THIS LITTLE PIGGIE . . .

You never know what you’re going to find when you’re out junking. One of the things I found this weekend was . . . a pig.

Yes, a real, live, large-economy sized (1,100 lbs.) PIG. His name was Rosco. He wasn’t raised to be a pork dinner—he was the family pet. Mostly he just nuzzles around looking for something to eat.

At first I missed Rosco. I went into this little barn, which SMELLED really BAD. But, there was lots of neat stuff inside, and I poked around and found a few things to buy. I’d already gotten in the car when my husband said, “Take a look at that pig.” I thought he was being rude about one of the sale’s customers, and was about to berate him when I spied Roscoe. Whoa! I’ve seen pigs before, but never close up.

I grabbed the camera and asked the guy running the sale if I could take a picture. “Sure, go ahead!” So, I walked up to the electric fence, which held not only Roscoe, but a cow (who was happily munching hay) and a goat. (Never got their names.)

Of course, that got everyone’s attention, and the next thing you know there were kids and a woman who once had a pet pig (same size as Roscoe) in the pen petting him. He seemed to like it.

The guy also said they had a miniature stallion, but I didn’t get his picture. (Too bad, he was really handsome—and he didn’t look like a pony, either.) They also had two donkeys, who didn’t seem that interested in being photographed—but they didn’t complain, either.
Along the route, we saw a snapping turtle crossing the road (whew--yes, he made it!) and a wild turkey ran in front of our car. (Oops! we almost had a fine dinner.)

It just goes to show you, you just never know what you’re going to find when you go out junking.

I WANT A NEW (to me) TELEPHONE

Have you tried to buy a phone lately? I'm talking landline phone. In your house. The kind of phone you can put on your shoulder and talk to your mother while you stir the spaghetti sauce so it doesn't burn. You CAN'T find them. The only things available these days are all cell phone wannabes.
I want a REAL telephone. And OLD telephone. As it happens, when we were growing up (way back through the mists of time). The phone company owned the phone. We were one of the first families on the block to actually BUY our own telephone, and it was pink (the same color as our house). I loved it.
The phone company was made up of grumpy old men and they didn't want people to have extension phones. It was a BIG no-no, but somehow my Dad got hold of an old Art Deco telephone, and he ran the wires and we had TWO--count 'em--TWO phones in our house.
As a kid, I found it hard to lift the receiver of that old phone--it was HEAVY, and I didn't like the phone. Where had it come from? Did it have cooties? When the phone rang, I'd run to the front of the house to use the pink phone just so I wouldn't have to use that terrible old phone.
Of course, now I would KILL to have that phone. I've seen similar phones in antique shops, not in as good shape, and they want between $60 and $100. (The graphic on the left doesn't do that phone justice.)
Since I can't have the phone of my dreams (or at least I'm too cheap to get it--and where would I put it?), I've given it to my character, Tricia Miles. She keeps it in her Haven't Got a Clue bookstore where she sells vintage mysteries. When she uses it, it takes her back to the days of Agatha Cristie and Harriet Vane and getting lost in their adventures.
Maybe what I really need isn't an old phone, but more time to read mysteries.
That sounds good to me.

YARD WORK

For the first time in a long time, I'm really gardening. Veggies and flowers. Of course, every time I plant vegetables, I've been heartbroken. Despite the fact bunnies and groundhogs have decimated my veggies in years past, I still want to get out there and try it every year. And this year I've done it in a big way.

I know a lot of people are planting gardens because our First Lady has had a kitchen garden installed on the White House lawn, but I've been planting veggies for a long time -- not always with success. (See above paragraph. BTW, the above photo of Michelle's garden was taken by Mr. L last month when we were in Washington.)

My very first veggie garden was a thing of beauty. My Dad and I planted it at my first house and I had tomatoes, green peppers, broccoli, and Brussels Sprouts. Guess what? That's what I planted this year, too!

I've tried to do my veggies from seed, but I don't have the proper lighting, etc., and no room to set up something like that (and stay married), but I wanted to try to do heirloom tomatoes from seed. These little guys are about a month old. I know--I know, they're way -- way late, and the thing is--the tomato I got the seeds from was downright ugly -- but I like that its an OLD tomato, like they used to eat generations ago. (How cool is that?) And, I all it has taken is my time. (And Frank has had to rescue the seedlings from my cat Fred several times. To Fred, they look like salad.)

The potatoes have sprouted. I grow them in a big blue container, just to make it easy to harvest my "crop." Of course, without a lot of room to grow, you don't get huge spuds. But I enjoy it and it's free. (Yup, I use the potatoes that have sprouted in my pantry.)

I spent a lot of time on Monday working on "my little patch" of the yard. (Mr. L usually does 90% of the garden, choosing the annuals and planting them.) Right now I've got what was supposed to be a climbing rose. It's been there at least four years and has not felt inclined to climb. It had a sister bush, but it died. I think it's returned to root stock, but it does put out one or two brave roses a year, so it stays. (Mr. L wants to rip it out and replace it.) Last year, I put a hosta in there, and it did okay. This year it said--whoa! I like being here! and has taken off. I was going to put an azalea in there, but decided it would look too crowded, so this year I put in about 40 gladioli (which haven't done anything yet--and probably won't until nearly September) and six begonias. Then I mulched the heck out of it. It looks nice and tidy, which it hasn't done for some time.

Here's a shot of the new bird bath. (That's my little pot of lettuce on the left, and a Japanese lantern my Mom gave me.

Isn't it cute? That's the veggie garden in the background.) We'd been looking for a bird bath like this for at least six years. Nobody seemed to be carrying them. We thought it was be fun for the cats to watch birds up close (kinda like CAT-TV). Last summer, Wegmans had a little brass (or something like that) bird baths and, as we were desperate, we bought one. But we only saw birds use it once--in some kind of frenzy, and that was it. My mother bought one, too, but the birds didn't like hers, either. I drove around for about an hour with the new bird bath in the back of the minivan while I did other errands, and it wasn't until I got home that I discovered a wasps nest inside the base. Yikes! It's installed, with nice clean water. Now to see if the birds find it.

