Penny Warner: Blog

2009-07-05T09:45:00.000-07:00

THE CAFÉ LIFE

With the plethora of cafes in the Valley, I’m never more than five minutes away from a non-fat, decaf latte. In fact, there are so many cafes to choose from, when it’s time to take a coffee break with friends, we have a hard time deciding which one to visit.

My favorite haunts are always reliable—Pascal’s, Bagel Street Café, Cherubini, Borders Book Cafe, Starbucks and Peets. They all offer a cozy place to relax and chat while sipping on a rich, hot mocha or cappuccino.

Coffee breaks are a long-time tradition with women. Back in my mother’s day, they didn’t have cafes, only a handful of coffee shops, which weren’t suited to the type of social connection women wanted—and needed. Instead, my mother and her neighborhood friends would gather mid-morning at one house or another and enjoy a cup of Maxwell House with a side of Winstons, while they chatted about their lives in the newly formed ‘burbs.

Back then the neighborhood was filled with traditional families—-men who went off to work and “housewives” who stayed home to care for the house, kids and dry cleaning. Coffee breaks were essential to staying sane. They gave women the chance to vent about the challenges of raising kids, balancing the family budget, and hundreds of other topics that took them at least an hour or two to discuss before extinguishing that last cigarette and rinsing the dregs from that Fiestaware coffee mug.

Today, the cute café has replaced the smoke-filled kitchen with the Formica table, and “specialty” coffees fill paper cups instead of “black.” But the need is still there—the opportunity for women to get together and share the latest events of their lives. The café is just the backdrop for these gatherings, a place where we can talk about the latest government scandals, outrageous Hollywood gossip, and of course, our families.

The only difference is we’ve replaced one addiction—-smoking-—with a new one—-chocolate. And wouldn’t you know it, there’s a new café in town that lures in customers who have those double addictions: Bittersweet, the Chocolate Café.
I met my coffee friends, Camille and Cindy, at Bittersweet last week, to see for myself if dreams really do come true.

Sure enough, this little slice of heaven, hidden away in the Navlet’s shopping center in Danville, knows What Women Want. Not only is the place adorably shabby chic, it’s filled with gourmet chocolates in all shapes and sizes and nationalities. A chocoholic can have anything from a Chocolate Thai Iced Tea to a cup of Hot Chocolate-Peanut Butter drink.

The three of us ordered up our favorite drinks and pastries, and settled into the comfy chairs to chat about, well, everything. Camille talked about her upcoming high school class reunion (I’m not allowed to say what year). Cindy shared picture of her grandchildren captured on her iPhone (cute, but not as cute as mine.) I entertained them with what I thought were hilarious stories about my brilliant grandchildren. And we still had time to cover such topics as pedicures, writing projects, weight-gain/loss, husbands, current books, the DMV, and afternoon plans, all in under an hour.

The morning coffee break has certainly changed over time, but one thing remains constant: the opportunity to spend time with good friends. The coffee and chocolate are just icing on the cupcake.

2009-05-10T09:35:00.000-07:00

THE EMPEROR'S NEW SUIT

I love this time of year—who doesn’t? Spring means blooming flowers, great weather, and outdoor fun. It also means a whole new wardrobe. Time to change out of those heavy sweatpants, warm hoodies, long-sleeved shirts, snuggle socks, and neck-hugging mufflers, and trade them for comfy shorts, cool Tees and airy flip-flops. And that means shopping, since last years’ shorts are too tight, the Tees are too stained, and the flip-flops have no tread left.

While I enjoy updating my closet, my husband Tom doesn’t see the point in buying new clothes. Ever. Even if his old pants won’t fasten any more, the T-shirts are dyed spaghetti sauce red, and the shoes have more duct tape than leather, then he’s fine. If I want to dress him up a bit for a special occasion, like going out in public, I have to buy the new clothes, rip the tags off, and sneak them into his drawers so he thinks they’ve been there forever.

The other day we had to attend a formal event. This required a suit. Tom doesn’t own a suit. Never has. And he prides himself on that fact. He’s an electrician, so his wardrobe consists of holey T-shirts covered with clever double entendres, such as “Check your shorts?” In spite of the fact that they’re embellished with coffee spills, burrito blobs and even blood stains, he insists they’re “perfectly good—and who’s going to notice?”

