THE ENEMY: SNOW

By guest blogger Jeffrey Cohen

I like watching snow melt. It's like watching Nazis die.

Let's be frank, here--I hate snow. Hate. Not that I consider it a minor inconvenience or that I always hurt my back while shoveling (which I do). I mean, I hate snow. All the time. Have for decades.
Now. I also want to be completely clear on one point: I do not, ever, mean to impinge on your right to adore snow if you feel like it. You think shoulder-high piles of exceeding cold, wet, blinding matter that serves no purpose and brings your life to a screeching halt for a day or two, possibly bringing down power lines and endangering life, is wonderful, more power to you. I respect your view. Enjoy it.

But don't try to convert me, okay? Let's both save our energy for clearing the driveway.

I consider snow the enemy. It interferes with what I want to do. It can sometimes impede my livelihood (as last week's latest in a series of Noreasters kept me from my regular teaching gig in Philadelphia). It can endanger my health (how many overweight middle-aged men have heart attacks shoveling snow every year?). Every time snow is forecast, I take a look out at my sidewalk, my driveway, the street where my car is parked, and I say a mental farewell to all that, knowing that soon, the whole thing will be a slippery, frozen death trap requiring my attention and confining me to quarters.

And this year, every time it snowed, when I turned on my TV to escape from reality, what did I see?
The Winter Olympics. Life ain't fair.

Now, the snow advocates will be screaming, "but it's so beautiful!" Swell. Send me a picture of snow, and I'll look at it all you want. The rings of Saturn are beautiful, too, but I'm relatively sure I wouldn't want to live on them.

By the way, anyone who thinks snow is so beautiful is welcome to come by and shovel me out the next time some falls. I wouldn't want to curtail your fun. Please, feel free.
This past February, the area in which I live was buffeted (and I don't mean with trays of ziti on Sterno) by three major snowstorms. By the end of the month, I wasn't hearing so many people tell me how beautiful snow is anymore.

Let's consider the facts, shall we? (True snow believers are no doubt already shaking their heads, since they deal in the aesthetic, not the factual.) The countries with the highest suicide rates? Belarus, Lithuania, Russia, Kazakhstan, Latvia. LOWEST suicide rates? Antigua, Haiti (yes, Haiti!), Honduras, Jordan, Saint Kitts, followed closely by Egypt, Syria, Jamaica and Iran (yes, Iran!). It doesn't take a professional data analyst to figure out one major difference between those two lists.

Also: Is there a "holiday" upon which a nocturnal rodent is called upon to predict whether or not we'll be subjected to six more weeks of SUMMER?

Ask your travel agent whether s/he books more trips to Bermuda or Antarctica. Go ahead; I'll wait.
Again, I have no desire to "cure" you of your enjoyment of snow. I'm happy for you, truly. Some people like eating liver, too. Doesn't make them wrong.

But I hate snow. And I'll continue to hate it, probably for the rest of my life.

Now you're asking: Well, if you hate snow so much, why don't you move out of New Jersey, where you're going to get some pretty much every winter?

Have you seen what it costs to live in a place that never gets snow?
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Jeffrey Cohen is NOT the author of NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEED: A Haunted Guesthouse Mystery, coming from Berkley Prime Crime on June 1. That author is E.J.Copperman.

Doesn't everyone want to smell like a toilet deordorant cake?

Why is it whenever I like a product--really like it--it gets taken off the market?  (Garlic flavored "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter," Reynolds plastic wrap with the easy slider cutter; ice tea flavored Gatorade?) And if they don't take it off the market, they "improve it." 

Lots of things DON'T need to be improved, and I ran across one yesterday when I went to ... ahem ... color my hair.

I've been using Nice'N Easy #116A for about 18 years.  Okay, I tried to be a redhead for a while, but even though there have been redheads in my family, it just didn't suit me, so back to #116A it was.  I've been very happy with the product.  They changed the conditioner a few years back, which was okay (but they give you a million times more than you need, and I usually just toss out the newest tube.)

Hubby always complained about the smell.  "Ick--like chemical green apples."  I got used to it and after a couple of hours, the bathroom doesn't smell anymore and life goes back to normal. Yesterday I used the NEW AND IMPROVED Nice'N Easy #116A and ... quite frankly, it stank.  Stank like those little deodorant cakes you hang from the side of the toilet bowl.  But ... eventually the odor dissipated and life went back to normal.

EXCEPT -- I could smell my hair.  Just a whiff now and then, but it's really revolting.  I took the cat to the vet and all the time wondered ... can the vet tech smell my hair?  I was awakened in the middle of the night and what did I smell?  MY HAIR.  LIKE THOSE LITTLE DEODORANT CAKES YOU HANG FROM THE SIDE OF THE TOILET BOWL.

I've been quite happy with this product for almost two decades.  Maybe this bottle was a fluke.  But next time I use it, if I end up smelling like a deodorant cake, I'm switching brands.  

Anyone got a suggestion?

Me and My Rider Jeans (by Lee) Part I

Back in late January, I ranted about an ad where a skinny model was wearing tummy tuck jeans.  I railed that they ought to use plus size models.  Well, someone at Lee jeans read the blog (ah, the marvel of Google alerts) and offered me a pair of tummy tuck jeans.  Uh, I just happen to be a woman of a certain age, and I'm afraid I NEED tummy tuck jeans.  So, I called their bluff and said I would love a pair of jeans.

Apparently there was some kind of mix-up at Lee, because I didn't get  a pair of jeans.  I was contacted, asked if I got them, said no.  Thursday, I was contacted again.  Still no jeans.  Then, my "contact" said she'd find out what was going on.  Voila!  Friday afternoon, low and behold, there's a BIG box sitting on my doorstep.

I wasn't thinking about jeans when my husband opened the door and brought in the box.  I wondered what the heck was in such a large carton.  Out came the box cutter, off came the flaps, and not only was there a pair of jeans, whoa! there were FIVE pairs of jeans.  All the same size, different lengths, different cuts.

