A Moose Walked into a Bar

Linda Evans ~ Rest in Peace

2012-01-13T03:54:00.000-08:00

Linda Evans

It is with great sorrow that we share ~ Our beloved and lovely lady, Linda Evans succumbed to her battle with cancer on January 11, 2012.

She fought this disease like a tiger. A lady tiger.

Linda was always kind and generous with her time. She was never too busy to help a friend or respond to a fan. She guided many newbies and held the virtual hands of many old-timers.

There are lovely tributes and memories shared on both Linda’s FaceBook page:

http://www.facebook.com/groups/167185893326876/317870134925117/#!/profile.php?id=1451260384

And on the Kindle Boards:

http://www.kindleboards.com/index.php/topic,99304.0.html

Her daughter Jenny will be taking over the promotion of her mother's books. We encourage you to buy Linda’s books so that you can carry a small piece of her with you… and to help her family pay her medical bills.

We know our fellow-Moosette, LC Evans is watching down on us and smiling right now.

We love you, girl!

We miss you…

Barbara and Karen

My Life and Tabloid Journalism

2011-12-25T09:10:00.000-08:00

http://amzn.to/tIyhmr

MY LIFE AND TABLOID JOURNALISM

Douglas Braverman

My new e-novel, THE ALL-AMERICAN, STAR-SPANGLED POT OF GOLD, tells the story of Randy and Camille Mobeley, a young couple who live in a trailer park in rural Mississippi. The Mobeleys decide to fake their way onto a Jerry Springer-style TV program, in order to promote a horrible country song that Randy has written. Unfortunately, to be considered to appear on the show, they must invent a trashy tale of family dysfunction. Fortunately, they have the perfect coach - Randy’s 400-pound mother, Lola May, a woman addicted to supermarket tabloids, who has almost total recall of every sordid story she has ever read during the past fifty years.

Since my book appeared a few weeks ago, friends have been questioning my sanity. “Do you really watch THE JERRY SPRINGER SHOW?” they demand in disbelief. Then their eyes narrow suspiciously, and they ask, “And how do you know so much about supermarket tabloids?”

I hasten to explain that I had never seen THE JERRY SPRINGER SHOW, until one day a few years ago. I was home sick from work, and watched back to back episodes. I was appalled, and asked myself why on earth people would want to air their dirtiest laundry on television. I wondered if there might be an ulterior motive, such as someone trying to promote a song he had written. And I realized that in order to do so, he would have to come up with some egregiously trashy story to be chosen to appear on the show. The idea made me laugh, and thus, THE ALL-AMERICAN, STAR-SPANGLED POT OF GOLD was born.

So I can honestly answer my friends that I am not a regular viewer of THE JERRY SPRINGER SHOW.

The supermarket tabloids are another question entirely.

No, I am not a tabloid addict like Lola May. Nor do I read the tabloids on any regular basis. But for some reason, I seem to have developed a sort of lifelong perverse fascination with these bizarre, and usually totally unbelievable, stories.

As with most strange mental afflictions, it all started back in my childhood. I remember once standing at a check-out counter in the supermarket next to my mother when I was about seven years old. There, on the newspaper rack, next to perfectly respectable newspapers, was a tabloid with the frightening headline, GIRL BORN WITH HEAD OF CHICKEN. As if this were not shocking enough, the front page featured a photo of a little girl in a polka dot dress looking completely normal, except that in place of her own head was a chicken’s, with vicious-looking eyes and a sharp beak. To me, it was terrifying.

Granted, even in those pre-Photo Shop days, I suppose I might have guessed that the picture had somehow been altered. But I was young and naïve – and since the tabloid was displayed next to other legitimate newspapers – I saw no reason to doubt it.

“Mom! Look!” I pointed to the photo in fear.

My mother turned to see what had frightened me, and sighed with irritation. “Oh, that! Those newspapers are just garbage! Don’t believe them. They make those stories up.”

Despite my mother’s no-nonsense dismissal, the horrifying image of the chicken-headed girl remained lodged in my mind, and gave me nightmares all week. Aside from the fact that the photo was fairly frightening, I had only recently gotten over the chicken pox myself, and worried that this might be some sort of delayed side effect.

And so, while growing up, I always tried to steer clear of the tabloids to avoid additional nightmares. But – as with an accident on the side of the road – although you promise yourself that you won’t look, you inevitably do. And, of course, they were always right there in easy view, on display at every supermarket check-out counter we visited. I can recall as a child, waiting in line at the check-out, and being astounded to read of a BABY BORN WITH SKIN MATCHING WALLPAPER IN PARENTS’ BEDROOM (I suppose they should have been grateful that he didn’t clash); FAT WOMAN EATS HUSBAND’S CAR (well, it was only a VW Beetle, and they’re small); and worst of all, MAN COMPLETELY ENCASED IN SPIDERWEB WHILE SLEEPING (no nightmares from this one… it left me too afraid to fall asleep.)

As an adult, of course, I outgrew the fear, and saw the tabloids more as a source of amusement. I remember my favorite was MAN FINDS MINIATURE MERMAID IN CAN OF TUNA. In a possibly related story, I also remember TIRED OF CANNED CATFOOD, CAT KILLS OWNER WITH CAN-OPENER.

But perhaps the most interesting was (believe it or not, another mermaid story), DIVERS FIND CITY RUN BY MERMAIDS UNDER THE SEA. This intriguing front page headline was followed by the promise, “Actual Pictures Inside!” How could anyone resist? I lifted the tabloid from the rack, and eagerly turned to the appropriate page. Although I was expecting to see some form of doctored photographs, there were no doctored photos at all. Instead, there were drawings. That’s right! Drawings of mermaids swimming around an underwater castle.

“They actually think a drawing is going to convince anybody?” I sputtered in annoyance.

“Well,” said a middle-aged woman on line in front of me. “Maybe they didn’t have any cameras with them.”

At first, I thought that she was joking, but as our conversation continued, I realized that she was entirely serious.

I shook my head with distaste. “These tabloids are crazy!” I sighed, and inserted the mermaid edition back in its rack.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” the woman said. “They were very honest when they interviewed me.”

Again, I thought she was joking.

“They interviewed you?” I asked.

“Oh, yes. It was a few years ago. I was visiting my grandmother. We were in the kitchen making cocoa, when we heard a crash out back in her rose garden. We ran outside, and it turned out that a spaceship had crashed right in her yard.”

“Really?” I asked, anticipating a punch line.

But, as I said, she was quite serious. “Yes, and you know something? Spacemen got out. And they actually were little green men.”

“So, what did you do?”

“Oh, we invited them in for cocoa,” she replied matter-of-factly. “And then, the next day, we were interviewed by one of these papers. Didn’t you read it?”

I shook my head. “Believe it or not, I try not to read these things.”

“That’s very unwise,” she told me. “How else will you learn the truth?”

And it was then that I realized, there must be hundreds, maybe thousands, of people out there who – like Lola May in THE ALL-AMERICAN, STAR-SPANGLED POT OF GOLD – actually believe the stories printed in the tabloids… which, when I think about it, is probably the most frightening story of all.

This is Doug's first novel on Kindle and it's a hoot!

Please join us in thanking him for his appearance here today at the Moose Bar.

Romance on Aisle 5

2011-12-21T02:35:00.000-08:00

The Moose is happy to greet author Dana Taylor who shares a lovely story with us.

Romance on Aisle 5

By Dana Taylor

It was a Saturday in the summer of my 45^th year. I worked as my husband’s secretary in his Oklahoma law practice. We’d spent the hot morning at the office attempting to get on top of the mountainous caseload. Neither of us wanted to be there and we fussed at each other.

Okay, I’ll admit it. I nagged. I hovered over him like a mean schoolmarm, forcing his attention on demanding paperwork. The plan had been that we’d work and then go out for a leisurely lunch.

However, when I asked him if he wanted to go to eat, he replied, “Not anymore.”

My nose-to-the-grindstone demeanor had been a definite turn-off for him. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll go grocery shopping and see you at home later.”

I left in a huff and seethed in the car, feeling like an unappreciated, nagging ball-and-chain. My husband clearly preferred the company of the television and football over me.

Pushing my shopping cart through the store, my smoldering mood remained heavy even as I searched for his favorite brand of honey ham. As I perused the lunch meats, I sensed a man near the pork suddenly turn his attention on me. I could only see him in my peripheral vision, but his focus seemed riveted.

Feeling uneasy, I grabbed the honey ham and scooted toward the dairy section. As I rounded the frozen chicken, he cut me off with his cart. The stranger had intentionally blocked my way.

Now I was forced to look him squarely in the face. Ooo, what a pleasant surprise. It turned out to be a very attractive face. Middle aged--without the sag--topped by a full head of hair. At my age, balding men were the norm. Nice reddish beard. Arresting blue eyes. Tall.

“Hello,” he said. “My name is Jay. And I just have to tell you. You are a very attractive woman.”

The shopping trip turned utterly surreal. One minute I’m a forty-five year old rejected shrew. The next second a handsome man is telling me I’m a “very attractive woman.”

I flushed, blushed and sputtered. “Um…Thank you, Jay and I’m married.” Smooth reply, huh?

“Well,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “your husband is a very fortunate man.”

I stood flummoxed and flabbergasted. “Thanks. I’ll be sure and tell him.”

My supermarket Lothario nodded and then rolled his cart off into the sunset of canned goods and out of my life.

Needless to say, my spirit rocketed. I fairly floated through the rest of my shopping excursion, repeating phrases to myself. You’re a very attractive woman…Your husband is a very fortunate man.

Later I wondered, “Was that guy for real? Did I dream him up? Did my guardian angel materialize to boost my morale?”

Whatever. It’s a cherished memory. A lift when I’m down.

As predicted, my husband was home in front of the television. As a peace offering, I made him an exceptionally delicious honey ham sandwich.

“Thanks,” he said, “I appreciate it.”

I smiled thinking, “You are a very fortunate man.”

Dana Taylor writes uplifting stories filled with inspiration and humor. Born and raised in California, she graduated from the University of Redlands. She has been published in various magazines, including the Ladies Home Journal. She hosted the Internet radio program Definitely Dana! at HealthyLife.net. and won various contests with the Romance Writers of America, including Best First Book from the Desert Quill Awards. Her published works include ROYAL REBEL, AIN’T LOVE GRAND?, HOPE FOR THE HOLIDAYS, and DEVIL MOON: A MYSTIC ROMANCE. Her non-fiction book is EVER-FLOWING STREAMS OF HEALING ENERGY.

Visit her blogsite Supernal Living with Dana Taylor at www. DefinitelyDana.wordpress.com. She is a founding member of the on-line community SupernalFriends.com and can be reached at supernalfriends@yahoo.com.

Contact Dana at:

Website: www.DefinitelyDana.wordpress.com

Email: SupernalFriends@yahoo.com

Dana, Thank you for stopping by to chat and share your sweet story.

Happy Holidays to all!

Excerpt from "It's a Dunder-Bull Wife" by Karen Cantwell

2011-12-14T05:27:00.000-08:00

Dear friends of The Moose,

The holidays are near and I thought, what a better way to share some holiday cheer than to share a story about the season. So, without further ado, here is the opening scene of "It's a Dunder-Bull Wife" (a Barbara Marr Holiday Tale). I hope it gives you a giggle or two.

And be sure to read all the way down to the bottom -- you will find a link to my website where I'm offering a Holiday Gift to everyone who visits!

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

I have three daughters—peer pressure is my constant nemesis. Not a day goes by that I don’t remind one, two, or all three of my darlings that they are individuals—gorgeous, independent beings with minds and unique personalities of their very own. If I’ve asked the proverbial, “If-so-and-so-jumped-off-a-bridge” question once, I’ve asked it a billion times.
Imagine the irony, then, that I would find myself on a bridge on Christmas Day, lamenting my inability to measure up to the silly standards of other mothers.
My name is Barbara Marr and I have a confession to make: I can’t cook a turkey.

***

Two weeks before Christmas, I huddled with friends in front of the blazing gas fireplace at Cappuccino Corner. A peppermint latte warmed my hands and the holiday scent tickled my nose.

“Don’t look now,” Peggy whispered over her own cup of java. “It’s a Dunder-Bull Wife.”

The problem with the don’t-look-now command is that everyone looks before they register the fact that they were just directed not to. My head spun to the door just as fast as Roz’s. But Dunder-Bull wives don’t mind. In fact, they want people to look. They expect people to look. They’re perfect and they want everyone to know it.

Dunder-Bull is the town adjacent to our cozy enclave of Rustic Woods. So close in vicinity, yet so far apart in flavor. Rustic Woods wives drive ten year-old minivans, while Dunder-Bull wives drive shiny new Lexus SUVs with sunroofs and built-in seat warmers. The wives of Rustic Woods feed their grumpy kids processed chicken tenders from the drive-thru at Chick Hurray at least two nights a week, while Dunder-Bull wives deliver fresh, healthy, home-cooked meals to their happy, smiling families every day, morning, noon and night. Rustic Woods wives clip their own nails in between soccer games and PTA bake sales, but Dunder-Bull wives somehow manage to squeeze in full mani-pedis every week after throwing one-hundred-dollar-a-plate charity fundraisers. Rumor has it that they get bikini waxes and high colonics after the mani and before the pedi. Let’s put it this way: Dunder-Bull wives make the Stepford wives look like couch potatoes.

Even worse than the fact that a Dunder-Bull wife had crossed the border was the fact that I actually knew this freak of nature. Her name was Tru Diamond.

No, I’m not making it up. I wish I were.

Tru Diamond was married to Daniel Diamond of Diamond Real Estate, and if you happened to stroll past Pathmore’s Portraits on the upper level of Thornwood Mall, you’d see them, their five stunning children and all 224 of their perfectly white teeth on a twenty-four by thirty-six-inch canvas. That’s right—you know the kind of family I’m talking about now.

Turning my head away as quickly as possible, I moaned. “Please don’t let her see me.”

“You know her?” Roz asked.

“You don’t?” Peggy whispered in reply. “That’s Tru Diamond—she’s practically a celebrity.”

Roz tipped her head in understanding. “I’ve heard the name, never met her.” She continued to spy Tru from the corner of her eye. “Wow. She’s hot. I’ll bet she doesn’t have a single ripple of cellulite. How many kids?”

Peggy nodded. “Five.”

“Oh, that’s just not fair.” Roz’s expression oozed disgust.

I sipped from my peppermint latte while trying to will myself invisible. Why did Tru Diamond have to walk into my territory? Here, I was allowed to be myself—the sweats I’d worn for five days straight without washing were perfectly acceptable. And no one cared that my ancient sweatshirt had more pills than a drugstore.

I hunched over my coffee cup in an attempt to hide. My Gollum impression didn’t work.

“Barb?” Tru squinted from across the shop. “Barbara Marr—is that you?”

So much for hiding. Now I had to engage in small talk. First on the agenda would be pretending that I hadn’t seen her. “Tru?” I pasted on my best fake smile, which wasn’t easy, since it was 8:45 in the morning and I hadn’t brushed my teeth yet.

She glided in our direction—Dunder-Bull wives don’t walk, they glide—and then landed ever so gently next to me. Since I was sitting and she was standing, I assessed her from the bottom up: tan leather ankle boots clad her pretty, petite feet. They were probably designer, but since I don’t even know how to pronounce Blahniks, I sure as heck wouldn’t know her shoes from a pair of Wal-Mart specials. They were cute, though. If I didn’t have feet big enough and flat enough to stamp out forest fires, I might’ve considered a pair. That is, if their sticker price didn’t require that I take out a second mortgage.

Onward and upward: a red velvet skirt that fell just above the cute boots and hung over her perfect curves like satin on a Mercedes. Her too-precious Christmas sweater was topped by a black suede, belted coat that I’d kill for if I thought I’d ever have somewhere better than Cappuccino Corner to wear the thing. Her blonde, wavy ’do looked right-from-the-salon. And finally, those Christmas wreath earrings looked to be constructed with the real deal—diamonds, rubies and emeralds. They spelled “class,” while the flashing bulbs dangling from my own ears screamed “cheapskate.” Well, they’d seemed fun and festive when I bought them.

Not wanting to appear rude, I rose from my chair. This, it turns out, was a mistake, because I’d forgotten that the drawstring on my sweatpants was loosened, and those suckers slid right down over my derriere. I caught them in time just before giving the show of the century, but with the grace of a donkey on ice skates, spilled my peppermint latte, which really made me mad because I hadn’t yet ingested enough caffeine to get my day going. Lovely Peggy dabbed coffee off the floor while I scrambled to re-tie my sweats. It’s really not easy to look nonchalant tying up stinky sweats while Wonder Woman is watching. But I was not going to crumble. I whipped that drawstring into a quick knot and kept talking.

“So,” I said, tucking some stray curls behind my ear, “what brings you to our neck of the woods?”

Tru instantly broke into laughter. “Oh, you are so funny!”

I was? What did I say? I was confused.

“Rustic Woods, our neck of the woods . . . you do have a way with words.”

If only I were that quick. I smiled anyway and pretended the pun was intended.

There was a brief moment of awkward silence that puzzled me until I realized that Tru was waiting for me to introduce my friends. “Tru, this is Peggy Rubenstein and Roz Walker.”
She nodded to each. “Tru Diamond. Very nice to meet you.”

I was hoping she would be in a hurry to get her drink and splitsville, but it just wasn’t my lucky day.

“So, Barb,” she continued, “are you ready for the holidays?”

My first reaction was to guffaw and ask if anyone is ever really ready for the holidays, but that sort of rhetorical humor doesn’t work with Dunder-Bull wives. They’re ready for everything: every holiday in the book, death in the family, two-foot snowstorms, hurricanes, earthquakes—they’ve got it covered. Heck, I’ll bet each one of them has an emergency preparedness plan for the Zombie Apocalypse.

And the truth was, I wasn’t ready. For the holidays, that is. Presents were bought for the most part, but they weren’t wrapped. I had paper, but not bows. I had the flashy earrings but neglected to dig my Reindeer sweater out from the back of my closet. But was I going to admit this to Tru Diamond? No way.

“Sure.” I nodded. “Ready with a capital R.”

Peggy and Roz exchanged quizzical glances.

Tru was practically giddy with excitement. “Really? Are you having guests?”

“Yup.”
“Excellent! How many?”

Geez, these women always had to get specific, didn’t they? I pulled a good, even number out of the air. “Twenty.”

“Twenty!” I thought Tru would have an orgasm on the spot. “Good for you! How many turkeys?”

“Two. And a ham.”

Don’t judge me. Remember, until you’ve walked in someone else’s stinky sweatpants, you never know how you’ll react under pressure.

“What kind of stuffing do you make? Cornbread? Sausage?”

Uh oh. I was in deep now. Not only had I never made stuffing before, I didn’t even know there were different kinds. Well, when in doubt, cover all bases. “Both. Two turkeys, you know.”

***

Tru eventually moved on to secure a hot coffee drink and then head out for “some Christmas shopping followed by an afternoon of helping the homeless.” When the door closed behind her and I knew she couldn’t possibly hear, I turned to Peggy and Roz. “Okay. How do you cook a turkey?”
Peggy laughed. When I didn’t laugh with her, she stopped. “You’re kidding, right?”

Roz shook her head. “She’s not kidding.”

“Never?” Peggy asked.

“I tried a turkey tetrazzini but I used processed turkey slices. I guess that doesn’t count, huh?”

“Was it any good?” Roz’s expression indicated that she didn’t expect a positive answer.

“You know your kooky Uncle Bertram?”

“We don’t talk about him.”

“Right. Same with the Great Turkey Tetrazzini Debacle of 2005.”

“What do you cook at Thanksgiving and Christmas?” Peggy asked.

“Never had to cook. My mother takes us to restaurants on Thanksgiving, and we always travel to Mama Marr’s on Christmas Day. Now she can cook a turkey.”

“So you’re not going to her place this year?”

“I’m thinking of changing things up.”

Roz laughed. “Just because you lied to Tru Diamond?”

“I didn’t lie. What are you doing for Christmas dinner? I need a few more guests.”

“You’re crazy. Why do this to yourself?”

“To prove I can. It’s time I rose to the occasion. I’m not going to be bested by a Dunder-Bull wife. Now, you didn’t answer my question: how do you cook a turkey?”
_______

"It's a Dunder-Bull Wife" is a 9000 word short story available for just .99 cents on Kindle and Nook.

CLICK HERE FOR NOOK

AND HERE'S THE FUN PART: To get a free Kindle or Nook copy of my short story collection, The Chronicles of Marr-nia, visit my website at www.karencantwell.com

Best wishes,

Karen Cantwell

New Releases from Women of The Moose!

2011-12-07T05:30:00.000-08:00

Just this week, Moose-ette, Barbara Silkstone, released the sequel to her popular mystery, Wendy and the Lost Boys. This newest book is London Broil - read about her newest book below:

“Indiana Jones meets Romancing the Stone”
“A murderous roller coaster ride through London during a brutal heat wave”
“Snarky Python!”

When we last saw Wendy Darling and Roger Jolley, they’d recovered twelve of the thirteen Lost Boys, death icons of the infant sons of the sixth dynasty pharaoh, Kjoser. Wendy, Miami Realtor and part-time Tomb Raider, is now in a frantic race against time and a murderer as she searches for the last Lost Boy hidden somewhere in London while a killer heat wave invades the city.

This book has been professionally edited.
…………

Barbara Silkstone is the best-selling author of The Secret Diary of Alice in Wonderland, Age 42 and Three-Quarters ~ Wendy and the Lost Boys ~ The Adventures of a Love Investigator, 527 Naked Men and One Woman.
Silkstone’s writing has been described as perfectly paced and pitched - shades of Janet Evanovich and Carl Hiaasen without seeming remotely derivative. Fast moving action that shoots from the hip with bullet-proof characterization.

Wendy and the Lost Boys topped the charts in comedy, climbing over Tina Fey, Sophie Kinsella and Ellen DeGeneres. The Secret Diary of Alice in Wonderland, Age 42 and Three-Quarters has been a consistent best seller in comedy. Both Wendy and Alice have been in the top 20 Amazon comedies at the same time.

