Brontë Sisters Power Dolls

As one YouTube comment stated, "this is brilliant wrapped in bacon." Love. Hilarity. Thanks to JoAnn Ross for the tipoff!

I Write Romance

mimi is always amused by the looks she gets when a well-meaning questioner finds out that she reads and writes romance. There's never a way to explain it that suits folks. You see, it's hard to think clearly when you're working around a bundle of stereotypes.

Luckily, mimi has Eileen Dreyer--who writes romance as Kathleen Korbel--to explain on her behalf. Check out her fabulous article posted at cnn.com.

Yeah. What she said!

It's About Danged Time

A friend sent me a link to this brilliant ad campaign for, of all things, tampons. The model in the first ad is actually a former intern at JWT who helped design the concept of the ad campaign. Clearly, she gets it (unlike the idjit who came up with the "have a happy period" tagline, who probably thinks we all dream of the day we can wear white during that time of the month and spin and go salsa dancing). The second spot just nails the American obsession with demographic testing. Funny stuff!

Meeting in the Middle

I had one of those European experiences this morning. There was no room to sit in the local bagel shop, where I'd come hoping to review some writing along with breakfast, so I ended up sharing a table with a total stranger. Turns out we had plenty in common, when we were discussing our kids, but somehow, we got onto politics. We were quite different. One would expect fireworks, and yet...

...we had an amazing discussion. It was easy to tell where she and I diverged, but there were plenty of areas where we agreed. We talked a little about nearly everything, from education policy to global warming to redistricting to health care and found we shared far more common ground than the current freaked-out political vibe would lead you to believe.

It makes you wonder what those idjits in Washington are really all about. Between the two of us, Ms. Stranger and I could have solved some hugely knotty national problems, and we did this over bagels in less than an hour. Neither of us had patience for people who don't think or appear to have the capacity (*cough* Sarah Palin *cough*), nor did we appreciate the all-out monetary grubfest indulged in by too many in Congress. We also bemoaned the lack of common sense and actual voices in the debates over serious problems--for example, why aren't they talking to teachers when making education policy instead of the people who publish textbooks and educational software, or union leaders who have never seen or worked inside a classroom? Why can't we all agree that a growing population has some effect on the world's environment? Why are the only voices we're hearing so far out on the fringes that the rest of us are annoyed and increasingly disconnected?

It was a quick hour and an interesting one. My new acquaintance and I ended up exchanging numbers, though I doubt we'll ever see each other again. Still, it gives you pause: if two strangers can meet, disagree cordially, and leave with respect, why can't the people we're paying to do that job manage the same?

Shavasanaaaaah

They've finally opened a yoga studio in my lovely little hometown. That may seem like indulgence, but believe me, when trying for fitness means loading up the car and a fight across traffic (therefore rendering much of the stress-relieving properties of fitness moot), having a studio that I could get to on foot is a real boon. I attended their opening day festivities, liked the energy, and was elated to see that they offered a class on the day I reallyreally like to go to class, so boom! There I was, mat at the ready...all alone. No one else in class that day (strange), but the pert little yogi there to teach me was all happy and grateful, so basically, I got a private yoga class yesterday.

Can I just say that there really are no words to describe how wonderful shavasana feels when you've worked your way through a class? No illusions about the rigor of the class itself--it'll be awhile before this body is ready to tackle ashtanga again--but working through an hour-plus of poses she chose to work my stiff hips and ease the rhinoceros of tension that seems to drape on my shoulders like an ungainly shrug made that ten minutes or so of corpse pose the best thing I did all day. And I had a good day at school, mind you.

There's something about letting yourself go that we moms and women rarely do. Just lying on the floor without a brain full of squirrels feels decadent. A guilty pleasure (though guilt and yoga shouldn't ever be roommates, if you can help it). That ten minutes in shavasana, covered with a blankie, no less (something Debbie does at the end of class for all her students), felt like the best thing I'd done for myself in ages. So of course, I bought a class card.

Love the WiiFit and my Rodney Yee-on-the-beach yoga tapes, but there's something about a calming studio with low lights, soft candles, a tease of incense, and soothing music that really does the trick for this stressed-out mom. I'll be there Thursday, and I blast-texted a huge bunch of friends to come play with. Let's hope they find out the wonders of shavasana for themselves.

