The Lipstick Chronicles

Early Man

By Elaine Viets

Because love is strange, chances are one partner in a couple wakes up at dawn. The other sleeps till noon. This marriage of late and early risers won’t lie down and go away. It leads to conversations like these:

"Are you awake?" Don asks me.

"Uhh?" I say.

I’m no live wire around the house at any time. But when I’m curled into a ball, my eyes are shut and I’m drooling slightly, that’s usually a sign I’m asleep.

Another sign is that it is 6:30 in the morning.

Unfortunately, Don is a morning person. "If you don’t want to talk, just say so," he says, with irritating cheerfulness.

"I don’t want to talk. I want to get some (bleeping) sleep."

"Okay," he says, "you don’t have to be such a crab."

I do. I do. Our wedding should have told him something. I wanted to get married on a Friday night. If I had my choice, I’d keep vampire hours, rising at sunset and sleeping at sunrise.

The first time I met Don should have given me a hint about him. It was 7:40 in the morning, at a college English course. Not only was he awake, he was teaching the class. (Yes, I was one of those. But I didn’t date my English teacher until after class was over and the grades were in.)

Our story is typical. For some reason, during the two hours they are mutually awake, late sleepers and early risers manage to find each other. Maybe it’s natural selection. Couples stay married longer if they don’t see each other so often.

Don and I have learned to respect our time differences. I don’t play Eric Clapton after midnight and he doesn’t discuss Michael Mann movies before noon.

But I must protest a poll I saw about early birds. It said some 56 percent of the 502 adults polled were early risers. Fine. But then they made more obnoxious claims. They said early risers have more energy and optimism and early birds eat better and exercise more.

Of course they do. Every morning, the early risers wake us late-night types at some hideous hour. We spend the rest of the day in a daze, too tired to eat or move. After awhile, it wears down our natural high spirits.

This biased poll didn’t ask the early risers the crucial question: Do you take a nap later in the day?

That’s their ugly little secret. They all do. Early risers sneak in a little snooze in the afternoon or sack out on the couch after work. They may brag that they’re first out of bed, but they don’t tell you they are also the first back in.

My own informal survey shows that 78 percent of early risers have a sadistic streak, especially if they have a position of authority. Corporations are infested with morning people. These sanctimonious pests like to call 7:30 breakfast meetings for the pleasure of watching the late show stumble in. Then, with all their colleagues backstabbed by 11:30 a.m., they go out for an early lunch and let the late risers do the real work.

You can’t convince an early riser, but there’s no virtue in waking up at the crack of dawn. For all we know, the early birds could be getting up at 5:00 a.m. to go through our wallets. In fact, no morning person has ever explained the advantages of getting up early.

Some mumble about the beauty of the sunrise. Yawn. A sunrise looks like a sunset, only backward. It’s not as much fun, either. If you have a relaxing drink watching the sun rise, it causes talk.

They also say, "If you get up at six, you can have your day’s work done by nine."

That way you can be awakened from your afternoon nap by people making legitimate daytime calls.

Morning people also tell you, "The early bird gets the worm."

Exactly. And the early worm gets the bird.

Who Scares Ya, Baby?

By Sarah

If you've been calling my home lately and found you're unable to reach me, I apologize. The thing is, I'm in hiding - from my son's piano teacher.

I know what you're thinking: what kind of doofus is scared of her son's piano teacher? Wait. It gets worse. Not only is she a piano teacher, she's 82 years old and lives in a retirement home, so frail and brittle thin that I could blow her over with a feather.  At least, that's the way she looks on the outside. Deep down she's as tough as forged steel and the very thought of crossing her gives me the shakes.

At the beginning of the last school year, for example, when it became clear Sam was as into the piano (which he'd played with only creeping success since age six) as much as he was into pink Barbies, I summoned my courage and approached Mrs. Nice (we'll call her since outside of the piano world she is nice) to say that while it wasn't working out, I had signed a contract and, therefore, would take the piano lessons instead of Sam this year.

"No!" she said.

No?

There was a contractual obligation on Sam's part...yadda, yadda, yadda, she explained, and she would not accept my offer. All I knew, as my eyes glazed over, was that I was in store for another year of nagging Sam to play and me to pay. In the end, he didn't practice, of course. I decided not to give a hoot and let him suffer the consequences. The upshot was a recital last week that he muddled through. Whew! It was over.

Or was it?

Apparently, it wasn't. So while I was at Sam's baseball game happily watching him walk to first after he got hit by a ball (nice job getting hit, Sam!), Mrs. Nice was frantically calling my home, angry that I'd missed a class and that I hadn't had the decency or politeness to call ahead of time. (I always call ahead of time AND we never miss classes. Well, almost never.)

Moreover, we were missing a class so Sam could play ball. I don't know if you're aware of the Sports vs. Arts struggle we parents of school-aged children must battle, but it's out there and it's vicious. A few months before, the ski coach had battled the drama teacher over my daughter's schedule. It was not pretty.

