Sex Sells (but that doesn’t mean I’m going to write about it)

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To start, more spoilers: Alison and Crawford do have a relationship that involves sex. I just don’t think about it—or write about it very much. I have had some interesting feedback from interesting sources (that means you, MOM) about why my books are so chaste. About why I don’t include explicit sex. About why, in “Murder 101,” after only meeting a few days earlier, Alison and Crawford didn’t jump into bed thereby acknowledging and putting a name to their lust.

The answer’s simple: I grew up Catholic and I have to live in this world.

Let me explain. Point #1: Catholicism. I, like Marian, had a very religious upbringing but of the Catholic variety. There were nuns, priests, virgins, guilt, more guilt, and CYO basketball. That’s it. Nothing else. When we weren’t going to church, or trying to make up sins to confess at the tender age of eight lest the priest get the impression that we thought we were perfect (god forbid), or playing basketball, we were thinking about one of those things. Because to think about anything else—including and mostly SEX—was a mortal sin. And we all know what you got from that: a big, black blemish on your soul. That was your first-class, one-way ticket to HELL. I’m sure that there are many people out there who grew up in a similar fashion who have led productive lives and written erotica even but the message that was given to me—“Virgins RULE!” (one that I have now embraced given that I have a teenage daughter)—was taken to heart. I have matured somewhat since that time, but the idea of writing about what goes on in one’s bedroom—even if the “one” is a fictional character—is anathema to me.

Point #2: living in this world. I have two children—one not even a “tween” and one a full-fledged teen—and a husband. I live in a very small town which is, technically, not even a town—it’s a village. The ‘town’ is where we go to do the really exciting stuff. I shop locally, worship just an eighth of a mile from my house, am a member of the PTA, and try to lead a relatively upstanding life. Could you imagine the looks I might get if I walked into the local gift shop, half of the town having just read something I had written that included the words “throbbing member” (and I’m not talking about those of us who get worked up at Booster Club meetings) and trying to purchase a hostess gift? I can’t.

After the publication of my first novel I ventured down to the local ball field to watch my husband play softball. His teammates consist of a bunch of mostly forty-something dads, all of whom I know. One of them—we’ll call him “Bob” because that’s his real name—asked me why Alison and Crawford hadn’t consummated their relationship at the end of “Murder 101.” At this point in time, I was hard at work on “Extracurricular Activities” and nearing the point where my two main characters might have to steam things up a bit.

“I have trouble writing sex scenes,” I said, rather bravely I thought.

He thought for a moment. “We could help you!” he said, motioning toward the rag-tag group of softball players, some practically in traction after playing the first inning. I had a hard time envisioning any of these hurting puppies in flagrante delicto, never mind just making it to their cars to drive home. “We could write them for you!”

A couple of the other dads looked in his direction. One mentioned that with his dislocated finger, he wouldn’t be able to pick up a pencil or type on a keyboard. Another mentioned that his leg hurt so much that the only thing he’d be doing would be begging his wife to rub Ben-Gay on it. Another mentioned that after that night’s game, he was retiring from softball entirely. (They have a hard time staying ‘on topic.’ Especially when balls are flying around. Baseballs, that is.)

One of the other teammates finally spoke up with some helpful information. “Yeah, we could help her. She’d then have some of the shortest sex scenes known to literature in her book.” He looked at me, an eyebrow raised pointedly. I immediately regretted that I had entered into the conversation and felt sorry for his wife.

I gave it my best shot. I really did. But I kept thinking that the readership of the novels I and my fellow “Stilettos” are writing aren’t buying them for sheet burning, hang from the chandeliers sex. (Please tell me I’m right.)

My dear friend, Annie, mathematician and preschool teacher extraordinaire, has kindly read every one of my manuscripts before I ship them off to my editor. She could see where things were going—Alison and Crawford were getting hot and heavy and the inevitable was to occur. Her husband, raised in a more “open” environment, kept encouraging me to let loose and write some torrid sex scenes. I did my best, but my best kept ending up with Alison and Crawford having case after case of coitus interruptus. I couldn’t see the job through. I asked Annie if she was disappointed, having just read my second manuscript.

She looked at me, relief crossing her face. “Not at all. I didn’t know how I was going to look at you if you had written some explicit sex scenes. I just don’t want to know you like that.”