Romance is the Shizz, Y'all

Check out this terrific blog about romances posted to DailyKos by Laura Clawson, a self-proclaimed romance lover who also happens to be an Ivy-League Ph.D. with, as she says, "nary a pink sweatsuit in sight." She does a great job deconstructing many myths about romance novels and their readers. You know, the "porn for housewives" and "rape fantasy" memes that are so tiresome. As an aside, why is it that voracious male readers of bulletproof superspy novels are never mocked for their inability to become either 1) bulletproof or 2) superspies?

Brava, Ms. Clawson!

Why Men Shouldn't Write Advice Columns

My college roommate sent me this in an email, but the .jpg isn't enlarging well. Here's a transcript, and enjoy!

Dear John:
I hope you can help me here. The other day, I set off for work, leaving my husband in the house watching TV. My car stalled, and then it broke down about a mile down the road, and I had to walk back to get my husband's help. When I got home, I couldn't believe my eyes. He was in our bedroom with the neighbor's daughter!
I am 32, my husband is 34 and the neighbor's daughter is 19. We have been married for 10 years. When I confronted him, he broke down and admitted they had been having an affair for the past six months. He won't go to counseling, and I'm afraid I am a wreck and need advice urgently. Can you please help?
Sincerely, Sheila

---

Dear Sheila:
A car stalling after being driven a short distance can be caused by a variety of faults with the engine. Start by checking that there is no debris in the fuel line. If it is clear, check the vacuum pipes and hoses on the intake manifold and also check all grounding wires. If none of these approaches solves the problem, it could be that the fuel pump itself is faulty,
causing low delivery pressure to the injectors.
I hope this helps,
John

Walter

Blowout, Schmowout

Got my fresh back to school haircut today (yay!) and decided to let Ms. M, my hilarious Sicilian/Greek (how's that for a nice, quiet house to grow up in?) give me a blowout. mimi is usually all about the curls, but today, why not something different?

Know what? Me no likey. It feels fun, but MAN, is straight hair annoying. It's In. My. Face. In my eyelashes. In my mouth. Hanging over my eyes. And, since this is Florida and there's about as much water in the air outside as there is in your normal shower, it's already starting to curl back up. To which I say, cool.

It's taken years, but I've made peace with my curls. I know how to take care of them so I'm not tripping the hair frizztastic every day. They reflect my personality--I'm far more bouncy than sleek. The only qualm I've had with them is the whole curls + grey hair = frumpy (check out the thinking about letting your hair be the color it wants here and here). Now, not so sure. The blowout looks okay, but it is so not me.

So I have to wonder, what is it about the blowout that makes it the Holy Grail of Hair? I have curly friends who would kill rather than part with thier flatirons. One even got a blowout in a foreign country rather than go wavy/curly in front of a bunch of foreigners she'll never see again. I've already fought the haircolor war. Why are so many women willing to enslave themselves to gallons of product and a blowdryer every morning? My life's crazy enough without having to fight this hair--which fights back a couple of classifications above me, thank you very much--in the humidity which is my natural swamp. Or have I just, in one of the phrases I hate so much from women's magazines and the like, "let myself go"? Thoughts?

UPDATE: By suppertime, my hair resembled Marlo Thomas's in That Girl. We're talking full late '60s flip. By the 11:00 news, curl city. DNA WIN.

Now That's What I Call Feminine Protection!

Now I've seen it all. Normally, the host hotel for RWA National commandeers a men's bathroom to handle the high number of female attendees. I've always thought it was kinda cool to penetrate the inner sanctum in all its masculine glory. But not the Marriott Wardman Park. They were so kind as to arrange this:

It's not like we're going to run screaming from the loo at the sight of a couple of urinals, but this is really going above and beyond to preserve our feminine sensibilities.

#writerfail Redux

For all I adore technology, I'm not a first adopter. It took a couple of years before I finally bought a cell phone, and I was practically the last person I knew to start texting. Although I belong to several email loops, I was a Facebook holdout until recently. I'm still on the fence about Twitter. After reading Jennifer Weiner's post about Alice Hoffman and how not to use Twitter at Huffington Post today, looks like I won't purchase my tickets to the Twitterverse anytime soon.

The short version: well-known novelist Alice Hoffman (Practical Magic, Here on Earth, and many more titles) erm, disagreed with her hometown paper's review of her latest novel, The Story Sisters. Maybe disagreed isn't the word, for her response went way beyond mere disagreement. After unloading on the critic and the paper in a series of tweets, she finally tweeted the critic's name and phone number and encouraged her readers to call up Mean Ms. Critic and complain. Vociferously. Then she nuked her Twitter account and sulked off for some pasta with a chocolate chaser. (I guess. Okay, I'm projecting here. That's what I do when the mean girl hurts my feelings.)

