I was on the road last week, in New York City for BEA. For the majority of the world not obsessed with publishing, this is Book Expo America: the major industry trade show here in the states. Every publisher you can name has a booth there, and most of them are giving away free books.

I was in the Harlequin booth for 45 hectic minutes with Terri Brisbin and a bunch of other series authors, furiously scribbling my way through two cases of the Pleasurably Undone! anthology that Terri and I are in. We developed a fairly good rhythm, early on, passing the books back and forth between us, trying to get the correct spellings on the personalizations, and generally puzzling the readers, some of whom had just gotten on the end of the line and were waiting for pot luck.

This was a nice change from RT, a couple of weeks ago, where the readers had to pay for the books, and were being a lot more selective. I spent large portions of that three hours trying to slip my shoes off without offending the public. I settled on sticking my bare feet in an empty book box.

Of course, that sort of behavior puts you at risk of being asked to stand for a picture, and staggering up, with one foot caught in the cardboard, kicking around under the table for your shoes.

Risky.

But when the stock is free, you do not have time to worry about your shoes, because the line is long. While I like to think I that, as far as the writing goes, I put a lot of effort into turning out a quality product, when I am free, I am a literary genius and damn near irresistible.

As is everyone else. When I was not behind the table, I spent the rest of the day trying to find free books of my own to get signed. And I developed a pretty good routine of showing up at the table, just as they were running out of stock.

Timing is everything. And I didn’t have it.

I managed to get a handful of free comic books, to bring back for #’s 1 and 2. Including a copy of Witchblade, which had them looking at me like I’d lost my mind, or at least my parenting skills.

Apparently, when she first transforms, she is undercover as a hooker. It explains a lot about the costume.

In the evening, The DH and I went to the Harlequin cocktail party, which was in the rooftop lounge of the Dream Hotel, on 55th and Broadway. There we sat with Terri Brisbin and Leslie Kelly while Waitresses dressed like Robert Palmer’s backup dancers schlepped up and down the stairs with free Cosmos, Fiji Water and hors d’oeuvres.

Do I want the seared tuna with aioli? Of course I do. And what’s Aioli? (Garlic mayonnaise. Aioli is a word that hasn’t reached the Midwest yet. But judging by the number of times I heard it, it is used in New York restaurants as a password, to separate the locals from the tourists).

I had been telling #1’s girlfriend that New York was a great place, but not really like Sex and the City.

Well, that party kind of was.

Recently, I was grocery shopping, and bought some yogurt.

There is nothing new about this. We usually have yogurt in the house, and I am a big fan of both flavored and plain. But I was at an Aldi store, instead of a regular chain. And Aldi is home of many mysterious store brands, so I knew there would be no Yoplait.

But this was an Aldi’s in a Hispanic neighborhood.

Aldi’s is actually a German chain. Many products have a European flavor to them. In the cookie aisle, I was buying Jaffa cakes for my English themed promotional baskets. But the yogurt was labeled in Spanish.

So. I was in the Germano-Spanic grocery store, buying yogurt. And I saw a six pack of guava and mango flavored yogurt.

Cool. I like guavas and mangos. #1 son’s girlfriend is allergic to mangos, so they are kind of a guilty pleasure here. When she visits, I try to be careful, but have been known to accidentally slip them into menus, without thinking. I am afraid that she thinks I am passively aggressively trying to kill her. But really, I am not. I am just forgetful.

And I like mangos.

But she is not likely to be coming around the house to check the yogurt. So I bought them. Even though they were probiotic, I bought them. Because I suspect that most yogurt is probiotic, being full of enzymes and having active culture and all. It is only recently that they have begun to tell us, so they can add to the price tag. But Aldi’s is generally cheap, and these were not much more expensive than Yoplait.

There is nothing wrong with my digestion. I also do not read Spanish.

I just like guavas and mangos.

This morning, #1, who has returned home for summer, looked into the fridge and said, “What’s this?” And the DH said:

“That’s your mother’s yogurt.”

Whoa. Wait a minute. This is not my yogurt. This is community yogurt.

I blame Jamie Lee Curtis, and her stupid commercials, where she is surrounded by other middle aged women, and they are all talking about feeling bloated, and sucking down yogurt and acting like it’s a form of feminine protection.

The flavor is not tropical Midol, people. Just guavas and mangos. It’s not going to make you grow breasts. Shut up and eat your yogurt.

I’d be angrier at the actress shilling the probiotics, but I think Jamie Lee has her own cross to bear. Along with the presence of mangos in #1 girlfriend’s salsa, Jamie Lee’s breasts were one of the things I’d forgotten about. They kind of popped out at us one night, after I’d turned on the movie Trading Places and assured my teenage sons that they would love it. They did love it. It is a very funny movie. But I am sure the boobies were a value added feature.

And now, the owner of those boobies is known as “The Activia yogurt lady.”

Lo! How the mighty have fallen.

Summer movie season has begun and we are averaging one a week.
Recently? Date Night, which was OK.

And The Losers. The projector broke in the middle. Because of the inconvenience, we each got a free movie pass to use on our next visit. Since it was essentially free, I thought it was a damn good movie.

The previews beforehand were for The A Team, and The Expendables, both of which we will probably see, for the same reason we saw The Losers. Because they are all, essentially the same movie.

This week, we saw Iron Man 2, which I loved for all the same reasons I loved the first one.

The movie we did not see, nor are we likely to, is Furry Vengeance. Correct me if I’m wrong, but is this the worst title for a family movie ever? I was under the impression that Furries were adults who dressed up in animal costumes. And that sometimes, there was a fetish aspect to it. Not always, of course. But sometimes.