Oh boy!  This was just like Christmas!

So off to the bedroom I went to try them on.

And here we veer of topic for a sec . . .

My pal Nancy Martin, of the Lipstick Chronicles (whose new book, Our Lady of Immaculate Deception comes out tomorrow), vowed that TLC would never have diet stories.  They're boring.  People don't want to read about them.  She's right . . . but here I go anyway.  (Sorry, Nanc!)

After my Dad died (okay, and during the three months he was ill), I was pretty upset.  Like a lot of upset people, I found comfort in food.  Especially bread.  Especially bread with butter.  And now . . . while I can still get in my "from Penney's catalog" jeans, even they're getting a little snug.  The truth is, I don't put on my jeans unless I'm leaving the house.  I live in sweatpants.  They are God's gift to women, and who looks a gift horse in the mouth?

Except, I have another gift horse, in the form of my tummy-tuck jeans.  And the bitter fact is, only one of them I would dare wear, and even then, hubby said, "Looks like they were spray-painted on."  They're tight, but oddly enough, they have a lot of give.  There must be a good amount of spandex in them.  But not enough that I'd feel comfortable for any length of time.  I mean, I do have to breathe, right?

So I feel terrible.  Here this BIG company went and gave me five pairs of beautiful jeans so I could try them out and sing their virtues and that means one thing:  I've got to lose some weight.  Hey, I need to.  What if I win that Best Novel Agatha on May 1st.  (I've been called a "Dark Horse" candidate.  Everyone in the category has won at least one Agatha.  I'm sure it would be as big a shock to them as it would be to me to win the award.)  Just say I DID win . . . I'd feel really, REALLY FAT if I had to mount that stage at my present weight.

These really well-made Lee jeans are my incentive.  Because each pair is cut different, there's one pair that I can't even get my left leg in.  Those are my GOAL JEANS.  (I've had goal jeans before, and while it took six months of Nutra-System, I did wear them for a short time.  It felt great.  (I felt hungry.))

So, while it's boring to hear about diets, I have two months to lose some weight.  I'm going the Weight Watchers route. (I don't need to GO to WW, I just need to follow their plan...again.  Hey, it works.)  Periodically I'll let you know how I'm doing.  Not by pounds lost, but by jeans donned.

Any tips on how to feel full without actually eating?

And the prize for the ugliest cover goes to ...

I was poking around Amazon this morning (I'm not one of those paranoid authors who checks her Amazon stats constantly--just a couple times a week), and wondered if they'd posted the cover for the large-print edition yet.

Oh yes.

And, oh, is it BAD.

What is that?  It has to be the absolute WORST skull and crossbones I have ever seen.  I mean, it looks like I might have drawn it!  (And I have no artistic skills, believe me.)

Someone must have put all of 30 seconds of thought into this cover.

Now, compare it to the BEAUTIFUL cover that was done by the fabulous Teresa Fasolino for the paperback edition of the book.

No contest, eh?

It's a good thing that large-print editions aren't generally bought by the cover art.  As it is, large-print editions don't sell terribly well, but looking at this cover, I'd say my poor LP version of Bookplace Special is doomed.

What do you think?
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UPDATE:  There's more to the story.  Check out my blog post of 3/5/10 on The Cozy Chicks Blog.

Cabin Fever?

We've had another winter storm.  This one brought 8-10 inches (I didn't get my ruler out to check, but we do have a couple of small drifts in the driveway).  Actually, we've missed most of the snow this year (it went to other areas of the country--fine with me, not so fine with my friends in the south), but it's been cold and who wants to deal with that.

My Aunt in sunny Spain wondered if by now we all have cabin fever.  (I always get this mental picture of a little cabin in the woods, wood-burning stove, people wearing red longjohns, nothing good to eat, and no indoor plumbing.)

Not me.  I went out yesterday.  And the day before, and a couple of times last week.  Since I lost my day job, I don't get cabin fever as much.  If the weather is crappy, I'd just as soon stay home. 
I used to get cabin fever all the time when I had a day job.  I was out every day, going to work, seeing people.  But on the weekend, I had to go somewhere, ANYWHERE, and I'm not exactly sure why.  Now it might be weeks before I talk to someone other than the check-out girl at the grocery store, but I tend to stay home a lot more now.  Maybe it's because I'm in constant communication with my friends and distant family via the Internet.  (Boy am I glad I learned to type.)

What I am jonsing for (and I've said it many times before) is YARD SALE SEASON.  Believe me, I am counting the days until the weather is warm and people decide to make a clean sweep and get rid of their junk...er, treasures.

What thoughts of spring are getting you through this long, cold winter?

Too much clutter

Why is it that when I need a BIG carton, there are none to be had.  And when I need a small one, there are only big cartons hanging around?
I'm in the middle of a project where I'm transferring a bunch of things from one carton to another.  Except I don't have the other carton.  The project is in three stages, and I have stuff scattered around my office, which is beginning to look like a warehouse.

Why is it we never seem to have the things we need when we need them?

I need a MUCH bigger office.  One like they have in all these decorating magazines I read.  They have BIG work tables, HUGE closets with EMPTY SPACE, and no piles of paper hanging around on the floor.  My office is a former bedroom, 12 x 16 with a BIG closet.  The closet has been full for the last 14 years.  I do a purge every couple of years, but no sooner do I empty something from it, than something else takes its place.

I guess I have too much stuff.   Too many boxes of books.  Too many books of bookmarks.  Too many old drafts of manuscripts I just can't seem to part with.

While I'm far from being a hoarder, I can't seem to be ruthless and just toss stuff out.  How about you?  Have you been able to take control of your life and clutter?

From Warp Speed to Full Stop in only seconds

I was going along at warp speed with my work in progress (Booktown #5) until my copy edit for Chapter & Hearse showed up.  Then work came to a screeching halt.  (And it will again this weekend, when I have to put it back on the shelf to get the synopsis written for Victoria Square #2.)