Now I'm really, really scared to call her even though - eep! - we might have another lesson during which - eep! eep! - another game has been scheduled.  That makes me three apologies in arrears.

This is why I'm not answering my phone.

Think I'm a weenie? Look, I have been less frightened of a 6-foot-tall convicted murderer with AIDS who tried to contact me at home after he tied several sheets together and escaped from the New Jersey State Penitentiary in Trenton than I am of Mrs. Nice. Don't ask me why because I don't know.

Charlie says it's Mrs. Nice's age - the same as my mother's - but I say my upbringing is to blame. To be raised in a Germanic steel town like Bethlehem, PA, is to respect the wrath of an older generation. These are people who can hurt you, who don't mind flaying you from head to toe so that all your weakness are exposed and then scalded in hot lemon juice.

Who else scares me? Cops. The other day Charlie and I were out tooling around in my BMW M3 with the top down. We'd just taken it out of the garage (sort of) and were enjoying the lovely spring weather when not one but TWO cop cars (a local and Vermont State Police) raced up behind me, lights flashing. Remembering my old boyfriend's advice (always have your paperwork ready!) didn't help. The registration was one month expired. The inspection one - maybe two - years, too. (Hey! I'd been busy!)

Charlie was ready to tear the guy a new one for not addressing me as Ma'am instead of "Sarah." (I thought he was being friendly. But Charlie pointed out that friendly would be giving me a warning, not an $84 ticket for expired inspection.) Me? I was shaking.

Authority figures. Cops. Elderly piano teachers. Ladies from the bank and utility companies reminding me my payments are overdue. These are my bogeymen.

So who's yours?

Sarah

P.S. Anyone want to make The Call to Mrs. Nice for me? I'll make it worth your while with a free signed copy  of Sweet Love. All you have to do is come up with a good excuse.

Wedding Bell Blues/blacks/whites
By Harley

On Friday, I heard on NPR (my primary news source, along with STAR magazine at the grocery checkout line) that Jenna Bush was getting married.

“What?” I thought. “Why wasn’t I told? Why wasn’t I invited?”

Here’s why: I have nothing to wear. As you may remember, I’ve weeded out non-essentials in my life, including truckloads of clothes, stuff I’d kept for some oddball reason (I paid full price for it/had sex in it/wore it the day I encountered Al Pacino on the sidewalk.) Anyhow, what’s left in the dressy department are some loud floral numbers appropriate for Hawaii – and eight little black dresses.

The Hawaiian thing I understand—everyone needs something that looks good with a lei. But what’s with those eight little black dresses?

I have two theories. One: in a parallel universe I am Audrey Hepburn, living in New York, needing eight black frocks because at any given time 3 are at the drycleaners and there is always an impromptu cocktail party requiring my presence.

Two: it’s genetic. I’m Slovak/Scandinavian, with big families on both sides, and some ancient relative always at death’s door. One must be prepared. To illustrate (and stop me if I’ve told you this), my Aunt Viera in Pittsburgh, upon hearing Uncle Johnny cry out “Aaaggh!” one afternoon, was heard to say, “Dear God, there’s Johnny having another heart attack and me without a black dress.” (Uncle Johnny’s outcry, in fact, was from sitting on Aunt Viera’s pinking shears, left on the couch.) If there’s one thing Kozaks admire, it’s a woman who looks good graveside (men don’t count. Men have suits.) Think Jackie Kennedy.

So yes, I’m an excellent choice of guest for your funeral. But your marriage ceremony is another story.

I realized that this week during our own Nancy’s couture crisis. Nancy has to attend a Very Important Wedding, the details of which I am not at liberty to disclose (think Jenna’s friends) but she’s wrestling with Nuptial Dress Code. Is anything more complex? One seeks clues in the style of the invitation (font, of course, but there is also paper to consider: white or ecru? Hand-lettered calligraphy or computer labels?), the venue (Jenna’s non-Texan guests must have been driven mad with that pre-wedding barbecue), and the season, the religious convictions/conventions, and the exact relationship of you to the wedding principle (are you a sibling, a client, an old flame? Will you be in the wedding album photos?) And even if you’re confident you know what ballpark you’re in, you still have to find something that fits, that you can afford, that doesn’t make you feel like Pat Nixon.

And it mustn’t be black. Or white. There are 2 kinds of people in this world, those who consider this the 11th commandment, and those who didn’t get the memo. You don’t wear black to a wedding because it’s bad luck (even if you know the marriage doesn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell) and you don’t wear white because you’ll upstage the bride. Is this rule outdated? Yes. If you can ignore it, go for it. I can’t, anymore than I can wear white shoes after Labor Day. Legions of Dead Aunts would descend, tut-tutting and raising their ghostly eyebrows. I may as well wear clogs and a macramé poncho.

Nancy, good luck at the mall this week. Jenna, lovely dress—and big thanks for not sending ME down that long road to Macy’s, Neiman Marcus or Saks. Thank you for not inviting me to the wedding. Thank you for not knowing me.

