My To Do List

1. Marry the man I can't live without - Check

2. Graduate from college - Check

3. Dye my hair an improbable shade of pink -

4. Cold-cock myself in the chin with my own breast - Check

5. Tour Ireland -

6. Tour Merced, California - Check

7. Knock myself silly on my own diningroom table - Check

8. Be on a game show -

9. Do a stand up comedy routine -

10. Star as a murderer in a film (highschool film, but still, I killed like nobody's business) - Check

11. Be mistaken for Marilyn Monroe -

12. Win a writing contest - Check

13. Unplug three toilets in under three minutes - Check

14. Publish a novel -

15. Meet Amy Grant - Check

16. Understand and appreciate Kafka -

17. Front a rock band -

18. Pretend to front a rock band - Check

19. Beat my husband in a game of poker - Check

20. Invent a working formula for becoming invisible -

21. Drive a Ferrari -

22. Own at least fifteen pair of totally smokin' shoes - Check

23. Get lost on the way to Big Bear and end up in Arizona - Check

24. Ski into a tree - Minus the skiis - Check

25. Become the Queen of Sequins at age 79 -

Wardrobe Malfunction

I do not embarrass easily. Chalk it up to my lifelong lack of grace and coordination. Blame it on my own big mouth and my propensity for landing in awkward situations.

Whatever the reason, I am a hardy little soul when it comes to potential "move-to-Tunisia-and-change-your-name-to-Melba-Zitzuphat" moments.

Take the church's Christmas musical my ninth grade year. This was a huge to-do, with all the bells and whistles. A cast of high schoolers with period costumes and painted sets. An adult choir with over 75 members backing us up.

I had a starring role.

I practiced hard. I played the part of the stereotypical strict, irritable, old-maiden teacher faced with a class of rascals. My costume was a black suit from the forties and a yard stick (all the better to slap your knuckles with, my dear).

It should have been my shining moment.

One problem.

I was a size 4. The suit was a size 18. There was no time to alter. The costume manager decided safety pins would do the trick. The difference between a size 4 body and a size 18 garment is about ten large safety pins. The costume manager had three.

She pinned me up and sent me out on cue.

All was well, at first. I took my place on stage, a full crowd in front of me, the entire adult choir behind me. The director motioned for the play to start and we were off.

Disaster struck within two minutes.

Four lines in, my blocking called for me to hurry across the stage and wack the yard stick in the general direction of the afore-mentioned rascals.

I hurried.

I wacked.

The safety pins broke.

Not good.

My skirt headed quickly for my ankles. I snatched the fabric at my waist with my free hand and held on for dear life.

The good news: The audience never knew. I gestured wildly with the yard stick, kept my other hand on my waist, and faced forward at all times just in case.

The bad news: I forgot about the choir (waiting in the darkness behind me for the moment when the play would end and their triumphant song begin.)

About the time I remembered the 75 adults behind me (many of whom were good friends with my parents and had known me for years), I realized it was breezy up on stage. And I was feeling the breeze on skin supposedly covered by that blasted skirt.

So yes, there I was, in church, surrounded by grown-ups with nothing else to look at, and the back waistband of my skirt was hanging down around my knees.

I was not embarrassed. There was no point. The cow had already left the barn and all that was left was to be thankful that my underwear had the good sense to stay firmly in place.

My Personal Standard

I recently heard a writer say there is no such thing as good or bad writing. Our writing is as good as we think it is and we should bolster our spirits with this knowledge whenever we hit a roadblock in the publishing world.

I do not agree.

This is like the current elementary school trend of giving N's and S's instead of letter grades or the club sports systems that no longer hand out trophies or announce winners at the games.

Are we so worried about our self-esteem that we are willing to completely lower the bar and remove even a hint of competition or standards? Does it really make us feel good about ourselves when we don't have to work for anything at all?

I don't think so.

I think we will drown in a sea of mediocrity if we aren't careful.

I am NO GOOD at math or science. Even if I choose to apply myself, the concepts refuse to make sense to me, my brain rejects them outright, and I struggle. I never did well in math class. So what? Should I have been give an "S" because I tried?

No.

I deserved the grades I got. I earned those. And my self-esteem didn't suffer. Know why? Because all those people with incredible left brain skills were put to shame by my creative writing and my ability in drama class.

I didn't hit the standard in math or science.

I set the standard in writing and drama.

Fast-forward to my adult years. I am a writer. I am not yet published. I don't feel bad about that because I am on a journey of improving my craft. Any writer worth their salt is always improving their craft in the same way I imagine athletes improve their skills with practice or a lawyer wins more cases the longer he/she practices law.