When this solemn occasion arose, obviously he had nothing to wear. Even his best work shirt—the one that reads: “Extreme Makeover” and is signed by Ty Pennington—would not do for this event. I gave him an ultimatum: Rent a suit or buy a suit. So off we went to the Men’s Warehouse, where my son met us. Unlike his dad, Matt just wanted a new suit to add to his closet full of suits. He was so impressed by his dad’s willingness to “dress up,” he offered to give the buy-one-get-one-free one to his dad.

After an hour or so of trying on suits—how long can it take? Don’t all suits basically look alike?—Tom picked the one that made him look just like his father. Once we were back home, he tried on the suit again. I caught him standing in front of the mirror, admiring his distinguished look.

“You like the suit, don’t you?” I said, grinning.

He shrugged, and didn’t put it on again until the event. As soon as the occasion was over, he carefully put the suit back in its plastic holder and tucked it at the back of his closet. The next night we were to go to dinner with friends. I suggested he might want to wear his new suit. Moments later he appeared at the doorway in his stained khaki pants (top button missing), his Charlie Sheen shirt (featuring chest peek-a-boos between the buttons), and the scuffed deck shoes he not only wears for formal occasions, but also for working around the yard, cleaning the garage, and climbing on the roof to clear the gutters.

I shook my head.

“What?” he said, looking down at his outfit. “These are perfectly good.”

What was I thinking? A new suit was not about to change my husband into a fashion model. Oh well. I’ll get a few new T-shirts and shorts for the summer, shove them in his drawers so he doesn’t know they’re new, and use the rest of the money on my own new wardrobe.

2009-04-28T07:55:00.000-07:00

DO YOU HAVE HOARDER-CLUTTERER DISORDER?

I got an email the other day from a television show asking if I might want to be on the program. Apparently she had read one of my columns some time ago and thought I’d be a good interview. The topic: “Are you a hoarder or a clutterer?”

I beg your pardon? I immediately checked to see if the email had come from “The Jerry Springer Show,” or even “60 Minutes,” but no, surprisingly, it was from one of those nature channels. They were offering me an all-expenses-paid trip to the East Coast, just to find out if I was a hoarder or a clutterer.

I’ve done some television segments over the years, for products like sugar-free chewing gum (“Cleans your teeth just like a toothbrush”) and colored plastic wrap (“Make your leftovers look even more appetizing”). I enjoy my occasional fifteen minutes of fame. But I had to laugh at the suggestion that I might be a hoarder or clutterer. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Sure, like most normal people without H-C (Hoarder-Clutterer Disorder), I save stuff. Important stuff that I think I’m going to use in the next decade so I don’t have to buy it again and waste money. And sure, while I’m not using all that stuff, I may set it out on a table or mantel or windowsill or empty floor space, so I don’t forget I have it and accidentally buy more. But that hardly makes me a hoarder, let alone a clutterer.

Thinking my kids would get a kick out of the email, I sent it to them. My son-in-law Mike wrote back immediately: “DO IT!!! Go on the show! If there is even the slightest chance you will get rid of the 5,000 fake books, cutesy birdhouses or plastic grapes, it will be worth it!”

I looked up from my son-in-law’s email and glanced around the room. OMG, he was right. There were fake books, cutesy birdhouses and plastic grapes everywhere. Where and how had I accumulated all this crap? Judging by the amount of stuff that filled the wet bar alone, I was not only a pathological hoarder, I was also a chronic clutterer.

I immediately went to the wet bar, the catch-all for anything that I couldn’t find room for elsewhere, and began to remove the first layer of stuff. Out of that tiny hole in the wall came a wicker basket, an armload of fake ivy, candles that look like tomatoes and pinecones, a couple of humorous wine bottles (“Mad Housewife Chardonnay”), some sidewalk chalk, a laptop computer, a picture of my husband dressed as a school cafeteria cook, a pair of socks, somebody’s sunglasses, an empty gift bag, and some old Polaroid film.

It took me most of the day to decide whether to toss out the stuff or move it to another place. By the time I was done, the kids were arriving for dinner. But it was my husband who first noticed the change.

“Where’s all my stuff?” he said, frowning at the wet bar.

My son-in-law’s head jerked up. “You have a WET BAR?!!! Has it been here ALL THIS TIME?”

I nodded proudly at my decluttering skills. “Next I’m going to tackle the fireplace (full of fake candles), the mantel (a showcase for my Smurf collection), and the family room cabinets (more birdhouses and grapes). That should take me the better part of a week. But it’s a start.

And it leaves me plenty of time for my H-C Anonymous meetings.

