Monthly archive

July 2010

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

In which I may squick you out

So I'm off this morning to catch my fight to Florida, and I thought I would leave you with a link about giving up shampoo. No, seriously. It's called No-Poo, which is a baaaaad name, but hear me out. Shampoo is full of chemicals and assorted nastiness. It strips lovely things out of your hair and makes you need conditioner and half a dozen other products in order to make it agreeable again. The solution is to replace shampoo with baking soda and apple cider vinegar. The link gives specific instructions on how to go about using these two items to wash and rinse your hair, and the advantages are huge. For starters, they're cheap. VERY cheap, compared to shampoo and conditioner. They are also natural and simple. I tried it myself for a month, and was hugely impressed.

Here's what I learned: contrary to what you'd expect, your hair will not be greasy, nor will you smell like salad dressing. The scent of the apple cider vinegar dissipates immediately. The combination of the two left my hair CRAZY good--with tons of volume that it doesn't usually have. The only drawback that I found was that it stripped the salon color. (I found out later that baking soda is a home remedy for removing a bad color job, so this makes perfect sense.) And honestly, it makes no sense for me to pay to have color put in only to strip it out myself. But if I didn't have salon color, I would keep this up in a heartbeat. My hair has never been so good otherwise. So, if you don't color your hair and you're looking to try something new, this might be for you.

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Monday, July 26, 2010

In which I was eating fire

I always have strange dreams before I travel, and last night I was eating fire--in a sideshow sort of way, not just for fun, you understand. There are few things I am less inclined to try, so I'm not sure why that showed up in my subconscious, but there you go.

The packing for RWA is all but done--I pack everything besides clothes early and put the garments themselves in at the last minute to crease them as little as possible. Following the RWA tweets on Twitter, it's apparent the topic that generates the most debate is shoes--how many, how to pack, etc. (I think the most I've heard is nine, which I find staggering.)

Anyway, no one believes that I travel to RWA with just a carry-on, so to prove it, here is a breakdown of how I pack. I bring one carry-on bag, 9x20x14 1/2 inches, and one oversize slouchy purse as my personal item.

The purse contains: iphone, wallet, sunglasses, folder of travel documents, chargers, netbook, two paperback books, snack, cosmetic bag, pens, TSA-approved bag o'liquids, and blank notebook.

The carry-on holds:

1 curling iron

1 toiletry bag

1 stack promotional postcards for Dark Road to Darjeeling

1 stack bookmarks for The Dead Travel Fast

1 stack business cards

1 paperback book

4 pairs of shoes: leopard stilettos, multi-color floral peep-toe heels, black faille wedges, white Jack Rogers sandals

1 thin woven wrap in leopard print

1 white bikini

1 green silk caftan for wearing in my room

1 nightgown

underwear

1 patterned mini-caftan for a bathing suit cover-up

5 clutch purses: gold leather, silver leather, black sequin, multi-color floral wristlet, raffia with white trim

6 dresses: brown linen, black lace cocktail, peacock taffeta cocktail, yellow sheath, apple green linen sheath, flame orange silk

1 black taffeta evening gown

Yep, it all fits. I chose solid dresses and patterned shoes this time, making sure that each shoe worked with more than one dress. The multi-color floral heels go with the yellow, green, and peacock blue dresses. The leopard ones go with the orange silk and the brown linen. The black faille wedge sandals were a great find. They are evening shoes, but with the wedge heel, they are as comfortable as evening shoes are going to get. They work perfectly with the short black lace cocktail dress and the long taffeta evening gown. I am bringing a lot of costume jewelry, but it all fits into one clutch, and the smaller clutches fit into the larger ones, so it was really like packing three clutches instead of five. The taffeta evening gown actually crushes down like a space bag and puffs back out as soon as it's freed. The shoes are tucked into shoe bags and placed on the bottom of the case--the bottom when it's standing on end, you understand. Dresses are rolled around tissue paper and placed tightly together like enchiladas. (It's a strange metaphor, but it works.) The evening gown is folded down on top inside a thin plastic garment bag from the store to protect it from the zipper.

Probably the best tool to help me pack light is my iphone. With it, the days of packing phone, camera, ipod, and white noise machine are gone. It also has the kindle app, so in an emergency, it can provide me with something to read. (I know three books is about two books too many, but it's the absolute fewest I can go comfortably with. Think of them as my wubbies. With words.) I am taking the netbook in the hopes that I can keep blogging and get some work done while I'm there as well as Skype with my family. For many of these trips I've tucked in some knitting, but I won't this time unless I have a chance to cast on before Wednesday.