Just .99 cents!!!!
_____

And of course, beautiful Moose-ette, LC Evans, released her super fun romance, My Planet or Yours, which is accruing some wonderful reviews:

Nora Bryant is a single Earth woman out to ban men from her life after a recent breakup. Triskam is a strikingly handsome extraterrestrial, who crash lands near her remote Arizona home. Add to this mix, a couple of misguided thugs looking for a gold rush, an overly friendly, not-so-guard dog, and a communications device that thinks it's a nanny, and you have My Planet or Yours?, a delightful new romantic comedy by LC Evans, author of the Kindle bestseller, We Interrupt This Date.

Also just .99 cents!
_____

Finally, I just released a Holiday short story on December 1st - "It's a Dunder-Bull Wife." 9000 words of Holiday fun!

Dunder-Bull – the perfect little town bordering Barbara Marr’s not-so-polished Rustic Woods. Everything in Dunder-Bull is five-star rated, including the wives. As Barb puts it, “Dunder-Bull Wives make Stepford Wives look like couch potatoes.” Succumbing to the need to “measure-up,” Barb decides to prepare a grand and luscious Christmas feast for a party of twenty. The problem? Barb can’t cook her way out of a turkey-roaster bag. In usual Barbara Marr fashion, chaos ensues. Will she survive? Will her family fall victim to salmonella food poisoning? Will Martha Stewart ridicule her publicly?

A Barbara Marr Holiday short story, sure to tickle your funny bone and touch your heart at the same time.

.99 cents too!

We hope you'll take a look at our new works! And thank you for stopping by the Moose Bar! We love having you here.

The Wedding by Debra Martin

2011-11-30T02:54:00.000-08:00

We'd like to extend a warm welcome to Romance and Fantasy Author, Debra Martin!
Thanks for joining us in the Moose Bar, Deb.

This past September, I was invited to my niece’s wedding being held out in San Diego, CA. Attending a long-distance wedding certainly has its advantages. I have done my fair share of being a wedding coordinator and I have to say, that it’s a very stressful job. Trying to make everyone happy, especially the bride, while keeping to the theme of the wedding and staying within the budget is not an easy task. So, for once, I was actually just going to be a guest—no tasks, nothing to sew, no floral arrangements to make, in other words, no stress.

My mother came with me and we stayed at my brother’s house in Oceanside, about 35 miles north of San Diego. They were having a heat wave that week—90s and humid—which was unusual for them, but there were no worries as the venue was on the military base—The Admirals Club by the water. I dressed in a black chiffon cocktail dress and silver heels. After all, I was just going to be sitting all night, right?

Everything was going smoothly and we arrived at the venue 1.5 hours before the 5pm wedding to beat the traffic on the interstate. We made our way to the ballroom only to find several people including the groom’s mother doing last minute decorations. As soon as the groom’s mom saw us, she informed us that the electricity had gone out 10 minutes before our arrival. Now this is not unusual because CA has rolling brown-outs all the time.

I got my mother settled with some of the other guests out on the patio and walked back into the ballroom. Some of the groomsmen were trying to hang tulle from the top of a supporting beam and because it is humid, the tape isn’t holding. I can see the groom’s mom starting to freak out so, guess what? Of course, I pitch in and come up with another solution for the tulle and the ribbons. I also decorate the guest book table, the place card’s table, the gift table and the cake table. Yes, this is me not having to do anything at this wedding and, of course, it’s hot and humid and now I’m starting to sweat. Oh, but the fun has just begun.

Seem that this not a rolling blackout, but the entire San Diego county has lost power due to a transformer problem in AZ. This day has just gone from bad to worse. No power=no kitchen=no food. So not only did I go from being the wedding coordinator, now I’m a therapist trying to calm down a hysterical mother-in-law. If anyone has been in southern CA when the power goes out – you’ll know that if there's no traffic lights, the roads become gridlocked very easily – never a good thing.

The bridal party is at the hotel 4 miles away getting hair and make up done. But...they have no way to get to the venue - traffic has come to a standstill in all directions. So...they start walking, then find a pedi-cab, but he has to stop at the district line, so the bridal party starts walking again, but wait! The pedi-cab driver gets permission from the police to go past the district line and he finds the girls again and takes them to within a mile of the venue. The long sloping hill finally defeats him and the girls start walking again. It's now 5:45pm and no bride - wedding was suppose to start at 5pm.   At 6pm the bridal party finally arrives - all hot and sweaty cause it's 94 degrees out. We whisk them upstairs to get dressed.

We get everyone ready, but there's no music so all of the wedding guests that actually made it to the wedding start to hum "Here comes the Bride." It was such an awesome sight and the bridal couple got a rousing round of applause when the ceremony was finished.

We could no longer use the ballroom because there were no lights. All the work I did on the decorations were all for naught. The tables were moved out on the patio and somehow, the crew found a gas grill to cook the food. There was candlelight everywhere and it was indeed a beautiful romantic evening, but certainly not the bash the poor parents thought it was going to be. It was pitch black at 8:30am and the MPs were telling everyone they had to leave.   

All in all, the wedding was something to remember. The bride and groom will have a story to tell for the rest of their lives. Sounds like a PERFECT ROMANTIC NOVELLA, right???

Romance Novella - 99 cents!

Love by Secrets on Kindle

Debra writes Romance as Debra Elizabeth

Fantasy - Quest for Nobility is FREE at all outlets. Here is the Amazon link:

http://www.amazon.com/Nobility-Fantasy-Adventure-Otharia-ebook/dp/B003CC1KI4

The second book in the series is The Crystal Façade – Two books for the price of one!

http://www.amazon.com/Crystal-Fantasy-Adventure-Otharia-ebook/dp/B003CC1KK2

Debra L Martin Blog: http://twoendsofthepen.blogspot.com/
Facebook: http://twoendsofthepen.blogspot.com/

Twitter: http://twitter.com/#%21/dlmartin6
Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/Debra-L-Martin/e/B003Q1WLXY/

Happy Thanksgiving to one and all!

2011-11-13T02:03:00.000-08:00

Happy Thanksgiving from Linda, Karen, and Barbara
aka, The Moosettes!

Our much loved Moosette, good friend, and super-author Linda Evans is battling cancer. She remains positive, and I can see no other outcome than her total cure.

Please join our chorus of prayers for her quick recovery. Despite the illness, Linda has managed to release her new romantic comedy, My Planet or Yours? I know that she’s hoping the sales will alleviate the burden of her medical expenses. This delightful romantic romp is well worth the .99 cents.

We love you Linda,

Barbara

Nora Bryant is a single Earth woman out to ban men from her life after a recent breakup. Triskam is a strikingly handsome extraterrestrial, who crash lands near her remote Arizona home. Add to this mix, a couple of misguided thugs looking for a gold rush, an overly friendly, not-so-guard dog, and a communications device that thinks it's a nanny, and you have My Planet or Yours?, a delightful new romantic comedy by LC Evans, author of the Kindle bestseller, We Interrupt This Date.

CLICK HERE for NOOK version

Snail Trails by Linda Evans

2011-11-08T14:15:00.000-08:00

Bored with the heat and humidity of a Florida August, my eight-year-old sister and I were bursting with energy. Thanks to a steady rain, we'd spent the morning cooped up in our grandmother's house, and we dashed out the door as soon as our grandmother—we called her Va-Vaw—gave permission.

Va-Vaw was Portuguese and didn't speak much English, but we'd learned Portuguese with the ease young children have in picking up languages. We were often called upon in stores and at church gatherings to translate for our beloved grandmother. My sister, Jo, and I were proud of our Portuguese skills and considered ourselves to be experts in the language. However, this one August day we were to learn that our vocabularies were not nearly so extensive as we had thought them to be.

We'd no sooner stepped into the yard, than Jo made a wonderful discovery. Perched on the tip of each blade of grass rested a tiny, round snail. To a couple of girls who were long on imagination, but short on common sense, this was a treasure trove.

"Let's collect them," Jo said, jumping up and down as she pointed them out.

"Oooh, let's do," I said. "They can be our pets. I'll get us something to put them in.”

I was back in moments with two empty one-quart milk cartons I'd pulled out of the trash. For the next hour my sister and I happily knelt on the wet ground and pulled snails off the grass. Our tiny captives were dropped one by one into our cartons.

All the while we chattered with excitement. "I'm naming every one of mine," I said, dropping Matilda, George, and Small Dennis into my carton.

"Me, too," Jo said. She as the younger sister was also a copycat.

It seemed like minutes, but actually was a good hour later when Va-Vaw called us back inside. Jo peered into her snail carton and then her small face darkened.

"She'll never let us keep these."

I'd already planned ahead. "I know. But I have an idea. You distract her and I'll hide the cartons."

Jo, the little sneak, was good at distractions. She rushed in ahead of me and made a fuss over the pillowcase Va-Vaw was embroidering as if she cared about all those roses and other flowers plastered all over the edges. I slipped in behind her and hid both snail cartons behind the couch where Va-Vaw would never think to look.

The remainder of the afternoon we kept busy with a trip to the store, a dash across the street to get permission from our parents to spend the night at Va-Vaw's, and then supper, one of Va-Vaw's feasts—pork chops and mashed potatoes. Jo and I forgot our snail pets stashed behind the couch in Va-Vaw's living room.

In the morning, my sister and I woke to the sound of thumping and an occasional muffled, "Ay-yi-yi" coming from the next room. After a moment, I turned to Jo, yawned, and said, "What's that stupid noise?"

"Va-Vaw is probably cleaning again. Let's check it out."

With me leading the way, we tip-toed down the hall and into the living room, following the sound. When I saw Va-Vaw, I stopped so fast Jo bumped into me.

I thought my eyes would bug out. The walls, the floor, even the living room furniture were dotted with snails and their accompanying trails. Va-Vaw stood in the center of the room furiously swatting at the snails with a broom, trying to herd them into a pile at her feet.
The instant she spotted us, she waved a fist and yelled, "Ay-yi-yi." This was followed by a rapid string of Portuguese words we'd never heard before. She jumped toward us with the broom, waving it as if she intended to take us out with a single blow. Jo and I turned as one and raced out the back door in our pajamas.

When our parents heard about our crime, they sent us back to help with clean up. Unfortunately for us, the snails were a lot harder to herd and release than they were to capture. And it was no fun at all washing snail trails off the walls and furniture for the next weeks.

Some months later, after we judged that Va-Vaw had calmed sufficiently so she wouldn't yell "Ay-yi-yi!" if we said the word "snail," I asked her the meaning of the mysterious Portuguese words she'd yelled that day.

You know, she never would tell us.
___________________

Are you looking for a fun new romance to curl up with as the days and nights get cooler? Well, you're in luck, because I'm releasing my new romantic comedy, My Planet or Yours? this week! Keep your eyes peeled, since I'll be releasing it at a special rate of .99 cents for just a short period of time. We'll make the announcement here at The Moose Bar just as soon as it is available!

The Lords of Substance

2011-11-01T02:53:00.000-07:00

The Lords of Substance
by Jonathan Ellis

They are the people who strut and swagger with the absolute confidence of being in the right place at the right time. Fast with their words, large vocabularies, true connections with the poetry of life, they reign supreme. Raging into the house full of laughter at shared secrets the rest of us can never understand they head for the fridge and pull everything from it that suits their fancy in the moment, frying, toasting, mixing, slathering and consuming, barely taking a breath between bites they head out, stomping up the stairs for an evening of music creation, the shards of their foray left behind for the magic fairies to clean up. After all, the mundane aspects of the world are not in their purview. Such things are better left unspoken of, unthought-of, and yet later on, in the deepest part of the night, that they have claimed as their own, the conversations of the world in ecological decline rip from their mouths. "How," they ask, "can the giant corporations be allowed to get away with spewing their waste into our air?!" They are vehement about the big picture. The small picture, however, as it applies to themselves is but nothing, it cannot be connected in any way to all that stuff out there. Their music, filled with the angst naturally generated by their age, screams for truths to be told rather than hidden, but when confronted with the small truths of life their answers are quick and cutting. They cannot be bothered.

From this side of the space between I sometimes find myself frustrated. No one wishes to discover that one of the pillaging beasts has consumed all the coffee creamer, especially not first thing in the morning. None of these people even drink coffee! What the hell are they doing with it? No. Don't tell me. I don't really want to know. Frankly, you'd think I would have learned by now.

This lack of creamer has happened before, but when I bought extra nobody was interested in it, and it went to waste before it could be used. It's but one contradictory paradoxical dilemma amongst many.

These are the roommates from hell, yet only one of them actually lives here and even now I can remember that incredible moment of bonding when I held him on my arm less than an hour after his birth and gently let him float in a body temperature bath. I watched in fascination as his fetal position unfolded, flower-like until his arms where spread wide, his eyes in the darkened room opened and he looked directly at me, and then... he smiled! This brand new person and I connected! It was like lightening. He could do no wrong. He knew it and I knew it. He and his amazing friends can frustrate me to the point of pulling out my hair (if I were not already bald as a billiard ball), but he can do no wrong. On the other hand, it's a damned good thing for him that I can remember what it was like to be nineteen, or I'd probably have gone all Homer Simpson on him by now.

Click here to buy

Jonathan Ellis
Author - "If I Can Lose It..."

A middle aged tech-fanatic's extraordinary journey and guide book for losing weight.

What's in a Name?

2011-10-26T07:05:00.000-07:00

"What's in a Name?"
by Karen Cantwell

It’s very hard for me to sit down and watch a re-run of 3rd Rock from the Sun, King of Queens, Dharma and Greg, or Two and a Half Men, without being reminded of a funny little episode in my life. My family is really tired hearing this story, so I’ve had to find a fresh audience to ~~bore~~ entertain. Thank you for volunteering.

Generally, when telling a true story, I like to change the names to protect the guilty, but the humor here comes largely from the names of those involved, so I will use real monikers this time and hope that I don’t get sued. (Really guys – don’t sue me. I have no money.)

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times . . . oops, sorry – that’s a different story. Let’s try this one:

The year was 1983 and I was attending the University of California, San Diego majoring in Drama. For a short period of time, a dear friend of mine, Myron, had developed a “thing” for me, and asked me out on a date. I loved Myron in a way one would love a brother, but the chemistry just wasn’t there. He was easily three inches shorter than me, and well . . . just not my type. Romantically.

Oh, and this is important – Myron was Chinese. Had a thick Chinese accent. Okay, don’t go getting your panties all up in a bunch – I’m not a racist. Myron’s ethnicity had nothing to do with my lack of sexual attraction to him. Geez.

So remember this for later – Myron; Chinese; thick Chinese accent.

Good.

So, I agreed to go on this date with Myron and he took me to a nice restaurant for dinner and then, EVEN BETTER, to the Old Globe Theater where we had front row seats to see Thornton Wilder’s The Skin of Our Teeth starring Rue McClanahan (of Maude fame) and Harold Gould (Rhoda). Could life get any better? I’m a HUGE Thornton Wilder fan, The Skin of Our Teeth is my favorite play of his, and who doesn’t love Rue McClanahan and Harold Gould, right? It was super uber amazing and I had the best time ever, with the exception of the cough attack I suffered after they spread hay out on the stage. Tears streamed down my face while I struggled to hold back wretched hacking coughs that would otherwise distract lovely Ms. McClanahan and exceptionally talented Mr. Gould while they performed.

But I digress. None of that really has anything to do with the whimsy that I want to impart here. I just wanted to brag about seeing The Skin of Our Teeth and complain about the coughing fit.

Back to the real story. See, during most of our date, Myron raved on and on about his Introduction to Theater class, and in particular, about his teaching assistant, Bob Berlinger.

Remember that name: Bob Berlinger.

I knew Bob as well – he was a graduate directing student in the drama department. He had been my TA for a class or two. I really didn’t know him outside of class, however. But this one common thread – Bob Berlinger – seemed to be the thing that Myron wanted to discuss on our date and he discussed him A LOT.

Oy.

So, fast forward a few days. I was extremely busy that year with classes and a job and evening commitments with plays being produced on campus. Myron would call my apartment after our date and my roommate Julie would answer the phone. When I returned, there would be a message: “Myron called.” Or she’d see me in passing: “Myron called.” I wasn’t avoiding his calls. I just wasn’t there.

(Really, Myron – I just wasn’t there!)

Well, one day, after several missed calls from Myron, Julie grabbed me and had to tell me about this particular call she’d received while I was at work.

Okay, I’m going to switch to present tense now, because it makes the story so much more fun to tell. . .

The phone rings and Julie-the-roommate picks it up. The voice on the other end is unusually deep and the speaker seems to have a speech impediment.

“Is Kawen there?” asks Deep Throat.

Julie responds cautiously, as this call is strange, to say the least. “No,” she says. “Can . . . I take a message?”

There’s a pause on the other end. Eventually Deep Throat answers slowly, deeply, deliberately. “Tell huh, Bob Buh-rin-juh called.”

Hmm.

Something about this voice, while obviously altered, is familiar. She also has no idea who Bob Buh-rin-juh is. Suddenly, Julie realizes this isn’t a speech impediment at all – it’s a Chinese accent attempted to be disguised.

“Myron?” she asks.

Momentary silence.

Finally, he speaks. “Oh, Ju-rie. How did you know it was me?”

I wish I could have been a fly on the wall in either of their rooms to see their faces at that very moment.

Years later, I was watching the opening credits of 3rd Rock from the Sun, when I nearly fell of the couch. Who was the director? That’s right – Robert Berlinger, AKA . . .

Bob Buh-rin-juh.

To this day I thank both Myron and Bob for bringing a more personal touch to my TV sitcom viewing experience.

Oops, I'm No Storyteller By BigAl

2011-10-19T02:30:00.000-07:00

By BigAl

Oh my Flying Spaghetti Monster! What have I gotten myself into now?

Since receiving my Warholian fifteen minutes earlier this year I’ve been approached with opportunities to do some fun and exciting things. One week Leah Peterson asked me to judge her 5 Minute Fiction Challenge writing contest. < http://www.leahpetersen.com/ > I did one of Simon Royle’s unique IndieView interviews. < http://www.simon-royle.com/ > When Danny Gillan asked, I eagerly agreed to jump between the sheets with J.K. Rowling in the June 2011 issue of Words with Jam magazine, < http://www.wordswithjam.co.uk/# > although, unfortunately, those sheets were made of paper.

Each time someone asked, “Will you do this?” I said yes with little hesitation and had a fun time. So when Barbara Silkstone asked if I’d be interested in contributing a funny, true story to A Moose Walked into a Bar my thinking process was quick and easy.

Funny? People laugh at me all the time. True story? That makes it non-fiction. I can do non-fiction. No need for much thought.

“Sure, I’ll do it.”

We picked a date and I was committed.

Then I started thinking again. My thoughts weren’t good ones.

Funny? Sure, I have a smart mouth, but they aren’t looking for one-liners. True story? I double-check the names of the proprietresses of the Moose Bar. I realize I’ve pushed the 1-click button and paid real money for books written by all three. Who have they had do this before? John Locke! Don’t his sales rival McDonalds billions and billions? I look for others. The trend is obvious. These are all fiction authors. They’ve written novels. They’re storytellers. True story? Oops, I’m no storyteller. Just the facts ma’am isn’t going to cut it.

Oh my Flying Spaghetti Monster! What have I gotten myself into now?

I’m committed. I can’t back out. My bank balance makes it clear that hiring a ghostwriter is out of the question. That settles it. I’ll have to give it my best shot. I may be no John Locke, but surely I can tell a story as well as Snooki.

Now what story can I tell? I ponder and eventually come up with three possibilities. I think each is funny, although I’m not sure any of them are long enough. I can’t decide. I’m scheduled to give a humorous speech to my Toastmasters club and decide to appeal to them for help.

The following Wednesday I began my speech by explaining the dilemma I had and continued by telling an abbreviated version of each story.

I led with a story about the first time I met my stepmother and coincidentally also the first time my Dad met my new girlfriend, Emma. The conversation had been one of those that was all over the place discussing many different things. Suddenly my stepmother, Bertha (since I’m changing all names in these stories, I thought I’d give her a name I don’t like), got a quizzical look.

“Hold on a second. You’ve been married twice, right?”

I nodded my head and smiled. I knew where this line of questioning was going.

“Your first wife was Charlotte.”

“Yes.”

“And the second was Charlene?” she asked.

I responded with what was my standard answer, “Yes, and now I’m very cautious whenever I meet a woman with a Char sound in her name.”

Now it was Dad’s turn to get that quizzical look.

“Emma, what’s your last name?”

Emma burst out laughing. Finally, she managed to choke out her answer.

“It’s Charles”

It isn’t often my Dad gets the best of me. He sure did that time.

As soon as I stopped blushing, remembering how embarrassed I’d been at the time, I told my next story.

Several years ago, I was on vacation in Phoenix and decided to take my then spouse for a scenic drive northwest of Scottsdale. I’d taken this same loop several years previously and knew where to go. Everyone knows that men don’t need maps or to ask directions. I don’t, usually, but after answering a series of questions with, “I know exactly where we are and I’m not lost,” it happened. As we rounded a curve in the road that happened to turn in the exact opposite direction of where we wanted to go the pavement ended.

“Now will you admit you’re lost?”

“Yes, dear.”

I meekly turned around and drove until we found someone to give me directions.

My last story was about an ex-co-worker who I’ll call Tom. We had cubicles next to each other and Tom was the workplace equivalent of the class clown. We were always playing practical jokes on each other. For example, one day Tom left me a note that Jennifer, my stepdaughter, had called and “wants to know where the fire extinguisher is.” He heard my “oh shit,” and his laughter told me I’d been had before my hand reached the phone. When I’d attempt to retaliate, my practical joke would either fall flat or backfire. One day I finally got my revenge.

Each December our eighty-person department had a holiday party. One of our traditional activities was raffling a number of relatively cheap items as a fundraiser for the local Sub for Santa charity. The year this happened, I’d emptied my wallet and had a fistful of raffle tickets. Odds were good I’d win something, but hadn’t yet. Then it happened. Our manager John drew for the next winner.

“Who has the ticket with the last three digits of 857?”

I remembered having numbers close to this and quickly started ruffling through my tickets. Just as I found the winning ticket, I heard Tom say, “that’s mine,” and he started walking to the front of the room. I wasn’t sure what to do. The prize didn’t matter to me. If it were anyone else, I’d keep my mouth shut. However, this is Tom. He took the prize and instead of returning to his seat gave a speech.

