Slimming Down the Synopsis

It's another new year, and while everyone else is at the gym whipping themselves into shape, I've long since given up on ever recovering my pre-motherhood sylph, and have been concentrating on whipping, beating, and pounding book proposals into shape.

This includes the heavy, misshapen lump better known as The Dreaded--and sometimes, I fear, Dreadful--Synopsis.

I notice from many of the agents' guidelines out there that a synopsis of no more than 5 double-spaced pages seems to be all the rage these days. My synopses tend to run twice that length, and could easily go on even longer till they're nearly the length of the book itself. And since I write according to what I call The Indiana Jones School of Plotting ("I don't know, I'm making this up as I go"), I tend to write the story first, then go bald, ulcer-plagued and insane over the synopsis.

Before TRUE PRETENSES was published, I entered it in an RWA contest where the rules asked for a 5 page synopsis. I took the 10 page synopsis and whittled it down to half. I didn't care for the result. It was basically the set up and the resolution: Instead of "from Point A to Point B" it was "Point A and Point B."

After the contest was over and I got the entry back, I found the synopsis covered in penciled questions from the judge: "Why this? How's that? Was he [the hero] drunk? You don't say if--" AARGH! If only I'd been allowed to submit the full length, 10 page version, those questions would've been answered.

Then two years ago, my RWA chapter, TARA, did what we call a "Birds of a Feather" or BOF workshop. We divided into groups according to the genre we wrote--chick lit, romantic suspense, or in my case, historical--and we had to write a query letter and synopsis and submit it to the others in our BOF group for critique.

Since I'd never written a synopsis for an unwritten book before, I thought I would try again to pare down an already completed 10 page synopsis for a Regency historical I call Confessions of a Lady Ruined.

I couldn't do it. I felt I needed everything that was in that synopsis. Cutting one paragraph would be tantamount to pulling a loose thread from a sweater and unraveling the whole story. Additionally, my writing "voice" was evident in that synopsis. Whittling it down would mean diluting my voice.

I ended up writing a synopsis from scratch. I don't know how I did it. But it took me one day, and when I went on to write the book (another Regency historical with the working title of Malcolm in the Midden--I said WORKING title!), I was surprised to find that up until the resolution (which I can never figure out until I get to it), the story followed the synopsis rather closely. There were things I wrote that showed up nowhere in the synopsis, yet they didn't throw it off, and I realize now that had I waited till after the book was written to agonize over writing the synopsis, I would've felt compelled to throw those in for fear the synopsis would make no sense without them. (I wonder if I'm making sense right now.)

In the two years since then, I've been working on contemporary stories, but now that the pendulum is swinging back toward historical romances, so am I. A Lady Ruined was summoned from exile beneath the bed, and this last week I set about trying one more time to write a 5 page synopsis.

I don't know what happened to me since I wrote MITM (one of the writers who critiqued it in the BOF workshop suggested Malcolm in a Muddle), but when I looked at the old 10 page synopsis for A Lady Ruined, I saw all the extraneous gobbledygook that didn't really need to be there. Sure it was nice to know these little extra details, certainly they were braided in with the plot, but the whole thing would not implode if I chopped them out. So I did. I submitted the 5-page result to my critique partner, who said that aside from a couple of "Huh?" moments that were easily fixed, I did a good job explaining what she called all the twists and turns to my hero and heroine's Happily Ever After.

Then I took a 10-page synopsis from another book and somehow carved that one into 5 pages. I'm feeling rather pleased with myself, but not only that--I'm starting to think from now on, I will write the synopsis before I write the book. It really does seem to be easier that way.

So long, Indy!

Half a Dozen Handy Household Hints the Experts Won't Tell You!

But heaven knows I'm no expert on household management--so I will.

1. If you have children or pets, you don't need pretty decals or other peel-and-stick stuff on your glass sliders. Just stop cleaning them!

Glass cleaner is expensive, and diverts household funds from more important things, like my secret chocolate stash. Decals are messy when you try to apply them, and it's really annoying when they curl up and stick on your fingertip; then you can't uncurl them without destroying them. Argh!

While visiting the home of a friend with neither children nor pets, twice Mr. Lucky walked into the host's sliding glass door. He said he had no way of knowing it was there. The problem wasn't poor vision; he wears glasses.

"The doors were simply too clean!" Mr. Lucky exclaimed. "And there were no decals to warn anyone."

