Momsense

Since we've been talking a lot about mother's this week, I thought this would put a smile on everyone's face (they keep taking away the link because of copyright's, so this is a partial): Momsense

And, yes, I've got a thing with youtube lately. Geesh!

Kathleen's New Book and Lifelong Love

RIDE A PAINTED PONY comes out this week for the first time in paperback. It's the best of times; it's the worst of times. It's the best because I've always been embarrassed about the price of my hardcovers, so I love it when the "affordable" version goes on sale. Readers tell me not to sweat it. Many of them want the hardcover, and I'm grateful for that. But, personally, I'm cheap. I buy a lot of books, and I have to wait for some paperbacks.

This book was named one of the "Top 5 Romances of 2006" by Library Journal, which means a lot to me. Librarians know their stuff. It was a RITA finalist, which means my peers (Romance Writers of America) found it worthy. But rank and file readers are the ultimate test. So this is the "worst of times" because a writer's career goes on the line every time a book hits the stands. I have no more fingernails, folks.

This is a story about a loner--a "wounded warrior"--and a woman in jeopardy. I love the maverick hero. We all know the appeal. He knows not what he needs. We do. The woman in jeopardy knows exactly what she needs: safe haven. Someone she can trust. She's trying to figure out what to do, where to go, how to fight back, and her situation is so desperate that she doesn't always think straight. Women know this situation intuitively, even if they've never actually had to flee a would-be killer. They know vulnerability. Men? They deny it. They have to, because when the wolf knocks on the door, men are expected to answer.

So here's the deal with this book.

In RIDE A PAINTED PONY readers get a contemporary Western, an Indian cowboy, a woman in jeopardy, a romantic suspense, and a heroic journey. That’s one heck of a ride!

When loner Nick Red Shield rescues a woman left for dead on an isolated road, it’s a case of scarred survivor meets scared one. What will Nick sacrifice to keep his mysterious rider safe from her powerful enemies?

But where's the pony? Well, Nick raises horses. And the mysterious woman rides them.

And so do I . Raise them and ride them. Okay, husband Clyde (my original Indian cowboy) does the raising, and I'm not as good at riding them as my heroine is. Far from it. I've ridden since I was in college, when my instructor told me that she had never had a less coordinated or more determined student. She predicted that I would own a horse someday. I bought the first one from my future husband for $55.00.

Horses are mystical. They're big and powerful, but they're flight rather than fight animals. The majority of horse owners are women. We understand each other, I think.

No wonder horses often play a role in my stories. Take the horse in this picture, taken last weekend in ND the day after a very difficult funeral. The Eagle family got together for breakfast at Clyde's sister's house, and one of our nephews brought over this sweet Paint. It was the perfect way to celebrate the life of our family. Everyone took turns getting pictures taken, doing some sort of "pose." (That's me, doing the royal wave.) Everyone. Elders, children, people who hadn't been on a horse in ages--one even left her wheelchair for a lift onto the saddle. And here's the mystical part: this horse had been gone for 5 weeks. Disappeared from the pasture. Nephew thought he'd been stolen or worse, but he showed up the day before the funeral. And he took part in this activity like an angel. I just shipped a stack of pictures back to our family, and I know they'll be cherished.

The sequel to RIDE A PAINTED PONY is due out in late February--appropriately titled MYSTIC HORSEMAN. But it's the horse who's mystical.

Animals can be incredibly sensitive to human emotions, can't they? Any animal lovers among us who have stories of animals offering aid and comfort?

My Mother

Lois Greiman

This was my mother and her brothers as children. I’ve always loved this picture--her glossy mop of wayward hair, the impish expressions of the boys in short pants. Trying to justify the former her with the her I’ve always known has been intriguing, because it seemed to me that Mom has always been a strong, practical woman. One who reused anything that retained an infinitesimal amount of value, who made her own soap, who just recently abandoned her wringer washer.

Her frugality used to bother me a little when I was a kid, but the longer I live, the more I appreciate the fact that she was never quite in-step with the modern world. I realize now that she’s smarter than I’ll ever be. She’s lived forty years longer and learned a million little things I’ll probably never understand. She survived the depression. Survived it, grew up in it, conquered it. She knows what it’s like to make do, to make amends, to make lives.

There were six of us. Lives that is. Four girls and two boys. Six is about four more than most of us can handle, but she somehow managed to make each of us feel special, all the while plowing the fields and feeding the cattle and harvesting the wheat. I’m not sure how well you’ll be able to see her in this picture, but she’s the one in the overalls. She was a farmer. Not a farmer’s wife. But a farmer. The up before dawn every day of the year kind. Not complaining or making excuses or begging for help. She just did it. Raised the first four kids in that little house in the picture. If you glanced in the front door, which was kept closed with a knife, since they couldn’t afford a knob, you’d be looking right into the kitchen. I believe there were three other rooms. That’s my sister Jan and my brother Jon sitting on the steps.

When Jon was thirteen, he was killed in a farm accident. It broke my mother’s heart. But there was no Prozac, no Valium, not even any over-priced therapist to listen to her grief. So she carried on. There were still children to raise, still cattle to feed.
A few years ago my father became ill. Dad wasn’t always the easiest man to live with, not even when he was in perfect health. But you’d never know it by Mom. She cared for him incessantly, no regrets, no whining, just love--the real kind, the kind that gets you through the tough years, the kind that makes you stay when leaving seems like the only sensible thing to do.

The last year of Dad’s life got pretty difficult, but he kept hanging on. My sisters and I thought, in fact, that he was only living because of his concerns for Mom. That he was willing to live through the pain just to spend one more day by her side. It was agonizing to watch; when I got a moment alone with him I promised we’d take care of her, that he didn’t have to worry. He looked at me from the corner of his age-weary eyes and said, “I’d like to go today then.” He died in my arms that afternoon.

Mom was heartbroken. Again. But she’s still carrying on. Still on her 2000 acres, still caring for her yard and her gardens. Still funny and lively and bright. I’m pretty sure I’ll never be half the woman she is. I can’t decide if that’s just because of who she is or because of where she’s been, what she’s lived through. Is it just her or is it that entire generation that makes the rest of us pale by comparison?

A few thoughts on loss and compassion. . .

Today was supposed to be Christine Feehan Day on RWTTD. But Christine's mom died yesterday and she has far more important things to do right now. We wish her and her wonderful family all the best and send our prayers and support their way. She'll join us another time.

I confess, I sat staring at the message she wrote, feeling another echo of the grief of losing my own mom, and wishing I had some magic words to help her cope. I know there aren't any quick, sure-fire remedies for loss and grieving; personal experience has taught me it's a journey that you have to make for yourself. But I also know from experience that the only thing that makes it possible to survive that difficult "hero's journey" is the compassion and support of the people around you.

