of the box and set it on the table next to him. I raised my voice an octave to sound sweet and innocent. To sound stupid. And I said, "Oh, Romeo, I know you're probably still mad at me for, well, you know." I mimed a scratching motion in front of my crotch. "But here, I got you this. The guy at the store said it would take care of the crabs right away." I smiled and cheerfully chirped, "I feel all better already!"



Romeo glared at me. The blonde, she stared, mouth agape. She leaned away from him. I said, "Oh, sorry. Guess you're gonna need some of this too."



It was worth making myself look like an ass to so effectively cock-block the player. Self-satisfied, I skipped up to my room. But the satisfaction was short lived. Even if I didn't take it very classy, the fact remained, I'd still been dumped. Again.



So I moved on to Milan, feeling foolish and forlorn. Feeling twice the fool for feeling forlorn because I knew better anyhow. Window shopping, the necklace caught my eye. A solitaire in a simple setting. Pink, playful and romantic, glinting with girlish romance. But tough too. Harder than a rock, virtually indestructible. I didn't trust the salesman when he told me how lovely it was on me. I trusted how it made me feel. Besides, it wasn't really useless. Someday, maybe Ricky could get the setting changed and use it as an engagement ring when he decides to start his own family.



But for now, it's for me. Sometimes, I need a little something sparkly on the outside to reflect that rapidly diminishing glimmer on the inside. Maybe, a little glitter will catch someone's eye and they'll stick around long enough to notice I can shine.



I don't tell my Aunt Marie any of this. She's still staring at me, expecting an explanation, a defense. Her lips, they're pursed.



I stay silent as I look back at her. I don't reach up to touch the stone, I can already feel it, resting gently at the base of my throat. I know it's there.



My uncle shuffles through the room, winking at me, saying, "Welcome home! Did you have a nice time?" He takes a seat on the on the soft divan next to my aunt. He says, "Scootch over, Dovey." That's what he calls her, Dovey. Short for Lovey Dovey. I know, if they weren't so old it'd make me nauseous.



Auntie answers for me, telling him, "She did plenty of shopping, that's for sure. Look at her neck, Theodore. Gracious."



He squints and smiles, pats his wife's knee. "Oh Marie," he chuckles and moves his hand up, covers her hand. Her right hand with my nonna's diamond on it. He pats her hand and says, "She's got a good job, it's nice to have a souvenir from a trip."



Auntie sniffs, but she just can't let it go. "A souvenir, yes. But that's extravagant." She pins me in her gaze again. Saying, "It's useless. It doesn't mean anything! Really dear, a single girl like you. Do you really need something like that?"



My face flushes, again. But I don't break her stare. I say, "I think single girls need something like this the most."

* * *

This story first appeared in Fifteen Project

If you like this story, please order Susan's steamy love-sex-gambling novel, 24/7, or her fun, fabulous romance, Trattoria. To learn more about Susan, visit her website at susandiplacido.com.

Guess what Lisa Kudrow is reading?

My book!

She's doing the audio version (her first ever) and I couldn't be more thrilled! In addition to being incredibly famous and tremendously loved, she is so freaking talented. I can't wait to hear what she does with it!

Someone sold my ARC on eBay

Can you read the type on the picture above? Just under "uncorrected proof" it says "not for sale."

An ARC, as you may know, is an Advance Reading Copy of a book that has not yet been published. These are galleys that are rushed to press before a single soul has had a chance to proofread, so that reviewers can get an early look at the book. Naturally, they're a mess--full of errors and all sorts of horrors that make writers cringe in embarrassment. And even though we know that reviewers are savvy to this and are willing to overlook the gaffes, it drives us crazy to see these imperfect representations of our work circulated.

So you can imagine how insane we get when some greedy, unethical weasel gets his hands on our ARCs and sells them on the open market. I could go on and on about this, but a hilarious writer named John Warner already did a better job with it than I ever could. So if you have a few minutes, I urge you to read John's open letter to the jerkoffs who sell ARCs.

When you're finished reading it, you might just want to order John's book, Fondling Your Muse. That's what I did.