For the past two weeks, I've been tippy-toeing around the manuscript.  I'd add a sentence here, rearrange a paragraph there . . . but no real progress was made.  It was time to sit down and read what I had, and I feared that what I had was one HUGE mess.

The problem turned out to be that I didn't know what day of the week the story started on.  I had over 100 pages (about a third) of the book written, and I still wasn't sure where it began. 
I first thought the story started on Saturday, but then that would mean Tricia needed to go to the bank on Sunday.  Can't have that--the bank isn't open on Sunday.  So I backed it up to Friday.  Still didn't work, because something else had to happen on Sunday, and Ginny doesn't work at Haven't Got a Clue on Sundays.  Is it logical to start the Founders Day Weekend on Thursday?  Well, it might be, if the Ferris wheel and puke-a-whirl have to be somewhere else by Saturday.

You see my problem?

Yesterday, I spent two hours tweaking the timeline, moving scenes around, and writing transitions.  When I started, I had only six chapters in place.  By rearranging scenes, and putting things in order (a lot of times I'll write random scenes as I think of them, and then put them together later, rather like a big jigsaw puzzle), I now have eleven chapters.  Whew!  that feels more orderly.

I guess that's what I hate most about starting a book.  There's no real sense of order. And when things finally start clicking in place, that's when the fun starts to happen.  Usually about 40,000 words.  Not quite there yet, but I won't be approaching the day's work with quite so much apprehension.

What makes it doubly frustrating, is I can only talk about it in general terms.  I wouldn't want to spoil it for my readers. 

A teapot in my future?

So there I was last Sunday night, sneaking away from the kitchen and dinner prep and the phone rang.  I figured it was yet another telemarketer because it said UNKNOWN NAME, UNKNOWN NUMBER on the Caller ID screen. 

Instead, it was from the head of the Agatha Awards Committee.  Bookplate Special had been nominated for an Agatha Award for best novel.

Whoa! 

The first thing I did was burst into tears.  I wish I could say they were of joy, but I'd been having kind of a bummer of an evening, and to top it off, had been listening to the Chieftains' CD Santiago, and in particular Galician Overture, which is incredibly sad (hey, it's got bagpipes--nuff said).  So when she said Bookplate Special had been nominated ... I kinda lost it.

Of course, she asked that I not say a word about it until after all the nominees had been informed.  I did ask if I could tell my mother and my agent and editor, and she said yes.

By the time I got off the phone, I had cheered up immensely. (Just about the time the Chieftains were hitting their stride with Getting Sail/Muineira de Frexido--which must be one of the most joyful tunes ever recorded.)  I yelled to my husband, "Bookplate Special--a major award!"  (I figured he was in the exempt column, too.)  And of course, you know what he thought.

It was a l-o-n-g four days until the announcement was made public last night.  In fact, I was beginning to wonder if A.) I had hallucinated the entire phone call or B.) Someone had been playing an elaborate joke on me.  But, no--my name (or Lorna's) really was on the list of nominees (Second, in fact!  We'll just pretend it's NOT in alphabetical order, eh?)

But whoa again--take a look at the nominees on that short list for Best Novel.  How could anyone NOT be thrilled to have their work among these names:

Swan for the Money, Donna Andrews, St. Martin’s Minotaur
Bookplate Special, Lorna Barrett, Berkley Prime Crime
Royal Flush, Rhys Bowen, Berkley Prime Crime
A Brutal Telling, Louise Penny, Minotaur Books
Air Time, Hank Phillippi Ryan, MIRA

Bookmarked for Death was actually eligible for nomination, as well, but I'm really proud that Bookplate Special got it.  I love that little story (and LOVE the cover, too).  And while the competition is so stiff there isn't a chance in H-E Double Hockey Sticks it can win, it's going to be a fun ride until they announce the winner on May 1st.

My thanks to everyone who nominated my book.  It's a terrific honor!

Bland up my kitchen?

My leftovers don't go bad as fast as they used to.  Why?  Because my 16-year-old fridge likes to pretend it's a freezer, and we all know frozen food has a much longer shelf life.  But when you go to pour yourself a glass of milk and get only shards of ice . . . it's time for a new fridge.

We've been waiting for February because NY is offering a Energy Star rebate.  Replace an old appliance and get back cold hard cash.  Truly, this fridge is sucking up energy like crazy.  The gasket has come away from the door and there's a BIG gap.  The fridge runs overtime, and -- you have a big electricity bill and frozen milk. (And frozen leftover potatoes, salad, celery, onions, and on and on . . . .)

I watch SPICE UP MY KITCHEN on HGTV on a regular basis, and in all the renovations not ONE consumer has ever bought a fridge that wasn't stainless steel.  (They also buy stainlesss microwaves, dishwashers, and stoves, usually with at least 6 burners and a grill.  How much energy do THEY save?)  Ever seen the inside of an autopsy room?  Okay, maybe not in person, but on TV?  What do the meat lockers look like?  Stainless steel.

No, thanks.  Not in my kitchen.

Of course, the options for anything but stainless are pretty slim.  In fact, there were only four "bisque" (used to be called "almond") fridges on the sales floor.  (They also had one white and one black one, too.)  Since everything else in my kitchen is bisque (except the microwave, it's white.  They didn't have any bisque ones), that's what I went for.  Wow--fridges have gone up in price in the last 16 years.  But a bisque fridge costs at least $400 less than a stainless steel one, and as we're recycling the old fridge, we're going to get a total of $105 bucks back.  It's still a bite for someone who gets paid twice a year (April is a l-o-n-g way away), but it's time.  Still, for all the price, there aren't a lot of bells and whistles.  (No ice maker.)

The best thing is the door will whole gallon containers.  I don't have to buy my milk in a half gallon jug anymore.  (Yup, I drink a gallon of it a week!)  And this fridge is 4 square feet larger than our last one.  Plenty of room for all those half jars of of jam, pickles, mustard, and chutneys.