I've been thinking about this for some time, allowing memories to finally come out of the closet to be examined, and talking to others about their experiences. I'm awed and amazed by what people can and do survive and by the acts of love and compassion that make that survival possible. Lately I've begun to do more than just wonder at it. . . I've spent time searching and listening. . . actively discovering.

What people need in times of loss and difficulty is surprisingly simple: hope. Hope that it won't always be this way, hope that healing will occur, hope that things will get better, hope that they'll come through stronger, hope that they won't feel so alone, hope that love will carry them through. And that's what we as loving, compassionate humans can bring to each other.

Helping someone find hope involves companionship, a listening ear, and a perspective on what's happening. Being there for someone and giving of your time and yourself to help them journey through loss is one of the most important things we can do in this life. And yet, we often shy away from it. . . afraid to get involved, afraid others will think we're intruding, afraid we'll say or do the wrong thing. . . afraid we won't be able to make a difference. It's all about our fear, not our friend's pain.

Letting go of that fear is a healing in itself. Because we don't have to be credentialed or trained or brilliant or especially spiritual to make a difference when someone we love is hurting. All we have to be is willing. Willing to listen, willing to speak a few words of reason and hope when things seem bleak, willing to open our eyes and our hearts enough to feel another person's pain and respond in love.

All of us have had the experience of seeing someone we love in pain and feeling overwhelmed and useless to help. We want nothing more than to be able to heal that illness or grief, to make the pain and despair disappear and the situation resolve. But it's not up to us to heal anything; that's not our role. Our bodies and even our souls have mechanisms already in place for healing, and given a chance, they will kick in and operate as designed. The body tends toward healing. Our role is to be there and provide support, comfort, and companionship while the healing takes place. Maybe that's the reason "therapy dogs" are so effective. . . they're content just to love and be loved. . . no other agenda, no promises, no requirements. Just free, unconditional love.

So if someone you love is hurting-- whatever the cause-- listen. Ask them what they need, and if they don't know or can't articulate it, suggest things you see as immediate needs. Touch base frequently to let them know you're there, and spend time with them as you can. Help them by providing words of hope and perspective. . . the one things that is constant is change. . . things do and will get better. And whenever possible, let them talk.

As Shakespeare said: "Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break."

What about you? Care to share something loving and compassionate that someone said to you? Did for you? Care to share your perspective on grief or loss or compassion? Read any books that gave you help in comforting others?


My most recent find is: Field Notes on The Compassionate Life: A Search for the Soul of Kindness, by Marc Ian Barasch. A fascinating and inspiring look at the research on empathy and compassion.

On sale today--First time in paperback

Public Service Announcement

RIDE A PAINTED PONY--RITA finalist, one of Library Journal's "Top 5 Romances of 2006"-- goes on sale for the first time in paperback today. Details on Kathleen's website.

Now back to our regularly scheduled, fun-filled program....

Feng Shui Me, Quick!

Helen here. I don’t know if it’s the weather, if it’s my age, if it’s my daughter leaving home and I’m contemplating the whole empty nest situation, or what, but all of a sudden the clutter around my house is driving me absolutely bonkers.

I look at pictures of Feng shui rooms and I drool. Profusely. Look at that picture. I used to think there was no way people could actually live like that, but, without kids, I'm thinking it's possible. How do people do that?

While I can’t claim to be a product of the Great Depression, I am the daughter of two people who are, in other words, packrats. My parents save plastic containers, screws, wrapping paper, plywood, you name it.

If there is any likelihood whatsoever that something might possibly be used at any time in the near or distant future either for them, their neighbors, or their family members, that something must be saved. And they have an attic, a three car garage they can barely park two cars in, and an extra stand alone garage filled with all those somethings to prove how thorough they are in following through on that conviction.

I’m not quite that bad, but I’m getting there. For the most part, my issues have to do with enjoying thirteen years in the same home accumulating things. That means no moves to force me to go through all my crap and decide what crap is worth saving and what crap needs to be thrown out. Without some drastic measures I shudder to think what my house will look like in five, ten, hell, thirty years.

The crazy thing is, I don’t consider myself either a packrat or a knicky knacky kind of person. Sure, dusting is a hassle. I have the pictures and the candles and the kids’ objects d’art littering many flat surfaces. But I do throw things away. I think I’m just damned poor at organizing.

And it’s finally getting to me. I feel almost congested as if all the clutter's affecting my creativity. Oh, and I want this bedroom. Even more than the one Deb put up last week!

I’ve tried lots of different tactics. About a year ago, the same thing hit me. I decided to take one room at a time and do one drawer or shelf each day. My objective was to work through that one drawer or shelf and throw everything away that I wasn’t using or wasn’t a keepsake. I figured a few months of that and I’d have the whole house in perfect shape. I did good for about week. I just couldn’t maintain the momentum.

So I decided to scale back a bit. I made a commitment to throw one thing away every day. That actually worked for a few months. It was quite liberating, in fact. Then I started running into all these “keepsakes.” Things the kids made or wrote or some old toy that was special. What do others do with all these keepsakes? Maybe I’m more of a packrat than I think.

Anyway, it’s time to get back at it and now I’m stymied.

Does anyone have any full proof ways of keeping down the clutter? Any books you’ve read on home organizing that had doable suggestions?

Come on. One little trick that’s made a difference? One?

Okay, everyone loves the bed. I found it just by googling "feng shui." Hey, it's only $7-8,000!! Here's some more info on it:
The Mantra bed from FEG is an incredible design from Mauro Bertame. The Mantra bed was designed based upon Feng Shui principles. The low threshold and canopy not only look great, but serve a purpose. The low threshold creates a grounding effect. The high arc canopy gives the comfort of a warm embrace. Those of you compelled to involve the Feng Shui principles into your bedroom may want to start with this beautiful piece. A better night’s sleep is not the only benefit of owning this bed. Ordering information is available at EuropeByNet.

Don't forget to stop by to visit with Christine Feehan tomorrow!

Christie Says: It Never Rains in Southern California...

…except for when it does.

We drove up to Los Angeles on Friday with the ominous “worst September storm in twenty years” ringing in our ears. I tried to remember any other September storm in Southern California and could only recall a tropical squall rolling through my kids’ elementary school about five years ago. It had been a typical (hot) day that signals the start of the school year around here when pick-up time coincided with this drenching warm rain. It was the most amazing thing, not only because SoCal is not given to much rain, let alone a tropical one, but because the kindergarteners went crazy with excitement. They ran out onto the blacktop, their little faces turned up to the sky like thirsty flowers. All screeching as they turned in wild circles. We realized later that those little ones probably barely recalled rain…their moms likely didn’t let them out as preschoolers to play in our scant winter storms.