Happy Monday.
Harley

       Mother's Day at TLC

                        

Forgot to send Mom a card? Didn't order the flowers in time? Missed the sale on leftover Valentine's Day chocolate?  Or maybe you slipped up on ordering the spa gift certificate? Well, here's some advice from Anderson Cooper and his mother on how best to celebrate this important holiday.

                      

Or maybe you're a mom yourself--the kind who needs something really, really cute on Mother's Day.  Here you go.

                        

Or maybe you don't care what day it is, but you'd just like to watch something drop dead delicious.

                              

Or, what the heck, you want to read something fun about our friend Charlaine Harris.

Or this, written by FOT, Tony McGee Causey.

Or this, one, by Sisters in Crime member Lisa Curry, blogging at Working Stiffs.

Have it your way. Happy Mother's Day from the Book Tarts.

Bad Mommy!

by Nancy

In my own defense, my children turned out great.  But during their formative years, I had moments that weren't exactly Mother of the Year material.

                              

Like the two days I made my 18-month old daughter walk on her broken leg.  Mind you, the x-ray didn't show anything at all--nothing!--so I assumed she was just whining.  Eventually she communicated that I was an idiot, so I took her back for more x-rays, and sure enough, the leg was broken.

I also Had a temper tantrum and quit packing their school lunches when Cassie was in 4th grade and Sarah in 2nd. (Hey, if they're old enough to see the top of the kitchen counter, they can drop a few items into a paper bag, right?)  I threw another hissyfit and stopped doing their laundry before they hit junior high.

My attitude is that kids ought to recognize that Mom is a person, too, not the automatic, always-cheerful deliverer of food, fashionable clothes and boundless emotional support, especially during the tiresome teenage years. The purpose of a mother is not to bring any creature comfort the kids can't reach from their prone positions in front of the television. (Yell for some Doritos at my house, and you'd be likely to receive them crushed and poured over your head.)  A kid who recognizes that she can't boss around her own mother is a kid who grows up into a thoughtful, giving adult.

Giving your kids everything can be . . . bad.

                                    

And a mother who's a door mat is only teaching her kids a lesson that's not going to turn out well.

But then, I'm in the minority.  I know women who have devoted their lives to serving their children, and I admire them for their devotion.  No, really, I do.  They are better human beings than I am.

But I also admire my own mother who taught us independence and resilience and how to catch a fly ball, wipe the tennis court with your opponent, be a gracious loser when necessary and how to iron our damn own shirts.

                              

Some dim-witted organization gave Lindsay Lohan's mother a Mother of the Year award this year.  I'm not bothering to Google it for you, because no intelligent human being who reads People magazine would acknowledge Mrs. Lohan is a good mother. (I did read one Yahoo search item that started, "...she skipped her court date to visit Lindsay in rehab..."  'Nuff said, right?)

But I'm thinking Mrs. Lohan has time to clean up her act.  After all, we've all made mistakes as mothers.  Most of those mistakes turn out to be okay for our kids in the long run. I mean, my daughter had never let me forget the broken leg episode, and I think that's healthy.--Children should recognize that nobody's without fault. (But, really, isn't it a little strange that she's kept the cast all these years??  It's still on a shelf in the bedroom!)

For your entertainment on the day before Mother's Day, here's The Bad Mother's Club.

How about you?  Made any embarrassing motherly blunders? Do you feel a little pesticide on the apple you give your kid every day simply strengthens his immune system? (If you make your own baby food, I'll tell you right now that we're going to blackball you from the TLC Bad Mommy Club.) If your bag of tricks, do you have a heart-warming tale of blessed motherhood gone terribly wrong?

Today's your day to dish. To cleanse your soul.  We won't tell your mother, honest.

Happy Talk

By Rebecca the Bookseller aka Kathy Sweeney

Today, I am declaring a moratorium on any subject that is not a happy one. If you have to ask why, then maybe you are one of the smart ones who doesn't pay attention to the news - something I am considering, by the way.

A couple of weeks ago, I had the great assignment of interviewing 23 authors. I thought it would be a cake walk. After all, I talk for a living. Plus, around here, it's normal to strike up a conversation with perfect strangers. Turns out, it's harder than it looks. I did a ton of preparation (that's what lawyers do - except we call it due diligence). Again - no problem, just time and focus. But when the time came - I was actually nervous, and believe me when I tell you, at this stage of the game, that just doesn't happen to me much. The happy part is that it went well. At least I thought so - and it was fun. It was fun to meet the authors and see them smile when they talked about their books and their characters. It was fun to see people in the audience smiling and laughing. Felt like I helped lighten things up, if only for a few minutes.

Because, people, we need to find more ways to lighten up. As a species, we are sleeping less, eating more, exercising less, and angsting more. Our levels of stress are through the roof. So today, all of us are going to help the world (okay, maybe just a couple of thousand people, but still) by sharing what makes us happy.