And hopefully, dear readers, you don’t either.

Book Launch

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My book launch for Smell of Death was Saturday. I live in California but during the winter you never know what the weather might be like. We’ve had plenty of sunny days since the beginning of the year, but this wasn’t one of them.

That was the first of the problems. Three storms in a row rolled in since Wednesday, with Saturday’s forecasted as the “biggie.” The weather wasn’t the only problem.

My major publicity was in our local weekly newspaper which comes out on Thursday–mine didn’t show up in my mailbox until Saturday morning. I have no idea if the rest of the deliveries were as late.

First we stopped at our local coffee and sandwich ship, Coffee Etc., where the owner had graciously agreed to bake cookies for the event. (I don’t bake anymore–it’s one of the things I’ve given up in my old age, like ironing.) Wow! She’d made a tray of the most beautiful cookies–two kinds–lemon (tasted like eating lemonade) and chocolate chip with raspberry drizzled over the top. Also yummy.

We took them and my books, table, etc. to the Visitor’s Center. We also manned the Visitor’s Center for the afternoon. Which is fun, because people stop by to find out if they can get to the giant Sequoias from here. You can, but yesterday you couldn’t get far without chains because along with the rain came lots of snow at the higher elevations.

The launch was scheduled for one, so we had plenty of time to set up. We also visited with the editor of the local paper who had the morning shift for the Visitor’s Center. She ended up staying through most of the afternoon because interesting people stopped by–not necessarily to buy books.

However, six of my fans displayed their loyalty by coming despite the foul weather and bought books. (I’ve done worse at book store signings.) While we were there we met a lovely woman from Oklahoma and her sister who had recently recovered from brain surgery. The gal from Oklahoma lived in Moscow, Russia, for a year and told some fascinating stories.

One of my granddaughter’s highschool teachers and a friend stopped in and the teacher assured me Jessica’s boyfriend was wonderful. (We already knew that.)

One of my fans who always buys any new book I’ve written dashed in for a minute and stayed for a half hour as she brought me up to date on General Hospital (the soap).

All-in-all, we had a good time, sold a few books, and ate lots of delicious cookies.

Marilyn
http://www.fictionforyou.com/

Let’s Talk About Sex

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Charlaine Harris, who writes the hysterical Southern vampire mystery series, swears that her books took off once she started putting sex into them.

Oy! I went to an Orthodox Jewish Day School through sixth grade (substitute Rabbis for nuns, keep the rules, and you get the picture). Try as I might to construct a love scene that involves nudity, I’m convinced that I will get struck by a lightning bolt at the first sign of heavy breathing.

Hey, I like sex – but even writing that sentence has me checking to see if Rabbi D is clucking over my lost soul.

Here’s the problem. My characters are two middle-aged adults who have been around the block a few times. At some point (should it be in Book 2? Hold out for Book 3?), they’re going to go steady, get lavaliered, maybe even get pinned, or the 40-something equivalent. In any case, there’s a point in an adult relationship that would suggest that somebody is getting some. So practically speaking, sex needs to be part of the Mac Sullivan-Rachel Brenner equation. Plus, circling back to Charlaine Harris, sex sells. What to do?

When I first started writing fiction, I described a love scene to my husband. I could see him trying to figure out how to phrase the question. Despite years of marriage and four kids, he thought he knew me, but perhaps, there was still a surprise to be had. Finally, he decided the direct approach was best. “Are you writing smut?” “No,” I answered indignantly. “I subcontracted it out.”

I suppose we could just have constant “fade to black” moments in our books, much like the Doris Day movies of the 1950s. It was a time when Hollywood was still peddling the idea that a “good” 30-something woman (Virginal Doris was 35 in Pillow Talk) would wait for a diamond on her left hand before any kiss would be permitted. Forget about any tongue involvement in those encounters. Kisses that ended up with the heroine actually sleeping with the hero, after the obligatory “fade to black,” still were not much more than a peck on the lips. Even I could have written those “sex scenes.”

We haven’t put it in the acknowledgements, but the Southern half of Evelyn David has agreed to write all steamy scenes. We don’t like to call it smut. We prefer to think of it as romance. Besides, she’s not worried at all about stray lightning bolts.