We did get thunder and lightning on Friday night, which is also very rare for Southern California. I was reminded of my book that came out last January and was set, in January, in the San Diego area. It featured both rain and sunshine, and I had more than one reader remark that she didn’t realize that we weren’t operating at 75 degrees and sunny skies 365 days of the year.

Have you ever run across that kind of reader or author, well, ignorance?

I remember reading a book in which the hero, in Southern California, was out swimming in the Pacific, in February, without a wetsuit. I think he later rolled around on the beach with the heroine. Yikes. That would have been like loving up a popsicle because the Pacific is cold all the time and really cold in winter. As in the sixties. Maybe it was that same book where the hero worked as a deejay and the California station was WXYZ or something like that. Fact is, though, all call letters for stations in the west (west of the Mississippi?) start with a K.

So now, as a California native, you know why I almost exclusively set my stories in the Golden State. Or I get in touch with someone who knows a new area well in order to not totally botch the details. Sometimes you can even find a convenient solution for a plot problem. I wrote a story set in Montana in winter and I needed a warm period for a point in the book. Hah! A fellow author (native of Montana) clued me in to the Chinook winds that bring warmer temperatures at certain times.

So…do you have an example of a geographical or meteorological faux pas in a book you’ve read? I’ve never gone so far as to mention one to another author, but I can tell you I winced over the heroine loving up that frozen guy on the beach…

Wednesday is Christine Feehan Day!

Just a reminder that the fabulous Christine Feehan will be our guest this Wednesday, September 26th! Only a couple of days away now! She'll be answering questions about her new book "Dark Possession," her first ever hardcover. . . which just hit #3 on the NYT List! Want to know the secrets of her success? Want to ask about characters or how she developed her famous "Dark" series and her other books?

Join us for a fun time with Christine!

Which one would you pick?

I don't have a lot of hidden talents. Or, if I do, they're REALLY hidden, even from me.

There was a time in my life I would have given anything to have been an Olympic gymnast. I'm over that. I'd like to be able to dance, though part of me is still convinced that, given the proper training, I could've.

I'd like to have an eye for interior design. But I can hire people for that. And I'd like to say I wish I had a real gift for investing, but the truth is I'm really not all that interested; I just want the results.

But what I really wish I could do that I can't at all is sing.

It's not modesty that says I can't. I went to a really small high school - everyone who tried out for anything made it. But the look on our music director's face when I tried out for choir . . . I know he wouldn't have let me in, except he needed me too much in band that he didn't dare upset me. He put me between two people who could sing and told me to be soft. In drama, I got the biggest parts in the play where you didn't have to sing a solo.

But it seems like it would be fun. To sing along in the car, or with other people at parties. To be able to say, "do you know this song?" and what came out of my mouth was recognizable enough that someone could identify it. So if I got to pick a talent I don't have, I'm pretty sure that's the one I'd choose.

So if you could pick one talent you don't have . . . what would it be?

Susie

What do you think of the Slideshow?

It's right there, to the right, under the Toot, Toot column. A running slideshow of the Riders' current releases. Do you like it? Can you see it? Does it take a long time to load? Do you prefer that to the static line of book covers we usually have? Or are you on dial-up, and is it more a pain? Do the text and posts load quickly, so you can start reading while the slideshow loads?

Please let us know what you think!

Michele's Top 5 French Flicks

The other Riders have occassionally posted movie reviews and favorites so I figured I'd take a stab at it. I don't have any current favs, though, so I thought I'd talk about my favorite movie genre, the French flick. I'm a Francophile, so I love anything set in France. Whether historical or contemporary, I do love me some French-spoken dialogue. And the French are absolute genius at costumes. There are movies I see specifically for the costumes. It's called a costume-orgasm, and yes, there are a few on my list. So let's start!

In no particular order:
1) LES PACTE DES LOUPS (The Brotherhood of the Wolf) 2001 - If you love action/adventure, romance, historical settings, horror and funky kung-fu-like fight scenes, you must see this movie. It follows the French werewolf legend of the Beast of Gevaudan, but puts an interesting twist to the beast. Samuel Le Bihan plays the lead, a naturalist/taxidermist who hunts the beast, and Mark Dacascos (currently hosting Iron Chef) plays his American Indian friend (I don't recall the tribe). The fight scenes with Dacascos are awesome, and frequent. Your menfolk will get a kick out of this movie, even if it is sub-titled. My hubby gave it a thumbs up, and he hates subtitles. But that's the beauty of action movies; more action, less dialogue, not so many sub-titles to read. A minor romance carries the plot along, and I'd be remiss not to mention Vincent Cassel's portrayal of the villain. Cassel has the bad boy down pat, and the final fight sequence at the end will have you looking up this amazing actor's backlist of movies. Costumes? Subtle, but exquisite. Monica Bellucci, as a prostitute/spy gets some interesting 18th century dresses (backless, anyone?) If you've never watched a French movie before, I recommend this one, as it appeals on so many levels. This one did very well for US release.

2) FARINELLI (1995) - Okay this one rates very high on the costume orgasm scale. It is about the 18th century castrato, Farinelli, and his rise to fame. Every other scene is a brief stint featuring sexy Stefano Dionisi singing countertenor arias on stage, and the costumes--oh man! Satins and silks and brocades and feathers and swan hats and shoes to make Manolo weep. Castratos were the rock stars of the 18th century, and this movie plays up the fandom, the drugs, even the tag-team sex (discreetly filmed). You know, I don't like opera, but I bought this soundtrack because it is simply a gorgeous listen. The castrato was venerated for his voice, and it is very high for a male. For the soundtrack, and the movie tracks they digitally altered a female soprano's voice. If you're interested in the time period, want to hear some awesome music, or are just in it for the costumes, go for it.

3) DISTRICT B13 (2006) - A contemporary action/adventure with a simple plot and again, more action than dialogue, so don't fear inviting your menfolk to watch this one. My 17-year-old watched it in the theater with me last year and he loved it (and he's another subtitle-phobic; heck he's a teenager. Foreign movies? Not.) The idea is that twenty years in the future Paris has become a virtual war ground with the volatile District B13 walled off because that's where the most violent live. Government plots to blow the entire district away, that is, if they can get away with it. The lead actor reminds me of a French Vin Diesel. He's athletic, humorous and plays the cop role with a wink. He pairs with David Belle, an exile from the district. Belle isn't an actor; he's actually the founder of the extreme running sport, parkour, and they feature a lot of parkour in this movie. Oh, and abs, baby, abs! It's fast-paced, smart, and has a touch of humor, and while the milieu is set around drugs and gangs and cops against criminals, you would think it could get sleazy real fast. But it doesn't. They film stays fast, fun and action-packed. Another must-see if you like action, or even buddy-cop types of movies.