Plus, I am going to make a music compilation of songs that make me happy, and I'm going to carry it around.

So, here we go. Happy things first, then happy songs.

Watching Dancing With the Stars makes me happy. You see these celebs working to master something that is not in their comfort zone, and when they hit the floor, regardless of how their performance turns out, they are always full of joy. I've never watched any of these competition shows before, but my Mom got me started this season, and I'm hooked. (Plus, IYOCHFTS, hel-loh, between the costumes - or lack thereof - and the hot choreography - whew!).

Listening to my son and his friends when they forget I'm in the next room makes me happy. I never interrupt them, or bust them on the swearing (it's fabulous to hear them try out those new words). They're all taller than me now, but they still talk like boys, not men, even as their voices get deeper. I know that won't last much longer, so I savor it.

Reading good books makes me happy - I guess that one goes without saying on TLC, right?

Laughing makes me happy. In our house, and with my friends, we laugh a lot. I'll even admit that it may be a way of avoiding the sad and tragic stuff. We do support eachother in those ways too - but most of the time, we try to laugh. Laughing, it turns out, is good for you. No kidding - you can look it up.

Okay - I'm leaving the field wide open for the rest of you - what makes you happy?

Now - Songs that make me happy. They can be any kind of song - country, rock, gospel, folk, whatever. They don't even have to be about happiness. But there are some songs that cheer me up and make me smile. I'm sure you have some too, and at the end, I'll put together a compilation of TLC Happy Songs. Here are a few of mine:

I Wish by Stevie Wonder

Hot, Hot, Hot by Buster Poindexter

In the Mood- my current favorite cover is Bette Midler

Alive and Amplified by The Mooney Suzuki

Angelina/Zooma Zooma by Louis Prima

What Was I Thinkin'? by Dierks Bentley

Favorite Song of All by the Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir

Happy Working Song by Amy Adams from "Enchanted" (the lyrics are priceless)

I'm A Believer - currently, it's the Smash Mouth version from Shrek

Birdhouse in Your Soul by They Might Be Giants

I Can't Help Myself by The Four Tops

Beyond the Sea - Bobby Darin or Pittsburgh's own George Benson

Okay, your turn - let's make some happy! Can I get a witness here?

UPDATE: I made a new play list with all of the songs suggested - tried to make it into an iMix, but not all of them showed up - (clueless as to why - perhaps the ones I'd already downloaded from CDs?). Any way, here is the iMix, if you'd like to check it out:
TLC Happy Mix on iTunes

First Apartment

by Nancy

My first apartment was in a Victorian mansion on a street nicknamed Millionaire's Row that hadn't seen a millionaire in fifty years. All the crumbling big houses had been carved up into apartments for students at the nearby community college or local drug dealers who wanted to live conveniently close to their customers. The landlord thought I'd love the campy 3rd floor hideaway which had beads hanging in all the doorways instead of doors and a bedroom with a round, Poconos-style honeymoon bed and a open porch in the turret--very cute, if a little dingy because none of the windows had been washed since Eisenhower.

But the apartment also sported bloodstains on one wall. The landlord hadn't gotten around to washing up after an undercover cop shot and killed a stoned dealer in the apartment, and the splatter remained. The landlord was surprised when I declined to rent the place.

On the other hand, the 2nd floor apartment had big rooms and lots of light and some very elaborate, if wobbly furniture and no blood. It was located only a short drive from the junior high where I'd been employed to teach. I rented it on the spot because, frankly, I'd come by myself and didn't know where else to look.

The place was kinda grungy Mary Tyler Moore, except with marijuana.

                                       

The main thing was that it was cheap. Fresh out of college and on my own financially, I needed a bargain. (In those days--the recession of the mid-seventies--graduates moved to where the jobs were.  We couldn't be picky about location.)

For months, I wondered why the neighborhood drug dealers avoided me, because they were certainly persistent with everyone else. Finally, a long-haired neighbor (who took me under his wing when I agreed to share my cable TV service with him--ahem) told me that all the neighbors were keeping their distance because my boyfriend--who came to visit every other weekend--drove a stripped-down, dark blue Chevy with a federal parking lot sticker. He also wore a raincoat with epaulettes, so they thought he was a cop. Actually, he was a bank examiner for the Federal Reserve, and he was pleased to be feared by somebody other than branch managers who didn't keep good tabs on their tellers.

I can still remember that apartment's faded cabbage rose wallpaper and the two-burner electric stove and the tiny refrigerator that I never bothered to defrost. The independence of having my own place was thrilling. My mother made sure I had a screwdriver, a hammer, two Revere saucepans (which I still use---the need for cheap has stayed with me) and some cleaning supplies, an ironing board and a flash light. I inherited somebody's vacuum cleaner that did more vomiting than sucking, but I felt I was all set for life on my own. I wasn't prepared for the nearly constant heavy-breathers who called on my telephone, but--several hundred miles from my parents and their style of countrified gracious living---I toughened up. 