I was in and out of the appliance (I bought locally--yea me!) in less than an hour.  (It would have been shorter, but I had to wait while my mother bought an Energy Star washer and dryer.)  Now to wait for delivery.  It's going to be ten days.  Why?  Because just about everybody else in the area was waiting for the Energy Star rebate.

What was the last major appliance you bought?

Haunted by MSDS

If you've ever read my bio, you know it says (and rather cheerfully):  "She's done it all, from drilling holes for NASA to typing scripts in Hollywood."

Yes, I did type scripts, but technically I was in West L.A., not Hollywood.  And I did drill and tap holes for NASA, but it was in a stinky, dirty, horrible little machine shop where the men leered at every one of the woman and spoke to us in sexist terms that today would be the basis of a lawsuit.  Everyone swore worse than sailors, using the F word as nouns, verbs, and adjectives (and often three or five times in each sentence).

For years, every time I'd get stressed out, I'd dream I was back in that hell hole with aluminum chips in my hair and cursing the day I ever entered the New York State Unemployment system that sent me to that grubby machine shop.  At the time, I was living with my parents and was dead broke, so I took that production job and stayed with it for 18 long months. 

I often worked on a Cincinnati milling machine where I'd have a full two minutes and forty-nine seconds between parts and could write.  I kept a little notebook in my green apron pocket and scribbled notes, snatches of dialog, and often entire scenes.  I wrote quite a few short stories and most of a novella during my tenure.  I quit that job to take one as a secretary at a large local college.  Eleven months later, I quit that to head for California and the movie studio. 

What's all this got to do with stress?

For years afterward, whenever I felt totally stressed out, I'd fall asleep and dream I was back in the dirty machine shop, tapping holes on a drill press.

As time went by, the dreams came less and less, and then stopped all together ...

Replaced by my LAST day job.  I worked for a former Fortune 500 company as a clerical worker for almost 26 years.  Now when I'm stressed, I end up in my last office, working on MSDS.  (Material Safety Data Sheets.)  Mind you, I didn't mind the actual work.  What I minded was one or two particularly nasty (two-faced) people who mentally abused the majority of us in one way or another. 

In my dreams, I've been working on MSDS a lot lately.  I'm mired in stacks of them (we're talking up to a foot high--which was actually what the shelf across from my desk often held).  Is this an 8-part MSDS or a 16-part MSDS?  Where's the specific gravity?  I'll page through the documents over and over again, searching for a certain piece of information that is never there.

Why was/am I stressed?  Because stuff keep happening that keeps me from writing.  The book is about a third finished and I'm falling behind.  I need a few stress-free days to catch up.

Oddly, during the most stressful part of my recent life (when my Dad was in the hospital/nursing home), I was able to write straight through it.  writing was my respite.  Even when my Dad was dying, he'd ask, "did you get your words today?"  Work was therapy.  Work got me through it.  Now . . . stupid stuff keeps interfering. 

Are you ever haunted by dreams of a past job?

No More Mail for YOU!

The other night I couldn't sleep, so I dragged my sorry butt into my office at 2:42 a.m. to check my e-mail.  I logged on to find a messages from AOL:

You have hit 1,000 messages in your in box.

Naughty, wicked, YOU!

We will now bounce EVERYTHING that comes into your in box.

(EVIL AOL.)

I quickly started deleting messages.  But the thing is--I've saved almost 900 of these messages for a pretty good reason.  Or, at least it seemed like it at the time.  Okay, so a couple of them go back to May 2009.  I keep stuff I think I might need.  Or that I might want to revisit.  Stuff like the many kind notes I received when my Dad died in October.  Fan letters.  Invoices.  Backed-up files.

But some of these notes can't be filed because they're still pending, like a note from my agent two weeks ago on something she's trying to negotiate with my publisher.  Or a web site a colleague has told me I really need to check out/join.  (I just haven't had time to do so.)

There are several lists I follow where I get the individual messages instead of the digest.  (Hi Guppies, Cozy Authors, Cozy Armchair pals and Cozy Chicks!)  I estimate that to go through all my messages and file them, I'd need 6-8 hours to do so.  As it is, I spend up to four hours a day going through my email and answering fan mail, taking care of bookmark/bookplate request, and commenting on other posts.

My god, it's waaaaay too easy to put myself in Leonardo DiCaprio's place as Jack at the nose of the Titanic and think:  I AM THE KING OF THE WORLD...and we all know what happened to HIM!

Something has GOT to go.  And I'm seriously thinking of going digest on at least one of my lists.  Of course, I rarely "play" on the lists where I get messages as digest., but something's gotta give.

Have you ever had the same problem?

I knew there were still Edgar Allan Poe stamps available!!!

I sent out a LOT of mail.  That means many trips to the Post Office, or at least it did.  I recently discovered the joy of ordering online.  I tried downloading software to print my own postage, but that didn't work and I just gave up and ordered stamps.  I ordered a LOT of stamps.  It annoyed me that they charged me a buck surcharge, but I figured it was actually worth it because I would've made more than a dollar's worth of trips to the P.O. for all the postage I bought. 

I don't like boring stamps.  I mean, the forever stamp has got to be one of THE most boring stamps every printed.  (Okay, I'm pretty sick of the generic flag ones, too.  Even the 50-coil 44-cent flags of the US only have 14 states and the US flag interspersed.  BORING.)

I like interesting stamps.  For a while there, I was buying tropical fish stamps, but lovely as they were, there were only 10 to a sheet, and it was kinda hard to find the fish among all the sea weed and stuff.  And it turns out that our little P.O. just doesn't have the variety that's out there.  Shopping online I found 17-cent goat stamps.  How cool is that.  (Okay, I have this thing about goats.  Hubby and I look for our goat of the day, on TV, in books, online, and especially when driving around in the car.)  What the heck.  I bought a page of them. [UPDATE:  Okay, it turns out that's not a goat, it's a sheep.  Can you tell I was not brought up on a farm?]