I prefer my family comedies to be 100 percent fetish porn free. And not to suck. Which is probably the actual problem with this movie.

Although I have a higher tolerance for sucking, when movies have the likeable, and generally attractive Brendon Fraser in them. (Why yes, I saw Dudley DoRight. How did you know?)

But I do not think I want to see Brendon Fraser dressed up like a giant fox. Or worse yet, a giant raccoon.
I once had a difficult bus ride, with a giant raccoon. It was a few years ago, at a science fiction convention where we got stuck in an overflow hotel a few miles from the action. But there was a regular shuttle to take us back and forth.

A similar thing just happened to me at the Romantic Times conference. Only without the giant raccoon, and the regular shuttle service. The shuttle we had last week was decidedly irregular. We hated it, because of the limited stops, and it hated us right back, probably because of the lack of tips. By the end of the conference the driver was threatening us with one way service only, and I was begging for a cab.

And a step stool might have been nice as well, since it was a hell of a jump up into that van, and I am a fat woman with short legs. It was not pretty.

But the shuttle with the raccoon on it ran both ways, every half hour, regular as clockwork. A vermin filled clockwork.

Now, I am probably being unfair, and one large raccoon does not fill even a small bus. But he was sitting near the front, staring at everyone with his big glassy eyes. And the mouth in his big furry head was full of extremely realistic looking teeth.

He looked hungry. And you couldn’t tell what he was thinking. What do giant raccoons think about anyway? It was creeping me out.

Years later, someone told me a story, in passing, about seeing a fresh raccoon in a hotel lobby getting punched so hard that it knocked his head off.

Not by me. But I could see why it might have happened.

The convention in over, but the memories linger. And now that I am back home, I have the time to post some of them.

When I left you last, I was bemoaning my fear of cover models. And clowns. This weekend, I did manage to meet a female clown, who was out of uniform. But although I did not find her scary, she admitted that she was clowning while pregnant, and that, to this day her son is deathly afraid of clowns.

Fetal Clown Syndrome. Kind of proves my point, doesn’t it?

But as the day progressed, I continued to dodge my photo op with the Misters Romance for the year. I do not like cameras. And I am not always sure about people either. And the idea of wedging myself in the middle of six enormous men, and standing still long enough to focus a camera?

There has to be an easier way for an introvert to donate $15 to charity.

But Becke Martin talked me into going out to lunch with the Ohio Valley Romance Writers and last year’s Mr. Romance winner, Charles Paz.

I was dubious.

But she assured me that he was “A sweetheart” and that it would be “fun”. And that it would be at Schmidt’s restaurant in the German Village. There would be cream puffs and German food.

Now, along with cheese, beer and occasionally brandy, we Wisconsinites know all there is to know about German food. Cream puffs as well, for they are a Wisconsin State Fair delicacy. But when Becke described the vegetarian entrée as being Spaetzle?

Well, let us just say that only Germans would find a way to make vegetarian food that is heavier than meat. And the meat served, along with chicken that I did not try, was bratwurst. Sliced in half. I had never seen that before. Is it possible to eat half a brat? Because I lived for a year in the brat Mecca of Sheboygan, home of the double brat bun, baked to accommodate two.

There is no such thing as a half brat bun in Wisconsin.

But even in halves, Schmidt’s does good sausage. I was in my element.

And I was seated next to Mr. Romance.

My original plan was to hide in a corner, observe, and blog. But I ended up right in the middle of the action, along with Becke, Gabriella Edwards, Keri Stevens, and someone I am forgetting ( but I don’t think it was Gia. Can anyone refresh my memory?)

And Charles.

Having heard horrible stories about previous RTs, and being the cynic that I am, I expected him to be gorgeous but…

Gay.
Creepy.
Unwilling to talk to me unless I stuffed a dollar into his pants.
Or perhaps all of the above.

I WAS WRONG.

Charles was and is, as Becke said, a total sweetheart. He can lift 500 pounds, and make witty conversation. Probably at the same time. He is a gentleman. Smooth without being fake. And he is also, umm, shall we say, easy on the eyes.

My husband has forbidden me to sleep with his picture under my pillow.
Between Charles the bratwurst, and Keri translating the dinner music, which was sort of country and western, but in German, it was a pretty good time.

I have survived my first day at the Romantic Times convention, and learned many things. Which, strangely, did not translate to Twitter last night, when I was furiously text messaging them.

For starters, I have found something that frightens me almost as bad as clowns: waxed, oiled shirtless cover models.

The first one I saw, yesterday afternoon, was selling raffle tickets for “Breakfast in Bed.” Except, he would be bringing it, instead of waiting to be served.

I cannot imagine anything more horrifying than being seen by a stranger, first thing in the morning. Especially not this stranger, who was dark, handsome, and probably tall (he was sitting down), and bulging out of a skin tight black tank top. And to pay good money for the chance? Even if that money is going to charity?

And the poor man was sitting at the registration desk, smiling and intimidating the hell out of me. But the people who were not sitting at the registration desk were the ones who could actually register me. They were all on lunch break, until 2:30. So for a while there, I just wandered in and out of rooms, confident in the knowledge that if someone tried to throw me out, I could probably force them to give me a badge.

More waxed men last night, at the Ellora’s Cave party. And most of these were shirtless, except for one who appeared to be wearing red latex and chains. And no, I do not have pictures. Except for a blurry one of the decorations on the stage, which appeared to be ET’s hand, and maybe a claw hammer (I don’t know) made out of big paper flowers.

Apparently, the big difference between Ellora’s Cave authors and Harlequin/Mills & Boon historical authors, is that they get lap dances from EC Cavemen, and we get tea. But if I am any indication, we can’t handle anything stronger than tea.

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

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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.

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