On the other hand, the Southern half is a Southern Baptist. Sex scenes don’t bother her a bit, but she is appalled at foul language. Put a damn in a sentence and she worries that her Mom will be disappointed in her. Me? I know words and combinations that would make a fleet of sailors blush. I don’t worry a bit if the good Rabbi will think I need to say any special prayers.

We’re finishing Murder Takes the Cake, the sequel to Murder Off the Books. Here’s a spoiler so don’t read the next sentence if you want to be surprised…but on page 98, there is a kiss. More of the Doris/Rock variety, but hey, there are 250 more pages before the exciting conclusion. A lot can happen between the sheets (of paper, that is). I’m making no promises, but I’m checking out rubber tires to sling around my waist…to ward off lightning bolts.

Evelyn David

My Write of Passage

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Cynthia Smith, author of Noblesse Oblige, is our guest blogger today.

Deep in the being of every non-fiction writer lies the longing to be a novelist.

So after seven non-fiction books that did fairly well (which means if I depended upon royalties alone to make a living I’d be flipping burgers at McDonald’s) – I decided to write fiction. Since I have long been a mystery book addict (I read 3 a week. My library charges after 7 days so I have to read fast) I decided to write a mystery. Heeding the lore that one should write about what one knows, I had 3 protagonists: me, my best friend in college and her 70-year-old Jewish grandmother who solved the mystery like a Yiddish Miss Marple. I sent the manuscript to an agent who read it over a weekend and phoned me on Monday to say “I loved it but I’ll never be able to sell it.” Why? “Because all the editors are 12-years-old and will never identify with your characters. You need a contemporary voice.”

Fast forward to my visit to London sitting on a train to Salisbury, seated alone in a compartment with an upper class young woman who wasted her window-seat position that I coveted as she wrote feverishly in a legal pad. “I’m on my way to see my solicitor because I’m getting divorced and he told me to write down what I want from my bastard of a husband.” Who asked her? But I find people tell me things. Perhaps because my simpatica look indicates I can help them. And I do. And did. That’s where I got the idea to create a protagonist who is a sort of private eye but more – she is a Private Resolver. Her name is Emma Rhodes.

Unlike the current female private eyes who live on takeout and cut their own hair with cuticle scissors, Emma is RICH: she dresses in designer clothes, has 3 homes all over the world because she demands $20,000 for two weeks work with a guarantee of success.

She is everything I would have loved to be at her age: gorgeous, an IQ of 165, sexually free, wealthy and above all a size 8. I starred her in three novellas and gave it to my agent from whom I received a phone call weeks later.

“Berkley Crime division of Penguin Putnam is interested. But there’s a small problem.” Oi veh, they probably want me to turn her into a transvestite. “She asked if you could extend them into three full-length novels.” My one-word-answer was “When?” And so I got a three-book contract, later extended to five-books.

The fun was creating the supporting cast – necessary in a series. Abba Levitar, a colonel in the Israeli Mossad intelligence agency who was Emma’s best friend and helper, and lover Superintendent Caleb Franklin of Scotland Yard, a gorgeous Cambridge-educated black man who I modeled after the hunk who bedded Jane Tennant in PRIME SUSPECT. Abba became my outlet for profanity since my agent told me foul language would not suit ladylike Emma. Where do I get Israeli curses? I don’t use the Internet for research; I like to network until I find a live source. I found a visiting Israeli rabbi and told him I’m a writer who needed Israeli curse words. It’s amazing how the word “writer” opens doors and mouths. “Kuze mach.” He replied instantly. “I wrote diligently. “What does that mean?” I asked. “It means the pussy of your mother.” I nearly fell off the chair. “Is that Hebrew?” I asked. ”No – of course not. It’s Arabic. We do not curse in Hebrew – that is the language of the Bible!”

Cynthia Smith
Author of NOBLESSE OBLIGE
Published by Busted Flush Press
Available from the following bookstores:
Murder on the Beach, Delray Beach Florida
Murder By The Book, Houston, Texas
The book will also be available though other online, chain and independent booksellers.

News Junkie

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I admit it. I’m addicted to news. I listen to NPR in my office and car. I listen to CNN at home. It’s the background noise of my life.

I get antsy when I don’t have access to either. I feel disconnected, unplugged from the world. Camping trips are really hard. What if a war breaks out? What if there’s a mad cow loose somewhere? What if a politician flubs a speech? Or a dictator resigns? Or a Vice President shoots something besides birds? I need to know—immediately.