The yard is shaping up. Just have some mulching left to do (and get out the leaf blower to clean up the last of the arborvitae leaves that dropped) and we can enjoy our garden for the rest of the summer.

And I can get back to working on the book.

Busy, Busy, Busy!

I'm up to my elbows in alligators, with no time to blog today (or yesterday), but I thought I'd at least post a picture.

This should give you a bit of a clue as to what I've been doing. (Today, it's HOT and HUMID and I need to MULCH.) 

Hope to be back tomorrow.

CALENDARS

I don't know about you, but I depend on Calendars to keep me going. Or at least to tell me where I need to be going.

Usually I get a wonderful calendar for my office. Something nice and BIG, with BIG squares I can write in. And the subject matter will be something very appealing. Last year it was teapots and tea parties. I've had cat calendars, Susan Branch calendars, even Harry Potter calendars. Nice Big Calendars.

Last Christmas, I got a small Harry Potter calendar. I knew it wasn't going to work. The date squares are dinky at best. (Nice pictures, though.) Unfortunately, I decided to wait until New Year's before I went out to look for a calendar. Of course, by then, only the dregs were left--stuff I couldn't bear the thought of looking at for the next twelve months. Ugly, ugly stuff. Like sports. Killing animals or fish.

I thought I'd try calendaring on AOL. But I keep forgetting to look there. I have a day planner, but I keep misplacing it.

Nope, I need a calendar on the wall. WITH BIG SQUARES.

They're starting to put out the calendars in places like Barnes & Noble and the craft stores (think Michaels). Should I pay full shot and guarantee that I get a calendar with big squares (and hopefully PRETTY), or wait and be disappointed once again.

Uh, I think this one is a no-brainer.

DEAR NANCY . . . A Letter to Victoria Magazine

One of my all-time favorite magazines has been Victoria. In the 1990s, it was the quintessential elegant celebration of all things girlie. Silver tea sets, gorgeous flowers, all-things chintz, and old lace. Ahhhh.

Its editor was one Nancy Lindemeyer. Under her guidance, the magazine flourished. Then she retired around 2001 or 2002. The magazine soon failed under its new editor. (Sorry, Peg, but it’s true.)
I’ve written about the old Victoria, and its resurrection, and those two blog posts are the most accessed on this blog. (Thank you, Google.) Not a day goes by when one, if not both of those posts gets read by someone out in cyberspace. (Although, sadly, those readers don’t seem to come back and read the new entries on this blog. Bummer.)

I was not a subscriber of the old Victoria from day one. Therefore, every time I see an old issue at a yard sale, I scoop it up. I’ve been able to find most, but not yet all of the old issues. I like to pull those old issues out during the summer to revisit favorite articles from up to 18 years ago. And I’ve purchased a LOT of back issues at yard sales.

A year or so ago, I bought quite a few back issues. But as I was going through them this past weekend, I found one that had a hand-written note to Nancy Lindemeyer. Or I should say, an unfinished note to Nancy. It read:

5-27-98

Dear Nancy,

I recently ordered a 2-year subscription to Victoria for our business. I always read it first, then take it to the office where many times the ladies will ask to take it home for a day or two.

Today it came, my new subscription. But I got 2 issues. One May & one June. My first thought was “oh well,” but as I read through the May issue, it’s all about Mother’s Day! Mother’s Day is long gone.

I don’t buy out-dated food and I don’t buy outdated magazines. Yours is a great magazine. The best in my eyes. I have been reading it for years. I used to dream of planning my only daughter’s wedding using ideas from your magazine. And one day I did. It was the most beautiful wedding. She wore a petal pink Cinderella gown and her Victorian bouquet was beautiful.

The letter ends there. Okay, what was the writer saying? She was annoyed that she got two issues—one old, one new—but still, she’d used what she’d read in past issues to plan the biggest day in her daughter’s life.

Hello! What’s the problem here? She got a magazine a week or so late and it annoyed her, but then how long had she waited before she’d renewed her subscription? And how terribly annoyed was this woman when the magazine failed under it’s new editor? (I can tell you, I was pretty damned annoyed.)

The new Victoria isn’t quite as wonderful as its predecessor. Then again, even in its current incarnation, it’s much better than the alternative: having NO Victoria magazine.

But it was really kind of neat seeing the hand-written note, the looping letters in cursive script. Did the woman ever finish the letter? Did she go into greater detail about her daughter’s wedding, or did she just decide: Oh dear, what was I thinking? . . . and just shove the pages into the May 1998 issue and say/think “the hell with it.”

We’ll never know.