“I’d like to thank the academy and all the little people who helped me get here…”

I did say Tom was the “class clown.”

“What was the winning number again?” I shouted.

John checked. “It was 857.”

I looked at my winning ticket, gave John a little grin, and said, “Did you check his ticket?”

I’d never seen Tom blush, but he sure did that day. Tom sheepishly delivered me the prize while a room full of people laughed and heckled him.

Finally, I finished my Toastmasters speech by asking which story I should use. The responses from the audience were consistent and went something like, “I think you should tell about that time you were going to be a guest blogger and were so stressed about telling a funny story you actually gave a speech about it.”

In the late 1960s, BigAl quit his piano lessons after a sit-down strike protesting his parents’ insistence that he had to practice. (Some people suspect it was just to appear “cool” by staging a protest.) Years later, in order to demonstrate the maxim that, “those who can do, those who can’t critique,” he began reviewing music for a variety of websites and an arts and entertainment magazine in a large Midwestern city.

Fast forward several years. BigAl is no longer reviewing music. He’s become a newly minted Kindle fanatic, and has an itch to exercise his mediocre writing skills in a way that doesn’t require creativity. In a weak moment, he lets some friends convince him to start an Indie book review blog, BigAl’s Books and Pals. < http://booksandpals.blogspot.com/> He labors in relative anonymity until Neil Gaiman (an author he’d only heard of because Kevin Smith constantly mentions him in his podcasts) tweets about one of his reviews and raises his little book blog to semi-obscurity.

BigAl (who insists that is really his name and only one word like Bono, Cher, or Charo) spends most of his time in front of the computer holed up in an underground bunker in an undisclosed western state. (He refuses to say anymore than it is full of potatoes – the state, not the bunker.) During the day, he telecommutes to Texas where he is a geek for a company in the insurance industry. The rare times he emerges from his bunker you’ll find BigAl hanging out in bars, hanging with his grandkids, or on the road to a music festival somewhere.

BigAl,

Thanks a million to stopping by to share your stories with the Moose. He's buying the next round.

A Rose-Gold Cadillac

2011-10-12T02:47:00.000-07:00

A Rose-Gold Cadillac

by Barbara Silkstone

At twenty-nine I was divorced and supporting my daughter and my ex-husband. After the first year of trying to be superwoman working 365 days in a row without a single break I needed some TLC. It was time to reward myself.

Funny how a reward will show up just when you are ready for it. Pulling up at a red light somewhere in northeast Atlanta… there she was… a rose-gold Cadillac. She sat high on a platform at a car dealership’s lot, the sunlight bouncing off her long blond hair. Oh wait… that was me. The car was a soft shade of gold with a slight pink hue. It was an Eldorado. (Bear with me, I know it sounds tacky. BTW, I now drive a Honda Civic. The Caddy was an aberration.)

Let’s step back a second… so you get the full picture. I was driving a five-year-old yellow Pontiac, my wardrobe was mainly from The Limited, and I lived on Hamburger Helper and popcorn. The last thing that suited who I was in life was… a rose-gold Cadillac. Unfortunately, the car became an obsession. It was all I could think about. I dreamed about it every night. I passed it every day and waved. When the car waved back I knew it was time.

Throwing good taste and logic to the breeze I walked into the dealer’s spider web. I was a pioneer as women rarely went into car dealers without a male escort. Married at nineteen this was my first solo financial decision outside a grocery store. The salesman told me to come back with my father. He wrote the price of the car on his crime-scene yellow business card and all but patty me on the fanny as I left –pissed.

The car was two years old but it was THE most beautiful chariot I had ever seen. I wanted that car. I needed that car. I would HAVE that car. I stopped at a 7-11 and purchased a Kelly Blue Book. I looked up the value of that rose-gold Caddy. The salesman had quoted me a price well above its value, according to Mr. Kelly’s Blue Book.

Leery of returning to the dealership knowing I would weaken and pay full asking price, I called a guy friend and asked him to get a price from the dealer. He came back with a lower figure but still higher than the Kelly book. I called another male buddy. He called on that rose-gold Cadillac. In the course of three days I had five male friends call check out that car.

Finally I knew I couldn’t live without her. I went into the dealership ready to take my baby home. The price was back up to the first and highest number. The salesman shook his head. “No dealing on this car, missy. We’ve had too much interest in it. I’ve had five guys call on that car since you were here.”

I’d driven up the price by bidding against myself. L

But yes… Rosie and I came home together that day. She was all I dreamed she would be. Did I look ridiculous driving that showy bed-on-wheels? Probably. But did I feel like a million bucks? Absolutely.

The following month I decided to visit my friend Suellen in South Florida for some serious R&R. Rosie and I drove to West Palm Beach. That car grinned at my friends as they gathered round to compliment my outrageous choice.

The second night of my stay I was invited to dinner at the home of a darling retired couple. Their place was located in a new area west of town. A subdivision of cookie-cutter houses on narrow winding streets with embryonic landscaping and no drainage. Rosie and I drove the fifteen miles to Milt and Rhoda’s new house.

During dinner as I laughed at jokes Milt and Rhoda bounced off each other, it began to rain. After dinner they reenacted their roles in Fiddler on the Roof, singing and laughing as the rain kept pouring down. They were so precious and funny, I forgot about the time and weather.

It was after 10 pm when I began my drive back to Suellen’s house. I waved and honked at Milt and Rhoda as I pulled out of their driveway and onto the newly constructed suburban roads. I’d gone about a mile when water began cresting over Rosie’s hood. Her lovely Cadillac nose-piece pushed through the waves as my mind sought a solution to the surreal situation we were in. The left side of my brain –the logical side said, “Rosie’s not a boat.” The right side – the creative side said, “It’s your wild imagination.”

Rosie just moaned.

The road was lined with newly built vacant homes. Steering my lovely vehicle into a driveway I peered out the window. The water was halfway up the door. My choices were to sit there where no one knew I was and see if the flood got any deeper or abandon ship… leave Rosie!

The water got higher and higher. I forced the driver’s door open… it took both legs to push it clear. Water flooded into Rosie in great gulps. I slipped out. It was impossible to close the door. I pocketed the key, grabbed my purse, and started back to Milt and Rhoda’s house.

Not being a swimmer and having a tendency to panic when my face gets wet, I fought the urge to indulge in a nervous breakdown. I stepped into the chest-high water as the rain continued. Moonlight was the only lighting on the flooded streets. The ground beneath my feet was uneven and I slipped more than once. How far was it to their house? Could I make it? And did Rosie feel abandoned?

I have no problem with snakes. I find them to be graceful creatures. However, FROGS freak me out. They jump at your face with their sticky little feet. Eeww… So there I am walking in chest-high water, in the mostly dark, when a herd of frogs crossed my path just under my nose. I would have screamed but the thought of ingesting a green jumpy thing helped me to control my terror. I clamped my jaws shut.

It took me about an hour to make it back to Milt and Rhoda’s house. She wrapped me in blankets and told dear Milt. “Go check on her car. Take the keys… drive it back here.” They had no idea how much water had accumulated on their brandy new streets. I think perhaps they thought I was exaggerating.

Milt was a tall man, perhaps six foot four. He took the keys and laughingly left the house. Two minutes later he returned delivering what I considered to be a classic line that summed up the situation. He looked at Rhoda as he wiped the rain from his face, “It’s up to my b*lls out there!”

The next day Rosie was towed to a garage where she stood on a platform and drained water for three days. Mornings and evenings I would stop by and pat her Cadillac nose. “It’s going to be okay, Rosie. Mama’s sorry she left you.”

I can’t help but wonder where Rosie is now and if she’s forgiven me.

Guest Blogger: RP Dahlke

2011-10-05T10:42:00.000-07:00

We are very excited to be hosting mystery writer, RP Dahlke, today at A Moose Walked Into a Bar. We hope you enjoy her funny story as much as we did!

"Got It!"
by RP Dahlke

My husband has been yelling at me from other parts of the house since, oh, I can’t count the years. When we moved from our big home in California to live aboard our sailboat, I thought it might get better, what with the interior being so much smaller and all.

No such luck. After one incidence, I measured the distance from the aft cabin to the foreward head where my butt was happily ensconced for some alone time—thirty-five feet door-to-door.

All I could hear was this anxious voice coming from too far away to discern anything. Panicked that we had an emergency abandon ship situation, I quickly yanked up my pants, scurried out of the head, grabbed my abandon-ship-kit, put on my life-vest and headed for the steps out.

“What’re you doing?” he says, grabbing my retreating foo as I hustled up the ladder.

I turned back, wiggling my foot to get him to release his hold. “You said to abandon ship,” I shouted, waving the ditty bag of important papers at him.

“We’re tied up at the dock.”

Sure enough, we were, still tied to the dock. “Oh. But, you were yelling at me and I thought…”

“I was looking for my favorite sailing cap. Found it, no thanks to you.”

Got it.

My hubby is on the bow of our 47ft. Hylas, the wind is gusting 30knots and I’m at the helm trying to remember the hand-signals we’d worked out before he went forward. Let’s see, was it right arm up at the elbow for port or starboard? Oops, obviously not it, because now he’s stomped back to the helm repeat his instructions.

I smiled and thanked him, “Got it.”

Years go by, and as the old sailors like to say, we “swallowed the anchor” and moved back onto dry land.

Purchasing another two-story home, and once again, my dear husband’s habit of delivering important messages are the same. But, never let it be said that a woman, with a little charm and ingenuity, can’t get her husband to change his ways.

The next time my husband yelled at me from the other side of the house, I went to where he keeps his wallet on the desk and removed $20.00, and called back, “Thanks, honey!”

Eventually, he notices the thinning wallet. When asked if I’d taken out some money, I replied,

“Sure. That’s what I heard you say I should do, take out $20.00.”

“But, that’s not…,” He noted the gleam of mischief in my eye, nodded and turned on his heel.
Over his shoulder he said, “Got it!”
_________

About me: I sort of fell into the job of running a crop-dusting business when my dad decided he’d rather go on a cruise than take another season of lazy pilots, missing flaggers, testy farmers and horrific hours. After two years at the helm, I handed him back the keys and fled to a city without any of the above. And no, I was never a crop-duster.
I write about a tall, blond and beautiful ex-model turned crop-duster who, to quote Lalla Bains, says: “I’ve been married so many times they oughta revoke my license.” I wanted to give readers a peek at the not so-perfect -life of a beautiful blond. Lalla Bains is no Danielle Steele character, she’s not afraid of chipping her manicure. Scratch that, the girl doesn’t have time for a manicure what with herding a bunch of recalcitrant pilots and juggling work orders just to keep her father’s flagging business alive. I enjoy writing with humor, and if you enjoy my books I'd love to hear from you! Here's my e-mail: rp@rpdahlke.com

BOOKS BY RP DAHLKE:

Coming in the fall of 2011: A DANGEROUS HARBOR
Romantic mystery featuring SFPD Detective, Katrina Taylor Hunter.

And They Lived Happily Ever After

2011-09-28T04:05:00.000-07:00

And They Lived Happily Ever After
by Karen Cantwell

Flying is not my favorite thing in the world to do. I mean, I’ll get on a plane if I really have to in order to get from point A to point B in a decent amount of time, but I’m not happy about it. My palms sweat during takeoff and landing, and I grip the armrest mercilessly if the plane as much as hiccups once we’ve reached cruising altitude. One time during a particularly bad bout of turbulence on a flight from Baltimore to Phoenix, I felt an overwhelming urge to unbuckle myself, run to the cockpit, throw open the door and scream at the pilot, “Where did you learn to fly? Come on! You’ve got people freaking out back there!”

Of course, I was the only one freaking out. As I looked around, I was amazed at the number of people content watching the in-flight movie, reading their book, or even (how do they do it?) sleeping. Not me. And it was at that moment that I realized the real reason I experience fear when flying, isn’t my worry that we’ll drop out of the sky and splatter across some corn field in Kansas – it’s because I can’t be in control WHILE we’re doing so.

But this post isn’t about my fear of flying.

No.

It’s about my fear of driving in a car when my husband is behind the wheel.

The first time I took a road trip with my husband was when we needed to get from Denver to Aspen in a rental car.

There’s a mathematical equation for this experience:

Mountains + driver who likes to look at mountains and not watch the road = passenger with need for heavy dose of tranquilizers

To this day, if I hear Rocky Mountain High on the radio, I feel the need to change my underpants.

Basically, my husband thinks that controlling the vehicle on the road is secondary to other things he could be doing at the same time. During our mountain “adventure,” it was watching the scenery, but as time and anniversaries have passed, I have learned there are a great many things that can occupy a man’s attention while maneuvering a death machine at 70 miles an hour on a dangerous stretch of highway. The radio for instance. Did you know that finding the perfect radio station without ANY static whatsoever, is actually more important keeping your car in one lane? No. I didn’t either.

Or the little mode-gadget-thingy over the rearview mirror – you know, the one that can tell you the time, the temperature outside, miles traveled, miles left on the gas you have in the tank, the conversion rate from US dollar to Euro, and the date Jimmy Hoffa disappeared? Right – you know the one I’m talking about. You have to push that button each time to toggle between each of the settings, and if you’re like my husband, you might miss the setting you were looking for once or twice, so you keep pushing that button and squinting at the digital readout looking for the right answer.

And if you’re like me, you’re looking apologetically at the driver in the car next to you because your husband has veered into his lane and nearly driven him off the road. Twice.

As cars became more high-tech, our marriage became more in danger of ending in divorce. I cursed XM radio (a gazillion radio stations to choose from while driving!) and the newest GPS system that he didn’t turn on or plug information into until AFTER we were on the road.

Now, my husband would tell you that it was not walk in the park having me in the driver’s seat. He claims I do things like gasp for no reason. Or that I distract him when I take deep breaths and grab the safety handle while muttering, “Tail lights, tail lights! Watch the tail lights!”

So, why did I start out talking about flying, you ask?

Well, it was actually that scary flight from Baltimore to Phoenix that repaired our marital issues. Like I said before, I realized as the plane bumped all over the stratosphere, that my fear came from the fact that I wasn’t actually controlling the plane myself. Of course, I can’t fly a plane (although maybe I should consider learning . . .), but I can drive a car.

The next time my husband and I slid into a car ready for a long distance drive and we were bickering before the ignition even clicked, I knew that there was only one way for both of us to be happy. I needed to be in control of the vehicle and he needed to be in control of . . . everything else.

And they lived happily ever after.

I'm Flying, I'm Flying... Not... Maybe Next Time!

2011-09-21T03:03:00.000-07:00

I’m Flying, I’m Flying...Not...Maybe Next Time!

First of all, a huge ‘ole thank you to the superfab chicks here at The Moose Bar for asking me to share one of my life’s LOL oopsy-daisies.

Now then...here’s my oopsy-daisy...but trust me, although we will all qualify for LMAO cheers all-around after reading this, please note I was sooo not LMAO at the time. To the contrary, I had a rather sore ass as well as various other injured body parts too.

Here we go...

In honor of Barbara Silkstone’s new release WENDY AND THE LOST BOYS, I’m tellin’ y’all my own “I’m Flying” story.

Some of you may know, I was once Wendy in a huge stage production of Peter Pan. And in that role, back in 1985, I was fortunate enough to get to work with the rigging peeps and stunt company that actually flew Sandy Duncan.

Here’s what that adventure involved, taken from a newspaper interview I did at the time:

The children’s flying is based on a
pendulum effect, using mounted drums. Stage
hands pull the lines from behind the stage, and as
they move back, the actor travels in the opposite
direction. The children may also use a direct lift
system, where a line is pulled and the full weight
of the child is lifted straight off the ground.
The characters are attached to the lines by
wearing uncomfortable harnesses under their
costumes. The harness fits tightly, over the
shoulders, around the waist and under the crotch.
“I can’t take a deep breath,” one actor said. “It’s
like something you would put on a horse.”

The flying effect will be completed, explained
the co-producer, when the cables are
painted with an ultrablack paint. He said blue
lighting will be used as much as possible during
the scenes to make the lines “disappear.”
Even with the most sophisticated equipment,
the magic of flying is lost without the proper
technique. “They have to believe they’re flying,
they have to believe it themselves,” he
said, sounding somewhat like the lead character.
“If they just hang there, that’s what it looks like,
someone hanging on a wire.”

He told the actors they should extend their arms to make their
movements more believable.
He said he’s sometimes had problems
with first-time flyers. “We’ve had people who
were fine and then when they were up there, we
discovered they were deathly afraid of heights,
and we had to overcome that,” he said.

D.D., who portrays Wendy, has a bit
more enthusiasm for her new found “wings.”

The flying team lead technician said he was impressed by the professionalism
of the young actors, another problem
with which he has had to cope in the past. “For
little kids, flying is fun,” he said. “Sometimes you
have to put your foot down and make them pay
attention and take it seriously.”

“I go through a window and go up
really high and come down — it’s just like being on
a roller coaster,” she said, describing the first
time she practiced her entrance. “It was such a
thrill, I couldn’t help laughing and giggling.”
With their heads approximately 12 feet off the
ground, cast members have placed their confidence
in the flying crew and disregard any
notion that the show is dangerous. The stunt coordinator points;
with pride to the safety record of the company —
35 years with no serious injuries. “Safety comesfirst,”
he said. “If there’s a 1 in 2,000 chance that:
something could go wrong, I’ll correct it.”
The actors are supported by V8-inch cables,
which hold up to 2,500 Ibs., and the 1/16-inch
cables, which hold 950 Ibs. aloft.
He said the company is considered the
true “fliers” in the U.S. The company has worked
with groups all over the world and even created
the TV simulation for the early NASA
spaceflights.

The end result of the money and hard work will
be discovered when the curtain rises at 8 p.m.
Thursday, Friday and Saturday and 2 p.m. Sunday.

Fast forward to 1989, and I was now set to take the stage as the witch-like ghost Fruma Sarah in Fiddler on the Roof.

My Dad, who worked with the professional flying crew for my Wendy run – note I said “professional” crew – thought he and his fighter pilot buddy could hook me up to fly again.

Who needs a professional stunt crew?!

The fighter pilot gave me one of his “oh shit” parachute harnesses. My Dad brought a huge 12-foot ladder onto the stage. They strapped me into the harness – which just like my Wendy harness, hurt like hell – hooked-up some cable wire to the back of the harness, had me climb to the top of the ladder and on the count of three...jump.

Keep in mind, as the newspaper article read above, the concept of on-stage flying operates on the pendulum effect.

Well...let’s just say, my Dad and his fighter pilot buddy who were obviously not physics geniuses, had put the ladder on the wrong side of the freakin’ stage to create a pendulum effect.

So when I jumped, here’s what I got:

I was supposed to be flying across the stage...well...being as I was a drama queen and also not a physics major...and obviously, my crew was dumb as hell when it came to physics too...I ended up on my ass and side, sliding across the wood planks of the auditorium's stage...talk about an F-me Moment. Let's just say, the saga ended with my ballet shoes being ripped off my feet by nails in the stage floor and a bottle of Nair being poured on my legs and ass by a local doctor – who then, with tweezers - began removing all the splinters that the Nair forced to the surface...

Pretty cool that shaving lotions can do that though, right?!

LOL! Well...now I am...then, I was crying my heart out...and in some serious pain.

But two hours later, all bandaged-up...we moved the damn ladder to the physics-proper side of the stage and I jumped off…again...

I know...I'm a dumb ass...

But that time...it worked, and I was flying...flying...flying...

The Moral of This Moose Bar Story: If at first you attempt to “fly” in your life, but instead land on your ass, with wholesale club-sized bottle of Nair to treat your wounds, by all means, bandage yourself up, move your life-ladder and jump again. This time, you might just fly!!!

The Best of D. D. Scott Flyin’ High Wishes --- D. D. Scott

D. D. Scott is a Bestselling Romantic Comedy and Comedic Caper, Humorous Mystery Author and a Writer’s Go-To-Gal for Muse Therapy, plus the #1 Amazon Bestselling Author of MUSE THERAPY: UNLEASHING YOUR INNER SYBIL and the co-founder of The Writer’s Guide to E-Publishing, your destination site for Everything E-Publishing. You can get all the scoop on her, her books, her Muse Therapy Online Classes and Live Workshops, plus juicy tidbits from her fabulous grog The Naked Hero at http://www.DDScott.com.

D. D. Scott’s bestselling romantic comedies are all about sexy, sassy, smart, career-driven women and the men who complete them. They're a bit chick lit with a gone-country twist...and now a humorous mystery, comedic caper twist too. She’s agented, and her Bootscootin’ Books - think Sex and The City meets Urban Cowboy – debuted August 2010, on Amazon’s Kindle, Barnes & Noble’s Nook and at Smashwords, with BOOTSCOOTIN’ BLAHNIKS, followed by STOMPIN’ ON STETSONS and BUCKLES ME BABY. Now, The Bootscootin’ Characters are gettin’ “cozy”...as in Comedic Caper cozy, with the release of THUG GUARD and LIP GLOCK, Books One and Two of her new, Cozy Cash Mysteries, featuring all of your fave Bootscootin’ characters plus tons of quirky new characters too.

D. D.’s busy now writing her next Cozy Cash Mystery – HULLABALOO AND HOLLY TOO – for The Naked Hero’s 2011 Christmas Anthology as well as her first Mini-Mayhem Cozy Cash Mystery – FLUID FULFILLMENT – which will be released in a Bootscootin’ Books Special Edition Box-set this Fall.

Declaring 2011 to be “The Year of the E-Book & Cross-Pollination”, D. D. co-founded and launched The Writer’s Guide to E-Publishing (http://thewritersguidetoepublishing.com), your destination site for Everything E-Publishing. Whatever you want to know and/or cuss and discuss about E-publishing, it’s right there at The WG2E waiting for you!

When she’s not writing, she’s busy luvin’ on her real-life hero “Sweet Man” and their beloved shelter-rescued dog Buckley.

Car Service

2011-09-13T18:35:00.000-07:00

Traffic stresses me out. Rush hour traffic makesme wish for an afternoon in a spa. Heavy traffic in an unfamiliar city is aformula for a nervous breakdown. Can you imagine driving a rental car at sixtymiles an hour on a highway with six lanes of bumper to bumper traffic in eachdirection and at the same time looking for your exit in the city that neversleeps? Neither can I. That's why I chose to hire a car service to get me toand from the airport during a recent trip to New York.