But I’m picky. Not just any news show will do. I need my CNN and NPR fixes. Fox won’t do. Neither will MSNBC. Give me Diane Rehms treating every guest with respect and allowing them the time to answer her questions. Or Anderson Cooper, hip deep in the New Orleans floodwaters or standing outside the Sago Mine, giving us his view on the latest disaster. For something lighter, give me All Things Considered, In This I Believe, and The Car Talk Guys.

I think my obsession with CNN started about the time of the first Gulf War. I was fascinated by the minute-to-minute coverage that CNN was providing. Remember the CNN reporters broadcasting from their room while the bombs were dropping? Talk about reality tv – that was incredible. During the second Gulf War, I traveled through the desert with the embedded reporters. Sometimes I left the television on while I fell asleep, the sounds of real war playing in my ears – all with a five second satellite delay.

I know exactly when my NPR addiction started. The O.J. Simpson trial. I was doing a lot of driving for my day job during that year. I ended up hearing most of the trial through my car radio thanks to NPR. Kato Kalin? Judge Ito? Marsha Clark? I learned so much about creating bigger-than-life characters from that trial. And the murders of Nicole and Ron? I cried with Ron Goldman’s father. I felt Nicole’s sister’s anger. I listened to the testimony like I was a juror. It began as a real who-dun-it and by the end? By the end the mystery was how the justice system ever manages to work.

At night when I write, I like to have the television on. Maybe it’s a hold-over from my school days when I did my homework in front of the set. But these days it’s not returns of Gilligan’s Island or the Love Boat that keeps me company. It’s news. I need it. I crave it.

BlueRay is in. Hillary is in trouble. An explosion in Texas may increase gasoline prices by ten cents a gallon. Bush is in Africa – I hope he doesn’t do any more dancing. And hey, did you know that a beagle was the top dog at the Westminster dog show? Should have been a wolfhound.

These things are important, people!

Tune in.

Evelyn

The Theory of the Karaoke Gene

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I was lucky enough to be the honoree recently at a book signing/celebration to introduce the denizens of my hometown to my new book, “Extracurricular Activities.” My hometown is not very far from the town I live in now—just twenty miles—but because we’re separated by a bridge, it seems to be harder and harder for me to get home and for my extended family to visit me. Look for a future blog entry where I discuss “the theory of why we won’t cross the bridge to see each other.”

But cross the bridge I did and I was happy for the opportunity. My parents have decided that every year an Alison Bergeron mystery is published, a book signing extravaganza will take place. Last year’s party, to celebrate the release of “Murder 101,” the first book in the series, was a free-for-all held on a Saturday night, complete with open bar, DJ, food, and dancing. It ended, as many of our family’s gatherings do, with the manager of the Knights of Columbus hall respectfully asking the attendees—we’ll call them “fans” for brevity’s [and ego’s] sake—to leave quietly so as not to disturb the neighbors. And to leave the silverware and the napkins behind. So, when the subject of this year’s book signing came up, I said to my parents, “Why don’t we have it on a Sunday afternoon? You know, make it a little more low-key?”

“Great,” they responded, they who go to bed at seven thirty and rise at four in the morning, “Sunday afternoon it is!”

“But more low-key,” I reminded them.

“Yes! More low-key! We’ll have karaoke!”

At this point, I guess I should mention that I have a reputation as a bit of a party girl. But when I say “party girl,” I mean that in the most wholesome way possible. But I guess at this point in my life, I think it would be more authentic to say that I’m a “party woman.” I’m not a lampshade on the head type (except for that one Christmas) and I’m generally fairly responsible. I’m usually the first one on the dance floor and the last one to leave and that’s without the benefit of liquid courage. But even in my warped view of a “good time,” I didn’t think karaoke qualified as “low-key.”The reactions to the news of the centerpiece of the frivolity were mixed and ranged from “Oh, good Lord, no!” to “I’ll sing a song—maybe, if I have a couple of beers,” to “You’ll have to pry the mic from my cold, dead hands.” (The last one being mine.) All of the interesting feedback leading up to the event lead me to surmise that there is definitely a karaoke gene.

And proof of this came when my niece, Erin—three years old and full of spit and vinegar—grabbed the mic from her mother (my sister) and belted out “Twinkle, Twinkle.” Who knew it had fourteen verses?

