Post #3: Cassie Edwards Answers The Phone

Added to complete my January play. The Rest Of The Story:

A month later in a (relatively) peaceful time in Romancelandia...

On the stage, everyone's slumbering or eating chocolate. Suddenly, the spotlights come on, zigzagging like a police search.

A scream. Movement on stage as bodies are startled out of their stupor. Shadows stand up, hugging each other.

GREEK CHORUS: Oh NOOoooooesssss! Cassie snarks back! Cassie, you meannnnn!!!!! That is just...wrong!

CASSIE EDWARDS: Talk to the hand, Bitchezzz!

OUT TODAY
Reissued with new title January

A million and one ferrets and their grandmas cheerfully pop out of their burrows to cheer. Mo money, mo money!

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Post #2: At It Again

You can tell I'm not working, can't you, since I'm stalking the Bad Puppy around the house, seeing what he's up to....



He climbed up on a chair, jumped over "fence," so he can have a better look at the baby unicorn. Uh-huh.

And yes, yes, I'm hearing you...my books are everywhere. I'm a mess.

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Yo, It's His Jedness Saying Hi

...in his own unique way ;-). I thought I would tease those who are thinking about His Jedness. He says: "Happy Leap Year Day."

No, I mean, I thought I would let His Jedness TEASE YOU! Don't read if you don't like spoilers....

*************************

Jed watched everything Helen did from his quarters as he put on his sensor suit. Her sensitivity must be bothering her more than she realized. First, she’d forgotten to check whether the micro-eye in her room was blinking, signaling that she was being watched. Second, she’d assumed that the brain entrainment machine couldn’t be controlled from the outside.

Elena, Elena.

Putting the wireless control pad on the cart that supported the BE machine, he wheeled it to the room off the side of his office, a smaller version of the CAVE. Unlike Helen’s training room, though, he had multiple control panels that he could use to enhance the virtual reality experience that the CAVE provided. He even had the Portal, the VR chair that enabled immersive virtual reality, here. Whereas the CAVE was all physical, with the participants moving around, the Portal was all mental. The former prepared TIRVVR in the latter.
Jed turned on a side screen, changing the channels to Helen’s quarters. He waited till she lay back and closed her eyes. Reaching for the control pad by his side, he readjusted the timer.

There would be no alarm to wake you up, Elena. Not till I say so.

He turned up the temperature in Helen’s room. Then he put on the tabs and ear buds that connected him to the BE machine and flipped the synchronization button. Soon their brain waves would be in sync as she went deeper in theta wave, the level that enabled remote-viewing.

Flipping on another switch, the room plunged into deep darkness. He checked the BEM. Not quite there yet. As soon as they were close to sync, he would start the brainwave management.

He settled back, letting the sound wash over him as he relaxed. This was a new way to sexually imprint, he supposed. He’d first seduced her in virtual reality. She’d then seduced him when she invaded his dreams. After that, he’d gone to her.

He let his mind wander back to the night before. Elena naked and aroused, begging. The unique taste of her. The urgency of her release. It felt so damn good to be finally inside her instead of virtual touching.

Fucking was so much better when it was real.

Jed smiled wryly as he watched the screen. His eyes half-closed as his body relaxed. She must be feeling the warmth because she just kicked the light sheet off her, revealing beautiful bare legs. Legs that he recalled holding apart. The feminine heat between them when he’d used his mouth to pleasure her. He felt himself getting aroused.

He turned the volume higher as the brain entrainment machine continued feeding them the cycle he’d chosen, between theta and REM. That was the level when she had been in when she’d unexpected took in the images in his dreams as her own. He hadn’t been too shocked by the experience. Unconscious telepathy happened all the time among family members and lovers. The question was, in her sensitive state, would she now inadvertently take in the images and feelings of his private fantasy?

Conjuring an image of a naked Elena came easily. He’d like those strong legs around him again, this time with her moving in rhythm to his thrusts. He watched with interest as Helen’s legs parted tantalizingly, seemingly responding to the sexy visual in his head.

Mental trigger had begun.

The sound waves seemed to recede into the background as Jed gave in to total relaxation, focusing on only one thing—that sexual need he’d been building up for Helen Roston. He’d always been turned on when she started undressing herself by the poolside. In response, on the screen, Helen put a restless hand on her shirt, as if it was bothering her.

Was there some kind of telepathy compounded by their brain wave syncing?

He did enjoy it so much when he’d gone to her. “But now it’s your turn, Elena,” Jed whispered.

**************

See? No elevators here. Would Helen "go to" him? Heh, heh. Any comments?

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Post #2: Fun Question

When we write, we sort of roleplay in our heads. What would our character say in this situation? What would they do in that?

So, roleplaying with American Idol, IF you were a contender on Idol these last two weeks, what songs would YOU pick to sing? Why?

The themes were 60s and 70s music.

I'll go first. If I could sing and if I were crazy enough to be on stage like that, I would pick...

UNCHAIN MY HEART for the 60s song. This was originally sung by Ray Charles but I'd do it like the Joe Cocker version. Rock it out!

I choose it because it's contemporary (doesn't sound stuck in the sixties), got a bluesy rock feel, and there are part a singer can change the arrangement to show off his/her vocals.

For the 70s song...RING MY BELL by Anita Ward. HAHAHAHAHAHA. Just kidding. I would do it just for the look on Simon's face. Hahahahahahhaha. Okay, hmm. This is a hard one because most of my favorite songs are done by males in the 70s and some wouldn't work in this contest.

I think I'd go with Carole King's IT'S TOO LATE. It's also more contemporary sounding than You're So Vain, IMHO, esp. with the beginning piano chords. Anyway, I had always liked the bongo drums in the background. It would also go with the 60s song choice in the bluesy way, since Simon and Randy are always harping about finding and establishing an image and "stand out."

Not that I can sing, but I have several great buddies who can karaoke their asses off :::ahemLeiha::: ahemSuahem::: :::coughLaurencough::: so I think it's be fun to hear their song choices as well as yours. Come on, what would be your strategy, eh?

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Living On A Prayer

Bad News.

The Alpha Male's going to have that re-surgery. The doctor is going in to bust up scar tissue. March 7. Spring Break. There goes my bikini time.

Seriously, though, this is going to be a painful, painful time for him. Even the therapists shudder at the thought. Prayers and healing thoughts, pleasepleaseplease? And pats on the head for me, pleasepleaseplease?

**********************

It's Bike Week coming up here, ironically. You know, the cause of all this pain. Okay, that's dramatic, but you know what I mean. It's Da Lore/Lure of Da Bike. Wild and Free. Ruff and Tuff. And...Limping and Out Of Commission. 100,000 bikers descend down to Central Florida and rumble around in a vortex of leather and lace. I enjoy it but not on the highway or bigger roads. Wiping Floridian bugjuice splattered on the face is just not a sexy way to spend the day, you know?

For those who are here in town for the festivities, please drive carefully, whatever vehicle you're in. Because I know everything I need to know about busted kneecaps, 'kay?

I once read a romance book where the hero/heroine did the nasty while riding on a Harley. Uh-huh. Rrrrriiiigght ;-). That was one funny moment where I actually thought about the mechanics--feet shifting gears, one hand on the brake, the other pulling in the clutch. Looking ahead and paying attention to the road. No, wait a minute, the heroine is IN THE WAY and enthusiastically shaking the bike around. And let's not even think about when he closes his eyes in ecstasy.

Crrrashhh!

;-) Have you guys ever read any crazy impossible romantic antics in your books? Hey, whatcha talking about...seatbelts absolutely works great too!

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Post #3: The New Kind of Uber-Zombies

Sometimes, late at night, when you're aimlessly surfing the Intrawebbs, do you have that thought, the one that haunts you when you're snuffing down the leftover meatloaf in your fridge dead of night--"Why the hell do I keep doing this? I should be writing/sleeping/doing laundry/paying bills/doing something else."

Well, I'm snuffing down leftover meatloaf right now.

And you're aimlessly surfing the Intrawebbs.

We're even.

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Post #2: MINE MINE MINE

(Vince, cover your eyes)

You can look. But no touchee.

Isn't he beayouutipool?

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Congratulations!

Yesterday, in FL., a nuclear power shutdown. A major power grid failure from Jacksonville to Miami. Millions of people stuck in darkened buildings during work hours. Commuters jammed up at traffic lights. Screaming people in elevators for hours and hours. In short, total chaos.

Ranger Buddy's test score for Math and Psychology came in at exactly the same time. Math: 110 over 100. Psych: 120 over 100. Both broke the curve grid.

COINCIDENCE?

I think not.

And what's the big shock in your state today? We'll blame it on RB breaking the curve.

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American Idol

Oh gosh, that last kid, the one who sang John Lennon's song? He gave me teh goosebumps. No one, in any of these seasons that I've watched, has ever tempted me to pick up the phone to vote like he just did.

Heh heh, Paula's idea of mass producing him as a rearview mirror toy ain't that bad!

70s songs that I was So Disappointed none of the guys picked:

YMCA
Kung-Fu Fighting
Dust In The Wind
Have You Ever Seen The Rain
Maggie May
Fat Bottomed Girls
Copacobana
Moondance
Tragedy
The Logical Song
Crocodile Rock

No sense of adventure ;-).

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They Need Soup

Heeheehee, I saw this video and this is EXACTLY why I don't want the Alpha Male to go through another surgery. Apologies to Vince :::grin::: but really, us girls will recognize the full effect of the Sick Alpha Male.

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All Kinds of Pains

Whew! I think I'm recovered from last night ;-). It's been a long day today...wonder why?

This morning, I took out three more boxes of books and clothes. And a lamp. And whoooosh, they were gone within the hour. I never got to see who these people who love old school books and hard covers are, or I'd get a phone number so I can just call them up when I have a box ready, you know? Because it's just the beginning of my :::fisting my palm slowly::: wahr against the kudzu rebels, bwahahaha.