My husband is flying down on Saturday so he can attend the RITAs and we can spend a few days together after the conference is over. He's bringing me one shirt and two pairs of shorts, although if I needed to I could have fit them into my own case. (I am beyond excited that he's able to come this year! We're checking out of the conference hotel and into our favorite Disney resort and plan to spend the rest of the weekend eating our way around Epcot.)

Now, I'm not saying it's light because it isn't. But it holds everything in a single case that I don't have to check--nor do I have to wrestle to get it into the overhead. In a large plane, this carry-on will fit easily. In a small aircraft, let's say with two seats on each side of the aisle, it will be very simple to gate-check.

And since we're talking about RWA, I just wanted to mention that last year I got several emails afterward from folks who wanted to say hi but didn't. If you see me and you want to say hello, please do! And if you'd like a book signed and can't make it to the literacy autographing or the Friday morning Harlequin signing, just ask. I always have my sassy purple pens.

For everybody not going to RWA, I plan to keep blogging through the week, but if I don't, you'll know my Luddite tendencies have come to the fore and I couldn't find wifi. Or make it work. Or remember my netbook password...

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Saturday, July 24, 2010

In which I am packing for Florida

Pre-packing, actually. Does anyone else do that? I start to assemble the various stacks of things I plan to take with me on a trip--shoes, paperwork, etc.--a few days before, so the house looks as if a tiny band of nomads has rampaged through. Books are the hardest. I start with four and usually change them around several times before I actually pack them. That sounds completely mental, but it's true, so I won't take it back.

Anyway, since I'm busy tidying up some odds and ends before leaving, I wanted to give you something fun to watch. I present you with Jane Austen's Fight Club. I think my favorite is the Dashwoods in a double-bill...



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Thursday, July 22, 2010

In which I have a book for you

No, really. This week I got to read the manuscript for Elizabeth Loupas' The Second Duchess, due out in January. And OH MY. It was seriously divine. I was intrigued by the premise--Loupas bases the book on Robert Browning's poem "My Last Duchess", one of my favorites. It details the remarriage of Alfonso II d'Este, Duke of Ferrara--a Renaissance prince of tremendous power and prestige--after the death of his first wife, the teenaged Lucrezia de' Medici. Rumored to have had Lucrezia murdered for her infidelities, Alfonso married for a second time, taking for a wife the Archduchess Barbara of Austria. The story is told from Barbara's point of view and is absolutely gripping. I sat down to read it with the expectation that I would put it down after an hour and get on with other things I had to do. Nope. I read straight through until it was finished, and I ended up with a monster case of eyestrain. Completely worth it. Go and pre-order it now. I'll wait.

Coincidentally, in my to-be-read stack is Murder of a Medici Princess by Caroline D. Murphy. Unlike Loupas' book, this is not a novel, but it does chronicle the sanctioned murder of Isabella de' Medici by her husband. He justified the killing on the grounds that Isabella had been habitually unfaithful. And the interesting connection? She happened to be the sister of the hapless Lucrezia.

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Wednesday, July 21, 2010

In which we have a snake

Ah, the joys of summer in the south! Yesterday I came outside to find a black snake curled up on the windowsill. His upper body was extended as if he were peeking in the window, which he very likely was. Now, this next statement will give my mother a quick stroke, but I don't actually mind snakes per se. What I mind is the uninvited snake, the unexpected snake.

For starters, when you don't expect to see one, there's that split second when you look at it and wonder what it IS. This one resembled that foam insulation you spray out of a can. Except black. And with a forked tongue. And the one I found under my stove a few years ago was mistaken for a power cord. With a mouse-sized lump in its belly.

And then there's the mad scramble while you run through the list of possibilities of how to handle the situation. First, always, is to alert my mother NOT to come outside. My mother is so phobic about them that for years we referred to them as "nakes" because dropping that first 's' made them seem less snakey. Anyway, the only thing worse than having a snake is having one that my mother is not prepared to see. So while my husband went to the garage to collect the appropriate snake-moving tools, I phoned her up and kept watch on the snake. (Rule #1 of snake-wrestling: Do not EVER take your eyes off of it. They're quick, they're silent, and they will be GONE if they get half a chance.)