Penny Warner can be reached at http://www.pennywarner.com

2009-03-01T10:11:00.000-08:00

48 HOURS WITH A FOUR YEAR OLD

5:00 am. Phone rings, jangling me from my spirited pirate dream. Son Matt tells me that wife Sue isn’t feeling well and needs to go to hospital. I head for the car in my pajamas, then realize I need to wear real clothes in case I‘m pulled over for Driving While Asleep. Put on yesterday’s clothes.

5:10 am. Sue, Matt and their one-week-old baby Stephanie are off to hospital. I try to sleep on their couch but the house is freezing. Turn up thermostat to comfortable 72 degrees. Just nod off when I get a message from my son. Sue needs surgery to remove useless organ called “gall bladder.” She’s on meds and loves them.

6:00 am. Decide to get up. Need to be on my game for this busy four-year-old. Will watch TV until he wakes up. Can’t find the remote.

7:00 am. Still can’t find remote. Go to computer and check emails, look up funny videos on Yahoo (Ellen Show: “I Drink a Little” and “Single Ladies” performed by oversized guy in leotard.). Play Solitaire for next two hours.

9:00 am. Haven’t had a shower, coffee, or breakfast. Time to wake up Bradley and get this party started. Tiptoe in and find him playing happily in bed. We hug. In spite of the fact I’ve been to his house hundreds of times, he gives me a tour.

9:15 am. Offer breakfast. He wants toast and milk. Doesn’t like the way I make toast, the way I butter it, or the way I cut it. Drinks the milk after much cajoling (“No pizza rolls until you finish your milk.”)

9:30 am. Potty time. Bradley enjoys a leisurely potty time and isn’t done until he “reads” the complete works of Calvin and Hobbes. When potty time is over, I get clean-up detail. No need for details.

10:30 am. Get him dressed (outfit has to match!) Head for grandma’s house with armful of Smurfs, games, toys, and promise of a burrito for brunch. Wants to watch Tom and Jerry cartoon while eating. I realize it’s way too violent and turn on “Dora the Explorer” instead. Ear-piercing screams. Consider making a margarita. For both of us.

11:30 am. Play Candyland. Cook “Popcorn” in mini kitchen. Do animal puzzle. Read “How Do Dinosaurs…” series. Jump on guest bed. Drive little cars. Make up clues for Blues Clues game. Build castle from blocks and knock it down. Repeat.

Noon. Finish playing with everything in house. Make pizza rolls for lunch. Watch more bad cartoons.

1:00 pm. Suggest we make cookies. He wants green ones. Covers them with sprinkles until they are no longer visible. When done, takes one bite, says “Yuck,” and spits it into my hand. I toss the rest when he’s not looking.

1:30 pm. Go outside to play. Push him around court on tricycle. Teach him how to play basketball. Run after ball. Draw pictures in front of neighbor’s house with sidewalk chalk. Use up all chalk.

3:00 pm. Call rest homes and ask prices, availability. Don’t qualify. Yet. Let Bradley play on computer while I lie on couch with heart palpitations.

5:00 pm. Husband Tom comes home. His turn. Convince him into taking Bradley back to his house so he can play in his own bedroom with his toys and his Wii. Wave goodbye. Sit down on couch with glass of wine. Realize have another full day of this tomorrow. Consider getting a nanny.

5:06 pm. Experience an odd feeling. Actually miss Bradley. Lie back on couch and reflect on the day. Fall asleep within seconds.

That's what she said...

2009-02-14T16:17:00.000-08:00

Here are a few tips on Writing Dialogue that I shared on a panel at the San Francisco Writers Conference.

The purpose of dialogue is to:
1. Move the story along
2. Make the story come alive
3. Show, instead of tell
4. Increase the pace
5. Reveal character
6. Reveal information
7. Add reality
8. Create drama

When using attribution:
1. Use tag lines sparingly.
2. Use "said," not variations on said - exclaimed, sputtered, announced.
3. Substitute action instead of using attribution - "I love you." He kissed her.
4. Avoid “said” substitutes – snarled, snapped, interjected, declared
5. Avoid “Swifties” – adverbial modifiers, such as He said hotly.
6. Use props that can be fiddled with instead of using "said."
7. Use body language and motion – eyes, hands, etc.- instead of "said."

When writing different types of dialogue:
1. Use a local or telling word, such as "Chirren” (New Orleans) for “children”
2. Consider the syntax, such as “You want, yes?”
3. Tell us how he spoke, such as "in a slow southern drawl."
4. Distinguish the style of speech, such as, “Sorry. Don’t know. Want help?”
5. Use individual character tags, such as "Hypers!" said, Nancy Drew.
6. Watch stereotyping – it’s offensive
7. Watch heavy dialect – it’s hard to read and slows the story

Learn by listening to other speak, then condense it so it's readable

Finally, read your dialogue aloud to see how it sounds.

