One of the things a writer will tell you is their favorite thing about writing fiction is that you have total control over your people’s lives.  You own them and they have to do what you say.

Many writing teachers will tell you, if you get stuck, just have something horrible happen to one of your characters and everything will take care of itself. 

That’s why I love this quote:

I can do to him whatever I like.  I’m allowed to torture him as much as I want.  He’s mine.

J.K. Rowling, on her beloved Harry Potter.

Here are a couple of things from this weekend.

I had my first speaking engagement.  I’m considering it an audition for the two I have at the Tucson Festival of Books in March.  I think it went alright.  Mostly.  I tried REALLY hard to speak slowly.  I have a tendency to get manic when I’m nervous.  I don’t know how anyone can tell my regular manic from my nervous manic besides maybe Kelli and my mom, but there is a lot more parched mouth in a manic moment. 

Kelli is my new assistant.  Really.  She’s serious about this and I’m her biggest fan.  More about that later.  The point of my mentioning it was due to the fact that if anyone liked what I had to say at the library that day, it was because Kelli wrote my speech which included reading from one of my favorite novels – even going to far as to mark the pages with “breathe here.”

Kudos to her.

I almost forgot this part, someone asked for my autograph.  Isn’t that hysterical?  I giggled the entire time I wrote down my name.

Finally an employee asked us if we needed help.  We told him who’s party we were attending and he grinned sheepishly and told us the best news I have heard in weeks, “Yeah, about that. It seems there was a mix up and the party was yesterday. The wrong date was printed on the invitation.”

I swear I would have kissed that pimply-faced kid square on the mouth if I hadn’t been afraid his braces would cut my lip.

“Can we still stay and play games?” my kids asked.

“No!” I answered forcefully and shoved them towards the door.  “Get in the car.” 

Honestly, I was certain Alan Funt was going to pop out behind a booth and yell, “You’re on Candid Camera!”  I wasn’t taking any chances so I made them sprint to the parking lot.

***

In the car, Sassy and I were talking about friends.  I really wish I could help her wade through the shark infested waters of girl relationships but, alas, I can’t.  I can merely only offer advice.  I attempted to do just that when I tried to help her see she shouldn’t invest all her hopes into one girl she knows.  This particular girl is very immature (and that’s saying something for seven year olds) and really has no idea how she hurts Sassy’s feelings. 

I don’t know what I was thinking when this came out of my mouth, “I wouldn’t put all your eggs in her basket.”

There was silence from the back seat.  I glanced at her in the rear view mirror and her eyebrows showed she was perplexed.

“But Mom, I like my eggs scrambled.”

***

Our little berg is recovering from the vicious cold snap that blasted through here last week.  All the prickly pear cactus in my neighborhood is dying from the freeze.  Huge pads are wilting and falling off and whole sections of the plants are laying on the ground.  The neighbor who shares our back fence on the South side has a huge prickly pear that has grown to about twelve feet high.  It’s very heavy and My Honey is constantly battling with it as it droops over the wall and bends the fence.  A big clump fell over into our yard this weekend and broke our back flow valve. 

In the course of trying to repair the plumbing and get rid of the cactus, the Idiot Dog tried to eat a giant, thorn filled pad and then lick the blow torch.

Ava is always telling me the dog is really very smart.  I beg to differ and I keep amassing proof.

This Saturday, February 5th, I’ll be speaking with three other of my romance buddies at an Amore & More workshop put on by the Pima County Public Library. 

Finding Your Niche in Today’s Romance Market

Romance novels accounted for 40% of all fiction sold in the U.S. in 2009.  Authors Amylynn Bright, Lisa Cottrell-Bently, Lorelie Long and Frankie Robertson host a workshop that will help you find your niche in the billion dollar market.

We will be at the Mission Library from 1-3.  Stop on by and say Hi. 

I’ll be the one talking really fast and hyperventilating.

Yesterday I posted a picture of the fountain at work with some icicles hanging on the tiers.  The girls at work and I all thought it was so pretty.  We ooohed and aaahed and went out into the bitter, freezing cold to take pictures with our phones.

Last night was even colder.  Really cold.  Our little city woke up to a world of hurt this morning.  Southwest Gas can’t get gas to half the damn state so those poor people don’t have heat.  Water mains broke all over town.  In fact, my kids school is closed today and tomorrow because three of the four main water lines broke and the fire sprinklers exploded.  They have three plumbing crews working on it.  I can’t even begin to imagine the bill three plumbing companies are going to charge. 