Strange how, by changing one's attitude--by looking at something at a different angle--a dull, totally uninspiring job (such as cleaning and dusting) can become a quest. If only I can take this newfound energy and channel it to pulverize my writer's block, LOL.

Talking about pulverizing...bad news. The Alpha Male's surgically-repaired knee is not bending to 90 degrees. The limb is hard as a baseball bat. The doctor told him if the physical therapy team can't get his knee to that angle by mid-March, he's going to reoperate, warning that, quote, "You're going to hate life if I do that." The head physical therapist dude, when he heard what the doctor said, comfirmed that the procedure would indeed be very, very painful afterwards.

"We'll have to get aggressive with the therapy," he said. "How much pain can you take?"

"How much can you give?" The Alpha Male asked.

"Oh, we have our ways."

So, during the next session at physical therapy, the Alpha Male discovered that he was given His. Own. Room. With a radio. It's to be turned up to drown out the screams.

Whoa.

And, they sent in their biggest physical therapist. His name? BUDDHA.

I really feel sorry for the Alpha Male, but I couldn't help thinking, wouldn't it be cool to tape his screaming session and then put it on my blog with the heading, WHY YOU SHOULDN'T RIDE A MOTORCYCLE? No pics. Just the screaming. I know, I know, I'm a sadist.

He has three weeks to get his leg to bend from 76 to 90 degrees, folks. Pray for me and him, please? Because you know if he has to undergo that second surgery, my life is going to be miserable too. I really don't need another thing to stress me out...it's only February!

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OSCARS 2008 Liveblogging

NOTE: THIS IS THE SECOND POST FOR TODAY. FOR YOUR DAILY GENNITA FIX, LOOK BELOW THIS POST.

What to do, what to do, my beloved NASCAR race is on in California, so of course it's running the same time with OSCARS. It's only 20 laps in and there's a red flag intermission, so I'm anticipating a long night ahead for my boys there. Watching the OSCARS with the roar of NASCAR in the background...

Welcome to the NOSCARS event, bwahaha. I'm also anticipating the tipsier I get (I always watch the OSCARS with wine), the more confused I'm going to be with the channels and events. So, if it so happens that I'm screaming that Jeff Gordon is the winner of an OSCAR, and he's in the lead right now, you know I mean, he's actually a winner of the other event, the NASCAR race. And if I say George Clooney crashed, you'll know I'm mixing it up again.

Got it?

Of course, a NOSCAR event would be quite fun to watch, don't you think? The actors would arrive wearing skintight fire suits and helmets. They would step out of limousines that are plastered with logos of their favorite perfumes and fashion brands. Then the red carpet would have tire burns all over it. If Viggo wins the NOSCAR, he'd be required to do a backward flip, or climb a fence, or drive around the red carpet with the brakes on. If little Earnhardt wins, I want him to start sobbing like the momma's boy he really is (hahaha, you can't stop my little E sneers, racefans), or he can hug MY JEFF GORDON, sobbing and thanking him over and over for bringing him into THE WINNING TEAM.

You see? I'm stoked for the OSCARS and I haven't even opened the bottle of wine yet. If you hang around, your comments throughout the ordeal would be appreciated. Don't let my wittery stop you from yours.

See ya in a few minutes....

You know, NASCAR fans are so patient. I don't think many OSCAR fans would wait over an hour in between stop and start because of accidents or rain. Of course, you can't get too drunk at the OSCARs.

OTOH, wouldn't it be fun if Regis were drunk as a skunk while interviewing the actors on the red carpet? And he's with MY GEORGE RIGHT NOW. Oh, MY GEORGE, he is so beautiful, with his nicely greyed hair, now. I love you, George, even though you're with that silverfish beside you. You need to stop that; silver doesn't become you. And you'll look good in a fire suit, in my Lexus and me...never mind...but you can drive my car and shift my gear.

Goodness, was that John Travolta or a monkey? What is it with the Balls of Fury plasterhair?????! John Revolta.

Do you know they are going around that racecar at 182mph a lap? And those drivers talk back and forth with their crew chiefs while they're inches from the car ahead? Let's see them actors making OSCAR thank you speeches with that speed. I'm sure they'd flub their lines.

Ha, and Tony Stewart has fallen back. No, not Jon Stewart, dudes. I'd like Tony Stewart presenting. He would be rude, stupid and funny. And if his favorite dude didn't win, he'd sideswipe him.

Damn, damn, damn, it's raining in California AGAIN. Yellow flag. My poor Jeff can't run away with the race.

How come it's not raining over there at Regis? I'd like to see a big tumble of rain come down on all those lovely gowns and tuxes. Then they'd all need some chassis adjustment and four tire changes in 12.1 seconds.

Not Helen Mirren, of course. She's the Queen. Someone would bring her an umbrella. What a lovely dress she has on, btw. I bet she'd never had a smear of motor oil on her.

Ha, and there's Penelope Cruz. Bet she doesn't know that Tom Cruise is at the races. That's right, he's reliving Days of Thunder.

Yawn. Time for my drink break. No, folks, in case you're wondering what the heck you're reading, the OSCARs haven't started yet, but the NOSCARs have. It's yellow flag, which means caution, which means Regis is boring me to death interviewing unimportant mortals.

Cute guy comparison. Come on. Kasey Kahne vs John Revolta. Mark Martin vs Regis. Oh, awright, there is NO ONE who can compare with my GEORGE CLOONEY (sorry, darling Jeff...maybe in a few years...you're getting there).

And here is Jon Stewart racing on stage. He's explaining the wreck that was left by the crash of the Writers' Strike. You see, the writers are like the race drivers of the film industry. No writers, no racesshow.

Jon is talking about amazing performances. You know, I was expecting him to wake up in bed again with GEORGE CLOONEY as the beginning skid, but I guess they think that's not original anymore. Not that the last minute writing is entertaining. So far, Jon isn't drunk enough for me, or vice-versa.

Man, these jokes are lame. Personal stripper name using first pet name and street name???! SO LAST CENTURY, Jon. I tell better jokes than that. It's now the expected commentary on the Presidential Race. Are they going to bring up Al Gore? Come on, bring up Al. He needs the attention. So is Hollywood for Obama or Billary? He just made fun of Obama's name, which rhymed with Osama, of course. Another OLD JOKE. Hey, it's not like the race driver named Dick Trickle, 'kay? Ah, that would have been a perfect presidential candidate.

Poor Jennifer Garner, Alias girl, relegated to Best Costume announcement. You need to race more, Jennifer! Forget that mommy-thang. The black gown--not your color, sweetie. Remember that glorious orange you had on a few years back? WHEN YOU WERE DATING MICHAEL VARTAN, MY OTHER SWEETHEART? You broke his heart, you did.

SWOOOOON. It's GEORGE!!!!!

So you flubbed your lines. That's okay. The writers, apparently, are a bit rusty because so far the writing SUX. They are showing 90 years of presenters saying "Good evening" on the screen. Such inspiring prose. Do we really need to use the theme to The Titanic for showing grand moments of the last 80 years? I mean, this show is sinking, folks. Sinking fast.

They are presenting the animated feature award right now. What they need is Kurt Busch fighting with JonTony Stewart. Now, that'd bring some much needed animation. It's Lap 74. My, my, the NOSCARs are just racing along.

That's Kathleen Heigl with Marilyn Monroe hair. There's a hole on her left shoulder strap. Other than that, she looks amazing. Hope she's not going to tell us (again) how to pronounce her name. And NORBIT is the most disgusting movie ever to be shown on the plane, 'kay?

You know, if the speeches go on too long, we can knock these award winners off the stage with a speeding car. That would be kinda fun, I think, because they'd then speak weallyweallyweally fast to get to the end of their speech.

And now, our first entertainment portion of the night--little Earnhardt singing Enchanted..."A Happy Working Song." He looks so good in a miracle push-up bra. Oh, sorry, that was Amy Adams.

They are showing a montage of Michael Botoxface. Me, I'm taking a pit break.

Hey, it's The Rock, announcing for Visual Effects, you know, the award where the actors look scared when a huge monster-that-isn't-there is attacking them. What? The Golden Compass won over The Transformers?! As for Pirates...oh well, nothing new, more ocean waves, more fishface monsters....

Beautiful Cate Blanchette in purple. She looks pregnant. Is she? She's announcing for art and set direction. Yawn. No surprise, Sweeney Todd. And they just flashed Johnny Depp with that underlip mold growth. Poor man.

Jon Stewart just likened Cate B. to a pitbull. Interesting.

Is it scary if I tell you that when they show those old black-and-white montage, I REMEMBER WATCHING them when I was a kid? Argghhh. More wine.

It's Best Supporting Actor time. Jennifer Hudson shows up. I see the latest fashion trend this year, folks. Egyptian necklines. You know, shift with an Egyptian jeweled collar. Every woman's got them. And the winner should be Tom Wilkinson (Michael Clayton), but who knows? I only watched that movie, LOL. See? I was wrong, it's that Javier Bardem dude.

Damn, another rain delay on the Other Channel. At this rate, it's a race for which event would end first--the Oscars or the Nascar. So boring. Not a crash or weird see-through dress in sight.

They are showing the Oscar salute to binoculars and telescopes, a sort of self-mockery of what you'd have to watch if the Writers' Strike had continued. We get the point, Jon. You don't have any material. You should have come out in an Egyptian-collared dress. And push-up bra.

And now, the second act: Tony Stewart and Kurt Busch hugging up and singing "Kiss It Up." And then they crash each other's cars again. Oh, throw in Montoya too. You know he wants a piece of the action.

Owen Wilson is given the nominees for Best LIVE Action announcement. I don't want to say anything, even though it's the perfect moment for a cruel snark. Not saying it. Uh-uh.

