Double You D (Squared)

I'm Too Sexy For My Face

2012-01-31T12:02:00.000-08:00

My default ringtone is “I’m Too Sexy” by Right Said Fred.

I can’t remember how I got it on my cell phone—it involved a wire and my old computer and some software that I no longer have—and I can’t figure out how to change it.

But it’s OK. It always makes people laugh when they hear it. It was especially humorous two years ago, during a quiet moment at my daughter’s high school graduation.

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. I don’t think she quite yet forgives me.

So, today. You should see me right now. Or maybe you shouldn’t.

I’ve got on purple sweatpants, a green hoodie, a Hanukkah-motif shirt (don’t ask) and my fuzzy slippers. I also have a giant angry red bullseye zit in the middle of my forehead.

Why a menopausal woman gets zits, I don’t know. It must be one of those jokes Mother Nature pulls on us, like getting your period during a photo shoot. While wearing a white dress. Aw, come on. Don’t cringe. You’ve seen the commercial. So it must be true.

The sweats/tee/etc. are my comfy work-at-home attire, as opposed to my Girl Reporter look, which I wore yesterday (vintage Pendelton plaid skirt, ‘50s white sweater with rose appliques, black hose and heels) while on my regular Monday assignment. Today, Tuesday, while wearing my hideous, mismatched, zit-adorned outfit, I finished my opinion column and sent it in, e-mailed press releases about an upcoming book signing, did some Facebook promos, called my dad for car-buying advice, and spent an hour online with my publisher doing edits on the next in my series of Daphne Lee-Lee Misadventures, I MURDERED THE SPELLING BEE.

I would be dressed much more presentably by now—and the bullseye would be covered in Revlon’s finest anti-aging concealer—but my optical appointment of this afternoon was canceled, so, like an officer and a gentleman, I got nowhere else to go.

I don’t think I mind. I believe Mother Nature was telling me something today. Like, “Stayyyyyy hooooooome…but don’t answer the doooor, because you’ll scare the Girrrrrl Scouuuuts.”

I don’t know why Mother Nature sounds like a ghost.

Here’s what’s been up since I last posted on this blog.

Got my copy of PTO Today magazine and was very pleased to see the blurb about I MURDERED THE PTA.

Had a wonderful experience at the Camarillo Library as the first local author in its new series focusing on—you guessed it—local authors. The audience was great. Asked a lot of good questions, which I hope I answered adequately. I have to apologize for going off on tangents. Or, as I told one attendee, my stream of consciousness tends to form tributaries.

As I mentioned, the new book is in the editing process right now. We’re shooting for a fall release date, but I’m hoping for sooner. For updates on I MURDERED THE SPELLING BEE, please “like” my Facebook author page. I just realized that “like” with quotation marks, even in this context, looks sarcastic. That’s “funny,” isn’t it?

If you’re in the Santa Paula area, you HAVE to check out this fabulous store, The Best of VC Marketplace. It features products made by folks from all over Ventura County. If you’re there February 18 from 2-4, you can check it out AND say hi to me, because I’ll be signing books.

I promise to look presentable. I can’t make any promises about my complexion. That’s in Mother Nature’s hands. I just hope she's got some concealer.

About Last Night

2012-01-19T09:02:00.000-08:00

I had the best day yesterday.

I know. I’m not supposed to be all happy and junk. I’m supposed to have that Brooding Writer thing going.

But it really was a great day.

The only thing wrong with it was that I had to decline an assignment from one department at my newspaper because I was already doing an interview yesterday, and I hate to turn down work.

But, man, what a fantastic interview.

I don’t want to give away too much because I still have the article to write, but I got to interview tattoo artist Heather Sinn. She’s tall, blonde and gorgeous—everything I ever wanted to look like—but she's also one of the sweetest people I've ever met, and so very talented. She’s on the new Spike TV show Ink Master and her shop is in my town, so I was lucky enough to get her story. Which I have to write. Right now. So, I’m going to hurry up and tell you about my night.

I went to a local book club meeting. I’d met one of the book club members at my friend Tracie’s plant sale, which she had last summer to benefit a local charitable organization, For the Troops. Tracie is the opposite of me when it comes to plants—that is, she doesn’t kill them on contact, but actually grows them beautifully—and, as a Marine mother-in-law, I was very touched that she wanted to raise money to benefit our troops overseas. I went to her sale to hang out with her.

A woman who lives around the corner from Tracie stopped by and bought some plants, and, shortly after that, the woman’s book club read my novel I MURDERED THE PTA. Another woman in the group e-mailed my opinion pages editor about me coming to their meeting this month. My editor forwarded the e-mail to me and I said, “Sure. Why not?”

So I did. Last night.

Lemme tell you—these were the most fun, fabulous, lovely—and wonderfully dirty-minded—women I’ve been around in a long time. Possibly ever. I was honored to be asked to attend, and very happy they’d bought my book, but incredibly nervous about going. They made me feel very comfortable. They also really liked the book and had some good questions about it, which I hope I answered adequately.

Per my last post on this blog, the subject of reviews did come up, but I didn’t ask them to give me any. I know—I should have my writer-as-businessperson license revoked. I don’t care.

And even though I brought IMPTA bookmarks, I forgot the magnets. No matter. They’re crappy magnets anyway. Next time I see these ladies, I’m bringing cupcakes. Dirty ones.

Review This Book or The Author Gets It

2012-01-16T11:48:00.000-08:00

A big thank you to everyone who entered my second Goodreads giveaway, which ended Sunday. The winner of a signed copy of I MURDERED THE PTA was Connie L. of Pennsylvania. I’ll be sending the book, a bookmark and magnet to Connie tomorrow.

I hope she likes it. You just never know. The people who won my other contests—one via Facebook and the other through Goodreads back when the book was first released—never sent me a yea, nay or an “I’m using this as a doorstop, thanks.”

What’s interesting is that I’ve been getting compliments like crazy from places I wouldn’t expect. My accountant, for instance. He came to one of my signings, bought the book, read it and sent me the nicest e-mail. He’s about my parents’ age—not that that necessarily makes a difference—but the book has a lot of pop culture and punk rock references, so you wouldn’t think he’d be into it. He and his wife are fans of my newspaper opinion column—a lot of local seniors are; they seem to be my best audience—but I’ve been discouraging them from buying the book. I can’t give away plot twists, but if you read IMPTA, you’d know why.

Then again, as my adorable 74-year-old mom said, “Oh, Wendy, I’ve read worse *&#$ than this.”

I know, right? My mom should totally be my publicist.

Dear Sir or Madam:

Please buy/review/make into a movie Wendy’s book. There’s a lot worse *&#$ than that out there!

Signed,
Wendy’s Mother

Which leads me to the subject of reviews.

I’ve gotten a few on Goodreads. Some just gave me just a couple of stars out of five, with no explanation, which kind of bummed me out. Although, as My Daughter the English Major pointed out, there are folks on Goodreads who give the classics two stars. Not that my book is what you’d call a classic. I’ve never claimed it was anything more than entertainment. But I still want everyone who reads it to be entertained.

I also have three five-star reviews on Amazon, including one from my dad, who fully disclosed our relationship. If you knew my dad, you’d know he’d never have given me a good review if he thought it was a lousy book, but if you’re part of the rest of the world, you probably think he’s just being nice.

I truly appreciate my parents’ and friends' support, even the *&#$ commentary, but I'm also grateful for the reviews from people who don’t know me. Preferably, of course, the good reviews.