But I have found that fingerprints, paw prints, lip prints, unidentifiable smears and splatters on our own sliders serve as a constant, not to mention economical warning to inattentive husbands and guests alike that there's a sheet of glass standing between the family room and the patio. I save money on glass cleaner, and frustration from the peely, sticky mess of decals.

Best of all, I get more chocolate.

2. If you are folding clean laundry, don't let the dogs in from the rain until you put the clothes away.

Not only will you conserve electricity and water on an extra wash and dry cycle, but you will save major strain on your vocal chords, which you will need for screaming at Items 5 and 6 below.

Try as I might, I just can't react with the same delight as the woman you see on any commercial for laundry detergent. Whether the dogs jump up and track mud over her recently folded towels; or the husband spills grape juice down his freshly starched white dress shirt; or the kids get into her own secret chocolate stash and smear it across her newly restored wedding gown, her reaction is always the same: She just tilts her head to one side, shaking it with that "my-family-gotta-love-'em" grin, as she snatches up the jug of detergent, eager to do the same load of laundry all over again. ("Oh, goody! I get to use this wonderful detergent again!")

That's what the experts would have you believe.

3. Want some time to yourself? Put the oven on "Self-Clean."

Despite the fumes and increased heating up of the residence, this is the ONLY proven method to get husbands, children and pets out of the house for at least four hours so you can (a) work on writing your book without interruption; and (b) go to the bathroom without interruption.

4. Children's Race Car Beds Also Make Handy-Dandy Ant Farms!

Those race car beds look so cool, and are built to withstand anything--including my ten year old son. But if there's a downside to them, it's all the little nooks and crannies on their interiors. What marvelous little traps they are for all manner of gunk! But alas, no vacuum cleaner manufacturer makes an attachment that will fit into them.

While the mattress fits snugly inside the race car frame--thus making it more difficult for Baby Bear to disassemble the bed (subject for another post)--I am forever amazed and appalled at the objects I've found crammed between mattress and frame: Cups with sour milk or water still in them. Bowls with cereal still in them. Plastic bags half-filled with gloppy (meaning it's been there more than a day) cheese snacks. I pull up the mattress to find even more horrors lurking beneath: Cereal that doesn't match the cereal found still in the bowl, blobs of dried out cheese, and suspicious puddles galore.

Of course he's not allowed to take food into his room. The problem (besides that bed) is that I gave birth to a self-taught smuggling prodigy.

5. If you have children and/or pets in the house, and you hear a loud crash, investigate immediately.

And have the following handy: Broom with extra large dustpan, old towels, garbage bags, wet-dry vac, name and number of your insurance agent.

6. If you have children and/or pets in the house, and you hear nothing but dead silence for more than five minutes (or even less), investigate immediately.

And have the following handy: Broom with extra large dustpan, old towels, garbage bags, wet-dry vac, name and number of your insurance agent.

These are only suggestions. I will not be held responsible for your mother-in-law's comments about the fingerprints on your glass sliders.

Story of My Bad Hair Life

The other day I slipped into one of those "no appointment necessary" hair salons to get my bangs trimmed as depicted in the photo on the right, so I could see my eyebrows again while camouflaging my extra big, space-alienish forehead.

"Would you like it shampooed first?" the lady asked.

I'd just washed it. Did it look that bad already? (Duh! This is me we're talking about!) "No, I just need the bangs trimmed," I said lamely.

"Would you like the rest of it trimmed? Get rid of those split ends?"

I had to admit the rest of it could benefit from a trim, so I agreed.

To which she replied, "Then shall we shampoo it? It's just that it makes it easier for me to work with it."

Translation: "Your hair looks as if it needs a good shampoo." This is what I get for trying to be Ms. Thrifty Housewife by using Dreck instead of Breck.

I relented, and afterward she led me to her station, where she pressed a pedal and pulled a lever to make the chair drop with a thunk. I kept waiting for steel manacles to snap out of the chair and clamp over my wrists and ankles to prevent my fleeing for my life, as she plied the shears and bombarded me with more suggestions to completely transform my appearance and render me totally unrecognizable to anyone who knows me.

You'd think I'd walked into this place with a referral from the Federal Witness Protection Program.

"Have you ever thought of getting your hair highlighted?" she chirped. "It'd look really pretty, and cover up that gray. Surely you've noticed these silver threads here and there?"

I was utterly aghast. I thought it was leftover Christmas tinsel! The stuff gets caught in my hair every year. No wonder I couldn't seem to brush it out anymore.