Meet Tanya Lee Stone!

Wow! Today, just as I was getting ready to blog about Cyber Girlfriend Tanya Lee Stone, I saw a giant spread in Newsday on how racy YA books are becoming. The article was called "Page Burners: Sex and the teenage girl."

I guess this isn't news to Tanya, who wrote a book called A BAD BOY CAN BE GOOD FOR A GIRL. According to this starred review from the School Library Journal, she's right there at the head of the pack with this smart, literate, and racy novel:

"Three girls succumb to the charms of one sexy high school senior and emerge wiser for the experience in this energetic novel in verse....The free verse gives the stories a breathless, natural flow and changes tone with each narrator. The language is realistic and frank, and, while not graphic, it is filled with descriptions of the teens and their sexuality. This is not a book that will sit quietly on any shelf; it will be passed from girl to girl to girl."- School Library Journal, Starred Review

But that's not all the buzz this hot book is getting. Check this out:

"It's fantastic--hip, edgy, and addicting. Sometimes funny, sometimes heartbreaking, always real. Sure to be the new Forever."- Award-Winning Author Cynthia Leitich Smith

"Stone's novel in verse, more poetic prose than poetry, packs a steamy, emotional wallop...suggest(s) a mature audience, even though the sex isn't graphic. The lessons learned here, however, are important: the girls realize they'll be hurt again, but they are now "Forewarned / Forearmed / Forever." - Booklist

"The three (very different) teen girl narrators in this candid free-verse novel form a chorus of varied perspectives on how a 'bad boy'-the same boy for all three-causes them to lose control before they even realize what's happening. Stone's portrayal of the object of their (dis)affection is stereotyped, but the three girls are distinct characters, and she conveys the way the girls' bodies and brains respond to the unnamed everyjerk in electrically charged (and sexually explicit) detail. Finally returning to her senses, Josie decides to post warnings about her ex in the back of the school library's copy of Judy Blume's Forever... because 'every girl reads it eventually.' Others add their own caveats in a reassuring show of sisterhood. As this scribbled 'support group' illustrates, even the most careful and self-aware among us sometimes gets bitten by the snake in the grass.'"- Horn Book

If you know a sophisticated young lady who loves to read, this is the book to get. You can find A BAD BOY CAN BE GOOD FOR A GIRL at your local chain or independent bookstore, or online at amazon.com or barnesandnoble.com. For more information on Tanya, visit her website at tanyaleestone.com.

April Horoscope

According to Astrology Zone, lots of cool things in store for us Scorps in April, including this:

Your first piece of good news concerning your growing status will occur on April 5, the date when Saturn moves direct. Since last December, Saturn has been creeping along in retrograde motion, keeping your career progress at a snail's pace. Things will change dramatically from April 5 onward, though, so fasten your seat belt! You are about to get clearance from the air traffic control tower to lift off! Saturn is now positioned in your career house, so from April 5 onward, it will be time to make long-range decisions, firm up plans, and move on them assertively. People from whom you needed decisions and advice were lackadaisical, but no more - everyone will seem alert and alive around you.

Check yours here.

Reading in Boca Raton, April 18

I'll be reading a selection from SECRET CONFESSIONS OF THE APPLEWOOD PTA in Boca Raton, Florida on Tuesday, April 18 at 7:30 PM. If you're interested in attending, please send me an email at ellenmeister (at) hotmail (dot) com, and I'll be delighted to give you the details.

"The Operation" By David Veronese

Do you have any idea how hard it is to impress the judges of short story contests, to stand out among hundreds of entries that have been workshopped and polished and then polished some more? My friend David Veronese wins short story contests. Even the most jaded judges are halted in their tracks by his gorgeous prose and his gripping, authentic emotional tales.

I love seeing him win awards, because it validates the way I feel about his writing. Makes me realize it's as good as I think it is, and I'm not biased by my affection for him.

Read this wonderful story and see if you don't feel the same way. It took second place in the prestigious Lit Pot contest a few years back.