By contrast, my husband's first apartment was in a high rise building in Cleveland (home of the Federal Reserve) facing the formidable great lake. Every winter, his windows froze up with ice, and the parking lot often drifted shut with stunning amounts of lake-effect snow. His neighbors were mostly elderly ladies who received their lunch via Meals on Wheels. He was the youngest person who lived in the building, and he was frequently asked to carry heavy packages for his neighbors.  His mother gave him a blaze orange vinyl recliner and a dinette set (remember those?) with aluminium tube legs--ugly as all getout, but functional.

                           

I remembered that orange recliner and dinette set when it came time for my daughter to move into her first apartment. I decided her move was not an opportunity for me to get rid of ugly furniture or old vacuum cleaners. We helped her into an efficiency that was probably smaller than the smallest bedroom in your house. I couldn't believe anyone could live in that tiny cage--only one window, and it had security bars!  We managed to fit all her needed furniture into one minivan, if that helps give you a mental picture of its size.

                        

If there were drug dealers in her building, I would have moved heaven and earth to get her out of there, but--like me--she might have chosen not to inform her kind-hearted parents of situations she felt she better learn to handle on her own.

On the other hand, when my sister moved into a first apartment, she telephoned my mother (three hundred miles away) for help getting a squirrel out of the living room.

Living in an apartment in New York appeals to me now, but only if I could afford one of those $17 million penthouses with a view of Central Park and a rooftop garden like the one in the movie Green Card.

Now, of course, my husband and I live in a house that requires endless maintenance that no landlord can be called at any hour to take care of, but then, through various emergencies large and small we've learned to manage.

Do you remember your first apartment?  And the adventure of starting your own, independent life? Did you grow up? Learn to cope?

Good grief, I just Googled my old neighborhood and found a photo of the house!  It's become an official historic neighborhood. I love when buildings are preserved, but I wonder if the tV cable is still spliced.

Do You Know Who I Am?

By Elaine Viets

"Do you know who I am?"

Do you know how many times I heard that question when I researched my seventh Dead-End Job mystery, "Clubbed to Death"?

For that novel, Helen Hawthorne and I worked in customer service at a country club. It was a lovely place with tennis and afternoon tea. The sort of club I could never enter, except in a uniform.

In "Clubbed to Death" Helen’s ex-husband, Rob, reappears and gives her more grief. She also has to deal with Rob’s scary second wife, the Black Widow. Then a club member is murdered and Helen’s life goes downhill.

Here was the real mystery: Why did the country club members ask the staff: "Do you know who I am?"

This may be the saddest question on the planet. If you have to ask it, then you know the answer: You’re nobody.

The President never has to ask, "Do you know who I am?" Neither does Madonna, Oprah or the Pope. They know. We know. They know we know.

There were big names at the club. Even if you got your news from MTV, you’d know who they are. The big guns never asked, "Do you know who I am?" In most cases, the more important the people, the nicer they were – even to us underpaid clerks.

But we encountered way too many country club members who made impossible demands, and when they were refused, they’d ask: Do you know who I am?

If I had a dollar for every time I heard that, I could buy the country club.

Margery, Helen’s 76-year-old landlady, had a theory about why people asked that question. "They aren’t asking you," Margery said. "They’re asking themselves. They don’t know. They’ve never had the chance to find out who they are. You’re the lucky one."

"Oh, please," Helen said. "These people have everything. I have nothing. I know who I am – a failure."

"To fail," Margery told her, "you have to try something first. They’ll always be cushioned by mummy’s money and daddy’s lawyers. If they screw up, their parents will rescue them and find them a safe place in the family business. They can’t even fail."

"Lucky them," Helen said.

Many of these club members had houses the size of hotels, new cars and no money worries – at least not by our standards. But the staff used to wonder how people with so much could be so unhappy. They lived in paradise.

A coworker known as Jackie in the book explained, "Adam and Eve weren’t happy in paradise, either. We have two groups of members here. The young ones, the trust fund babies, have no concept of work. They inherited their money. They are rude, arrogant and demanding.

"The old ones earned the money. They’re usually in poor health. Their spouses are either sick or old, or divorced and living with someone younger. Their children are gone. Their choices are gone. Their families are sitting around waiting for them to die so they can get the money.

There’s nothing left for them to do. That’s why they spend all day quibbling their bills and complaining. We shouldn’t envy these people."

"I don’t," Helen said. "They’re so unhappy. I always thought I wanted to be rich. Now I realize I just want enough money."

"But when do you know you have enough?" Jackie said. "That’s the key."

That’s when you know who you are.

CLUBBED TO DEATH: A Dead-End Job mystery by Elaine Viets is $21.95 from NAL/Obsidian. The ISBN is 978-0-451-22394-4.

The Amazon Kindle/Am I Dead?

By Sarah

Forgive me Mother Mary Alice for I have purchased an Amazon Kindle.