She thrust under my nose a huge board full of little snips of hair in assorted colors, to show me the various shades of highlighting available. "This one would look pretty with your hair color," she pointed out. "And so would this one . . . and this one . . . isn't that pretty?"

Something in a reddish-gold tint catches my eye, but I remain ambivalent about the whole idea. Besides the expense, I'm worried about what it will look like (as if my hair could look any scarier than it does now). I've seen women my age with hair in weird shades of purple and magenta, and others striped in a crazy yellowish-white. They look like jaundiced zebras.

I do not want to look like that.

Years ago, when I was in my late teens and had just left home and the long arm of the Ma, I did all the things I was never allowed to do under her rule. Like wearing bikini underwear, necklines that flaunted my collarbone . . . and dyeing my hair, which I always did myself.

The first time I did it, I chose a nice reddish-gold tint. Both my mother and grandmother had to agree there was nothing objectionable about it; still my grandmother wanted to know why I insisted on doing it in the first place: "What's wrong with your own hair color? It's such a lovely shade of chestnut."

That was the first (and last) time she ever referred to my hair as anything other than plain old, unexciting, "dark brown." Now that I'd jazzed it up, she decided my original God-given hair color had always been a more glamourous "chestnut."

When my roots started showing, I used hair color removal with the idea that it would restore my original "chestnut." Wrong! It turned my hair a bright, hideous pale orange that would only go away if I dyed it again--which I did, though it took something like six months before I finally figured out that's what I had to do. But I never used that hair color removal stuff again. Instead I dyed one color on top of another. Once I used coal black, which looked horrible, and people even said so. I put another color on top of it, and by that time I was having to use detangler every time I shampooed, because my dyeing-binge had wrecked my hair. On my twentieth birthday--at which point my hair was about the same length seen in the photo at right--I went to the hair salon and had it cut short.

The lady who cut it told me never to dye it again, or I'd be bald by the next birthday.

That was--well, never mind how many years ago it was, but I took her words to heart and it's been my own color ever since.

And now all this talk of "highlighting." The lady who did my hair this week assured me it was nothing like the bottle jobs of my foolish youth. She seemed quite keen to do the deed, while I was starting to wonder if she'd even let me leave without having it done. Since she hadn't put the iron clamps over my wrists, I ventured to tell her I'd have to think about it and most importantly, discuss it with Mr. Lucky.

Which I did--and by the way, he didn't even notice I'd had my hair done until I mentioned it. But he was clearly askance about the whole highlighting idea, suggesting I use "Just for Men" instead.

Only it's "Just for Men" for a reason, isn't it? What if I use it and start growing whiskers?

And don't tell me to get a job with the circus--I already live in one!

Christmas Break, New Year's Snap

ANOTHER LADYBUG SIGHTING: On Mr. Lucky's computer keyboard Wednesday night (he has a desktop, I have a laptop).

I haven't blogged in over a week because it's still Christmas break and the Bear has been zooming and zinging all over the house, bouncing off every wall and ceiling, waking up at four in the morning to rearrange his bedroom furniture.

We live in Florida, where I can't buy new clothes this time of year because it seems all they have for sale are sweaters, mufflers, mittens, yea, even parkas--everything you need for an expedition to the Pole of your choice. I can't see buying that stuff for only two or three days a year, so I've always made do with the same old sweaters I had when I was living in Germany over twenty years ago.

As a native of the North, it seems I can never stay cool enough. Around the house, my standard outfit is a sleeveless top and shorts, while it's an ongoing battle just to keep any clothes on Baby Bear.

From Wednesday evening until early Friday, I had to wear a little more than usual. Make that a lot more--as in the old sweaters, long pants and thick slipper socks. Temperatures plunged into the very lower thirties--almost too cold even for me, but not for Bear, who continued to run around shirtless.

That alone is one reason I'm glad we don't live up North, where I'd have to spend an hour every morning wrapping up that kid in jacket, hood, muffler, mittens and boots, only to have him tear everything off the minute he gets outdoors before plunging into the nearest snowbank as if he just burst out of a sauna.

On Wednesday evening, for the first time ever, I switched on the heat on my Charmglow electric fireplace in the living room. Usually I only turn on the artificial flames for that cozy parlor look.

And Mr. Lucky actually allowed the central heat to be turned on. I only wish someone could explain to me why, when the air conditioner is set to 75 degrees in the summer, I'm still not cool enough, but when the weather turns cold and the heat is set to that same temp, I'm not warm enough?

