“If you don’t ask to be moistened, you don’t get moistened.”

That is my personal motto.  Like all good mottos, there’s a story behind it.  When I was pregnant with The Bandit, I was on required bed rest from the fifth month.  It was lonely and boring and hot.  The only time I was supposed to be out of bed was for doctor’s appointments.  It was a darn good thing I had seven or eight doctor’s appointments scheduled a week or I would have imploded. 

I called my friends, My Honey and my mom at work often.  “What are you doing now?  How about now?”  Kelli got me a Netflix gift certificate so I watched a bunch of movies and the entire Sex in the City series in a row.  I had a television schedule that involved Rockford Files which, honestly, was one of the few perks of bed rest.  I still have a crush on James Garner.

So there I lay, slowing growing more beached whale like everyday.  One night it was especially warm and my body temperature was up anyway so I hollerd for My Honey.  When he arrived I asked him for a favor.

“I want you to go into the bathroom with a clean washcloth, get it wet, and come back here and moisten me.”

Obviously, that didn’t happen.  It was a totally insane request.  But he MIGHT have done it, but he never would have if I hadn’t asked. In fact, he may have if I hadn’t asked in such a crazy lady sort of way. 

Thus was the beginning of my motto.  You never know what you might get if you ask.  You definitely won’t get it if you don’t.

So I started asking some of my favorite writers for ARCs.  For the uniniated, that an Advanced Reader Copy.  For the several months before the book festival, I write for my examiner.com site like a crazy person and the rest of the year, the column pretty much remains idle.  Why shouldn’t I write reviews for all the books I read? 

I emailed a favorite of mine, Rachel Gibson, last week because the latest in her currrent series is coming out at the end of April.  She forwarded me a signed copy right away and I started it tonight.

So all of you out there, ask to be moistened.  You never know what you might get.

I thought I was going blind.  Each room was darker than the last.  My house is naturally dark, primarily due to the blinds and curtains always being drawn, but this seemed excessive even to me.

I remember growing up, my mother would walk through the living room, throw open the curtain and announce, “I hate living like a mole.”  My brother and I would just blink up at her from the floor where we were watching our cartoons and having grape eating contests and drinking Coca-Cola out of wine glasses. 

I don’t know, I kind of like it.  As a lifelong dweller in the hot and searing desert, I’ve always kept the blinds closed in order to keep the heat out.  Every once in a while, come spring, I’ll pull up the blinds and open the curtains to let the fresh cool air in.  Then I find out how dusty the house is and who has time for that?

So the bathroom was darkish.  I trudged down the hall and made my way down the hall to the laundry room.  I paused in the kitchen where the dining table seemed hidden in shadows.  The corner of the office where my desk sits was shrouded in gloom much more than any other area in the room.  Even when I turn on my desk lamp, the space seemed sort of squinty. 

Finally I realized, there were half a dozen lightbulbs out around the house. 

It’s nice to know the darkness isn’t winning, but still.  At this rate I’m going to own half of GE.

I’ve been writing like crazy this last week.  Since the Tucson Festival of Books is finally over, and I’ve regained an enormous part of my personal life back, I have been very anxious to get Book Two finished. 

I’ve set an arbitrary date of May 15th for the first draft to be completed, but I know My Agent would like it sooner. 

Here’s my favorite phenomenon that happens, at least to me, when I’m writing a book.  It happened today which is what prompted me to blog about it.

I’ll be writing along following my defined route marked out on a big piece of posterboard in colored coded Post It Notes for days just trying to stay on the designated plot path.  It’s not drudgery, don’t get me wrong, but it isn’t fantastic either.  I’ve written good stuff and I can see where the story is going but I’m not totally feeling it yet, either.  It’s almost like something hasn’t quite gelled for me yet. 

Well it happened today.  The pudding of my story all of a sudden firmed up.  The problem turned out to be that I really didn’t completely understand my hero.  He was superficial at best and one dimensional at worst.  The heroine was firmly created in my mind, her personality painted with a kalediscope of colors, but poor hero-man was a stick figure.  And dear readers, that was a shame because this book was conceived because I loved his character so much in Book One. 

How can that be, you ask?  Well, Book One wasn’t really about him.  He played a fairly big part in it, but ultimately he was a throw away character.  Only, I couldn’t bring myself to do that.  He was so affable and charming that his story should be told.

Unfortunately, affable and charming can only go so far.  I had to stir life into my limp pudding and, entirely by accident, that happened today.  The words flowed from my fingers without my bidding and, lo and behold, there he was.  It was just as shocking to me as I’m sure it was to my dear gentleman.

Now he’s so much more than pudding.  He’s like Donkey said, “a parfait.”