The Operation
By David Veronese

I was killing time in the hospital admission room with my wife, Inga. She was down for a full hysterectomy, ovaries and all. She didn't seem particularly jumpy, but you never know with her. She’s from Denmark, her ancestors are the Vikings, and people like Sweyn Forkbeard, who by the year of 1013 had conquered all of England and Norway. The Danes don’t tend to wear their emotions on their sleeves, around their necks or pinned to their lapels; they don't tend to wear them anywhere at all.

A nurse summoned us, and led us into a vacant room with a desk and a few chairs in it, for a pre-op interview. The nurse was a fast-talker, and by my estimates, burned-out on the job a long time ago. You wouldn’t take her for a bedpan slinger or feeding you with an eyedropper.

She plowed through the spiel, answering questions with too much certainty. Any doubts that were shown she quickly acknowledged as worthy of consideration, giving a grave and meaningless nod, thus saving the time of having to argue with the patient.

Inga stated her distaste for painkillers. She'd had a few compacted teeth and a bit of jaw removed the previous winter, and once the anesthesia wore off, she refused to take anything except liquid Tylenol: add swallowing pills to the things she doesn't want to do.

Instead of telling Inga that she was a lunatic, and that sectioning out your gut might hurt a shade more than oral surgery, the nurse gladly wrote on the chart that the patient was not to be given any narcotics, chatting animatedly about how unnamed other patients had great luck with bullshit over the counter stuff like Advil and Aleve, in managing post-operative pain.

Stepping into the conversation at this point would have been like walking through the woods on the first day of hunting season wearing antler horns. These were empowered women, rightfully fed up with men telling them what to do about their uteruses, their fallopian tubes, their labia and vulvae. You could see the look in their eyes, they were for toughness, for heroics, for chewing and spitting out the nails. They could endure the unbearable pain of childbirth, after all: burrowing into the abdomen and removing a few elements from their private stocks, was a cakewalk. Painkillers! How gauche. How male. I kept my lips buttoned.

The nurse guided us back to the waiting area. Inga withdrew farther into herself. She'd been through many surgeries in the past few years, this was the point where she would ask me to leave, so as to be able to meditate upon her situation, to focus her concentration on the ordeal to come. She squeezed my hand with her powerful fingers, hugged me and kissed me on the ear. These were marching orders, I got up and left.

I'd closed the gallery for the day. My customers were used to my eccentricities, it gave credence to my artistic talents: Closed for Remodeling, Open Tomorrow would suit them fine, even though the store was surrounded by glass, and the absolute absence of anything resembling the remodeling process would be beyond obvious.

I went home and looked through the television schedule: it was the usual crap. I repaired to the video collection in the bookcase, and found a tape of Burt Lancaster and Yvonne DeCarlo in Crisscross. I fixed myself a roast beef sandwich with salt, and for the next hour watched the cast of characters doublecross and hustle each other, themselves, and anyone who got in the way.

I'd told them to have the doctor call me at home, when he was through cutting Inga up. His name was Aziz, a suave and steely Iraqi who'd spent about fifteen years practicing in England before coming to the U.S. to opportunely make his fortune. He drove a Jaguar, went hunting in Wyoming every fall, and after we’d consulted one highly recommended quack after another, it was he who finally identified my wife's malady. "It surprised me too," was about all he said, after showing me the photographic results of the laparoscopy.

Aziz had zero bedside manner. He wasn't mean or rude, but, at first, he scared the hell out of Inga: she couldn't imagine a doctor who wouldn't give more than yes or no answers to her volumes of questions. Inga thought you could only solve problems by discussing them. He's a specialist, I told her: he just works on Aston-Martins and Lamborghinis. You can't expect him to sit around talking about hub caps and spark plugs.

I put the VCR on pause, made another sandwich, and poured some cherry cola over a glass filled with ice. With remorseless fingers, my imagination took hold. I wondered why I was no longer entitled to meet any women like Yvonne Decarlo, Gene Tierney or Barbara Stanwyck. Some deadly femme fatale who'd allow me to seduce her with, on my part, a minimum of savoir faire. Who would proceed then to play with my heartstrings for some time, before fucking me over: committing acts of tortuous deceit, pulling me in like a fish, then letting out the line, then pulling back in again, until I was hopelessly obsessed with her. At which point I'd be given the remorseless boot.