You know, these foreigners are infesting the NOSCARS, dammit. What with Villeneuve, Montoya, Franchitti...here, have some chewing tobaccy, luvs. You guys need a cap. And stop all that accenting already.

Y'all just missed the Short Animated Film award. Do you care? Thought so.

I haven't seen any truly ugly dresses yet, by the way. This is truly disappointing. Oh wait, I think I remember Daniel Day-Lewis' date's dress. It looked like someone vomitted a poinsettia on its front. Maybe I can find a pic.

Best Supporting Actress. Oh come on, it's got to be Cate B., right? I did like that actress in Michael Clayton, though. That scene with her sweaty armpits? See, I remember it, so it must be good. HEY SHE DID WIN! Heh. She still looks sweaty with slicky hair and shiny face. And she's all accenty and wearing the wrong era--some kind of black Greek balloon. It's Egyptian time, girl! Sheesh!

Here's Jessica Alba who forgot to shave her chest hair.

The Other Race is still red-flagged and they're showing cartoons while waiting for the rain to stop. How appropriate.

The writing is still bad. Racing too. This is a disaster.

Best adapted screenplay. Atonement. Away From Her. The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. No Country for Old Man. There Will Be Blood.

What? No The Flame and the Flower? No Sleeping With The Agent? No The Millionaire and The Virgin? I swear those are better titles, yes?

Good God, we've arrived to the interesting portion about the Oscar Procedures. I shall now chug down more wine. Because it's like watching waterboarding, you know. I NEED SOME ENGINES ON FIRE, PEEPS!

The next song is sung by Michael Waltrip's happy warbling about Toyota. And LITTLE Earnhardt is playing with the Jeff Gordon's bongos. I'm sorry, my NOSCAR entertainment is much more fun than what they have. Sigh, where is Antonio Banderas and his guitar when you weally, weally, weally need him?

Starting my fourth glass, my friends. This does not bode well for coherence and spelling.

For some reason, Jon is tallying the pregnant actresses count. Jessica Alba, Cate Blanchette, Nicole Kiddman, and Angelina Jolie, if you're interested. Halle Berre and Judy Dench just showed up on stage with clown hair and face hair. Okay, it's two men who sorta look alike, pretenting to be JD and HB. It's the presentation for Sound Edit. Can you stand the suspense????! Well, Bourne Ultimatum wins. You know, the movie with the dude that looks like the guy on VIRTUALLY HERS. Ya don't believe me? Look at the cover on the right side of this blog. Told ya.

(Hey, what's a little liveblogging without pimping my own book, huh?)

This winning couple gave the Best Speech Evah. They both blanked out.

Now it's Best Sound Mixing. What's the difference between Sound Mixing and Sound Editing? Good question. Do you care? Like watching the cars go round and round and round without hearing the roaring engine, you know. And Bourne Ultimatum won again. Wow, that movie has good sounds.

I'm still scared. I have seen everyone of these past Oscar winners they are showing when they were making those speeches LIVE. My life...I wasteth four hours a year on this. I need therapy.

I believe Forrest Whitaker is an immortal. He looks exactly the same every year. Best Actress award now. Cate Blanchett, whom I love. Or, Julie Christie, the favorite, and still very Dr. Zhivago-beautiful. But it'll go to a foreigner.

You see? Gennita is rarely wrong when she's drunk. And she's all overwhelmed and accenty, saying, "Eeet iz trooe der is some MANGELS in this city." Obviously, she's been with MY GEORGE CLOONEY. Damn her, damn her to hell.

It's Colin Ferrell who spots pre-bald Agassi hair. Or current Tony Stewart dirty hair. And they sing a duet together. The songs nominated year proves there was also a SONGWRITERS Strike.

It's Bad Boy Jack Nicholson. Instead of sunglasses, he's wearing the frame of one with old-man reading glasses. So he isn't as immortal as he thinks. Montage of the past 79 best movies. Okay, this would be fun for me. See, I actually saw most of those movies up to the late 90s. So I know what I'm talking about till then, LOL. I actually saw The Sound of Music 365 times because my siblings grew up watching that movie once a day. To this day, they can still mouth the entire movie's dialogue. Scary, I know.

Bourne Ultimatum won for film editing. You see? Good sound. Good editing. And presented by Renee Zellwegger wrapped in so many Swarozski diamonds, she had some left over for Nichol Kiddman. She doesn't look at all preggers, but then I'm blinded by the bling-bling. It's an honorary Oscar. Like, if you'd never won a car race but live to be 100, they're going to give you a little something for being such a great driver, or something like that.

Nichol With-Kiddman looks like she's going to barf on stage any minute now. This guy, Robert Doyle, is giving a history of moving images. Zzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Oh wait, something to look forward to coming up...John Revolta! Don't leave me now. We're still stuck at Lap 87 on the Other Event, by the way, with Jimmy Johnson leading. Jimmy is also J. Gordon's protegee and teammate, for those who aren't in the know, and that's why it's no coincidence is car is 48 to J. Gordon's 24, if you ask me. Now little E., he's now 88. He can't do math.

Penelope Cruz, also with chest hair, presents...the foreign movie award. I bet you a glass of wine another foreigner wins. Wait, did I just watch a Kazakhstan movie of Mongolian ala Genghiz Khan warriors? (looking at wine suspiciously) Mongolians speaking Kazakhstani? Bwahahahaha.

SHRRRIIIIEKKKKKK. It's Patrick McDreamy Dempsey, whom I can lick all night too (looking at George very apologetically), introducing Kasey Kahne to sing a song from Enchanted. So we get to see a bunch of dancers waltzing, going round and round the race track. Wait, is that Karl Edwards playing the prince?

It's it's...argh...Revolta. My God, man. Botox is really not your friend. And that helmet head. Even your chin dimple is frozen, man. I. Need. More. Alcohol.

For your trivial information, I did J.T.'s roof. He used to live around here, and everyone called him J.T., like he's their best buddy or something. I also saw Saturday Night Fever at least 360 times because it was on that freaking long in the theatre that I get to see free movies (friend working as usher sneaking us in). That damn movie. That damn shirt. That damn pose. They censored the scene of Johnny's hand in his underpants (beginning of the movie), so I never got to see that till it came out in Betamax. How's that for Gennita tidbit?

They're drying the track on the other channel. I think they're going to try to reach the halfway mark to call it official. I suppose the OSCARs is now official then, since I'm way halfway done with my bottle. Way halfway. Like running on empty.

Hey, it's what'sherface--Cameron Diaz--in a recycled gown. I swear I've seen her wearing it before. And she just tied her hair in an untidy ponytail. Wow. Cameron, running late? Cinematography went to And There Will Be Blood.

Hilary Swank presents the montage of those who have departed. After all, she did that movie this year about someone who died too, you know. Besides the most recent tragic loss, the only big name I remember is one of my idols, Ingmar Bergman. I love his work.

Is it bad form to say that I'm getting the munchies?

Amy Adams comes out and posed some rhetorical questions (would Jaws be frightening without the Jaws music?). Then it's Atonement for Best Score of something like that. I'm sorry. Brain not working any more. I found a new bottle of wine. Oh-oh. o-O It's another win for the accent, folks, if you're paying attention.

It's Tom Hanks, the Botox Bee. You see? He can't smile either. So let's invite our so-very-busy military dudes in Iraq to give out the nominees for Short Subject. Wow. And they're stuck in a...LONG war. Look out, look out, incoming, incoming!!!! Dudes, this war isn't action-packed enough for you, right? And the funniest thing just happened: the subject that won...samesexlurv. The military giving an award for Don'tAskDon'tTell short subject. Bwahahahaha. I die.

It's now documentary time, which means the winner would be something against Bush. You just know it. See? Waterboarding and torture--sure bet for an Oscar.

Well, if I had the inclination, I'd have made a short documentary of JT's stay here. He lived in famous subdivision that allows its homeowners to fly in their airplanes and PARK THEM IN THEIR SPECIAL GARAGES. But he wanted to buy a Lear Jet. John Travolta was banned from the neighborhood. And that was the end of his stay ;-). See, I'm full of Revolta trivia. Get me drunker and I might tell you about HIS LIVED-IN ASSISTANT who wore a smoking jacket when he answered the door. Bwahahahaha.

You know, those dang racecar drivers look more and more like Bart Simpson whenever I check. So strange. You know what's great with Zinfandel? Girl Scout Cookies. The ones with the chocolate and coconut all over them.

Oh, Harrison Ford, who sounds very, very tired. Original Screenplay goes to Juno, a screenplay by an ex-gogo dancer. Egyptian tiger top and a tattoo. She is cool in my books, dudettes! My, the slit in her dress opens up all the way up there...good for pole-dancing. Snark, snark.

It's the Oscars for Best Actor. In my book, I'll give it to MY GEORGE CLOONEY, of course. Is there even any other man worth the Oscar, huh, huh?

Helen Mirren has the Best Dressed Award, for sure, and her voice is sooooo wonderful to listen to. GEORGE GEORGE GEORGE GEORGE CLOOOONEEEEYYYYY. I lurv you, my George, I LURV you. Mwah mwah mwah mwah mwah. Okay I love Daniel Day-Lewis too but his moustache is horrible in this movie. As for Johnny Depp, he deserves this Oscar for his singing cojones. Tommy Lee Jones is an old favorite but he already won one, so there. And I nominate Viggo Mortenson's naked butt for an Oscar.

Boohoo, it's Mustachioed Man DDL, the favorite to win. See? Accent win again. Okay, what is this with the double earrings--Daniel Day-Lewis looks like Ruth Buzzi without the hairnet.

Well, it's downhill from here. My GEORGE didn't win, what a shame. What a shame, I say. He actually did ACT in this movie too, dammit, dammit, DAMMIT! GEORGE WAS ROBBED! RRRrrrrOOooOoooBBBBBed, I say! The final scene of Michael Clayton? BEST FACIAL EXPRESSION EVAH! You voters are just jealous of his face! EndRant.