PLANTING A VICTORY GARDEN

For years I've wanted to have a veggie garden. Okay, hubby gave us some space in the middle of his flower garden, but the beans were here, the tomatoes there, the potatoes somewhere else. I wanted a dedicated garden for growing my own vegetables.
This year, my wish is coming true, but it took a lot of work to get there. First off, we had a 30 foot maple tree that was in the way. Now, I love trees and it makes me sad when one has to be taken out, but this tree was A) too close to house B) too close to the pool (which meant that spinners, stems (it was a weird variety of maple) and leaves would get in said pool and foul up the filtration, and it shaded the pool, keeping it too cold to swim in. And most of all--it was in the very spot I wanted to put my veggie garden! So, the tree came down in 2008. Tree man agreed to come take out the stump when he had a chance. The chance came in March 2009.
Oh boy! I was finally going to get my garden.
Not so fast. There was a pile of chips and dirt nearly four feet high to deal with. So I got out my little garden cart and started trucking them away, putting them in the far corner where I wanted to kill off some aggressive ivy. (Did the trick, too!) However, after 25 cart loads, there was still half the pile of chips and I couldn't seem to dig through the pile.
So, since we were getting the front of the house re-landscaped (another story), hubby contracted for the landscaper to clean up the chips. Easy, right?
WRONG!
It seems that tree/stump man underestimated the root system. And really, who could blame him with that nearly four-foot pile of chips he was trying to work around. So, landscaper guy called his stump guy and off he went. It took him more than an hour, and even then, he had to take out an ax to remove the roots nearest the pool's concrete deck. But, since that had taken so long, the rest of the team had gone off to work on another job. "We'll be back tomorrow." Tomorrow ended up being 3 p.m. -- not 8 a.m. And there was also the threat of rain.
Next day, the guys came back and did their work. Stone guy built a little wall so that they could put fresh dirt in the area to give us room to to plant.
The guys didn't lie, they finished the job in a little over an hour, and they did a terrific job. Everything was ready for planting. I already had my broccoli, Brussels Sprouts, tomatoes, cilantro and curly parsley. There was just one problem.
It started to rain. Hard. For more than 24 hours. The new dirt was like a sponge. So, I had to wait FOUR DAYS before I could plant my new veggie garden. Before I did that, I headed over to my parents house and cleaned up their garden before my mother and I planted beans, tomatoes, green beans, and gladioli. (Okay, they weren't part of their veggie garden.)
So finally I planted MY garden. All but the beans. (I like to soak them for 24 hours before I plant. It gives them a jump start.) Only now I'm worried about critters. I've had gardens decimated by groundhogs and bunnies and I don't want that to happen to my garden. My friend Heather Webber (who writes a gardening mystery series) puts carrots out in her garden. The bunnies eat that and leave her veggies alone. My friend Kaye George swears by Cayenne Pepper. I'm doing both, and hope that the critters leave my veggies alone.
I'll keep you posted.

My New Cover -- BOOKPLATE SPECIAL

Tricia Miles, owner of Haven’t a Clue mystery bookstore, is still settling into Stoneham, New Hampshire, the kind of town where everybody knows your name—and where everyone’s quick to lend a hand, even when murder is afoot…

The kinder folks of Stonehammight call Pammy Fredericks a free spirit. The less kind, a freeloading thief.Tricia has put up—and put up with—her uninvited college roommate for weeks. Inreturn, Pammy, has stolen $100, among other things. But the day she’s kickedout, Pammy’s found dead in a dumpster, leaving loads of questions unanswered.Like what was she foraging for? Did her killer want it too? To piece the casetogether, Tricia will have to dive in head-first.…

(Isn't it just gorgeous? And don't you just love the way the window glows like a Thomas Kincade painting--and that type at the bottom of the cover that says New York Times Bestselling Author!!! And how long will it take before my "name" is bigger than the title?)

P.S. Starting tomorrow, Saturday, May 30th, I'll be joining the Cozy Chicks blog. Come on over and check it out.

PET PEEVE THURSDAY--COMPUTER BACK UPS

We've all been told time and time again to BACK UP YOUR COMPUTER FILES. I must admit, I am one of those people who means to do it all the time and still seems to forget.
But one thing I am diligent about is baking up my current book. I put in on a flash drive, and I have online storage in case the house blows up. (Well, you never know, right?)
So yesterday I had finished my work for the day and backed it up on the flash drive, intending to go right to the online storage and POOF! My manuscript was gone. GONE! The old version was still on the flash drive, but none of the additions and changes I'd made. A WHOLE DAY'S WORK--GONE!
Can you scream MELTDOWN!!!!!!!!! (Yes, it was upsetting enough to warrant all those exclamation points.) A search of the computer brought up nothing! It couldn't even find an old version of the manuscript.
Hey, I was being good. I WAS faithfully completing my back up and still my manuscript was gone.
When I could think rationally again, I remembered to check "RECENT ITEMS" -- and sure enough, there it was. Now why couldn't Vista tell me the manuscript was squirreled away in that folder? I pulled it onto the desktop, and quickly made copies. And then poured myself a very strong whiskey--light on the soda.
And what have you lost on your computer lately?

New (to me) Reviews

Sometimes it seems like I'm pretty clueless--at least I think so. One of my vigilant readers has forwarded not one but TWO neat reviews of BOOKMARKED FOR DEATH to me from respected print media--a little late, but always welcome. (Thanks, Lois!)

Mystery Scene Magazine, under "Cozy Favorites"

A bookstore owner's worst nightmare--the author found dead in the washroom--starts off Lorna Barrett's charming Bookmarked for Death (Berkley, $6.99). Tricia Miles, the owner of Haven't Got a Clue bookstore in the little town of Stoneham, New Hampshire, better solve this mystery before she takes the fall.

Mystery News (April/May 2009)

The second in the "Booktown Mysteries" series, Bookmarked for Death is a good cozy set in the village of Stoneham, New Hampshire. The entire community is distressed by huge flocks of Canada gees and the mess they make everywhere at a time when they are hoping to host a successful book fair featuring the numerous bookshops that make them a "booktown."

The Haven't Got a Clue mystery bookstore is hosting Zoe Carter, a reclusive author who is the most famous person from Stoneham. After the signing, bookstore owner Tricia Miles discovers the Edgar-winning author murdered in the restroom. Sheriff Wendy Adams closes the store for four days, causing many problems as well as loss of sales for Tricia. Doubt is cast upon Carter's authorship of her bestselling books, and more violence ensues.

The Characters are likable and the puzzle is intriguing. There is more cooking information than book lore. Tricia's sister, Angelica, a forceful personality indeed, owns the cook book shop next door. The ubiquitous recipes are included and a couple of them look good enough to try.

Naturally, I'm very happy to have positive reviews, and plan to boil them down for promo. How about this.

"Charming!"--Mystery Scene Magazine
and
"The puzzle is intriguing." -- Mystery News

Short and sweet, eh?