As I drove to work, there were gysers all over town.  I can just see the plumbers nestled all snug in their beds, dreams of hefty invoices dancing in their heads.

But honestly, this town is a mess.  The whole state really.  I know that it’s much worse in other parts of the country, but my little berg was not made for this nonsense.  Our underground pipes are very close to the surface.  Our infrastructure isn’t staffed for this kind of weather.  They are even considering calling for a State of Emergency.

I called Kurt this morning because I heard a rumor it was 45 in Anchorage.  It was 19 when I went to work, and I’m just saying, I don’t want to live in a place colder than Alaska.  Kurt informed me it was 25 in Anchorage but that Kenai was 45 since it’s further inland.  He urged me to go on living because soon enough it would be hot and I could complain about that.

So, today our fountain at work looked like this.

Looks like a wedding cake, right?  Like a Disneyland winter wedding cake.

Later, the maintenance guy came out and spent three hours beating the icicles off with a shovel.

Holy Cow is it cold. 

This morning I went to let the Idiot Dog out and my first clue to the temperature should have been that I could barely get the back door open.  It was frozen shut.  Seriously! My back yard faces west so it doesn’t get the sun until noonish.  I finally wrenched it open and Roscoe blithely trotted out the door and WHOOOOSH all four legs went a different direction and he took a header on the brick path.  He looked like Bambi on the ice pond. 

He got up and sniffed the path and looked at me, bemused.  He also found the crunchy grass an unlikely oddity.  I pried his dog dish off the patio and ran back inside to fill it.  I came back and he was standing in the grass at the exact same spot I left him, staring at the door with a look of mild concern on his fuzzy face.

I deposited his food and slammed the door.  It’ll warm up.  He has hair.  This is what I told myself.

The kids and I went back to scrambling for school.  It was only a few minutes before he started up.

“Ah-ooooooooooooooooooooiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnne,” he managed to combine a howl into a mournful whine.  It was a potent combination of misery and woe that could not be denied.

I shut the doors to the kid’s rooms so he couldn’t steal their toys and tucked the kitchen garbage into the pantry.  When I opened the back door he burst through in a flurry of ears and spindly legs and frost bite.

We all went off to school and work and I just prayed I’d have a couch left when I got home.

At lunch I ran home to let him out.  I figured it was warm enough for him to go out by now.  Not warm enough for me, mind you, but he’s covered with hair.  He roused himself lazily when I came through the door.  He was warm and sleepy and looked quite happy.

“Come on. Let’s go outside!” I sang with great enthusiasm.  I am often guilty of anthropomorphism, but I swear to you, that dog shook his head at me and gave me a look that said, “Yeah, I’m not going out there, lady.”

“Come on!” My voice raised another thrilling octave and I clapped my hands together.  His eyebrows told me, “nuh-uh.”  He wouldn’t even go out to pee even though I promised him I’d let him back in.  He simply turned around and went back to sleep.

I let him stay in because the only evidence I found of mischief was a half a loaf of bread shoved in the couch cushions.  And it really was VERY cold outside.

Here is the proof of the cold.  These are pictures of the fountain in the courtyard at my office.  These pictures were taken at 3:45 in the afternoon.  These are serious icicles, people, even in the middle of the day.

Tonight it’s supposed to be what Ava describes as, “bitterly cold” across most of the US.  It’s even cold down here in the desert.  The low is supposed to be in the 20’s tonight and a high of only 40 tomorrow.  I know those of you back East would probably just like to smack me right about now, and I’m sorry, but my blood is thin and I live here because of my deep seated hatred for cold weather.

One of only a few pleasurable things about winter is my late night writing ritual.  I can only do it when it’s cold.  I’ve been trying to develop a taste for tea and so far so good.  In fact, I’ve found quite a few that are absolutely delicious.  So this is how the ritual goes:

After everyone has gone to bed, I turn on the water in my whistling kettle and, while it’s boiling, I get the rest of my stuff together. I have a slew of my great grandmother’s tea cups, but I keep them hidden away in the china cabinet.  Instead I use my favorite mug and a cute little teapot along with a motley assortment of my G’ma’s heirlooms.