Martin Scorsese comes out to present Best Director. The Coen Brothers won. They look like Judy Dench and Halle Berre. Snerk.

Oooh, Denzel Washington. When did he go bald? =8-O Best motion picture. Well...I bet you Judy Dench and Halle Berre win again.

SEEEee? See? You cannot beat a drunk Gennita at the guessing game. Cannot.

I weep for Michael Clayton. But at least Sweaty Armpits won for Best Supporting Actress. George, you were robbed, baby. Come home to me...I'll kiss you better. And more.

And so, it's over...BEFORE MIDNIGHT! How's that possible?

One and the half bottles of wine later and I can still type ;-). Thank you for staying with me through my NOSHSCAR, ahem. I think this year's Academy Award was the MOST BORING EVAH. The only thing going for it was all the ladies with their chest hair.

See ya next year!

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Ode: My Junk My Junk My Uber Junk

ALERT! I'LL MOST LIKELY BE LIVEBLOGGING THE OSCARS TONIGHT WITH WINE AND CATSNIP. YOU KNOW WHY. MY GEORGE CLOONEY, MY FUTURE HUSBAND, WILL BE THERE. AND BOY, I SO HOPE THAT FABIO DOESN'T SHOW UP AND START A DIVA FIGHT WITH HIM.

**********************

I'm saying goodbye today to Brando's Super Bunny Wabbit. It's a big stuffed rabbit that he'd used as his wife for 18 years except that one time when he'd somehow managed to seduce Magic and begot me four beautiful puppettes. He used this rabbit so much at the wrong end, that it has a hole in its head, poor thing.

I'm throwing it away today, like some unwanted toy, and I feel guilty. It's a stinky old thing and had been just sitting there on Brando's big pillow (which is going too) since last August. I'd thought the Bad Puppy might adopt it--he'd dragged it around a couple of times--but he seemed to prefer tiny squealing things that goes :::bichik-bichik-bichik::: when they are squeezed in his mouth.

I really don't want to do it, but the mess in the house, it groweth like relentless kudzu. I don't want to look up one day and know that I've become one of those older people who have lost control of their houses. I've seen them in my repair jobs and they strike fear in my heart.

There was this lady, whose garage was so full, she couldn't open it at all. She'd called about a leak and the only access to her attic was through her garage but when I peeked through the window, all I saw was...I don't even know what I saw, just a room crammed with stuff all the way to the door. There was no way I was able to get in there and come out alive.

There was another residence belonging to two older gentlemen--I believe they were brothers--whose garage had piles and piles of magazines and newspapers. Some of them were so old they were breaking apart in my hands when I moved a few bundles so I could plug my extension cord in the wall. They weren't happy with me and wanted a discount for the damage!!!

I still remember the woman who appeared to have run out of closet room for her clothes and when she let me into her house to look at the wet spot on her ceiling, I had to literally step over little hills of dresses, jeans, shirts, towels, and blankets. They were all over the walls, on the sofas, the floors, hung on lampshades, cobwebbing the doorways to each room, hanging like disembodied ghosts, greeting me wherever I went. It was eerie and disturbing. And I felt like I was meeting Miss Havisham without the rotten food.

So. I looked around my house yesterday--and yes, the study that no one's allowed to enter--and I think it's time because I have piles of books and paper everywhere. I have a nice house but the mess is strangling it. It's either now or give in, like these people I met, and let the kudzu take over.

Brando's bunny is the symbol of my disease. I hang on to things that don't really matter. The thing is, I just let it sit there, on that pillow, day in and day out, collecting dirt and dust, as if its being there represents something pleasant in my past. Which it does, but really, I don't need it around to be reminded of Brando, right?

I feel like a madwoman sometimes, fighting between logic and sentiment. It's like being the ruler of a rebellious country, whose citizens have grown way too greedy. And being a gentle and generous queen, I find waging war against my people rather painful because I love them so much. Yet, yes, the kudzu rebels must die and those helping them, I'll have to crush them like autumn leaves in my pretty little working hands.

The next big step is to box up all those books from college and dump them. College was over twenty years ago and they aren't reusing these texts. But I love old books....old, old books are so full of old, sometimes way-out, always interesting, knowledge. Take, for instance, the old construction book I found that was printed in the 20s. That was an awesome read. Sigh. Maybe I'll keep that one.

Since I started writing professionally, I've also let paper trails taken over my life. Different versions of manuscripts--bound, boxed, strewn, slipped between notepads, filed--and they lie like so many doorstoppers around my study and garage. Why do I keep them? I have no idea. Most of them are already published books; I happen to just not think about them while I start another story, and another, and another.... Even publishers don't want them, sending back the edited versions back to me. There's a reason why they called them DEAD material, girl.

So, today, the Bunny. It hurts. Maybe tonight the books and dead materials. Actually, that's going to be an all-day project, but hey, one box a day, maybe? Then, perhaps, one fine weekend, I can proudly announce here that I've moved back into my study, in control of the that section of my country once more.

We'll talk about the bedroom rebellion then, heh heh.

What's in your life that's running you? That makes you feel out of control? That you know, if you don't do something very soon, it'll take over and overwhelm you? Do children and animals count? ;-)

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Yesterday I Was Mad, Today I'm Scared

I was being naughty and looking at my "odds-n-funny" picture files to help out John Scalzi's Greetings, Gentlebeings, a LOLProject mocking the beginning line in the candidacy announcements of one of the candidates running for President of SFWA (Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America), for my weekend fun. Yes, I know, rainy Saturdays = sure bet for YouTube and Procrastination.

Anyway, I came across a pic that scared even myself and thought I'd shared it with you. Be afraid, be very afraid....

Eye Bleach alert!!! Heh, heh, heh.

I also considered the one below, with Christopher Walken in Balls of Fury, but was suddenly struck by nostalgia.

Do you remember him in Pennies From Heaven?

Except for the underwear, which reminded me of my father (it's never a good thing to watch/read a hot scene and have anything FATHER appearing in my thoughts), he practically STOLE the show with this sexay performance. Sigh. From high-flying stripping stud to...ping-pong Balls of Fury. Nonetheless, I still love you, Chris Walken.

Aw, did I hurt your brain with that pic of Superoided Carrot Top? No, he isn't in my Sexy Vege file, you bad people.

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I Need Aspertame

My apologies for the rant yesterday. I try to keep the more personal aspects out of the blog but sometimes, when I'm frustrated enough, my head explodes and Roofer Bitch appears. Anyway, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable with such a joyless piece as some bankers' (coughWELLSFARGOcough) dirty little scam.

Nothing to do with the writing and too much to do with the roofer yesterday ;-P.

I saw a perfect little icon for my mood, something that brought a smile back for a few secs.

Exactly. Perfect for my mood! Too bad I can't just go out and slay some evil bankers and offer their testicles to the gods of war.

(I think I must still be pissed off)

Let's talk about books and general catch-up instead. I'm waiting for Patricia Brigg's IRON KISSED in my mail. My friends are raving about it and so, in spite of my fur-and-fang love weariness, I'm looking forward to reading it. It's fur-and-fey in this series, by the way.

Writing-wise, I'm trying to get into His Jedness' psyche. How comfortable is he when he finds out that sometimes his thoughts are "captured" by Helen? So far, he hadn't really shown any kind of emotion other than being intrigued at something new. But then, so far he thinks he's in control except during the remote-viewing sequence, and even then, he assumes a measure of control over Helen because of her sexual response to him. I'm trying to reach a scene, a point in the story, where he is not sure he's liking the idea of another person getting one or two of his secretive thoughts, you know? But man, the road to that scene is not easy because Jed's fighting me all the way. We shall see which of us wins.

Computer techy-wise, I'm still wrestling with my old problem with certain webs that show up as "Internet Explorer Cannot Display This Webpage." Same thing through Firefox, so I know it has to do with the server and not my puter. At first, it was just a couple, like Romancing The Blog and my dear friend, Lauren Dane's blog. I can access them through an anonymous proxy. Well, since last week, add our "Yellbox" that I put on Blogger's sidebar. You guys can see it on your computer, but to me, it's just a "IE cannot display" picture. I'm getting worried because I don't want more of my favorite/most visited websites to suddenly become inaccessible to me, except through anonymous proxy!

Believe me, I've read up all the msn techy sites and tried everything, including re-registering the dlls, and no, this problem is still here. I've unplugged the modem. I've run the scan. I've wasted hours. So any suggestions from those of you in the tech business would be much appreciated.

It's not the biggest problem in my life, but it's downright irritating to have to circumvent the problem by anonymous proxy.

Wow, I can't seem to stop venting! LOL. I'd better stop and go eat aspertame. Lots of it.

Help me from focusing on my dreary life. Tell me:

1) What are you reading next?

2) What is your current Most Irritating Frustration? Dump on me. I deserve it.

3) If your computer/server isn't working, do you snarl like me too?

;-) Happy, happy Friday to y'all.

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Wells Fargo's BAIT N SWITCH: A story of false advertising

There, I have said it. I don't feel any better but I feel justified to yell out from the top of the roof that Wells Fargo Bank did a BAIT AND SWITCH on, not just me, but also a number of small businesses this past year.

Let me explain how some small businesses rotate their monthly payments. As a roofing contractor, I go to my roofing supplier and open an account. Most wholesale suppliers will give me, the small business owner, a 1 to 2 percent discount if I pay the previous month's outstanding balance off early WITH CASH OR CHECK. This is because credit card companies charge merchants 1 to 2 percent and by paying cash, my supplier is passing on their savings to me, their friendly small business dude.

To counter this, credit card companies make special offers to small businesses. This is similar to the terms offered by Discovery Card, meaning, a certain percentage of your purchases is given back to you as a cash back/credit. They mail these offers out, with different percentages, attractive enough to catch the attention of small businesses.

