I Have A Perfect Life

So television has moved from the Olympics to American Idol and life is good, but with AI tryouts and the Olympics running in sync, I was once again struck by something that has become the norm in tv - I call it the "Olympic syndrome." Have you noticed that every athlete has a sob story? It's like someone thinks we won't care if they win a gold medal if they didn't just bury their mother or put down their dog. While I find some of the human interest interesting (I AM a writer), I think it's gone into overload.

And the problem is now that type of hype and PR (and make no mistake - it IS all about ratings) has leaked over into every competition on television. Now, we get the whole pathetic background of the AI contestants. Mind you, it doesn't matter if there's really nothing to work with or their background is common to millions of people - if you cue the dramatic music, you can get away with anything:

(cue dramatic music)
"Then in 1998, Susan got a hangnail and lost the use of her middle finger for an entire six days......"
(cue Susan sitting bravely in the hospital with her middle finger wrapped in gauze and extended up for everyone to see)

And then the interviews - even worse. They're all weeping and crying and saying things like "this is all I have", "I've worked so hard", "this would mean so much to my family", "I'd be able to support my family." gag I have a couple of responses worked up for those statement:

"this is all I have" - Get a life.
"I've worked so hard" - So do millions of other people every single day, doing far harder things than singing. And working hard still doesn't mean you have talent.
"this would mean so much to my family" - Tell your family to get a life and stop living vicariously through you.
"I'd be able to support my family" - Why did you create a family with no visible means of supporting them in the first place?

So maybe I'm cynical, but I find it hard to connect when EVERYONE has a sob story - some reason I should want them to succeed regardless of actual ability - in a TALENT competition, no less.

Just once, I'd love to hear someone say "You know, my life is perfect. I came out of the birth canal with a perfect complexion and beautiful features. I eat everything I want, never exercise and never gain a pound. My grandparents left me more money than the Hiltons have, so I don't have to work. I saw American Idol tryouts listed in my area and even though I've never even sang a song with the radio, I figured, what the heck - let's go have some fun."

Deadly (Definitely Cynical) DeLeon

Holding a Contest Next Tuesday

I got my ARCS (Advanced Reader Copies) of Shut Up and Kiss Me. I will be giving one away next Tuesday.

Also, make sure you pop over to Barbara Vey's blog for her anniversary party to win lots of great prizes. I will be giving away a copy of the ARC over there as well. See ya then!
http://www.BeyondHerBook.com

Leg warmers nostalgia

We're "sleep training" the baby this week. Which basically means we're all sleepless zombies while trying to teach baby the difference between day and night and how to become slightly less nocturnal. So far... baby:1 parents: 0. I'll keep you posted.

In the meantime, the fabulous Maria Grazia Swan (who has had enough sleep to be coherent) has agreed to guest blog day. So, take it away, Maria....



Remember the good old days of Jane Fonda’s fitness videos and leg warmers?

Back when gyms where the place to see and be seen in our endless quest for the perfect mate?

Those days are gone. Today’s gyms are still the place to go in the endless quest for a perfect body, but now it is our own perfect body we’re after—not that of the buff guy spinning next to us in class.

In the early nineties, while writing an advice column for singles I told my readers that the weight room was a good place to meet a man in good shape and men should join aerobics classes to meet the active, fit gal. And, oh my, did I make people mad. I was accused of making men sissies and women buff!!!!

But I still say those were the good old days, when I wore a full face of make-up to the gym. Some of the women even sported false lashes. Aerobic instructors were always female and we moved to the sound of classical music.

In today’s unisex gyms, we all wear the same style shorts and plain t-shirts. Men and women are seen ‘spotting’ each other when lifting and a yoga class is often 50/50 by gender. So how have all these recent exercise habits changed our mating habits? The flirting is less open, and there is more sense of camaraderie. One thing that hasn’t changed is that when a “gym couple” breaks up, one of the two cancels his/her membership.

The concept of meeting a mate while exercising isn’t dead though, it has simply moved headquarters. In Phoenix, where I live, most of the flirting and courting takes place on hiking trails. People tend to hike at the same time, on the same days, to accommodate their work schedules. You end up running into the same faces and after a while the “hello” on the trail becomes “how are you” and “Want to get a cup of coffee?” On one of my favorite hikes, I often run into Jim also know as “the bartender”. Not because he serves drinks but because he knows all the regulars and stops to chat and listen to everybody. He told me he’s been doing the same trail, same time, for 5 years now and he is a rich source of information. He can recognize the true hikers from the “looking for a date” crowd. Perhaps one day the hiking trails will succumb to the sanity that seems to have overtaken the gyms-men and women hiking together with nothing (well, almost nothing) but fitness on their minds. I’m sure the day will come, but until then I’ll still put on a swipe of mascara and a touch of lip gloss before I lace up my hiking boots.


Can you imagine a world without men? No crime and lots of happy fat women

Sylvia (Nicole Hollander)



~Maria Grazia Swan

Maria Grazia Swan is an author and motivational speaker who shares
relationship advice and guidance for women re-entering the social/dating
scene. Maria empowers and encourages single women to be bold, fearless, and
sexy in their pursuit of life and love after age 45. An award recipient from
the Women’s National Book Association, Swan is the author of Boomer Babes:
True Tales of Love and Lust in the Later Years (Leisure Books). Visit
http://www.mariagrazia.tv

All Things Considered, I'd Rather Go to Nashville...

Registration for the Romance Writers of America Conference is underway. This year, the annual writers' conference is being held in Nashville, Tennessee. While I've been to several RWA National Conferences, I have never been to Nashville.

I'd love to go to National in Nashville. Several writing buds from my local RWA chapter are going. It's sure to be a rip-roaring time (especially if The Assassin is there to work her special brand of conference magic). As I said, I'd love to go. But I might have other plans.

A few days ago I finally relented and went to see an orthopedic doctor about my bum knee. Well, one of my bum knees. When my knee got to the size of a respectable cantelope and I had to resort to using the handicapped stall in the bathroom in order to pull myself off the toilet, I figured it was time to see a medical professional.

So I did.

He pulled and twisted and manipulated my knee. It hurt like @#!*. In addition to the funky sliding sideways kneecap, it looks like I might have torn cartilage. Which means? Probable knee surgery.

So, instead of hobnobbing with writer types in Nashville, it looks like I'll be hobbling around on crutches and getting up close and personal with a physical therapist this summer.

I suppose being able to walk without a stabbing shooting pain in the knee or having it give out altogether is preferable to a week sightseeing and schmoozing in Tennessee.

Who am I kidding? All things considered, I'd rather be in Nashville.

So. Are you planning to attend RWA's Conference in Nashville or do you have other plans for your vacation time this summer?

All I can hope for now is a favorable medical outcome.

And a nice-looking physcial therapist couldn't hurt.

~Bullet Hole~

Leslie Langtry: Menace to Society

I have discovered a talent for injuring others this weekend. The Curse Of Leslie, my kids affectionately dubbed it. Here's what happened.

Friday: 7:40am

Okay, so I started off the day with a bang by yelling at my son's teacher. Now, I don't make a habit of chewing out teachers - I'm a teacher's kid. I ALWAYS side with the teacher, like parents did in the '60's. But this was bad. I'm not going to go into it here because I make Linda Blair's performance look underwhelming whenever I think about it. Suffice it to say, the teacher was way out of line and bullying Jack because, although he spelled the word "hospital" correctly, she didn't like the way he wrote "p."

So, I went up before school started and told his teacher I didn't like her yelling at my son in front of the whole class over handwriting. She denied it (I have a host of cub scout spies to prove it) and - get this - ROLLED HER EYES AT ME. It is an understatement to say I blew up. I left the school that morning, wearing her severed head as a jaunty hat. Alright, I'm speaking figuratively here.

When I got home that night, Jack informed me that I made his teacher cry. She told the whole class that she was emotionally upset and had to go home. The kids didn't talk to Jack all day because of his "Mean Mom."