Last year, I bought a LOT of Edgar Allan Poe stamps.  I mean, how cool is that for a mystery author to put a stamp (and it's a very nice stamp, too) of the father of the modern mystery on every single letter.  I was very disappointed when our local Post Master told me there were no more Poe stamps to be had.  Gone.  Everywhere.  Ah, not so I discovered online.  They're there for the asking.  So I bought three sheets.  And I wondered if maybe I should have bought more.  Okay, they're 42 cents and I have to use a 2-cent stamp along with it, but still, I'm back to being cool when I mail out bookmarks.

But it seems to me that compared to other countries, we have some pretty boring stamps.  I love it at Christmastime when I get cards from my relatives overseas and can see the beautiful stamps their country has issued.  The non-religious X-mas stamps this year looked ... well, like a high school art project.

As a kid, I collected stamps and I was more aware of the wonderful stamps from other countries.  Canada has always had lovely stamps.  And they issue them on on a variety of wonderful subjects.  The Internet is a wonderful place to find all kinds of oddball stuff and I came across these wonderful cat stamps from Sweden.  Now, why can't we have cool stamps like that?  (Okay, I might be biased because I have black cats.)

Have you ever had a favorite stamp?  (Elvis counts!)

What's with the stinky magazine inserts?

By Guest Blogger Sandra Parshall vents on today's Pet Peeve Thursday

All I wanted to do was read a magazine article about the movie Nine. But the magazine was Vogue, and I could smell it from twenty feet away. If I ventured closer, my eyes would tear up and I would start sneezing. If I opened it, I ran the risk of asphyxiation by perfume.

Vogue probably has more perfume advertising inserts than any other magazine on the planet. You know what I mean – those glued-down flaps you’re supposed to pull open to experience the rapture of the scent. Trouble is, you can smell the perfume long before you open the flap, and when a magazine has half a dozen inserts in one issue, the rapture-inducing scents combine to form one unholy stench. I can almost see the fumes rising from the pages.

Why do advertisers think this is a good way to introduce potential customers to a particular perfume? It isn’t, but that’s their problem. Our problem – I speak for those of us who are sensitive to chemical odors – is how to make use of a magazine that sets off a massive allergic reaction. I once knew a woman who tore out all the inserts, threw them in the trash – outdoors – then left magazines lying open in the garage for a week to air out before she even tried to read them. I could do  that, but I don’t want to throw paper in the trash. It belongs in the paper recycling bin. The bin, however, is in the basement, and I know the whole house will reek of perfume if I ditch the inserts anywhere indoors. Paper is biodegradable, but ink isn’t, so I can’t bury the things in the garden (although the stench might get rid of the mole that’s been tunneling under my daylilies).

As you might guess, I pass up a lot of magazines because I can’t stand the way they smell. I know some people love those perfume inserts, though. I read in the “Hints from Heloise” column that they make dandy “fresheners” for linen closets and underwear drawers. From the amount of perfume that assaults my respiratory system every time I’m in a crowd, I have to assume the  majority of women douse themselves with fragrances. Men also contribute to air pollution, although to a lesser degree – do guys who overdo the cologne and aftershave think they smell sexy? – and male-oriented magazines probably have their share of stinky inserts.

I know from experience that women who wear perfume don’t like the suggestion that they refrain when they’re going to be in a closed, crowded space such as a theater. Perfume companies, I’m sure, wouldn’t appreciate the suggestion that they stop placing inserts in magazines. So I will continue to steer clear of magazines that reek, even if they contain something I want to read. I have come to expect a headache and runny nose every time I see a movie or stage performance or go anywhere a lot of people congregate.

These problems are just the tip of the fragrance iceberg, though. I haven’t even mentioned perfumed soap, shampoo, detergent, cat litter, furniture polish, glass cleaner....

And what's bugging YOU today?
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Sandra Parshall is the Agatha Award-winning author of the Rachel Goddard Mystery series. Her current book, BROKEN PLACES, is hot off the press.  For more information on Sandra and her books, please check out her website.  Sandra is also a regular at the Poe's Deadly Daughters blog.

In the bleak mid-winter . . .

My blog posts would a lot more interesting and fun if I actually led an interesting and fun life.  It's hard to have much fun when you're squirreled away for a very L-O-N-G, D-A-R-K winter in Western New York.  There's a lot to do around here if you don't mind getting frostbite on some appendage (skiing, skating, sledding, etc.), but us writer types tend to hole up in our garrets and write.  So instead of actually living an interesting and fun life, I'm writing about somebody else's interesting and (possibly) fun life (and/or lives).

Of course, I don't actually have a garret--one of the problems of living in a one-story home, but when I get up in the morning, it's usually 59 degrees in my office (and takes approximately 6 hours for my little heater to pull it up to 70 at eye level--I have no hope of warm feet until July), and I pretend I'm Sarah Crewe as I pull my shawl (or in this case, a sweater or two) a little tighter around me and make believe it's summer in New Hampshire, where my characters are running around in short sleeves and admiring the geraniums.  (How's that for one helluva run-on sentence?)

The book was just starting to really MOVE, and then came to a screeching halt as I had to put it aside for the copy edit of the last book.  I hate copy edits.  I never get the same copy editor twice.  I don't like to make waves, so I accept a lot of the crap they toss at me.  This one wants a comma after "she said, and" -- the last one didn't.  But this one is also tossing in all kinds of exclamation points where they aren't needed and look how she changed one particular sentence:

My version:  "I must admit, I had the same idea," Tricia said.

Her version:  "I must admit, I had the same Idea, Tricia admitted.

ARRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!

(There's a reason authors need high-blood pressure medication during copy edits.)

Okay, end of rant for today.  I'm off now ... to do something interesting and fun.  Like laundry.

What are you doing today?

