#2 son survived the triathlon. By an act of God.

About an hour before the event–

After we had gone out and bought a new bike helmet, because we were convinced we’d sent the old ones to Goodwill

(Because why the hell would we need one? We don’t bike)

And a new swim suit

(Because #2 is built like a pencil, and the suit he’s been wearing inflates like a balloon when he tries to submerge it, thus making him look like a pencil with a wad of bubblegum stuck to it)

Anyway. Before we could get in the car, the heavens opened up. And yeah verily, a great wind came and sucked the bug zapper off the porch, and knocked down some tree branches. And then, the rains came.

So. A big pass on driving into town to watch our son be killed by a severe thunderstorm.

Mohawk the cat, who was down to eight lives earlier this year, is now down to seven. On a routine trip to the vet, I had the tech shave some mats and burrs out of his coat. And she discovered that the knot on his tail was actually hiding a quarter inch deep welt, which we assume was caused by his getting his tail caught in a door.

But not a door slammed by any of us. It is a mystery. Mo’s not talking.

Mohawk was more annoyed by the shaving than he was by the welt. But after much veterinary panic, and the doctor announced to the tech “Shave his tail. Skin it!” And I went home with a bottle of antibiotics and a cat with a novelty lion’s tail: thin in the middle and tufted on the end.

I have become a master (or mistress) of stealth syringe drug delivery.

As usual, the cat is fine.

And finally:

We are having a bad season for bugs. And apparently, this is bringing the things that eat bugs as well.

After a new roof and several years of quiet, bats are getting into the house, probably though the basement.
The last two, which the DH took down in flight and threw out, were not nearly as bad as tonight’s extremely feisty bat, which was doing low swoops around the dining room, and frightening the dog.

The DH sighed, and said, “Someone else get this. I got the last two.”

So I pointed to #2 and yelled. “Door. Door. Open…” and then I flapped my arms helplessly.

I am a natural leader. And cool under pressure. I have no idea why no one listens.

#2, (speaking slowly to his crazed mother): Which door.

#1 (calmly looking up from his computer): What?

Havoc: We’re all going to die.

The bat is now doing low swoops around the living room, just over our heads.

Me (with my laptop over my head like a folded newspaper): Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee. Gasp gasp. Flap flap flap.

It is like the beginning of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, but without the drugs.

#1 dives for the floor and hugs the dog,

DH calmly opens and shuts doors, tracks the bat to the basement, and says: “Right. I’m going to the bathroom. Someone find a badminton racket.”

#2 gets sent to the master suite, where there is a racket behind my dresser.

I wish there were some scandalous story there, involving research for some Regency erotica. But not in this house. In this house, we have S & M tools in the bedroom, in case of bats.

DH and #2 go to the basement to stalk what turns out to be bats, plural. Two. Both hidden or escaped.
But they did find the bicycle helmets.

Better late than never.

I don’t know why. To the best of my knowledge, nothing is chasing him. But almost daily, of his own accord, he gets out of his chair and says, “I think I’ll go for a run.” And then, he does.

He has also returned to inform me that the neighbors have a Rottweiler. And that he is not running in that direction again.

Now, I am both surprised, and puzzled. I barely know that we have neighbors, much less what kind of dog they have. And he was running towards it, not away.

But he has taken this newfound interest, and joined the high school cross country team, which makes at least, a modicum of sense. At least, it did until this week. He came home on Monday, and told us that he had to do a triathlon on Friday.

To which his family responded by laughing until we could not breathe.
Apparently, he had confused triathlon with relay. Since he had no problems with handing off batons, he said, “Sure!”

Not only had he gotten the definition wrong. But he’d forgotten one important fact. We have established that he can run a mile. And he insists that he can manage 10 laps of the pool. Although #1 son has his doubts. #1 is a lifeguard, and was a captain of his high school swim team. His standards are high, and I doubt he will approve of #2’s technique. #2 is excessively tall, with long, boney arms and legs that are probably perfect for distance running. But in the pool, he is likely to look like a spider drowning in a bathtub.

Time will tell.

But neither of these is the real problem.

#2 does not know how to ride a bike. We never taught him. The last time I remember trying, it was for #1. I attempted to show him that his mom still had the stuff, because you never forget how to ride a bike. I fell over, and hit him in the knee on the way down.
He has never forgiven me.

But #2 has less experience than that.

We tried on Tuesday. We got the bike out of the shed. He washed the guano off of it. I proved to him that I know how to pump up the tires and adjust the seat.

And then, we proved that the bike we have is too small for him, now that he’s 6’ 2” or better.

He attempted a little abortive pedal into the yard.