The lesson to be learned from all this, writer friends, is that you don't have to be unpublished to suffer from a classic #writerfail. Unlike the yet-to-be-published crowd I carped about in my earlier #writerfail post, Ms. Hoffman has "made it." She's a bestselling, multi-published author. A couple of her books have been made into movies. She's allegedly reaping the glorious benefits of publication, yet her Twittersnit proves that on the inside, she's no different from the rest of us when it comes to her work. She's defensive, cranky, and willing to lash out to protect the baby.

And that's the problem, isn't it? I marvel sometimes that I, and fellow writers, get so bent out of shape when faced with conclusive proof of our lack of universal acclaim (rejection, bad review, hack-and-slash critique session, etc.). As readers, we're quick to reject and belittle writers and genres we just don't care for, so why should we, as writers, take everything so freakin' personally when faced with the fact that some reader out there just doesn't like us? We can't all be the popular girl at the dance. Right now, all the cute boys (NY publishers) are dancing with the hot goth chicks (the paranormal/urban fantasy writers) and the edgy techno boys (e-publishers) are making out with the erotica gals while we romantic comedies/chick lits/Western historicals sigh at the ceiling at the edges of the publishing gym. Our lack of dance partners doesn't make us any less wonderful, just not the flavor of the month. And seriously, people who get all cranky about getting their coffee just so don't have any business acting like spoiled brats when someone else expresses a preference.

Perhaps that kind of reaction is self-inflicted. We writers go on about how our current WIP is our "baby" and then react like tigresses when we realize someone thinks it looks like a lizard. Someone will. That's the nature of the beast. The big question is, are you writer enough to write for yourself? If so, a bad review won't be the end of the world, or the beginning of an online snit that will last into time and all eternity. If you're writer enough, you're already worrying about the next project.

So what have we learned today? Write what you know. Write what you love. Learn the Southern belle's secret weapon: the indulgent smile. Practice saying, "Bless your heart" instead of "F you." And for goodness' sake, eat the pasta and chocolate before you tweet.

Ten This Tuesday

Ten years ago today, at precisely 6:13 am, Miss Frack arrived in the world. That means today, at precisely 6:13 am, I became the mother of two children who are now in the double digits.

She's gorgeous, and I'm not just being a proud mama. She's really objectively gorgeous--willowy, long legs, shining hair, bright smile. I wonder how many of us were gorgeous when we were ten and somehow forgot (or never believed), those of us who have been the walking wounded on the inside for years and years because we just weren't...enough. Or thought we weren't.

Women are funny creatures. We can run the world and still doubt ourselves. I know so many capable, strong, amazing women who are just as insecure about their abilities and certainly their looks (adolescence can be an evil thing) as the least strong, least capable person on earth. We raise families and think we can't manage ourselves. We raise daughters and have understanding to our mothers. We pick up our children, dust off their scrapes and kiss their boo-boos so they can recover and play while ignoring our own wounds. Let's face it. We have issues.

My wish for my daughter today is that she doesn't have those days (or as many of them) as I seem to have had. Let her long-legged, bright-smiling self be the one she counts on as she turns eleven and eighteen and forty-'leven. For today, let me love my little girl for exactly who she is, and in the process, love the little girl inside me, too.

Threes

I guess today I can officially close the book on my youth. First Ed McMahon (how many years have I heard that voice?), then Farrah Fawcett (all the girls wanted her hair, all the boys just wanted her), then Michael Jackson ("'cause this is THRILLER...thriller night!"). Michael Jackson's taking the most effort to process, though. He's not that much older than me! Of course, we all watched him grow up, from being the high sweet voice of the Jackson Five, to the disco phenomenon of Off the Wall, to the self-styled King of Pop. Is there anyone my age who didn't adore the "Thriller" scene in 13 Going on 30 because we'd all practiced that routine over and over and over?

Strange how passages make us think more about our realities. Tonight, though, let's celebrate the talent of three people who made us laugh, dance, and dream.

Who is Kate, and Why Should We Care?

Apparently, tonight is the season premiere for Jon and Kate Plus 8, yet another reality series I've managed to avoid. If you've been under a rock lately, you haven't seen Jon and Kate Gosselin's mugs (and her ridiculous attacked-by-a-string-trimmer-from-behind hairdo) splashed across every possible tabloid/celebrity mag at the checkout. From what I gather, they were a semi-normal family until the fertility drugs took with a vengeance and they had sextuplets. Then the camera crew arrived, and all hell is continuing to break loose.