Authorly accouterments

I love garage sales. Have I mentioned that before? (Oh, only about a hundred times?) They're terrific. This weekend I got some really good stuff. A new popcorn bowl (I broke the perfect one about four months ago and have been experimenting ever since. This one seems to work well), some new-to-me bone china tea mugs . . . and a business card holder.

I use these at signings. I have to admit, not many people take my business cards. But a few times people have taken them with promises to book me for their readers group to to come visit their library. My last one was BORING. Opaque (white) plastic, but you could put cards on both sides. This one has a bit of glamor. Even fake diamonds! Since the heroine in my new mystery series is kind of a girlie-girl, I figured this would be perfect for me (and her).

Isn't it pretty?

What did you last buy at a yard/garage/tag sale?

DUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I love ducks. They're so cute. I love that the town where I live is concerned for the ducks' welfare. They hang signs near the retention ponds where the ducks hang around to do duck things. Like swim, and eat and BREED.
What I don't like about ducks is the calling cards they leave behind. (I touched on this in BOOKMARKED FOR DEATH--only then it was geese. Believe me. The geese can be really bad about it.)
But thankfully, geese don't visit me. Ducks, however, do. And you really don't want to encourage them. That's why we're really good about pumping the top of the money pit, er, pool as soon as the ice melts. Unfortunately, we still get rain, so keeping it pumped off becomes a continuing job until the pool is finally opened in June.
That means, I'm on constant duck alert. The problem is, the ducks are used to people. You have to go out there and make an absolute fool of yourself jumping up and down and waving your arms and clapping and yelling to get them to move.
I sure hope my neighbors don't have a video camera trained on our backyard.

PET PEEVE THURSDAY--What have they done to Uhura?

Have you seen the new Star Trek Movie yet? I have. So what do you think about the changes they've made to the crew? One in particular stands out for guest blogger Rhonda Lane.
I saw the new Star Trek movie on opening night. Believe it or not, despite what this post ends up saying, I mostly enjoyed the movie. It was only afterward, once I was back home, that I started thinking . . . .

If you haven’t seen the new Star Trek movie, you might want to stop reading right here. But . . . If you’re a woman, maybe you want to know before you go in. Especially if you’re a Boomer woman. Really especially if you were a pioneer yourself leading women into new professional territory.

Really, if you want to watch the movie and be surprised — stop reading now.

I mean it. Last chance … because …

Uhura is sleeping with her boss. Not Kirk. Spock. Who is cute, I admit. But a smart cookie like Uhura would be too professional to play where she works. Especially in a military unit. Despite what Battlestar Gallactica portrayed.

Thank goodness Uhura’s still smart as far as her job is concerned. She’s still the ears of the Universe picking up odd noises and interpreting them like a crackerjack submarine sonar officer. I’m okay with the fact that she’s a babe, but I do wish she’d been given more to do.

And I wonder what Nichelle Nichols, the original Uhura, thinks.

Y’all know the famous story. Nichelle was bored out of her skull with her role as a TV space ship switchboard operator. She was about to quit. Then Martin Luther King Jr. himself stepped up and asked her to please stay, that she was showing a black woman in an important job on a TV show. Even if not many people then were watching her. But Dr. King knew a potential pop culture icon when he saw one.

In those days on the cusp of the woman’s movement, Uhura was a bridge officer on the flagship of the fleet. Smart, good at her job and good in a fight. Every once in a while, she had to act like the flinching pre-ERA woman and say, “Oh, captain, I’m so afraid.”

I think I remember reading where Nichelle had to protest a few of those wimpy throwback moments and remind the producers and directors that Uhura was a soldier.

Apparently, the creator of Alias’s tough Sydney Bristow and Fringe’s capable Olivia Dunham forgot that Uhura is a soldier, too. But now she’s a space babe in lacy lingerie. Perhaps on a career track to become “The Captain’s Woman???” It all makes me wonder about what we leading women have wrought.

We embraced the freedom to reproduce when we wanted, not when biology happened. The control that The Pill gave us allowed us to wonder what else we could do now that we weren’t shackled by biology?
Then, we wanted to learn more about our own biology for health reasons. And we took the shame out of acts of love. We didn’t want our daughters and nieces to feel the same taboo that we used to feel, either.

In the ’90s, fashion designer Donna Karan added sex to the power suit, which had morphed from Joan Crawford’s shoulders to a bow-tied-almost-Mormon-nun thing to attorney Ally McBeal wearing a mini skirt in court. Hey, Uhura wears a mini on the bridge of the Enterprise. Both Uhuras.

A positive aspect of the new character is that today’s Uhura takes the lead in the relationship. Which makes Spock whipped, even though he’s in a position of authority. I’m not sure that’s a good image for him, either.

One character trait about the original Captain Kirk, who is probably about 15 years older than the new Kirk of the movie, is that he was always a professional with his subordinates. The military has strict rules against romance in a unit between superiors and subordinates. Kirk’s behavior on the Enterprise showed that he lived by that code. He knew that, when he was aboard his ship, he would spend his nights/afternoons/spare moments alone. His female yeoman’s blonde beauty weighed heavily on his mind. His hormones must have tormented him greatly.

Granted, this crew is young, their hormones coursing. But they’re still in the military. And, supposedly, Spock’s hormones only activate every seven years. So, has the new Star Fleet abolished the military code of conduct?

And I wonder, what would Dr. King say now?

P.S. – Actress Zoe Saldana deserves better.

And what's BUGGING you today?
-------------------------------------

Rhonda Lane is a former newspaper reporter, photojournalist and television graphics technician. She is working on a mystery novel about an exiled journalist solving a murder in a small southern town. She is also the creator of The Horsey Set Net, an online magazine blog about horses in culture. She admits that her “I’m Legit” author site needs updating once she figures out how. If you Twitter, you can follow her brief comments on life, writing and horses at @RhondaLane

THE BREEZE INN . . .

Like many of author Mary Kay Andrews's readers, I've been following the creation of her very own Breeze Inn on her blog.