Now, why would a small business change from paying cash/check to his supplier to using a credit card? Most small businesses don't get paid till after the job is done, and with a big project, this can be over 30 days, thus there's no savings to be had from the suppliers. So, with a credit card, the businessman can still earn a 1 to 2 percent cash back for the year.

An attractive offer, yes? As you know, I was on a big project the last year that provided exactly this scenario where I didn't have the cash on hand for an early payoff cash back through my supplier.

ENTER WELLS FARGO MAIL OFFER.

(At this point, I should insert my famous GREEK CHORUS wailing in the background: OH NOoooeeees! It be a Bait and Switch, honey!)

The offer was an attractive package of a grade that goes from 1 to 3 percent, depending on how much I charged on the account. I called up and the nice "banker" person was very friendly, answering my questions and taking my application. Through this conversation, in Feb 2007 sometime, I specifically told him I received their offer through the mail, the one that showed the rebate, and even gave him some number on top of the mailer. He explained to me exactly how it worked, and yes, it was exactly how I understood it.

My application was approved. Throughout 2007, I used the WELLS FARGO credit card to pay off my monthly balances at my suppliers. Even when I had the cash on hand (and could have gotten my 1 percent cash back), I figured I'd keep using the card because I'd already set up this system, and besides with WELLS FARGO, I get the incentive of 1 more percent. One more percent of $250,000 of building materials add up, girlfriends.

Well. Today, I called WELLS FARGO to ask about my rebate because it's now one year since I received my card. The "banker" person, friendly as ever, told me that I HAVE MISUNDERSTOOD and that I was on the OLD PROGRAM in which everything was capped at $500. The new program starts THIS YEAR, she said.

I said, "What old program? I signed up for the program you're explaining to me now."

She said, "No, ma'am, you signed up for the old program."

I said, "I never signed up for any old program because I never KNEW THERE WAS AN OLD PROGRAM. All I know is this program with the same rebate system you're telling didn't start till this year."

She said, "Yes, we switched this year."

I said, "I don't care when you switched. I never applied for your pre-switched program. When I applied, I had a mail offer that gave me back cash with no cap."

She said, "Ma'am, unfortunately, we switched that to this year."

I said, "So you're admitting you did a bait-and-switch on me then."

She said, "No, ma'am, unfortunately, we seem to have a communication problem."

I said, "No, I don't have any problems communicating. All I know is, I signed up for a WELLS FARGO credit card when they sent me a mailer with an offer of 2 percent rebate with no cap and now after a year, WELLS FARGO is telling me the rebate is capped at $500."

She said, "Ma'am, you'll have no cap this year."

I said, "What good does that do me now? If I had known last year that you baited and switched your initial offer, I would have at least made sure to get some cash back from my own supplier."

She said, "Ma'am, unfortunately (she liked to use this word a lot), I can't do anything. You're not getting any rebate other than the $500. This year would be different, though."

I said, "This year would be different because I'm not going to let WELLS FARGO bait and switch me again."

She said, "Unfortunately, we have a language barrier. I know you're frustrated, but you don't seem to be able to understand that you signed on to a different program."

I said, "Oh, I understand the language pretty well. You changed your terms after accepting my application. The mailer you sent out to me, the one with all those attractive terms? It didn't say anything about a $500 cap. That was just a come-on. Now, you're telling me that Wells Fargo put me on the "old" program. THAT, my dear, is the universal language for bait and switch."

At which point, said "banker" put me on hold for about 45 minutes. Came back and we went through this again. She wanted me to send her the "offer" mailer. I was, like, who keeps those mailers around?! What I have, I told her, was their letter of acceptance on which nothing was mentioned of any old program of a $500 cap. Then another 45 minutes hold. Her supervisor, she said, COULD NOT FIND my application package where I signed for this $500 capped thingie. Damn, could it be BECAUSE I APPLIED BY PHONE and they just sent me a "CONGRATULATIONS, YOU'RE ACCEPTED" letter after that?

Guess who: "Unfortunately, you must have misunderstood the terms, ma'am."

Guess who: "How could I have misunderstood terms that weren't on a mailing offer for which I applied? The initial banker never told me about any "previous cap." In fact, I asked him about the 2 percent...(I'm repeating myself, so I just shook my head here. Took a deep breath here.)...never mind. You're just going to "unfortunate" me to death. Can you please give me an address to send a letter of complaint, please? AND if this is a recorded conversation, I'd like to repeat: WELLS FARGO did a bait and switch with their cash back program. Lastly, judging from what you told me, about switching to the no-cap program this year, that tells me that you have been getting similar phone calls from similarly unfortunate businessmen and women with language problems."

So, yeah, I'm printing this blog out and sending it to the Vice President and Presidents of Wells Fargo (THANK YOU, ORACLE OF GOOGLE). Yeah, you, Mr. Falkenberg and yo, Mr. Shippee and Blenner. 2 percent of a few hundred thousand dollars may not sound a lot compared to a CEO's salary, but you stole that from me today. And from a currently non-working roofer, and UNFORTUNATELY my language is not very polite today, YOU SUCK. Wells Fargo SUCKS. I bet there are many of us right now, whose cheated money you're now spending on your new vacation villas, who think so too.

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Pimping Is All About The Nekkid Truth

Today, Debra Dixon and the Gang of Nine have invited me (and all of you) to invade their space at

http://www.ridingwiththetopdown.blogspot.com/.

They gave me free reign. So, of course my topic was seriously intellectual. It covered everything, from my writing process, to never trusting any foreigner who hands you a toothbrush, to the importance of seaweed. I hope you'll comment there as well. And I hope I did you proud as a self-pimp.

Do you think I have a future as a writing instructor? ;-)

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Pimping Is Hard

I love John Scalzi's blog. He's an award-winning science fiction writer with a tongue of acid and a wit like a new razor. He's also auctioning off a pre-publication bound manuscript version of his coming-out-soon novel, ZOE'S TALE to benefit the Disabled American Veteran's Charitable Service Trust. This is a cause after my own heart, and if you enjoy science fiction, or maybe your loved one does, and would like to place a bid, read about this generous offer HERE.

John Scalzi, in today's blog post, gave a chance to his readers to pimp their blogs/books/whatever. Many of his blog readers--I would say 90 percent--are science-fiction readers and writers, and the opportunity to pimp there could provide interest in their books/areas. I was tempted to post something, but I knew that probably none of his readers would care about reading romance in their suspense. However, I was really, really tempted to write, with a link to my website: "I write romantic suspense. My works are full of bang bang." LOL. It IS hard promoting one's genre in a blog that is about another genre.

Talking about promotion, I'm guest blogging tomorrow so, TOMORROW, BE HERE to get a link to THE SPECIAL MASSAGEMESSAGE: GENNITA LOW's WRITING PROCESS. Really, it's going to be good. Full of bang bang. And, it'll read like science-fiction. No, it's DEFINITELY not suitable for pimpage at Scalzi's blog either. :::grin::: Find out why tomorrow.

Maybe you have some suggestions as to how to pimp myself? You can be the GLowing Pimpettes!

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Cover Your Eyes, Children, Manorexia Is Here!

I enjoyed the race yesterday. What beautiful weather--80 degrees! Except for Brooks and Dunn, the concert sucked donkey balls but that's okay, no one paid much attention.

Boohoo. My Wonder Boy didn't even make it to the top fifteen of the Daytona 500 because of engine blowout. Because of that, you'll just have to feel bad along with me. Check out your future alpha males, according to top fashion visionists, you know, them folks who forecast what the species should wear:

What planet are these creatures from? Obviously, they aren't targetting romance readers for customers. That last pic, the one of them with the stick insects barechested? I can crush them with one hug with my roofing arm. Just sayin'.

I also saw quite a number of the women's fashion on the runway. They are really, really, REALLY stupido this year.

*****************

I took down the Shout Box thingie on the right for now. Their webpage is 404, so either their server is down or that website owner has gone kaput. Don't worry, I'll find us another one.

For those wondering where that php forum that I'd talked about last year is, my sister the grand webmistress of everything Gennita has been ill since November. She and her family have been so miserable that I really don't want to burden her with forums and Kirkland File updates.

I know, I know. It's unprofessional to not update websites and so on and so forth but hey, my sister doesn't charge me anything and I'm saving needed dogfood money, so there. We have been meaning to change the Gennita Low website and give it a new look in January but because of illness, I'm putting this off till her family stop giving each other the fun flu.

Funds are really tight right now and I'm grateful for my sister's help. I'm thinking of skipping the RT convention in April to save $$$. Although I love seeing my writing friends and meeting with readers, I'm not sure whether spending $2000 (convention fees, air ticket, hotel room) is wise at this point in a year where my incomes from both roofing and writing are about...zero. Hee.

Hey! Maybe I'll grow thin like the Manorexians! What do you think?

EDA:

NEW UPDATE AT FYEO

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Off To The Uber Races

Take a guess on the car driver and number I'm rooting for.






I have my 24 hat. I have my 24 drinking cup and flag. I have my Anti-Wonder Boy Bashing Deflector. I am ready!

Go Jeff Gordon!

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Manorexia

Horrible, horrible! It's the latest fashion trend.

One fashion dude described them as stick insects. I agree. Why would clothes look better on a bag of bones? Give me a healthy male with a good torso in a black tee-shirt any time.

Sigh. Don't you want to just stuff these dudes full of meat and spaghetti and pizza and dumplings and fried seafood?



Next, they'll be wearing garters to get that 15-inch waist....

****************

My friend hopes to get us all tickets to the Daytona 500 tomorrow. I'm uber-excited because I had such a great time last year watching it live. It'd be fantastic if I get to do it again.

If I do...no more Carol Burnett haircap and tile hair for the weekend, hurrah!

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An Uber Valentine Story

This is what you can get for your dude, if he hates chocolate. Yummy.