4) LA FEMME NIKITA (1991) - The TV series was based on this movie. The series rocked. But it doesn't compare to the original movie. Anne Parillaud excels as the convicted criminal who is given a new identity and trained as a spy/assassin. This belligerent pixy of a hard-*ss learns manners, defense skills and how to kill without conscience. You'll cheer for her as she's forced to swim or sink. One of my favorite French actors, Jean Hughes-Anglade has a small role. This one has some violence, but if you like strong female roles, it's worth the watch.

5) MOLIERE (2007) - Just saw this one a month ago. It follows 17th century playwrite, Moliere as he begins his career. It is a comedy of errors, and I believe, loosely based on one of Moliere's more famous plays, Tartuffe. It was absolutely hilarious, and if you want a good laugh, watch for it to show up in video stores in a few months. Not so many costumes changes, as this was middle class gentry sorts, but excellent all the same.

Bonus) LA REINE MARGOT (Queen Margot) 1994 - I call this one the Blood, Sex and Vincent Perez movie. A close look at the few days before, during and after the massacre of St. Bartholomew, when the Catholics slaughtered the Hugenots. Assaults, poisonings, beheadings and all-out war ensue. It is a bloody pic. But the costumes rate high on the scale. And the acting. Whew! Amazing. Again, Jean Hughes-Anglade shows up. He plays the immature, and perhaps slightly insane king Charles IX, and man, does he own this movie. As well Virna Lisi, who plays Catherine de Medici, the king's mother, will knock you over. Vincent Perez provides some eye-candy (and a quick glimpse of man-parts; erm, but sorry, the parts are bloody due to, well, er, battle), and Pascal Greggory is another interesting actor who plays Henry III (Anjou) and has an interesting almost incestual relationship with his sister. As you might guess, this is one twisted tale, but it is beautifully filmed and while it'll make you gasp in horror, it'll also have you drooling over the costumes and questioning the power of religion wielded cruelly.

Now, tell me about your favorite foreign movie!

Dreams Continued

Helen here - found an interesting website about dreams and dream analysis: http://www.dreamsleep.net/

And for fun, here's an approximation of one of my dreams last night: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kpbF_JP62_I

I woke up to this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YnUpEQtyNrA

Nice, huh?

Anyone else want to share visuals of their dreams?

Here's one for Michele:
http://youtube.com/watch?v=26nr5f33gdU

Dream-working

Occasionally I hear other writers talking about "dreaming" a whole book, or even getting an idea for a book from a dream, and I admit: it makes me jealous. Because I must have the laziest subconscious on the planet. No Eiffel towers, no rocket launches, no steamy orgies, no familial confrontations with tommy guns. My dreams are basically my ordinary life with the occasional orangutan thrown in.

The most excitement I ever generated in bed was when I once sat up during a dream (still asleep, I am told) and asked anxiously: "Has anybody seen Frank Ray?"

Now, Frank Ray was a dear and somewhat dotty old man who lived with his equally aged sister. . . two doors down from me when I was six years old. We all thought he was a little smelly, but otherwise benign. My only real memory of him was a trip my sister and two or three other kids and I took to collect pumpkins from a farmer's pumpkin patch. I had to ride in the front seat with the old guy and he caught my thumb in the car door. The car was so old (like him) that there was a huge gap in the seal and while it caught my thumb and kinda mashed it a little, it hardly even hurt. My sister cried; I didn't. That's it. No trauma. No terror. No illicit anything. Just a memory of ordinary childhood that popped into my head and apparently made me want to sit up and ask for the old guy. Sigh. See what I mean? Just plain forgettable.

Except that . . . I didn't forget it, and I can't figure that out. Most of my dreams are so forgettable that I. . . forget them. So why Frank Ray? What was he to me that I've forgotten. . . or suppressed? Hmmmmm.

Did I see something in that old woodshed with all the knives and civil war swords out behind his house? Something that marked my young mind? Something so terrible that I've blanked it out and can't bear to remember it? When I peeked in his windows, as all six year olds are wont to do, did I see him and his equally aged sister engaged in unnatural acts. . . like frying liver and onions. . . IN THE SAME PAN?

Why ask for Frank Ray? Did he have a son or a nephew named James Earl. . . who would go on later to infamy as the killer of Martin Luther King? Did I see swastikas hanging above an altar in the closet of the back room? Did he shuffle along all the time to make the neighbors "think" he was old and decrepit so he could go on secret courier missions abroad? Did his aged sister serve us all spiked lemonade that made us forget what we saw at the "pumpkin patch"? Did he snip off locks of our hair (or thumbs) to use to find us and invade our dreams as we grew up so he could live on-- night by night-- stalking us through our dreams?

Did he really keep a big orange orangutan?

Sigh. See what I mean? Back with the orangutan again and I know I'm back in Kansas and nothing really extraordinary happened. Not even in my dreams. And I guess I've made peace with that. Maybe it's all just a balancing act. My subconscious is getting rid of the flotsam and jettsum of ORDINARY so I can get wild and fertile with my waking mind.

Yeah. Maybe that's it. Who needs dreams when my waking mind is so. . . ummm. . . colorful?

What about you? How's your dream life? Any recurring things you want to get off your chest? Any strange dreams you've turned into books or proposals or good cocktail party stories?

Debra - The "Stuffing" of Dreams

I am a picky person. I can't help it. It's not that I'm devasted because you changed your recipe for corn soufle, but really? Why mess with it?

I don't mean to blurt out, "What did you do to the soufle?" It just comes out. I'm inquisitive. Really. Best to tell me right up front if you're screwing around with my view of how the world should be. It'll go better for both of us. I can be a team player, but I like to get a heads-up about the plays.

Don't deliver furniture to me that has a scratch or nick. I didn't pay for scratched or nicked furniture, and I will look. I don't take anything that looks like a box has been retaped. Nope. "Go get me one from the back, please!" I'm polite, but I'm picky.

Don't change brands of sour cream. Only get the "right" brand of onion dip.

Don't leave my car empty. Or trash in it.

I can't order anything off the menu as-is.

Eventually Amazon will learn to stop sending me books with bent corners and hang-nail spines. Hate 'em. Won't keep 'em.

Where is all this leading? To a king-sized mattress. I told my husband to get a mattress. (Please, hold the guffaws until I'm finished. I know that was stupid...NOW.) He did. Only it was more of a 7-ply piece of birch marine grade plywood.

In the beginning I couldn't make it a whole night without decamping for the den and the recliner. He, who sleeps on his back, was snoozing like a baby and getting his best sleep ever. Meanwhile my spine was all out of whack from sleeping on my side. My bonny good nature was whacked too. Just ask hubby.