Easy, right? I arrange the car in advance andthen someone arrives at the airport and whisks me away to mydestination. What I didn't count on was the slight difficulty finding the pickup area, my phone that was apparently set to whisper volume, and a driver with ashort temper.

As soon as I deplaned, I called the car serviceas instructed. A woman told me to go to the middle island of the pick up areaand look for a black Lincoln Town Car. Cool. I can follow easy instructions.

Except—I wasn't quite sure I was at the rightisland or even the right pick up area. But I must be. There had to be at leasttwenty-five black Lincoln Town Cars parked at the island and a hundred more circling thearea like vultures looking for road kill.

My phone rang. Someone who sounded ticked off andwho spoke with a thick foreign accent kept asking me something. How was Isupposed to know what he was saying? My new phone is not an expensive smartphone; it's a cheap dumb phone that whispers even when set on speaker. I haveall the technical skills of a common earthworm and have no clue how to make thisphone perform, so the situation wasn't going to change.

The person hung up and called me back five times.I assumed he was my driver, so I kept saying I was standing in the middleisland. Finally a black Lincoln Town Car pulled up beside me and the scowlingdriver stuck a sign with my name on it in the window. He shouted something in aforeign language. He made weird hand signals, which I chose to ignore in casethey meant something bad about me.

Hey, I got to my hotel. Who cared if mydriver wasn't exactly Mr. Congeniality?

Unfortunately, it was harder to get from the cityback to the airport the next day. I waited in front of my hotel from 3 o'clock on for pickup by the car service to get me to the airport for a 5 o'clock flight home. At3:16 I got a call from the driver, an irate guy with a thick foreign accent,probably the same person who'd picked me up at the airport. This driver said hewas in front of the hotel and for me to come outside AT ONCE.

Me: "I am outside." I couldn'tunderstand most of his response, especially not with my phone whispering.

Driver: "If you are outside, then why Icannot see you right in front of the hotel where I am parked?"

Me: "I have no idea why you can't see mesince I'm standing in front of the hotel. I'm not invisible. Why can't I see you if you're parked in front of thehotel?"

Driver, speaking really quickly and soundingshrieky, so all I could understand was: "I said go outside the hotel.NOW."

Me: "I am on the sidewalk in front of thehotel."

Driver: "Why I don't see you? You are not in front of the hotel."

Me: "I can barely understand you with allthe traffic noise. I've just stepped back inside the hotel lobby, so for a fewminutes you won't be able to see me."

Driver, speaking a million miles an hour: "Ido not know why you cannot understand me when I am speaking English." Hesaid a lot of other stuff, which I couldn't decipher and which was probably notEnglish, and which I suspected to be derogatory remarks.

Eventually I managed to get that he was at 36thstreet. Since I was at 35th street, that would explain why we couldn't see eachother. He said he couldn't come to 35th and that I must come there.

I hung up and ran to 36th. Panting like anoverheated Spaniel, I scanned the area. Still no sign of my driver.

He called back and I had to step into another lobbyto try to hear my whisper phone over the traffic noise. By then the driversounded like someone who was strangling on his own spit, and I could onlyunderstand about every tenth word he was saying. At this point, I'd mentallyreduced his tip to about a quarter. I hung up and called the carservice.

It turned out they'd sent thedriver to the wrong hotel and it was miles away on the other side of town, toofar for him to come back to where I was waiting. They apologized profusely andsent another driver, who was very nice and got me to the airport just in timeto make my flight.

As for driver number one, here in the South wehave a saying: "Bless your heart." So, driver number one, if you'rereading this, consider your heart blessed. Oh, and good news. Should I everreturn to New York and you get to be my driver again, my husband has adjustedmy phone volume from whisper to stadium loudspeaker. I am good to go—aslong as we can find each other.

Guest Blogger: Kathy Carmichael!

2011-09-07T06:05:00.001-07:00

When Sparks Fly
by Kathy Carmichael
_______
Falling in love for some people is gradual, but for me it happened in an instant. I’ll never forget when I fell in love with my husband.

You see, I'm electromagnetic as my grandmother was before me. There is a new term for this called Street Light Interference Disorder and people who suffer from it are called SLIders.

My family first recognized the problem when I was in grade school. I received a wristwatch for Christmas and it didn’t work properly. Sometimes it sped up, other times it slowed down, but it rarely displayed the correct time. My mom, knowing her mother had the same problem with timepieces, bought me another watch, this one a pendant to hang from my neck. It couldn’t keep time, either. To this day my friends make fun of me because they never know whether I’ll be early or late.

My overly-magnetic personality also shows up in other ways. Like when I'm highly creative. The clock on my computer goes nuts, the streetlight in front of my house shuts off, headlights of oncoming vehicles go out and even stadium lights go dark. Most especially, lights in my house burn out.

One of my friends always wanted to introduce me to her neighbor, John, but he was never home when I visited her. Then the apartments where I lived hired a new manager—and guess what, it was John.

One day when I was writing, all of the lights in my kitchen and living room burned out. It was too dark to see, so I took my writing notebook downstairs to the patio by the swimming pool.
John saw me working and came out of his apartment to say hi. He asked, "What are you doing?"

I don’t usually like to be stopped while writing, but I was happy to be interrupted by him because he was really cute. "Writing a short story."

"Aren't you worried about getting soaked?"

Sure enough, when I looked up storm clouds brewed overhead and fine drops of moisture tickled my face. I’d been in total "writing mode" which meant everything around me pretty much disappeared.

"Rats. Talk about bad timing."

"What's wrong?" John asked.

"I have to stop working now." I grabbed my notebook and stood. "It's too dark in my apartment to write. All the lights have burned out. Again." I didn’t mention my electromagnetic issues because I didn’t want him to think I was weird or crazy.

“You seem to go through light bulbs really quickly.”

He’d noticed? I didn’t say anything and just smiled and shrugged.

"You can write in my apartment," he offered.

"That's okay. I probably need to get going. See you later."

I went back upstairs and settled down to watch TV, disappointed I had to stop writing when the muse was being so friendly.

A short time later, a knock sounded at my door.

When I answered it, John stood there grinning. He held a grocery bag in his hands. "Can I come in?"

"Sure."

"I brought you a present." He held out the bag.

"You did?" I took it and peeked inside. "Light bulbs? For me?"

"I brought you a dozen. I hated the idea that you had to stop writing. I'll change them for you."

And at that moment, I realized what a truly wonderful man he was. Lots of guys had given me gifts: flowers, jewelry, candy. But John was the first guy to really pay attention. He'd brought me the perfect gift to win my heart—a dozen light bulbs rather than roses.

Although our youngest child is now in college, to this day John never complains when I'm in writing mode and all of the lights burn out. He simply heads to the pantry, grabs new light bulbs (he buys them in bulk), and begins replacing them.

He literally lights up my life.

You, too, might be a SLIder if:

1) You’re always very early or very late for appointments because you can’t count on your watch or clocks keeping the correct time.

For me, time is at best an estimate. If they want me to be on time, my friends have learned to give me a reminder call.

2) Street Lights go out when you approach.

One time I was in front of my house chatting with one of my neighbors and she said she was mad at the city. She’d called them to look at the street light in front of our houses since it was always going out. They told her they’d changed the bulb but there was nothing wrong with it. I glanced behind me at my office window, then followed the direct line of sight to the street light. Needless to say, I didn’t tell her what was really going on.

3) Oncoming car lights dim.

One night when I was in serious writing mode I had to run out to get dinner for my kids, who rode along with me. As we drove down the street, whenever an oncoming car got within twenty feet of my car their left headlight, and only the left headlight, went out. My kids counted and it went on for over a dozen cars. Hopefully when the cars got away from whatever electromagnetic field I was emitting, their lights came back on. I hope.

4) Your car’s electrical system malfunctions.

Sometimes right in the middle of furiously writing, I’d have to quickly run an errand or pick up my kids. Too often, my car’s electrical system malfunctioned. None of the interior and exterior lights, the radio and other electronics would work until my creative magnetic storm passed. I’d have to wait a little while and then try again. At first I thought the problem was with the car itself, but it happened with many different vehicles. I haven’t experienced this with my newest vehicle at all. I don’t know if it’s wired differently or electronics are now handled in a different way, but I’m really glad not to “go dark” anymore.

5) You sometimes set off burglar alarms.

I used to frequent a nearby retail dress shop and each time I entered the store, their alarm sounded. At first the sales clerks were suspicious and would check my purse to make sure nothing in it set off the alarm, but later they got used to me and just waved me on, knowing I’d set the darn thing off again when I left.

6) Household appliances sometimes go crazy.

My toaster seems to be especially sensitive to electromagnetic fields. Toast really can fly.
To cope with my electromagnetic impairment, I’ve made many adjustments in my life and so it was natural for me to want to write about a heroine who has the same issues. I thought it would be fun to make hers even worse, thus the heroine of Stuck On You was born.
If you live near a writer and your street light goes out intermittently, don’t call the city. Just know she’s busy working on her next novel. Delivering a take-out dinner might be a good idea—to keep her off the streets.
__________

Award-winning comedy author Kathy Carmichael resides on Florida's west coast, along with her Scottish husband, two not-so-wee-sons, and a bevy of cantankerous felines. Kathy's romantic comedy, HOT FLASH, was named as one of the Top 10 Romance Fiction titles for 2009 by the American Library Association's BOOKLIST magazine. Prior to becoming an author, Kathy worked in advertising, as a paralegal and as a communications consultant. She tended bar while in college, where she served drinks mixed with advice. This gave her a unique glimpse into people's lives and motivations, which she uses in her writing. Kathy loves hearing from readers. Please visit her website at: KathyCarmichael.com.

Happiness is Contagious, You can catch it from yourself.

2011-08-31T02:28:00.000-07:00

By Barbara Silkstone

Happiness is contagious. According to a recent study by Nicholas Christakis, a professor in Harvard University’s sociology department and co-author of a study of 4700 people in Framingham, MA, an extra chunk of money increases your odds of being happy only a little bit – notably less than the odds of being happier if you have a happy friend.

Friends and even total strangers can affect your outlook. Studies have proven that your happiness can be colored by people you don’t even know, but even more so by how you perceive the world, especially yourself. How many times a day do you stop to laugh at … you?

According to a recent article by Maria Cheng, AP Medical Writer ~ people pass on good cheer even to total strangers. The Framingham study found that transferred happiness is good for up to a year. I’m not sure how they tracked transferred happiness, but keep a smile handy for yourself, at all times.

According to Ms. Cheng, happy friends were more important than happy spouses. Experts think people take their emotional cues from people who look like them. This is especially true of women. Happy friends of the same gender help your mood more than a happy spouse. Using that scenario, if you look in the mirror and see someone who looks like you, smiling back at you…you’ll feel happier!

The Farmingham study revealed that each happy friend boosts your chance of being happy by 9 percent. Having a grumpy friend decreases it by about 7 percent. This jells with what I learned in listening to the 527 men I interviewed for my book. When the interviewees talked about what attracted them to a women it was: Her smile, her laugh, her joyous nature. So…there we go! Happy people tend to have many friends who are also happy.

A University of Maryland Medical Center study revealed the average blood flow typically increases 22% during and after bursts of laughter compared to a decrease in blood flow by 35% during mental stress. Laughter promotes increased immune system response, lowers blood sugar levels in diabetics, increases oxygen flow throughout the entire body and helps induce a state of relaxation promoting better sleep.

In my travels interviewing people of all ages, I have found that the happiest folks are those people who don’t take themselves too seriously. Being able to laugh at yourself is the best survival skill and a secret to a long life. If you learn to laugh at yourself you will never cease to be amused.

There have been many times when my personal flubs have been so silly, I would step back and wonder if I might be channeling Lucy Ricardo. Silly things that made no sense, things that made me wonder how I got to be as old (oops – young) as I am. Silly things that helped me laugh at myself. For example: every Thanksgiving for almost twenty years, I made “Chess Tarts” for family and friends. The basic recipe was simple, I just managed to complicate it to the extreme. The filling was a blend of nuts, raisins, sugar and butter. The pastry was the challenge. I made these tarts without the benefit of a tart pan. I had only an ancient cupcake tin. For the uninitiated, cupcake tins are twice as deep as shallow tart tins and really shouldn’t be used to bake tarts.

Every Thanksgiving it would take me the better part of a day to suspend the pastry dough in the top half of each cup of the cupcake pan. I had used this arduous method for almost two decades. Why didn’t I just buy a tart tin? I would only think about purchasing the shallow tart tins once I was elbow-deep in the annual Thanksgiving baking process. I would make a mental note to myself: Buy a tart pan for next year. The day after Thanksgiving I would promptly forget the tart pan purchase.

The embarrassing part was that each year as I labored with the cupcake pan, it never occurred to me to take the easy way and lay the dough in the bottom half of the cups. I would engineer a suspended circle of dough into the top half of each and every cup. It took me hours of work aligning and securing the pastry for each dozen tarts. After years of this frustrating process, I declared this would be my last tart baking session, the tradition was over. It was too much work. At that moment a circle of dough fell into the bottom of a cup and a light bulb went on somewhere in the back of my brain. I had been setting up the pastry in the wrong half of the cupcake cups for half my life. I laughed long and hard thinking of all the hours I had wasted as I settled the dough in the bottom of the tins.

Have you laughed at yourself today?

Unleashing Your Inner Wisecracker

2011-08-23T15:42:00.000-07:00

By Jeff Lee, author of the hilarious - The Ladies Temperance Club's Farewell Tour

My life has been one long punch line.

Now, as a fiction writer, most times, that’s something to enjoy and take advantage of. And other times, maybe just scratch your noggin and wonder.

I mean, fiction is…well, fiction. We cook up people and events to help make our characters a little more interesting and carry our plots through to the light at the end of the chapter. Kind of like providing an in-flight movie to help smooth out the turbulence and rough spots in a character’s journey.

But here’s the fun part: as novelists, we’re all essentially in the business of lying to the public. Making stuff up that, as long as it sounds even remotely possible, you know your readers are going to eat up with a snow shovel. It’s all good, as long the reader can still look at your character and their actions, shrug their shoulders and say, “Yeah, I GUESS it could happen...”

That’s why we all insert little episodes from our checkered pasts into our work. For one thing, you don’t have to go to the trouble of making it all up.

Unless, of course, you’ve lived my life. Because of all the things I’ve lived through, most events were real knee-slappers. But no reader with an IQ higher than that of a funnel cake would ever buy any of it.

Case in point:

I’m in graduate school. And to pay the rent, I’m working as a fill-in announcer for a radio station in the next town. We’re talking a third-rate station in a fourth-rate market; and, they’re a secondary ABC affiliate, so my duties also include babysitting the hourly Paul Harvey feed. The radio station is run out of a pair of adjoining rooms in a by-the-hour motel, and the walls are so thin that sometimes my microphone picks up the goings-on in the next room.

I’m on the air one morning, subbing for an announcer who’s on vacation, whose show includes a half hour of telephone call-in.

So, Mr. Harvey fumphers through his customary “Thish ish Paul Harvey…good day!” sign off, and I begin playing the canned theme music for the call-in talk show I have to preside over.

At that moment, the couple in the next room decides to get good and frisky – and loud. As I read through the little bit of copy announcing the show, I (and the microphone) pick up a loud, rhythmic thumping against our common wall, not to mention a level of moaning and chirping louder than any aria Giuseppe Verde ever composed.

The little buttons on the phone light up, I push one and tell the caller he’s on the air, and what’s on his mind?

Then my caller speaks – in a voice that sounds a lot like Gomer Pyle auditioning for a part in Deliverance.

Or maybe it was Goober.

“Y’all know the communists’re shelling the Phillipines?” he asks.

I take a second to think of something to say. Meanwhile, the rhythmic wall thumpers downshift into second gear and the woman kicks up her volume to a level where she sounds like they might be filming a “slash and stab” movie in her room. And my microphone is now sharing it all with everyone in the Oroville area.

“Nope,” I answer. “But if you hum a couple of bars…I can probably fake it.”

See what I mean? The truth might set you free.

But that doesn’t mean anyone’s going to buy it.

Another case in point:

I’m in my junior year of high school, in metal shop class. Turns out, I’m what my guidance counselor labels, a “brilliant underachiever”. Which is why I’m carrying a schedule full of vocational-type classes, instead of suffering through reading and analyzing Moby Dick and Ivanhoe, like the rest of my contemporaries.

The metal shop classes are run by a card-carrying, bona fide sadist named Mr. Flournoy, who’s got a wooden leg. He’s also missing a thumb and a couple of other fingers, and is downright anal about shop safety.

If he catches one of his charges behaving like a typical high school underclassman, his favorite trick is to sneak up behind the kid, back off one step and then swing his artificial foot at the hindquarters of the miscreant in question. The momentum of said artificial leg and foot colliding with the aforementioned gluteus maximus was usually enough to lift the kid a few inches into the air.

One morning, a couple of my metal shop class buddies and I are standing in the middle of the shop area, swapping jokes and behaving like the buffoons we were. Mr. Flournoy spots us and begins his silent, cross-classroom stalk. He ends up directly behind one of us and begins the countdown to launching his prosthetic appendage.

The leg begins its downward trajectory.

At the last possible moment, all three of us jump out of the way, leaving nothing to stop the forward progress of Mr. Flournoy’s artificial leg, which then goes on to prove one of Sir Isaac Newton’s laws of motion.

Namely, that a body in motion tend to want to stay that way.

The prosthesis continues on its trajectory, having developed far too much momentum for Mr. Flournoy to be able to wrestle it to a stop.

The stresses inside the leg end up shearing off one or two of the hardened steel pins that hold it in place.

It continues on its rounds, missing the floor, swinging all the way up and colliding with the man’s forehead.

And ends up dropping Mr. Flournoy to the cement floor, knocked out colder than last night’s Sashimi.

http://www.amazon.com/Ladies-Temperance-Clubs-Farewell-ebook/dp/B004TNI8BM/

Born in New York State, Jeff Lee was raised in the San Francisco Bay Area and has spent his entire writing career in Los Angeles.

For more than thirty years he has been a copywriter and creative director for some of the advertising industry’s most recognizable agencies, winning numerous awards for his creativity. Unfortunately, none of those ad agencies are still in business, but Jeff appears to have an alibi.

Trained as a cook in the Army, he still enjoys being creative in the kitchen and admits that few things in life compare with the thrill of discovering you have just given a nasty case of food poisoning to 140 heavily armed men.

Jeff lives about halfway between Los Angeles and Santa Barbara, in a house he shares with his two sons and a cat that’s part golden retriever.

~

Thanks Jeff!

The Scent of a Book

2011-08-17T05:58:00.000-07:00

by Karen Cantwell

Okay, I’m likely to make a lot of enemies with this post, but I’m going to come out and say it – on the subject of ebooks vs. paperbooks, I truly don’t understand the argument, “I love the feel and the smell of my paper books.”

Really?

I did a personal test. My own personal Myth Busters, if you will.

I put my Kindle aside and spent a week reading only paper books.

FEEL
Well, I assume people are talking both about the cover of the book as well as the inside pages. I caressed the cover of each paperback and hardback book I picked up during that week, and quite frankly, there was no titillation factor. The touch, the feel of cotton – this I can understand. The feel of a book cover, not so much.

So let’s turn our attention to the inside pages. Maybe people really mean the feel of turning real paper pages. Maybe this is an experience worth treasuring. Five minutes into reading a paperback version of To Kill a Mockingbird, the paper pages had drawn all of the natural oils from my skin and I had to start licking my fingers to turn each new page. This is not only awkward and time consuming, but not very tasty either. Not only did I want to put the book down, I was ready to write my own: To Kill a Paper Manufacturer.

Conclusion: ebooks = no finger licking with nasty after-taste.

SMELL
After the FEEL test was the SMELL test. I put my nose to every single paper book in my house. Many of the newer books didn’t actually have any smell at all. I thought that was interesting, considering the attention given to this whole smell-thing. A larger-than-expected portion of the books had a particularly odd, almost pungent odor that was unidentifiable, and definitely NOT worthy of being bottled by Chanel or Glade. And finally, the old books all smelled like my Aunt Bertha’s musty basement – a place that scared us all as a kid since the odor indicated the possible existence of several dead animals and maybe even Aunt Bertha’s third husband that went missing and was never found. All in all, I didn’t see that book smelling would become the hobby of the future.

Conclusion: ebooks = no olfactory association with potentially dead uncles.

After my week long test, I went back to my Kindle and have been happy ever since. And when people throw that line at me now, “I like the feel and smell of a paper book,” I merely nod and respond, “That’s why I’m happy with my e-reader – I don’t fondle or inhale my books, I just read them.”

A Series of Bizarre Coincidences or How I Found My Stolen Car

2011-08-10T02:22:00.000-07:00

Thanks to Georgina Young-Ellis for sharing this recent post from her fun blog
Nerd-Girls, Romantics and Time Travelers

This is an amazing story, one that caught the Moose's eye.

A Series of Bizarre Coincidences or How I Found My Stolen Car

My car was stolen a couple of weeks ago from my block, an odd, curvy little street in a forgotten corner of Astoria, Queens. I parked it around the bend in a spot we tend to avoid. It’s ill-lit, and sometimes shady characters lurk in the shadows. But when I came home from a girls’ night out (no drinking involved, let me be clear, except for oodles of herbal tea) it was after midnight, and there were no other parking places on the street. I reluctantly left my beautiful car there, saying to myself, “this is not good,” and checked and double checked to make sure it was locked and the alarm set.

We didn’t drive anywhere the next day, and though it occurred to me to move the car to a better spot, I didn’t. Saturday morning we gaily left the house, reusable shopping bags in hand, to go to the grocery store, walked around the corner and...no car. Son of a bitch. Could it have been towed? We called the police, and they checked the system, no, it wasn’t towed. So they came and took a police report, we called good old Geico, and by Monday morning we had a rental car.