Look, I'm not happy about the direction books might - and I say might - be going, either. I love everything about The Book. I love the intriguing covers and typeface and font. I love the glue-and-paste smell of books, the cracking of the spine, the way a paperback looks when it's been read to death. (Gone with the Wind/Glass Castle.) A book is humanity recorded and captured in a once-living medium. I also love the thrill of stepping into a bookstore and marveling at the thousand directions my life could take depending on which book I choose as well as the camaraderie I share with my local booksellers. (Except the one where, uh, they all hate me.)

That said, my fear is the book is on the way out. Not the stories, mind you. Whether they've been told around fires or illustrated on cave walls, stories will always exist. Like John said: In the beginning was the Word...And now it is instantly downloadable with one click.

But wait...there's hope for books. Real hope.

First, you should know that the Kindle is a handheld reading device that's very light and very weird. If you live in a Sprint EVDO zone (Here's the map to find out if you do) it is possible to turn on the wireless button in the back and be instantly online to ....Amazon. Natch.

This is the genius part and in making it so easy Amazon has acknowledged, finally, that not everyone likes to tinker with Wi-Fi settings and channels, especially nerds like me who've been too busy reading to care.  Flip on the switch, wait a few seconds and that's it. I have to drive about three miles to get to an EVDO zone because I live in the mountains. But tiny Montpelier is covered, so chances are your town is, too. (Unless you live in Kansas. Big controversy there.)

When it's on, you can download thousands of books and newspapers for a fraction of the cost with no wireless fee or subscription. (The New York Times costs .45, but looks better on my computer.) It's a heady prospect, the idea of waiting in a doctor's office or in an airport and having any book at your disposal. And that, in a nutshell, is the major problem with the Kindle and why bookstores may win this war, yet.

Anyone, it seems, can get their book on Kindle. And browsing for what you want simply sucks. Yes, there are categories (Fiction - 119,000) and subcategories. (Including erotica, naturally, but not women's fiction.) Our very own Nancy Martin is prominent in mysteries - good move, Nancy. But it's no fun to look around as though one were in a store. Even "Editors' Picks" are limiting and feel canned.

In contrast, when I go into Bear Pond Books the children's bookseller knows me and my kids, knows about my son's reading difficulties. (She has one just like him.) And, so, she's recommended Bone and Gregor the Overlander and other greats. It was at Bear Pond Books where I asked the then children's bookseller for something funny to hold my daughter's interest. She held up a book and said it was the strangest thing. It had become such a phenomenon in Britain that adults were disguising it in adult jackets so they could read it, too.

The book, of course, was Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire.

Back to the Kindle. What I found myself doing was going to Amazon online at home, scrolling for books and downloading them to my computer and then to the Kindle. (BTW - Amazon stores all your purchases in cyberspace lest anything should happen to your device, like an inevitable upgraded version.)

I also found myself doing something very encouraging. As I browsed through books, I'd find one I liked, read the review and download a free sample. (Great idea, Amazon!) When I was done with all that, I debated whether to buy the book on Kindle or buy it on paper. Call me old fashioned, but the paper book was far more appealing. As a result, I went to the bookstore to buy the actual book even though it was more expensive. In other words, Amazon sold me two books - Three Cups of Tea and The Benedict Society - at Bear Pond. On Kindle, I bought Jack Handey's What I'd Say to the Martians and I Was Told There'd Be Cake. I downloaded loads of free samples, too. All of which qualify as disposable fluff I didn't care to keep.

I did not buy "Cherry the Rent Girl," one of the too many self published ebooks on Kindle. (Amazon has  been touting that big time.) Nor did I bother to examine the difference between the five different versions of Pride and Prejudice. (Ahh, the value of an expired copyright.) Jeff Bezos take note: too much unfiltered text will weigh down your beloved toy.

So, bottom line? The Kindle and all handheld devices will be ideal for "disposable" books that would end up at the school rummage sale anyway. And they're great if you're into Project Gutenberg. But not so great for the books you'll want to keep and give. Books are not CDs or albums, which look ugly in your living room. Books are beautiful. When they're on your shelves, they make a room cozy and can spark a conversation.

Not, ironically, a Kindle.

Sarah

PS. I almost forgot - this weekend I received the following email from an Alert Reader in the Midwest:

"Absolutely no offense intended, but I was at a book store today where the bookstore owner told us that Sarah Strohmeyer had suddenly passed away. If this is true, will someone respond by telling me when and how or anything. She will be sorely missed. If it is not true, I will immediately call the bookstore before anyone else is told the same thing.  Thanks."

In the words of Monty Python: "I'm not dead, yet. I think I'll go for a walk!"

Are You a Bubba or a Bobo ?  Take Our Culture Wars Quiz

by Michele

We're not going to talk about the actual election today.  Talking about the actual election could lead to unpleasantness.  The unpleasantness might go something like this.  I have a candidate.  You have a candidate.  If your candidate is not the same as my candidate, then you are wrong.