Now, I’m super excited to keep going.  Maybe I’ll make it early after all.

Parfait anyone?

Believe it or not, this scatalogical conversation was had with my DAUGHTER.  The prissy one.  The pink, frilly, tutu wearing girl and not the boy.  One would have expected the boy to have been involved, but he was off somewhere else, doing God only knows what and probably without underwear on while he was doing it.

I was in the kitchen loading the dishwasher after dinner.  My Honey had run over to his mom’s house so it was just me and the kids.  Probably not the best combination, but that’s when the best blog stuff happens.

This fine gentleman might have just been waiting for his turn

I was adjusting the hot water from the faucet when she stolled up next to me, grape popcicle in hand, and asked, “Mom, where did pirates go to the bathroom?”

“What?” I asked.  These people and their questions.  Do they sit around all day and make this crap up with their friends or something?

She repeated her question.  I noticed a distinct smirk she tried to hide, but I’m a professional smirker and I know the signs well.  It all comes with being a card carrying sarcasam expert.  I come from a long line of sarcasam-istas.

“Where did pirates go to the bathroom?  Was it the poop deck?”  Now I was regailed with fifteen minutes of hysterical, stomach-grasping giggling.  Where the heck is her brother?  This sort of nonsense from one kid generally draws out the other one if only to see what the ruckus is about.

Now here another “normal” mother would have gone along with the joke and be done with it.  Not me.  No.  The Queen of Useless Knowledge happened to know the real answer to this question.  I realize it was a joke and she didn’t really want the truth, but here was an opportunity to completely freak out the girl and I can’t pass that up.

Actually, the poop deck is thought to be called that for several reasons.  1) from the French word for stern (which

That's the actual poop deck at the top

 where the poop deck is located) la poupe from the Latin puppis. 2) named from the after deck on Roman ships, the puppim,  where statues or idols of the Gods, the puppis, were kept.  I have a tendancy to lean more towards reason number one.  I get tired of answer having to do with God.  It gets real old and it’s unimaginative.

Either way you go with that explanation, it’s not funny.  Harsh reality check: the truth is often not funny.  Good lesson to learn at seven, don’t you think?

“So,” you ask just like the seven year old did, “WHERE did the pirates go to the bathroom?”

Here’s where the freak out occurs.  They walked their nasty butts to the front of the ship and hung their tushies over the rail.

Let’s say it all together now, “EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!”

Of course, paid passagers on a ship would have had a chamber pot in their room just like at home.  But again, that’s still not funny.

So, disregard this entire post and start over.

“Where did pirates go to the bathroom?”

So, indeed, I did have strep throat.  I can’t remember the last time I had

doesn't look so scary when it's represented by a plush toy, does it?

 strep.  Probably when I was a kid or something.  It’s just not on my list of things I’m susceptable to.  So when I started feeling a little peaked, I thought it was allergies like everyone else.  My mother, of course, pulled her nurse hat out of the bag and made me go to the doctor.  What finally pushed me into it was the fact that I almost passed out in the Costco.  Isn’t that embarassing.

While I was still vascillating over the idea of going to the doctor, I looked up the symptoms of strep at WebMD.  Well, if WebMD wasn’t designed to scare the crap out of you, I don’t know what real use it is.  Did you know you can get a whole body rash from strep.  The call it Scarlet Fever.  Didn’t people die from that in the last hundred years or so?  At the very least, I know people went blind from it.  I certain I remember Mary, the oldest sister on Little House on the Prairie, went blind from Scarlet Fever. 

Thus, I visited a Minute Clinic.  Going blind is my worst nightmare.

I’m feeling much better today, thank you all for your kind words.  It seems no one really dies from strep throat, no matter how enticing the prospect may have seemed yesterday.  Several doses of pennecillian as seen to that. 

 Now if I could just find the little weasel that exposed me to it in the first place.  I suspect it was one of the wretched little kids from the school.  I didn’t use any sick days for myself.  I know that’s horrible of me and you can all write me hateful comments, but by the time I was diagnosed I got three doses of antibiotics in me before I returned to work.  I have to save up MY sick days for when the kids are sick.

Or for when I have real trouble with my eyes.  You know, when you just can’t see yourself going to work.

I knew I shouldn’t be getting him riled up before bed, but sometimes it’s hard to resist.  We were lying in the bottom bunk, snuggling in the dark after we’d read his bedtime story.  We were talking about St. Patrick’s Day tomorrow and, against my better judgement, I was tickling him and giving him little pinches.

“You can’t pinch me.”  He giggled the high pitch laugh that is so gratifying to a tickler like me.  “You’re not a leprechaun.”

“How do you know?,” I countered.  “I’m lots of things you don’t know about.”  I gave him a wee pinch on an especially ticklish rib bone.