My sister looked at me dolefully. “I gave birth to you.”

Because growing up, even though we didn’t have karaoke, specifically, I spent many a day singing along to the Supremes on my close-n-play record player while my sister practiced her foul shots on the back driveway with the neighborhood boys. (They were very tall and she was not but she always kicked their collective butts. And probably still could if she wasn’t a respectable mother of two.)

I begged my sister all day long to do a song with me. In another life, my sister was a professional musician, so I thought it would be a no-brainer. But she doesn’t have the karaoke gene so she kept ducking me until it was no longer possible. After about an hour of exhaustive searching through the folders of potential songs, we finally decided to do a duet of Pat Benatar’s “Hit Me with Your Best Shot,” a song I consider my signature tune. I thought we were good to go until a certain young lady, clad in a green velvet dress, approached the stage and said, “I want to sing, tooooo.” I dare you to try to sing the song successfully with someone else singing “shot!” three seconds behind you.

Based on the theory of the karaoke gene, then, it would seem that it is not a direct blood line from mother to daughter, but aunt to daughter, a maternal bloodline, if you will. Yes, the theory needs work, but all in all, makes a bit of sense, no? We’ll check back when Erin’s thirteen, and hopefully, a little more inhibited.

Maggie

More on Valentine’s Day

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Hubby and I have been married so long I have a hard time remembering. I know it’s over 50 years, we were married the year I graduated from high school, ‘51–you figure it out. We met on a blind date during my senior year. He was the cutest sailor, all decked out in his bell bottom pants. With a whole group of my school friends and their dates, we rode the streetcar to downtown L.A. to Chinatown. A favorite hangout for us back in those days. We ate dinner, everyone danced except my date and me–he said he didn’t know how. (This was remedied in later years and he later could tear up the dance floor.)

We came back to my girlfriends home as her mother was supposed to be there to drive me home. She didn’t turn up. Finally this cute sailor and I walked the five miles to my house–arriving around 2 a.m. All the lights were burning, both my parents were waiting up. (I’d only left a note that I was going on a blind date, needless to say they were worried and angry.) After a lot of explanation on my part, and my father giving my new, good looking friend the third degree, my parents invited him to spend the night. Turns out this cute sailor was going to school at Port Hueneme Sea Bee base, quite aways from L. A. He managed to make the trek back to my house nearly every weekend via bus or thumb.

When his schooling was nearly up, he proposed. He was so darn cute I had to say “yes.” (And I still think he’s pretty cute.) The problem was he was leaving for the East Coast and probably overseas deployment. I was only 17 and he was 20 and our parents weren’t willing to give permission for us to marry. In October, we’d both reached the magic ages, and he asked if I’d come back East to marry him. Of course I said, “yes.” Mom and I traveled to Washington DC on the train–an adventure in itself. We went to hubby’s family home in a dinky town in Maryland where I wasn’t greeted with great enthusiasm. They had the idea that I was some sort of wild gold-digger–after all, I came from California.

My family hadn’t been all that enthusiastic either. My grandfather thought sailors were worthless. No one thought our marriage would last, after all we hardly knew each other. We know each other pretty well now.

Hubby works with the kids at church at the Wednesday night Awana program. The kids made cute Valentine’s as a project–hubby made me one too. Yep, he still loves me after all these years–and the feeling is mutual.

And that’s my Valentine’s story.

Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com

John Madden, Whoopi Goldberg, and Me

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Also: Isaac Asimov, Aretha Franklin, Woody Allen, the list goes on and on.

We’re all perfectly sane, rational people, who are reduced to whimpering, pathetic blobs or medicated walking zombies when we click on an airplane seatbelt. We’re aviatophobic or as Erica Jong would put it, we’ve got a fear of flying.

Have I gotten on an airplane in the last five years? Yes. Does my husband still have full circulation in his left hand? For the seven hours it took to fly to London last year, I had him in a death grip that made Darth Vader look like Barney Fife.

Personally, I believe that if God had wanted me to fly, she would have given me feathers. I’m still holding out for the Star Trek transporter. “Beam me to Paris, Scotty” or if I’m being energy efficient, “Beam me to Paris, after you drop off Uhuru at the mall.” I’m not sure why I think trusting my molecules to Scottie is safer than a Delta flight, but at least the Enterprise’s engineer had a perfect on-time record.