I said he should stay where it was flat. Which, in our yard, limits you to a short stretch of curved driveway.

He tried the hill. And was yelling, on his way down, WHY WOULD ANYONE EVEN INVENT A THING LIKE THIS????????

At least I didn’t kneecap him. But have you ever seen anyone in a triathlon that used training wheels?

He thinks he has found a solution. In tonight’s race, he will be sharing a tandem bike. He asked me if this would be harder, or easier.

This afternoon, when my sides stop aching from suppressed mirth, we will be buying a bike helmet. And maybe a St Christopher’s medal.

Two weeks ago, it was RWA in Orlando. And then, after four days of staggering around my house in a daze, it was into the car and off to Indianapolis for a family vacation at Gencon.

For those of you who have missed these, the first was 2,500 women, and a few men. The second was 30,000 men, and a few women.

That last is kind of an exaggeration. There are a lot more women at Gencon than there used to be. But since it Gencon is a gaming convention that originally centered on Dungeons and Dragons and war games, men are still a healthy majority there.

For me, it meant that I did a week where I bought highlights for my hair and extensions for my eyelashes, got the manicure and the pedicure, matched the shoes to the bag, and was generally on my best behavior. And followed it up with a long weekend where I did my level best to wear a clean shirt a nd comb my hair.
I was beyond low key in Indy, since I was there to relax. And although a few people now actually recognize me when I go to RWA–

(Yes, that was my first book cover, up on the jumbo-tron during the RITA ceremony as a published Golden Heart winner. And yes, that made me tear up, big time, since five years later, that is still one of the biggest thrills in the world)

–no one knows me at Gencon. I am definitely not the family celebrity there. This year, that honor goes to #2 son.

He packed a costume.

#1 reacted with shock. “Cosplay?”

I told him that we did cosplay, back before they even called it that. Middle age spread, and the royal pain in the ass it has become to get luggage through an airport has put a big crimp in the Merrill’s costume wearing.
But #2 has found his niche, and a costume that is easy to pack.

Last Friday, he was Waldo, and everyone in the Indianapolis Convention Center noticed it. Everywhere he went, we heard, “I found him!” “There he is!” and “Hey Waldo, can I have a picture?”

Someone threatened to circle him, and spoil it for everyone.

Also, he was a babe magnet. He got many hugs from many strange women. #1 was most annoyed.

But #1 wasn’t the only one affected. Outside the door to the Will Wheaton Q & A, we came face to face with an excellent Michael Myers from the Halloween movies. Under normal circumstances, Michael would have been the center of attention. Instead, everyone made a B line for Waldo, and grabbed for their cameras.

I have never seen a superhuman homicidal maniac look so despondent.

Of course, any pictures of Waldo in the foreground aren’t really accurate. He needs to be hard to find. Kind of like this.

But since I am thinking about writing, here is a short FAQ for new writers. And don’t worry, if you just asked me this question, only to drive me into a blogging fit. I get asked all of these, all the time. Time to gather them up and answer.

How much do you make?

The answer to this is either: “I don’t know” or “Less than you think.”

I never would have believed that, when I was first trying to get published. I figured there was some kind of illuminati handshake involved, before anyone told you the straight dope on how stinkin’ rich they all were.

Turns out, it’s true. A writer’s primary income gets paid in two ways: advances, and royalties. The advance check is the up-front money, and it’s a loan out of the royalty money, which is a percent of every book. Right now, I do at least two books a year, and my advances are 4 figures, not 7.

Since you cannot predict sales, you cannot predict royalties. For me, that check comes twice a year. I can make a guess at its size. But I am wrong about half the time.

I expect my income to go up, if I keep at this. But to give you a vague idea of the yearly total right now? More than minimum wage. But not that much more. That’s before expenses. And there is no health insurance. And no two years have been the same.

Have I mentioned how much I love my working husband, lately?

How long will it take to make enough so I can quit my job?

“I don’t know.” And “How much money do you need to live?”

If your first book is an Oprah best seller, your mileage will vary from mine. But it can still take a year and a half or more from “the call” to the beginnings of regular writing income. If you have savings, a second income, or a low standard of living? That will help.

It has been five years since I sold. I’ve been a full time writer for 3 ½ of them. And that is because I accidentally quit my job. I went in to the boss’s office, thinking I was going to cut my hours to part time.
Strangely enough, he was not thinking that. Given the choice of working full time or throwing myself into writing and hoping for the best, I gave notice on the spot.

How do you manage to stay on task?

There is nothing like “sink or swim” to clarify the mind and give purpose to the career plan. I had books under contract, and had just quit the best job in the area for my skill set.