“Because you’re too big.”  He squirmed and squealed.  “And you’re not green.”

“I’m a duly appointed agent of the Leprechaun Association,” I told him.

“What does that mean?”

I nuzzled his neck.  “It means I get to do all the same things Leprechauns can do without getting in trouble with the Leprechaun Union.  They’re very tough so I’m excited they approved my application.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” he protested and slapped away my hand.  He still giggled almost uncontrollably.  “You’re not a leprechaun.”

“Yeah, I am,” I assured him.  “The leprechauns can’t be everywhere so sometimes they get big people to help them out on important Irish days like St. Patrick’s Day.”

He tried to wiggle away but it was no use.  “Nu huh.  How come I’ve never heard this before?”

“Because the Leprechaun Association is very secretive as you can imagine.  They make that one of the rules of working for them.”  I snaked my hands under the covers and got him behind the knee.

He stops giggling just long enough to squeak out, “You do not.”

“Yeah huh.”  I snuck in a kiss.  “I found them on the Internet.  You can find anything on the Internet.”

“Not leprechauns,” he informed me,  “they’re not real.”

“Oh no”  I cackled wildly. “You’re in big trouble with the Leprechaun Association now, little boy!”

He can’t even respond through my pinchy-tickly assault.  Who’d have ever thought St. Patrick’s Day would be so much fun without the green beer?

Sassy and The Bandit have the rest of the week off school for spring break.  And then they have time off next month for spring break.  I don’t get it.  I spend an awful lot of money to send them to a private school for there to be all these days off.  That wasn’t the point of this post.

Since they are off tomorrow, the real St. Patrick’s Day, they were allowed to wear green today instead of their regular uniforms.  I’d pretty much forgotten all about it since I’d planned my green for tomorrow like everyone else in the Western hemisphere.

We pulled into our parking space and jumped out of the car to hurry into school before the bell rang.  I was hustling them onto the lawn when Bandit stopped cold.

“Darn!”  He stomped his little Transformer shod foot.  “I forgot to wear green.”

“Oh well.” I put my hand on his shoulder in an effort to keep him moving and guide him in the direction of his class.  “I’m pretty sure there’s green on your underwear.”  I remember setting out Incredible Hulk drawers for him this morning with the rest of his clothes.

“Bwwwwwaaaahahahahahahahaha!” His face lit up with a big toothy grin, his evil laughter echoing off the brick of the building.  “I’m not wearing any underwear!”

Honestly, I don’t get it.

I’m here to tell you, when my head hurts this bad it only seems fair that blood should be leaking out my eyes and ears.  I know that sounds dramatic  and maybe a tad excessive, but anyone who gets migraines can understand that one of the most frustrating things about the affliction that people can’t see how badly you’re hurting, thus your pain is pretty much disregarded. 

I can’t tell you how many murders I’ve planned when some idiot suggests to me that I take a Tylenol.  Tylenol might as well be a Chiclets for all the good it’ll do me.  I’ve taken all the prescription meds I’m allowed in a 24 hour period and several non-prescription ones as well.  I’ve done all the folk remedies: caffeine, lavender, whining.  A Percocet won’t do anything for the pain, and for whatever reason, doesn’t really even help me sleep. 

I’ve begged My Honey to get one of those antique augers and drill a hole in my head to release some of the pressure of

My ideal medical instrument

 my expanding brain, but selfishly he won’t.  He babbled something about prison and insurance copays but, quite frankly, I wasn’t listening anymore.  I couldn’t hear with the incessant pounding of the pulse at my temples.

 It’ll pass in several days.  Either that, or I have a brain tumor.  I’ve had this one since Saturday.  I’ll be in tears sometime tomorrow.  The good news is, and how pathetic am I that this is good news, it’s just pain now, no more jacked up vision problems or confusion to contend with. 

You wanna come over and break my neck and put me out of my misery?

Wow! This weekend was exciting and exhausting and exhilarating and overwhelming all at once.  Everything came together very well.  Of course, there were several hiccups, but nothing that wasn’t over come fairly easily.  There were absolutely scads of people that turned out.  I saw several old friends which delighted me immensely (Hey Kristy, Dona and Melissa!)  I gave my two talks which was ridiculously nerve wracking.  I stopped shaking somewhere around the middle of the first talk and I never threw up.  I wanted to when I got the second massive migraine in one day on Saturday.  I had to call My Honey and have him drive me home.  Some of the lovely ladies in my RWA chapter drove my car home.  I don’t know why I have such a hard time accepting help, but they insisted and I’m very glad they did.