If I hadn't had to go out of town on business, I think there would have been bloodshed. (His.) But I did and got the most fabulous night's sleep. I'm sure the maid thought a bomb had gone off in the room because I tore everything apart the next morning to find out the magic combination of bedding. My bet was on the down featherbed. Ooh la and la. Don't let the word "feather" fool you here. We are talking "down." Fluffy scrumptious heaven in a bag. I called the manufacturer and had them ship that puppy ASAP and heck! Throw in a couple of down pillows.
I am now sleeping the sleep of the instantly gratified consumer. I am back in dreamland where the men are yummy and bon bons are necessary to survival. I highly recommend it. http://pacificcoast.com/

It's a tad rumple/lumpish when the bed is made up but it has that antique bed look. Sort of like puffy clouds.

How about you guys? What is indispensible to your sleep?

Christine's coming!

Just a reminder that the incomparable Christine Feehan will be our guest blogger on September 26th! Not long now! And she'll be able to answer questions about her new book "Dark Possession," her first ever hardcover. . . which just hit #3 on the NYT List! Want to know the secrets of herwildly successful career? Want to ask about characters or how she developed her famous "Dark" series and her other books?

Join us for a Christine day!

Kathleen asks: On the Day You Were Born...

...what song topped the Billboard pop chart?

Music is important to writers. It's not just what we may or may not listen to while we're writing, but what do our characters listen to? What's playing on the radio during the story?

Fellow writer Susan Wiggs put me onto a web site today that went directly into the bookmarks--after I played around with it a bit. Pick a day--any day in the last 100 years--and find out what the most popular song was ON THAT DAY.

Cool, huh?

If you can figure out on which November 8th "Near You" by Francis Craig and his orchestra was the top tune, you'll know my age (which is really no secret). I know the song, of course, but I had to google Francis Craig, and I discovered that "Near You" is actually the all-time Billboard (or its equivalent) champ at #1 with 17 weeks.

Discovered more fun tidbits. The day DH was born? "Some Enchanted Evening" by Perry Como. Now you get into the 6 degrees of separation game. Perry Como was my parents' favorite singer. The day my parents were married the #1 song was "The Old Lamplighter," which was the theme of my junior prom. The day I met DH--"Get Back" (The Beatles). The day we were married--"Cracklin' Rosie."

This is too much fun for one person. It's your turn. Jump on this link and find out what the #1 song was on your big day. Days.

And here's another hint about the year "Near You" had its 17 week run. Here's me now.

Britney Spears

I'm gonna rant a little.

Helen here, in case you hadn't immediately figured that out :)

Did anyone see the Britney Spears performance at the MTV awards on Tuesday night? I didn't, but boy did I hear about it the next morning. The media was ALL over Britney's comeback performance, completely dissing her moves, her song and her appearance.

First off, I'm not a Britney fan, and the outfit she chose for the MTV performance left a lot to be desired. As in fabric. Hello, coulda used a little more of it. But I honestly resent all the crap they gave her about weight gain. Give the poor woman a break. She's had two kids in a relatively short period of time. Women, in particular, seemed to be the biggest blasters.

First we complain about how skinny the supermodels are, then we complain about the bit o' jiggle on a singer. What's the matter with us? When did we get so rude? And what is up with our fascination for celebrities?

Girl time with Lois

I remember having sleepovers with my 3 best friends when I was a child. They would usually come out to the farm where the rules were lax to nonexistent and we could sneak out at night to ride in the dark, or lie in our sleeping bags under the stars and giggle till dawn. Those were great times, sharing secrets and hopes and dreams.

Then I grew up, had children, became ‘responsible’ and the girl time became more sparse but increasingly precious. There have always been friends though. Friends who were there when I needed them.
Karen Kay (author of many wonderful Native American romance novels) once agreed to mount a horse (I didn’t know she was allergic…really…didn’t even know a nose could get that red) so that we could take a picture, then alter the pic so it looked as if we were on a camel to promote our upcoming coast to coast tour. She was more than a trooper. I try to be the same when my friends are in need.
A couple years ago, one of them called out of the blue after several months of silence to ask for help in leaving her husband. She was going to her house to collect stuff and needed a lookout. Knowing her husband, Duke, (No kidding. That was his name.) I asked if he had a gun. Her assurance that he was legally prohibited from owning a firearm didn’t make me feel much better. But I there for her. She gathered her things and never looked back. Gritty girl time, maybe, but girl time just the same.

On the receiving end, my daughter was born in May 18 years ago. I had endured a long Minnesota winter compounded by a somewhat worrisome pregnancy and by the time I brought baby home I was desperately in need of a friend and fresh air. So I called Mary. She was there in a heartbeat, brushing horses, talking a mile a minute. Maybe she wasn’t aware that I planned to bring baby with me on our ride, but when she saw 5 day old Tara snuggled into my little front carrier, she swallowed her objections and saddled up. Unfortunately, the steady mount I’d been riding for more than 10 years decided to take that particular day to lie down in the middle of the trail for no good reason. Everything turned out fine, but at that point even Mary had had enough and sensibly insisted that I ‘take that baby home right now.’ Still she was there for me. Willing, game, supportive.

I can’t even remember all the times I complained to her about my mounting literary rejections, my sleepless nights as a new mother, my myriad worries. But she always listened. While we allowed our horses to meander down the local park trails, we’d take turns talking. She would vent for twenty minutes about boyfriends and work, and I’d do the same about my problems. It was wonderful. Therapeutic. Unforgettable. Then my kids grew older, needed more of my attention, and I lost touch with many of my girlfriends.
But now, as the house empties, I find I have time for them again. Recently Colleen, an old friend with whom I’ve reconnected, agreed to ride in tandem bareback classes with me. It’s a ridiculous event involving one horse, two riders and identical costumes…and we’re having a ball.

It’s funny, although I write ‘relationship’ books and wax romantic about bulging biceps and sardonic grins, I find I generally prefer the company of women. They’re fun and empathetic, and you don’t need to use bowls when you eat ice cream.

So how about you? Do you have memories of girl time that warms your heart and lightens your mood? Or is hanging with the boys more your idea of a good time?

You Say Potato ...

Just about every day I take my dogs, Ebby and Charlie, for a walk at an off-leash dog park a few miles from my home. The time of day may differ, but they know the general routine. Helen puts on a pair of old tennis shoes, grabs the plastic bags and, this time, they get to come along in the car.

About the time we pass through the last stop sign, they start fidgeting. By the time they see the white picket fence across the street from the parking lot the whining has nearly reached ear-splitting decibels. First, I get out of the car, then it’s their turn. Dogs are such creatures of habit. Maybe, so am I.

We walk for a half an hour, sometimes longer. Round and round. Mom needs exercise too. Sometimes we’re alone at the park, but more often than not there are other dogs. Usually, the same dogs at the same time of day. Bentley, the Cairn terrier. Lilly, the Great Dane. Captain, the German shepherd. Jake, the ill-mannered yellow lab. Chester, the manic German shorthair.

Oh, yeah, and all of these dogs bring along their humans too. Many of the dogs and their owners gather up at the pavilion on the hill. Not me. I walk. I don’t know a single person’s name. I kid you not.