2009-01-18T17:21:00.000-08:00

WILL YOU FRIEND MY FACE?

I was recently invited to join MyFace. Or SpaceBook. Or was it FaceSpace? Whatever. It’s a website that’s currently all the rage—even with people of my discerning age. Since I like being invited to things, especially popular things, I joined up.

I have no idea what I’ve gotten myself into.

Once you belong, it sort of looks like you’ve joined a cult—granted a very happy one. First you fill out a Profile. This is where you enter intimate details about your life, like where you went to college (I went to four), what you do for a living (write columns), and what your hobbies are (joining online groups I know nothing about). They also want your marital status, so I know it’s not just a front for one of those Dating Sites.

Still, I left that part blank.

Ignoring the distracting Botox ads, I move on to Photos. I don’t have any, other than the one taken five years ago that’s on my website. That’s because I don’t know how to put them on the site. It’s certainly not like scrapbooking, where you just tape them to the page.

Next I go to my Wall. This is where some of my 53 Friends have written me notes. William asks, “What’s new and exciting?” (Nothing.) Danna wants to know, “How was the clam chowder?” (Good.) Carole says, “What is this site all about?” (No clue.) I haven’t written back on their Walls because I have too many other Wall-notes to read from the rest of my 53 Friends.

The interesting thing about this FacePlace is that I can sneak into my Friends’ sites and read what’s on their Walls. Like Cherie’s Wall (she has 119 Friends!) She’s doing exciting things like “attending the Obama inaugurations on CNN” and partying with her 119 Friends. She invited me to join the Tango Diva group.

I don’t know what that is.

Ignoring the Wrinkle Cream ad, I move on MaryElizabeth’s site. She has 816 Friends! She has famous Friends like Jeffrey Deaver and Linda Fairstein and Lisa Scottoline. I decide to steal some of her Friends so I can have more—which is apparently perfectly legal.

I click on Mario because his name sounds familiar. Will he accept me? Ignore me? Out and out reject me? I don’t like rejection. Even by people I don’t know and will never see in my life.

I look at their pictures to see if they seem Friend-ly. I avoid the ones who look like flowers or their pets. Then I look at the picture I put on my Profile page to see how potentially new Friends are judging me. I look ridiculous. Now I have to have a new picture made. Maybe get some of that Botox and Wrinkle Cream first.

There are still more links to explore, like the one called “What are you doing right now?” (Nothing.) There’s also a box that says I have “1 Friend Suggestion,” “1 Event Invitation,” “3 Nicest People Requests,” “2 Smile Requests,” “1 Blue Cove Request,” and “4 Little Green Patch Requests.”

Huh?

I realized I’ve just spent an entire day adding Friends, writing on people’s Walls, and reading their Walls. No worries. My goal is to have more Friends than any of my Friends have.

I just don’t know what I’m going to do with them all.

2009-01-06T12:42:00.000-08:00

DECLUTTER WEEK

No matter what my family says, I’m not a “hoarder.” They tried to hold an intervention for me the other day, but there was so much stuff everywhere, they couldn’t find a place to sit.

Okay, that’s an exaggeration (I don’t want to get in trouble with Oprah, but whatever happened to “literary license?”). I’m trying to make a point here.

I confess. I save things that I know I’ll find a use for in the next decade or so. But every year, during that Dead Week between Christmas and New Year’s, instead of shopping the sales for more junk, I declutter.

Okay, another lie. Frankly, I can’t afford to buy anything after maxing out the Visa on Christmas gifts. So what if the iPhone I paid full price for is now on sale at Wal-Mart—at a two-dollar savings! What does it matter that Mervyns is selling clothes at 95% off? There’s only one size left—and it’s not mine, after eating all those Christmas cookies. I suppose we could re-fi, now that the mortgage rates are half-price, but we did that last week when the rates had plummeted an eighth of a percent.

So I spend “Shopping Week” decluttering. First I deChristmas the house, which involves deornamenting the “Crispy Tree” (great term that I plagiarized from another writer—which might just get me on Oprah!). Once that’s done, I discover the rest of the house is still riddled with clutter that was once covered by fake garlands, talking Santas, and sparkling lights.