The whole thing kicked off Friday night with a dinner at Old Pueblo Grill.  I was so excited to meet all the authors since I’d sort of met them all on line when I did the interviews.  I sat next to Mary Jo Putney at dinner.  She was just lovely and was very gracious over my fawning.  She asked me questions about my writing and Kelli and I talked about research with her and our friend Anita.  Mary Jo signed my book and even gave Kelli and I a taste of her dessert which, I might add, was way better than the one we ordered to share.

I also met Gini Koch, the author of Touched by an Alien and Alien Tango, who turned out to be just as crazy and fun in person as she is in email.  And Glory of Glories, Karen Hawkins was there with Hot Cop.  She was just as nice as could be and even posed for a picture with me.

After dinner, Kelli and I raced to the airport like crazy people to pick up Esi Sogah, Associate Editor for Avon.  Of course, I pitched to her in the car. Why not?  After all, she was a captive audience.  It turns out she’s just as fun and gregarious as can be.  She told me to forwardher stuff which I’ll pass on to My Agent.  Also, note to those of you out there who also pick up Esi at the airport – she loves a good In & Out burger with grilled onions and a strawberry milkshake.

Saturday was soooooooo0 long.  My Honey and I packed the kids in the car while they were still in their jammies at 6:30 in the morning to get down to the University to load up the booth and my day didn’t stop until 6:00 that night.  The weather was gorgeous, if not a little hot.  We hit the high 80’s.  Our guests from the East coast were in seventh heaven. 

I took care of Deb Werksman, editor from Sourcebooks, while she was in town.  We were conversationally walking toward the Author green room so she could get checked in, when she asked what I wrote.  I told her and she asked me to tell her all about it.  I instantly went from a confident, self-possessed event organizer to a blithering idiot.  She still asked for my agent to send her my stuff.  I don’t get it.

All four of our favorite ladies were present for one panel: Not Your Mother’s Bodice Ripper: The Evolution of the

Sabrina Jeffries, Julia London, Karen Hawkins, Sabrina Jeffries

 Romance Novel.  The ladies certainly didn’t disappoint, either. 

I also, got the chance to see two more of my favorites, Jennifer Ashley and Vicki Lewis Thompson who gave hopeful writers helpful information about what to do now that they’ve finished a book.

Sunday was a little less stressful.  The weather still held out and this was the day My Honey was able to come down with Sassy & The Bandit.  They had a great time and had their pictures taken with a bunch of their favorite storybook characters: Curious George, the pig from Give a Pig a Pancake, Little Critter, Maisy and a bunch of others.  They got a bunch of free books and other goodies.  My personal highlight was when they each got to ride a pony named Dillon.  It wasn’t Dillonwho was so special, it was

Little horsey tennis shoes!

his friend, Snickers.  Snickers is a miniature pony who works in therapy by visiting hospitals and nursing homes, etc.  Snickers wears tennis shoes.  Yes, tennis shoes and you haven’t seen cute until you’ve seen a miniature pony wearing red Keds. 

Karen Hawkins and Julia London gave a talk I moderated in the afternoon about research, a topic I don’t need any help with, but of

Julia & Karen

 course, I wrote down several of their suggested reference books I currently don’t have in my arsenal.

I also finally was able to meet Susan Wiggs, Erin Kellison, Erin Quinn, and Caris Roane. 

This event may be completely exhausting but, this it’s all just so much fun for me to meet all these people.

After everything wrapped up on Sunday and I’d taken Esi to the airport and Kelli had taken Karen Hawkins and Julia London back to the hotel, we took Sabrina Jeffries out shopping and to dinner.  We had the best time.  Sabrina is honestly one of the funniest people I’ve had the opportunity to schmooze with.  She told us horror stories about agents and publishing, gossip about the industry, and stories of her personal triumphs and defeats that only strengthened our resolve to keep on writing and submitting. 

Sabrina tried to pick up the check, but we refused.  I slid on my best Godfather impression and told her, “Someday I may call upon you to do a service for me.”  She has such a great sense of humor, she didn’t find that at all terrifying.  She did promise to write my front cover book blurb when I’m finally published.

One fabulous bit of trivia about Sabrina Jeffries: just like me, she also hates cilantro.  She thinks it tastes like bug spray!

Karen, someone, Sabrina & Julia

The Tucson Festival of Books was a phenominal success, our super-duper famous authors were fabulous and generous and funny and charming.  The weather was stupendous.  The editors were very interested in my work. 

Also, I’m exhausted.  My head hurts as only the sufferer of two migraines in one day can hurt.  And I’m not sure I can string anymore words together than this.

I have tomorrow off from the soul-sucking day job to recover from this whole adventure, so I’ll tell you the tale with pictures then.

I promise.  For now, ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz