I’m traveling again.

Last week, it was the Chicago Spring Fling conference (and hello again to all the people I talked to there). Since I have yet to post any details, you’d all be better off going to

www.smartbitchestrashybooks.com

where there is a decent recap.

Mostly what I can remember of the conference is, the Deerfield Hyatt has killer death stairs up and out of the sunken atrium by the bar. And since we are all walking around with our eyes up, staring at badges and waving to people across the lobby, this was a disaster waiting to happen.

For a change, I was not the one on my face on the floor. But I saw at least one woman doing the ‘No, I’m all right. Don’t worry about me.’ And during Friday supper, they had to call for EMTs with a backboard.

But not for me. I did not fall on my face. Instead, I knocked over the lettuce on the salad buffet. They put a small bowl on a glass block pedestal. And then gave me a pair of tongs. What the hell were they thinking?

But I redeemed myself at the signing while sitting next to the fabulous Courtney Milan. Her pen blew up, bled green ink on her fingers and splashed her in the eye. Since, when I go to these things I pack like the Girl Scout Special Forces, I was able to supply a compact mirror and some Shout Wipes.

Also, Sherrill Bodine has better shoes than me. This is not news. My shoes are really pretty bad. They are cheap, and sometimes they have dog teeth marks in them. But her shoes? They are better than your shoes, too. They are ‘Oh God, did you see those shoes???’ shoes. And apparently, she has a lot of them.

Tomorrow, I will be hopping on a plane to go to the Romantic Times conference in Columbus Ohio.

Actually, I think if it more as going today. In a moment of madness, I booked a 6:00 AM flight. To get to the airport and get properly checked in, I will have to leave the house by 3:30 in the morning. While I can almost get my head around that time by thinking of it as very late tonight, I have trouble focusing on the ‘in the air by 6:00’ part. I do not know if that time actually even exists, I see it so seldom.

Once in Ohio, I don’t know what will happen to me. While most writer’s conferences are high powered, dress-for-success-in-a-ladylike- way affairs, RT is a fan conference. It is more of a dress-like-a-fairy-and-raise-your-glass-high conference. As far as I can tell, it is like a science fiction convention, only with lots more women. And a few men, since this is the home of the Mr. Romance cover model contest.

In that vein, I am learning to tweet from my phone, thinking that on the spot reporting may be needed. When I asked #1 son how to do this, he said, “Get a better phone.” He is a text king now, and was sending me clues to the NYT crossword while I was trying to listen to Julia Quinn in Chicago, just because he could.

He is unimpressed by my crappy Tracfone. But I showed him. I am now live and can Tweet mobile. If you are on Twitter, you can follow me on

double_cheese

Or there is a feed on my homepage at

www.Christine-Merrill.com

So I am packing up the conference wardrobe, and supplementing with an assortment of shawls and scarves and gaudies to improvise party costumes as needed. My main advice today is, if you are going to spill things, aim for the left side, since those stains can be cleverly covered with a broach. If you spill on the right, it is likely to be something that is not removed by Shout and hard to hide under jewelry. If you see me wearing my name badge on my right this week, dare me to move it.

I am trying to figure out how to coordinate my Doublecheese blog (which is mostly kids and pets) with my website (me, me, me, and my books, books, books). Right now, what goes to one goes to the other. But if I want, I can split anything to writer-y or publishing-ish, so that it goes only to the main site, and leave the LJ site go to the dogs. But if LJ readers care to hear this stuff, I will send it along.

Warning: whatever I post is likely to be in the same tone as what I am doing now. If you are looking for, or worried about cynical publishing rants and RWA politics, real politics, or expecting a pipeline to the truth, you are unlikely to get them.

Does anyone care? I am willing to go with the majority. Answer the poll (assuming it transfers to LJ) or leave a comment on Livejournal or at www.christine-merrill.com

 Loading ...

I am finally trying to come to terms with middle age.

It wasn’t so much looking at the calendar that did it, and admitting that almost 49 was a lot like being almost 50. And that 50 is supposed to mean something. And not in a good way. I mean, really, if you want to be brutally frank, 50 is the middle of 100. And very few people live to that. So what I am dealing with, at this point, is not life’s back nine. We are several holes into that and I just looked up to realize that I can see the clubhouse.

And the clubhouse is blurry. There was an annoying flash of light in the corner of my right eye, while I was working on my last book. But since the hero of the book was blind, I was wondering if it was some weird form of high powered hypochondria.

According to the eye doctor, it was a sign of vitreous detachment, which is a normal sign of aging.

I asked him what I was supposed to do about this aging thing.

He said aging was preferable to the alternative, which was sudden death.

So I got new glasses. And then, I went to the dentist. I have this back molar that was cracked, and on the advice of another dentist, who was a root canal specialist that I went to when I got a major toothache while on deadline for a different book (which, thank God, was not about dental care. Or I’d be looking for patterns with my fictional and real lives…)

Anyway. The specialist said that, if I wanted to take care of the rest of my teeth (like the one I had just spent six hours in the chair getting redone) that I should have that back one pulled.

So finally, I did. But this was giving me visions of my mostly toothless parents, full dentures, old age and inevitable death. So when the dentist said there was a special on whitening, I said, “count me in.” Because, apparently I want an open casket funeral and a scary white rictus grin.

But why stop at teeth? If all the main body parts are going to hell, then I might as well start working on quick cosmetic improvements, like I’m weeding the flowerbeds in front of the worst house on the block. White teeth? Check. Mani-pedi? Of course. Colored hair? It has been so long since I’ve seen my natural color that I have no idea what it is. But as long as it is not gray, I don’t really care.

There is a special on eyelash extensions? They glue individual lashes on the ends of your real ones? And you come out looking like you’ve used that stuff Brooke Shields is selling (which, from what I hear will grow hair wherever it touches. So if you spill it down your front, you will have nice eyelashes, a moustache and hairy tits).

Two hours later, I look like I should be right next to Bambi, grazing on buttercups in a woodland glen. Of course, I’m still wearing the glasses, and I look kind of like a deer with a hangover. But they assure me that the eye redness is ‘minor irritation that will clear up shortly.’

But strangely, none of this is turning back the clock. Even with bunion surgery, and a major change in eating habits, followed by a lot of plastic surgery, I will still be pushing 50. If only I could have a little bit of my youth back.

And then, I felt a strange lump in the back of my mouth, right near the place that they pulled the tooth. And the location of my last remaining, wisdom tooth, which had been resting peacefully, jammed sideways in my jaw, blocked by the last molar. It is on the move.

I am 48 going on 49. And I think I’m teething.

This was not what I meant.

The other day, I awoke to a sound not unlike a Buick with a rough idle. Then, a pair of pointy ears poked up, over the edge of the bed. Followed by the rest of my husband’s cat, Fluffer.

The DH insists that he does not want a cat. But when it comes to cats, the wants of humans do not enter into the equation. Fluffer decided, long ago, that she belonged to him. Or any other available male. She is the Blanche DuBois of cats.

I am the reason for her being a part of the household. I was the one who stood on the driveway watching the ground squirrels poking their heads up through all the holes that they’d dug in the yard. And I said aloud, 13 years ago, that “This place really needs a cat.”

Fluffer appeared 30 seconds later.

I was the one who fed her. And opened the front door for her.

She has been ignoring me, ever since. Except for those times when she is glaring, hissing, or trying to trip me on the stairs.

But suddenly, after all this time, she is affectionate.

Fluffer: (rubbing against my sleeping body and purring) Good morning, sleepy head.

Me: Go away.

Fluffer: (more purring, and some head butting) I said, Good morning!

Me: What do you want?

Fluffer: To tell you that I love you.

Me: Liar.

Fluffer: No, really. I don’t know why I never noticed this before. I love you. Pet me.

Me: (sneezing) Get your tail out of my face.

Fluffer: (staggering up and down the length of the bed) I love you. And I love being here. I love everything! Pet me! Pet Me! PET ME!!!!!!!!!!!!

(#2 walks by the door. A round eyed Fluffer looks around the room, in all the wrong directions, for the source of the noise.

Me: You’re stoned, aren’t you?

Fluffer: Maybe.

Me: You’ve been hitting the catnip again. You are high as a kite.

Fluffer: It’s an herb. God put it here so we can enjoy it.

Me: (Getting up and checking the toy in the hall) There’s a hole in this, and it’s spilling all over. Have you been eating it?

Fluffer: It talks to me. It’s my friend. I love it.

Me: Eeeick.

Fluffer: And I threw up.

Me: (wiping off bare foot). Found it.

For Easter weekend, we did about what one would expect. The family, my Paxil and I visited my parents. And then, we went to Clash of the Titans.

I was not a big fan of the original. I have many fond memories of all the other Ray Harryhausen movies. But times were simpler when those were made. I was younger, and had lower expectations. By the time Clash came out, I was in college, unimpressed by the creaky special effects, bored by the narcoleptic Harry Hamlin and his enormous hair, and annoyed by the stupid, tin owl.

This month, I watched the old movie twice. Once with each son.
Their opinion?

It was clearly a golden age of cinema. There are several bare breasts.
Not bad for a movie made back in the 50’s. 60’s. Wait. The 80’s? You’re kidding. Ouch.
And what’s the deal with the owl?

Also this cartoon, which was only funny before, is now hysterical.

But we all pretty much agree that, bad as the original was, it is better than the new movie.
Spoilers ahead.
BIG BIG SPOILERS
But I figure, you either know how this movie ends, or you don’t care.

Clash of the Titans

abridged script by Christine Merrill

Perseus: I am the son of a humble fisherman who was killed by the Gods.

Cassiopeia: Meet my daughter, who is prettier than a goddess.

Andromeda: Oh, Mother. (Bats eyes at Perseus.)

He ignores her.

Hades: You’re all gonna get it now. (Points at Perseus) Except you, son of Zeus.

Perseus: He’s not my real father!

Io: Actually, yes he is. Trust me. I’m cursed by the Gods to be immortally beautiful.

Andromeda: Since when? You’re cursed by the Gods to be a fly bitten heifer.

Io: Shut up.

Andromeda: And you slept with Zeus.

Perseus: Show of hands. Anyone here who hasn’t slept with Zeus?

Andromeda: Me. Meeeee. Pick me.

Perseus: Okaaaay. Anyone else?

Russian mercenaries appear and raise hands

Nameless warrior guy: Let’s go find the Stygian witches. Take everything except the stupid, tin owl.

Stupid tin owl: You can’t afford me. This is just a cameo.

NWG: And take your gifts from the Gods.

Perseus: I am my own man. I refuse them.

NWG: We’re doomed.

Calibos: Hi everybody. I bleed scorpions. And I’m Perseus’ real father. Zeus disguised himself as me to seduce your mother.

Audience: You are not. Last time, you were beloved of Andromeda.

Calibus: Not anymore.

Andromeda: (throwing hands in the air in frustration). Oh, come on.

Audience: And Perseus’ mother was seduced by a shower of gold.

Calibus: I’ve been ret conned. Our target demo is teenage boys with internet access. No golden showers.

Perseus: I will kill Calibus with my plain old mortal sword. And I refuse the white winged horses as well. White horses are for pussies. I want a black one. And paint some flames on it. That would be cool.

Zeus: No flames.

Perseus: You’re not my real father.

Zeus: Go to Hell! Here’s some money. And take a sweater…

Perseus: I hate you! But I’ll take your money.

NWG: And the other gifts from the Gods. Because we’re in over our heads, and your dad only gave you enough money for a one way trip.

Russian mercenaries: Take this shield that we made out of the back of the big, indestructible and strangely shiny scorpion. It is impervious to everything (except whatever we used to cut it with).

Perseus: If it’s impervious, how did you bolt these straps on the back?

Russians: Super glue.

Djinn: Let me come, too.

Everyone: You’re not even Greek. What are you doing here?

Djinn: Waiting for the remake of the Golden Voyage of Sinbad.

They go to Medusa.
Everyone dies but Perseus.

Perseus: OK. I guess you were right about the gifts from the Gods. I could have saved everyone with them. Oh well. Live and learn. Back to Argos.

Zeus: Release the Kraken.

Audience: It’s about damn time.

Andromeda (dangling by wrists): Why does everyone hate me?

Perseus turns the Kraken to stone, and it falls on Andromeda and knocks her in the water.

Andromeda: Thanks a bunch.

Perseus: (Diving in) I’ll save you.

Andromeda: There are big, long ropes tied to my arms.

Perseus: I’m swimming. I’m swimming.

Andromeda: (sinking) Use the ropes. Tow me to shore.

Perseus: I’m swimming. I’m swimming.

Andromeda: (sinking deeper) You were a fisherman, right? Were you
any good? Because I really am not seeing that.

He saves her.

Andromeda: Where the hell are we?

Perseus: On an island, miles from Argos. See the fleet on the horizon?

Andromeda: Hell. But you’re coming back with me, right? Because I’ve read this story. I know how it ends.

Perseus: Actually…

Io: Hi, Perseus. I’m back from the dead.

Perseus: Sweet.

Zeus to Io: Call me.

roll credits

I’ve taken an unannounced break from blogging for the last 3 months.

Sorry.

I was writing.
A lot.
And taking care of sons #1 and #2. Which, surprisingly, is not less work when they leave home. But more on all of that in later posts. Right now, I have a story to tell.

This is Easter week, and even for non cooks, such as myself, there is generally some baking going on. More than usual at Casa de dos Quesos, because with #1 almost always away at school, I am trying to provide the illusion that his home was ever a haven of domestic tranquility.

And there is also a trip to my parent’s house scheduled. I have assured her repeatedly, Don’t bother cooking. Really. Don’t. No. For God’s sake. My favorite type of meat?

ANYTHING NOT MADE BY YOU.

We are still talking about the last meal she made, several years ago, with a main course of party ham, and a side of burned kielbasa. I have no idea what party that ham was going to, but take me off the guest list. The thing was so rubbery that it bounced.
She bought it at Walgreens.

I am not a cook. But I do not buy meat at a drug store. Let me handle the meal, please mom. We will probably go out. But since she is divesting herself of the contents of the kitchen cupboards, I helped myself to the lamb cake pan, with the plan of making one for her for Easter.

She used to tell me, back in the 60’s, when I was still a wide eyed child, that lamb cakes were too much work. She also used to tell me that I wouldn’t like butter. I do not believe everything I hear, in that house. And the lamb pan is over 40 years old. It is time to give the thing a shot.

I dragged #2 son into the process. I thought he’d be amused.
I did not want to make this too far ahead of time, because I do not like stale cake. We started out, with a basic yellow cake mix, and baked the thing in two halves. My mother used to tell me that it needed to be clamped together. See above about not believing everything you hear. But I encouraged #2 to beat the mix according to directions, and we ended up with something that, I think, was technically a sponge.

Yummy.

It baked to golden brown. We sliced the uneven tops off, filled it with apricot jam, and managed to get the two sides out of the pan without sticking.

And then, everything went to hell.

We stood poor lamby up. He bled apricots, and nodded at us. And nodded some more. And appeared to be about to fall asleep. Clearly, we were about to lose the head. I stepped in and grabbed him by the chin while #2 hunted for skewers. We were all out. So he grabbed a collection of toothpicks, and some bendy straws.

The first straw went in through the top of the head and out through the neck.
#2 (budding engineer): This provides no structural support.

Me: Toothpick him in the jugular. And count them as you put them in. We want to be able to find them. We do not want to choke grandma on Easter.

#2 He would look fine laying down.

Me: No, he wouldn’t. Get more toothpicks.

6 tooth picks later, we have an increasingly spiky lamb whose back is beginning to slip.

Me: Maybe duct tape.

#2 Maybe we should lay him down. His back is flat. We can stand him up later, when he starts to dry out.

Me: And fix everything with frosting.

We get a pair of spatulas, and use the sort of maneuver that you need in first aid, when someone has a back injury. The lamb is now resting comfortably, waiting to become stale enough to frost.
We will be trying this again. We are thinking brownie mix, since it is made to dry out.

Or perhaps, we will make a ground lamb meatloaf.

Happy holidays.

The season has been marginally festive, here at Casa de dos Quesos.  #1 is back from college, enjoying the large pile of rock, metal and ska music that I got him.  #2 got a robot arm. Because as he told me, when he hinted for it, “Who wouldn’t want a frickin’ robot arm?”

I could not argue with his logic.

I also got him a molecular gastronomy kit.  This is cooking, for food chemists, and will allow him to turn potentially healthy foods into foam, caviar balls, gel spaghetti or pop rocks. 

It flies directly into the face of #1’s liberal, hippy college plan to eat only unprocessed foods.  For home made pop rocks, I am sure he will change his mind.  Are they not a food group?  If not, they should be.

I hit EBay and got the DH a vintage game which was unfortunately missing a few pegs, and an inlayed backgammon board that was not.  The DH got me a stereo system that can dupe tapes and vinyl to a jump drive, for transfer to IPod.

At first, I was dubious about the need for another gadget in our tech laden house.  But this means that, after many years of hoping, I will have access to old music that I have almost given up hope of hearing again.   

I can copy, the Wayne tape.

I have no idea who Wayne was.  I worked with a Wayne, as did the person I copied this tape from.  Lori had in turn copied the tape from Wayne, hence the name.  But she assured me, her Wayne was “Not that Wayne.” 

But whoever Wayne is, where ever he is, I must thank him, for creating a mix tape so powerful that it can fix bad moods and flat tires, breathe life into a dead party, freshen breath, whiten grout, cure cancer, and boost the economy.

I am not actually sure about some of those claims.  But it has been years since I’ve listened to this, and the world is in a mess.  So we don’t really know, do we?   

What I can tell you is that it is 90 minutes long, leads off with Bobby Darin singing Mack the Knife, and segues from Jerry Lee Lewis to the Beatles, to the themes from Peter Gunn and Hawaii Five O.  It hits what, in my opinion is an all time high at the beginning of side 2, with Lorne Greene singing the theme from Bonanza.  But it also has War (god God, ya’ll HUH) It’s My Party, and Aretha Franklin.

It violates a cardinal rule in this house of not pirating intellectual property, and compounds it by being a dupe of a dupe from some guy I never met.  Over here, we try to watch listen and read with sensitivity to the source of the material, and not to filch things that we can locate and purchase legally.  I figure, as a writer who doesn’t want her stuff pirated, it is a case of “Do onto others” and raised my teens to be Napster free.

But The Wayne Tape was made in the era of vinyl, so with a good sound system, you can hear the snap and crackle of the old crappy systems we all used to have, and the sound of the needle drop on the record.  It has historical significance.

It is an ethical conundrum. 

And The Holy Grail of mix tapes.

If global warming suddenly clears up, you can find Wayne and thank him.

Last week, we went to the Y for a quick swim.

It says a lot about the current state of my work outs, that I had forgotten how to go to the Y. When I went searching for my ID card, all I could find was a spare one of #1 son’s. On entering, I turned up my coat collar as I passed the desk, scanned quickly and tried to blend in with the woodwork.

No one noticed.