Saturday - 7:30am

I'm at the warehouse where all the girl scout cookies for the troops in my city are delivered. A handful of us sort 3,775 cases of cookies and help load them into various leaders' vehicles. At 1pm, Central Time, I ran over a nice, little old lady with a cart of 47 cases of Caramel Delights. I was on a ramp and thought I had control of the cart as I stuffed cases into a pickup truck. Something shifted and the cart released and barrelled into a petite grandmother of 75. I saw her go down, screamed, "NO!" I managed to stop the runaway cart by hurling my body in front of it but it was too late. She had fallen to the ground. Fortunately, an EMT was there to pick up her cookies and examined my victim. Turns out she was alright, but it freaked me out. I mean, in Scouting, you always think you'll get injured starting a fire, on the ropes course or falling out of a canoe. NO ONE ever thinks they'll get run over by a cart of Girl Scout Cookies.

I stopped at the store on my way home and picked up six bottles of wine, a couple of bags of chips and went home to watch the Olympics. After a shower (where I couldn't lift my arms above my waist from the pain) my friend, Michele came over and we drank 4 bottles of wine, ate the bags of chips and devoured 2 whole boxes of Thin Mints.

I was home, and therefore, couldn't inflict my evil on society. Or so I thought.

Sunday -

2am, Bernie, Michele and the kids were leaving my house. Bernie (it should be said, the only sober adult) slipped on the ice on my front steps and chipped his elbow.

On Monday, the curse seemed lifted and I haven't damaged anyone since Sunday morning. What really happened in those strange 48 hours? We may never know. Let's just hope it never happens again.

The Assassin

Doing Something Different in Bed

Yup. We’re doing something different in bed. I’m not the one who initiated the change, either. Just like a man, isn’t it? Just when you get used to something, start really liking it, they go and change it. And frankly, it’s not the first time he’s altered his bedroom/bedtime habits. The first time was about five years ago. Just like most stories involving my hubby, it all goes back to his basic male-driven instinct. You know the instinct I mean, right?

I’m talking about the male dominated instinct to protect and care for his family. And by “care”, I mean his financial protectiveness. Basically, I mean his inability to let go of a dollar bill. His frugalness . . . that is also called, cheapness. Or as some might refer to it, his penny-pinching, Scot-inherited approach to all things involving the almighty dollar—including coins. So how does the “something different in bed” come into all this? I’m getting there. Be patient.

First, let me say, I appreciate my hubby’s ability to save money and for the most part, I don’t blink when he sets out to purchase the lower ticketed item, as in: store brands of cereal, cell phones that don’t take pictures, scratched and dented refrigerators without ice makers, or the washing machine that makes enough noise and movement that the neighbors think hubby and I are doing kinky things to each other every time I use the large-load cycle. But there is and always has been one thing that I refused to scrimp on. I, Christie Craig, will have a good, top-of-the-line, 600 or above cotton thread, Egyptian preferred, sheets, blankets, and at least four freshly down-stuffed pillows. Why four? It’s simple. I need two for my head, one to hug, and one for between my knees. I’m a side sleeper. Don’t all side sleepers use four pillows?

Now, hubby says, I keep so many pillows around me at night, that if the mood strikes, he has to get over my barricade to find me. I do apologize about that, but then I point out that due to the rule—the one he set early on in our relationship—the one that demands upon his-and-her blankets, I’m never really what you would call “easy access” anyhow. Not that pillows or blanket seriously get in the way, but in the beginning I thought the two blanket rule was a tad over the top. Not for hubby. He insisted that having his own blanket prevented the tug-of-war battles and arguments so common in marriages.

Shortly after we married I learned it was good thing. And it's not for the reason you might think. Hubby's intestinal track is fine. There was no way I was going to share his cheap, canvas-feeling, skin-abrasive $9.99 clearance comforter. Nope. Nor was I gonna use the buck ninety-nine foam-filled pain-in-the-neck pillows. So I did what all smart wives do. I bought my own preferred bedding and never once told him how much I paid. Believe me, the man would have freaked if he’d known I spent more for my bedding than he did for my cheap-ass washing machine.