The phone rang; it was Aziz. "Well, it's finished," he said.

"How'd it go?"

"It was a tough one," he said. "It took me nearly three hours."

"So you think that's the last we’ll see of the endometriosis?"

"It should be."

"Thanks, doc."

"Okay."

I watched the rest of the movie. I can't remember if Yvonne Decarlo took the bullet for Burt Lancaster or vice-versa. I liked film noir, there were no motives, rarely a need for character development, and anyone was likely or not to bite it.

Inga's hospital was a small one, just for women, on the east side of downtown. There was an ancient parking lot underneath it, that looked like a basement catacomb under Alcatraz. I let the valet park the car, I didn't care.

We'd gotten Inga a private room. My son's pediatrician, Dr Benghazi, was a sworn enemy of the insurance companies, and he'd walked us through a procedure that often would have them pay the differential over a double.

"These robbers take the money out of my pocket," said Benghazi decrying the insurance companies. "They take it out of your pocket. Then they put it in the stock market! The government should have the socialized medicine for the poor, and let us doctors compete in the market for the rest of the business."

Benghazi had been the one to recommend us to Aziz. They'd known each other as children in Baghdad. The men were near polar opposites, however. Benghazi was about five feet tall and had an accent as thick as Zsa Zsa Gabor. He was like a physician from the fifties; he'd make a house call, he'd pick up the phone himself on his day off.

Benghazi didn't even much care for Aziz, as far as I could tell. He only recommended him, I guess, because he thought he was the best man for the job.

Yes, no, and maybe were the major components of Aziz's vocabulary. If Benghazi, on the other hand, had a little time, he'd sit down and bullshit a spell, on any topic. "My father was in business," he told me once. "He didn't push us--we decided for ourselves what to do."

"How many siblings do you have?"

"Five brother. Three sister."

"What do they do?"

“All doctors," he confessed with an incandescent smile.


I'd figured out a shortcut to Inga's room. You walked past the lobby, turned right and pushed a knob on the wall. You walked through an atrium past a sign that said DO NOT ENTER: SURGERY ONLY, and got onto the first elevator.

Inga was out cold. They had all the IVs hooked up. I checked the contents of the bags. One was your 5% glucose: lunch and supper, the other appeared to be an antibiotic. No painkillers, naturally. The anesthesia from the surgery would last for a few hours.

I went up to the cafeteria. They were stacking the chairs; they always closed five minutes before I got there. I went down to the basement to the snack automat room. It was the same kind of crap they sell at a 7-11. Potato chips, candy bars, trash fruit juice, microwavable ham and cheese sandwiches on wilted bread.

At one time, recreational drug use was the focal point of my life, but now I couldn't even stomach a cup of coffee. How the mighty have fallen! I settled on an Eskimo Bar; I made sure not to read about the grams of fat on the ingredients menu.

There was a lone table and the newspaper scattered over it. I checked the progress of my internet stocks in the business pages. I was down about four thousand bucks. I read a column about picking mutual funds. It was based on the same principles used in handicapping ponies at the track.

What's the difference between picking stocks, and picking horses? What? There's only eight horses, and one of them always wins.

I contemplated what Benghazi had said. In fact, the market, like similar vehicles, was a funnel for enriching the very rich. They just wanted to keep the average suckers down, up to their necks in mortgage and car payments, putting the little spare change we had in money markets paying the same interest we'd get burying the dough in the backyard. Of course once the market caught fire with Joe Normal, the tycoons would take their profits, and it would drop like a lead balloon.

I read the back of the world news section. There was a major genocide going on in central Africa. Hutus, Tutsis, Rwanda, Burundi. A god-awful sickening mess. Unfortunately, I'd given up on the revolution, just like I'd given up on the drugs. But I wasn't a revisionist--I kept fond memories of both.

I went back up to see Inga. The ward smelled of isopropyl. An orderly pushed a dolly filled with dinner trays down the hall. Inga's eyes were fluttering.