Luckily, we don't need to talk about the election, because we have people called pundits to talk about the election for us.  These days, especially on Fox News, most pundits are blonde and have 36-double Ds.  (Real?  I think not.) Some people think this is okay because pundits are so vacuous anyway that they might as well look the part.  Personally I prefer to get my news from somebody with a brain. Such as:

  If I want somebody with a brain who is also gorgeous, I pick:  . (And yes, I know he'll never love me back.)

Even though most pundits are brainless and annoying, for some strange reason it's hard to stop listening to them.  Maybe that's because wherever you go, there they are.  On the radio, on the t.v., in the newspaper, in your house and your car.  They're all saying the same thing.  They're saying that how you vote depends on who you are.  That it's all demographics.  Here's a relatively well-written piece from The Times that makes the demography-is-everything argument.  (Actually, the exit polling does support this.)

When we at TLC learned that voting is all demographics, we got worried that we might be supporting the wrong candidate.  What if we mistakenly voted for someone who is not cool to others in our age and education cohort?  That would be as upsetting as wearing the wrong shoes to an important event.  To address this critical problem, and to help others who might be facing it also, we devised a simple quiz. 

Step One: Answer the questions below to determine which side of the culture gap you fall on. 

A.  My beverage of choice is:

1. A nice cold Budweiser
2. Red Bull
3. A glass of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc
4. A Venti Skim Latte

B.  I prefer to tote:

1. An AK-47 and extra ammo
2. A gas can for when the tank runs out
3. An Hermes Kelly bag
4. A "green" grocery bag

c.  My idea of a good time is:

1. Hunting
2. NASCAR
3. gardening
4. windsurfing

D.  The degree that added the greatest number of zeros to my income is:

1. the GED
2. the B.A.
3. the M.D.
4. the MRS (Ladies, given recent statistics on backsliding in wage equality, you might want to think twice about this one).

E.  I prefer to cling to:

1. guns
2. my teddy bear
3. the ACLU
4. George Clooney

Now it's time for the moment of truth.  Add up the number of points and correlate your score to your candidate using the simple chart below. (Warning: Write-in votes or drafting nominees at the convention may be necessary.)

• 0-5 points -- Charlton Heston (so what if he's dead?)
• 5-10 points -- Ron Paul
• 10-15 points -- Al Gore
• 15-20 points -- Sean Penn

Voila!  Voting couldn't be easier. 

Metrosexual vs. Retrosexual

by Neil Plakcy, who writes compelling mysteries about Hawaiian detective Kimo Kanapa'aka, struggling to fight crime as he comes out as a gay police officer.

I don't like to admit failure. But I just can't seem to get the metrosexual thing down. I can't give up my Hawaiian shirts. I can't be bothered to get my hair cut until it's so shaggy it blows in my face, and I can't muster much interest in grooming products. Surfing the internet recently, though, I found the term that seems to define me: retrosexual, "a man with an undeveloped aesthetic sense who spends as little time and money as possible on his appearance and lifestyle."

That seemed a little harsh--but sometimes the truth hurts.

I don't know the difference between mauve and fuchsia, and I don't care. I don't know what my skin type is, I think plucking your eyebrows is needlessly painful, and I don't like facials, manicures or pedicures. (I know, having tried one of each as a part of a desperate attempt to make myself more presentable when I wa dating.)

But am I ready to go the other way--to be a retrosexual? Time for a little self-examination.

"A retrosexual not only eats red meat, he often kills it himelf."  I love a good piece of prime rib, but I'm not going to kill the cow for it. That's what restaurants are for.

"A retrosexual does not order a green apple martini at a bar." Do Cosmopolitans count? I do like a good microbrewed beer. But a retrosexual probably sticks to Bud or Miller.  Guess I fail on this count.

"A retrosexual should know how to properly kill stuff (or people) if need be." I'm a mystery writer. I kill people all the time. Thumbs up.

"A retrosexual should have at least one good wound he can brag about." I've got a few scars--but am I going to brag about slicing my foot open on a bicycle pedal when I was nine? Don't think so.

"A retrosexual man is not ashamed of his body nor the sounds and smells that might emanate from it. He understands the theraputic value in a well rendered belch. In public or not." I'm not sure that this is one I should admit to, but you know what they say, if the shoe fits...

"A retrosexual will have at least one outfit in his wardrobe designed to conceal himself from prey." Hmm... I guess aloha shirts don't count.

"A retrosexual man can use a knife. His preferred pocket knife is the Swiss army knife." Hey, I've got a knife like that. Mostly I use it for trimming my nails, but at least I've got the possibility of scaling a fish or sawing a small branch.

"A retrosexual man doesn't mind getting dirty. Men lived for thousands of years without washing their hands every fifteen minutes." Amen, brother. I make sure to wash my hands after using the restroom, or picking up the dog's poop. Anything after that is gravy.

Finally, my favorite: "A retrosexual does not let neighbors f--k up rooms in his house on national TV." No problem there. I remember one show in which the decorator covered one whole wall with moss. Here in Florica, we call that hurricane damage, not interior decorating.