A Dish To Pass

I collect Syracuse China Americana dishware.  It all started when I visited a bed and breakfast in Stowe, Vermont.  They served their magnificent breakfasts on that dishware.  When I saw a piece at a yard sale, I decided then and there that I would like to use the same dishware at my family's summer cottage--a place I've come to call B&B Cottage.

Ah, but finding pieces of this restaurant (think diner) quality china has not been so easy.  In the past 10 or 12 years I've managed to find:

2 dinner plates
14 cake (or sandwich) plates
6 cups and saucers
4 soup cups
1 salad bowl
3 relish dishes
1 coffee mug
2 roll plates
and an assortment of odd-sized plates.

I traveled to the Syracuse China outlet store on a number of occasions, but in all my searches I only found one piece (the salad bowl).  I was told it was no longer a popular pattern and had a limited run.  Since then, of course, the company has folded.  So now my only option is to buy used pieces. 

I bought most of my pieces at yard sales, antique stores, and thrift shops.  I have yet to really look online--mostly because restaurant china is so darned heavy the shipping charges would be out of this world.  (Okay, I did peek on Replacements Inc. (which sells odd pieces of china) and would be a
good source--if I wanted to pay astronomical prices.  That's not my goal.)

I have other dishware (Stoneware--that chips like crazy), but because I so enjoyed my time at that Vermont inn, I long to eat off the same tableware at my own B&B Cottage.  I wonder how long it will take to find/accumulate all these place settings.
Is there something you collect that seems like an impossible dream to find?

Dear Susan Branch

I'm not one to fall for celebrity.  Back in my 20s, I was secretary to a woman who was married to the biggest newscaster in town.  I worked for her for six months before I decided that "Cal-if-or-nia was the place I wanna be" and on my last day the big cheese asked me (after speaking to me every work day for those six months) if I was "the new secretary."

Then I worked for 20th Century Fox for almost six months.  During that time I got to see and meet a LOT of celebrities and downright TV and Movie Stars.  (Including Alan Alda, David Ogden Stiers, Harry Morgan, and even Sigourney Weaver.)  But after my brush with Mr. Newscaster, I was no longer impressed with celebrity.  Which made it a lot easier for me to leave that job and come back home to Western New York.

In my time as a published author, I've met quite a few big-name authors at mystery conferences.  Believe me, I haven't gone out of my way to meet them, either.  I'm always afraid that people whose work I've admired might end up being like Mr. (now fallen from grace) Newscaster (who doesn't even come up with a Google search).  (Take that, Mr. Arrogant Has-Been!)

So why have I been so tickled to make the virtual acquaintance of author Susan Branch on Twitter? 

I've have LONG admired Susan's watercolor-illustrated cookbooks.  The first of her books I received was Christmas from the Heart of the Home (which is now out of print.  Oh, that STUPID publisher. How could it ever deprive the world of the best Christmas cookbook (with lots of extras) that (wo)man kind has ever known? ).

When I first saw that Susan was on Twitter, I was quick to follow her.  But how thrilled I was when I retweeted one of her posts and she thanked me for it.  Me.  Right here.  In backwoods old Western New York!

Since then, we have corresponded maybe six or seven times.  The other day, I commented on one of her Tweets and we went back and forth three times.  Wow!  How wonderful it is to "talk" with someone you've long admired and she was just as nice as I'd always imagined.  (And even more cool--that we'd recently both reread a favorite book.)

I have no illusions that Susan and I will ever be friends.  But I love to hear about what she's working on.  (Like when she posted about finishing her 2011 calendar.)  And I love just about everything she draws and writes.  It it just so cool to have had the opportunity to let her know how much I admire her work. 

Have you "met" anyone online (or in person) who you were really impressed with?

No Super Bowl For Me

It rankles me that the NFL has trademarked the words "Super Bowl" and that no commercial use of those two words can be made without paying a licensing fee.

So, for the past few years, even the little convenience market down the street has had to call the (usually not so) Super Bowl--THE BIG GAME.  Wouldn't you just like to slap upside the head of the idiot corporate lawyer who came up with that gem?

Of course, I haven't (wasted my time and) watched the Super Bowl since the last time the Buffalo Bills (home team of all Western New York) played.  But I'm not sure I'd watch "THE BIG GAME" even if a miracle occurred and the Bills actually made it there again.  (It would have to be a really BIG miracle with the coaching staff they've had these past few years.  And the I-can't-be-bothered-to-give-a-crap players, either.  Oh, how we miss you Jim Kelly.)

But come on--THE BIG GAME?

Give me a break.

The thing I DO regret missing out on is the Super Bowl (oops, THE BIG GAME) junk food.


 In years past, BIG GAME watching included pizza, Buffalo wings, and rye boat.  Oh, how I love rye boat.  (Made with Wegmans caraway seeded rye bread.)  This year, we have no intention of watching THE BIG GAME.  We'll probably watch an episode of Midsomer Mysteries (that I received on DVD for Christmas).  So, no rye boat.  But, I've got making it on my agenda for March 5 or 6th, after hubby has his knee replacement surgery.  On the day he comes home from the hospital, we'll have a lot to celebrate.  What better way than with fattening dip and lovely rye bread?

Rye Boat
1 1/3 cup sour cream
1 1/3 cup mayonnaise
2 tablespoons dried onion
2 tablespoons dried parsley
2 tablespoons dill weed
6 ounces dried beef, chopped
2 loaves round rye (or pumpernickel) bread

Slice off the top of one loaf rye bread, and scoop out the middle, leaving a thin shell. Cut up scooped out bread and that of second loaf into one-inch squares.

For dip, combine all ingredients and mound it in the center of the hollowed out loaf.  Dip bread.  Eat.  Enjoy!

My Wish For Fish Come True?

If there's one thing I've given up ordering in restaurants, it's soup.  Why?  Too salty.  But for the last year or so, I've been making soup like crazy.