Bad Puppy was so sorry for his book-nabbing attempt that he bought mommie Nalini Singh's newest, Mine To Possess, through Amazon. I got a little gift e-card this morning with a coupon from "Jiggle Low with puppie kisses." Awww. I didn't know Jiggle Low has an Amazon account!

Maybe I'll buy him a Valentine pizza....

*******************

So what's the most romantic thing you've ever done for Valentine's? Most of us get hearts and flowers, but I had a friend who WAS FLOWN to France for the dinner, flowers, and engagement ring. Now, THAT. WAS. ROMANTIQUE.

The most romantic thing I ever did for a boyfriend was fill the bed with little colored paper hearts that I cut out while he was at class, then lie in bed in my sexy red negligee to wait for his return. Unfortunately, he came home with a buddy and I had to pick paper hearts out of my hair all by myself. My first boyfriend--he didn't understand romance at all, as you can tell.

I learned my lesson. No more cute little paper hearts for ANY OCCASION.

************************
Here's one thing you should never do before you go out on a (pre)Valentine's Day date.

NEVER EVER help your friend spud cemented-down floor tile with a jackhammer.

That's exactly what I did all yesterday evening. It was noisy, hard work, and unbeknownst to me, the tile dust and the sticky stuff that hardened underneath combined to become Invisible Aquanet in the air. I didn't notice till I was in my car that my hair was stiff as Amy Winehouse's beehive, except that mine looked like the nest of a hentai sexwitch, sticking out AND not moving. Even in a convertible. It was just like anime-hair, and at every stoplight, all the neighboring drivers stared.

When I got home, I couldn't drag a comb through it at all. Parts of it was scrunched and sticking out sharply like porcupine needles. Then my date arrived and I had to answer the door looking like I could kill someone.

He waited while I showered, but that made it worse! The water added to the Invisible Sticky Aquanet and made the tiledust into some kind of InvisiPaste. My hair, as you know, is very long and there's a lot of it. I now had a Tangled Nest of Horror on top of head. No amount of conditioner helped. With both hands, I gathered the nest and piled it on top of my head and it STAYED. Why? Because conditioner and melted tile gunk made a perfect hairsetter, of course.

I stepped out of the shower. Peeked into the mirror. Yup. I looked like Elvira without the cleavage. Since it was not Halloween, I couldn't actually pretend that was my intention either.

My date. He patiently waited.

I told him my problem. He didn't understand, since hey, you just wash the stuff out of your hair, what's the big deal? Long locks is the same as short male hair, right? I gave him the look that kungfu dudes always had before they started swinging their braid of doom to cut off the enemies' head. Except that my STIFFENED TENTACLES OF DEATH wouldn't SWING; it would just spike the person to death, I suppose, if I wildly thrust my head around like some maddened bull.

It did not help when he suggested shaving it.

It did not help when he suggested going out with an Elizabeth Taylor hair scarf.

It did not help when he suggested that he go and buy me a wig.

I think he got the idea that his suggestions weren't appreciated when I started to fly through the air using my Stiffened Propellers Of Evil towards him, shredding clothes and skin. I warned him that any moment now, and the hair was going suck his brains out for Valentine food.

Finally, I calmed down and told him to go on out by himself. I didn't feel like going out any more. The Hair had exhausted me.

Left to myself, I soaked in my really, really scalding Jacuzzi tub for forty-five minutes, applying a little baby oil to the shards on my head every once in a while. Hey, the Aquanet started dissolving. My tentacles actually felt like hair again.

Finally, I got out and combed my hair through with that glazy stuff that magically smoothed out tangles. I dried my hair and swung it around like I was Cher. I didn't look fabulous like she did on the Grammys, though, since my body at that moment resembled that of an over-boiled lobster. Forty-five minutes in scalding water isn't so good for tender flesh, you know.

The date called to make sure I was okay. I can't remember what I said to him because I'd decided to consume the whole bottle of wine I bought for our date all by myself after the hairy ordeal. I think I told him I had taken his advice and had gone bald.

You know I'm going out to buy a Carol Burnett hair cover for the next time I go jackhammering tile floors.

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Uber Bad Puppy At It Again

GOT HIM!






Almost lost another book!

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Such Smart Roofers Our Brains Might 'Splode

Short one for today because I've been on the puter FOR HOURS working on a paper that's NOT MINE.

RB's second paper assignment, folks, is all about cause and effect. So, I'll let you guess which title below is RB's new paper, 'kay?

1) How Losing My Dog Made Me A Better Person

2) My Small Lie Ruined My First Love Affair

3) My First Car And My First Responsibility

4) The Story Of My Move From Big City To Small Town

5) Learning How To Fix Cars With My Dad Led Me To College

6) The Federal Reserve And Its Role In The Dollar's Fall

Bwahahhahaha.

Guess who spent HOURS trying to get economic and financial sources for the dude? Uh-huh. Oh yeah, I want to see the glaze going over their eyes as he reads this one.

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Live From NASCAR Country, It's The Grammies

TO DO THIS, ONE NEEDS TO START DRINKING ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES. I HAVE. THEREFORE, ALL OBSERVATIONS ARE PROBABLY DISORIENTED ;-).

Let the snarky fun begin...

It's the 50th Grammy, and everybody's coming to the pahtay. Except, of course, the writers, who won't be back from their Strike till Monday. So you're just going to have to make do with Gennita here to yak about clothes, music, and rock n roll.

So, being 50 years old, let's have Frank Sinatra start the party. Umm, for some reason that guy on the black and white screen looks like...Ed Sullivan. Same stiff shoulder. Huh.

Alicia Keyes dueting with Old Blue Eyes.

Okay, so we started the show with "class."

OMG. So bring on Carrie Underwood in BDSM black as the first classy act. Look at them girl dancers swing 'em bats, baby. Yeah, write your name into his leather seat with the key, girl, so he can put you in jail. You're gonna buy him his next car.

You know, Carrie, it's been two years since you won American Idol, and you still can't shake your butt. Come on now. Stop that weird shoulder-shrugging and foot-stomping shit.

Holy...Little RichardsPrince! Now that's a treat. Sing a song, Prince, please?

And can I say how I loathe that Keyes "no one, no one, no one" moaning tune? I'm probably the only one. No one, no one, NO ONE!!!!!!no one what? What?

Break. Don't you think it would be cool to invite Edison Chen to sing a song at the Grammies? No idea who he is, huh? Well, just google him. Along with "sex scandal." I bet he'd make a good speech. YouTube him with "sex scandal apology." :::grin:::

Jimmy Jam. And there's Morris Day! Hey, I saw these boys live when I was in my twenties. Same song too. I think they taught me (and a few million kids) how to oyeyo-yeyo like a chicken. Damn, it's the same preen-in-the-mirror act! Joined by Rhianna-ana-ana-ana-a, a, a, and of course, the baseball-bat wielding dancers are now waving umbrellas around the stage.

That umbrella skirt on Rhianna? You'll never see Carrie Underwood wear it. And Rhianna needs to shave her chest hair peeking out of the top of the dress. Just sayin'. REMEMBER I HAVE BEEN DRINKING.

Okay, Tom Hanks just came out to sell Botox. When did he get Bill Clinton's nose transplanted on his face?!

Tom is talking about foursomes and some dudes with sunglasses. So of course, to celebrate the Beatles, let's bring on...Cirque de Soleil. Oh, the absurdity. And a wandering musroom on the stage...oh, the imagery..... And the song isn't even Lucy In the Sky With Diamonds.

No Cirque de Soleil act is complete without some acrobat swinging on a ribbon and twisting mid-air. Couldn't they have at least asked for the dude who wears nothing but a body suit instead of woman with a funky skirt?

Really, when I play the Beatles, I dance like Cirque du Soleil acrobats. Dude, watch me trapeze my way to a pervertified circus-beat version of the CLASSIC BEATLES, you fools! Blasphemy, I tell you. My Sixties Brothers and Sisters mourn in shame.

Speaking words of wisdom, let it be... So now is the appropriate social message moment. I'll let it be. (But really, what does "let it be" mean?)

And they now bring on Cyndi Lauper, who was the Best New Artiste last century. Are we going to say Amy Winehouse? Perky vs Angsty, I like the contrast.

Here's Amy's thank you speech: BELCHHhhhhhh!

Okay, my wine is playing up here. But three people are on stage playing violins and cellos. Jason Bateman is telling me to vote for violins with thyroid problems. :::here I look at my glass of wine suspiciously:::

Break. Let me go refill the wine glass. Something's wrong. I'm hearing classical music.

Oh, wouldn't it be cool to hear Obama try to rap in the Grammies. Then Billary can come out with hisher saxophone. Yeah, and they can torture us with Kenny G. It would be just like old times.

Okay, the extra wine isn't helping. Now the circus act has morphed into an alien on stage standing in front of a pyramid. It's...Kanye West pretending to be 50cents. Heh.

BTW. This computer music/pyrotechnic/electronic voice/black light? So eighties. Didn't Run DMC use to do that? Now all you need is bring back that guy who played the electronic piano and had these robots hooked to his arm while he moved. Remember him?

So Fergie and John Legend sing next. Fergie! Come on, is the color of the night BORING BEIGE? Where is your usual electric yellow tight pants? Not a belly in sight. The Grammies think they are the Oscars....

Fergie is channeling Sarah Brightman. In alto, of course.

Good God. Fergilicious curtsied.

I am. Officially. Drunk.

Some old dudes climb the stairs. They won for some old song called All You Need Is Love. One of the dudes is Ringo Starr, if you remember him o-O. I guess nobody else in the Fab Four could come except Ringo. It turns out Cirque du Soleil was HIS idea. Way to go, Ringo. Flipping trapeze acrobats. Pals are turning in their graves.

Break. Must be me. Was the Grammies ever so sedate? Where are the tats?!