But the short answer for everyone else is: “Treat writing like a job.” Set regular hours, and stick to them.

How long do you wait before calling your publisher about a missing royalty statement?

The answers again: “I don’t know” or “Maybe a week.”

I don’t know because it’s never happened.

But if it did, I’d be on the phone the next week to find out what the problem was. I do this for a living. I love my job. I feel I’m on friendly terms with my editors. I like them. I want them to be happy. I do not bug them all the time, and am always polite.

But they do not cut my checks. And I am all about the Benjamins. The accounting department is probably full of nice people that I would probably like them if I met them. But as far as I know, it could be run by a machine. It is smooth, regular, and automatic. The fact that they do their jobs so well makes it possible for me to do mine, without worrying that they are going to forget to send me half a year’s wages.
But if they mess up, my personal finances will be screwed. If there is ever a problem, I will call them, politely, ASAP, so they can fix it. And they will. They are really good at their jobs.

But if you complain, won’t you get a bad reputation in the industry?

I hear this a lot about everything from money to edits to contracts. Writers are very worried that they will make their publisher mad, and ruin everything. Hell, I sometimes worry about this. But not about money. I jokingly tell everyone that I work for a soulless corporation. But I mean soulless in the nicest sense of the word. They act like a business, and not someone’s crazy best friend, Betty, who you need to walk past on tiptoe because she really should be on some different meds.

My publisher isn’t going to try and guilt me into silence if I have a money or contract problem. They aren’t going to cry or yell or hang up on me, if I ask a polite question. They aren’t going to talk about me behind my back to other publishers and ruin my career.

Really, why would they care what other publishers think of me? It’s not like they are going to protect their competition from me. If I am too big a pain in the ass to work with, or not making sales, they will kick me to the curb. But they will cannot get me blackballed from the industry.

Crazy BF Betty publisher might be vindictive, but a soulless corporation is not. If I am a huge waste of resources, and a PITA, they might even be happy to inflict me on the competition. But mostly, they just won’t care.

But what if you’re wrong, and I call, and they get mad and won’t publish my books any more, and I’m never published again?

If your publisher is crazy, or angry, or both, and they gossip about you to other writers and publishers, and won’t answer the phone or e-mails, and you aren’t getting paid, does it really matter so much if you can’t work with them anymore?

You can’t please people like this. You can only avoid them. They aren’t good business people. They aren’t good publishers. Don’t go there. And don’t let your friends go there either.

But my publisher is my friend…

No they aren’t. BFFs don’t screw each other over.

Your publisher is a company. Your editor works for them. It is ok to be friendly with them, of course. And all my advice, direct to you is to be polite in business dealings, even if you have a beef. But do not think that their best interests are always the same as yours.

Also, the “never published again” thing can happen to anybody. Sometimes, a career just dies, and there is nothing to be done, and no one to fault. But normal people lose their jobs too. Try not to worry about it.

As a writer, you can control the quality of your work, and your own personality. Work on craft. Be polite. Meet deadlines. Take your meds (or at least a multivitamin, and maybe some calcium). Being healthy, sane and having a good work ethic increases the chance that you will continue working.

The only other power you have is to recognize a bad deal when you see one, and walk away from it. Do not fool yourself into thinking that any publisher is better than no publisher. It is better to remain unpublished and wait for a better deal than to let some loony ruin your self confidence and get a death grip on the rights to your work.

And now, on to bits and pieces from the last weeks at Casa de Dos Quesos.

From #1 son:

I asked him recently, after reading a blog post somewhere that I felt was a little over the top in the mutual admiration dept, if there was a female equivalent for circle jerk.

He said Tupperware party. He’s never been to one, but I think that kind of sums them up. You have the party to get the hostess gift. Your firends buy because they feel guilty. And a couple of months down the road, you are at their house, eating nachos and locking in freshness.

From #2 son

Has everyone seen the incredibly cute Kia commercial, with the Black Sheep rapping hamsters?

#2 would like to point out that Kia’s chief competition appears to be, not the Cube, Versa or Vibe, but the toaster, the cardboard box, and the washing machine.

Kia: Rides better than a refridgerator box. Big enough for several hamsters.

This is why I do not work in advertising.

And finally:

We are recently back from the movie Salt. Since I am a spy movie junkie, we have also seen Knight and Day, and Killers. And are in mourning for the recent death of the James Bond franchise.
And will keep watching Covert Affairs, even though the heroine seems to be dumb as a bag of hammers and in serious need of rescue.

Anyway. Salt. There is a scene where Angelina Jolie, who is tougher than Aston Kutcher and Tom Cruise put together, is in male drag. And someone spots her and says:

I just saw Evelyn Salt. She’s dressed as a
Nato officer

?????????????????????
What the hell?

You would think that any sane person would say
MAN or maybe GUY or DUDE.

No. Nato officer.

Does it show that this movie was originally developed for Tom Cruise?

Maybe sometimes.

That’s a lot of words.

For those of you who aren’t writers and don’t know the drill, this means that I have around 70,000 words that is not publication ready, but is plotted written and proofed to the point that I am not ashamed to show it to my editor. She will send it back in a couple of weeks with a page of revision notes, so that I can fix mistakes, glaring plot holes and parts that are stupid or icky.

There is always something, believe me.

From there it goes back to her for approval, then to a copy editor to English up the language and fix my inept spelling and punctuation. And then back to me, to fix the stuff she missed, and to remove a bucket of conjunctions that always seem to slip in at the beginning of my sentences.

There are other steps as well. And more editing that I don’t get to see. Sometimes I get another pass in there, somewhere. As you can see, it’s complicated. We do this for you, the reader, to make it look effortless.

But right now, after a couple of 7 day weeks, I am on break.
And I will have time to get in here, update the site, and share a few of the things I’ve come across in the last few weeks, that I haven’t had time to talk about.

Everyone see Inception yet? You should all go. It’s freaky. That would be my whole synopsis.

And since I am living in my own personal dream space lately, that movie was some kind of reflection of my life right now. Especially the concept of having a totem to hook you to the real world. In the movie, the characters had a spinning top, a loaded die, and a hand tooled chess piece. Things that had a familiar weight and could be handled to keep them grounded in reality.

The real world does get to be a sketchy place, for those of us who are busy building fantasy land all the time. And it is nice to have sensory clues to flip you from one the real into the unreal, to let you know that you are going to work.

I am a big fan of play lists, scented candles, set lunch menus, and desk toys. My desk is almost clean enough to photograph. But it is full of toys, and fiddly bits. And I like to have something in my hand.
For a time, on this book, I was playing mumblety peg with my letter opener.

Very slowly.

Last book, it was a pink shell cameo and a pewter handled walking stick.

Yes. A walking stick. The hero was bind. I was rolling his cane around in my hands. And dropping it. Because I am clumsy.

Before that, there was a heart of grey metallic glass that felt good in the palm. And an evil eye bead that I wore during the gypsy books.

A cat does not count as a totem. But Mohawk was just here trying to star in another post.

So, for a change, this post as a question for you all:
Any writers out there with totems? Or for that matter, desk jockeys of any kind with interesting toys and nervous fingers?

The afternoon passes uneventfully. As soon as he dries off, he forgives and forgets, and spends the afternoon on my lap, purring and rubbing as though nothing has changed between us.

So far, so good. I am off the hook.

We spend a peaceful night with him, inside. Which is surprising. Normally, he waits until my eyes are closed and then stabs me in the arm until I get up and let him out. But it was a stressful day, we were both tired.
In the morning, the DH let his out. I ask how he looks and am assured, “nothing is wrong with that cat.”

Mo stops by in the afternoon for more purring and petting, and then goes out for a nap on the front porch.
The normally aloof Fluffer is unusually affectionate as well, giving me the equivalent of feline high fives for the attempted assassination. She never really liked me, but she hates Mohawk, and thinks that anything I might have done to him is a pretty good idea. We are on the same team now.

By evening, Mo has passed his 24 observation period, and is still alive. So I call him off the porch for his usual evening stint of walking on the livingroom furniture and annoying the dog.

Mo: looking up at me from the rocking chair on the porch: Hey good lookin’. Have we met? Purrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

Oh hell.

I scoop him up, and bring him in.

He rubs against me, grinning, hopped up on the dining room table, and falling over on his side, exposing his belly.

Mo: Come on. Rub it. You know you want to. Purrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

And then he starts furiously licking his shoulder like he’s been bathed in club drugs instead of dish soap.

Terrific. It is 1:00 AM on a Sunday morning, and my cat is bombed out of his mind. I go to bed, praying to God that he will not die happy before I can get him to a vet.

The next morning, my husband assures me that “there is nothing wrong with that cat.” And then tells me that the cat in question was just downstairs rubbing up against the dog’s legs and purring.

The dog is worried. Fluffer is laughing.

Mohawk, if he gets out, is liable to die horriblytrying to make sweet love to a pack of coyotes.

At 8:00 AM I call the emergency vet, which is 45 minutes away, in Madison. They say bring him immediately. #1 son and I grab the cat and hop in the Toyota.

Mohawk is normally deathly afraid of cars. Today, he is riding in the back window, watching traffic and saying, “Are we there yet?”