There’s supposed to be a blurb about IMPTA in the 80,000-circulation print magazine PTO Today, which is cool. I don’t know yet what it says (the editor said she’d mail me a copy), but at least I got a blurb. The editor asked my publisher for a review copy of IMPTA months ago, which worried me a bit, since I blow them up, but, apparently the editor is a sport, which was a relief.

Anyway, my problem is that, other than a few review copies sent out, I feel weird asking friends, relatives and strangers for Amazon or Goodreads reviews. Some authors have no trouble. They don’t say, “Please give me a good review,” but they generally ask for a review from the people who will.

Wednesday night, I’m going to a local book club meeting. They read my book and allegedly loved it, so I’m planning to work up the nerve to ask them to write a review or two. Planning to. Not sure if I can. Still feel weird about it. Hopefully, those bookmarks and magnets will do it for me.

A Very Merry Unbirthday

2012-01-12T13:05:00.000-08:00

I just had a birthday. I never liked having a birthday so close to the beginning of the year. I think it has to do with my childhood. I had a grandparent who would give me combination birthday/Hanukkah monetary presents, which added up to the same amount each of my cousins would get just for Hanukkah. Then, being right after the hectic holidays, people would either be sick from the seasonal flu or too broke to spend my birthday with me.

I’m not being whiny. Just truthful.

Now I have a lot of friends who want to take me out for lunch or dinner or coffee or whatever and I’d prefer to hide out here in my hidey hole. Some people think it’s because I don’t like the idea of getting older. Trust me, that’s not it at all. I love getting older and would hate to suddenly stop. I'm just not that into celebrating. I especially dislike surprise parties, which my husband last sprung on me about ten years ago. I’ve never quite forgiven him, but after my daughter chastised me for being an ingrate, I always reluctantly consent to birthday celebrations.

Once again, I know I sound like a total douche, but I’m not. Just a partial one.

The problem is that I get overwhelmed easily when I've got lots of other stuff going on. It’s hard for me to accept luncheon invitations when I’m in the middle of freelance assignments and other mishegas. That is, I’m perfectly capable of writing whatever it is I'm assigned, but there are so many variables that can hinder my delivery on or before deadline that I get these adrenaline surges that make me even more hyper and worried than I already am. If I'm out to lunch or dinner or coffee or whatever, that means I'm not in my office doing my job.

Here’s my January calendar so far. (Warning: May bore you, so speed through it.)

My birthday was last Sunday. Two friends took me out for a birthday lunch. I do crime blotters for my newspaper every Monday, meaning I go to two police stations and transcribe the weekly crimes committed by the fine citizens of my community. Tuesday I had an optometry appointment, which included a dilation. Afterward, my parents took me and my big black pupils out for a birthday lunch. Yesterday, I had a freelance assignment, meaning I put on my Girl Reporter outfit, did an onsite interview, shot photos and then did some errands. I added a post to my vintage purse blog. Made a bunch of business phone calls. Got a new assignment, so today I had to call that interviewee and leave a message to set up a time to do an interview. Waiting for a call back (one of those variables I mentioned previously). I also wrote up the article from yesterday’s interview and sent that and the photos to my editor. Worked on my opinion column. Tonight, three of my ex-PTA friends are taking me to dinner for my birthday. Tomorrow I have to do a mountain of tax stuff and go food shopping, plus try to finish my column. Sunday, a friend is taking me for coffee for my birthday. Monday, blotters, then another friend is taking me to lunch for my birthday. Tuesday I have to turn in my column. Wednesday night, I’m a guest at a local book club that read I MURDERED THE PTA. Next weekend, I’m going to the The Best of VC Marketplace to drop off copies of I MURDERED THE PTA and discuss a possible book signing (variable). The 24^th, I’m giving a talk at the Camarillo Library for its new local author series, but the person who’s moderating the discussion wants to meet me for lunch sometime before then (variable). The 31^st is when my publisher and I start editing the second in my series of Daphne Lee-Lee Misadventures, I MURDERED THE SPELLING BEE.

January also means typing invoices and recording payments for my husband’s business, miscellaneous book promotion, more freelance assignments, working on a new business we've been trying to get off the ground, my wedding anniversary, a charity poker tournament and a weekend visit to see my grandson. (Note: I highlighted the birthday stuff so you can see how unnecessary it is, and the variables so you can see how much they throw a wrench into my hidey hole.)

For those of you with real jobs, this probably sounds like cake. Birthday cake. Me, I prefer pudding. Or crème brûlée. Those go down so much more smoothly.

Only a few days left to enter my Goodreads giveaway. And make me go to the post office on top of everything else already on my calendar. Enter now!

Goodreads Book Giveaway

          I Murdered the PTA

          by Wendy Dager

Giveaway ends January 15, 2012.

See the giveaway details

at Goodreads.

Enter to win

Will Work for Money

2011-12-29T10:35:00.000-08:00

I got a check in yesterday’s mail. It was an expected check, but it wasn’t expected that quickly. I was thrilled. I’m not, for once, being sarcastic. For those of you who get a regular paycheck auto-deposited every two weeks, you might not understand why the person who submitted my invoice to his accounting department—the day I sent the articles, which was the day before I received this check—is my hero.

It’s tough being self-employed—no matter your business—because about one-quarter of all customers do not understand the system of me-work/you-pay. For instance, my husband, a telecommunications contractor, has occasionally, over the last 26 years, been called out on an emergency job that has to be done RIGHT NOW. Then the customer will not only neglect to pay the bill for sixty days or longer, but also be downright rude when we ask for the money. One time this happened with a semi-famous movie/television actor (nope, not gonna name names). I don’t think he personally was stiffing us—he probably had no idea we had to wait four months to get paid—but it was his assistant who created the delay, telling us that actor-dude was in the process of changing management companies. That was their excuse to not pay a bill that was a couple hundred bucks. (I looked online and saw that actor-dude makes $400,000 per episode on his TV show.)

I wondered if the assistant didn’t pay the actor’s AT&T phone bill, either. I suspect it’s generally the small proprietor—the one who can’t shut off your phones—who gets the shaft.

As a freelancer, I’ve had to wait a month or more many a time for money for articles I’ve written and turned around on tight deadline. Luckily, my newspaper has switched to an outside service, Ebyline.com, and I get paid pretty dang fast. With smaller companies, it’s a little harder to control when I get paid, but, as I said, the check I got in yesterday’s mail made my week. Not just because it was enough to pay for a pair of Docs, some hair dye and a sushi lunch, but also because I’m very grateful to the guy in charge for understanding that I’m a businessperson.

In other news, my daughter, son-in-law, grandson and their two dogs are staying with us over the holidays. We also adopted another dog, a three-year-old Border collie mix named Jaeger. As you can imagine, it’s been quite chaotic around here, plus Sirius, our ten-year-old Border collie mix, is trying his best not to look butt-hurt about the new addition.

That’s Siri on the left, Jaeger on the right. Slightly mismatched bookends.

And no, we didn’t pick Jaeger’s name. He came to us that way. It’s not his fault that his first name rhymes with his new last name. It was just meant to be.

Wishing you and yours a wonderful New Year. Treat each other and your businesspeople with respect, pay your bills quickly, and, if you’re going to get a pet, please adopt a rescue.

To Whom it May Concern

2011-12-25T10:20:00.000-08:00

I keep getting social networking contact requests from the owner of the literary agency that dumped me. I’m thinking about sending him this letter. What do you think? Should I?

Dear Peter,

Thank you for the invitation to join you on Linkedin.com. I have a feeling you don’t know that your employee, my former literary agent, unceremoniously dumped me quite a few years ago and simply forgot to take me off your e-mail contact list.