For those of you who don't know, Mary Kay Andrews (pen name of author Kathy Hogan Trocheck) writes women's fiction. She's written three that feature the same characters, Savannah Blues, Savannah Breeze, and Blue Christmas. In Savannah Breeze, BeBe Loudermilk has lost all her worldly possessions thanks to a bad investment counselor--except for a dumpy motel called the Breeze Inn. For a good chunk of the book, Bebe and her friend Weezie renovate the inn, with a nod to HGTV's Design on a Dime, and stuff from Weezie's second hand shop.
I loved the books, and I was intrigued when Mary Kay bought her "beach house" on Tybee Island. For the past few months she's been chronicling the change from ugly cement block house to her own personal breeze inn, with pink and turquoise paint, wicker furniture, and lots of neat odds and ends.

She put a lot of effort into that renovation, telling readers about the rooms she'd prepared for her son (also known as "Boomerang Boy) and daughter and her husband. About choosing the paint colors, junking all along the East Coast (from Brimfield, MA to Florida) finding just the right items to furnish her home-away-from-home.

And finally, a few weeks ago, she declared her own personal Breeze Inn finished. I imagined her family using the place on weekends, the house being filled with friends, great food, great drinks, great memories.

WRONG! The Breeze Inn is now open for BUSINESS! And you can rent it for chump change -- that is if you happen to be Donald Trump. A week's stay at the Breeze Inn will put you back a mere $2,133!!! (Add $100 a week if you want to bring your pooch. $200 if you bring two pooches.) Of course, part of that cost includes a $30 admin fee (for the people who handle the rentals), $125 housekeeping fee, and a 13% motel/hotel tax.

Odd as it sounds, I felt betrayed. Mary Kay never told her blog readers that the Breeze Inn would be a money-making venture. We came along for the ride thinking that this would be her great escape, where she go to get away from life and work on her novels. (Her latest, The Fixer Upper, comes out on June 23rd.)

I started thinking about Mary Kay and her books and made a stunning realization. Usually authors live vicariously through their characters. Mine own their own bookstores in a quaint New England village and wouldn't I like to do the same? Mary Kay has taken this vicarious living to another level. She not only has a character who owns a motel on Tybee Island, now...so does she, sort of.

So instead of feeling betrayed, I think now I'm just jealous!

ON MY TRAVELS . . .

We took the camera along while driving around the area this weekend. It’s apple blossom time, and the trees are just starting to wind down. (But did I take a picture of the trees? Nooooo! It just didn’t occur to me.) But I did take a picture of the beehives.

As you know, there’s a problem with bees. Colony Collapse Syndrome, where the bees die. Is it a virus or some kind of mites killing them? That’s two of the theories. So we were pleased to see so many buzzing hives. And since the fruit crops depend on bees (they grow apples, cherries, and peaches around here), they’re an important (vital) part of the fruit-growing industry.

We stopped at the local nursery to pick up a couple of hollyhock plants. As you can see by the pictures, there’s a lot of gorgeous annuals just waiting to be planted. The problem: in this climate, it’s really not safe to plant anything but pansies until Memorial Day.
The nursery has many greenhouses filled with flowers. We noticed a hummingbird darting back and forth, but not settling on any one of the millions of flowers. He reminded us of an alcoholic in a liquor store-- not sure where to start first.

Not everything is beautiful around the county, as evidenced by this trailer we came across. There's a lot of poverty out there, and for some reason there's a breed of people that just collects junk--and lets it rot in their yards. Dogpatch is alive and well in rural New York.

And now the hollyhocks are planted. And of course, the nursery doesn’t tell you what color they’re going to be. (Probably because they don’t know.) And since it’s a biannual, they may not flower this year. Well, I guess I always did like to be surprised.

INTERNET WITHDRAWAL

I haven’t had a stable Internet signal since Friday morning. I had it for about half an hour on Saturday morning, ten minutes on Sunday morning, and then NOTHING.

Of course, our Internet access is tied in with our Cable TV. Guess what? We do have cable, but it’s unwatchable. And so we called on Sunday to report it, and were told they might be able to reset it from the office. Guess what? They couldn’t. We were told there was no signal getting through. But, they’d put us on the list for repair on Monday. We were to expect repair some time after 8 a.m.
Well, that’s kind of open ended, isn’t it?

Also, they said they would call us before they’d send a repair guy. Eight o’clock went by, then nine. Then ten. Finally, at 10:15 the guy shows up. (It must be miserable to have to visit all these cranky people--but it seems cable is more important to most people than Internet access.)

Meanwhile, I’m used to doing my Internet business from about 6:30 to 9. (In between I get breakfast for us and the cats.) Today, still no Internet. So I decided to do some vacuuming. Then laundry. Then tidying. I sorted tons of digital pictures, putting them in files (and even did some cropping.) I wanted to go plant my new hollyhocks by the mailbox, but we wouldn’t leave the house because we had to wait for them to call.

Did I miss anything vital during my Internet inaccessibility? Yes. But I’d just be boring you tell all. Suffice to say, I’m glad I’m back. And BAH! to windstorms that take out access.

Night of the Puking Cats

Four cats produce a LOT of hairballs.

Perhaps I should restate that: TWO of our four cats produce a LOT of hairballs. And since this is shedding season, there are more hairballs than usual, despite almost daily brushing of the worst offenders.

When we returned from our trip to the Malice Domestic conference, we noted the lack of hairballs on the rug. We’re good, we told ourselves, and swept up the litter in the laundry room.
But it was not to last.

Why is it that cats pick the most inconvenient times and/or places to eject their hairballs? We took off for our cottage on Friday, taking the sisters (Betsy and Bonnie) with us. Going to the cottage gives them a break from our exuberant boys. We drove for about an hour, and just as we were pulling up, Bonnie started retching. Yuck! All over the towel in her carrier, and all over one of her legs. Ick! Good thing I have a box of tissues in the car.