I can be social when it’s required, but this time for me isn’t about visiting with people. It’s about clearing my head or working out a problem with a scene I’m trying to write. Or maybe it’s time to think of nothing more than how warm or cold the air feels and to wonder how long that dead tree has been down in that valley. One day, all I did was watch a hawk follow me around the park, landing on one dead tree branch after another just so it could watch us.

Sometimes I feel as if the other people at the park consider me--and my dogs-- anti-social. I was extremely shy in high school and I think many of my classmates thought I was stuckup, too good for everyone else. Over time I’ve just come to accept that’s who I am and that's who they are. If I did nothing but sit around and chat with people, I’d leave the park feeling drained and tired instead of revived and fresh.

That’s an introvert for you. Give me quiet, alone time any day of the week. It's taken me a long time to figure that out.

Good thing dogs don’t talk.

What happens when you don't recharge? What do you do to recharge? Are you an introvert or an extrovert?

The Truth and Nothing but, by Susie

This was originally written for Redbook online, as part of their summer bookclub.

Occupational hazard of being a writer: people wonder how much of your own life is in your books.

When I was writing romance novels, my dh (lovely term, that, covering “dear husband” or “damn husband”, as the case may be. Often both) considered this a bonus. The love scenes? About him? Every single word.

But now, with the upcoming release of Just Sex, he’s concerned. Because the husband in that book is not a good guy. The husband cheats a lot.

I’m a little worried about setting the record straight on this. (I worry a lot. One of my talents.) Because it seems to me the surest sign of a celebrity’s relationship being almost over is when they give an interview about how great said relationship is. Shelf life after that? Maybe three months.

There are some things in Just Sex that are an awful lot like us. My husband travels on business too much, often to Chicago. I am hopelessly addicted to Diet Coke. We got married young. (I was twenty, he was twenty-five, by two whole weeks. Hey, he needed a green card, and I was young enough to think my life was over if he had to go back to the other side of the world.) Our dog did bloat once, in the middle of the night when the dh was out of town.

But I’m pretty sure he’s not cheating on me. At least not up ‘til now. There are two reasons for this:

1) If he was, I’d make him suffer. A lot. I remind him of this regularly, and he believes me.

2) The dh likes to make money; he likes to spend money. He has no interest in the day-to-day management of it, which means every penny goes through me. Every credit card statement, every check, every instant cash receipt. If he’s having an affair, it’s as a kept man. And really, if we’re not talking a young Richard Gere, how often does that happen?

We’ve been married a really long time. I’d have to say that a good part of the reason for that is as simple as the fact that we both went in thinking there was no out. This was it. So neither one of us ever does anything unforgivable. (Lots of things that need forgiving? Oh yeah. Regularly.)

I remember when we were looking for our first house how many of them were being sold because of an impending divorce. There’d be pictures on the wall, family pictures: happy parents, gorgeous kids. A house that had obviously been put together with love, to hold a family that was no longer whole.

Divorce just doesn’t look fun to me. And very expensive,

I’m not saying there aren’t good reasons for it. And that whole two to make, two to break is a crock . . . one person, who doesn’t want to be there anymore, can break marriage. Sometimes you just gotta get out.

But we’re both decent people. And we both know we don’t want that. Too much trouble.

From my husband’s perspective, I think there’re two reasons this works for us.

First off, I make him laugh. All the time.

I’m not funny. You have to trust me on this. (Sometimes on paper, when I get to think about it for days on end, but not in real life.) But for some reason, he thinks I’m absolutely freakin’ hilarious. It’s weird, but it’s nice.

Second, he thinks I’m just this side of Cindy Crawford.

You have to trust me on this one, too. I’m not. Never was. Not even, remotely, with low lighting and heavy-duty beer goggles.

It’s genius on his part, when you think about it. And quite efficient.

All guys want to marry supermodels. In the genes. But there’s a downside to that. I mean, how many guys could actually catch one? And they’d be expensive to keep, and you sure couldn’t take them out to chow down on a cheeseburger.

So he’s just decided, all evidence to the contrary, that I am as hot as a female comes. Delusional, of course, but very clever.

For me, it’s as simple as the fact that I like that I make him laugh, and I like that he thinks I’m beautiful. And he’s a good guy, all told, a very good guy.

A single friend of mine once asked how, when I walked down the street and a gorgeous man passed, could I live with the idea that I’d never have a chance to sleep with someone like that again?

Are you kidding me? He wasn’t going to sleep with me anyway.

If I went out looking for some great thing out there, I know, I know, that I’d be sorry. I don’t want to do all that again, all that energy, and that worry, to try and build a good relationship. I’ve got one. Okay, maybe the next guy wouldn’t snore quite so loud, and maybe he’d never forget my birthday. (He made up for that one really well, by the way; a guilty dh is a much better gift giver than a regular it’s-your-birthday dh.) But maybe he wouldn’t think I’m hilarious, and maybe he wouldn’t think the only reason I’m not a famous supermodel is that I’m 5’4.” And I doubt he’d not mind at all when I woke up him after a long day at work to hold me, night after night, when I can’t sleep because one of our kids is sick, or I’m stressed about work, or something I saw on the news is haunting me. And for certain I wouldn’t have the memory of the awe on his face when our sons were born.

So no, Tom-the-cheater isn’t based on my husband. I promised him I’d let you all know. (A few of my friends’, now, that’s another thing entirely.)

And our dog lived another seven stupidly delirious years.

Susie

Cindy - It’s not easy being mean – or confessions of a wife turned nurse.

My dear sweet hubby had total knee replacement surgery last week. In the dictionary, next to the word pain, you will see: knee replacement surgery. Well, maybe not, but maybe it should be. In any event, I’ve been playing nurse and physical therapist since they released him from the hospital WAY TOO SOON.

I’ve always had a healthy respect for anyone in the medical profession and I’ve done my share of nursing the little ones over the years and my parents when those times inevitably arrive. But to make a man (a tough man) perform excruciating physical exercises to help regain mobility in a knee that is swollen to roughly the size of a basketball requires a heart that is much more hardened than mine.

What does this lead up to you ask? It leads up to the fact that I’ve barely had time to brush my hair let alone write a blog post (or work on a book where the deadline is looming) SOOO, I’ve filched something from someone somewhere that I found interesting and thought provoking to both the historian and weird factoid persona in me and decided to share.

Here goes:

The next time you are washing your hands and complain because the water temperature isn't just how you like it, think about how things used to be. Here are some facts about the1500s:

Most people got married in June because they took their yearly bath in May, and still smelled pretty good by June. However, they were starting to smell, so brides carried a bouquet of flowers to hide the body odor. Hence the custom today of carrying a bouquet when getting married.