Seriously, don’t you just hate when people aren’t efficient at their jobs? Like, for instance, when one of your literary agents totally burns out, passes me off to another agent at your agency, and then that one manages to sell a porn star’s autobiography within a week, but can’t sell my cozy mystery after two years of representation.

I know, right? And then that same agent tells me to write a nonfiction version of a novel in which I kill eighteen people. Then, after that, she completely stops contact with me—meaning not answering my e-mails or calls—and then your office manager sends me an e-mail telling me the “ball’s in your court.”

Well, Peter, that’s when I just had to quit you. See, I figured that, if the ball was in my court instead of in the court of someone who had the ability to bounce that very same ball to mainstream publishers, that meant you guys were leaving it up to me to either discontinue our relationship or do something to my novel to make it more saleable.

I decided both options sounded fab. I entered the novel in a big online contest, where it was a finalist. Never mind that a few years after it was in the contest there were at least two other mystery novels published with similar titles and themes. This sort of makes my novel look bad—as if I copied someone else’s title. But, interestingly, one of those other books was agented by someone else I queried years ago. You agents. You’re so funny. And by funny I mean not super ethical.

And now, here I am, kind of thinking that your agent didn’t really ever try to sell my novel, but spread it around enough so that other people could run with the idea. Of course, I could be wrong. Maybe she worked tirelessly in that two-year period, schmoozing it up with all sorts of editors at the big publishing companies, trying really hard to get it published. But, yeah, no, I don’t think so. I think the effort was all very half-hearted for her. Maybe even quarter-hearted. Or, dare I say, heartless.

Anyway, kindly take me off your e-mail list and stop sending me contact requests.

Yeah, I am aware that you are also in the business of agenting books for film, and I am looking for someone to represent my now-published novel. Maybe you can refer me to another agency. Thanks.

Sincerely,

Wendy Dager

Author of I MURDERED THE PTA, A Daphne Lee-Lee Misadventure

www.wendydager.com

When the Poop Hits the Blog

2011-12-19T16:33:00.000-08:00

I saw a rerun of House while I was exercising. I’m not sure what I hate more, exercising or reruns, but there’s nothing new on early in the morning unless I want to change my television preferences to cartoons or religion, which I don’t, so I’m stuck with reruns.

Note: An editor of mine once cryptically complained on Facebook about a run-on sentence. I knew it was MY sentence because I’d just submitted an article with a sentence that had the same word count he was complaining about. It ran about as long as the paragraph above, but had an em-dash, a semicolon and a couple of commas, all correctly placed to break up the blar-de-blar. I was a little butt-hurt. Also, it’s a major peeve of mine that some people (DON'T YOU HATE WHEN SOME PEOPLE...!) are cryptic on Facebook, knowing the person they're talking about will see the complaint.

The House rerun was about a woman who blogs all the time. She’s suddenly dying of everything…or something…I don’t know—all House episodes consist of lupus, not lupus, bone marrow sample, MRI, you’re dying, radiation, you’re not dying, everyone lies.

UNTIL… Dr. House reads her blog and notices she talks about everything except her poop. He asks her about its shape and consistency and that’s how he diagnoses her illness, so she ends up living to blog about it. Lalalalala. The End. At least she wasn’t lying. She was just omitting. Because most people don’t talk about poop.

And that’s when I thought about how The Blog—not this one, necessarily, but blogs in general—has overstayed its welcome. A bit. Somewhat. Kind of. But, in my business, particularly now that I have something tangible to sell—meaning my novel and not my writing services, which are intangible unless there is a contract—I HAVE to blog.

My publisher wants me to and I would anyway, because I enjoy it. I write my blog posts almost the same way I write my newspaper opinion column, but more centered around being a writer and with more profanity and slang and made-up words. Obviously, it’s for a different audience, not including that person who found my blog by Googling “Double D Housewives.” Seriously, dude. You’re not going to see a “D” here. A small “B” on a good day and that’s only because I need to lose fifteen pounds. Also, housewife, not so much.

What were we talking about? Oh yeah. Blogs. And poop.

When people first started blogging, it was cool. Now everyone and their grandma has a blog where they talk about everything but poop. Blogging is so beyond popular that unless you’re writing about something totally outrageous and know how to market it like crazy, you’re not going to make any money at it.

Disclaimer: I get a lot of hits on my other blog, Vintage Purse a Day, and have made about $12 on it due to Google ad placement. Not a windfall, but if I really kept up with it, I could probably make more money. Somehow. I don’t know. I don’t care.

I like this blog, but it doesn’t get near as many hits. The reasons: It’s just not that exciting. I started it too late in the blogging game. And I don’t market it. I also don’t visit many other blogs, so other bloggers and blog-readers aren’t clicking on my name to see my profile. I probably could surf more, but I'd feel weird and disingenuous (a freakin’ pretentious and trendy word I hope to never have to use again) about leaving comments on other people’s blogs just to get them to visit mine.

Which leaves poop. If I talked about poop, I wonder how many hits I’d get. Or would it just be used to diagnose some future illness?

The Dog Days of Winter

2011-12-09T15:23:00.001-08:00

Yesterday afternoon, I was at the supermarket. Shut up. I know it seems as if I’m always there. I’m not. It’s just that that’s where I get my best ideas. If it makes you feel any better, I did not have in hand a latte of any type, seasonal or otherwise. Caffeine too late in the day makes Wendy a very cranky lady. Joyously hyper at first, but cranky the next day, after not getting a good night’s sleep.

ANYFREAKINWAY.

I was at the market and I saw a guy with a dog in a shopping cart. That is, the dog was in the shopping cart, in the front section traditionally reserved for little kids. The guy was pushing it. This was a small dog, but not that small. It was probably about twenty pounds, a Bichon Frappe or something that sounds like Starbucks’ next seasonal drink. The dog was big enough to be highly noticeable, especially in a place where there is food.

I was in the checkout line with my groceries and two of the cashiers were talking and said that was the third dog they’d seen in the store that day. Note: These were not “working” dogs. They had no jackets identifying them as gainfully employed. No hard hats or briefcases, either.

One of the cashiers told me I should write my next newspaper column about it.

OH HELL NO.

I’ve written about controversial stuff before, but no way am I getting into animal lover vs. animal hater territory. Although, years ago, I interviewed the (well-known activist) father of a young crime victim (in a highly-publicized case). We talked about there being a bigger reward posted for a dog that had been thrown into traffic due to road rage than a little girl who had gone missing around the same time as the dog-throwing incident. I wrote a column about it.

Dogs-in-supermarkets is a much more benign and less scary topic, but I bet there are plenty of people who would be quite vocal about anything I wrote, whether I said it was OK or not OK to put Fluffy in the shopping cart. In a place where there is food. I dunno. It’s just kind of hard for me to get past the food part.

Then again, you can’t catch a cold from a dog. You can get all sorts of yucky stuff from humans. Humans are gross. I have a grandson who always has an orange mustache due to excessive Cheeto consumption and, often, a booger stuck somewhere on the side of his head, so I can understand why people would be OK with dogs in shopping carts.

Oh. Sorry. Forgot to warn you that I was going to use the word “booger.”

I’m not sure what my next column is going to be about, but, trust me, it won't be that.

Commercial time: I'm giving away a copy of my novel I MURDERED THE PTA. Go to Goodreads and enter the contest!

Goodreads Book Giveaway

          I Murdered the PTA

          by Wendy Dager

Giveaway ends January 15, 2012.

See the giveaway details

at Goodreads.

Enter to win

Feeling, Nothing More Than Feeling

2011-11-30T08:31:00.001-08:00

Yesterday, I went to my Happy Place. No, not the depths of my brain, which is like Morticia Addams’ shoe closet. Come to think of it, my shoe closet is like Morticia Addams’ shoe closet. My brain is more like my upstairs vintage clothing closet: cramped and colorful and in need of some purging.

No, my Happy Place is my supermarket. I love me some grocery shopping. Fueled by an eggnog latte purchased at the in-store Starbucks kiosk (where those Starbucks people cleverly figured out I would never go unless it were an in-store kiosk), I went tra-la-la, coupons in hand, reading glasses perched on my rhinoplastied nose, gaily down the aisles.

Nice lady pushing her cart by me said, “You’re not that gal who writes that column, are you?” To which I replied, “Yes, I’m Wendy.” To which she proceeded to tell me how much she likes it. And me. In very many overly kind words. Which made my head swell far beyond its subliminal closet of vintage clothing, submerged in eggnog latte. (Tall, light, no whip.)

I ain’t gonna lie. Grrrrl needs a pat on the back once in a while.

Especially since I recently learned that I hurt someone’s feeling. Singular. A small one. Big or small, I never mean to hurt feeling(s), as I am not that way, no matter how badass I pretend to be. Turns out someone wasn’t acknowledged in the acknowledgements page of my novel and brought it to my attention and now I feel terrible.

I shouldn’t feel terrible, since there was no intention behind the omission—as in the case of people who are professional badassed feeling-hurters—but I feel terrible anyway.

That’s why, in my next book, I MURDERED THE SPELLING BEE (which is almost done) there will be no acknowledgements. I’m going to thank "everybody" and say “you know who you are,” and that way, my friends, family and acquaintances will know they’ve been acknowledged. Or perhaps it will backfire and they will believe they have been intentionally omitted. In which case, I’m going to my closet—the real one upstairs—sit among the cramped and colorful vintage clothes, and have another latte. Maybe gingerbread this time.

Check out fellow Zumaya Publications author Kage Alan’s blog! He’s got some great holiday gift ideas, including a blurb on how you can get your signed copy of I MURDERED THE PTA.

Wendy Dager is Kind of Famous

2011-11-18T13:23:00.001-08:00

I was thinking of changing the name of this blog back to the original “Wendy Dager is Not Famous,” but it’d be a hassle and I’m lazy.

I did change the word "Daily" in the subhead to "Dish," because I don't post daily. I don't mind being lazy. I just don't want to be inaccurate.

Also, one of the reasons I got rid of "Wendy Dager is Not Famous" was because it was time for a change. You never hear someone saying it’s time for a change back.*

Unless you’re talking about weight. Or hair color. And those things generally don’t successfully return to their original states, no matter how much effort and fat-free yogurt and L’oreal we put into them.

*Forget about Daylight Savings Time, the stupidest change back (or forward) thing ever. Ugh. Don't get me started.

Besides, I AM famous. Kind of. At my supermarket, I’m totally famous. I always feel so good when I go there, because everyone says hi, how are you, how’s the book doing, how’s the grandson, I saw your column, it was good, etc.

Then I go home and unload groceries and hit my head on the open hatchback of my car and break a nail and curse and realize I have a giant zit on my chin and that there’s dog hair all over the house and people are coming over to play poker tonight and my vacuum isn’t working. Because being kind of famous is uber-glamorous.

Boy howdy, is it ever.

I am also kind of famous in an anonymous way. According to this blog’s sitemeter, I get more hits from people searching “I may be old but I got to see all the cool bands” than my name or my novel or my newspaper work.

While I am proud of this achievement, I am loath to think that my defining moment in writerhood is a popular slogan that I sold all my rights to. It's so... final.

Which reminds me of this: I once entered a write-your-own obituary contest.

Here lies Wendy Dager

A writer of some note

She couldn’t sell her novel

And that was all she wrote.

I guess I’ll have to think of something new for my headstone, since I finally did sell my novel.

By the way, I’m almost done with the sequel to I MURDERED THE PTA. It’s called I MURDERED THE SPELLING BEE and it’s better and funnier and more complex than the first one. All that’s left now is for it to make me famous.

More, that is, than I already am. Kind of.

You Can Do Anything I Can Do Better

2011-11-13T17:55:00.001-08:00

My husband and I spent all weekend watching our one-year-old grandson. I really have to give it to those moms who choose to have their children later in life. It’s a tough job. Sure, it was a tough job when I was in my twenties, but it’s a tougher job when you’re… um… older.

Got a call from my daughter thanking us for watching the little dude. She also wanted to tell me that she read a book that was so horrible that she found herself sighing and huffing and OHMYFREAKINGOODNESSing at it, causing my son-in-law to remark that she sounded just like her mom.

This, I think, was not necessarily an insult. I believe he is just observant about my being judgmental when it comes to bad writing.

Note: Aw, come on. Let he who is without being the occasional Judgy McJudgerson cast the first stone. Everyone makes judgments. Usually, those judgments are based on peeves. We all have peeves. My top two are:

Celebrities who get book deals.
People who think my job is so easy they can do it. And they’ll do it for free, which may be a separate peeve.

I’m not going to give you the title of the book my daughter was reading or the name of its author. However, I am going to say that if you are an inexperienced writer and are self-publishing a book, I highly recommend that you hire the services of a professional editor or book doctor—or, if you have to—ghost writer, because I am here to tell you that not all of you can write.

I know. I’m terrible. Yes. Just awful. A bad person. I totally agree with you. Please do not e-mail me telling me how much I suck. I don’t care. I’ve gotten to the point where it’s getting hard for me to keep a p-p-p-poker face when you tell me you’ve "always wanted to be a writer" or have “an idea” for a novel or think your life story would make a brilliant book, because THIS DOES NOT MEAN YOU CAN WRITE.

Note: This opinion certainly does not apply to people with talent. There are still some out there. If this is you, forget all of the above and below. Just, PLEASE, I beg of you, if you want to make writing a career, treat it as a business and not one big ego boost. You will be disappointed. And really, really hungry.

Everyone thinks they can write because they’ve been to school and passed English at some point, and they own a pen or a computer or have a relative who will gladly transcribe their idea and tell them it's the best thing since the invention of the caramel macchiato.

Sorry. Not so.

Yes, writing is subjective. There are all types: nonfiction, fiction and all the sub-genres. I’m not saying my writing is great, but I’ve sold enough that I can call myself a professional freelancer, and even put it on my tax return. Perhaps we can extend “not everyone can write” to “not everyone can write something readable and/or saleable.”

If you’re having a tough time getting your work published, please join a writing group for an honest review or pay a professional for a critique.

Note: I don't do that, so don't ask. I would make a terrible book doctor. I would make a terrible anything doctor.

I’m a helluva good grandma, though. I might even be better at that than writing. I'll have to ask my grandson. As soon as he learns to read.

CHECK IT OUT! Another great review of I MURDERED THE PTA at Sharon’s Garden of Book Reviews!

My Fair Lady

2011-11-06T08:44:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I had a booth at the first Ventura County Book & Author Fair. There were some freakin’ awesome people there. Sorry, I do say “freakin’ awesome” in real life even though I’m a grownup. I have no other way to describe certain things. I try not to say “amazing,” because it’s overused. I also try not to be pretentious and use adjectives that are as multisyllabic as multisyllabic, because I hate that and also because I don’t know any.

A huge thanks to the nice people who bought my book. I appreciate your generous support. I also greatly appreciated everyone who cracked up the minute they saw the book’s title. Bummer I don’t get royalties just for making people laugh. I’d be able to quit my day job.

Thanks also to everyone who came by and said hi and told me they like my newspaper column. That means a lot to me and keeps me going, particularly when I’m struggling to keep my topics fresh.

I shared the booth with a Holocaust survivor. Here’s the link to his memoir. Manny and his wife Mimi and their family were lovely and didn’t seem to mind our incongruous pairing, which I was stressing about for two days prior to the fair, wondering how tasteless my book was going to appear next to his. I shouldn't have worried. We even traded books. I wrote in their copy of I MURDERED THE PTA: “For Manny and Mimi – Do not read this book!”

Across the way from me were actor/drummer/author Mickey Jones and his wife Phyllis. They were very kind and a lot of fun. Phyllis and her daughter and granddaughter had come to see me at my Pasadena book signing, just to support a Simi Valley author. How freakin' awesome is that? (Sorry. But it is.) I didn’t know then that she was Mickey’s wife. Everyone loves Mickey and a ton of folks stopped by his booth to tell him so. You’ve seen him in a lot of TV shows and films, but he’s probably best remembered for a recurring role in the sitcom Home Improvement. Here's a pic of us from yesterday.

(For my fashionista friends: ‘50s black eyelet "wiggle" dress, ‘50s pink sweater, ‘40s wristlet corde purse on a modern belt. Not pictured: The coolest Doc Martens boots ever.)

In the booth next to mine were comedy writer Gene Perret and his daughter Linda Perret. I met Gene and Linda years ago and they are very gracious.

The fair had many authors, publicists, writers’ organizations and more. If you live in the area and you didn’t go, you really missed out.

The place was jumpin’ with wannabe writers and those with published works who were trying to learn ways to promote. There was a lot of energy in that auditorium and I shared as much as I could about the industry and learned quite a bit from others' experiences.

If you’re an aspiring author, here are a couple of things that were hot topics among the attendees.

It’s really hard to get published, no matter how fabulous your work is or how much on-the-job experience you have. You already know this from what I’ve told you in this blog, but the people I talked to yesterday totally backed me up. Normally, I would say “I WIN” here (like the 12-year-old-in-a-40-something-body that I am), but I don’t think this counts as a win. If Snooki can have a New York Times Best Seller, then something is very wrong with this big-haired, obnoxious, orange picture.
If you do get published, everyone wants a free book. They don’t understand that you have to pay for copies. (Unless you’re Snooki.)
It doesn’t matter how big your publisher is, there is no marketing budget. In-house publicists are being laid off all over the place. You, the author, are on your own for publicizing your book, so you better figure out creative ways to do so.
Those who have looked down on print-on-demand publishing are going to start changing their tune. A major bookstore I contacted did not want to host a signing for me because my publisher uses p.o.d. technology. I heard a rumor yesterday that a huge, well-known publishing house is going to switch to that method. So there.
I just wanted to have a number 5. I don’t really have anything else to say, except that book signings, fairs and other events are hit or miss. This wasn’t a big score in terms of the number of books I sold, but the people I met and the ones I reconnected with made it a freakin' awesome day.

Making Your Bed and Not Sleeping In It

2011-11-01T09:48:00.000-07:00

There is almost nothing good about insomnia. For the most part, it sucks. I walk around like a zombie all day—which I know is quite trendy right now, but I’ve never been much for trends.

I am not sleeping because I am getting older. Without making it too descriptively icky, let’s just say it has to do with bodily changes that I am somewhat unwilling to accept, despite my recent foray into grandparenthood.

Here’s me, on any given day:

WHY? WHY? I FEEL SO YOUNG! I’M EVEN TOLD I LOOK YOUNG! WHY ARE ALL THESE OLD-PEOPLE THINGS HAPPENING TO ME?

Insert whine wherever you please. It’s all whiny.

The good news is that I understand why men forever leer at young women. It’s not extra pervy because they are old. In their heads, they are always young, hence, an 80-year-old has not forgotten what it’s like to be 20. He’s just forgotten that he should be more subtle about leering.

If that doesn’t make sense, it’s not my fault. It’s because I HAVEN’T BEEN SLEEPING, in case you didn’t read the first paragraph of this post.

Another good thing is that, the other night, when I went to bed, fully knowing I would only sleep for a couple of sporadic hours, I decided that whilst attempting to recapture semi-consciousness, I would try to figure out who the killer is in I MURDERED THE SPELLING BEE, the sequel to my novel I MURDERED THE PTA. I kind of thought I knew who he or she was when I started writing it, but the plot evolved as I wrote, so I had to change murderers midstream. Anyway, I did come up with the killer(s) and why he/she/they did it. Very happy with that. We’re shooting for a fall 2012 release of the second in this series of Daphne Lee-Lee Misadventures.

So, I guess insomnia can be productive, even though it makes you use words like “hence” and “whilst.”

Please come see my bleary eyes and me this Saturday, November 5 at the Ventura County Book & Author Fair. I'll be in booth 35. There are going to be lots of cool people there, including Catherine Ryan Hyde and Mickey Jones. I hope I get a chance to meet them. I’ll try not to use any 14^th century lingo whilst introducing meself.

Upstairs Downstairs

2011-10-27T14:14:00.000-07:00

I’m in my new office upstairs. Since you didn’t seem to mind me boring you with the pics of my hall bathroom, here’s one of the office. Not completely unpacked yet, but I’ve got everything I need. Except the mini-bar. I’ll have to talk to my contractor about that.

That’s a vintage lady lamp to the left. I think she’s fixing her hair and not mimicking anything by Edvard Munch. There are various vintage items on the shelves above my computer, including two 1960s house-shaped purses. And, yes, I have a Wacky Whiskers calendar. Don’t hate. I got it at the Dollar Tree. I just can’t see paying $12.95 for a calendar in a regular store, but the selection at the Dollar Tree is severely limited.

I’m not into Islands or Foliage or Toothless Hockey Players or whatever else they had, so I got the only ones that were tolerable for my husband and me. I made the ultimate sacrifice by giving my husband the Three Stooges calendar, even though I wanted that and not Wacky Whiskers.

Speaking of which, that is not an animal hanging across my office chair. It’s a hoodie. However, my dog Sirius has been totally freaked out by this entire remodeling experience and I wouldn't be surprised if he assumed the hoodie position. He’s 75 pounds and has twice leapt into my lap for no reason other than, seemingly, to ask what the bark is going on upstairs. And downstairs.

We tend to anthropomorphize our pets, but I really do want to know what’s going on in his Border collie-mix of a mixed up brain. My stuff is upstairs. His bed is upstairs. I’m upstairs. Why so worried, Sirius? What are you trying to say, boy?

Or maybe Timmy’s in the well. Again. Sorry, he’ll just have to wait. I’m too busy ordering the mini-bar.

It's Only a Remodel

2011-10-14T09:19:00.000-07:00

Monty Python fans will appreciate the headline of this post. In the late '70s, I was a huge fan—not that I’m not anymore; I’m just not as rabid. This was before Spamalot and cable TV. I remember mentioning Monty Python to people who didn't appreciate British humor and them saying, “Oh, I hate him.”

I imagine Jethro Tull fans share my feelings about that.

We are once again doing a bit of remodeling here at Chateau D’agére. The last big one we did was our hall bathroom, which I’d been wanting to remodel forever, but, due to a water leak under the floor, was finally taken care of just last year. My friend Tracie insists I went under the house and poked a hole in one of the pipes.

Here are some pictures of the completed bathroom. They were hard to take because it’s so small, but I’m pretty proud of the pseudo-deco design. The print on the wall is by “King of Pop Art” Nelson de la Nuez, who I wrote an article about a few years ago. He was super nice and a great talent.

Here’s the wall opposite the sink. It’s black and white striped. The black stripes are chalkboard paint, so visitors can scribble graffiti. Those are mannequin hands (credit for the idea goes to Chillpaw) holding the chalk.

And this is a message that was left by someone who thinks my husband indulges me. The person has never come forward (cough, Tracie, cough), but I am not afraid to admit I wrote the comment beneath her comment.

The remodel we’re currently working on consists of converting our first-floor office to a playroom/guestroom for the grandkid. It’s going to be a lot of work, mostly for my indulgent husband. As usual, I shall stand there and applaud. And look gorgeous. Because that’s what I do.

I am very excited about having a kid’s room in the house again. Which is weird, since I was so ready for them to grow up. Maybe it’s because I haven’t yet.

An enormous thank you to Fred and Debbie Thomas, Barbra Williamson and all the fabulous attendees who made last night’s Loving Heart Hospice Foundation fundraiser a great event. It was a huge honor to be there and I had a lot of fun talking to everyone.

I'm Talkin' At You

2011-10-11T16:45:00.000-07:00

Today I worked on a speech for my thingy Thursday night. For those of you who would like a better translation of “thingy,” I will be headlining a fundraiser for the Loving Heart Hospice Foundation at a private home in Simi Valley. I’ll be giving the aforementioned speech and signing copies of my novel.

It’s a very worthy cause and I’m grateful to be able to tell you that I’m part of something important, rather than just using this space to whine and talk about my wardrobe.

The problem is that whenever I give a talk, whether it’s a speech or me being part of a freelance writing panel, or even when I’ve given classes on greeting card writing, there’s always at least one person who gives me that “impress me” look.

“C’mon. I dare you. Because if you don’t impress me, I’m going to make like Harry Nilsson and go WAHHHH WAHHH WAHH WAHHH…”

Despite the designated skeptic in every crowd, I don’t mind public speaking. In fact, I kind of dig it. I always script my speeches down to the last aside, remark or joke, so I’m not caught saying “um” too much or forgetting specific points. I wasn’t prepped when I did my little talk at Mysteries to Die For in August, but I did OK, and after that, it was mostly Q&A from the audience. I’m pretty good at answering questions. Here are some standard replies.

Yes.
Six.
I don’t know what my natural hair color is.
It’s fiction!
Boxers.

I always feel a responsibility to be informative and entertaining, but I want to do an extra-fantastic job Thursday, which is why I’m working really hard on my speech for the thingy.

Maybe the skeptic will just stare at my wardrobe.

Listen Up

2011-10-07T09:41:00.000-07:00

I was watching TV this morning while working out—don’t be impressed; I despise exercise and am only doing it because I have to—and I noticed the commercials were blaring. Not that this is anything unusual. We all know that television ads are annoyingly loud. What was unusual was that one of the commercials was way quieter than the others. It was a commercial for hearing aids. Clever, those hearing aid people. Or maybe not. Maybe they're doing themselves a disservice because people won't bother trying to listen.

Yesterday and the day before, I had to go to clients’ stores to shoot pictures for an ad section I work on for my newspaper. I also write the headlines and the copy. Many times, I just buy the items and shoot them in my home office, where I can control the light and background, and sometimes do what they call a “photo illustration.”

Vintage bottle.

Going out to stores is more difficult, because in-store lighting is generally pretty bad and the featured items are harder to shoot, because they’re often bigger than, for instance, a food or beauty or home décor item or something else I can fit on my pool table. I mean photography studio.

Vintage bottle from a distance.

For this upcoming issue, I had to shoot furniture, curtains and such, inside stores which didn't have the best lighting and were somewhat cluttered. I tried to explain to the clients what the ad section is about and even showed them copies of it, but people have ideas and just aren’t havin’ any of what I’m sayin’. You know what I’m sayin’?

In the great scheme of freelance writerhood, I am the quiet commercial. You’ll either strain to listen, or you’ll just ignore it until your show comes back on.

She Ain’t Heavy, She’s Your Mom

2011-10-01T09:35:00.000-07:00

I tried to find a punk cover of “He Ain’t Heavy” by the Hollies, but I couldn’t. Instead, here’s The Dickies version of The Banana Splits theme song.

I’m trying to lose weight. It used to be that if I needed to drop five pounds, all I had to do was “be good” for a couple of weeks and there it went. Not so much now that I am approaching my AARP membership years.

My dad told me that your metabolism decreases 10 percent every year. I’m not a math whiz, but by my calculations, this means I should have no metabolism whatsoever in ten years. Starting from when, I’m not sure. It may have been ten years ago.

Despite the slow results, I am feeling better about myself. I hate when my clothes don’t fit right, which has been a good motivator. Speaking of which, Chill designed this great new I MURDERED THE PTA logo shirt, which I’ll be wearing tomorrow at the West Hollywood Book Fair, probably with a vintage petticoat and leggings.

And maybe these buttons.

As regular readers know, I wrote “I may be old, but I got to see all the cool bands,” which I sold to Ephemera a couple of years ago. Every month, I get a few hits on this blog from people who Googled those search words, which is pretty cool.

I didn’t write the other button. I just think it’s funny. My younger daughter went through a “your mom” phase as a response to everything and I kind of miss it now that she’s in college and is too sophisticated for me. Except when she writes stuff like “a giraffe” or “a turtle” on the grocery-shopping list. Presumably as a pet and not for dinner.

So, if you’re in Los Angeles or thereabouts, come see me tomorrow at the WeHo fair. I’ll have a cupcake-motif box full of body-part shaped candy. I dare you to eat an eyeball, because I can’t. It’s not on my diet.

Resemblance to Cupcakes Living or Dead

2011-09-26T11:59:00.000-07:00

SEPT. 27: Just saw this review of I MURDERED THE PTA. I really appreciate the kind words about my work. Gordon, if you read this, please e-mail me so I can thank you properly!

As a glamorous (thrift store wardrobe; too much Aquanet) Hollywood (suburban Ventura County) novelist (silly cozy mystery), I have learned that people are buying my book to find out if they are in it.

Yes, indeedy-do, there are that many suspicious housewives (aka Cupcakes) in my town. I would like to assure them, publicly, in this space, that I didn’t write about anything that specifically occurred in real life while I was serving on a PTA board for seven years. Nor did I really think about killing any of them. Maiming perhaps. But only a little. Where it wouldn’t show. BECAUSE I’M NICE LIKE THAT.

The PTA gets blown up too soon in the novel for me to have adapted any real-life occurrences. The clothing and hairstyles of the Cupcakes are somewhat accurate, especially if you take into consideration that I wrote the book over a decade ago. The personalities aren’t exact, but, yeah, maybe, kinda, sorta, I do/did know some people like that.

Someone also pointed out to me that a minor character in the book shares his name with the child of a mutual (real-life) friend. WHAT? REALLY? I picked that name because it was trendy, not because I was naming the character after her kid.

I’m also tired of making excuses for I MURDERED THE PTA: It’s got language. It’s got violence. It’s got weirdos. It’s irreverent. It may offend. Don’t let your 85-year-old mother read it. Danger, Will Robinson! Blah blah bleargh gagh. You're a big boy/girl. You can decide if it's something you'd like to read.