According to the vet, normal symptoms of flea med poisoning could include foaming at the mouth and trembling.

These are normal symptoms of Mo, on a vet visit. Today, he lets the tech take a rectal temp, and looks disappointed when she leaves. “Baby? I thought we had something special. Call me.”

The vet comes in and asks me what the problem is.

I tell him that my cat is friendly and even tempered. I am terrified.

He attempts a physical exam. And succeeds. He even checks the teeth and tongue. Someone should have lost a finger by now. Instead, they are calling motheaten Mo a beautiful kitty, and he’s purring his head off.

The vet recommends an IV and bloodwork.

I say OK and whip out the charge card.

I call back in an hour and am told that kidney and liver function is fine, but there is an elevated count that might indicate something serious. Or parasites.

Parasites in a barn cat? Really?

But he is wheezing. And old. That might be a sign of a worsening respiratory problem, caused by whatever he is high on. The vet is not convinced that it was the flea medicine, since his symtoms are “atypical”. He should be having seizures. But this might just be the beginning of the end. Xrays would tell us if there is anything to be done, other than to make him comfortable.

I put on a brave face, prepare for the worst and give permission for the films.

Which are clear.

I have just spent $600 on a 13 year old feral cat who is in surprisingly good health, and stoned off his ass.
I got my revenge though. While they had him under observation, they trimmed his nails (something I would have thought was physically impossible).

Now, instead of drawing blood every time he hops in my lap, he jumps, digs in with imaginary claws, and falls back to the floor.

Fluffer thinks it’s hysterical.

Of course, that’s no real excuse for what I did a couple of weeks ago. On my to-do list for the day was a note to flea dose the pets. We use the drip on the back of the neck medicine. We changed brands this year, so I am not as familiar with the packaging, but they all work the same.

The dog takes it well, since he generally could care less what happens around him, as long as it involved attention. But the cats are another matter. With our cats, you have to hold on and hope to get lucky. So when I had a very needy Mohawk on my desk, I grabbed a tube and squirted him.

An hour later, #1 Son walked by and said, “You didn’t give this to the cat, did you?”

Apparently, the fact that there was a dog embossed on the plastic, and a picture of a woman holding a puppy, and a cat with a red ex on it, and the words DO NOT GIVE TO CATS, were not enough of a warning for me.

Ok. So I‘m an idiot. I grabbed the wrong bottle, gave him a dose for a 75 pound dog and poisoned my cat.

I call the vet. The vet gives me an emergency number for the flea med company, and says to flush the cat with water for 15 to 10 minutes. They ask if there are any symptoms.

Only if a skeptical glare is a symptom.

Mohawk was feral for a year before we got him, and before he came to us, he lived outside through a Wisconsin winter, probably by eating poisoned mice and drinking anti-freeze. Mo is made of sterner stuff than the average cat. I could probably throw him into the Gulf of Mexico, and he would suck up the spill, knock back some endangered wildlife and be home for breakfast.

But I’m not taking any chances. I scoop up the cat, yell for #2 Son, and we run for the bathroom. Through the door, I yell to #1 to call the emergency number for more info.

Mohawk might be able to shake off the effects of an overdose of flea meds, but Mo does not do baths. While I am trying to stuff the unwilling cat into the bathtub, #1 son shouts through the door that one of the possible symptoms is “unusual vocalization.”

Once he realizes what we are trying to do, Mo begins making noises I have never heard before. Clearly, he is dying. #1 son is asking for updates through the door, and Mohawk is a levitating ball of claws, trying to avoid porcelain and running water.

I am bleeding.

#2 son is standing by looking confused.

Mohawk: Help! Save me! She’s gone insane!

Me: Hold him down! For God’s sake! Get more towels.

Mohawk, is now pinned to the floor. The only thing he hates worse than water is the tub itself, so we’ve surrounded him by a dam of towels and are pouring the water directly over him and onto the floor.

#1 shouting through the door: Did he get any of it in his mouth? I saw him lick his leg. That’s bad. Very bad.

Mohawk: Bad? Drowning is bad. I don’t want to go out like this. Where is the lifeguard?

Me to #2: That’s got to be 15 minutes. Dry him off. He’s not getting any cleaner.

#1: And you used the dish soap, right?

#2: What dishsoap?

Mohawk: Sweet Jesus, noooooooooo!

Me: Wring out the towels, put him back on the floor, and hand me the Dawn.

Since I’m going long, this part of the story will end with Mohawk wet and broken spirited, kind of like Patty Duke in Valley of the Dolls. And under house arrest for 24 hours.

To be continued…

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.

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.