"How's it going, angel-baby?" I asked. I touched her hand right above the vein where one of the IV needles protruded.

"What happened?" she asked very slowly.

"Dr. Aziz said it went real well."

Her eyes fluttered some more. Her lips were bluish. She didn't look anywhere near as bad as after the jaw surgery, when she resembled someone who'd gone a few minutes with Joe Frazier.

"How do you feel?"

"Okay," she said, in a stone-like voice that probably meant that she felt like shit. Of all the countries occupied by the Nazis, the Danes came through the best. They surrendered after about fifteen minutes, then sewed their mouths shut for five years, pretending like it didn't matter much. They kept every last Jew hidden and shipped them secretly over to Sweden. You never really did fucking know what they were thinking about. I checked the drainage of her catheter, and the level of the antibiotic.

I went to fetch my kid, Giancarlo, from school. I had to park a few blocks away. He didn't want anyone to know his old man was picking him up.

I watched in the rear view mirror. I saw his head appearing over the top of an old Pontiac.

Giancarlo got into the car. "How's it going, man?"

He was a tight-lipped little kid. "Fine," he said.

"How was school?"

"The same."

"It sucked?"

"Yeah."

"Mommy's operation went real well. The doctor said she'll be just fine."

"That's good."

I know he cared a lot, but you couldn't see it on his face. He looked and acted exactly like his mother, not a bit like me. The Danish gene pool was tough to go around. Having been brought up among a screaming, hysterical ethnic group myself, it was hard to believe that my son exhibited no neurotic tendencies whatsoever.

"You mean you never even read Giancarlo any Bible stories?" asked my mother incredulously.

"No, Mom. But you can if you want to."

"But what do you tell him about God?"

"I tell him that God exists inside the human heart, and that we're innately capable of making decisions based on morality, without having to go into a building on Saturday or Sunday and talk to a wall..."


Giancarlo didn't want to go to visit Inga at the hospital. I'd taken him to see her when she'd had the jaw surgery. It was truly the worst she'd ever looked. They'd covered her face with some white paste and her cheek was blue and swollen. It was like looking down a long tunnel and getting your first glimpse of death.


I went up with him to our apartment and let him watch TV while I fixed him some macaroni and cheese. We had our daily tense discussion concerning homework strategy. Inga was nice cop, and I was mean cop. It worked out to the good; he was a decent kid.

I drove back to the hospital. I thought about work. It was tough having to sell five-thousand dollars worth of merchandise every week just to pay the rent and have a little vacation in the summer. I was sick of arguing with landlords, I was sick of leases. I was sick of having to hustle, hustle, hustle, to make sure the competition didn't take away too much of my money.

Inga was lying on her side, curled up, with her eyes closed. I could see she was wide awake.

"How's it go, angel-baby?"

"It really hurts."

"Have you told the nurse?"

"No. I was waiting." She was like a wounded horse. Instead of screaming and yelling with the pain, she was lying on her side as quietly as she could, hardly breathing.

"My wife is in 604. She had a full hysterectomy. She's in extreme pain. She needs some drugs."

The nurse looked at the chart. "It says she can't have any pain killers." She gave me a strange look. We knew we weren't going to like each other.

"They just sliced open her abdomen a few hours ago. She needs something."

"I'll have to call the doctor."

I went back to the room to sit with Inga. About thirty minutes went by.

I walked down the hall until I heard the nurse's voice coming from a room to my right. "We can switch you to a semi-private room tomorrow," she said all too sweetly. "It shouldn't be a problem, Mrs. Kirby."

I buttonholed her coming out the door. "Where's the painkiller?"

She looked at the floor. "The doctor hasn't called back. There's nothing I can do. I'll try calling again."

I went back to Inga's room. Oh shit, I thought. It's always me. The god-damned knight. Oh, well. I looked in the phone book and found Aziz's listing. He had a separate residence number. This is almost always a night answering service.

A woman answered the phone. "Hello."

"Is this Dr Aziz's house?"

"Yes, I am the housekeeper." She had a Latin accent.