After dinner Wednesday night, I had to cover some of the outdoor plants to protect them from the bitter cold, using Bear's top sheets. That kid will not take a top sheet on his bed--he just rips it out and crumples it into the nearest corner.

A sheet printed with pictures of Sponge Bob Square Pants and friends covered the hibiscus tree, next to our front walk. Mr. Lucky planted it last summer, and after a long period of adjustment, it finally started blooming recently, with frilly hybrid blossoms in multiple shades of pinky-peach.

Pokemon creatures covered the purple Mexican petunias, while Teletubbies protected the allamanda.

I used a sheet with pictures of Buzz Lightyear and Woody from Toy Story to cover the hibiscus bush at the corner of the house. Lately this bush has exploded with more than a dozen huge, bright yellow blossoms as big as my hands.

At 11 pm, the local news posted the temperature at 36 degrees. I peered out the living room window to check the sheets, and to my dismay noticed that Buzz and Woody had blown off the yellow hibiscus at the corner.

I ran outside to cover it back up, taking care to ensure the entire bush was covered on all sides. Yet the next morning, it was off again--yet all the other sheets remained in place.

The good news is that two days later, the yellow hibiscus seems none the worse for wear. The bad news is that even though Sponge Bob stayed put all that night, the frilly, peachy-pink hibiscus tree did not fare so well. The leaves were a limp, dark brownish-green, now turning yellow; the blossoms shriveled and drooping. I fear it's done for.

The ladybug was still hanging around Mr. Lucky's keyboard on Thursday afternoon. Knowing he'd never hear the end of it from me if the ladybug had an accident in his office, he coaxed it onto a sheet of paper and set it free on the dying hibiscus tree, as if its magic touch might help bring the tree back to life.

Alas, that ladybug must have other plans for us. I hope they're good.

Number of times I got up while writing this post: 9 (Who's surprised?)

Mr. Lucky's Out of Town (Again)

Mr. Lucky went up to Georgia yesterday to visit his parents, taking our firstborn and the smaller dog, Jasper, with him. Baby Bear and I are staying home because things can become very volatile between our two autistic sons, especially if they're together for too long and in less than familiar surroundings. It's the main reason the older boy now lives in a group home.

Jasper's a sweetheart, especially when he turns onto his back, looks at me upside-down with those huge brown eyes, and beats his tail. But Buddy chews up everything that doesn't belong to Mr. Lucky (why is that?) and is always digging his way under the fence and into other people's yards. Needless to say, I wanted Buddy to go to Georgia. But it's precisely because Jasper is the smaller dog that he was picked to go, to my everlasting chagrin.

Instead of the minivan which would've had plenty of room for Buddy the Beagle From Hell, the husband took his snazzy black, two-door, sun-roofed, playboyish Buick Riviera, which I do not want to be stuck with should the necessity arise because it has a tire that's always running low on air. In fact, when Mr. Lucky was deployed for four months last year, he asked me to take the Buick out once in a while, "just to keep it in running condition." But after he left, I had to e-mail him that I found it sitting in the driveway with a flat.

"It gets that way sometimes," he e-mailed back. "It just needs air now and then. We have a pump for it somewhere out in the garage."

Somewhere, he said. I loved how he waited till he was halfway around the world to tell me all of this.

I'll stick to my reliable Chrysler minivan with the warranty, thank you.

Once again, it's just me and Bear--and the troublemaking dog. So far Buddy has knocked over the Christmas tree (not even Bear has ever tried that), figured out how to jump onto the kitchen counter, and has now maimed half of Bear's Teletubbies. While Mr. Lucky was out of town earlier this month, Buddy chewed the ear off Dipsy. This afternoon I found Tinky-Winky missing his nose.

Meanwhile, Bear was up at four in the morning, rocking on his bed while his electronic keyboard played an annoying rhythm full blast. I had to unplug the keyboard and remove it from his room, but after breakfast he hauled it back into his room, plugged it in, and resumed rocking.

Around mid-morning he dropped the remote control onto our ceramic tile kitchen floor, and it burst into pieces like Humpty Dumpty. Ordinarily I would say good riddance to this annoying object which is usually attached to Mr. Lucky's hand, but thanks to his powers of programming, we cannot switch from the DVD player or Playstation to the TV or vice-versa without it. So I had to figure out how to put it back together, and without any help from all the king's horses or all the king's men. Only once it was reassembled, I couldn't get it to work. It was dead.