All the conventional wisdom, including that of the large, African American guy at the rental car company, who I could have sworn was a famous record company executive, swore to me that we’d never see the car again. A 2008 Honda Civic, white, with leather seats, a sun roof, GPS…all the bells and whistles, was likely to be hacked up into parts and sold off. I was sad for our sweet car, the Semalu, as we called her (don’t ask, it’s a long story). Sad that I would never again hear her petulant GPS voice as she recalculated…and also sad for the things that we’d left in the car that we’d never see again: a particularly nice cloth grocery bag, a phone recharger, a large container of canned goods I’d been collecting since 9/11 in case we had to flee New York on a moment’s notice…my beach umbrella.

I asked Geico when we could collect on the policy, so sure was I that we’d never see the Semalu again, but they said we had to wait thirty days just in case. Thirty days…sure…they could dream. Then, Friday, at 3:30 in the morning, my 19 year old son bursts into our bedroom, throwing the lights on and declaring, “The car is back! And the thieves are in it!” We fly out of bed and call 911. He and his band-mates with whom he’d been returning so late at night run back down the street and observe from a safe distance. We’ve been admonished, not, under any circumstances, to get in the car if we find it but only to call the police – besides, we’d sent the keys back to Geico as requested. So as he as his friends run back and forth from the corner to our house to report, I’m on the phone with 911.

“What’s the emergency?” They asked in a bored drawl.

I explain.

“What’s the address?” They don’t sound particularly interested.

I tell them.

“What are the cross streets?”

I give them.

“Is that in Queens?”

“Yes! Please hurry! The thieves are in the car!”

“Someone will be there momentarily.” They hang up.

My son runs back, “They’re leaving the car!”

I call 911 again and update them.

“What’s the address?”

Infuriated, I give all the information again and hang up.

My son runs back. “They’re getting back in the car and driving away!”

I call 911 again and update them, becoming more and more frantic. A good 7 minutes have passed…where are the cops?

“What’s the address?”

I give them the information again, telling them how close they are to missing the chance to catch the car thieves red-handed.

“Someone will be there momentarily.”

My husband jumps in the rental car with my son and they go in pursuit, but come back to tell me they lost them. A half an hour later, the police show up.

Now it’s Saturday. I’m disgusted with the NYPD. What a bunch of hopeless losers. I get in the rental car in the morning and drive around the neighborhood looking for the Semalu. Nothing. Later in the afternoon, my husband and I go out to do a quick errand. We could have done it a half an hour before, but I wanted to finish up some things around the house first. So we get in the rental and proceed up the street, the Honda primary on my mind.

I’m muttering, “I am determined to find that car!”

My husband says, “We’re not going to find it.”

I say, “I know it’s still around here somewhere.”

I’m looking closely at every white car I see. There’s one coming towards us on the opposite side of the street. It’s a Honda.

“That could be it now,” Jon jokes.

I look at the license plate, “That’s it!” I scream.

My husband, thinking he’s Tom Selleck, pulls our car in front of the stolen vehicle, blocking their path. He and the driver lock eyes. Jon now has a positive ID on the guy. I whip out my phone and call 911, screaming at Jon, “Don’t confront him! Don’t confront him!” The guy pulls around us and turns left. Jon turns around and follows him while I’m shrieking at him to be careful and simultaneously informing 911 that we’re chasing our stolen vehicle down the street. They don’t get it.

“Which intersection are you at?” they ask lazily.

“31^st and Crescent, now Broadway and Crescent…”

“You're at Broadway and Crescent? Is that in Queens?”

“Yes! Now we’re going west on Broadway…we’re turning right on 23^rd,”

“You’re at the intersection of Broadway and 23^rd?”

“We’re following them through a parking lot…we’re on 21^st! They’re crossing onto the wrong side of the road! They’ve turned left onto 30^th!”

911 tells me the police are on the way and I hang up. The thieves know we’re in pursuit and they’re hauling ass. They run stop signs…we can’t keep up; it’s too dangerous. The police call me back and ask where we are. I give them an intersection and get out so that I can wait for them as Jon takes a guess as to which way the Honda has gone, and goes off to look for it. The cops are with me in seconds. They scoop me up into the back seat and tear off down Vernon Blvd with me bouncing around trying to find a non-existent seat belt. As we turn into the Costco parking lot, thinking the car might be ditched there, I see a white Honda at the stoplight, but check the plates…it’s not it. I’m on the phone with Jon when the cops get a report on their radio that another squad car has found our vehicle. No perps inside. We travel the couple of minutes to the parking lot of the Astoria Housing Projects and there she is, the Semalu. One window broken, the radio gone, a few extra scratches, but other than that, none the worse for wear. We can’t touch her to see what else is gone from the interior because they have to dust her for prints, but we are relieved beyond words.

After a while, the cops, brilliant beyond belief, suggest that we can take the car home. We stare at them. “Well, we have no keys, and don’t think it’s a good idea to park it on our block with no window and no way to lock it.”

Oh yeah, duh.

So they tow it to a storage facility and there it sits until Geico gives us further instructions. We think the perps will be caught; there are cameras all over the Astoria Projects parking lot. Vigilante justice and a series of bizarre coincidences save the day.

Georgina,
Thank you for sharing a truly amazing story.

The Time Baroness is a Highly Recommended Novel

What's Our Moose Reading Now?

2011-08-03T03:08:00.000-07:00

Our Moose is a Moose of Discerning Taste... Only the best in comedy, mystery, romance, and humor will satisfy him.

Guess what our Moose is reading now?

Kidnapping, revenge, and a little murder on the high seas.

When a deathbed promise to one of her agents leaves Wendy Darling, feisty Miami real estate broker for billionaires, trapped on a super-yacht with Ponzi-king, Charlie Hook, she’s forced to join him on a quest to recover his hidden treasure.

This is a modern morality tale that takes the reader on an action-filled ride with memorable characters and lots of laughs along the way. It’s Indiana Jones meets Romancing the Stone while still remaining faithful to the original Peter Pan and Wendy. ~ Consuelo Saah Baehr, author of Best Friends

If you think PTA meetings are boring, then you haven’t attended one in Barbara Marr’s neighborhood, where MURDER is on the agenda. Always one to stumble into trouble, Barb learns the hard way that a seemingly innocent yearbook scandal is actually part of a more sinister and deadly plot. Join soccer mom and movie lover Barbara Marr in this second laugh-out-loud, chaotic mystery, where high-profile crime and suburban living collide in an unexpected fashion.

Our Moose is really looking forward to reading….

My Planet or Yours?
By LC Evans

Coming fall of 2011

Take one Earth woman fresh from a recent breakup. Add one handsome extraterrestrial who crash lands on Earth. Stir in a guard dog who loves everyone, a communications device that thinks it's a nanny, and you have My Planet or Yours? … A delightful and sexy romantic comedy.

Peek over the Moose’s shoulder to read a short excerpt, he won’t mind…

Wendy & the Lost Boys

I lay on my stomach on Belgian cream-colored sheets in my suite on the 370-foot yacht rocking in the waters somewhere in the Bermuda Triangle. I had finished a pitcher of screwdrivers before the sun came up and was feeling woozy. As I dozed in my bikini, something jumped on my back. I tried to fight it off, rolled over, and found myself looking at a giant tongue and two beady eyes. It was like being married again.

All six feet of Hook’s bony body retreated when I brought my knee up catching him in his man-berries. He turned, rolling off the bed and abruptly slamming his johnson into the teak nightstand. His penis was huge, dark, and engorged. I was right about the blue pills in his master suite. They were erectile dysfunction drugs. Of course, with the name UpUGo, it didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to figure it out.

“I knew you were taking that junk. Don’t waste your time,” I said to the naked old man with the flabby butt as he held himself with a panicked look on his face. “And get out of my suite. The door was locked for a reason! How’d you get in here?”

“It’s been more than four hours, Wendy,” he whimpered. “I’m still hard and it hurts like hell. Help me!” His once chiseled features hung like melted wax from his cheekbones.

“My promise to Marni to care for you did not include sex… no way… under no circumstances. That’s what you get for messing with that stuff. Just get out of my way!”

I snatched the ten-pound white hairball called Tinkerbelle from the foot of the bed and made my way to the sun deck. Hook’s Predator was a yacht on steroids. It took ten minutes to get from my suite to the upper floor. Hook had spent over $200 million of Ponzied money on this floating erection. He recited the Predator’s talents daily, like a mantra he hoped would keep away the feds, investors, and victims who wanted nothing more than to see him keelhauled.

Citizen Insane

There was a time when my life wasn’t that exciting. I’m a soccer mom living in the suburbs. The only thrills in my day should be the frantic road races between ballet lessons and the much-too-closely-scheduled orthodontist appointment on the other side of the universe. If you think a stunt driver knows how to maneuver a vehicle, wait until you see me behind the wheel careening through yellow lights with a hundred-dollar dental visit at stake.

So, when I ran a woman down with my mini-van in the middle of the night, only to find out that someone else had tried to kill her with a 45 caliber semi-automatic pistol, I assumed things couldn’t get any more dramatic. I assumed wrong. Just twenty-four hours later I found myself in the stairwell of an abandoned building, with a gun in my hand and a female hostage telling me to “do what Keanu would do.” I’ve never met another mother with days like these.

My name is Barbara Marr and I find dead people.

Or, almost dead people.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. The story really started with my need for a foot rub.

My Planet or Yours?

The setup:

After Nora and the spaceman are taken captive by thieves, they are locked in a shed where they try to figure out a way to escape.

“What kind of spaceman are you anyway? On TV and in movies, the aliens are always so much smarter and stronger than humans that they make us look like sloths. Don’t you have any useful super powers?” Nora put her hands on her hips and glared at Triskam. A line of sweat slid down her face.

“You mean powers such as the ability to melt metal with my eyes or use psychic thoughts to explode the heads of our enemies? No, I am afraid we Darvanians are as ordinary as humans. We have technology far more advanced than yours, but our world is considerably older than Earth, so that is to be expected.”

“How about this then—use your knowledge of advanced technology and maybe some of the power from that communication thingy to build us a weapon out of what we’ve got there in this shed.”

“Unfortunately, among my people I am not famed for being what you might call a technical wizard. My specialty is languages and history. Cleverness with turning a broken shovel into a powerful weapon, not so much.”

Thanks for stopping by!

A Writers' Day

2011-07-27T04:52:00.000-07:00

The Moose hopes you have a good chuckle today and to make sure that you do, here's a brand new post by guest author Janet Hurst-Nicholson. Relax and enjoy. Writers, you will relate as Jan tries to get that novel off the back burner. If you're not a writer, find out what life is really like for your favorite authors.

8.00 am: Wash breakfast dishes, make bed while mentally plotting out new novel. Wonder if J K Rowling still does own housework.

8.15 am: Must get down to revising ghost story for comp. Deadline looming. Head for office (smidgling portion of spare bedroom). Sidetracked by meowing cat. Cat thinks underfed. Meow alerts dogs. Dogs think cat overfed, set off in panting pursuit. Scream at dogs to leave catalone. Constant scream. Neighbours think breeding ‘catalones’ – mutant animal species. Cat streaks to kitchen. Dogs follow, lose footing on polished flooring, pile up in doorway like freeway horror smash.

8.20. am: Switch on computer. Where did I file Ghost Story? Can’t remember. Original selection done by inspirational logic. Discover story filed under ‘article’. Story began as article on Satanism.

8.25 am: Stare at keyboard. Notice biscuit crumbs lodged beneath shift key. Dust keyboard, screen and then begin on bookshelves. Come upon book of ghost stories. Put duster aside and flip open book at page marked by dog-eared envelope. Envelope covered in barely legible scribbled notations, something re using dental floss for strangling murder victim. Would minty odour be detectable? File envelope under miscellaneous. Read ghost story.

8.45 am: Return to computer. Dejectedly conclude my story not up to standard of those in book. Notice have used ‘terror’ twice in same paragraph. Consult thesaurus. Reject alarm, awe, anxiety, dread, fear. Type in ‘horror’. Discover have used ‘horror’ in following paragraph.

9.00 am: Dog No 1 scratching on door to go out. Let dog out.

9.03 am: Dog No 1 whining to come back in. Let dog No 1 in. Dog No 2 slips out.

9.05 am: Have brill idea for hilarious piece of dialogue for humorous short story. Chuckle all the way to office. Save ghost story, call up humorous story. Type in dialogue. Read through. Doesn’t sound a bit funny.

9.10 am: Dog No 2 yapping to come back in. Intermittent yap. Like waiting for tap to drip. Sets neighbour’s dogs off. Raise voice to dog. Dog raises voice in reply.

9.12 am: Angrily let in dog No. 2. Dog No 1 wants to go out again. Refuse permission – in strong terms. Dog No 1 original for adage, ‘whichever side of the door dog is on, it’s the wrong side’. Disgruntled dog pees on plant box.

9.20 am: Agent phones. Still not happy with ending of children’s book. Wants further changes. Now sick to death of ruddy Thembu and his wobbly bloody bike. Tempted to have him career down hill, hit rock, land in river, drown. Dig in heels and refuse to murder darlings in second to last paragraph. Agree (grudgingly) to change final paragraph.

9.30 am: Dogs barking. Could be postman. Waiting for cheque from Amazon. Peer through window. Two elderly ladies lurking at gate clutching what looks like bible. Jehovah’s Witnesses? Shrink behind curtain. Run through list of plausible excuses for getting rid of: on the phone, bathing baby, stirring rapidly thickening custard? Peep through curtains – gone. Postbox has glass door (tip picked up from fellow writer). Postbox empty.

Notice grubby marks on curtains where cat perches on windowsill. Decide to wash curtains. Change mind on recalling mammoth task involved in unhooking them.

9.40 am: Return to computer. Add two more atmospheric adjectives to ghost story. Read through. Decide overdone it. Take one adjective out. Can’t bear to part with it. Look for somewhere else to put it.

10.00 am: Glance at clock. Reward hard work with coffee and biscuits.

10.15 am: Contemplate prodding editor of overseas mag re short story submitted months ago. Would correspondence jolt a ‘maybe’ into a rejection? Decide to wait two more weeks.

10.45 am: Consider more profitable ways of earning money. Second-hand bookshop perhaps. Could even write during slow periods. Reject idea. Would probably spend entire day reading.

11.15 am: Wonder if Woman’s World on radio saying something sensible. Might be interview with famous author. Could pick up useful tips. Kind of Listen While You Work. Switch on radio. Someone rabbiting on about calcium and osteoporosis. Guiltily aware of slouching over keyboard. Hurry to medicine cabinet. Swallow two calcium, a B6 and a Vit C. Offer dog No 3 a chewable Vit C. Heard that it is best thing you can do for dog. Dog No 3 eats anything. Dogs 1, 2 and 4 spit theirs out with mournful betrayed looks. Return to office. Sit stiffly upright to delay onset of dowager’s hump.

11.30 am: Friend phones to say picking me up for committee meeting at 18h30. Thought meeting was next week. Frantically scan minutes in case supposed to have actioned something.

11.38 am: Return to ghost story. Grammar grappler. Should ‘owing to’ rather be ‘due to’? Alter it to ‘because of”.

11.40 am: Dogs bark. Postman? Glance through window. Not sure if that is buff envelope nestling against brown brickwork at bottom of postbox. Must get round to painting base contrasting orange. Consider possibility of getting to postbox and back in curlers without being seen. Return, panting, with dead-boring leaflet for pool cleaning service.

11.45 am: Re-read ghost story. Change comma to semi-colon. Remember advice about exotic punctuation. Replace comma. Something lacking in story. Stare out of window. Pool shimmering in morning sunlight, but pool cleaner on go slow.

11.48 am: Pace around house looking for inspiration. Decide postman’s late.

11.50 am: Wander into bedroom. Re-check postbox. Worry that something untoward has happened to postman. Fling self down on bed. Hang head over edge. Sudden rush of blood to brain known to have worked inspirational wonders. Dogs think playing game. Dogs bound on bed. Dog No 4, (the shrieker) enthusiastically licks ear. Suddenly spots postman. Maniacal barking nearly bursts eardrum.

Airmail letter (small, thin) nestling in postbox. Could be from relatives – but could be from …? Notice publisher’s logo in top left-hand corner. Rip open envelope. “We have received your manuscript and will be replying in due course.”

12 noon: Watch Dr Phil. Usually plenty of conflict, ideas for plots, and I do the crossword while watching. All worthwhile literary pursuits. Besides, eat lunch at same time.

1.00 pm: News.

1.30 pm: Wash dishes. Glance out of kitchen window at drooping plant cuttings donated previous week by sister-in-law.

1.45 pm: Guiltily pot cuttings.

2.30 pm: Brisk walk to shop for bread and milk. Resolve to get on with writing on return.

2.45 pm: Hardly worth starting writing now. Decide to have half and hour with Jilly Cooper novel (reading is legitimate work – isn’t it?). Settee occupied by snoring dogs. Jostle dogs aside. Exhume several bones from beneath cushions.

3.30 pm: Reluctantly set book aside. Bring washing in before it gets damp. Do ironing while thinking up new ending for children’s book.

4. 00 pm: Now what should I make for supper?

It’s all go being a writer, isn’t it.

______________________________

Jan Hurst-Nicholson has been writing for about 25 years. Her articles, humorous articles and short stories have appeared in South African and overseas magazines and these were compiled into a book: ‘Something to Read on the Plane’ a bit of light literature, short stories & other fun stuff.

Her first children’s book was ‘Leon Chameleon PI and the case of the missing canary eggs’ published by Gecko Books, and was one of Bookchat’s 1993 South African Books of the Year. This was followed by ‘Leon Chameleon PI and the case of the kidnapped mouse’ (both now available as e-books on Amazon and Barnes & Noble). These are humorous, animal, detective stories set in a nature reserve.

Born in the UK, Jan emigrated from Liverpool to South Africa in the 1970s. Her experiences moving to a new continent were the inspiration for her humorous novel ‘But Can You Drink The Water?’ which was a semi-finalist (top 50 out of 5000) in the 2010 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award.

She now lives in Durban with her husband, two dogs that are forever on the wrong side of the door, three elderly cats, and the occasional visiting troop of boisterous vervet monkeys.

Books by Jan Hurst-Nicholson:

The Phantom Strikes Again !

2011-07-20T03:43:00.000-07:00

The Phantom Strikes Again

Someone recently repeated an old, but still funny joke – The one about the kindergarten teacher who found a naughty word carefully scrawled on the blackboard one morning.

Regaining her composure, she spoke to her class of five year-olds, “We will all close our eyes, and lay our heads on our desks. Whoever wrote that bad word will come up and erase it as I’m sure they’re very sorry and would like to make the word disappear.”

Eyes closed. Heads Down.

Tiny footsteps to the front of the class. Scratching at the blackboard.

After a few minutes of silence, the teacher speaks. “Okay, boys and girls. You may raise your heads and open your eyes.”

There on the blackboard in large block letters was written:

Go to h*ll. The phantom strikes again.

Whenever I hear that joke I’m reminded of my own misspent youth. No obscenities but lots of hilarious pranks that boggle my mind. Subversive attacks like the Great Shoe Lace Caper… are lodged in my memory and still give me giggle-fits. These are escapades that Bugs Bunny would be proud of.

It was my first year in school. I was a skinny, blond, five year-old with a restless spirit. I soon discerned that our kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Cunningham couldn’t quite tell us apart – after thirty years of tot-teaching she was oblivious.

If you raised your hand – Mrs. C. nodded – and you left for what she presumed was the little girls’ room. Our school was a half city block wide, four stories tall with long shiny hallways housing separate toilets on each floor… boys’ on one end of the halls and girls’ on the other.

My Walkabouts became longer and longer as I realized nobody was keeping track of my time away from crayons and flashcards. Smart enough at that young age to carry a note card with me, I would look as if I were perpetually delivering an important message from one teacher to another.

It was early spring. In New Jersey that meant that the “Big Girls” began to take their gym (physical education) outdoors on the playground. It didn’t take me long to discover that the girls left their school clothes, socks, and shoes in the basement locker room when they changed into their gym outfits.

The area was huge and offered a marketplace for potential mischief. How best to use my time? I studied the room full of almost identical black and white saddle shoes, each pair neatly arranged next to folded shirts and blouses. And then it came to me.

Using speed that would have made Super Girl envious, I picked up the shoes and threw them to the far end of the room. Racing to that end I flung the opposing shoes to the middle of the room. Once the shoes were thoroughly mismatched, I began to knot the shoe laces together while chuckling like the benign sister of the Exorcist. Less than five minutes later I stood back savoring the scene. Perfect. No two shoes were a pair but each set was firmly bound by knotted laces.

I scrambled up the marble staircases to my second floor classroom, slipped into the finger-painting group, and plastered an innocent expression on my face. Our kindergarten room was far from the basement which prevented me from hearing the resulting chaos but sometimes imagination is better than reality. I quietly giggled as I imagined the shrieking Big Girls racing to find their own shoes and untangle the knots… making it to their next class before the bell rang.

As the spring progressed the phantom repeatedly struck in the Big Girls’ Locker Room. She was wily enough to plan her attacks at random intervals – never the same day of the week and frequently skipping a week or two. The Big Boys were put at the top of the suspect list and carefully monitored.

Now that I’ve shared this vignette from my sordid childhood, I’m sure a former Big Girl is going to surface to tell me of her trauma created by my little joke. All I can say is….

The Phantom May Strike Again

Guest Blogger: Suzanne Tyrpak

2011-07-13T05:07:00.000-07:00

It's Wednesday at The Moose and that means time for fun! Today, we're excited to be bringing a guest post by Suzanne Tyrpak, author of the newly released collection, Ghost Plane and Other Disturbing Tales. A book that I've read, by the way, and highly recommend.

So help us welcome today, Suzanne Tyrpak with her . . .

Seven Tips for Making Airline Travel an Adventure

I live in a small tourist town, and I work for an airline. Durango, Colorado, is a popular destination, and people from all over the world come through our small airport. But travelling in the Rocky Mountains isn’t easy; things frequently go wrong—blizzards in the winter, summer thunderstorms, the plane hits a coyote on the runway—events like these are common. In many ways, it’s still the Wild West out here. Plus, Durango is hundreds of miles from any city, and, when things go wrong, there aren’t a lot of options. So travelling can be a challenge.