Of course, my mother's first reaction is to pop up at the very window where the snake is hunkered down, phone in hand, peering out to see it. (The only thing stronger than my mother's fear of snakes is her curiosity. She would put a mongoose to shame, and I say that with deep affection.) Meanwhile, my husband has reappeared with two large plastic leaf rakes because it's very easy to move a snake if you don't mind hurting it, but difficult to do if you're trying to keep it happy and healthy.

I know some of you will be wondering why it was so important to keep the snake alive and simply relocate it when a shovel to the head would have taken care of the matter much more quickly. The fact is, black snakes do not share territory with rattlers and copperheads. If you have a nice, friendly black snake, it is eating up the mice and voles and moles and keeping the bigger, badder snakes off the property. We have an acre, at least a third of which is covered in ivy, so I am VERY happy to have a black snake instead of something worse loitering around, particularly with the pups. They're lovely dogs, really, but perhaps not the very brightest, and I have no doubt that the first time they see a snake the conversation will be, "Hey, this is a really cool stick! Wait, why is this stick hanging off my face?!"

So, black snake it is. My husband made a tidy little cage out of the two rakes and persuaded the snake he would be far happier in a nice patch of ivy away from the house while I texted our daughter's voice teacher that we were going to be a few minutes late to her lesson because we had a snake situation. It's better than "the dog ate my homework", right?

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

In which I am here!

No, really, I am. I'm tail over teakettle right now, which is not unusual for the week before RWA. What is unusual is that I am trying to wrap up everything that was due in July AND August because when I return from Florida, I intend to immerse myself completely in my current book. I hear you saying this sounds like madness, and oh yes, my friends, you are right. This is the action of a lunatic and if you feel inclined to chase me with a giant butterfly net, I wouldn't blame you a bit. But until you catch me, there are some things I ought to post:

*Literacy Signing! I will be one of the 500 authors at the RWA Literacy Signing next week in Orlando. That link gives all the details, including the names of the very fine organizations the event will benefit. (I had a long entry typed up with all of the info here, but my server ate it. The link has absolutely everything you need to know, I promise!)

*Interview! I was very kindly invited to participate in the launch of Moon Washed Kisses, a webzine for romance readers that debuted this month. You can check out the interview here. Thanks, MWK!

*A cruel teaser! One of the projects I am clearing off my desk is a book I was asked to blurb. I read it today and it was divine! After I've had a chance to share my thoughts with the editor, I'll pass along the title and author, because you will want to pre-order it at once. It is straight-up Renaissance skullduggery of the very best sort!

Hope all of you are keeping well--it's still boiling here, but I'm trying not to think of it. I have a book on Antarctica I'm supposed to read, and I know if I concentrate hard enough, I will get frostbite...

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Sunday, July 18, 2010

In which I'm at a beach party

A virtual one, that is! Tonight is the big Writerspace Beach Party--an online bash with loads of authors and prizes and a chance for readers to chat. The party runs from 8-11pm Eastern, with authors dropping by during the event. (I plan to be there fro 8:30-9:00pm Eastern and will be giving away a signed copy of The Dead Travel Fast.) Stop in and chat!

Friday, July 16, 2010

In which we all know I am an OAP

I love the phrase "Old Age Pensioner". It's one of the ways the English manage to call a spade a spade and thumb their noses at political correctness. I've mentioned that I'm secretly an 80-year old Englishwoman whose idea of a good time is having a cream tea and a potter around a National Trust property. (Seriously, if I lived in England, that would be my weekend EVERY weekend.) Last Saturday, I piled up in bed after breakfast with the Tour de France on television and my knitting. My husband very kindly brought me a cup of tea and I think I even said, "Oh, lovely!" And it was a perfect morning, no joke.

Another sign of my impending old age is the fact that I almost cannot bring myself to go to the movies anymore. I've been to two in the last seven months, and only one was worth the money. (Thank you, Guy Ritchie!) Sitting through "The Wolfman" was an act of pity, and honestly, if I ever see anyone associated with that film, they owe me $9. I enjoyed the popcorn, so I don't expect to be reimbursed for that.

And I'm irritable about almost every aspect of movie-going these days. I grumble about the prices--I could buy a book for what the ticket costs and I would have HOURS more entertainment for my dollar, believe me. Concessions are an obscenity, and the only solution is smuggling in my own champagne, which I now do every time I go.

The other theatre-goers irk me too. We have two groups of people in my town--older people who like to talk and younger people who like to text. Both are equally annoying. I don't want to hear you explain the plot to your husband anymore than I want to see your little blue screen light up every four seconds. (Unless you have a lung-heart combo tucked in a cooler somewhere and a transplant team waiting for you to scrub-in, you are NOT that important.)