It's Lady Immortal, Cher. What's she...80? She introduces Beyonce, who's 12.

Beyonce is channeling Madonna's Vogue. Okay, a thousand times better.

And then Beyonce introduces Tina Turner. What is this introducing after being introducing shit? Oh, I forget...they don't have WRITERS. They only know how to INTRODUCE EACH OTHER for script.

And Tina Turner, she still has legs my grandma would kill her for. My mom too. Heck, add me to that wanna-kill-her-for-her-legs list. I lurves me Tina Turner, so no snarking about her, even after half a bottle of wine.

So the Fiftieth Anniversary means bringing in stars from fifty years ago, is that it?

So, of course Tina INTRODUCES Beyonce out to sing. I tell you, the script is so good.

You see, Carrie Underwood? Shake your butt like these two ladies....

And here we go, another song from my childhood. Big wheel keep on turning...Proud Mary keep on burning.... (me stomping around like Carrie Underwood)

Do you think Beyonce will have Tina's good legs when she's Tina's age, huh? I bow to the Goddess Turner. She putteth on a hawt show, mamma.

And for a good contrast, we now have Andy Williams, who looks exactly the same, except with the white hair and Botox. Bring on the old fart to give a Lifetime Achievement Award to...Burt Bacharach.

Song of the Year: Please Amy Winehouse, please beat Carrie Underwood.

And yes, Amy Winehouse wins for "Rehab" and here's her speech: BEEEELLLLLLCccch! No, no, no....!

Break. In honor of Song of the Year, I'm refilling my wine glass. BRB. YOU may comment along, you know.

So far, all the songs, except for a couple, sound like they were from the 50s-80s. Jason Bateman is announcing the violin text-message winner. I have no idea what this is about. Oh one of them gets to play with the Foo Fighters, I guess. The hot chick in the tight dress wins the text-message contest. I wonder why.

I like Foo Fighters. They look like rock and roll singers, ya know? But aren't they, like, from the 90s too? Man.

Hey, Foo Fighters sounds cool on HDTV. And no Cirque du Soleil people killing the rock, thank you God. You see, Ringo? All we need is ROCK, whadd'ya say? Noooo! No violin moments! We want VIOLENCE, not violins!

Arggh...more wine!

Come on, Foo Fighters!!!! WHO ARE YOUUuuuuuuuUUUu!???! :::ah, let me flick my cellphone open for encore:::

Break. Nooooo! They just said Alicia Keyes is going to sing No One, no one, Noooo Oneeeeee.... Sigh. I might run out of wine before the second hour.

We're back with...George Lopez. George Lopez, of "whatta country"? Dude. Another 80s person. Didn't he make the same joke about a Latino VP a few decades ago? Now I get what's happening. They are recycling the script from the 25th Grammy Awards!!!

So a Latino introduced...a country singer, Brad Paisley. Huh. I'm totally confuzzled. More wine?

Brad has grown up. Last time I looked, he was still trying to grow a beard.

Dammit, if they are bringing back last century's blasts, why don't they get my old love Clint Black? Of course he'd be perfect! Man didn't have a script during his concerts either...just one song to the next...perfect for this WRITERLESS show, no?

Brad Paisley...I'd much, much prefer Rascal Flatts, please with pretty on top.

So now, after country, we will get Chris Brown (another blast from the past) to introduce Best Rap Album. Wow. The writing of this show SURE MAKING SENSE, dudes.

Chris just rambled on about something. Don't worry, he didn't know what he said either.

Best Rap Album: A sobbing 50cents comes on stage to pick up the award. Heh. Joking. Kanye "Tron" West. Kanye wouldn't shut up even as the band is trying to chase him off the stage. On and on and on, something about it's okay if Amy Winehouse wins Album of the Year...Kanye for Writer Of The Year!

Oooh, shhhh.

No snarky now. Aretha.

No one can jam like Queen Aretha, man. I lurvs her voice. Not dat yellow dress, though, which is to complement the Madison BUMBLE BEES band, I guess.

So we're getting different groups coming on for a medley of gospel rock songs. All that praising and hallelujah-ing are making me feel guilty about the wine. Can we now go back to bad boy rock now?

Break. I'm bored now. Is it over yet?

Do I care if Amy Winehouse wins over Kanye West? BEeeLLLlllch. No one, No ONE, NOooo OOooNe Nooooooooo Onnnnnnnneeeee. I challenge to tell me what follows after that. You see? You're stuck at No One too.

OMG. Carole King? And who? His shirt is too tight. And too seventies.

Some girl name Feist channeling Sheryl Crow is singing folk music. The lyrics consist of: One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight...you know who you arrrre...badaba badaba badaba badaba.

I kid you not. She must be answering Foo Fighter's WHO ARE YOU question.

Talking about I kidding you not, here's Kid Rock duetting with a jazz legend. Keelie Smith. Oh man. So strange. Kid, you can't jazz, dude.

And he goes to the Best Rock Album. Daughtry vs Fogerty vs Foo Fighters vs Springsteen vs Wilco. Please, no Daughtry. Pleeeease.

Thank you, sweet plastic baby Jesus on a pogo stick! I don't want that baldheaded guyliner snothead to win. Good old Foos. I love your oily stringy-haired rocking goodness. I'm tired of Daughtry's having-a-toothache songs.

Break. I still think it would be fun to bring in some Edison Chen sex scandal fun right about now. Even for those who don't know who he is, who cares? It's a sex scandal!

STEVIE WONDER. Now, you know he doesn't need no stinkin' written script.

Stevie, how long have those dread-beads been in your hair? It's really time to take them off, babe.

Oh Nooooo!!!!! No One, No One, Noooooo ONnnnnNnne....

:::guzzling down bottle of wine:::

Those earrings are scary.

:::guzzling more wine:::

ARRGHHhhhhh....ear plugs!!!!! You know, she dances/shakes worse than Carrie Underwood, heh.

Oh, I forgot the mindboggling Oh, ohohohohoh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! background vocals.

And the crowd. It loves her.

Next: Ringo Star is back. He is drunk. I can tell. Best country album? Hahahahahahahaha. Poor Ringo.

Best country album: if George Strait wins, I'll eat my hat. King George only wins in REAL COUNTRY AWARDS shows. Vince Gill won and HE JUST DISSED KANYE. OH YESSsssss!

"Given an award by a Beatle," he said, then turned to Kanye, and added, "Have you had that happened yet, Kanye?"

Who sez country boys can't dissssssss, eh? I bow to Vince. That was several hundred kinds of awesome.

Break. I survived Keyes' lip-synching and pretend-keyboard playing, so I might survive the rest of this hour. I don't have any wine left, sob. But. Peach Schnapps and Orange Juice! Yes! I'm going to need it for the upcoming mandatory male opera singers time.

First, we get to hear Rhapsody in Blue by virtuosos...and I WAS JUST TALKING ABOUT HERBIE HANCOCK, wasn't I? Damn!

Herbie, where are your gadgets?!

Okay, so we have duelling pianos and the audience fell asleep. Come on, Herbie, I need some scratching with my Gershswin these days.

Can I interrupt by saying that this is weirdest-paced Grammy Awards I've ever seen? Alicia Keyes followed by Gerschwin.

And now they are followed by country teen queen Taylor Swift in pretty purple and some dude who looks like he's just gotten out of bed. Rhianna-ana-ana- a, a, a, a (still in umbrella skirt) and Jay-Z just won for Umbrella-ella-ella-ella-ella a, a, a, a. Best Rap collaboration evah.

Break.

Cuba Gooding Jr. gets to introduce Amy Winehouse via satellite. Coz she can't come into the US because of Visa issues, you know.

Aw, come on, Amy, I thought you were going to sing "Rehab." Not cool?

You know? I love her. But she looks like she's more drunk than I am at this moment.

Oh yeah, here's the Rehab song. Another, song with no no no in it. Must be ze trend.

The first black back-up singer from the left? Hawt.

Amy, that was so you. Now say your thank you speech: BBBBEeeLLLLCH!

Tony Bennett and Natalie Cole to clear the rehab air. Tony stumbles a bit. They honor Doris Day. That's the first big English single 45 record my momma bought me, you know--Que Sera Sera.

Record of the year: Beyonce vs Foo Fighters vs Rhianna vs Justin Timberlake (????????!!!!) vs Amy Winehouse.

One guess.

BELCHHHHhhhh.

Kanye scowls.

You see? We drunks always wins belching contests. Now, back you go into rehab Amy dahlink.

Is it over yet? I'm going to go play my Foo Fighter CD now. And belch.

WTH? It isn't over yet? They are giving us a documentary. The audience is clapping sleepily. Okay, bring in kid-prodigees all grown up. Very spiffy piano playing, kid. Now go to bed.

Now it's time to honor those who passed on. Oooh wonder whether they will show Pavarotti?

Yes, they did, as the final one, The Man With the High C.

Which segues nicely to the next segment--Josh Groban and Andrea Bocelli ( I AM DRUNK. I just typed Mario Andretti. I probably should have left it as is so everyone can scratch their heads when they read the blog). (listening to them) Damn, I miss Pavarotti.

Was I dreaming or did the old dude introduce Josh Groban as the "respectable Clay Aiken"???? Gasp.

Little Richard and Jerry Lee Lewis are on stage. John Foggerty. Goodness gracious, Jerry Lee. Do they still have their own teeth?! AWwooooooooooh! Grandpa still can howl. And he survived the rock and rollin'.

And the Original Guyliner Man shows up with his glittery jacket. Good Golly, Little Richard! He's a weedle bit livelier than old Grampa Jerry Lee even though they must be about the same age.