Me, I'm done. I wrote it, it was good enough to be a finalist in a big contest (she said, milking that one to death and beyond), it finally got a publisher, now it’s in print. I MURDERED THE PTA is fiction. It's not about anybody I know. It's not supposed to be anything but entertainment.

Now, that said, if you do want to read it, would you please buy your own copy? I keep hearing about people passing one copy around and, while I greatly appreciate that single purchase, I have to tell you folks that I’m not just in this to have fun. Writing is my livelihood. I don't mean to sound ungracious, but, dude, if you owned—for instance—a clothing store, would you want someone to come in, buy one bra, and then pass it around to her friends to take turns wearing? Or would you want each person to buy her own bra?

If you would like to discuss the pros and cons of bra-sharing, please come see me at the West Hollywood Book Fair this Sunday, October 2, noonish, booth C6. Copies of I MURDERED THE PTA are $15 each, which includes sales tax, an autograph, a bookmark and my promise that you’re not in it.

Judging a Book by Its Author

2011-09-18T13:23:00.000-07:00

You are going to get so tired of this subject. I know I am. But it happened yet again, hence I feel the need to report it.

Had a lovely time yesterday at my signing. The bookstore’s owners were wonderful about sharing inside information about the book business and giving me very usable career advice.

I was also told that my headshot is terrible and that I’m much more attractive in person. Repeatedly.

Here’s how I looked yesterday. For my fellow fashionistas, that’s a ‘50s peach sweater, ‘50s sleeveless top with beadwork and ‘40s celluloid and rhinestone pins. Not pictured: ‘50s-style houndstooth pencil skirt and ‘40s moderately uncomfortable but totally fabulous pumps.

I fully accepted the bad-headshot remark as a compliment. I’d much rather look better in real life than in pictures, as I suspect the opposite is what generally happens with writers. I know that sounds harsh, but it must be true, otherwise we wouldn’t have so many of those soft-focus, fist-under-the-chin, black-and-white, semi-hidden book-jacket back-flap photos. With the dog. To distract you from the author.

My next appearance will be Sunday, October 2 at the Zumaya Publications author table at the West Hollywood Book Fair. I’m not sure what I’ll be wearing, but I'll be cuter than my picture. Click here for more info: http://www.westhollywoodbookfair.org/ Note: They won’t know what I’m wearing, either.

Thursday, October 13 at 7:00 p.m., I’ll be at a private home in Simi Valley, giving a talk and signing books to benefit the Loving Heart Hospice Foundation. Per person donation is $45 and includes a signed copy of I MURDERED THE PTA. Cupcakes and cocktails will be served. Best food combination ever! For more information, e-mail Debbie Thomas, woodranch@aol.com.

Bacon Up a New Book

2011-09-16T09:16:00.000-07:00

I spent all day yesterday working on the sequel to I MURDERED THE PTA. It was hard.

This is not a complaint. If you want a complaint, I’ve got one for you: The turkey BLT I had for dinner last night did not taste anything like a regular BLT. Turkey bacon sucks. Also, sorry, tofu does not taste like steak, no matter how you season it.

Note to food companies: We pay extra to eat these healthy things. They should taste more like the unhealthy ones.

So, the sequel. I am working very hard to make it more interesting, more fun, more complex than IMPTA, although a number of people have told me that some of the twists in the first book were entirely unexpected. Which is good. I try to create twists that jump at you, but aren’t unbelievable. I find it totally unfair when authors pull solutions out of the ether, without giving the reader a chance to at least try to figure out whodunit.

Yesterday I went through the entire sequel—which is about 7/8ths of the way done—and matched up some stuff that didn’t work as far as timeline and plot points.

I don’t plot anything out prior to writing a book. With both books in my Daphne Lee-Lee Misadventures, I kind of know who the killer is and maybe why he or she did it, but, with this one, it’s changed since I first started writing it several years ago. Why? Because I felt like it. I didn’t want it to follow a pattern or adhere to a formula. I once heard a famous writer talk about putting 3” x 5” cards on clotheslines in her office—with each card having a specific plot point. I can’t do that. I’m all about the spontaneity. Also, I’m lazy. And hyper. At the same time.

When I was a kid, my sister had a huge collection of romance books. Even though I preferred much more depressing books—some of my favorites were Salinger’s short stories, QB VII and The Phantom Tollbooth—I’d read my sister's romance novels. It was an escape. What annoyed me about them was the formula. Every book was essentially the same. Only the names were changed. Barely. And the heroines’ hair. Choice of four: Raven, blond curls, mahogany and flaming red mane.

I realize now that there’s a place for these patterns and it’s certainly OK for most genres. Hell, when I write advertorials, there’s a formula. But with my novels—which are standard cozy mysteries with a touch of chick lit—I’m forcing myself to violently grab the formula, tear it into little pieces, chew it and swallow it so there’s no evidence it ever existed.

I just hope it tastes better than turkey bacon.

Commercial time! Join me tomorrow at Book ‘em Mysteries, 1118 Mission St., South Pasadena at 2:00 p.m. I’ll be giving a brief talk about writing and then signing copies of I MURDERED THE PTA. I shall also be wearing a fabulous ‘50s day dress, so at least come for that.

Either this one or a black lace one. Note: Faith the Mannequin will not be there. Hope you're not too disappointed.

There is No I in Ego

2011-09-12T14:52:00.000-07:00

Had a wonderful lunch last weekend with my sixth-grade teacher. I don’t want to reveal too much, because I’m considering making it a topic for a future newspaper opinion column, but let’s just say she’s all that and more. Grrrrl seriously got it goin’ on. Plus she was carrying a VINTAGE BAG. Extra points for that.

I told you in a previous post that she meant a lot to me because she was the only adult—besides my beloved paternal grandmother—who paid positive attention to me during a really crappy period in my life. So you know that much already. Not sure where I’m going with it in my column, but I’m thinking on it.

After we chatted for a while, she gently scolded me for being too self-deprecating. I KNOW I have a habit of doing that, and I KNOW it can be annoying, but, for some reason, I do it anyway. I try to be self-deprecating in a joking way, and not in a fishing-for-compliments way. One of my jobs is to be funny, so being sort of mean about myself is where I find a lot of the humor.

I believe it’s partly cultural and partly a way to let people know I’m not stuck up and have never been given a reason to be. Well, yeah, my husband calls me “gorgeous and brilliant,” but that’s just him being… wait… ooh… uh… I almost said something self-deprecating RIGHT HERE.

When I started this blog, an old boyfriend found me and mentioned my self-deprecating tone and said something along the lines of it being part of my act. He’s probably right about that, but he still owes me $500 and some record albums from when we broke up in 1983, so who cares what he thinks?

I’ve decided to give you my honest opinion of myself. No jokes. I promise.

I make the most of what I have, appearance-wise. I could exercise a lot more and eat a little less. I could use some plastic surgery to fix a couple of things, but not right now.

I work hard. I put everything I have into everything I write. I won’t send in a piece of crap just to get it off my desk.

I have an ego. It's not huge, but it's big enough to get really pissed off when someone is being condescending.

I’m not rich. Sometimes I wish I were, just so my family could have the financial security, but rich people intimidate me. It’s hard to feel comfortable around them. If I ever became rich, I would still shop at thrift stores.

I care way too much about almost everything, which is a bad trait for an opinion columnist. I’m trying to fix that.