I don't know about you, but I'm baffled by this type of reality show. I have enough to deal with raising my own two children. I don't need to watch a dysfunctional Midwestern family try to raise their brood of eight, or a dysfunctional California family try to manage their rich and clueless offspring (Keeping Up With the Kardashians), or graspy overprivileged women who don't have real jobs and yet complain about how tough their lives are (Real Housewives of Orange County/Atlanta/New York/New Jersey), or Q-list celebrities who can't seem to tell their heads from a hole in the ground (Hogans, Gottis, etc.). What exactly are we supposed to be learning here? I have money, therefore, I'm a gold-plated asshat?

Seriously, when did the intellectual common denominator in this country fall so low? Why are intelligent, thoughtful dramas like The Unit and Eleventh Hour canceled while shows featuring vapid women who live for nothing more than their next tanning appointment or plastic surgery seem to continue indefinitely? And spark followings, no less, of regular women who know every petty detail of these people's lives? Is making a connection in our own real communities so unworthy of our time and energy that we send our kids out of the room so we can watch the latest money-fueled trainwreck play out in all its ghastly glory?

Find something constructive to do with your time. Step one is turn the dial. Better yet, turn the thing off. Got a few minutes? Page through Chris Van Allsburg's marvelous children's book The Wretched Stone. Think about what happens to those poor sailors. Then turn off the tube and read a book. I'm sure Jon, Kate, the Kardashians, and those damned housewives will get along without you just fine.

Year Without Shopping

My friend Desiree is pretty much every average woman's nightmare. She's highly intelligent, has a fierce sense of honor, never gains an ounce, and is a walking clothes hanger. Literally. Desiree loves fashion and shopping.

Despite all these flaws (virtues?), she's engaging and thoughtful, so even though you could hate her, you don't. This year, Desiree has launched a project, the Year Without Shopping. She's determined to make it an entire year without shopping for new clothing.

When she told me of her goal, her question to me was whether I could go a year. Bien sur! mimi doesn't care about clothes enough to shop very often at all, and when I do, it hovers on the existensial angst and pain scale just slightly above a root canal.

Even when my weight is ideal (which it hasn't been for a while, let me just say), my short stature and Portuguese curves make it highly difficult to find clothes that fit properly, much less flatter. Plus I'm not big into discomfort, which kills most shoe purchases. I also never frothed at the mouth about going to the mall as a teenager, either; I was far happier drooling over expensive writing papers or an elegant fountain pen or books that I ever was about a new pair of jeans or--God forbid--a bathing suit. Making it a year without shopping for clothes? No problem.

But I have to say that Desiree's idea is intriguing. Knowing her, she definitely has the fortitude to see her way to the end of the year, even if it kills her off by inches in the process. She's set up a blog to keep people informed about her progress, which includes snaps of favorite wardrobe pieces, new combinations, and thoughts about meatier topics, like consumerism and the fashion industry's impact on global development (I told you she was smart). Hop over and give girlfriend some love, 'kay?

Year Without Shopping

Dreams Never Die

I couldn't retrace the circuitous route that led me to this gem if you paid me, but trust me, the view is worth it. Susan Boyle, a 47-year-old spinster from West Lothian, Scotland, will convince you that dreams can bloom in the unlikeliest of places. Miss Boyle sang "I Dreamed a Dream" on Britain's Got Talent, and there's nothing I can say that'll do it justice. Be sure to watch for Simon Cowell's (!) big sigh at about the four minute mark.

Click here to see the YouTube video (embedding's been disabled). Awesome. What a gift.

Happy B-Day, Buttercup!

My girl Buttercup is turning the big 4-0 today! Don't let the demure pose fool you, though. This is one kick-butt writer we're talking about. Given the personal storms she's weathered the past couple of years, her forties ought to be smooth sailing--she has two great kids and a rockin' guy, so hitting the decade when women can finally do what they want and not worry about what people are saying about them is going to be the bomb. Love ya!

Simply Saturday

Just some random Q&A, courtesy of Real Simple magazine. Feel free to nab these questions for your own blog--if you're reading, consider yourself tagged.

If you suddenly came into $1,000 in spare cash, what would you do with it?
I should say "pay bills" or "save it," but screw that. Buy a new iMac. Mine's an indigo G3, and it's tired.