The actual retrosexual code is a lot longer, and easy to find online. On balance, I'm about fifty percent retrosexual. If I was still single, I'd get my hair cut more often, and I'd watch my manners, too. But being happily partnered, I figure I'll live by what I consider the essence of the retrosexual code: just deal with it. Deal with who you are, and that'll make you happiest in the end.

Neil Plakcy's Kimo novels are fast-paced, emotionally compelling reads about a police officer coming to terms with his sexual identity while solving complex mysteries in the exotic Hawaiian setting.  You can check out an excerpt of Mahu Fire here.  But we know TLC regulars will want to explore Neil's foray into erotica.  Check it out here.

Clubbing

By Elaine Viets

There it is – my new baby, the seventh Dead-End Job mystery, CLUBBED TO DEATH. Quite a handsome little hardcover, isn’t it? CLUBBED weighs 14 ounces, tucked into its pink and green cover.

Publishers Weekly liked it, too, which is always a relief. The review and the first chapter are both on my Web site at www.elaineviets.com.

For this book, Helen and I worked at a country club. If I had a dollar for every time I heard, "Do you know who I am?" I could have bought the place.

CLUBBED TO DEATH will be published May 6. That makes it the perfect gift for Mother’s Day on May 11. If you’d like a free personalized bookplate for yourself or your mom, email me at eviets@aol.com

If you’d like an autographed copy, send me an email and we’ll work out a private signing. Or you can order pre-signed copies from Mystery Lovers Bookshop at www.mysterylovers.com

or from The Poisoned Pen at www.poisonedpen.com.

Belong to a book discussion group? You’ll find reading discussion questions for CLUBBED TO DEATH and all my other books at www.elaineviets.com Just click on the book covers.

I may be coming to a city near you in June. CLUBBED TO DEATH tour cities include Houston, Dallas, Westerville, Ohio and my hometown, St. Louis. Here are the tour stops. Further details are posted on my Web site.

(1) Plantation, Florida

Barnes & Noble Plantation

Time: 7:30 P.M..

Date: Thursday, May 22

Barnes & Noble Plantation, 591 S. University Drive (that’s University Drive and I-595). Join the Mystery Lovers book club and Dr. Chris Jackson for a discussion of CLUBBED TO DEATH. For information, call 954-723-0489.

(2) Fort Lauderdale

Literary Tea for CLUBBED TO DEATH, Broward County Main Library

Time: 2 P.M.

Date: Tuesday, June 10

CLUBBED TO DEATH is set at a country club. So it's only proper that we have a literary tea to celebrate. This one is sponsored by the Florida Center for the Book at the Main Library, 100 South Andrews Ave. Leave your white gloves and hat at home, but make your reservations for this exclusive mystery lovers event at the Broward County Main Library. You'll love the price -- it's free. For more information, contact the Center for the Book at 954-357-7401.

(3) Delray Beach, Florida

Murder on the Beach Bookstore

Time: 7 P.M.

Date: Wednesday, June 11

I've signed every one of my mysteries at Murder on the Beach, and this year, I'm delighted to return to South Florida's foremost mystery bookstore for CLUBBED TO DEATH. Please join us on a Wednesday evening in Delray Beach, a terrific place to shop, dine -- and buy mysteries.
Murder on the Beach is at 273 Pineapple Grove Way. For information call 561-279-7790.

(4) Houston, Texas

Murder by the Book

Time: 6:30 P.M.

Date: Tuesday, June 17

Murder by the Book always has extraordinary signings. One of my favorites was for MURDER UNLEASHED, where the members of Caring Critters showed up with their service dogs. I've never had a signing before where I had my makeup licked off. Last year, when I was sick, mystery authors threw a "tour by proxy" signing for me that I’m still hearing about. I’m hoping to be there in person this year, though I understand that Bill Crider makes a funnier me than I do. Please stop by Murder by the Book for my newest Dead-end Job Mystery, CLUBBED TO DEATH. It’s at 2342 Bissonnet Street. For information call 713-524-8597.

(5) Plano, Texas

Barnes & Noble

Time: 7 P.M.

Date: Wednesday, June 18

Barnes & Noble in Plano, Texas

Texas has some of the friendliest readers. I hope you'll come to the Barnes & Noble in Plano, 2201 Preston Road (that’s northeast Dallas) to say hello and talk about CLUBBED TO DEATH. For information call 972-612-0999.

(6) Westerville, Ohio

Foul Play Mystery Books

Time: 6 P.M.

Thursday, June 19

Foul Play is a charming gingerbread house with thousands of books and a real cat or two. The place is packed for signings, and we always have a good time. Please join me at this cozy mystery store at 27 East College Ave. For information, call 888-257-2343.

(7) St. Louis

Time: 7 P.M.

Friday, June 20

St. Louis County Library, 1640 S. Lindbergh Blvd.

I wind up my tour with a visit home at the main county library to talk about CLUBBED TO DEATH. Looking forward to seeing you all. For information call 314-994-3300.