Next, bring on the other grampas...the Rolling Stones! Why not, we'll all totter around on the stage after some wine. You know, nothing beats the sight of a skinny, white haired, trembling old man giving the devil's sign while his head is bopping up and down to Judas Priest. I always wondered how the Golden Oldies station is going to sound like when I get very old. The music would be so damn cool and LOUD. Heh. All that screaming would give us heart murmurs, I'd imagine.

Just. End. It. Already. A rap medley that covered a bunch of songs from the last 50 years. Is that all you can think of for a script? Yawn.

Usher and Quincy Jones. The final award of the night. Thank you.

Foo Fighters vs Vince Gill vs Herbie Hancock vs Kanye West vs Amy Winehouse
Who will win?

Oooh, Usher says: "Now, there are no losers here, Kanye." Heh heh.

And Herbie Hancock wins. That is good. No sweep for Amy Wino, I mean, Winehouse. Herbie deserves it; that Joni Mitchell record is pretty cool. And he's giving a great speech. See? The old school folks know HOW TO WRITE.

I think that's it. It's all good. Esp. ze wine.

OMG. They end with Cirque du Soleil clowns marching to Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Heart Club Band. I...you just have to be there.

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Saturday Humdrum Again

The new Bond movie is called

QUANTUM OF SOLACE

???

ummm...say what? Why don't they call it Sleeping With The Agent, if they're looking for horrible titles? Huh?

******

Courtesy of Smart Bitches:

That's John Mayers. Would you let your boyfriend be seen in this giant thong? My eyes. They hurt.

Your comments? Thumbs up, like he thinks?

******

For some reason, this picture made me think of Marjorie Liu:

I know they aren't poodles but they still reminded me of her, anyway. I miss that tall, long-legged traveling woman, yes I do.

Elaine asked me what kuih kapit was. Here is a pic.

I can munch a whole can of these.

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Exotic Memories, or, Why I Write (Maybe)

Running late, excuse the mistakes and typos, I have to get back on the roof....)

For those who enjoy my books, it's probably obvious that I have a fascination for different cultures. I write about different countries and customs, hoping to capture a snapshot of the background that shapes my heros and heroines, even the bad guys (like Dilaver and his aunt, Greta).

Of course, the most familiar culture to me is that from my country, which celebrates four different new years annually: the traditional Western New Year, Chinese New Year (fifteen days starting from yesterday), the Hindu New Year, and the Muslim New Year. Each of these are national holidays in my old homeland, and many of us visit our different friends and their families during their new year celebrations.

It is from growing up with this background that shaped me: my beliefs and my outlook in life. Everything might look or taste different, but the feeling is the same. The different cultures celebrate the new years asking for hope and wishing luck and happiness to friends and families.

Thus it is with romance. The storyline may be exotic and the culture may feel alien, but the emotional pull of the story is familiar. My characters love and hate the same as any book set here, in familiar American territory.

Here is a quick snapshot of the Chinese New Year celebrations of my youth. It's a fifteen-day festival and most of us kids loved it because it is tradition for married and old people to give kids and those who are unmarried "red packets," or angpow, filled with lucky money. We always knew who the scrooge in the neighborhood was (she filled her packets with a 20 cent coin each, which was our equivalent of a quarter). Most of the packets would contain a new Malaysian dollar.

My parents, who were wealthy, filled theirs with $5 or $10 for visiting relatives. As you could imagine, one could get pretty poor during New Year if one was known for their generosity!

My siblings and I got quite rich during this time. Our red packet collection is like candy to American kids during Halloween. We wore our new clothes (and the colors had to be red or yellow or green to attract luck. No black or blue!) and we ate the traditional family meal at home, with noodles and sweet meats. The elders enjoyed a meal of wine with raw fish and rice noodles, which had always disgusted me.

On the second and third days, my grandmother would take us to the temples to pray and also give the gods big oranges and tangerines (which signified plentiful wealth) as well as burn incense. The temples in those days were run by old women who had nowhere else to go (just like medieval times when the ladies had to join the nunnery); they depended on the goodwill of the believers to help pay for their livelihood and the temple. As I matured, I grew to understand the limitations of being a woman in certain cultures and the different choices in aloneness that they faced. I'm not saying that these temple women weren't happy or disatisfied, but I wasn't happy or satisfied for them, if that made sense.

Outside the temple were the band of beggars. They traveled together and took care of each other. I still remember the man with no legs sitting on a piece of cloth that told his sad story. People dropped coins in his bucket while he mumbled his thanks, barely looking up. At the end of the day, one of the other beggars would come over to "carry" this man back to wherever their shelter was. As a kid, this group of people were like aliens to me; I wasn't emotionally affected yet.

As I grew older, I learned compassion from understanding the dilemma of trying to survive in a system with no social services help. I also learned that humans would find a way to survive; these beggars banded together into a community and did what they could for survival. I could even say that some of them were perfectly happy the way they were; I've had quite a few funny conversations with the drunken hobos who certainly taught me that humor could be found in anything.
Anyway, the temples would be filled with incense and people praying. The statues of the Goddess of Mercy and the King of Heaven would be draped with cloths of red and gold silk. To a small kid, looking up at them, they were ethereal and powerful beings, magical beings who could grant wishes if they felt like it. Most of the stuff my grandma made me ask for were boring, like good grades in school. I probably wasn't sincere enough in my prayers because my grades were never particularly wonderful.

But I did crawl under the table that the gods sat on. Kids doing that were promised that they would grow up tall, strong, and protected. Heck, at a puny 4 foot 2, I needed to be taller, so I crawled under that table A LOT. I remember shooting up six inches one year and catching up with some of my friends. I remember thinking that the gods must have known how sincerely desperate I was!

As I grew older, I would shuffle the I-Ching sticks that were in tall bamboo vases. The sticks were darkened by age and numbered according to the I-Ching. The ones that fell out were picked up and taken to the counter and one of the nuns would pull the yellow paper from the wall with that number on it. Because I wasn't literate in Chinese, she would read it out loud to me, very lyrical imagery about water in valleys and filling the cave, or desert awaiting rain, or music in the mountain.

I rarely understood what was told about my future but I was thoroughly fascinated with the words and the idea that words were so important to actions and choices (most people used the I-Ching to make a decision about something important or to query about the current state of a problem). As I grew older, I appreciated this tradition in a more celebral way, enjoying the objective interpretation of a problem using imagery. And heck, so much cheaper than a psychiatrist.

While walking anywhere in Chinatown or around my neighborhood, I would hear the rhythmic drums and firecrackers from different directions. The local taichi/kungfu houses would send out their best troupes to do the acrobatics in a traditional lion and dragon dance. The best lion dance I ever saw were dueling troupes hired by my father. They were rivals, so they were dancing their lion-tails off, moving the very heavy lion heads up and down while the other members somersaulted around them. They "crashed" heads, acting out a fight scene, showing off their kungfu. My mother, ever inventive, put the angpow money (their pay) on a pole and dangled it from the second balcony of our house. The acrobats had to work really hard, climbing on each other's shoulders, to get to their packets, but being that my family was rich, they knew their pay would be worthed it.

As a kid, I was told that the firecrackers, drums, and lion-dancing were meant to scare away evil and bad things from the house. All those painted masks were kind of scary, I suppose. But I was really fascinated with the lion's head with its blinking eyes. In my very fertile imagination, I was already making up a story about the magical lion that came alive every new year.

I wanted to be part of the lion dance and learned kungfu and be kickass. I wanted to do splits and jumped off from the shoulders of strong, muscular men. Alas, my parents quashed that ambition rather effectively. Young educated girls just didn't do things like that. You know, I could have been the next Michelle Yeoh, whom, by the way, I shared a school bus with once or twice. Not the Miss Malaysia part, because damn, I stopped crawling under the gods' table and didn't grow an inch taller, but the jumping off from cars and bridges part...I could have...if mom and dad hadn't told me I was a crazy idiot ;-) and should just go to school and study hard.

A trip down memory lane with Gennita couldn't end without her bemoaning about Chinese New Year food. My mother was a fabulous cook and could do all the New Year cakes and sweetmeats like a professional. Almost every year, she stayed up late making lin-ko (a gooey concoction that hardened into rock-like taffee), or chong-yuen, or kuih kapit. She told me I could help her because she shaved me bald when I was a kid. That's right. Shaven bald had something to do with the correct consistency of thickened coconut and steamed buns. I still think she was pulling my leg, but to this day, none of my sister could produce anything other than lumpy kaya, except for me. I had the "magic" touch, it seemed, when it came to smooth, sexy, and delicious Malaysian/Chinese sweetmeats.

That's why, when I post about a trip to New York Chinatown, you're always hearing me wax poetic about the food. I cannot explain to those of you how many different variety of foods that could be sampled in Malaysia without you having been there at least a year. With our four main cultures, one could just eat a different recipe a day for 365 days. So when you sit with me in a Malaysian restaurant in Chinatown, be aware that I usually would go a little (okay, a lot) crazy, and order enough food to feed a refugee family of ten. The waitresses would be staring, amused and somewhat bemused, as the feast keep coming, and you, my poor guest, would have to put up with a non-talking author whose mouth is very busy.

The further away I am from these memories, the more I want to write about them in my books. Not all of them, but little bits and pieces, hooking them somehow to the background of my characters and stories. There was a reason why I made Nikki enjoy food so much; her appetite for the past was huge and food was an immediate acknowledgment of her love of life. There was a reason why I wrote about the girls and the poor people in Vivi's surroundings. The culture of a people runs deep and change wasn't always necessary good. There was a reason why I gave my heroines certain choices and took away some; as a product of my culture, I see women very differently from the way you see them.

I've made certain choices that some of you never needed to, and that's part of the reason why I write about exotic cultures and women. Not that I'm exotic, you understand, although I'm probably weirder/more alien than I want to admit, but because underneath it all, I've wanted to show that love, humor, survival, and sisterhood are a common thread.

Okay, back to celebrating the New Year ;-). May there be heavenly lions to frighten away the bad vibes around you!

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