But in my concentration on sneaking in, I’d forgotten to lock my purse in the car. With no lock for the locker, I was kind of stuck. So I suited up, stuffed it in my gym bag, stuffed the towel on top, and dragged it into the pool with me, throwing it on the bleachers and taking the nearest lane, so I could keep an eye on it, as I dog paddled.

#2 son shared my lane, since neither of us are much for consistent lap swimming. The DH took the lane next to ours and passed us repeatedly, as regular as a Swiss watch. We were there for about so minutes, before things started to get weird.

It is normally pretty quiet there, especially within an hour of closing. But the bleachers started to fill up.

Glasses-less, #2 and I squinted in the direction of the expanding crowd, trying to suss this out. Was it a rental? A birthday, perhaps. There were a lot of kids. But none of them were changed to swimsuits, all still in street clothes. Some still in boots and coats.

And they were surrounding my purse.

I am nothing to see, in a swimming suit. And I do not like to lumber half naked and soaking wet, into a mob of strangers. So I sent #2. He made my lame excuse, grabbed my bag and moved it to a bench.

By the time he got back in the water, and moved down to the deep end, where I was treading water, a fully dressed man had gotten into the pool with us, on the shallow end of our lane. And then, another. We are now both treading water, and casting quick glimpses in the direction of the two interlopers, trying to decide what to do.

“Ma’am?” It is the lifeguard, standing over us. Because there is a baptism going on in our lane. He is as surprised as we are. Pentecostal immersion was not on the pool schedule. He is not sure how to handle it.

He insists we don’t have to move, if we stay on our end of the pool. But maybe it would be better if we switched lanes. The DH has disappeared. We assume he has given up and gone to the lockers, so we slink around the far side of the pool, grab our towels and go to the showers.

Only to find that the Baptism is over, five minutes later. And about the time that we are both dripping wet and totally naked in our respective locker rooms, that the congregation has followed us and is preparing for a post sacrament trip to the waterslide.

I told #2 that the Episcopalian confirmation ceremony is going to be a major let down, after seeing this.

Every morning, my alarm goes off at 5:45.

I lay in bed until 6:30, sleeping and listening to the radio.

I do not particularly like the radio station, but there are a limited number of choices, since reception at our house is not the greatest.  What is there comes in clearly, and I am willing to tolerate it, despite the fact that it switched to an all Christmas, all the time, format in early November.

I am not against Christmas.  I just take a dim view of it in November.  But this is mid December, and well within my personal safe zone.

But I have been dozing to Christmas music for over a month now, sorting songs into categories.

Elvis (an easy one)

Johnny Mathis (or people I have never heard of, but who sound like Johnny Mathis.  This seems to be a rapidly expanding category.)

Perry Como… or is that Mel Torme… but obviously not Dean Martin (Because I can recognize Dean.  I had a crush on him, when I was in grade school.  Before I knew about sex, and why it was a horrible idea for an innocent Catholic girl to lust after members of the rat pack)

Michael Buble/Feinstein (I am convinced these two are the same person.  Although I can see an obvious reason why someone named Feinstein probably doesn’t have a huge Christmas repertory.  Or maybe they are both secretly Harry Connick Jr. In the dark and asleep, it is hard for me to tell the difference)

Jose Feliciano (who only has one song, but they play it a lot)

Women (who, if they are not Eartha Kitt singing Santa Baby, I don’t really care to know)

This morning, I woke up to none of the above.  There was music.  And someone…talking…

And to get the effect, you really have to hear those ellipsis.  Or are they ellipses?  Because there were a lot of them.

And I had heard them before.  Just… never… at… Christmas…

Spaaaaahk!!!!!!  Kahn!!!!!!!!  Good King Wenceslas!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The song stylings of  Willaim Shatner.

Some of you know.  Those of you who don’t?  Well, this isn’t a Christmas song.  But I watched it live on TV, back in 1978, and it warped me for life.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lul-Y8vSr0I