We get inside, unpack, and sit down to relax for a few minutes. Rukka, rukka, rukka! Next up, it’s Betsy, and wouldn’t you know—she had just filled up on the dry cat food that we put out for the girls.
I don’t know how your cats react, but ours always puke at least three times. The main event, and then parts two and three (not as dramatic, but just as aggravating).

Okay, we figured. We’re good. They’ve both had hairballs. We should be safe for the weekend.
Nope.

There I was, sleeping in heavenly peace, when—Rukka, rukka, rukka! Good heavens! Who’s puking now? Since both cats had been in bed with us when we turned out the light, I didn’t know which one to go after. It was Betsy again! And not only that—she had puked on the pillow between us!

Wow—dodged a bullet. Off came the pillowcase! But Betsy wasn’t finished. Onto the floor. Into the hallway. Next up, the kitchen. She finished with one last volley on the living room rug.

I think I used half a roll of paper towel with that one, but figured she’d gotten it out of her system, and she’d be good to go for the night. And I was right! But I had not reckoned with her sister. Two hours later, I was awakened with a familiar sound: Rukka, rukka, rukka!

“Get off the bed!” I hollered, and Bonnie obeyed. She only puked three times. On the bedroom rug, the hall floor (which, thankfully is laminate), and the kitchen floor. More paper towel, more cursing and swearing.

It’s time like thesethat I have to remind myself: I love cats…I love cats…I love cats.

PICTURES OF MALICE DOMESTIC & THE FESTIVAL OF MYSTERY

As most of you know, last week I attended the Malice Domestic conference in Arlilngton, Virgina, and on Monday, the Festival of Mystery (hosted by Mystery Lovers Bookshop) in Oakmont, PA.
This year's malice was my favorite for a number of reasons. First, I got to meet my editor. We've been corresponding via e-mail and the occasional phone call for three years now. I'm happy to say I like him a lot and we had some very interesting conversations. (We're both HUGE Star Trek fans, but see the series in different ways. We decided it's best left as a topic not discussed in future meetings.)

The second reason is I got to spend a lot of time with two of my blog buddies from Writers Plot, Sheila Connolly and Leann Sweeney. (Leann and I hung out a LOT.) Another member of our group blog was there (Jeanne Munn Bracken), but she moved so fast and rarely stood still, I never even got a picture of her!
Leann and I were on a panel about animals in mysteries. (Leann's new book is called "The Cat, The Quilt, and the Corpse.") Leann and I were on the cat side, while authors Peggy Webb and Judi McCoy were on the dog side. (And the panel was deftly moderated by Sandra Parshall.)

This year I went to the banquet for the first time. I know some people think banquets are tedious, but I actually enjoyed it, probably because I sat between author Mary Jane Maffini and Berkley editor Sandy Harding, both charming women. Also at the table: Shiela, our friends Krista Davis, Janet Bolin, Daryl Wood Gerber, Deb Baker, and my editor. The chicken wasn't rubbery (in fact, it was quite good!), and the dessert was layered chocolate to die for. (And I didn't think to take a picture. Bummer.)

Sunday things were winding down and Leann and I left early, heading for Oakmont. We paused for lunch, and then headed to Breezewood, where we stayed for the night. (Much cheaper.) It also gave us some time to wind down from the conference.

Monday, we were on the road again, heading for Oakmont. Our first stop (after checking into the hotel and having lunch) was a library reception sponsored by the Allegheny County Library Association. Here we pitched our books to librarians and friends of the library. I'm not good in these situations, but my friend Rosemary Harris is. She took me around the room and introduced me to people she'd only just met, and set me up for my pitch. Can you say: ETERNALLY GRATEFUL?

The Festival of Mystery, sponsored by the Mystery Lovers Bookshop, brought together 40 authors from the US and Canada. Several hundred faithful mystery readers attended and, more importantly, bought 1804 books in about four hours. I sat next to Rhys Bowen, who has a LOT of books in print. (I felt like a piker with my three books.) I got to see a bunch of people, but there wasn't much time for talk, as we pitched and sold our books to faithful mystery fans.

Naturally, I didn't take as many pictures as I would've liked. If you'd like to see more of my pictures, they're posted here and here.

It was an exhausting five days. But boy, was it fun!

ON THE ROAD AGAIN

Over the weekend, I went to the Malice Domestic Mystery Conference. I had a blast! Unfortunately, I didn't think to download my camera's software to my laptop, so I don't yet have any pictures to show for it. (Bummer, eh?)

We traveled from western New York to Arlington, VA, on Thursday. The skies were gray (can you say "gloomy?") but for some reason the nine-hour drive seemed a lot shorter than usual. Go figure! We actually got in about 45 minutes earlier than anticipated. I got to my room and immediately called my Writers Plot blog buddy Sheila Connolly. We made plans to meet and, having realized we were missing vital supplies (plastic cups for me, and a jug of ice tea for Sheila), headed off to the Rite Aid in Crystal City.

Next, we met up with our other pal Leann Sweeney, and the gab fest began in earnest. You see, Sheila and Leann had never officially met, although we've been blogging together for over two years. We called (and called, and called, and called) the fourth member of the group in attendance--Jeanne Munn Bracken--but for some reason she wasn't getting the calls, and since she has no small children to program her cell phone, didn't have voice mail set up.

Eventually, hunger got the best of us, so, joining up with our pal Toni Kelner, we headed off for dinner at a lovely Mexican restaurant. My meal was okay--could've been a little hotter (I like my food PIPING HOT--I mean, burn your esophagus hot), so tepid was a bit of a disappointment. After being on the road all day, hubby and I figured we deserved a libation. His Dos XX beer was HUGE (I couldn't lift it) and my martini was good. Until I we got the bill--holy crap! $9.25 for a friggin' martini? Okay, maybe I'm a rube from the sticks--but I sure would've savored it a bit more had I known the cost.