This was not good. Baby Bear literally screamed in horror when I pointed it at the TV, and nothing happened. When he gets upset, he tends to either hit himself or bang his head into the wall--and we have lots of cracks and holes in the drywall to prove it.

Eventually I figured out that one of the batteries was reinserted backwards--but not after a new hole appeared in the living room wall, only inches above the back of the sofa. That kid is so tall for his age--if only he could make the holes higher, then I could cover them up with pictures. If I rearranged the furniture, swapped the sofa with the electric Charmglow fireplace, then either the mantel clock would conceal the hole, or I could use that picture of my children that sits next to the clock and needs a new frame after I caught a certain dog chewing on it.

Only I can't move the sofa or fireplace by myself, and Mr. Lucky doesn't like to rearrange the furniture unless it's his idea. Yeah, I know what I have to do--make it his idea, and remember to tell him how brilliant he is for thinking of it.

He called this morning, not only to make sure I wasn't entertaining any of the aforementioned king's men in his absence, but to announce the low tire was officially flat. Oh, he and the Crown Prince and Jasper made it to the in-laws' house all right yesterday, but when they tried to go out for breakfast this morning, that perpetually low tire finally blew out. The spare tire, meanwhile, was like the one in A Christmas Story. It was round, it had once been made of rubber.

At least I have four bags of chocolate to get me through Sunday, when he comes home. (He bought them for me the day before he left, wasn't that sweet of him? Of course, they were on sale.)

Number of times I had to get up while writing this post: 4

Nothing like a full moon to make Baby Bear bounce off the battered walls!

Christmas Update: This Entry Should Be Full

LADYBUG SIGHTING: On our sliding glass door yesterday.

My goal is always to have everything ready for Christmas by the last day of school for this year (which was today) and I met the deadline.

The Christmas tree is up, and the dark-haired angel who sits atop it is holding a giant (for her) candy cane in her arms.

The Christmas cards have gone out. I never like doing them. And no, I do not do those newsletters. The fact that I made it through another year without getting my picture on the evening news accompanied by the voiceover, "If you've seen this woman, authorities ask that you call the number at the bottom of your screen," is the only accomplishment worth bragging about, and all any of my long lost relatives need to know.

My Christmas shopping--as opposed to Mr. Lucky's--is done. I know he's already bought stuff for me, but he still likes to go out at the last minute and buy more stuff.

Earlier this week, I did all the Christmas shopping accompanied by Mr. Lucky. I know I said I needed to be on my own, but darn it, now that he's been retired from the military for almost a year, I've grown accustomed to having him with me on trips to the Great Shopping Vortex. I actually welcomed his company.

After Baby Bear boarded his school bus, we went out to breakfast at the Village Inn, then headed for the GSV. We decided to start with the mall, and work our way outward. At the mall we split up, agreeing to meet at the carousel near the food court. During this time, I would be spending money on my husband, while he would be spending money on me and the boys.

It wasn't as crowded as I expected, perhaps because it was a weekday morning. But I was totally creeped out by some of the vendors who have booths or carts down the middle of the mall's length. They were unusually aggressive, accosting me with either a spray bottle, brochure, or a tray of UFO's (Unidentifiable Food Objects) stabbed with toothpicks. They wanted to sell me makeovers, scents, lotions and potions, vinyl siding (I didn't pause to ask if it was for me or my house), and the secret of happiness. I actually thought one of them was going to grab me--and she wasn't some old hag with a basket of poisoned apples, either, but a skinny young thing with a bottle of snake oil.

I nearly freaked out. All I could do was keep walking, and fortunately, perhaps because I'm very tall, I walk with long, swift strides. My husband is always exhorting me to "slow down" and "wait up." I was relieved to meet up with him again, and he said he'd been similarly bombarded.

We fled the mall for Toys-R-Us, where Mr. Lucky drooled over an officially licensed Star Wars light saber. It lit up and made the same noise as the ones in the movies, but we would've had to buy two to have any fun with them, and just one was too expensive.

Baby Bear already has a fire truck, but Mr. Lucky considered buying him another until I pointed out it came with a real water cannon.

It's bad enough that kid is always spraying water from the sink, drinking water and then spitting it everywhere like a human fountain, flooding half the house and generally trying to turn the whole place into his own personal water park. The last thing he needs is a toy to help him do it.