Plenty of articles have been written about how to make traveling easier: arrive before your flight leaves, know where you’re going, pack liquids separately, and travel light. But some people want more out of travel. Some people want a challenge. With insights accumulated over ten years as an airline industry insider, I have developed a list of travel tips guaranteed to elevate your airline experience into a challenging adventure.

1) Arrival: Get to the airport as close to flight time as possible. This may enable you to miss your flight altogether, which immediately intensifies the travel experience. If you’re unlucky, the airline will book you on the next flight—kind of an easy fix. Or they may charge you additional money to fly standby. Days of sold-out flights provide the ultimate adventure, allowing you to be stranded for longer lengths of time.

2) Entertainment: If you are lucky enough to miss your flight, because you arrived too late, be sure to blame the ticket counter agent. Causing a scene not only entertains fellow passengers and airline personnel, it will ensure prompt service. When you yell, or even curse, the agent will be motivated to get you to your destination as quickly as possible—preferably in a middle seat between a fat guy and a screaming child. Or you might even get a tour to the local jail.

3) Checking baggage: Make sure your bag weighs over 50 pounds. This will give you the option to pay an exorbitant fee or experience the joys of repacking your luggage in front of everyone. Repacking is especially fun if you’re carrying personal toys. For added excitement, make sure your toys go off in security; that buzzing sound is sure to cause an alarm—a “code pink” in industry parlance.

4) Free Accommodations: If you’re carrying a firearm, don’t declare it. Attempt to take your (preferably loaded) weapon with you through security. This will win you free accommodation and three squares per day—plus your own personal, uniformed, driver.

5) Fun with the TSA: Going through security is an opportunity for fun and games. Here are some real-life examples: If you haven’t made it through security, and you’re about to miss your flight, remove your shoe—spike heels are recommended—and hurl it at the TSA agent. And, if an agent asks you to remove your jacket, lift up your shirt as you go through the screening, and show everyone your brassiere. This is highly recommended for women over fifty. Where else can you get this kind of thrill without being thrown out or arrested?

6) Express Yourself: What should you do if you checked in on time, you have your boarding pass, but you still miss the flight? Okay, you were in the bar, but is that your fault? Of course not! Flying can be stressful. Relax. This is a good time to let it all hang out. Let go and enjoy yourself. Maybe it’s the last flight of the day and you can’t get to your intended destination. Take a tip from a traveler I met: fall down on the floor in the middle of the terminal and kick your arms and legs like a three-year-old. Make a lot of noise. Get in touch with your inner child. Expressing your emotions will make you feel much better. People pay a lot of money for this kind of therapy.

7) Delays and Cancelled Flights: Things go wrong. Weather, mechanicals, the crew gets sick. At least that’s what the airline employees tell you. But, of course, they’re liars. They enjoy making your life difficult—and that’s what you want. Isn’t it? A challenge? So when things go wrong, demand more. Yell. Be insulting—those dummies can take it. They’re getting paid big-bucks (less than McDonald’s, true, but plenty), so make those agents earn their money. For the best results, stride up to the counter, look down your nose and shout: “Do you know who I am?” Use your most intimidating voice and stance. Then wait for the results. Don’t be surprised if the agent picks up the intercom and says, “Does anyone recognize this person? He seems to have amnesia.” It’s all in good fun.

I hope these tips help you to get more out of your summer travel. They have been tested by many passengers and the results are tried-and-true. Remember: travel is an adventure.

If you’re passing through the airport in Durango, Colorado, be sure to say hi. But remember, you could end up in one of my books. Several of the stories in my new collection, Ghost Plane and Other Disturbing Tales, were inspired by my job. Check it out—just .99 cents in all eformats.

_______

Suzanne Tyrpak ran away from New York a long time ago to live in Colorado. Her debut novel is Vestal Virgin, suspense set in ancient Rome, available as a trade paperback and in all eformats. Her collection of nine short stories Dating My Vibrator (and other true fiction) is available on Kindle, Nook and Smashwords. J.A. Konrath calls it, “Pure comedic brilliance.” Ghost Plane and Other Disturbing Tales is available in all eformats. Scott Nicholson says, “Enter this circus and let Suzanne show you why horror is the greatest show on earth.”

Her short story "Downhill" was first published in Arts Perspective Magazine. "Rock Bottom" is published in the Mota 9: Addiction anthology, available on Kindle. Her short story "Ghost Plane" was published by CrimeSpree Magazine. "Venus Faded" appears in the anthology Pronto! Writings from Rome (Triple Tree Publishing, 2002) along with notable authors including: Dorothy Allison, Elizabeth Engstrom, Terry Brooks and John Saul. Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers awarded her first prize in the Colorado Gold Writing Contest, and Maui Writers awarded her third prize in the Rupert Hughes writing competition.

*New York Times bestselling author, Terry Brooks says about her writing: “...a writer of real talent...a promising new voice.”
*New York Times bestselling author Tess Gerritsen says, “Suzanne Tyrpak weaves a spell that utterly enchants and delights. Her writing is pure magic.” You can learn more about Suzanne and her books at her blog, Who's Imagining All This?.

Other books by Suzanne Tyrpak:

Mugged at Handpoint

2011-07-06T04:48:00.000-07:00

I think I was mugged once. There is confusion in my mind since nothing was actually stolen and the mugger didn't have a weapon.

Here's what happened:

We moved to Charlotte, North Carolina, from a small Florida town, so neither my husband, Bob, nor I were exactly streetwise. Not that Charlotte is huge or crimey, but compared to a tiny town where nothing ever happens and the streets are empty by nine, Charlotte is big time.

One night we were supposed to meet a friend at a Charlotte restaurant. We parked in a parking deck and headed out to walk a few blocks to our destinations. It would probably have been a good idea to stick to the main streets where there were lots of people and streetlights, but for some reason we decided to cut down a side street between a hotel and another parking deck.

We got halfway down the side street before I began to feel uneasy at the sudden lack of people and lighting and that feeling of safety I was used to. Then we passed a bench—I mean, we tried to pass a bench.

Two men were sitting there with a gym bag between them. One of them jumped to his feet so fast I could barely stifle a startled yelp.

"Hey," said the stranger. He was a short, stocky man in mismatched clothes that looked like hand me downs from a football linebacker. "I'm on my way up north tonight to see my family."

At this point, streetwise people would have: A. Ignored him and kept walking B. Said, "That's nice," and kept walking. C. Screamed and raced back to the main street. However, being still pretty green, we made the mistake of stopping.

Stupid me, trying to be friendly: "That's great. When are you leaving?"

Man in mismatched clothes: "Soon's I get the rest of the money for my bus ticket. That's when me and my buddy here are heading out." He jerked his head to indicate the other man, a silent trench coat-wearing type who grunted something. It sounded like he said, "Ya'll are dead meat." I wouldn't swear to it. By now I'd started sweating a little and that might have interfered with my hearing.

Bob started tugging on my arm—signal for he didn't want to keep talking to these people. "Good luck. See you later."

Guy in big clothing moved up to block our escape route and got in our faces so we were forced to step back into a darker area of the sidewalk. "I can tell by looking at you folks that you're generous with people who need money to visit family." He thrust out his hand. "Forty or fifty dollars ought to do it and then you can be on your way."

Me, thinking quickly (about time the old brain cells kicked in). "Um, sir, we don't have forty or fifty dollars. Sorry." Brilliant, eh?

Bob, frantically stage whispering in my ear: "Push past him. Head toward the light. Head toward the light."

Me, confused: "You mean the streetlight? Or the Big Light everybody talks about after a near death experience?"

Guy in big clothes (wearing an expression of entitlement): "All I'm asking for is a couple of twenties. I'm not out to hurt nobody. Look here, if I was out to hurt ya'll, I'd do this." He half turned and suddenly reached into the gym bag.

My mind to me (screaming): "This is it. You better make up your mind about which light you need to head for and do it fast, woman."

The guy pulled his hand—now shaped like a gun—out of the bag. He pointed the shape at us. "See if I was out to rob anybody, this would be a real gun, not my hand. And then I'd take all your money not just a few bucks. But I'm not doin' none of that. See. This ain't a real gun." Second guy, still not talking, is nodding and looking ready to nominate himself and his buddy for a good citizen award.

By now Bob had tightened his grip on my arm and was slowly hauling me back toward the main street. I would have hauled myself, but my legs were jelly, and jelly doesn't do much hauling. The guy started trotting after us with his gun-shaped hand still pointed at my head. "Wait up, now. Ya'll got no 'cause to run off."

At that moment a security guard from the hotel strode around the corner with his hand resting on the butt of his holstered gun. A real gun. "What's going on here? Saw you on the security camera."

Guy in big clothes, quickly shoving his gun-shaped hand in his pocket: "Not a thing. I was just having me a chat with these nice folks."

Me, babbling like a brook after a hard rain: "We're going to meet our friend now. Thank you, officer."

End of story. That's why I'm not sure about the whole situation. Final conclusion: We were mugged at handpoint. It's what you might call a soft mugging.

Guest Blogger Georgina Young-Ellis

2011-06-29T03:08:00.000-07:00

The Last Age of the Redhead

By Georgina Young-Ellis

I heard it on the news this morning. Redheads are becoming extinct, and fast, in less than 100 years, as a matter of fact. It’s quite possible I was the lone redhead viewing at the time the devastating report was aired. The lone redhead. That phrase resonates with me. I honestly cannot remember one other redheaded female in my elementary school, jr. high, or high school, though I’m sure they must have existed. None of my friends had red hair, never, not a one.

As a child, the hardest thing about having red hair was not so much that I was the only one as that I was funny looking. I had the orange locks, never quite fashionably cut, the pale skin, covered abundantly in freckles, and bright blue eyes, framed by pale blond lashes that were all but invisible to the naked eye. Add to that a big nose, braces, and the fact that I was painfully skinny; it was not a look that put me on the fast track to popularity.

I had to develop my personality to compensate, and I did. I was funny and smart, kind and loyal and so was never at a loss for friends, geeky as they may have been. As adolescence approached, and my interest in boys grew, I felt my odd coloring was even more of a disadvantage. I started wearing mascara at the age of ten to try to give some definition to my eyes, though I endured derision as a result from all those normal girls with black or brown lashes - eyelashes you could actually see.

Jr. high-school was a misery. This was the early seventies, when the look was tan and sleek, with long, straight, hair. To make it worse, I lived in Southern California, home of the perpetually bronzed. And so I tried to embrace the look, but the hip-hugger jeans hung un-alluringly from my shapeless body, my skin only reddened and freckled in the sun, and my wavy red hair refused to take on the swingy lengths of Marcia Brady’s. My mother tried to be helpful by pointing out that Carol Burnett was a redhead, and didn’t she have a great personality? Well-meaning words, but not what I wanted to hear.

And then there is my brother, ah my brother, the only redheaded sibling I have. (Oddly, both my sisters have dark brown hair and eyes, and gorgeous, tawny skin). My brother, like the peacock, is graced with the beauty of the species. His hair is a sun-kissed strawberry color; his skin is golden brown and has never known the slime of sunscreen. I got my father’s looks, bony, white, and spotted, though his dark red hair turned almost black in his twenties. It seems my brother was blessed with some miraculous combination of genes that managed to avoid the pastiness and the spots.

And yet, as often happens, the ugly duckling began to grow into swan. Once I finally had a whisper of a figure, mastered the art of foundation, and grew my hair long, I started to become pretty. My wavy red hair, like a russet waterfall down my back, became a true asset. I could finally wear enough eye make up to set off of my eyes and discovered they were among my best features. I was cute; I was attractive. Boys finally liked me! And once I was on a roll, I never looked back.

Something strange happened in my thirties after I had my baby, however. My source of pride, after all those years of anguish, began to fade. I thought, “How could this be happening? I am defined by my hair; what will I be without it?” Like my father’s, my hair was changing color, but only to a non-descript brown, nothing as dramatic as his. So, like any vain woman, I discovered hair dye, though I felt like a traitor to use it. I made a point of telling people I was a natural redhead (though you’d have to get pretty personal for me to prove it).

In reality, being a redhead is a state of mind, a deep sense of knowing that we are different, and yes, even endangered. We may not survive evolution. We are fiery, passionate, and a little mystical, but can we be preserved? I don’t think so. I’ve heard that both parents must have the red-head gene to produce a redheaded baby. I married a dark skinned man, and though I hoped, irrationally, that my son would be a redhead, instead he has gorgeous dark blonde hair, olive skin and melting brown eyes, proof that people tend to become more beautiful when the races mix it up.

Yes, I go to the beach fully clothed: long sleeves, hat, sunglasses and about twelve layers of sunscreen. I have never been, nor ever will be, the smooth-skinned bathing beauty. It’s not in the cards for me. But these days, I’m happy to pile on the sunscreen, rain or shine, winter and summer. I dye my hair auburn and wear it free and curly in celebration of who I am at the core. And I thank my father. Not just for giving me red hair, but for giving me the tool with which to build my character. Let’s hope that that part of being a redhead will never face extinction.

Georgina Young-Ellis is the author of the best selling

time travel novel:

The Time Baroness

It started out as such a simple experiment: time-travel to Jane Austen’s England, live a quiet, rural life as a woman of independent means, observe and notate. I never thought I would fall in love or... end up planning a prison break! When did everything go so terribly wrong? October 24, 1820 - Dr. Cassandra Reilly

******

The Time Baroness is the story of Dr. Cassandra Reilly, a scientist from the year 2120 who embarks upon a time travel journey to England of 1820. Her purpose is to conduct an experiment: living for a year in the guise of a wealthy widow and interacting within the Regency world. Though she has painstakingly prepared for the experience, her new neighbors in Hampshire County sense something strange about her, and though most embrace her for her kindness and charm, some are shocked by her odd ways. Ultimately though, her beauty attracts a handsome violinist, also new to the neighborhood, and they begin an affair, which further endangers her reputation in the community.

As she is struggling to fit in, her grown son, James, suddenly arrives on her doorstep, popping in from the future. His presence is one more component that could cause her masquerade to unravel. James becomes a popular addition to the Hampshire society, but he makes a terrible mistake. He brings with him a device from the future and shows it to a young woman with whom he is smitten. She is terrified and creates an uproar. James is arrested for possessing a dangerous and subversive object and it is up to his mother to free him from a London prison and return him to the future before her enemies succeed in convicting him. Help comes from a surprising source, and ultimately Cassandra realizes that people, and love, are not always what they seem to be.

Guest Blogger: John Locke

2011-06-22T05:02:00.000-07:00

We’re very excited here at our Moose Bar, to welcome Kindle bestselling author, John Locke, with his personal tale, “Closet Case.” He has also graciously agreed to be available throughout the day to respond to questions and comments, so comment away today folks!

By now, many of you may have heard the VERY exciting announcement from Kindle Direct Publishing, but if not, here is the announcement direct from the horse’s mouth:

“John Locke is the newest member of the ‘Kindle Million Club,’ and the first independently published author to receive this distinction. As of June 19th, John Locke has sold 1,010,370 Kindle books using Kindle Direct Publishing (KDP). The Kindle Million Club recognizes authors whose books have sold over 1 million paid copies in the Kindle Store (www.amazon.com/kindlestore). Locke joins Stieg Larsson, James Patterson, Nora Roberts, Charlaine Harris, Lee Child, Suzanne Collins and Michael Connelly in the Kindle Million Club.

“‘Kindle Direct Publishing has provided an opportunity for independent authors to compete on a level playing field with the giants of the book selling industry,’ said John Locke. ‘Not only did KDP give me a chance, they helped at every turn. Quite simply, KDP is the greatest friend an author can have.’

“‘It’s so exciting that self-publishing has allowed John Locke to achieve a milestone like this,’ said Russ Grandinetti, Vice President of Kindle Content. ‘We’re excited to see Kindle Direct Publishing succeeding for both authors and customers and are proud to welcome him to the Kindle Million Club.’

“John Locke, of Louisville, KY., is the internationally bestselling author of nine novels including Vegas Moon, Wish List, A Girl Like You, Follow the Stone, Don't Poke the Bear! and the New York Times bestselling eBook, Saving Rachel. Locke's latest book, How I sold 1 Million eBooks in 5 Months, is a how-to marketing guide for self-published authors.”

Additionally, when I spoke with John a couple of days ago, he added this statistic: The new book, How I Sold 1 Million eBooks in 5 Months! became a best seller today on it's first day out of the box! As of 11:00 pm, it was #67, and the #1 self-help book on Amazon/Kindle!

WOW!

Is that exciting, or what? So, without further ado, a funny from our friend, John. And readers, do please comment and feel free to ask questions – John has agreed to be available during the day to respond!

Closet Case
By John Locke

One sunny afternoon, fifteen years ago, I came home around four in the afternoon to check on the progress of the new addition we were building onto our home that included a gym, a guest bedroom, and bathroom. As I walked through the gym that day, I stopped a moment to admire the graphic designs on the wall. Continuing into the bedroom, I waved at the brick layers who were finishing up the brickwork just outside the bedroom windows.

It only took me a second to notice my wife’s jeans and panties in the center of the floor of the otherwise empty room.

This can’t be good, I thought, frowning.

About that time I heard a tiny, mouse-like sound in the closet, calling my name very quietly. I noticed the door was cracked open a half-inch. I moved closer and whispered “What are you doing?”
My wife whispered, “Bring me my clothes and stand in front of the door.”

I did.

She pushed the closet door open a few inches, grabbed her clothes, and quickly emerged, fully dressed, and ran out of the room, shielding her face with her hands.

Following close behind, I said, “I have got to hear this story!”

We went to a quiet area of the house, where she made me promise not to tell anyone what she was about to say. I agreed, and kept that promise for fifteen years. Last month, my wife told a group of her friends.

And last week, she gave me permission to share it with you.

Here then, is the story of how my wife wound up spending nearly four hours in a dark closet, naked from the waist down!

Just after noon that fateful day, my wife entered the new gym to admire the graphics. All the workers were taking a lunch break, or so she assumed, since no one was in sight.

It was at this moment she needed to pee, so instead of going to the other end of the house, my wife entered the new bathroom that was still cluttered with paint cans and other supplies. She pulled her jeans and underwear to her ankles, sat on the toilet, and immediately heard some noises outside. Turning her head to the right, she saw a half-dozen brick layers walking toward the side of the house, getting ready to work just below the bathroom and bedroom windows.

None of the windows had curtains yet!

To make matters worse, three of the men were carrying step ladders!

Now let me pause to set the stage. The foundation is four feet off the ground, and the bathroom and bedroom windows start two feet above the floor line, which meant if she remained where she sat, they’d be able to see everything from the toilet seat up. If she stood to pull up her jeans, they’d see everything. But the ones who were about to climb onto their step ladders were about to see everything immediately!
My wife was in a terrible position. If she remained where she was, they’d be able to see her. If she stood to pull up her jeans they’d be able to see her.

She frantically tried to wave the men away, but they took it to mean she was being friendly, and began waving back as they continued approaching. Realizing they were seconds away from seeing her naked, she came up with a plan: if she slid to the floor very quickly and crawled into the guest bedroom, she’d have enough room to flip onto her back and pull her pants up before the men had time to climb their ladders.

It seemed like a great idea, so that’s what she did, slid to the floor and started crawling on her hands and knees out the bathroom, quite pleased with herself, knowing the window line was high enough that she wouldn’t be seen for another five or six seconds.

As she was about to flip onto her back to pull up her pants, she heard the painters talking in the adjoining gym and realized they were heading to the new bathroom to remove their supplies! In a panic, she scrambled across the floor full speed on her hands and knees and dove into the guest bedroom closet and shut the door in the nick of time.

Unfortunately, in her mad dash to get to the closet, her pants and panties had come off her ankles and were lying in the middle of the bedroom floor!

She couldn’t retrieve them because the brick layers were setting bricks around the windows all afternoon, the windows that were located directly across from the closet door!

Stuck with no cell phone, and not wanting to draw attention to her situation, my wife hid in the closet and waited all afternoon for the men to take a break.

But they didn’t.

I’ve teased my wife about this for fifteen years, and she remains convinced it could have happened to anyone. Is that true? Could this have possibly happened to you?
__________

New York Times Best-Selling author John Locke is the international best-selling author of nine novels including #1 Saving Rachel, #2 Wish List, #2 A Girl Like You, and #3 Vegas Moon. He has just released a how-to marketing book for authors titled, How I Sold 1 Million eBooks in 5 Months! John lives in Kentucky, where he is working on his eighth Donovan Creed novel, The Love You Crave, and his third Emmett Love western, Emmett & Gentry. To view John’s blog, book trailers and other information, or to sign up to receive notifications about future books, check the author’s website: www.SavingRachel.com.

Books by John Locke:

Guest Blogger: Gayle Carline

2011-06-16T03:50:00.000-07:00

Hello friends! I hope you will join The Moosettes in welcoming a very funny lady indeed - Gayle Carline. Gayle is the author of, What Would Erma Do? Confessions of a First Time Humor Columnist, as well as a series, Clean Sweep and Hit or Missus, the Peri Minneopa Mysteries. Gayle is a lovely person, and she really knows how to tickle the proverbial funny bone, so without further ado . . .

Moose Enounters
by Gayle Carline

Thanks, so much, Karen, Linda, and Barbara, for having me as a guest on your blog. I'll try to observe all the house rules and not leave a mess behind.

When I discovered A Moose Walked Into a Bar, the first thing that came to mind was: Gah! Moose!
Moose-Moose-Moose. For a gal who has never lived in moose country, or even seen a real live moose, it's an animal that has followed me around for most of my life.

Some might call it stalking.

It began innocently enough. When I was in my very early twenties, I went to see Monty Python and the Holy Grail. In the darkened theater, as the credits rolled, I laughed heartily at the moose humor ("A moose bit my sister once"). I laughed at that movie so much, when I found the screenplay at a bookstore in Champagne, Illinois, I grabbed it immediately.

Then I talked my boyfriend into paying for it.

Flash forward a few years - I am now living in southern California, married to a man who had been stationed in Alaska during his military service. He used to tell a story about driving back to the base in the wee hours, after partying in town, and seeing a shadow walking along the side of the road. Thinking it was another serviceman, they pulled their VW Beetle over to give him a lift. The "serviceman" turned out to be a female moose, who leapt over the car, kicking the windshield out as she went.