We can fearlessly label our writing with whatever term it currently deserves and move forward. I've written scenes that were incredible works of art. Good writing. I've written scenes that stunk worse than five-month old Swiss. Bad writing.

There is a standard. We cannot lose that, even on the days when it would make us feel better.

I refuse to be soft just to make myself feel better for a day. I'd rather see clearly and someday be published and know, when I see my name on the NYT Bestsellers list that I earned it. It won't be given to me to guard my precious self-esteem. NYT, USA Today, Hollywood studios buying film rights...none of them are concerned with my feelings. They just want great writing.

I will earn it because I worked to make bad writing good and good writing great.

They Make Shampoos For That

Ooooh, he's going to kill me when he reads this.

So, tonight at work two of my friends got into a little friendly battle with each other. Since I use nicknames here rather than give away true identities (who knew working in a restaurant could be so James Bond?), I'll call them Waif and Dragon-master (I'm calling him that to try to earn a way back into his good graces...).

Dragon-master got Waif with some ice. Dragon-Master taunted Waif throughout the night. Dragon-master played mind games because that is what he lives for.

Waif got fed up and came to me. We talked. I commiserated. She mentioned a plan to get him back that consisted of dumping one tiny packet of sugar down his back. Guaranteed itch for the rest of the night. It was a good idea.

I had a better one. Like an idiot, I opened my mouth. (Why do I call myself an idiot for that? Because Dragon-master is one of my best friends. Because honestly, in any battle at work, I'm on his side first. Because he knows where I live.)

The next thing I know, I'm talking to Dragon-Master when Waif comes up behind him and tries to sprinkle cinnamon on his hair. Yes, this is my idea. I didn't actually think she'd do it, but she did. I thought it would be fitting retribution without being truly messy or horrible or hard to clean up.

One problem.

The cinnamon didn't come out. Dragon-master, unaware of his grim fate, kept talking to me. Waif became impatient and SHOOK that can of cinnamon over his head.

The little plastic door holding back the "scoop-up-some-cinnamon-in-a-spoon" side of the can FLEW OPEN. Cinnamon rained down upon Dragon-master's head, piling up a good three inches before the excess slid down his neck, puddling across his shoulders and down his spine.

I have a confession to make. I'm laughing so hard RIGHT NOW, I can hardly type. I laughed harder then.

Dragon-master didn't know what hit him. Really. Apparently the overwhelming scent of cinnamon did not provide a clue. (I know, I know...comments like that are going to keep me in hot water.)

He demanded to know what was on his head. We told him. He did the natural thing, the thing that WOULD HAVE WORKED, had Waif not dumped half a can on his head, and tried to brush it off.

Apparently, cinnamon does not brush. It clings.

He stood there, all wounded dignity and exasperated male pride while small drifts of orange cinnamon shifted around his hair but remained largely in place.

He brushed harder and succeeded in turning his entire head orange.

I laughed so hard I cried. My cheeks hurt. My ribs ached.

He finally stuck his head in a sink and scrubbed.

The rest of the night, everytime he walked past me I was treated to a pleasant blast of cinnamon. Unfortunately, he couldn't rinse out his shirt so his shoulders bore suspicious-looking orange flakes.

Waif, who turned out to be a smack-talker of the first order, couldn't resist calling out to him that "They make shampoos for that, you know."

He has declared war. On Waif. On me. Why me? Because it was my idea originally, even though I didn't actually DO anything? Because I laughed a little? (Well okay, a lot but heck, it was totally entertaining.)

Retribution is coming. It will take a while because, as I mentioned earlier, Dragon-master lives for mind games.

I'd like to make it up to him. Perhaps baking some cinnamon rolls for him would do the trick.

Dragon-master has requested that I amend this post to include the first step in his payback to Waif.

Later that evening, right before we left work, Waif was sitting, facing me, getting ready to go out with her boyfriend. Dragon-master walked up behind her and pretended to have something in his hands to pour over her. Waif (did I mention she likes to smack-talk???), couldn't resist taunting him. Dragon-master ripped open a packet of honey and poured it on her head and down her back.

Life in my restaurant is never dull.

The Mechanical One

My parents are coming out to visit soon. Every time my dad comes to town, he likes me to have a list of projects for him to tackle. Anything from a squeaky door to installing a new fuse box makes him happy.

He's always been the mechanical one in our family.

My childhood is filled with memories of my dad fixing, building, and installing. My dad always seemed to do everything right.

Until one Christmas.

Christmas is a big deal in my family. We decorate the day after Thanksgiving and go all out. Ornaments, tinsel, and lights galore. Nativity scenes, candles shaped like trees, garland, and one very special brass-plated candle holder with cherubic angels flying over the top of the flames, ringing little bells as they go.