Then my husband came across a huge box full of "shake and go" car characters from the Disney/Pixar movie Cars. According to the packaging, all you have to do to make these cars run is shake them up, but they're a lot more sensitive than that. Mr. Lucky had only to start sifting through the assortment of little vehicles to rev them up and make them talk with catch-phrases from the movie. That whole big box came alive with noisy toy cars, drawing everyone's attention as he picked out some cars for Bear.

With all our purchases loaded into the minivan, we headed home. Every time my husband made a sharp turn, put on the brakes, or stepped on the gas, the little cars in the plastic bag in the back seat revved up, they were that sensitive to movement. Most hilarious was The Sheriff, a police car. The Sheriff would either holler, "You can't run from the law!" or "Son, you're in a heap o' trouble!"--and the police siren would go off. Every time that happened, my husband glanced in the rearview mirror, thinking he was about to be pulled over for something.

Once we were home, the cars continued to chatter as I carried the bags into the house.

Yesterday I spent three solid hours wrapping presents for Mr. Lucky, the Crown Prince, and Baby Bear. Those cars made a lot of noise as I wrapped them.

But I'm ready. Now all I can do is hope I've been good this year. I'll find out Christmas morning.

Fiona's Birthday

Dear Fiona,

Tomorrow would have been your 18th birthday. You might have been as tall as me, perhaps even taller, God help you, if your brothers are anything to go by. I'll always wonder, but never know.

This will be our eighth Christmas without you. We miss you always, but never so much as at this time of year, with your birthday and Christmas only five days apart.

That first Christmas without you--two months after you left us--was awful. We didn't even put up the tree that year. We drove up to Georgia and spent the holidays with your dad's parents, siblings, and their kids. I didn't send out any Christmas cards, nor did I do any shopping, except for your two brothers. Even then, I shopped online, because I couldn't set foot in Toys-R-Us or the Disney Store--or anywhere I might see toys and little girl things--without bursting into tears right on the spot. What made it even worse was the sudden explosion of Powerpuff Girls merchandise, right after you left. Fiona, you would have gone nuts! (While your dad, who so loved to spoil you, would have gone broke.)

The second Christmas, we did put up a tree, but with one change. Instead of a brightly twinkling, multi-colored star, we topped the tree with a dark-haired, blue-eyed angel. Do you know how hard it is to find an angel who's dark-haired AND blue-eyed, just like you? But I finally found one at Target.

That year, I still shopped only online. But I did send out Christmas cards--and I signed not only my name, your dad's, and your two brothers', but your name, too. Because you're still a member of our family, still with us if only in spirit. And such spirit! You've always had it.

All these years later, I still sign your name to the cards. I always will.

It took about five years before I could set foot in a toy department again without going into a tearful meltdown. I don't know what hurts more--going to the girls' section only to set off my waterworks, or avoiding the girls' section because I'm afraid of setting off those waterworks. One could argue that either way, I have no business going to the girls' section anymore, and that there's no point in dwelling over what might have been, simply because it will never be.

Indeed, if you were still here, I might not be going to that girls' section anymore, anyway. You'd be a young lady now. What would catch your fancy nowadays?

Every time I see a picture of this girl, born only 93 days after you, I think of you and what you might look like now. But I know you'd be just as beautiful as she is.

And you're certainly, forever and always, just as much a princess.

Though it saddens us you're no longer here, know that the memories of you always bring us joy.

We love you, Bunny Buttons!

If I Want to Be Frazzled, I'll Stay at Home

As is our usual custom on Sundays, we packed Baby Bear into the mini-van this morning and went to the drive-thru at Dunkin' Donuts, where he got a box of twenty-five "Munchkins" (donut holes), while Mr. Lucky and I shared a box of half a dozen donuts.

My mother would say we were spoiling our son, giving him donuts every weekend. Sometimes I find myself channeling her.

As I handed the box of Munchkins into the back seat, I said to Bear, "Do you know how many donuts I'd eaten by the time I was your age? Why, I could probably count on the fingers of one hand the number I'd eaten by the time I was ten."

Mr. Lucky added, "Do you know how many times your mother has made this speech? At least as many times as you've had Munchkins, kid."

He's right.

Baby Bear, of course, didn't say a word. For one thing, he was too busy scarfing down his weekly ration of Munchkins.

Upon returning home, Mr. Lucky turned on the TV to find one of the Turner channels playing a movie he liked. "I wouldn't mind having this on DVD," he said.

"Why? Seems to me you can see it anytime right here. This must be the third time this weekend they've shown it." It drives me crazy when they do that. Nonetheless, I know the hint for a Christmas gift when I hear it. "Of course, to buy you Christmas presents, I have to be able to go out on my own."