I am not a huge fish fan.  I like cod and haddock, and that's about it.  (Although I've heard raves about deep sea bass.  I'm just too cheap to order anything "market value" in a restaurant.)  But several years ago, on a trip to Maine, I got brave and ordered fish chowder.  It was DE-LISH! 

I've been thinking about that fish chowder for a l-o-n-g time.  The last time we had lobster, I kept the skeletons (what other word is there for it?) and boiled them up to made lobster broth, and then I froze it.  Now every time I see that container of broth, I feel like i ought to make the fish chowder.  The problem?

I can't find a fish chowder recipe I like.

The chowder I had in Maine was not milk-based, but every recipe I've found in books or online is.  I suppose I could just make a milk-potato-fish chowder and would probably enjoy it.  But what I guess I'm leading to is this:

Does anyone have a good fish chowder recipe?

Lunch Break!

Too often these days, my working day (where I actually sit down to write) starts about 12:39 pm -- after lunch. To me, lunch is the best time of the day. It's always filled with possibilities. Will it be leftovers? Sandwiches? Aloo Matar (curried peas and potatoes) with naan? Still, I think I love to have a sandwich best.

For years, I had lunch with my Mom and Dad on Tuesdays. The menu was the same for a long time. Dad's egg-salad sandwiches. Nobody on Earth made egg salad like my Dad, with just the right amount of mayonnaise and chopped green olives. Yum!

I like crunchy stuff in my sandwiches. That was also because of my Dad. I'd come for lunch on a Tuesday and there wasn't much in the fridge. We used to joke that he could make half a dozen chicken salad sandwiches out of one wing and an onion and celery. Yup, the meat to crunchy ratio was pretty low, but I got to like them that way, and now when I eat out, I try to order extra onions because they NEVER put enough in the chicken or tuna salad.

Lately, we've been eating ham sandwiches on rye bread. Or rather, I have. My husband buys a ton of cold cuts--ham, cheese, salami, hot capicol, and mortadella--then only eats the mortadella. I don't like to waste food, so guess who eats the rest of it? But I've got to have crunchies in my sandwich--and here's where the green leaf lettuce comes on. I like it. A LOT of it. In fact, Frank says, "Have some ham with that lettuce sandwich," but I think it tastes just fine.

What's your favorite lunch?

A seat at the table

In the olden days, the kitchen was the heart of the home.  They cooked there, the fires kept the room warm, it was the central gathering place.

My kitchen is NOT the heart of my home.  It's this little square room that's kind of an afterthought.  When we bought the house, we were so enamored with everything else about it, we didn't notice the kitchen until we started moving furniture and--HELLO!--where are we going to put the kitchen table?  The kitchen was so small, there isn't even room for a tiny bistro table.  So, we've eaten every one of our meals in the rather cramped dining room.  (The original owner added a 4-foot bump-out on the south side of the room, otherwise, we'd be sitting in each others laps for meals.)

The dining room set is mission style, with two Captain's chairs and four regular.  I sit on a regular chair facing west; hubby sits on a Captain's chair facing south.  These chairs are HEAVY, and I'm just as glad I don't have to sit at the Captain's chair.  When we eat lunch, my cat Fred will often sit on the arm of Frank's chair.  He knows he isn't going to get anything to eat, he just likes to watch.

But I do sit on the other Captain's chair when I write.  For the last two years, I haven't been able to write in my office.  It's became a different kind of workplace where I send out correspondence, take care of e-mail, and do everything related to my writing career--except write.  Go figure.

In the summer, I love writing in the dining room because nature is so close. Being surrounded on three sides by windows, I can see a part of the garden, the birds are flying around, and there are flowers to be seen.  In the winter, I can check the winter while I freeze my tootsies off. (They're great windows (no drafts), but all that glass makes it hard for the furnace to keep up.) 

Bottom line:  I get a lot of writing done there.  And I should quite writing this and go fire up the laptop right now.  I've got a book to finish.

How about you?  Got any rooms you don't use for their intended purpose?

The Magical Little Beige Pad of Paper

Back in December, I had a wonderful signing at The Book Shoppe in Medina, NY.  (You can read about it here.)  While there, I wanted to take some notes for a future story, and the owner, Sue Phillips, gave me a little beige pad of paper with THE BOOK SHOPPE on the top, with address and phone number, and the things they sell on the bottom.  At the end of the signing, I tried to give the pad back, but Sue insisted I take it.

Well, am I ever glad I did!  That little pad has been a terrific source of ideas.  Okay, maybe IT didn't have the ideas, I did.  Why is it every time I go to write down and idea for a blog or the new book on that little pad, suddenly I have many, MANY ideas?  We're talking scribbling over every square inch of paper, turning it over, and scribbling there, and then--maybe even ripping off another piece to keep the flow of ideas going.

Of course, now I realize that I can't keep ripping off another piece so cavalierly.  I mean, there's only so many pieces of paper in this little pad.  What happens when they're all gone?  Will my ideas suddenly dry up, too?

Gad.  I might have to take a trip to Medina and beg Sue for another pad as it seems to be my new lucky charm. 

What do you have that brings you luck?

Retailers discover startling fact: not all women are size 6 or smaller!

Last week in the USA Today's Money Section, they featured an article about plus-size women's clothing.  It seems retailers have JUST DISCOVERED that plus-size woman want to buy clothes that, get this, ACTUALLY FIT and might even be somewhat stylish! 

Talk about a Homer Simpson "Doh!" moment.  Here fashion designers and retailers have been trying to lure skinny Minnie's into buying clothes when most of the country is --- SURPRISE -- overweight.  In this time of recession, when nobody is buying much of anything, retailers have decided they might as well try to sell clothes to overweight people.

Then there's something that's just as annoying to me as a consumer.  I'm sure you've all seen this Lee Rider Jeans ad in various magazines.  Why does a woman without an ounce of fat in her body need tummy control jeans?  And there's the equally skinny designer looking smug.  Wow--that's something to be proud of.  Making some skinny broad look -- well, the same.  Come on, Stacy London, why don't you design something that will make, say, the size 12-18 crowd look halfway decent?