My only question is, how drunk do you have to be to mistake a moose for a man?
Unfortunately, that marriage ended when I figured out my husband and I were on different paths. His was the one marked "Socio."

The moose continued to pop its antlers into my life in the weirdest way. I remarried and had my son in 1992. At no time did I expose him to moose lore. I didn't sing him little moosey lullabies or tell him moosey tales. Nevertheless, he developed a moose obsession as a child, to the point that at 18, his favorite shirt is a black tee with the words, "Got Moose?" on the front.

Yeah, I don't get it, either.

The peak of moosiness came a few years ago, when I went to a writer's conference in San Diego. I love these conferences, because I always make new friends. One woman and I, after sitting through a workshop together, decided to have a drink and get to know each other. As we shared stories about our families and our books, a guy walked in with a conference badge and asked if he could join us.

Sure! The more the merrier, right?

He. Never. Shut. Up. During his endless monologue, he told us he was from Alaska and pulled out pictures of his teen-aged daughter, who was wearing a bikini and leaning on the hood of a car.

Let's say it all together: Ewwwww.

Thankfully, he turned from that subject and began to tell us about all the moose living in his town and how friendly they are. Then he pulled out pictures of the moose, whom he'd named. At that point, I guess you could say a moose did walk into the bar.

My new girlfriend walked out - to the restroom, and never came back, darn her.

I've finally accepted the role of the moose in my life. I even included them in my mysteries. My heroine, Peri, has a collection of moose figurines. They're not central to the story. They're just a small piece of what makes Peri unique. Who else collects moose?

Just like Peri's collection, moose are going to remain in the footnotes of my life, quietly peeking out from behind doors and curtains when I least expect it. As an homage to my idol, James Thurber, I drew a little Thurber-style cartoon of the moose in my life. Of course, I'm not a bald man with a large nose, but you get the idea.

_______

Gayle Carline is a typical Californian, meaning that she was born somewhere else. She moved to Orange County from Illinois in 1978 and finally nested in Placentia a few years later. Her husband, Dale, bought her a laptop for Christmas in 1999 because she wanted to write. A year after that, he gave her horseback riding lessons. When she bought her first horse, she finally started writing. Gayle soon became a regular contributor to California Riding Magazine, and in March, 2005, she began writing a humor column for her local newspaper, the Placentia News-Times. Since then, she’s been entertaining readers with stories of her life with Dale and their son, Marcus. In 2009, she published her first mystery novel, Freezer Burn, with Echelon Press. In 2011, she published What Would Erma Do, a humorous memoir about getting the newspaper job, woven in with some of her readers’ favorite columns. She’ll continue to write columns and mysteries as long as there are stories to tell. You can learn more about Gayle and her writing at www.GayleCarline.com.

Best Selling Author John Locke visits the Moose Bar

2011-06-13T03:32:00.000-07:00

Coming June 22nd - "Closet Case" by John Locke

A True Never Before Told Short Story

Celebrating the publication of John's newest book -

DON'T POKE THE BEAR!

The Princess Journals

2011-06-08T03:43:00.000-07:00

By Barbara Silkstone

My granddaughter Bailey is almost five. Like most of her contemporaries at pre-kindergarten, Bailey is besotted with all things “Princess.” For those readers unfamiliar with the Princesses, they are the super heroes of post-tot little girls. The dynamic team is comprised of Snow White, Sleeping Beauty, Arial, Jasmine and the chief princess, Cinderella.

Somewhere in her fantasies, Bailey has made an assumption that she belongs in this exclusive club of Princesses. This is not a debatable issue with her. She accepts that the rest of the Princesses are prepared to train her in the art of ruling kingdoms, being waited on by animated mice, and being courted by charming princes in spiffy uniforms.

Bailey’s small bedroom befits her position as Princess-in-Waiting. The room is a fluffy concoction of pink and gold, faux satin and tulle. Cartoon portraits of Team Princess line the walls interspersed with the occasional castle or princely dude. The bedspread is a giant size portrait of the smiling Cinderella. Bailey’s sheets are a collage of pictures of Snow White. Each night my little granddaughter sleeps nose to nose with an illustration of Snow White printed on her pillow case. All the pieces for Bailey’s succession to the throne are in place.

My granddaughter’s daily ritual begins when she dons her pink Princess bathrobe with the five princesses embroidered on the back. She slips her tiny feet into her pink satin slippers and strides to the breakfast table. The minion of the day mom, big sister Ashley or grandmother serves Bailey her breakfast on plastic Princess plates as she sips from her Princess cup.

Today is a holiday. Bailey and family are to make a trip to Disney World. Bailey looks forward to the event with calm acceptance as if this is the next step of her induction into the Princess Hall of Fame. She prepares for the outing carefully dressing in her pink fluffy dress with tiny slip-on shoes and a matching handbag that contains her small travel tiara.

Arriving at Cinderella’s castle Bailey is accompanied by her minions, otherwise known as Mom, big sister, and Grandmom. “When you wish upon a star…” plays its happy refrain of promises granted as characters prance by attempting to interact with Bailey. My tiny granddaughter holds herself aloft, waiting.

With thousands of delighted guests milling about the castle steps, Bailey’s mother is approached by a uniformed castle guard. “Would your family like a private audience with Cinderella?” The minions are surprised. This is an amazing event. “Bailey would you like to meet Cinderella?” Mom asks excitedly. Bailey remains composed. “Yes. She’s expecting me.” The minions exchange startled looks.

Cinderella is sweet and beautiful. She speaks gently to Bailey complimenting her on her dress and helping her adjust her tiara. Photos are taken and autographs signed. Bailey signs one for Cinderella who graciously accepts it. Cinderella must leave to prepare for the parade. Bailey understands and hugs her one more time.

Princess Bailey and her minions make their way through the throngs of people to get a good view of the parade. They stand in the hot Florida sun as the march begins. Hundreds of smiling Disney characters wave at thousands of happy guests. Bailey waits poised regally in her mother’s arms, her tiara slightly askew.

Finally Cinderella glides into view high above the crowd on a float complete with a pumpkin coach and Prince Charming. Bailey waves enthusiastically. Cinderella sees her among the crowd and waves back blowing a kiss to her. Bailey settles in Mom’s arms as Cinderella disappears down the parade route. It’s good being one of the Princesses. She smiles contentedly.

Snow White’s float makes its way past Princess Bailey’s entourage. Bailey waves. Snow White makes no eye contact with her. Bailey calls out “Snow White! It’s me, Bailey!” There is still no response from the raven-haired princess. How can this be?

Bailey panics. She begins to climb on Mom’s shoulders, her tiara falling off. Bailey yells again. Snow White waves at the thousands of other kids but she does not acknowledge Bailey. In a last ditch effort for royal recognition, Princess Bailey scrambles onto Mom’s head clutching mom’s hair with one hand and frantically waving with the other. In the loudest voice Bailey can muster she yells, “Snow White!” It’s me, Bailey. I SLEEP ON YOUR SHEETS!”

John Locke - Don't Poke the Bear!
Coming June 22nd to the Moose

John Locke to visit the Moose Bar!

2011-06-05T11:13:00.000-07:00

A True Never Before Told Story by Best Selling Author

and all-around nice guy, John Locke

Coming to the Moose on Wednesday, June 22^nd.

“Closet Case”

Celebrating the recent release of DON’T POKE THE BEAR!

The saga of Emmett and Gentry continues in the second book in Locke’s Emmett Love western adventure series. Come join the Moose and the Bear!

Party On!

Guest Blogger: Debbi Mack!

2011-06-01T06:15:00.000-07:00

Happy Wednesday! Please join Barbara, Linda and I in welcoming mystery author, Debbi Mack to The Moose. Debbi writes bestselling hardboiled mysteries featuring Baltimore lawyer, Sam McRae. Debbi is also a fun person with a great sense of humor, even in the direst of circumstances, as her post explains . . .

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Crime Bake
by Debbi Mack

You know, it’s occurred to me that my life is filled with funny stories–in retrospect. This funny story took place on the way to a crime writers conference, which makes it appropriate for this blog.

See, I heard shortly before the New England Crime Bake last November that it was a great place to meet agents. “Well, sign me up!” I thought.

So I registered at the last minute, flew up to Boston, and instead of taking a cab to the hotel (which was way the hell out in Dedham, a somewhat costly jaunt by cab), I decided to take the train. So I hopped a bus to the station and off I went. I was feeling pretty good–like an intrepid and frugal traveler–saving money on cab fare and learning about Boston’s commuter train system. What could be better, right?

I got off at the stop and made my first big mistake (well, maybe my second–after deciding to take the train, that this). I took the escalator down and ended up on the subway platform. Sensing something wasn’t right, I asked a bystander, “This isn’t where you catch the train to Dedham, is it?” She said no and that I needed to go upstairs. You know, where the train station was?

Oh, duh, I thought. Of course. So I rolled my bag to the “up” escalator–it was a single file escalator, probably really old–and I got on.

Now here’s where the story gets really hilarious. I got on the escalator, and when I tried to pull my bag on, it got stuck. So I’m yanking on this bag like an idiot, while the escalator keeps moving up. At some point, I really should have let go. That was my next big mistake. I didn’t.

The next thing I know, I’m falling face forward down the escalator steps. I tried to catch myself (with my one fully functional hand–the other one has dystonia and can’t grip worth a sh*t), but failed spectacularly.

A word of advice: never fall southbound on a northbound escalator. Especially if it’s single file. You have absolutely no room to maneuver. Plus your center of gravity makes it almost impossible to get up. I suspect this is true even if you have two good hands. But having only one good hand sure didn’t make it any easier.

So there I am, flailing around on the escalator (hysterically funny–in retrospect) trying to upright myself, my bag a few steps below and blocking the guy behind me, who looked on with concern and might have been able to help if it hadn’t been a g*ddamned single file escalator.

Then I heard him say, “It’s okay. We’re almost at the top.” Good, I thought. But it wasn’t.

The escalator managed to push me only halfway off, so my torso was still hanging over it. Now, an escalator essentially turns into a treadmill once you reach the bottom or top. So I ended up repeatedly trying to push myself up, only to have the escalator/treadmill continue to slide underneath me, which resulted in me repeatedly flopping face-down, as if I was bowing over and over. (Did I not tell you this was a hysterically funny story? Wait–it gets even better.)

So there I am, flopping around like a landed bass (using one and a half hands and trying desperately to keep my face from contacting the ribbed metal treadmill rolling beneath me), possibly managing now and then to shout, “Help!” or something like it. (Just to clue people in that something was wrong, cause I could have been doing push-ups, right?) I was beginning to think that I’d simply collapse–my strength would give out, I’d fall and my face would be torn to pieces by the sharp metal grooves endlessly running against it–when I heard a voice yelling, “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry” over and over. I wondered (in between wondering if I was going to live through the experience), what did this person have to be sorry about? I was the moron who fell on the escalator. It wasn’t his fault.
But the voice got closer and I realized he was standing behind me. So with all my strength, I managed to flip myself over and face him–careful to keep my head raised, so my hair wouldn’t get caught in the escalator. (That would’ve really sucked. That or having the escalator turn my face into hamburger. LOL!)

I extended both arms and he grabbed them and pulled me up. “Oh, thank God,” I thought.
I stood there, wearing an expression I’m sure was one of complete shock. Then, I thought, “My bag!” But it was there right beside me. How did it get there? I wondered. And what happened to all the people behind me on the escalator? Did they just, like, step over me and walk away? Did they really think I was imitating Jack Palance on an escalator? Or doing some kind of weird performance art?

I’d like to say I thanked my rescuer profusely. Even gave him a big hug. But I just stood there. I can’t even remember what I said. It’s all kind of a blur now.

So while I stared off in a zombie-like state, the man who rescued me stopped saying, “I’m sorry,” and instead was saying, “Calm down! Calm down!” (The story gets a bit surreal here–a bit more surreal, I should say.) He kept repeating those words–”Calm down! Calm down!”–and his voice got louder and louder as he did.

I just looked at him and said, “I am calm.” (With a calm that can only come from being in complete shock.)

But he got more and more agitated. Finally, he threw up his hands and blurted, “Don’t freak out because I’m black!” Then he scurried away. (Surreal, huh? Wait. There’s more. And really funny, too–in retrospect.)

I turned toward two guys standing near me and said, “What was that about?”
They both said–nothing. They just looked at me.

Okay, I thought. It was a rhetorical question. I didn’t really expect an answer, but I figured it might provoke a smile or a shrug.

Then I realized everyone getting off the escalator was looking at me. And, I mean they were turning their heads and staring at me as they walked by. One person actually stopped and said, “Are you all right?”

And I said, “Sure, I’m fine.” But then I realized, these people were staring at me for a reason. So something was very wrong. And they were all looking at my face. Oh, sh*t.
I began to paw my face rather frantically with my hand and a half. Okay, my nose is there. Check. No flaps of torn skin. Check. No grooves cut into my cheeks or forehead. Check. Then I touched my chin and when I pulled my hand away–it was covered in blood!

I took a deep breath and said, “Oh . . .my . . . GOD!!!”

That’s when I started feeling kind of depressed. I moaned (to no one in particular), “I just want to get to my hotel.” (What a laugh, huh? But there’s more.)

Long story short (too late for that–ha ha): a really nice lady who worked for theMassachusetts Bay Transportation Authority let me use the bathroom to clean up. (I also got to sit in the booth with her while the EMTs came. Yeah, the EMTs.) I was–kind of a mess. Never mind the blood stains or the grease marks that looked like tire tracks all over my jacket, along with my favorite pair of jeans (which also suffered a tiny rip). I’d literally taken it on the chin, which was road-rashed with a vertical gash running down the middle. Now, facial wounds always look worse than they really are. The face tends to bleed a lot from small cuts. So when people told me, “You might need stitches,” I was like, no way. I’m not going to the hospital. So that was my answer when the question was posed by the EMTs.

Afterwards, I dragged myself upstairs (by elevator this time) to find the train, but I couldn’t figure out which track it was on. So I was like, “F*ck it. I’m taking a cab.” So after all that, I didn’t save a penny. It ended up costing me cab fare and a bus ride. Plus I almost had my face completely f*cked up in the bargain! (ROFL!)

But wait–there’s even more.

When I got to the hotel and checked in, the people at the reception desk didn’t even blink when they saw me. You would’ve thought battered people who looked like they’d been run over by a truck walked into the hotel everyday. (I’m assuming they’re trained not to react when a customer arrives looking like holy hell. You have to admire their professionalism, really.)

I stumbled into my room, cleaned the grease off my jeans with regular soap and water, washed my face. Surveyed the damage to my chin. Oooh. Not terribly sightly–in fact, my appearance was less than ideal for meeting agents or anyone else. Oh, well–can’t be helped. Carry on! I figured I’d make a joke out of it. “A funny thing happened on the way here . . .” or “I write hardboiled fiction and I look like my protagonist on a bad day!” Ha ha! Laughs all around. These are things I might have said, if anyone had asked about my condition. But no one said a thing. (Which, in itself, seems rather hilarious–in retrospect.)
So there I was, my chin scraped raw, striped with a bright red gash (I was starting to worry that maybe I should have gotten those stitches after all), and no one said, “Were you mugged or something?” No. My chin became the elephant in the room.

I was self-conscious, at first, at the conspicuous absence of remarks about my sorry-looking face. But after a while, I just forgot about it (when I wasn’t near a mirror, that is).
Later–I think it was the second night–I was talking to Kate Flora(a great author, BTW–everyone should read her Thea Kozak mysteries) and Harlan Coben (that loud thunk you heard was the sound a big name being dropped). Kate said (with delightful understatement), “It looks like you had a little accident.” So, of course, I told them the story. And we all had a good laugh over it. (Because even then, it was funny–in retrospect.)

So–that’s it. That’s the story. Oh, yeah, I talked to several agents. Submitted to all of them. Still don’t have one. But I do have a tiny scar on my chin. You can’t see it unless you’re looking for it. I consider it my Crime Bake souvenir.

And to the guy who rescued me from extreme disfigurement by escalator–I just want to say “Thank you so much!” (If I didn’t already say it. Like I said, it’s all a blur now.)

And I’d give you a big hug, if I could.

_________

Debbi Mack is a hardboiled crime fiction author whose debut mystery novel, Identity Crisis, features Maryland lawyer Stephanie Ann "Sam" McRae in a complex and action-packed story of murder and identity theft. The novel won Best Mystery in the Preditors & Editors Readers' Poll 2009. Identity Crisis is the first book in the Sam McRae mystery series. The eBook of Identity Crisis cracked the New York Times e-book bestseller list in March 2011. You can learn more about Debbi and her books at www.DebbiMack.com.

Meet Ned and LaRue

2011-05-25T05:05:00.000-07:00

Chihuahua Edie with blankets Candy Cane and LaRue

I name inanimate objects. Well, doesn't everyone? I mean, if you have more than one of something, such as blankets, doesn't it make sense to name them rather than having to waste a lot of time with descriptions?

Example: Me (shivering on the couch) to one of my offspring, "While you're upstairs would you please get me a blanket? I want the soft, white one I keep on the end of my bed."

Ten minutes later offspring says, "Here you go, Mom."

Me (after a brief pause to curl my lip in disgust), "No, not the little white one with the fringe. That's only for decoration. Get me the big one. It's soft and plush feeling like a teddy bear."

Offspring, looking blank, "I have no idea which blanket you mean."

Me, "Your sister gave it to me for Christmas last year."

Offspring, acting all too casual for someone whose mother is in the throes of hypothermia, "Which sister?"

Me, lips turning blue and now unable to curl successfully, "Does it matter? Fetch me the stinking blanket before I freeze, okay? It's on the end of my bed and it's big and white and plush."

Offspring, rolling eyes so far heavenward they nearly become dislocated, "OMG, will you chill?"

Me, teeth chattering, "I AM chilled and I want my blanket now, you little sadist."

Personally, I find that kind of exchange annoying and a waste of effort. How much simpler it is to simply give names to your possessions.

Example: Me, wearing a pleasant smile, "While you're upstairs will you please get Ned off the end of my bed and bring him to me."

Offspring, looking at me with fondness, "Ah, soft, fluffy Ned. He's one of your favorites, isn't he? Consider it done, Mother."

Now isn't that better?

So if you happen to be in my neighborhood drop by for a cup of coffee brewed in Mrs. Nell. Join me at one of my computers--Lester, Delta, or Riker, your choice. Sit in my recliner, Old Mama, under one of my blankets. I have many, but may I suggest Candy Cane, Bucky, Scottie, or LaRue? If you want to enjoy some music I have a selection of iPods for your listening pleasure. Just let me know whether you prefer Thor, Sheldon, Leonard, or Archer.

Of course I've named our cars. They are Darken Ess Red and Greenie.

My life is now simplified. Why don't you try naming stuff and see for yourself? Your family wouldn't go for it, you insist? I say, drop the defeatist attitude.

Hey, if I was able to train my crew, then you can train yours. Consider yourself the family whisperer.

Direct from the UK...

2011-05-18T03:58:00.000-07:00

The Moose is excited to bring you our guest blogger for today, direct from the UK for your giggling pleasure we present, JA Clement, author of the newly published: On Dark Shores, The Lady

Take it away, JA!

When I was a kid we did all the local music festivals; not Woodstock or Glastonbury-style festivals, but the sort where everyone sings individually on a stage and then the adjudicator gets up and says how each person did, and who has won. It was the bicentenary of Purcell’s birth or death or something of that sort.

Purcell is not one of my favourite composers and there was not a single song that I liked. Eventually Mum agreed that I only had to do a song called Dido’s Lament from the opera “Dido and Aeneas”. It’s terribly dour and stately – Dido is talking to her sister and saying “Just off to kill myself, love, don’t you worry about it!”

So the day came, and though normally about there’d be thirty people scattered around for a class, this time there were about two hundred; the hall was packed! I started to get more and more nervous with each passing competitor.

The adjudicator read out my name. I walked up, gave my music to the accompanist and went to stand in the middle of that huge stage. As I took my place my knees turned to water and my mind went into full rabbit-in-the headlights mode, hoping only that when the music got to the right point, the words would come out of my mouth as my brain appeared to have stalled.

Partway into the first verse, the small dark corner of my mind that was still functioning noticed something odd; every so often, at irregular intervals, a little ripple went over the audience. It seemed to start at the front and go to the back like an extremely understated Mexican Wave, and each time it happened it seemed to be slightly more marked.

I couldn’t see exactly what was going on, but out of my peripheral vision, I could just make out this mysterious movement. In the second verse it was worse; now it wasn’t so quick and clean - little pockets of the audience seemed to somehow not be sitting quite as still as music-festival-politeness would demand , but I still couldn’t quantify it.

I finished the song much mystified, took a little bow and glanced round as I went back to my seat, but was not much the wiser. There was a scanty smattering of applause which died down more quickly than usual.

When I got back to where my friends were sitting I was dismayed to find the whole lot of them, all thirteen, hunched over with their hands over their eyes. I sat down next to my Mum, who made no attempt to turn round. “Was it that bad?” I asked.

There was a snort; she started to speak but her voice collapsed into a squeak. After a moment, still not looking at me, she managed to spit out “Do you know what you just sang?”

“What?” The question made no sense to me.

“Do you KNOW......what you just sang?” she hissed, and as she snorted again I realised that her shoulders were shaking – and in fact so were my sister’s, and the other singing teacher’s – and in fact quite a few sets of shoulders throughout the room.

“No.....”

Turns out, I had got the words wrong – only one word in the sentence, but having got it wrong once, had then proceeded through two verses of repeats still with the wrong word every time that phrase came up. Not that amusing you might think – I’d only said “get” instead of “am” – only with my usual genius for misspeaking myself, I’d managed to change the meaning of the whole thing rather substantially.

Problem is, instead of singing “When I am laid, am laid in earth” what I came out with, in full baroque splendour, was

“When I get laid, get lai-ai-ai-ai-aid in earth

May my sorrows create no trouble, no trouble in thy breast.

Remember me! Remember me! But ah-ah forget my name!”

Bear in mind that, this being opera, each line as written above is sung twice with varying emphasis in the course of one verse – and then that verse 2 is word-for-word the same as verse one but fancier, so having reduced the auditorium to a state with the first verse I had then stood looking doubly miserable and sung the whole thing all the way through a second time, equally incorrectly but with trills!