"Then go out now. This is the perfect time."

"On a Sunday, less than ten days before Christmas? Are you crazy? The whole world is at the Great Shopping Vortex. I probably couldn't get near it by now."

"Everyone's at church right now." Oh, like we were? "And after that, they'll be watching the football game."

"Not the wives," I said. "The wives will all be killing each other for parking spaces and Red-Nosed Santa Specials."

"This is the South. Southern wives are more likely to sit at home and watch football than Yankee wives."

This was news to me. Even though Florida is the southernmost state, I didn't know it was considered "The South" the way my husband's native Georgia is considered "The South." And I certainly didn't know this about "Southern wives."

I'm a Yankee who welcomes recipes from my Southern mother-in-law, and enjoys thumbing through my Southern mother-in-law's back copies of--you guessed it--Southern Living. But I don't recall ever seeing my Southern mother-in-law watch a football game. My own mother, on the other hand, was big on football--and she lived in the state of Washington--definitely NOT the South.

To hear Mr. Lucky talk, you'd think I'd have the Great Shopping Vortex all to myself. On Sunday, December 16th?

"Besides," I argued, "someone has to watch your son. The minute I'm gone, he'll empty all the closets and drawers and disassemble everything while you're happily changing channels. Then when I get home, you'll claim he must've done it all just as I pulled into the driveway."

"Well, he does," Mr. Lucky insisted. "The rest of the time he's asleep."

Alas, Baby Bear is so quick and stealthy, Mr. Lucky is probably right. Only I can't let him know that--just as he can't let me know that the extra sheet of air freshener he removed from the air conditioning vent was asphyxiating him, too. (Refer to my November 2nd blog entry here.)

Either way, I will do my Christmas shopping on a weekday--right after Baby Bear leaves on his school bus.

Sunday is a day of rest, a day of donuts. But for me, it is not a day for shopping.

Come to think of it, it's not really a day of rest for me, either, is it?

Christmas Update: This Entry Should Be Blank

Except for the festive wreaths on the doors--I'm one of those people who likes to hang seasonally-appropriate wreaths all year round, both indoors and out--I haven't done a darn thing for Christmas yet. Not even the tree.

I have some beautifully lush, silk poinsettia arrangements that I like to put out every year, but they're still put away because I'm afraid the dogs will chew them up the second my back is turned. They've already chewed up two "year round" silk flower arrangements I had in the living room, and last week one of them chewed a hole in one of the sofa cushions.

I don't even want to think of what they might do to the tree. In previous years, our biggest problem has always been Baby Bear's penchant for plucking off the ornaments and using them as bowling balls.

Aside from the wreath on the front door, we don't do much in the way of exterior decoration. Mr. Lucky just isn't into it, though one year, he did manage to conjure enough holiday spirit to put up a string of lights. When we lived in houses that had posts along the front porch, I would wrap those in tinsel, but our new house doesn't have posts.

When the Crown Prince was still living at home, he would start the Christmas mantra right after Thanksgiving dinner. No sooner did he swallow the last bit of cranberry sauce, than he would start rapping out, "Christmas tree up, Christmas tree up, Christmas tree up," beating away like that beefy guy in Ben-Hur who sat at the front of the ship with a hammer in each hand, banging on a well worn drum to keep the galley slaves steadily rowing, and making them go faster by yelling, "Battle speed!" followed by, "Attack speed!" and finally, "Ramming speed!"

Now that the Crown Prince has moved out, our ship is adrift. Not only is the tree not up, but I haven't done the Christmas cards, and I haven't done the necessary shopping. Not even online, and I'd be cutting it pretty darn close if I tried to do it now. I'm not willing to chance it.

I'm going to have to go out next week, and fight the mobs. By myself, without Mr. Lucky who, since retiring from the military, likes to go with me everywhere.

Not that I resent that, for I actually like going out with him. But how am I supposed to buy him that obligatory ugly necktie or soap-on-a-rope when he's always hovering around me? I absolutely must be on my own to do that, so I can savor that precious look of surprise on his face when he opens those gifts Christmas morning.

Much like the one on my face when I open my gift to find The Magic Soap Scum Remover that folds up to fit in your gym bag, your purse, even your back pocket; and when you turn it upside-down, look! It becomes The Magic Dog Hair Remover! Now you can throw out those wads of masking tape.