A funny little aside about that nickname.  My sweet little great grandmother always used to send letters and birthday greetings with the signature G apostrephe ma – G’ma.  Once a jealous girlfriend of my uncle’s got ahold of a card from her and demanded to know who Gina was.  I don’t know if he ever convinced her it was his innocent little Grandmother.

Back to the tea tray.  I use a  sterling silver Tiffany spoon in my sugar bowl.  It is not an embellished piece of flatware, it’s simple and pretty.  The weight feels good in my hands, it has a lovely balance and the deep luster of the silver warms in your grasp.  I use one of her Haviland Limoges bowls for snacks.  It has a dainty gold and flower border of pale lilacs and green vines.  I like to hold it up to the light and see the shadows through the delicate bone china. 

I chose between Earl Gray or Chamomile or any other of about ten assorted blends, some loose which I especially enjoy because I get to use my tea ball. 

The aromas and sensory pleasures from the steam as the tea brews and then later cools in my cup is relaxing and centering.  I have two or three cups each night while I’m writing.

I’ll miss it when it’s a zillion degrees outside.  I wonder if I can somehow adapt the whole ritual to iced tea?

I’m thinking of having myself cloned. 

Someone pointed out the clone would be an infant and therefore not much help to me.  I’m certain that’s not true.  That’s not how it happened in the movie Multiplicity and, since there is no actual science for me to refer to here (we’re not counting Dolly the sheep.  I am not a sheep ergo THAT science doesn’t apply to me) I’m using Multiplicity as my reference.

For those of you unfamiliar with the movie, Multiplicity,  it came out in 1996 and starred Michael Keaton and Andie McDowell.

 One of the problems postulated in the movie, is that subsequent clones get dumber as they go.  I don’t think that’s necessarily a problem.  I’ll send #2 to the day job, #3 is cleaning this pit of a house, #4 can hang out with my kids and I’ll sit in coffee shops and read and write all day.

This sounds like a perfect solution.  Hurry science, hurry!

We went to yet another children’s birthday party this weekend.  I swear, we go to a birthday party every single weekend without fail.  I do not remember going to this many parties when I was a kid, and neither does my mother.  I’m considering finding a Jehovah’s Witness school just so we can eliminate birthday parties from our weekend plans.

The thing is, the parties are almost always at the same damn places.  We get Peter Piper Pizza, Pump it Up or Chuckie Cheese. 

Pump it Up is my favorite of the three.  If you are unfamiliar with the place, it’s a pretty cool concept.  It’s a giant warehouse divided into big rooms that are filled with giant, inflatable jumping castles.  There are  slides, obstacle courses and basketball courts – all inflatable.  The part I love the best is that the rooms are closed and only the particular party of which you are a part are allowed in the room.  You can talk to the other Moms and Dads without needing to keep an eagle eye on your kid.  There is no danger the children are going to get lost or absconded with.  There is also the very real possibility that the place will exhaust your children which is every parent’s dream, isn’t it? 

Chuckie Cheese or, as I think of it, The Home of the Saltine Cracker with Spaghetti Sauce, is horrible, but not the worst.  They do have a rudimentary safety system in that they stamp your hand and your child’s with a code and you’re only allowed to leave with kids who match your code.  However, and this is an all caps HOWEVER, it is the loudest place on the planet.  Besides the hoards of screaming, hyper children, there are the a million video games and the jerkiest animatronic band in the history of creepy attractions played at ear splitting levels and, as you may have surmised by my alternative name for the place, completely inedible pizza.

The last place these parties take place makes me cringe and whimper.  Peter Piper Pizza **shudder**.  We have a brand new one in town and I’m just so excited to tell you we now have the busiest franchise in the country.  It’s loud.  It’s unbearably crowded.  There is extraordinarily bad, in fact no, supervision at all.  The staff is surly.  The only plus is the pizza is at least edible. 

Let me give you some examples of what I’m talking about when I define “loud.”  The building is cavernous so the acoustics are nonexistent.  It’s so big, there is a roller coaster and a merry-go-round inside. The restaurant holds approximately 75,000 screaming, running, hysterical kids all under the influence of cake. 

Quite frankly, I suspect it’s entire existance is against the Geneva Convention.  Merely edible pizza isn’t a recommendation.

My poor Honey has been to this place three times in January alone.  The first was relatively uneventful.  I would characterize it as migraine inducing torture but not fatal.  The second time he lost the boy.  I was at a meeting so he was forced to take the kids alone.  The boy was there and then he wasn’t.  My Honey was calm when he related the story to me later, but I’m certain there was panic at the time.  The boy was found wandering around the parking lot.  The PARKING LOT!  Alone!  ACCCCK!!