But none of this, none of it I tell you, compares to the hideousness of the movies themselves. Oh, the humanity. My husband and I saw a trailer for a movie he wanted to see, and I said, "Why bother? We just saw the best six lines." You know it's true. Every movie I have seen for the last fifteen years I would have enjoyed more for not having the pivotal moments spoiled for me. And what's left in between is just....euw. I've gotten more enjoyment out of anything on Masterpiece Mystery! than most films I've seen in the theatre in a decade.

All I can say is, thank God for Netflix and TCM. Between the two, I've gotten to see loads of wonderful movies I might otherwise have missed because they didn't get big commercial releases or they were made forty years ago. And if I start one of their films and don't like it, I can walk away without being $45 bucks lighter.

So that's my curmudgeonly rant for this month, dear readers. I would blame the heat--the heat index is 105 today!--but I have decided that if I simply ignore the weather and pretend it isn't happening, it might go away.

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Thursday, July 15, 2010

In which I am torn

So last April when my husband and I went to Las Vegas, we ventured down to the Luxor to see the Titanic exhibit. I wanted to like it. I really, really did. It's apparent that a team of people worked very hard to put it together, and the exhibit is thoughtfully organized with loads of artifacts. The tour begins when the greeter hands you a card with the name of a passenger on it, and you are instructed to check the passenger list at the end to see if they survived. The main feature of the exhibit is a long piece of the actual ship's hull salvaged from the wreck. There is even a walk-through feature that approximates what it would have been like to stand on the deck at night, just before the ship struck the iceberg. And there is case after case of items ranging from an entire rack of dining room china to personal effects. You can see reconstructed cabins from all three classes, and even walk past the staircase with its famous clock of Honour and Glory crowning Time. It is a detailed and elaborate exhibit, full of interesting things to see.

And yet. It was honestly one of the most depressing experiences I have ever had. We went mid-morning and I think the fact that we were almost alone made it worse. I went from case to case looking at these items--eyeglasses and pendants and letters--that had been brought up from the bottom of the Atlantic, and I absolutely marveled that they had not only been recovered, but had been cleaned and restored so extensively that not a single item there looks anything less than brand-new. And it felt unspeakably wrong. I felt absolutely weighed down with each new room of the exhibit, and by the time it was finished, I could not get out of there fast enough. It was the single most oppressive atmosphere I have ever encountered, bar none.

Mind you, this is not at all the fault of the people who put it together. The work utterly boggles the mind because it is really very well done. I simply cannot imagine what these conservators must have felt, polishing up silver that had last seen the light of day seventy years before. (Of course, I can and do heartily blame the people who decided it would be a splendid idea to sell bits of coal recovered from the wreck site as souvenirs. That completely squicked me out, and I pretty much ran from the gift shop.)

I know it's completely hypocritical on my part to be maudlin about looking at the Titanic artifacts when I don't see anything wrong with hauling Egyptian grave goods out of tombs for display. My father is, although no longer practicing in the field, an archeologist. I understand exactly how important it is to excavate and preserve what we can from the past in order to understand it.

But did we need to excavate the Titanic? God, I hope so. I hope there was some scientific achievement that made it all worthwhile. I hope we learned something so significant that it justifies commercializing a mass grave because that is exactly what it felt like. I knew I was privileged to see those things--many of them quite beautiful. I also knew it felt distinctly wrong. So I put it to you, readers, when does it become acceptable to open up a grave and put the find on display? Does it take a thousand years? Or is fifty fine? I don't have answers, but I hope you do.

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Wednesday, July 14, 2010

In which we sometimes eat disgusting things

Yesterday I happened to see a brief clip on TV about how Sno-Balls are made. Do you remember Sno-Balls? They are one of those vile snack cakes you find in convenience stores. Specifically, they are the cakes that look like breasts--domed and pink and sold in pairs. There are four components to the Sno-Ball: a chocolate cupcake, whipped cream filling, a robe of marshmallow, and pink coconut topping. They are wretched and artificial and thoroughly disgusting and about once every four years I have to have one. With an icy cold Dr. Pepper. Sno-Balls are the food of my childhood, trashy and mind-numbingly sweet and lurid. I love them; I hate them, and when I was a child, they were the greatest treat I could possibly have. They were not an every day occurrence. They were SPECIAL. And I feel compelled to point out that the only proper Sno-Ball is a pink one. The ones they color for holidays are just wrong.

What is your disgusting, nostalgic indulgence?

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