Of course, as we were leaving the restaurant, we finally met up with Jeanne and her friend Margy, who had been searching for us--but hadn't thought to give us a call (or maybe she didn't have the number--I was still fuming over that $9.25 martini to pay attention), but we staged a hug-a-thon there in the tunnels of Crystal City before Sheila, Leann, and I headed back to the hotel's convention floor for early registration.

Registering for Malice is kind of like getting an early Christmas. They give you a badge and a BIG bag of books. So of course we had to retreat to some very comfy club chairs to find out what Santa Malice had bestowed upon us. Lots of hardcovers this year, making for a very heavy bag. I managed to fleece my pals of their complimentary copies of American Girl books (for my niece, who works in a rural school system, to give to her kids), while a steady stream of friends came and went (more hugging) until we were so tired we were ready to drop. Then it was back to the room, where I was too tired to write about the L-O-N-G day. (Too tired to even read!!!)

NEXT UP: The Big First Day of Malice Domestic 2009

PET PEEVE THURSDAY--The Hysterical Media

I don't know about you, but I no longer trust the media to give me news I can believe. Every time it rains, the local media runs an alert at the bottom of the TV screen threatening mayhem. Same for snowstorms during winter. They'll warn us we could be up to our armpits in snow--possibly blizzard conditions, and we'll get a light dusting. Then, when we get a big storm, more often than not, they won't predict it.

I'm so tired of the media crying wolf that I haven't been able to rise above the MILDLY INTERESTED stage when it comes to the swine flu outbreak. It seems they want us to all panic! (Maybe, like during a predicted snowstorm that never arrives, we should run out to the grocery store and buy up all the milk and bread.)

I can't get riled up about the statistics they're offering. So many sick here, so many sick there -- my God, the REGULAR flu kills more than this one has so far. And from what I have heard, and except for Mexico, the people who've gotten the flu have had "mild cases." So why blow it all out of proportion?

Scare tactics--that's what it is.

Okay, I'm one of those people who carries a bottle of Purel in my purse (and my car--in fact, I have two in the car). I use it all the time (especially after I leave the grocery store). But our President gave the best advice to avoid the flu: WASH YOUR HANDS. COVER YOUR MOUTH WHEN YOU COUGH -- and the one that can't be repeated enough (and was never taken seriously at my former place of employment, because if you missed a day you had a FREQUENCY): IF YOU'RE SICK--STAY HOME AND RECOVER, DON'T SPREAD IT AROUND.

And what's bugging YOU today?

SPRING FLOWERS

I've had a new camera for a couple of weeks now, and have been eager to start taking pictures once again. And after that "long, cold, lonely winter," the spring flowers are a welcome treat.

So yesterday I bopped outside with camera in hand and visited my front yard, looking for stuff to snap. First up was the rhododendron right outside the front door. It's in need of some shaping, but I'm afraid to hack at it for fear of killing it. (As it is, the icicles took out a big chunk of the back of the plant this winter.) But the big treat was that a huge bee was out there, dipping into the pollen. This new camera has a telephoto lens and -- whoa! There he was, big as life. (And see the pollen on his butt! Is that cute, or what?)

Next to the rhodo we have a little stand of daffodils. They're the spring plant that keeps on giving. They've been out for over a week, and we've had a couple of really hot (Wonderful!) days, but they're still pert and perky. (I have to learn which setting gives me a sharper background. Hey, it's only been a couple of weeks--give me time, give me time!

We didn't plant the tulips out front -- and usually we have only one straggly bloom, but this year we had more--go figure! (And I'm certainly not complaining.) Sadly, tulips seem to last a day or two (especially if it's hot). As you can see, they're already getting a little brown around the edges, and they'd only been open a day.

Of course, while spring is great for flowers, it's also great for weeds. Why do they look so pretty when they flower--and so ugly when they turn into puff balls of seeds a day or two later?

The former owners told us they had a row of ornamental cherry trees along the side of the driveway, but the ice storm of 1991 took out all but one. It's the oddest looking tree because it's tall with very short (they all broke in the storm) limbs. Most of the year it looks like it needs to be put out of its misery. But for a couple of golden (or should I say platinum) days in the spring, it flowers and almost looks pretty. (Well, it does look pretty close up.)

I stopped using my SLR camera about ten years ago and almost exclusively used a point-and-shoot. And when we got our first digital cameras, they, too, were point-and-shoot. I've only had the new camera a couple of weeks, and have realized how much I missed taking really good pictures. Now to learn to use the thing to its full capacity.

Chewing the cheek

This year has NOT been a good dental year for me. Oy!

I trace my dental problems not so much to myself, but an unscrupulous dentist, who preyed upon my parents (and God knows how many other parents) drilling out massive amounts of my dentin and filling my teeth with mercury all those many moons ago. The man died not too long ago and I DID NOT MOURN him, despite the very long, GLOWING obit in the local fish-wrapper.

That HORRIBLE man DESTROYED my teeth. And how nice a house did he have? How many of his children did he send through some very expensive Ivy League college? What year Corvette did he drive while I've spent the greater part of my adult life doing nothing but pour more and more money into my mouth trying to salvage the teeth he destroyed?

But...as usual...I digress.

I've spent more than the advance on my next series on my teeth in the last four months. Holy cow--I can't believe what frivolous things I could've bought had I not been repairing damage upon damage upon damage.

I recently got an new dentist. She's a woman--and boy do I trust her and her whole staff. This is a first for me--a woman dentist, and actual trust. I feel comfortable there. I don't feel like she's trying to put one over on me, which I have felt in the past with male dentists. Oh, she's not cheap, but this time--it feels different. This time I feel like she's got MY best interest at heart, and not her bottom line.