This weekend, I had to leave the current party midway.  This time the text I received was less inducing of hyperventilation but no less aggravating.  Some one took off with one of Bandit’s Spiderman tennis shoes, taking his twelve and leaving a nine in it’s place.  I hope, somewhere out there, there is a child who walks with a seriously floppy foot. 

Next week there is another party at that same blasted place.  This time it’s one of Sassy’s friends turning eight.  My Honey has told me, under no uncertain terms, that he will not be going.  There wasn’t even a glimmer of a smile when he said it, either.

Who do you complain to about Geneva Convention violations?  Can it be done online like the Department of Motor Vehicles or do you have to go down in person like when you post bail?

This is another of the great entries from Better Book Title.  I can’t even read this book with Sassy without misting up which is not your normal Shel Silverstein reaction. 

Click on the lion to enlarge the poem.  Not his illustration but his poem – one of my favorites.

My dad is doing pretty well since his stroke back in March.  It’s hard to believe it’s almost been a year. 

There have been a ton of changes in our lives since then.  Perspectives have made major shifts in a short time.  Living arrangements have been altered on an epic scale. 

Dad lives with my brother and his wife and kids and seventy-five thousand dogs.  I collect him as often as I can – but my life is insane and I hold a lot of guilt that I don’t give my brother and sister-in-law as many breaks as I should.  I try to always make a point of “taking” him anytime they ask.

My kids enjoy having Poppa here.  He’s always been a silly old man and he teases them a lot.  I collected him last Saturday to spend the night while my brother and his wife went to a wedding.  We went out to dinner and to the Price Club and watched the boxing matches on TV and hunted around for football games.  It was nice.  The thing about having Poppa over is that he goes to bed at 8 o’clock so I still have a ton of time for writing.  And of course, promptly at 8 o’clock he started drifting down the hall to Sassy’s room. 

He sleeps in there and Sassy sleeps on the Bandit’s top bunk.

Sassy needed something from her room so she knocked on the door and went in and spied Poppa climbing into bed and getting under the covers.  And then she high-tailed it out of there.

No – it was nothing horrendous like Poppa sleeping naked, but he was in his underpants.  He’s always slept in his underpants.  So do most men, in my experience.  Her father does.  (How thrilled is My Honey going to be when he reads this and finds out I’ve told the entire Internet he sleeps in his jockey shorts!  That man is really very patient with me.)

“Moooooooo-ooooooooom!” Sassy hollered down the hallway.  “MOM!”

“What?” I asked.  I was putting Spongebob toothpaste on a Spiderman toothbrush.  Oh, what would childhood be like without the cartoon industry’s marketing engines?

“OH.  MY.  GOD!” she said in her dramatic fashion, hand on her hip, head cocked to the side.  “OH. MY. GOD.”

I rolled my eyes.  Honestly, I don’t know where she gets it. (hahahahahaahaha – I can’t even hold up that charade for the sake of the story.  I swear, talking to her is exactly like talking to a seven year old me.)

“”Spit it out, kid, so you can brush your teeth,” I tell her.  I hand Bandit back his toothbrush and shake my head indicating he needs to do a better job.  “Air brushing” is not acceptable.

“Did. You. Know.” Here she pauses to take an elaborate breath and exhale it in a loud huff. “Poppa is sleeping in my bed…”

I hold my hand to my chest and gasp.  “NO!  What does he think he’s doing?  Sleeping?  In your bed?  I’m calling your uncle right away and discussing this appalling development.  Sleeping in beds.  Good Lord!  What next?”

“MOOOOOOOO-OOOOOOOOM! I’m serious!  He’s in there right now sleeping in my bed in HIS UNDERWEAR!”

I start laughing.  Hard. I can’t even hold up my end of the dramatic scene. The kid is totally serious.

“So?”

“His underwear is touching my sheets!”  She says this like he’s in there sacrificing goats on her bed or something.

By now I can’t even breath, I’m laughing so hard.  “So? Your daddy sleeps in his underwear.  You know this and that doesn’t bother you.”

Sassy delivers a wiggly shiver.  “What if he farts in there?”

And now I’m tearing up and wheezing.  The best part is, I’m quite certain he will.