Unlike a fear of rectangles, aviatophobia is not so debilitating that I have to deal with it on a daily basis. Most of our family is within driving distance, if you define driving distance as being on the road for 15 hours straight. Oddly, I have no fear of putting my loved ones on planes. What does that mean Dr. Freud?

I’ve got bus envy. John, Whoopi, and Aretha all have luxury-fitted buses to criss-cross the country. Me? It’s either Greyhound or drugs. Consider Madden’s motor coach (since it cost $800,000, it’s no longer called a bus or even an RV). In any case, his home on the road has a master bedroom with its own bathroom and steam shower, a full kitchen with granite flooring and countertops, a satellite TV, three plasma television screens, surround sound and high-speed Internet access. Sounds better than the house I live in. Think how incredible book tours would be if you had one of these babies to fire up and go.

Best flight I ever had was last October. I flew to Jacksonville for a family wedding. My doctor had prescribed Ativan for me – a wonder drug that doesn’t take away the fear, but at least makes sure that I don’t make a total, hysterical idiot of myself during the flight. I’d successfully tried out this medication a few months earlier on another trip and felt like I’d finally found a solution. Not a cure, mind you, but a way to endure, if not enjoy, a longer trip. Dutifully, I refilled the prescription the day before the flight. I popped two pills just before I walked down the gangway.

I wish I could tell you that it was a smooth flight. I wish I could tell you that it left on time and arrived early. Actually I could tell you that, but it’s all hearsay. I had no more than sat down in my seat than I was asleep. In a move that would be perfect for a murder mystery, Death by Not Paying Attention, I had inadvertently ingested double the prescription dose. (Each new pill was 1 mg, instead of the .5 mg pills I had taken months earlier. Had I read the prescription, I would have realized that I was only to take one pill, not two).

“When is the plane taking off?” I roused myself from a very comfortable nap.

“It did, it flew, and it landed. You missed it.” My husband explained, not totally unhappy to have enjoyed a trip with the use of both hands.

“Huh.” I wasn’t very coherent (that day or the next). But it occurred to me that it was as close as I was going to get to Scotty and the transporter. A trip that was over in what felt like a minute. Granted I slept through it (at what point is it considered unconscious?). But worked for me, worked for my husband.

We’re thinking of a trip to San Diego next summer. Think that Aretha or Whoopi want to share a ride?

Evelyn David
www.evelyndavid.com

I’m a Mystery to My Husband

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Guest author Susan Konig joins us today.

I was trying to arrange an evening to meet with a group of residents in my town. We threw a few dates around. “How about next Thursday?” someone suggested.

“Isn’t that the 14th, Valentine’s Day?”

“It is, and I can be there,” said a mom of three young boys. “We’re not doing anything special.”

I laughed and understood. My husband and I hadn’t made any plans either. Was it because we had four kids?

One of the senior citizens weighed in. “I have to take my wife out to dinner,” he said firmly. “So, let’s see, dinner at six, home by seven. I’m available at 7:05.”

Sad, but true. This group of marrieds, young and old, were not the target audience to be whooping it up on Valentine’s Day.

Just as well. I do not make it easy on my husband. I get very irritated when he swears he is not getting anything for me and then caves to the pressure of all the other husbands riding on the commuter train home with boxes of chocolates and huge bouquets of flowers.

He arrives in our town and the florist who plans her fiscal year around men like him is waiting for him. Sure, he passed up vendors in the city selling for $40, $50 bucks a bunch. Now that he is steps away from our idling minivan full of cranky kids and shedding dog – not to mention stressed-out wife – he has no choice but to hand this woman $60 to save his rear end on this special day.

The purchase hurts financially but he feels as though he has done something good and noble by following the pack.

He hands me the overpriced blooms and I smirk. “What did you pay for these?”

I don’t want him spending all that money when he could have probably picked up a dozen perfectly acceptable tulips a day earlier for $10.

He doesn’t know that what I really want him to do is offer to watch the kids for an entire day or evening so I can go off and exercise or shop or think or write without interruption.

If I told him that’s what I want, he would swear up and down that he offers that all the time and I always turn him down. He’d be half right.