"I'm in the hospital with my wife. She had surgery today--a hysterectomy." In my mind I composed the word in Spanish. It should be historotomia. "She's in horrible pain, they won't give her any drugs."

She didn't need any further prompting. "Oh--that's horrible," she said. "I will get hold of the doctor."

"Have him call me at this number." I gave her the direct phone to Inga's room, I didn't want to take any chances with the loose screw at the nurses’ desk.

"Okay," I said, resigned to the indeterminate wait.

But Aziz pulled a fast one. He called me back in four minutes. "This is Dr Aziz," he said in his vague British accent. He sounded like he'd just finished a top-notch desert with a thimble of brandy for a chaser.

I dispensed with formalities. "It's Inga's husband. She's in extreme pain. They have a block on narcotics on her chart. She's not allergic to anything."

"She's not?" he said.

"No, she just doesn't like taking them. She snookered the admitting nurse into blocking the chart."

"She's a tough cookie," said Aziz. That was the only personal thing I ever heard him say.

"She needs some Demerol. She needs to have it right away."

"Okay," said Aziz. “Yes...” For a moment, he seemed like a helpless child. "I'll order a pump. She can control the dose."

"Do you want the number of the nurse's station?"

"I have it."

"Thanks."

"Okay."

It took me another half hour of kicking the nurse's ass to get the pump hauled in and running. I watched the gage while Inga lay there. "Hit it again," I said, the second the clock ran out. On the fourth squeeze she was okay.


That night I took Giancarlo out to shoot pool. It was one of those new wave parlors; bright neon, smart-looking college kids, short-skirted waitresses attending your drinking and dining needs. We played eight-ball. The girl at the front counter was a real dish. I went back several times to ask technical questions.

"If you're stripes, and the cue ball touches a solid ball and then sinks a stripe, does it still count?"

She had a slight accent. "No, that doesn't. You have to put the ball back." She looked at me looking at her.

"Where are you from?" I asked.

"Hungary."

"Okay, I love you."

She smiled, a big bright one, I returned to the table. And I did love her. And I loved Giancarlo while he chalked up his stick, still a little clumsy at the game. And I loved Inga and I loved Benghazi and Aziz and I loved all the lights, the clatter of the balls filling the room, splitting apart from the rack like the fission of rogue atoms.

I knew it wouldn't last long. Love only comes in very small teaspoonfuls these days. It used to be it was always there, bubbling under the surface, forcing my hand; and I'd err on the side of passion every chance I got. I've given in now. I walk among the half-witted brotherhood of man, just another chump. But maybe I'd get lucky this time. Maybe I'd get a little extra mileage.

I left the counter-girl a five dollar tip when we turned in our rack. "See you in Budapest," I said.

"No," she said. "I don't think so. That time is gone."

Maybe she was right.

* * *

This story first appeared in Lit Pot

David's novel, Jana, is out-of-print, but the folks at amazon.com can find you a copy. They did for me!

Richard Yates

Three or four million years ago, almost fresh out of college, I had a short-lived job as assistant to a literary agent. One of the perks of the job was that I was allowed to borrow any of the books from my boss's shelves. It was there that I discovered my first Richard Yates book, "Easter Parade," and I about lost my mind. This guy was simply the greatest writer in the universe, no question about it.

So ... can you imagine how a 23-year-old Ellen gushed the first time she picked up the phone for her boss and heard that the caller was Richard Yates? I'm sure I came across like a blathering idiot, but he was quite gracious.

We developed a little phone friendship over the months I was there, and he eventually sent me an autographed copy of "Liars in Love." The book has been lost in the bowels of my basement for the past nine years, and I'm happy to announce that I just found it. Of course, I'm delighted to share it with you.

I'm a side dish!

Just when I was about to stop obsessively checking The New York Daily News (yeah, right), there I am as a side dish, all cozy with the slurpalicious George Clooney. The above item is on page 24 of today's paper. You can also view it online here.

In other book news, I found out on Friday that SECRET CONFESSIONS OF THE APPLEWOOD PTA is going to a featured alternate in two book clubs, Doubleday and Literary Guild. I'm thrilled!