Baths consisted of a big tub filled with hot water. The man of the house had the privilege of the nice clean water, then all the other sons and men, then the women and finally the children. Last of all the babies. By then the water was so dirty you could actually lose someone in it. Hence the saying, Don't throw the baby out with the Bath water.

Houses had thatched roofs-thick straw-piled high, with no wood underneath. It was the only place for animals to get warm, so all the cats and other small animals (mice, bugs) lived in the roof. When it rained it became slippery and sometimes the animals would slip and fall off the roof. Hence the saying . It's raining cats and dogs.

There was nothing to stop things from falling into the house. This posed a real problem in the bedroom where bugs and other droppings could mess up your nice clean bed. Hence, a bed with big posts and a sheet hung over the top afforded some protection. That's how canopy beds came into existence.

The floor was dirt. Only the wealthy had something other than dirt. Hence the saying, Dirt poor. The wealthy had slate floors that would get slippery in the winter when wet, so they spread thresh (straw) on floor to help keep their footing. As the winter wore on, they added more thresh until, when you opened the door, it would all start slipping outside. A piece of wood was placed in the entranceway. Hence the saying a thresh hold.

In those old days, they cooked in the kitchen with a big kettle that always hung over the fire. Every day they lit the fire and added things to the pot. They ate mostly vegetables and did not get much meat. They would eat the stew for dinner, leaving leftovers in the pot to get cold overnight and then start over the next day. Sometimes stew had food in it that had been there for quite a while. Hence the rhyme, Peas porridge hot, peas porridge cold, peas porridge in the pot nine days old.

Sometimes they could obtain pork, which made them feel quite special. When visitors came over, they would hang up their bacon to show off. It was a sign of wealth that a man could, bring home the bacon. They would cut off a little to share with guests and would all sit around and chew the fat.

Those with money had plates made of pewter. Food with high acid content caused some of the lead to leach onto the food, causing lead poisoning death. This happened most often with tomatoes, so for the next 400 years or so, tomatoes were considered poisonous.

Bread was divided according to status. Workers got the burnt bottom of the loaf, the family got the middle, and guests got the top, or the upper crust.

Lead cups were used to drink ale or whisky. The combination would sometimes knock the imbibers out for a couple of days. Someone walking along the road would take them for dead and prepare them for burial. They were laid out on the kitchen table for a couple of days and the family would gather around and eat and drink and wait and see if they would wake up. Hence the custom of holding a wake.

England was old and small and the local folks started running out of places to bury people. So they would dig up coffins and would take the bones to a bone-house, and reuse the grave. When reopening these coffins, 1 out of 25 coffins were found to have scratch marks on the inside and they realized they had been burying people alive. So they would tie a string on the wrist of the corpse, lead it through the coffin and up through the ground and tie it to a bell. Someone would have to sit out in the graveyard all night (the graveyard shift.) to listen for the bell; thus, someone could be, saved by the bell or was considered a .. dead ringer.

So. What do you think? I LOVE reading about how some of the expressions we blindly use without a thought to their origin came about. Anyone out there have any little known factoids to add to the broth or the stew or the bathwater???

Debra - PIECE BY PIECE

I would live like a bear in a cave rather than face a full-scale decorating project, which is why I have to "sneak" up on it, one piece at a time. It seems less daunting that way.

I also have champagne tastes and a beer budget. (Anyone else afflicted with that character flaw?) So, I'm less nauseated if I only buy one piece at a time.

Plus I've been remodeling for two years. (That's been a great excuse.)

When you combine my love of "pretty-stuff-I-can't-afford-because-I-don't-live-in-that-house" with my unwillingness to "shop til I drop" to get the bargains and my avoidance of paint chips, fabric stores and furniture catalogues you get a very long time table for decorating.

However, I've run out of construction. All major and minor construction for the remodel is now finished. Furniture that was supposed to take 6 months is arriving months early. There is no longer any excuse for primer walls. I had to bite the bullet. (The pic colors didn't come out great. Think lily pond. Palest blue ceiling called Stillness, Limesicle walls, etc. and toss in some leather.)

"What?!" you homey types are saying. " Why didn't you do all this decorating-painting stuff while you were remodeling?" Short answer: I was busy trying not to kill my husband, the contractor and that stray dog who had puppies under my house. Who had time to select anything?

Here's what I've discovered:

Not allowing anyone to rush me was the best thing I could ever have done.
I adore each of the pieces I've carefully found over the last year.
My color palette evolved because I hadn't committed to anything...yet.
My options expanded because I was willing to wait on backorders.
My animals have loved the empty master bedroom for frollicking.
My husband worries the kitchen furniture will encourage people to sit in his kitchen.
I learned "scale" finally.
$ 140 a yard is too much for silk drapery fabric even if it is beyond perfect. (Puhleeze!)
I had the wrong kind of night stand for my storage needs all these years.
Steps to get in the bed were worth it and the cats approve.
My carpet is the wrong color. (rush decision during remodeling)
If I want silk drapes I have to make them myself.
It is okay to have an armoire for nothing but my quilts.

I love Hekman, Theodore & Alexander, Lorts, and more. I'd have everything they make. The etched bronze and wood table at the right is called, "I don't care if I don't have chairs to sit in! I want that table for...something."

I love wood. Lots and lots of wood which isn't necessarily a good thing.

If you have a chair you love, you will never find the same dimensions again.

Poor hubby is going to be painting for months.

So, how about you? Are you an "everything at once" kind of decorator or do you collect things piece by piece? Do you like antiques? Reproductions? Funky pieces with folk art? Are your ceilings white or a color?

Christie Says: Two Words I'll Never Utter Again...

Guilty pleasure.

Okay, okay, the phrase doesn’t look dangerous. And I think we’ve even listed our favorites of them recently here. But I’ve forsworn the idea
now. Here’s why—unless it’s illegal or immoral, I don’t think we should have to feel guilty about any pleasure!

What brought me to this vehemence? Blame it on Johnny.

Johnny is a family friend who recently came to visit after his first six weeks in film school. And he happened to visit just as Son 2 and I finished watching the Disney Channel's High School Musical 2. Johnny told us it was a “bad movie” and that we, the actors, and Disney Studios should be ashamed of participating in its success. After all, what good was a movie that didn’t even deserve a real title? That criticism was just for starters, though he admitted never seeing the movie or its predecessor, High School Musical.

“Pretty people,” he scoffed. “Singing and dancing.”

Um, that’s exactly why I liked it, I said.

Wasn’t good enough for Mr. Film School. He was pretty scathing about sequels altogether, though the Pirates of the Caribbean franchise was worthy in his estimation and Batman Begins was great because it was a “new” Batman. Casino Royale? No good because how could Bond be beginning in the contemporary now when we all know he was around in the 60s and 70s? Yeah, my head spun. I tried to defend Daniel Craig (without mentioning the emerging-from-the-ocean scene, which was worth the price of admission right there) . I went so far as to admit that the songs in the Disney musical weren’t memorable, perhaps, but I had a darn good time watching and listening while they lasted.