Sometimes he comes home from work after hanging out with his friends for a little while and working out to find me completely at the end of my rope as a wife, mother, and housekeeper (OK, I don’t really ever keep house).

He will say to me, “That’s it. Get out of here. Go, you’re off duty.” Sounds great, no? Except that there is no food for the kids and the baby needs a bath and he doesn’t know how to help our sixth grader with his math and American Idol is on and he won’t understand the staggered bedtime schedule of who has to go to bed when.

So I don’t go out and then I am even crankier. I guess I need him to come home with a bag of sandwiches and a plan. He tells me that if he’s home with the kids, he gets to watch them his way. But if I let him, I come home to weeping tales of “Daddy didn’t let us watch American Idol because YOU DIDN’T TELL HIM.”

I may get out of the house but I’m the bad guy when I return. Hardly worth it.

So he can’t plan and I’m no fun.

Another husband told me this week that he and his wife don’t make a big deal out of Valentine’s Day because every day is Valentine’s Day for them. Oh, please. I’d rather be grumpy and misunderstood one day a year and normal the rest of the time.

Susan Konig

Valentine’s Day Blues

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I think Valentine’s Day is kind of a wimpy holiday. For a lot of people, it’s an afterthought. For the others? The ones with great expectations of romantic gestures and heartfelt expressions of undying devotion? Well, the results are usually a disappointment.

By the way, if you haven’t already figured it out, the author Evelyn David is really two people. The smart, witty posts on Mondays are written by the Northern Evelyn. The “what the heck does that have to do with writing” posts that show up on Thursdays are done by me – the Southern Evelyn.

Today, in between annoying coal miners, legislators, and federal regulators, all within the same eight hours (a personal best for me at my day job), I’ve been worrying about this blog. It should be easy for me to write 600 words on anything. Normally, I can’t even write the opening to a scene in less than 300. But today (which is yesterday if you’re reading this) my mind was scattered. Gathering any blogging ideas was much akin to herding cats (I know, I know, that phrase has been overused, but it’s still a favorite of mine and I intend to use it until I find another that means chasing down elusive, furry things that bite and scratch when you finally nab them.) I drafted several blogs – one on lying before congressional committees (don’t go before them and don’t lie) and one on the powers of the number 3 (don’t ask, I was digging deep for that one).

Valentine’s Day was an obvious topic choice. But what to say that hasn’t been said before? I could discuss the impossible search for a perfect card and color coordinated envelope (a real feat if you shop in a super store.) Ever notice how many people don’t take the envelope that the card gods intended to go with a particular card? What’s with that? By the time I start looking, the remaining cards and envelopes don’t match up – not even in size. Sometimes I’m choosing the card not for the design or sentiment inside; I’m picking it because it fits in the one remaining uncrumpled envelope.

And then there’s the chocolate . . . . I’ve always thought that chocolate was an excellent gift choice on Valentine’s Day – but please don’t give me those heart shaped boxes of chocolate wrapped in red foil and ribbon. For me eating the chocolate in those boxes is a scavenger hunt with some nasty surprises. I don’t like nuts. I don’t like coconut. I’m not crazy about caramel or hidden cherries. My favorites are those pieces that taste the most like a plain 3 Musketeers’ candy bar.

When I was younger, my brother always parked himself by my side when I opened the boxes of Valentine’s candy. One tiny test bite and I was usually handing off the offensive piece to him – who, like the Mikey of cereal commercials, would literally eat any kind of candy. One time I made the old fashioned fudge – the cooked kind with butter, salt, cocoa and sugar. I got some measurement wrong. The stuff set up harder than a brick and I literally used a dishtowel-wrapped hammer to break it into pieces. It was also lacking in sugar. I couldn’t eat it. My parents couldn’t eat it. It took my brother a couple of months, but he finally finished off the whole batch. He was a real trooper! Thinking of it – I probably owe him some money for dental bills.

Before leaving work, I took an informal survey of the other ladies in the office. What were they expecting to get for Valentine’s Day? Surprisingly, the answer was much the same. To avoid a lot of hassle and hurtful recriminations, they now bought their own gifts and picked out exactly what they wanted. Their husbands and significant others reimbursed them later for the costs.

I think I’ll do the same. Anyone care for a Klondike ice cream bar with a red ribbon?

Maybe, I’ll just skip the ribbon.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

Evelyn David