All I can say is:  Grrrrrrrrrrrrr!

How about you?
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UPDATE: I've been contacted by Lee Jeans.  They offered to send me (and of course I accepted) a pair of the tummy-tuckers.  I'll let you know when they arrive and how they fit.

Pet Peeve Thursday--Don't Call Me Mr. MOM!

By Guest Blogger Jeffrey Cohen


It's been more than twenty years, and I still hear it every once in a while: "You still playin' Mr. Mom?"

Man, that burns me.

When my wife and I were first married, I swear, the issue of child rearing never really came up. Before you have kids, you can't imagine what it's like, to have kids. Not really. So we just bounced along and let nature take its course. Which it did. And two years after we were married, we introduced the world to our son Josh. Three years after that, we came back for seconds, and launched the good ship Eve.

Even then, it was never a question about how things would proceed. I was (and remain to this day) a freelance writer, at that point a mere thirteen years from publishing my first mystery novel. I worked--and still work, six days a week) out of our home. And I earn about as much as the average fast food employee, assuming the tips aren't all that good. My wife, on the other hand, is an attorney working for the government (first state, now county), and does somewhat better. Thank goodness.

I did not raise those children. WE raised those children. The fact is, you raise children until they're about eight or nine, and after that, you just help them raise themselves. But the fact remains that I was the parent who was home most of the time when they came home from day care (hell yes they were in day care--I had to work during the day, and those of you who do both: you're a better man than I am) and then school, and then middle school, and then high school.

Today, they have a collective age of 37. Come September, they'll both be living in college dormitories, assuming we can find a pile of money stuck in the couch. And I'm still hearing from people, casual acquaintances, who want to know when I'm going to stop "playing Mr. Mom" and get a REAL job.
Give me a break.

Those of us who were the "main caregiver" during the early years--and all that means is that we were home, not that we worked harder or less hard--are assumed to have it easy. We play with the kids and play at our jobs, and have the best of both worlds, right? Quality time with the children AND a (nominal, in my case) salary? Who wouldn't sign up for that?

All I can say is: Try it sometime. Conduct newspaper interviews with a screaming baby in the room. Postpone other interviews because you have to take your child to the pediatrician unexpectedly. Try to explain to your five-year-old daughter why Daddy can't make her kindergarten graduation because he has a chance to make $500 that day. Go ahead.

THEN you can tell me what I did all those years was "playing."

By the way, we did a damn good job raising those kids, too. I'm thrilled with both of them. They're good people and good company. I love my children, but you know what? I LIKE them, too. I'd rather spend time with them than with the vast majority of adults I know. THAT was a job well done.

And maybe the pay wasn't so bad, after all.


And what's bugging YOU today?
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Jeffrey Cohen is the author of the Double Feature Mystery series, including the current A NIGHT AT THE OPERATION. If you want his kids to go to college, you might want to buy his books.  Check out his web site.  Jeff also blogs on Monday on Hey There's A Dead Guy In The Living Room.

My New Cover and BIG NEWS!

I've been bugging my editor for weeks now to show me the cover.  Yea--he did.  But then they couldn't decide if they wanted the title to have an AND or an ampersand.

The ampersand won!  And here's the cover.  (What do you think?)

But I have even MORE news.  (Sounds like one of those informercials.  But wait, order now and....)  I'm very pleased to announce that the Booktown Mysteries will soon (relatively speaking) be available as audiobooks (and downloadable).  The recording for the first book, MURDER IS BINDING, was to have begun last week.

It was very exciting to talk to the production manager at Deyan Audio about certain pronunciations.  (Who knew Squamscot soda pop was actually pronounced Squamskit?  And if you're in New Hampshire, why don't you try some of the local soda.  It's de-lish!) He also said I'd be hearing from him about other questions they have as they get read to record the other books.

And I already know who my reader will be: the lovely (and lovely voiced) Cassandra Campbell.  I've heard a sample of her work, and I think she'll do a great job performing the books.

I know I can't wait to hop in my car and spend lots of gas money listening to the book on CDs. 

Do you like to listen to audiobooks?

Where Have All My Classmates Gone?

For months now, I've been bombarded with messages from an Internet site telling me that former classmates are just dying to get in touch with me.  And for a low, low price of only $9.99 they will reveal just who it is that wants to contact me.

I almost fell for it before a friend told me she'd fallen for it.  And then she found it extremely difficult to get out from under them and stop them billing her credit card.  Another acquaintance said she'd gotten a computer virus trying to download a message from a classmate.

Smart move not to get tucked up with that lot.

And just why DO I want to get in contact with these old school chums.  The people who looked at me and rolled their eyes.  Yes, I was a geek, who walked around reading and writing Star Trek stories (even though the show had been canceled before I entered high school.  Ha!  Little did they know the franchise would be resurrected and live a long and happy life in syndication and on the big screen.  But I digress).

I had hair down to my backside that I usually wore in braids or a ponytail.  I dressed in sweatshirts, jeans, and baggy wool (Pendleton) shirts (Hey, I was cold!), love beads and sneakers.  I was no fashion plate.  I spent most of my spare time in the library reading biographies.  (They had four of Edgar Allen Poe--is it any surprise I became a mystery author?)

In all these years, I never went to a class reunion.  I never was invited, so I never knew when they were.  So why this burning desire to suddenly get in contact with people who had no time for me back in the day?
I met one of my classmates at a signing just before Christmas. She remembered me.  She bought two of my books.  She was very nice.  I don't suppose we exchanged more than a few sentences in the four years we were at Greece Olympia High School, but it was such a pleasant encounter, I suddenly wondered if more of my classmates had mellowed with age and might be more accepting of the geeky girl.

High school was not a fun time--at least for me.  I'd like to think that we all came away and became better people with happier lives.  It would be nice to know if that were true.

Have you kept up with your high school classmates?