Well, whether you’re familiar with the story of Dido’s failed love affair with Aeneas or not, that re-phrasing puts a whole new complexion on the song. My Mum, an incorrigible giggler, had started it; my sister and my Mum’s friend, the other singing teacher, had not been far behind; and with a solid block of thirteen gigglers right in the front of the hall, everyone else hadn’t really had much of a chance. That weird ripple I had noticed had been two hundred people hiding their eyes, biting their thumbs and otherwise manfully trying not to go into hysterics in the middle of a silent(ish) auditorium....

I was mortified. All around me two hundred people were chortling, wiping their eyes, and grinning sympathetically at me. I wanted to hide under the chairs; but, I thought, at least there was one person in the hall who wouldn’t have got the joke. The adjudicator was this angelic little old lady who, I thought, would at least not have caught the implications of my gaffe. That was about all the solace I could think of, sat in embarrassment in the sniggering hall.

Anyway, the rest of the singers sang; the adjudicator mulled over her sheets and then got up to read the results. Each person only got a quick summary of her comments, but when she got to me, just reading out my name had the entire hall in hysterics again. When they’d quieted down, she commented that there were some inaccuracies of pitch and wording and moved on to the next person, much to my relief. Ah well, I thought; that’s over, at least.

On the way out Mum sent me over to the table by the door to pick up my music and adjudication sheet. Feeling a tap on my elbow I turned round to find the adjudicator standing there.

“Watch your wording, my dear,” she told me very seriously. “ ‘Am laid’ has quite a different meaning to ‘get laid’ – but I have to say,” and here she twinkled up at me mischievously, “I enjoyed your performance today. I think it’d be fair to say that it made my day – in fact, no; it made my festival!”

And chortling quietly, she walked back into the hall for the next class.

Pomp and Circumstance

2011-05-11T05:53:00.000-07:00

It’s graduation season and that can only mean one thing: graduation speeches. Student leaders will give speeches. Principals and university presidents will give speeches. Politicians, celebrities, and celebrity politicians will give speeches. Sports figures, newscasters, and possibly each of the Kardashians will give speeches. They’ll ALL be giving speeches. And pretty much, the themes will be the same: “Follow Your Dream,” “Challenge Yourself,” “Reach for the Stars,” “Pay it Forward,” and more. Broad, common themes – and while they’re all true, are they really sage pieces advice that a young person can take out into life and use right away?

I say not.

No, if I was asked to give a graduation speech (unlikely to happen after you read the following), I would give them something they can sink their teeth into. Something they can remember and apply the very next day.

So, without further ado, I give you Karen Cantwell’s graduation speech:

TEN TIPS FOR SUCCESS IN THE REAL WORLD

1) For the female graduates - always wear a bra. If you're knocked unconscious in an accident, you don't want your very personal friends, Teensy and Eensy (in my case) or Jumbo and Whopper (in Dolly Parton's case) to be exposed to the world.

2) If you aren’t a people person, apply for a job at TSA. Based on my latest experience with airport security, you’re sure to be in good company there.

3) Never obsess on past mistakes. There are far more productive topics to obsess about, like: did Gilligan and the Skipper really get any sleep in those flimsy hammocks?

4) Wash your hands in a public restroom. They might have hidden cameras and you don't want to wind up on a Today Show segment dedicated to poor health and hygiene habits.

5) For the male graduates – always wear an athletic supporter when running. Since I’m a woman, I obviously have no personal experience with male accoutrements, but research shows that those boys can get tangled up down there. Now I HAVE had several necklaces that have gotten tangled and that wasn’t pretty, so I can only imagine . . .

6) Rotate your tires every 5000 miles. I don’t know why. Just do it.

7) Clean UNDER the toaster when Aunt Gertrude visits from Niceville, FL. She looks under everything and she's not so NICE when she spreads the news to relatives about your housekeeping deficiencies.

8) When you become a parent, tell your children you love them every day. Make sure you keep extensive video footage as well -- you'll want evidence when they're adults and say it's your fault they're seeing a therapist.

9) To impress visitors in your home, buy a copy of War and Peace to put on your bookshelf. If someone asks you if you liked it, simply say “Literature at its finest.” Don’t worry, no one else has read it either, so they’ll only nod and say, “I couldn’t agree more.”

10) Laugh at your own foibles. And laugh at the word "foibles," because let's face it -- it's a funny word.

So there you go. Not deep and meaningful words of wisdom, just shallow but tangible bits of counsel. How about you? What workable piece of advice would you give a roomful of people exiting academia and entering the school of hard knocks?

Executive Thoughts

2011-05-04T03:52:00.000-07:00

We at The Moose are very excited to be bringing you guest blogger, Maria E. Schneider, author of the hilarious Sedona O'Hala Mysteries - EXECUTIVE LUNCH, EXECUTIVE RETENTION, and EXECUTIVE SICK DAYS. Maria has graciously agreed to join us and tell us all about life as an Executive Writer:

It is not possible to have great looking nails when you’re a gardener. Hair? Forget about it. Gardeners dig in the dirt up to their elbows. When they look up, if they bother to, their knees have sunk into the rich, dark soil to somewhere midway up their thighs. If I forget to tie my hair back, it’s likely to have a clump or two of mud from being pushed back. I’ve been known to come inside with smears of dirt across my forehead. On those days, the rest of me is too dirty for the shower.

But we writers must have these other hobbies to keep us inspired. Where you do think Sage: Tales from a Magical Kingdom came from??? Did you think I made ALL of it up???

No, writers do other things besides toil at the keyboard. We bake bread. Or as my husband once said, “Bricks for the garden wall?” Hmph. I’ve learned a few things since those first twenty attempts...

The point is, writing is not glamorous, no matter what you hear from the Moose at the bar. Those moose are just trying to butter you up. Bars like this are full of pick-up lines and sordid tales looking for a sympathetic ear.

It’s possible I could clean up my act. Maybe I could start with paying attention to what clothes I have on before going to the grocery. It turns out that wearing blue shorts, pink socks and a purple shirt is NOT a fashion statement. Well, it is, but not necessarily one I want anyone to notice. Just don’t look at me, okay???

The guy at the post office was impressed with my career. I could tell. When I arrived ready to mail off yet another manuscript, he asked me, “So just what do you do for a living?” I thought it was the multiple LARGE manuscript packages that went out on a monthly basis that made him ask. Turns out I had my shirt on backwards, forgot to comb my hair, and I was limping from a twisted ankle (gardening accident.) The guy probably figured I had 10 kids and was under an inordinate amount of stress. Hey, at least the tag was tucked in.

For this lovely introduction into the Moose Bar...no wait, the bar where Moose hang out, I’m wearing very nice blue slacks and a t-shirt with some blue turtles. I match. I’m inspired. And yeah, when you see Karen Cantwell in here, she looks like a hot babe, all dolled up ready for the Academy awards when Take the Monkeys and Run hits the big time. But we all know she has kids. And goes camping, and you should see the woman when she loses her keys and is late for a doctor appointment. Most people turn red when they’re frustrated. I hear Karen turns...green. Or maybe that was because of the aforementioned doctor’s appointment. We writers don’t always eat right. Sometimes there’s a deadline.

At least Barbara Silkstone fits into the bar scene well. How do you think she learned all the things she wrote about in Adventures of a Love Investigator, 527 Naked Men & One Woman? Yeah, I’m worried about the Moose too.

L.C. Evans looks put together--but check her shoes when you meet her. There is no way you can write about horses without cleaning the stalls. I grew up on a ranch. Trust me. Check her shoes before you let this woman inside. I don’t know what alligator poop looks like. You’re on your own on that one. But if you’re thinking of asking her on a date, you might want to make sure she doesn’t cart any of those ‘gaters around in her truck. Or baby ones in her pocket.

Yanno. On second thought, this bar is kind of a scary place. I’m thinking I should have worn waders and toted a gun. Yes, I know heroines are supposed to wear pantyhose, heels and strap the gun to...well, it’s no wonder the covers of books always show the women with her gun out ready to shoot. Dressed like that, a woman is going to need the gun, and we aren’t dumb enough to stash it down those tight mini-skirts. I left off sexy models on the covers for the Sedona mysteries. Sedona doesn’t have time to wear pantyhose even if she does work in corporate American. She keeps her gun in her backpack. She’s pretty fast on her feet too because those guys chasing her are definitely not looking for a happily-ever-after date.

But this bar is a classy place. We don’t need guns. We use words as our weapons. And if that doesn’t work, well, watch out for rotten tomatoes, runaway horses, rogue Monkeys, and White Rabbit Rescuers. If you’re not careful enough, heads will roll.
__________

Maria E. Schneider is the author of the Sedona O’Hala cozy mystery series and the more magical exploits found in the Moon Shadow Series. She really has tried most of the spells in Under Witch Moon, or so one might believe from some of the concoctions that come out of her kitchen. You can find Maria at her blog, toiling away on various mysterious quests for sanity: www.BearMountainBooks.com.

The Sedona O'Hala Series:

Other books by Maria E. Schneider:

No Seeds Please

2011-04-27T03:45:00.000-07:00

By Barbara Silkstone

My daughter and I pulled up to the drive-through window of a KFC restaurant. I needed a “fix.” My passion for fried chicken is legendary. The Colonel and I have had an enabling relationship for many years. I support him and he keeps me supplied.

We scanned the red and white poster board menu and decided that the eight-piece bucket would be perfect – six pieces wouldn’t be enough and ten would be a pig-out, besides the price of ten chunks of cholesterol was equal to half the down payment on a used car. Since when had chicken become so expensive? The oil problem had finally struck close to home.

Expecting the challenges of drive-through window communication, I spoke slowly and distinctly into the speaker box as if I was talking to the customer service department at AT&T. “I would like the eight-piece bucket.”

A voice responded over the tin can and string speaker. “We can’t sell you the eight-piece bucket today. Would you like the ten-piece?” My daughter and I exchanged befuddled looks.

“I just want eight pieces of chicken.”

The squawk box grumbled. “We are not allowed to sell you eight pieces. Do you want original or crispy?”

Dazzled by the illogic, I growled at the box, “I don’t want the ten-piece.” I’m wise to this chicken upgrading, it’s happened to me before. I refused assuming the squawker would give in. She didn’t. As I argued my case for the pieces of eight cars lined up in back of me… hungry chicken-nibblers waiting for their share of the greasy feast. “We can sell you six pieces or ten pieces,” the garbled voice persisted.

I don’t do well under pressure and knowing those behind me were salivating, I snapped. “Never mind! I’m coming inside.” As I pulled into a parking space, I turned to my daughter. “I think I’ve lost it.” I was in a pre-orgasmic state; the smell of fried fowl had aroused my grease pheromones. Nobody stands between me and original recipe fried chicken.

My offspring followed me into KFC. We perused the billboard menu. The sign offered what we wanted, eight pieces of blinking chicken for $13.99. The counter person repeated the argument given at the window adding, “Corporate does not allow eight pieces. Six or ten, lady. Take it or leave it.”

“Let me speak to ‘corporate’ right now!” The clerk’s mouth dropped open.

I turned to my daughter with tears of laughter in my eyes. “This has to be a Monty Python episode. In what demented part of the universe does this make any sense?” We both began giggling. The giggles turned into laughter as I imagined the bucket-fillers hunting down eight-legged chickens. There must be a shortage of octo-fowl.

We looked at the menu board again. There as plain as the nose on the clerk’s face were the words:

4 Piece Dinner - $ 6.99.

I whispered to my daughter in a tone that sounded as if I’d broken the DaVinci Code. “We can get two of the four piece dinners and sides and beat them at their own game.”

“Most people would walk away, but I understand,” my daughter said. Part of our family legend is my obsession with fried chicken. When I was pregnant with my daughter, the local A&W Drive In served the crispiest, saltiest chicken on the planet. I had such an extreme craving that A&W actually painted my name on a parking bumper so that I’d have a reserved space for my nine months. Twice a day I inhaled an insane amount of chicken saturated in peanut oil and never lost my girlish figure.

We ordered TWO of the 4 Piece Dinners. The clerk handed us the boxes never realizing she’d been out-witted. That was the day I bested the Chicken-Ponzi. I could take that knowledge – making eight pieces from two “4’s” with me no matter where I traveled. As long as there was KFC, I would beat them at their own game. As I write this I realize I’ve driven myself into a fry-frenzy. I shall head over to the giant red and white bucket as I type the last word of this story.

Now that I’ve conquered the chicken-racket, I still need help with the burger-barns. I don’t frequent them as often but when I do the frustration sends my normally low blood pressure inching upward. Try telling the tin-can-on-a-string ordering box that you want your burger on a seedless bun, please. It can’t be done.

No matter how many ways you say ‘seedless, please’ – they hear ‘cheese.’

“Without cheese?” the voice confirms.

“No,” I said. “With cheese but on a seedless bun.”

“Got it! No cheese.” The box responds.

I try graphic descriptions. “Take a bun, a roll if you prefer, and make sure it doesn’t have any seeds.”

“No cheese?”

Someone tell me how to say ‘no seeds please’ and be understood. No sesame doesn’t work. The box doesn’t recognize ‘sesame.’ The words ‘plain bun’ can hold up the queue for ten minutes as they scratch their heads. I’ve stopped saying please as “no seeds please” sounds as if I’m reading from Dr. Seuss.

I’m open to suggestions. How do you express your desire for no seeds? I may have to confine myself to a life of KFC.

The Auditioner

2011-04-20T05:12:00.001-07:00

Auditioning for the role of giant

Today the Moose is pleased to welcome guest blogger, Andrea Evans. Andrea, an auditioner, lives in Charleston, SC. She is happily single and occasionally writes TV recaps for The Game Effect.

I'm an actress. Scratch that. I was an actress. From the age of five when I first announced to my family my chosen profession, until about four years ago when I found myself playing an anthropomorphic monster inside a sleeping bag costume, I passionately pursued my dream. I performed in choirs, musicals, dance recitals, children's plays, one-acts, epic Civil War dramas, Shakespeare, films, TV pilots...I even got my Bachelor of Arts in Theatre, an achievement that, while personally fulfilling, is professionally meaningless.

I acted my a** off for 20 of my 29 years. And then one day, I stopped. Cold turkey. Never looked back, no regrets, easiest decision of my life. The reasons were complicated but ultimately fell under one category: I'm not really into commitment. I'm not afraid of it -- I've happily committed to jobs and boyfriends for years at a time -- so calling myself a commitment-phobe would be incorrect. I just don't prefer it; I love being single. And to be a successful actress, you basically have to marry acting. That's quite a daunting prospect considering all the things orbiting the acting world that I find unattractive:

1. Same old, same old -- every fall, community theatres around the nation announce the shows they're putting on for the season. The list invariably includes a holiday favorite (Sleepy Hollow, A Christmas Carol), a musical (anything by Rodgers and Hammerstein), a comedy that isn't very funny (Arsenic and Old Lace comes to mind), and a VID (Very Important Drama...usually something by Tennessee Williams or Oscar Wilde). Afraid unfamiliar shows will yield poor ticket sales, few theatres put energy into producing newer works that people haven't seen year in and year out. As a result, live theater is dying a slow, painful death because audiences can't justify seeing Oklahoma! for the umpteenth time at a price 20 times higher than when they last enjoyed it, which was way back in 1963. They'd rather save themselves $25 and go to the movies, where they can watch professional actors perform in something new.

2. Politics -- there is a professional code of "ethics" in the theatre world that many actors, directors, and producers live by. It involves a lot of ego stroking and pleasantries I find exhausting. If I see a show and I don't enjoy it, I don't like being cornered after the performance so I can tell whoever produced it how wonderful it was. I'd much rather tell them what worked and didn't work and why I think so, but that might hurt my chances of being cast in the future. Also, if I want a part, I like to audition for it and go home. I'm not so interested in proving my dedication to the art form by staying an extra 4 hours to read with Mike, who can't make it to the audition until 11pm, or schmoozing with the director ("Oh, you directed that 2002 production of Hamlet? That was the BEST Shakespeare production I've EVER seen. And I've been to The Globe!") until he's flattered enough to cast me. Like an irrelevant dictatorship, the theatre world rewards submissive sycophants and punishes free thinking independents.

3. Poor Investment Returns -- acting in community theatre is time consuming. On top of your regular work week, you typically devote 10-20 hours of free time to rehearsals or performances. You give up social time, taking a walk time, nap time, reading a good book time, all to make room for this creative endeavor. Except it's often not creatively fulfilling, so when the show closes, you're left wondering what was it all for? You don't get paid, you don't get as much stage time as you'd like, the audiences are tiny, you quite possibly hate your co-stars with the fire of a thousand suns, and the production is mediocre, even on its best night. You put in all this time and effort, and for what?

Acting, for me, was the ultimate crappy boyfriend. I happily broke up with it in 2007 and have since devoted my free time to travel, spirituality, writing, figuring out who I am and what I'm doing here, and generally doing whatever I want. I've grown up a lot and am better for it.

But recently I've felt creatively stifled. I've started to miss performing, started to have dreams about being on stage. So over the last couple months, I've been flirting with acting again. I signed up to stage manage a VID to see if I felt any sparks. I could tell by the first rehearsal I wanted to rekindle my relationship to acting. Watching them up there, knowing I could do it too, how fulfilling it would be to just play. But that's the thing, I just want to play, to flex my acting muscles for awhile. All the other stuff -- the time, the politics, the same old show over and over again -- is still a huge turn off to me. So what to do?

And then it hit me: I'll audition. I'll audition for as many shows as I like, and that's it. If I'm cast, I'll just turn down the part. It's perfect, really! I get to play, perform for an audience (the other auditioners), and then go home. No rehearsals, no commitment. Like flirting with a cute guy over a quick drink, then parting ways so I can go home and plan my next extended trip abroad. Or hang out with my friends. Or watch that week's DVRd episodes of Conan in peace.

For 20 of my 29 years, I was an actress. Now, I am Andrea Evans: The Auditioner.

Pipe Bomb

2011-04-13T05:15:00.000-07:00

According to all the writing articles I've studied over the years, being a writer means hard work, persistence, and willingness to learn and take criticism. Oh, and tacked on at the end of these articles, there is usually a word or two about how writers need to be creative and have vivid imaginations.

Now I think I have my share of all the writerly traits listed above. I don't remember any articles mentioning that writers probably need a little bit of self-delusion to have the courage to put their work out there and totally believe everyone is going to love it, but I have that, too, the self-delusion. Mix that with the vivid imagination and, well, unpredictable stuff can happen.

I started out my career writing and selling short stories. I moved steadily up the ladder from children's stories for the Sunday school paper to writing for large circulation magazines. I was persistent, hard-working, etc.

Time passed and then in the mid 90's a domestic terrorist was busily trying to blow people up with letter and package bombs. The nightly news was filled with information about the bomber's crimes and, to fill the nightly news slots, journalists felt compelled to warn everyone how to avoid being a target. You know the drill. How to spot suspicious behavior in case your neighbor or the person standing next to you in the grocery checkout line is considering becoming a package bomber. Of course, the newscasters didn't stop until they had enumerated a list of tips for how to avoid being blown up by random package bombs. People couldn't not watch the news as long as they were learning useful stuff like that, right?

One day I went out to the box in front of my house and collected my mail. Along with a handful of bills and the usual junk, I had a package. At this point I could almost hear my imagination click to the on position.

"Hey, I didn't order anything."

Vinnie, my cat, rubbed again my legs and I jumped.

"Do you see this, Vinnie? It's from England and it's addressed to me. I don't know one single person in England. There's no return address."

Vinnie, a cranky and neurotic type of cat, hissed like a dragon on steroids and swatted my leg with his front paw. This was Vinnie speak for, "Shut up, you fool, and get me my Fancy Feast."

"And, oh lord, Vinnie." I paused to hyperventilate and whimper a little. "The package is shaped like a cylinder. It's—a pipe bomb."

Same response from Vinnie. He followed this up by jumping onto the table and nearly knocking my pipe bomb flying.

"Get down! You're going to blow us up," I shrieked, knocking him to the floor.

What to do, what to do? Okay, think, woman. On the news they said to report suspicious packages to the police. Or call the bomb squad. Wait, maybe there's no time for that. What else did they say? Put the bomb in a bucket of water.

But what if it wasn't a bomb? Weren't bombs supposed to tick?"

I leaned closer. I strained my ears to listen. I heard nothing, except for Vinnie's demanding meows and then the sound of his empty food dish sliding across the floor like a hockey puck, followed by a sick thud as it bounced up and bashed my ankle.

Time to stop fooling around and call the bomb squad. I had a plan. I'd grab Vinnie and head over to the neighbors to make the call.

By then, though, my imagination had soared off in a new direction. What if someone had accidentally sent me an important historic relic, such as an original Hans Holbein the Younger drawing of Anne Boleyn kneeling in front of the chopping block? Yes, that could happen. I'd be a horrible person if I called the bomb squad and they blew the thing up.

Time for another approach. I got a big pair of scissors, held them way out in front of me, and gently began to cut away the paper wrapping on the pipe bomb. After I judged that I'd cut away enough, I tucked Vinnie under one arm and gingerly reached out and took hold of the end of the paper. I gave it a yank toward me and then slung it forward.

The paper came off in my hand and the cylinder flew across the room, bounced off the wall, and rolled to a stop in the middle of the floor. I dived under the table, the struggling cat clutched to my chest. I closed my eyes, waiting for the final seconds to tick by before ignition.

After a minute or so, Vinnie popped me viciously across the face. I turned him loose.

"Ow!"

Vinnie's response: "Meow!" Cats always get the last word.

I stayed huddled under the table until Vinnie trotted across the room and started batting the cylinder around like it was his catnip mouse.

"Stop!" I heroically rushed to save his ungrateful life. I snatched him up and glanced down at what was left of the bomb. Something was hanging halfway out of the cylinder. It looked like a magazine.

I squatted for a closer inspection. It was a magazine. I picked it up and shook it. A check made out to me fluttered to the floor.

It turned out that one of the publishers I'd sold a story to had sent the piece on to England be published again. Here was my payment and my author's copy.

Well, they could have told me. And I meant to ask—is that really a frisbee in your back yard or is it an incredibly tiny flying saucer? Shouldn't we go check it out?