What song would be on the soundtrack of your life?
"Be Young, Be Foolish, Be Happy" by The Tams (love me some Carolina beach music). This explains why, although I have two kids who both play equipment-intensive sports, I drive a Beetle convertible.

What did you want to be when you were little?
A jockey, or a writer. No access to horses, so jockey was out, but I still thought about it...my first book was about a couple of kids who revive an abandoned barn so they can train a racehorse. Yes, I was twelve.

What makes you laugh?
Warner Bros. cartoons, Monty Python, wit, my kids, my kids laughing at my being silly, DH (very infectious laugh), driving with the top down, happiness.

What are your guiltiest pleasures?
Staying in my pajamas ALL DAY LONG and reading ALL DAY LONG. Usually these two events occur simultaneously.

What was your most embarrassing moment?
I don't embarrass easily (be young, be foolish, right?), but arriving late to the church at my wedding probably ranks up there. Then again, my friends who know and love me probably weren't surprised!

Having a Genius

Good friend and partner in crime (and art) Katherine Garbera sent me a link to this brief lecture by Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat, Pray, Love. In it, she discusses the creative process, and one observation really struck me. She was discussing how Greek and Roman cultures viewed the artist has having a genius rather than being a genius. The Renaissance idea of individuals being the geniuses (genii?) puts too much on a particular person, especially when you account for the "utter maddening capriciousness of the creative process." As she says,

"Allowing somebody like one mere person to believe that he or she is like the vessel at the font, the essence, the source of all divine creative unknowable eternal mystery is just like a smidge too much responsibility to put on one fragile human psyche...it just warps and distorts egos and creates all these unmanageable expectations..."

There's lots more. See here:

Diva Wars

It's been a busy week out there for the ladies! First Etta James takes Beyoncé to task for the latter's version of "At Last" at the presidential inauguration, then teen queen Hilary Duff has a go at Faye Dunaway over their newly-shared role in Bonnie and Clyde. Whew!

One reason I've probably collected more male friends than female over the years is this tendency to pull out the claws and fight dirty. Like the women I know have time to get stirred up over petty crap. Let's just examine the dustups, shall we?

Etta James is a vocal legend, and "At Last" is her signature piece. I know Ms. B played her in this year's film Cadillac Records to great reviews--even EJ herself was pleased at the performance--but EJ has the tiniest of points. She's miffed that she wasn't even asked to sing the song herself. To her, "At Last" is her song, and it would have been a courtesy to include her somehow rather than skipping over her for the new hot flavor.

The new hot flavor, however, was a big Obama supporter (along with her husband Jay-Z), so that probably explains the invite. Big money to the campaign, big spot on primetime at one of the inaugural balls. And she did a great job, mainly because "At Last" is one of the few songs that's naturally in her range. Normally she picks material that's too high for her, so it comes out screechy, and she has that tendency to sing eighty notes where, say, three would do (a reason I don't care for Mariah Carey, either). And she's responsible for the current Most Annoying Song in the World ("Single Ladies")--it gets stuck in your head worse than "It's a Small World," and the part that sticks is the "uh uh oh, oh oh oh" nonsense--so maybe someone ought to encourage her to pick better material. Apparently, she does have some chops, so she ought to explore them.

Hilary Duff, however, hasn't proved any chops beyond Lizzie Maguire, so I have no idea where she thinks she can get all over someone who's won an Oscar and be catty about facelifts. Right now, her looks are what's getting her any work. Besides, you're in a remake of an iconic American film. Win yourself critical acclaim in a couple of original films and get nominated for an Oscar, then let the fur fly. Until then, remarks about how your Disney-trained fan base won't even know who Faye Dunaway is just make you look petty. Didn't your mama ever tell you about not saying anything if you can't say anything nice?

Classy Dame: Jill Biden

Dr. Jill Biden, our new "Second Lady," really classes up the joint. Since her husband's election to the Vice Presidency, she could stop working and focus on hostessing or whatever the wives of the Vice Presidents do. Instead, she fought to keep working as a college professor of English. And not at Georgetown, or American University, or some other high-dollar campus. She took a position at Northern Virginia Community College, because she enjoys working with that group of students. That says a lot about her character.

Her story is well-known. She married Joe Biden when he was a widower with two small boys. Those boys, now grown men, call her "Mom." In fact, she married the whole family when she said yes to Joe and took the boys on their honeymoon. She's worked during practically their whole marriage, and she's a walking, talking, very fashionable example of how capable a smart woman can be. Yep, I love me some Jill Biden!