Says Mr. Lucky: "But the guy on the commercial said it makes a really great gift!"

How much do you think he shelled out for it? Don't ask until I show you what else he got me--a mini-vacuum with special attachments for dusting ceiling fans, removing cobwebs, and even those hard to reach louvres in the air conditioning vent!

Says Mr. Lucky: "But the guy on the commercial said the special cobweb removal attachment was free if I called in the next ten minutes!"

Never fear, we usually get each other what we really want (though he's still not getting that big flat screen TV this year). But no way will I go Christmas shopping on a weekend. First thing this Monday morning, I'm getting into the minivan by myself and driving out at battle speed.

Once I get into the Great Shopping Vortex that swirls around the local mall, I'll shift into attack speed.

Let's just hope I don't go into ramming speed out in the parking lot.

Wine, Women, and Ladybugs

This last Saturday I went to the annual Christmas party for my local RWA chapter, the Tampa Area Romance Authors (TARA) at the St. Petersburg Yacht Club, which is almost an hour's drive from where I live. Mr. Lucky drove me all the way out there, and after the party, all the way back. Why? Because that party is probably the only time all year that I drink alcohol.

This is partly because the special care and feeding of my Baby Bear, and the constant vigilance he requires, demand that I keep a clear head and a sober disposition at all times. That and I married a teetotaler for whom I also gave up smoking when we became engaged--but there is NO WAY Mr. Lucky will ever get me to give up coffee.

As a rule, I'm not a very outgoing person. I always tell people not to be fooled by my writings, which would strongly suggest otherwise. One glass of wine, however, will make me very sociable. I drank two on Saturday. I will leave it to my TARA sisters to say how I behaved, but I think I managed to stay off the tables and the top of the Christmas tree.

Fellow TARAn Vicki Lane does an excellent job on her blog explaining our ornament exchange and the drawing for our annual Book Challenge--which I won last year, and congratulations to Vicki's critique partner, Laurie Kapkowski, who won this year! And thank you, Vicki, for the clever bookmarks!

This was the first year I brought an ornament that was fought over and stolen multiple times. It was a large, faux Faberge egg to represent a historical romance I wrote years ago, that is set in St. Petersburg, Russia in the 1890's. Apparently the fake eggs are as highly prized as the real ones. I also included a box of chocolates and a signed copy of True Pretenses in my gift bag.

The always funny, exuberant, and bling-flinging Kathy Carmichael brought one of those fancy holiday tins that usually contain candy or cookies, but instead contained earrings that looked like those striped peppermint candies so popular this time of year. They even look sugar coated, all glittery and frosty, as if she picked them out of the snow--which I know she didn't, because we're in Florida. She offered them to all of us, and I noticed Erica Ridley wasted no time donning hers. Thanks, Kathy!

Wendi Christner gave me a wonderful surprise: A glass ladybug. At last month's TARA meeting, we'd been talking about our personal superstitions and the crazy, quirky things we do to conjure good luck. I told the story of how not one, but two ladybugs landed on me one day. I'd heard that ladybugs were supposed to be lucky, so I wondered if that was a sign something good was about to happen to me. Sure enough, Mr. Lucky proposed marriage to me the very next day--and I've believed in the luck of ladybugs ever since.

Fast forward fifteen years to 2002. We celebrated our wedding anniversary, and Mr. Lucky surprised me with a ladybug pin made of gold and crystals. "Maybe it'll help you sell a book," he said. Shortly thereafter, he was shipped overseas--and while he was gone, I sold True Pretenses.

Then last year, I forgot to remove the pin from my dress and it went through the laundry and fell apart. I'm very upset with myself for that. I still have the pieces, and can't help wondering if that's why I've been in such a rut writing-wise since then.

I'm hoping Wendi's beautiful gift will help change that. I'm so touched she remembered the story, and made this thoughtful gesture. Thanks again, Wendi.

I'm starting to see all sorts of signs that I might finally be getting out of that rut, and the ladybug is part of it. Even Mr. Lucky mentioned recently that he had a dream that I sold a book to a certain publisher whose name I haven't mentioned in months, but I would love to be published by. "It was a Cinderella type story," my husband said.

I love Cinderella, but if that's the next story I write, then she's going to have to be a very special Cinderella, because I don't want any more "pumpkins" in the form of unsaleable manuscripts rotting under my bed.

I have lots to think about--and lots to write.

Speaking of lots, did anyone notice I made lots of links? Let's hope they all work!