So, yeah, I would like to be a wealthy beauty queen, but it ain’t gonna happen. I’ve accepted that, much like you’ll just have to accept the fact that I’m going to keep making jokes about it.

Commercial time! I’ll be a guest on Bo Jaxon’s B95.1 morning radio show this Wednesday, September 14 at 7:40 a.m. Click here for the live stream.

Credit Where Credit is Duh

2011-09-04T09:08:00.000-07:00

I believe I have found my best angle.

Did really well at the book signing at Mysteries to Die For. Very nice group of attendees, some of whom I wasn’t even related to. I didn't know I would be expected to give a talk, so I didn’t know there’d be thirty (or so, or maybe fewer) pairs of eyes staring at me, waiting for me to say something funny or clever or useful. I think I did OK.

Wore a black cotton dress from Macy’s, plaid Demonia platform boots, and a 1950s white snake (as in the animal, not the band) belt, with the head still attached. Many were horrified. Especially my mom, who is always horrified by my wardrobe. I was wearing my usual silver snake watch, so one of the storeowners asked if I liked snakes. I said yes, but only as a motif. I tend to freak out when I see them in person. I have a tattoo of a pair of entwined snakes—a copy of an antique brooch—because I like the Victorian symbolism of snakes as a representation of eternal love. (Note: I did not remove the black Macy's dress to show off the tattoo.)

Anyway, it turned out I was sitting next to a pole—a ceiling support for the store—that had a snake painted on it. Homage to Sherlock Holmes. You can sort of see it in the picture.

But that’s not what this post is about.

I bought the Macy’s dress by reopening my Macy’s account, which I never use, because I hate department stores. OK, not hate. My husband doesn’t like when I hate. So I will amend my hatred to this: I do not frequent department stores.

But I was there with my daughter, who needed something, and I found this basic black adorable cotton dress, and the very nice Macy's lady said she’d give me an extra 15 percent off, so I reopened my account.

Yesterday, in the mail, I got a new Macy’s card, which isn’t really a Macy’s card, but an American Express Macy’s.

We have, like, twenty-seven American Express cards that I never use, except maybe Costco and that’s only when I’m drunk enough to brave Costco. (Note to law enforcement officials and my mom: A JOKE. But, hey, you have to admit a couple of appletinis would make a Costco excursion way more fun.)

Then, the other day, my husband and I were at the bank, doing something business-related and exceptionally tedious and boring, and we learned that we qualify for two (meaning two each for the two of us) credit cards for our business accounts.

Sure, we could turn down the offer, but my husband overruled me (something that practically never occurs) and made the executive decision to get these cards for the businesses.

I pay off my credit card balances in full when we get the statements, so it’s really no problem for me to have this many credit cards. My concern is for those who have no self-control. I'm assuming that almost everyone is getting credit card offers, including those that only make minimum payments and are paying a zillion percent interest on their purchases. Didn’t our country recently realize that there are people living beyond their means? You know—credit card debt, foreclosure crisis, stuff like that? Why throw temptation out there again?

Unless creditors don’t care if people continue to get themselves in debt. Yeah, I think I’m going with that one.

Commercial time: I’ll be on a freelance writing panel this Thursday, September 8, in Camarillo, California. Click here for details. I will do my best to be funny, clever and useful.

Garanimal Magnetism

2011-08-25T12:15:00.000-07:00

Today I was minding my own business at the supermarket, which, oddly enough, is my Happy Place. I can’t help it. Ever since the Muzak started playing stuff from Squeeze, all it takes for me to enjoy grocery shopping is a tall, skinny vanilla latte, my shopping list, reading glasses, coupons and the ability to sing along, almost in tune.

I was buying food for this weekend. We’re having a few folks over for some tasty vittles after my book signing Saturday at Mysteries to Die For in Thousand Oaks.

I grabbed a jar of pickles, put it in my cart and made my way down the aisle. I was standing there, reading my list, and, like I said, attending to my personal beeswax, when

CRASH.

Another jar of pickles that I DID NOT TOUCH jumped off the shelf and threw itself on the floor in an apparent suicide attempt.

I got someone to clean it up. I could tell he didn’t believe that I did not assist with this pickle seppuku by accidentally dropping it on the floor. He had that kind of “yeah, sure, clumsy lady” look on his face.

I texted Chill to let her know about the mishap and we proceeded to amuse each other with a series of pickle puns.

But here’s what’s weird: this happens to me ALL THE TIME. Not with pickles, but with other food items, usually in the produce aisle. I AM TOTALLY SERIOUS.

Fruit and vegetables constantly fling themselves at me. I believe I have some sort of electromagnetic force that pulls them off the shelves, like gravity, only with more color.

Could be that I am so gosh darned colorful that they want to go home with me. Yes, yes, it could. I wear outfits.

Chill and I have had several conversations about the meaning of the word “outfit,” and she seems to think it means matchy-matchy, like upscale tracksuits—you know, with a jacket and yoga pants; we’ve all seen THAT WOMAN at Whole Foods, buying seaweed and acorns and unpasteurized yaks' milk—but I disagree. I think an outfit means you look colorful and happy and put together.

Geez, it’s not as if I’m wearing adult Garanimals. My outfits are so great that last time I went food shopping, some scary biker-ish looking dude rode by me in the parking lot on a bicycle (his Harley must have been in the shop) and actually said, “I like your outfit.”

OUTFIT. HE SAID.

I told my dad about the guy's comment and he said, “Maybe he thought the circus was in town.”

I swear my dad and Chill are in cahoots.

I don’t care, though. Much like the vegetable, I yam what I yam.

The Whole Tooth and Nothing But the Tooth

2011-08-18T10:11:00.000-07:00

About ten years ago, I had to have my two center bottom teeth pulled. They were “babies.” They’d never fallen out because I didn’t have any permanent teeth under them, a condition inherited from my father. The difference was that his babies had fallen out when he was little, and the two on each side came together, so it’s barely noticeable that he’s only got 30 of the usual 32 adult teeth.

My babies hung in there, desperately clinging with what little root strength they had, until my dentist decided he needed to make a house payment. I mean, until he told me they had to go.

They were tough little suckers. I was so nervous about the procedure and my adrenaline was raging so wildly that it took about ten shots of novocaine to numb my face. Then, the little guys were so stubborn that my dentist had to put his foot on my chest to pull them out. My babies were happy where they were, and fought like crazy to stay there.

After that, my dentist had to thinly grind a tooth on either side of the hole where my babies used to live, to use as anchors for a bridge. He turned the two teeth into sharp, pointy sticks. I know. I saw. I looked like something out of a hillbilly horror film.

For a while, I got to wear a temporary cap that was a row of four fake teeth, which didn't fit well and caused an adorable lisp. I felt like Cindy Brady, so I spent my days tattling on everyone until I finally got the permanent bridge, which was nailed into my mouth using titanium railroad spikes.

As with many dental experiences of such an extensive nature, it created much anxiety and was painful and cost a butt-load of money.

So I sent a letter to The Tooth Fairy. (NOTE: THIS IS A TRUE STORY.)

Dear Tooth Fairy,

You didn’t take my baby teeth when you were supposed to and I had to have a bridge put in which hurt a lot and cost $2,900, so I think you owe me.

Love,

Wendy

This is what I got back from the Tooth Fairy: (ALSO TRUE.)

Dear Wendy,

If your teeth had fallen out in 1968 like they were supposed to, you would have gotten fifty cents, so here you go.

Love,

The Tooth Fairy

In the envelope were two shiny quarters, one for each baby tooth.

The moral of this story: It never hurts to ask.