“Okay, fine,” Johnny told me, with a dismissive flick of his fingers. “It’s your guilty pleasure.”

Um. No. I don’t feel guilty. Why should I feel guilty because something brought me enjoyment and pleasure? That doesn’t make sense.

I hear people use the term all the time in regards to our books, too. We write and read and love romance because it strikes a chord with us. In our busy world and busy lives we find pleasure in these kinds of stories. Sometimes the pleasure lasts a short while, like the way a hot fudge sundae stays on our tongue. Sometimes it’s the kind we can return to time and again, when we select it from our keeper shelf for a re-read.

I feel guilty for neither. Just like I won’t apologize that my favorite genre of fiction ends with a man and a woman committed to each other and to building a better life together than they would have apart. How could that be something feel guilty about or sorry for?

So did I convince Johnny? Nah. That’s okay. I just smiled and pressed the button on my video recorder that said I’m saving High School Musical 2 indefinitely. I’ll watch it again. It was fun.

Has anyone else seen High School Musical and its sequel, High School
Musical 2? And am I the only one who is delighted to know that the two
young lead characters have an actual real-life romance?

Betina ponders life "with Additives" or "Au Naturale"

Remember the vitamin C craze? Vitamin E? Fiber for everything? Cider vinegar?

Everybody I know these days is going on and on about miracle cures, supplements that cure all kinds of ailments and make you feel 10 years younger, or at the very least, nutrients our foods no longer provide. Everybody's got a story to sell. And stock in some vitamin, oil, elixir, tablet, enzyme, or nutritional additive. And since they're now going to live forever they want some company. . . and are trying to take me with them.

I'm not sure I wanna go.

It started with a bunch of vitamins my brother-in-law sold back in the 90's. Superbly put together vitamins (formulated with fructose) with antioxidants (grape seed extract) out the yin-yang. He quit selling them two or three years later and I'm still taking the danged things. I'm not sure why. I've been relatively healthy and I'm afraid if I stop my hair will fall out and I'll turn into one big liver spot.

Then a writer friend put me onto Ginko Biloba, an extract from the "living fossil" tree. . . meant to sharpen wits and improve memory. And if I could remember who she was, I'd give her a big old "hug" for helping me remember in detail everything I really don't want to worry about.

Then a friend gave me a book about the perfect foods. . . somebody or other's prescriptions for better living through au naturale chemistry. I eat blueberries constantly now. My teeth have an eerie blue cast, but hey-- I'm going to live to at least 100-- so someday my hair and my teeth will match.

Then there was the whole "cabbage is the perfect food" craze. Supposedly contains every micro nutrient needed by the human body. But you try making a menu around cabbage and blueberries! No wonder nobody comes to dinner at my house anymore. It's either that or the chronic flatulence the cabbage causes.

Lately there is coconut oil. My sister discovered it and has been spooning it into me, insisting I'm looking younger and more vibrant every day. But only the really pricey kind: the cold pressed, virgin, $18.00 a pint coconut oil. It's not bad for your heart she says; it's medium chain fatty something-or-others. The story goes: coconut oil took a bum rap in the 80's because the soybean producers lobbied hard to make coconuts look bad. So I took out a mortgage and bought a pint. Spread it on my toast in the morning. ACK. Stay tuned. I'll let you know in 25 years if it works.

Oh, and since "miracle med" Lipitor may be really bad for us (I've been taking it for 10 years!!! I am so dead.) I'm supposed to wean myself off it and instead take massive doses of vitamin C and some enzyme thingy called "CoQ-10." I have no clue what that is, but it's supposed to be fabulous for me. . . and Lipitor supposedly depletes it in my body. So far, I'm playing it safe and taking Lipitor AND CoQ-10.

Sweetners? sigh. Nutrasweet is everywhere and in everything. You try buying the world a Diet Coke without it. Except occasionally, I can find Diet Coke and Arizona tea made with Splenda. . . which is chlorinated sugar. Yep, bleach-treated sugar. The Chlorine renders the sugar unusable in the body. And it tastes really good. But lately there's a new thing. Stevia. A plant whose leaves can be powdered and provide a non-nutritive sweetner. Available in health food stores everywhere. My sister is my supplier so far. I don't know where she gets it, but I use it on my cereal in the morning. So far I still have a pulse.

And to stave off diabetes, I've voluntarily given up bread, potatoes and pasta. No more Spaghetti Factory or Macaroni Grill for me. I'm eating lean meats and fish and vegetables, including that infernal cabbage. My blood sugar is great. I'm probably going to live to be a hundred now. It's just that now I can't remember why I wanted to.

What about you? Do you think additives and supplements work? Anything you've added to your health regimen? Are you suceptible to influence by family and friends? Any home remedies you and your family swear by? Do you prefer life with supplements or "au naturale?"

Kathleen Previews New (sort of) Western

A new Western movie? My baby loves 'em. Naturally we couldn't wait, and with a "sneak preview" available last night, we didn't have to. "3:10 To Yuma" will be out in general release Sept 7, and for all you Western fans, we're flashing two thumbs up.

I sort of remember the original 1957 version. The title, anyway. Definitely the stars. I was a big Glenn Ford fan. But when I heard there was a remake on the way, I had to look it up to learn that this was a ground breaker in its day. The first "psychological" Western. It was (and is) based on an Elmore Leonard short story, which shows in the dialog. It starts out as your basic good vs evil Western, but as the layers of character are peeled back, it becomes delightfully more complex--certainly in the 2007 version. (I just put the 1957 version in my queue.)

You can't go wrong with Christian Bale and Russell Crow. They live up to our expectations in this one--intense, deliciously troubled, deep, but they deliver some humor, too, and it works beautifully despite the considerable blood-letting. It's fun to watch them play off each other.

Loved the camera work. They can do so much more to give you the feel of the action than they could 50 years ago. The only shots that didn't work for me were some of the closeups on horseback. They had to be riding some easy walkers. But that's just me. The Monument Valley setting was a wonderful toast to the classic Western, and how appropriate that Peter Fonda played a role. He's no Henry, but he's good.

And the story?



Hard-luck rancher, family man, good guy (Bale) takes on the job (on the promise of $200 reward) of getting a hardened criminal (Crow) to the train bound for Yuma prison, while the meanest gang in the West, hell-bent to save him, creates carnage. On the road, stuff happens. Black and white turn to grey in a world where there's precious little good, and two interesting characters gradually reveal themselves. Okay, the ending is a stretch, but it's based on a short story, remember.

Westerns. Anybody miss them besides me? What's your favorite? Who's the best cowboy ever?