Then it happened. I’m referring to the first altercation that occurred about five years ago. I went out of town for a conference and while I’d remembered to put away my blanket, I had neglected to put away my pillows. And he did it. He pulled one over and while he still won’t admit it, I know he felt as if he’d died and went to bed heaven. How do I know? Because when I came back and cuddled up in bed, I found my knee pillow was lumpy foam. He’d even switched cases. Confronted with the issue, hubby said, “But it’s just your knee pillow. Do you really need down feathers for your knees?” Then he put on that poor-me pout and claimed his neck had been bothering him and he really needed the better pillow for just a few days.

Days led to weeks and I eventually went out and bought me another knee pillow. That should have been the end of it. But it wasn’t. One night I got into bed and discovered he was using my hug pillow as his second head pillow. When confronted he put on his pout again and I waited for the sore-neck excuse again. But nope. “Go buy yourself another one,” he said instead. “Just don’t tell me what you paid for it.” Smart man!

I did. Hence, hubby became a believer in the good-pillow way of life.

Then came the most recent change in his sleeping habits. To be honest, I should have seen it coming when he switched the comforter off my extra bedroom for his every-night blanket. When I asked him about this, he replied that for some unknown reason his comforter had started feeling funny.

Right! The truth was, the comforter in my extra bedroom was twice the quality of the one he’d picked up for himself on the clearance table at the dollar store. Not that it was near the quality of my blanket, but still. Nevertheless, I went out and bought a new extra-bedroom comforter. I tried giving my hubby’s blanket to the dog next door, but even he refused the dang thing. Then it happened. It was the first cold spell this winter. Hubby moved a tad closer to my side of the bed and draped my 299 dollar blanket over him, I was stunned.

“What are you doing?” I demanded.

He sent me that look, the one he knows I find irresistible, and said, “I thought we’d try something romantic and . . . share.”

I didn’t buy it, but I decided to let it slide . . . for one night. (Hey, he’s really cute when he puts on that look.) But the next night, he was . . . “cold.”

“Then get your blanket,” I suggested.

“But I like being close to you.”

I wasn't born yesterday. “Admit it buddy, it’s not me you want. It’s my blanket.”

His answer was sly. “Is it wrong of me to love both you and your blanket?”

So . . . there you have it. After twenty-five years of marriage, hubby and I are sharing a blanket. And just like he said, it’s happening. He’ll roll over and yank the covers off of me. I’ll wake up and yank back. And most nights there’s at least one game of tug of war going on.

It’s a tad frustrating, but darn it, I kind of like how it feels to spoon with him without the layers of blankets between us, so I’m gonna tolerate it.

So here’s what I want to hear from you. Are any of you out there a bedding connoisseur as I am? Do any of you use the two-blanket rule? What type of pillows do you use? How many do you sleep with? Do you have knee pillow? And do you sleep on your back, side, tummy? Come on, let’s talk about what happens in bed.

Bored and Confused

I tried not to address it, but it's the hype that will not die, so I have to ask - does anyone really care about Tiger Woods and his 42 whores? Seriously? Is he the first rich, famous guy to cheat, or do drugs, or lie or act a fool? Or is the general public foolish enough to believe that since they have to wear pants to golf, it's somehow a higher class sport than say basketball? I got news for you - young, rich, entitled stars are the same no matter how they get their money.

And the whole "did Elin assualt him" questions. Trust me, if she's hit him in the head with a driver, the news stories would be about his funeral and her arrest. And while I don't "necessarily" condone violence for solving violence, how is sleeping with loose, trashy women not assaulting your wife? God knows what he picked up from them. Some of them don't even look like they bathe. Gross!

And the hoards of people calling sport's radio shows and complaining because Tiger is a role model for their kids.....really? I don't have kids, so maybe you guys need to help me out here. I can see kids liking his money, but golf? How many eight-year olds VOLUNTARILY are obsessed with golf? Do kids really want to be Tiger Woods or do they want to be Sean White with cool hair and a bad-ass snowboard? I know who I want to be.

And let's take men for a moment. When are they going to learn that if they're famous, that's the ONLY reason women are after them - the ultimate payout. How many of the whores will have a tidy sum of money after this for selling their story? Did he really think any of them cared about him? Seriously?

All I have to say is no wonder famous people need 10k square foot homes. They have to fit their swollen heads inside. Gag

Opinions - gripes - anyone want to vomit in their own mouth?

Deadly DeLeon