You know the piece. You light four skinny little candles and heat causes the angels to fly. The only drawback to it is that to store it, you have to break it down into small pieces.

Some assembly required.

No problem. We have my dad.

This particular Christmas, he sets to work assembling the flying-angels-who-ring-bells-over-candles doo-hickey. My sister and I watch. We've volunteered our services for this project and been turned down. Soundly.

My dad has designed and built houses, remodeled bathrooms, breathed life into dying appliances. He does not need help assembling a paltry Christmas decoration.

We begin offering our opinions. "That's not right, Dad. The angels aren't facing the right way."

He becomes irritable. We offer one opinion too many and he snaps out his famous last words:

"Don't tell me what to do. I'm the mechanical one in the family, remember?"

We remember. We are silenced. We watch as he installs the last brass cherub and lights the candles.

The angels hover in suspended silence for a moment as the flames grow. Then, it happens.

The flames create wind. The wind pushes the angels. The angels fly serenely in a cirle. The bells tinkle.

It is a rare and amazing thing to see four little angels all flying butt-first.

My dad has never lived it down.

Less Equals More

When I completed my first novel, I was proud. Excited. Thrilled. Confident that it was perfect as-is.

I sent queries to serveral publishers and agents. When my manuscript was requested within a week from a major publisher, I was proud. Excited. Thrilled. Confident that the editor would see my novel as perfect, as-is.

When she replied to me a month later that she loved the story but the length was a problem and if I chose to edit it, she would reconsider it, I was not as proud, excited, thrilled or confident.

She wanted 30,000 words edited. Erased. Gone for good.

30,000.

That's a 3 with four zeros after it.

That's a lot of words.

I was determined to do it. I was worried my story wouldn't survive the chop. When I finished the edit, I cut 32,000 words and my story improved immeasurably. Fast-paced. No extraneous anything to detract from the suspense or character-building. I grabbed the reader from page one and said, "Hang on, it's going to be an exhilarating ride."

I leared something valuable. Less is more. Don't take four paragraphs to say what can be shown in a sentence or two of dialogue. Don't belabor an emotional turning point with a character when you can convey the same thing using action. Get rid of "that" as much as possible. Knock off the "huffed, chortled, exclaimed etc." and stick with "said and asked". It improves the flow and is less distracting to the reader. Make sure your pages have a lot of white space. Only fans of Clancy or Kafka like to see four pages of solid, dense exposition.

Say volumes in eloquent, precise prose and trust your reader to follow you.

Action really does speak louder than "words".

Chess Pieces

This weekend we went to a cookout with some friends. As we sat around chatting, one father mentioned that he and his son like to play chess together.

My father liked to play chess with me as well. He has this gorgeous hand-carved chess board from his time in Italy. The pieces are rendered in blonde or chocolate colored wood.

When I was in fifth grade, we moved from Oregon to California and had to rent a house while we looked for one to buy. This house was fine on the outside but I kid you not, the inside was ugly enough to give you an unpleasant shock every time you stepped in the door.

Flat brown argyle pattern carpet (who knew they made that??) in the bathroom with brilliant turquoise and green and white patterned wallpaper (if that somehow sounds attractive to you, take a moment to slap yourself silly) and a bright, rainbow striped shower curtain that oddly enough contained not a trace of brown, turquoise, green, or white (in other words, nothing that could remotely be considered to actually match any other color in the room).

And that was just the bathroom.

But I digress.

The living room was a dark cave with literally no windows at all. You could light a few lamps and give it some ambience but the truth was, it was always rather dim. We kept our chess board at the end of our coffee table, farthest from the light of the adjoining room.

Now, to have this story make sense, I must tell you that we were (and remain) a cat family. Cats, when they aren't busy sleeping, like to mess with your stuff. Our cats especially loved to knock the chess pieces off the board and fling them around the living room floor.

One fine day, it was my turn to straighten the living room. As I moved through it, dusting under my mom's huge collection of glass what-have-yous, I noticed a pile of chess pieces on the floor next to the board.

I put down the dust cloth and approached the pile.

Dark chess pieces, three of them, lying there in a haphaazard pile. Waiting for me.

I bent down, stretched out my hand and some indistinct voice at the back of my brain screamed, "WAIT!!!! All the dark chess pieces are still on the board!!!!"

Alas, the message did not travel fast enough and I scooped up three pieces of cat poop in my bare hand.

Ewwwww, I know.

Because my family is as warped as you, they laughed til they cried (okay, I laughed too. AFTER I scrubbed my hands.). From then on, we referred to cat poop as chess pieces.

I've never looked at chess the same way since.