For instance, last week I had a problem with my temp crown (which was actually covering TWO teeth--because I'm getting a new crown on one tooth, and a replacement crown on the tooth right next to it). The first temp felt good, but it was defective. Hey, it took five tries (and let me tell you, with an overactive gag reflex I am NOT a good patient--hey, I've puked on more than one dentist while having impressions taken) before we got a decent impression. Then, of course, I had to bite down on a popcorn hull that broke the temp. Oy! My tongue was hamburger after three days, and the receptionist gave me a good talking to for not "bothering" the dentist on her weekend off.

So today I get my final crowns. Good, because I've done nothing but chew my cheek for the last week every time I bite my food. Dr. C was concerned that I'd eat through the temp again, so I think she made it extra big this last time--just so it wouldn't crap out on me.

At this point, I only have one more scheduled procedure in front of me, and I've decided, because it's not something that will SHOW at an author talk, that I will wait until my insurance covers it (next January) before I tackle it. If I have to lose the tooth, it won't be visible, so I think I can live with that. In the meantime, I'll kind of miss Dr. C and her assistant Ms. A because they've been so accommodating and so gosh-darn NICE to me.
But I sure won't miss the hit to my wallet.

A SWEET TREAT!

Once upon a time, I read a story about a little girl from the city, who visited her country relatives in Vermont. These relatives made maple syrup. She was left alone with the boiling sap and at a crucial moment, did something (for some reason, I thought she put in a little pitcher of cream), and saved the whole batch. She wasn’t just some dumb city girl anymore—she had saved the day.

That’s about as close to making maple syrup as I’ve ever been. But I can’t say the same of my friend, Janet Koch. Every year, she and her husband tap the sugar maples on their property on the shore of some frozen lake way up in Michigan, and then boil the sap for what seems like a million years (I think she said it was two weeks—but that can seem like a million years when you have to keep stoking the fire) and eventually—TA DA! Maple syrup.

I think she said (some reporter I’d make, eh?) that she had to accumulate between 50-70 gallons of sap to make two gallons of syrup. No wonder the stuff is as expensive as French perfume and sold by the ounce!

As it happens, I am the happy recipient of a jar of Janet's 2009 maple syrup production!

Confession time: I have NEVER had real maple syrup before. I know, I know—how sheltered can one woman be? I’ve only had the fake stuff…and truth be told, don’t like it much. I have had maple candy, which costs the moon and is so sweet you can only take tiny bites. So it was with much anticipation that I planned Sunday’s breakfast. Ahh, lovely Mennonite bacon, extra crisp homemade waffles, and Janet’s maple syrup.

Let me tell you, that fake crap ain’t passing my lips from this day forward. The homemade stuff was divine, and Hubby said it was better than a lot of Vermont maple syrup he’s purchased over the years--and in fact, the BEST he's ever tasted. We’re already planning on a repeat of Sunday’s breakfast. In fact, many repeats – at least until Janet’s maple syrup is gone.

I saw a story posted on AOL saying that Maple Syrup is in hot demand because there have been several bad seasons for collecting sap. Prices are as high as $100 a gallon for the pure stuff. Which makes Janet's gift all that more valuable, and thoughtful.

Hmmm…now to figure out how to stay on Janet’s syrup distribution list.

BIRD FOLLY

The other day, I looked out the bathroom window and noticed a robin sitting on the roof, looking around. It jumped to the ground, looked around some more, and then jumped onto the faux craftsman lamp we have next to our front door. It then flew back to the roof, back to the driveway, and then back to the lamp, obviously satisfied with itself.

"There's a bird out here thinking about building a nest," I told Mr. L.
Nothing happened and we forgot about it.

Until this morning.Mr. L went to get the morning paper and, HELLO!, there was a fully built nest. It wasn't there last evening. After breakfast, Frank went out and removed the next. (He didn't tell me this, of course.) Three hours later, I went out to put a letter in the mailbox. HELLO! There were all kinds of dead grass and sticks up on the light again.

Thinking it might be filled with bird cooties, I took off my shoe and knocked the nest down, and went back inside. "MISTER L!" I called, rather annoyed. "I thought you were going to remove that nest."

"I did."

"Oh, yeah!"

"Yeah!"

He came out and was astounded at how much work this robin had accomplished in just under three hours. By the end of the day, I'm sure there would've been several eggs in that nest. In order to discourage the bird, we put a heavy piece of broken patio block up there. (You can never find a rock when you need one.)

Mrs. Robin was quite upset, as would any mother-to-be, but we didn't want to lose the use of the light, and the nest would've been a fire hazard, not to mention the bird poop that we would've had to scrub off the house and step (we've been there, done that).

Yes, it was all for the best. So why do I feel so mean?

RAIN ON THE ROOF

Why does it always seem to rain during daylight hours and ruin perfectly good days? Days that should be filled with baseball games, picnics, boating, gardening, and other enjoyable stuff.

Okay, the flowers/crops need the rain. I get that. But the days are gloomy and depressing.

On the other hand, I love to fall asleep at night with the sound of rain on the roof. It's kind of magical. It lulls you off to dreamland in a peaceful way.

Mind you, I'm not opposed to an occasional night-time thunderstorm, either. I love to watch the sky flash with lightning. I'm not so keen on the wind that accompanies said storms. I fear toppled trees that take power lines with them. (Our little post office was hit with a tree during a storm just the other day. Took out a HUGE portion of the roof--right where the customers stand to have their letters and packages weighed. Scary!)

Last night's weather report said we had a 60% chance of rain overnight. Oh goody, I thought--another night of rain on the roof. Unfortunately, the weather man, with this "predicting dartboard" was wrong again. Come on, with all the supposed improvements in weather prognostication, you'd think they could get it right at least 50% of the time. I know, I've crabbed about this in the past in respect to snowstorms, but they're apparently no better at predicting summer weather, either.

In the meantime, I do have a number of thunderstorm CDs. I can play any one of them any time I please (which is just about every night), so I never have to be without some form of soothing, night-time rain. But I prefer the real thing.
How about you?