Although there is clutter from the back bathroom (mismatched nautical-themed soaps) to the front room fireplace (decorative candle holder with six never-used candles), my two biggest projects are my “office” and the “guest” bedroom. My office is mainly a catchall for anything that I can’t part with but can’t find a place for. It’s so full of crap, I can’t even locate the office supplies. And the kids now refer to the “guest bedroom” as “the cat room.” The bedspread looks as if it’s made from feline fur. Seriously.

My biggest challenge is decluttering all the books I’ve never read and never will. Once I’ve cleared out the bookshelves, I fill them with all new books that have been stacked on the piano and mantel for the past six months. More books I’ll never read.

Next I sort through out all my old craft supplies—things like crayons (remember those?), pipe cleaners (how many can one household really use?), and pompoms (you never know when you’ll have a craft emergency.) As soon as that’s done, I refill the space with my collection of scrapbooking supplies. You can never have too many sparkly stickers, pinking scissors, and pads of cat-themed paper.

Once I find the guest bed that’s buried under toy cars and trucks, Candyland and Chutes and Ladders games, and dinosaur picture books, I think about getting rid of the bed itself so I have room for more clutter. But the cats fight me for it (that one’s almost true), so I toss out the portacrib (filled with stuffed animals), costume box (mostly fireman hats), the old Halloween candy (forgot where I put it).

When I’m finally finished, the house looks exactly the same, except for the missing Christmas decorations. But they’ll soon be replaced with New Year’s décor, Valentine’s Day stuff, and Easter trimmings—all covering up the new clutter that’s accumulated just since Dead Week.

And I’ll swear everything in this column is true, if I ever get on Oprah.

2008-12-21T10:36:00.000-08:00

'TIS THE PARTY TIME SEASON

It’s that party time of year again! After all the shopping, wrapping, and stressing, it’s time to stop, drop and eat rolls, along with everything else at the holiday buffet table. This year we were invited to three Christmas parties—a cozy evening at a relative’s home (black jeans), an open house at a long-time friend’s (black slacks), and a literary gala in the City (black silk).

At the first party I ate a huge meal and drank too much wine. At the second party I limited myself to healthy appetizers and one glass of wine. By the third I went straight to the dessert table (for the Secret Cake) and washed it all down with water.

Those parties were fun because I didn’t have to cook, clean, or declutter. But this year we were blackmailed into offering our house for the annual Neighborhood Progressive Dinner party. It seems that last year, after too many paper cups of eggnog, my husband volunteered our home. And apparently someone who didn’t have too much eggnog remembered his ridiculous offer.

Now I have to clear away all the clutter that’s accumulated over the past 30 years and hide it all in the back bedrooms. Then I have to cook something fragrant to cover the smell of cat litter. And finally I have to drape the house with my moth-eaten Christmas decorations to cover the cobwebs on the ceiling, the scratches in the coffee tables, and the cat hair on the drapes.

But by far, the best holiday parties are the ones you’re not invited to. Like my son’s office party at the Fairmont Hotel’s Crown Room, when you just happen to be in the neighborhood.

We entered the grand hotel, my cheeks rosy from several glasses of wine. Grinning like Elves paid overtime on Christmas, we made out way up the elevator. We couldn’t wait to surprise Matt and his eight-months pregnant wife, Sue. But when the elevator opened to the top floor, we were met by a frosty woman at the check-in table.

We tried to sneak by She Who’s In Charge of Guest Security but she drew up her mouth in a bow and said, “You need to check in first!”

“Oh sorry!” I said, beginning to shake like a bowl full of jelly.

“What are your names?” She indicated the last four nametags remaining with a plump finger.

I glanced at them, recognized one—the head of my son’s company—then blurted out the name.

“Here you go,” she said, handing over the nametag. “You’re at table two.”

My eyes twinkling, I snatched the nametag out of her hands before Matt’s real boss walked in the door, and headed for the party room. While everyone was dressed in suits and gowns, we stuck out like Rudolph on a Christmas Eve in our khaki pants and cartoony Christmas T-shirts. Ducking behind a beam, we finally spotted Matt and Sue, about to sit down at Table Two.

Faster than Santa could rise up a chimney, we flew over. “I believe these are our seats,” I said, pointing to the boss’s nametag. Matt looked as if he’d just learned there was no Santa Claus, while Sue seemed as if she might just have her bundle of joy right there at the party.

After they sort of recovered, we turned with a jerk, laid a finger aside of our noses and, like a flash, disappeared into the frosty night—before Matt’s real boss could arrive and fire my son for having wicked bad parents.

For us, ‘twas the happiest Christmas party ever!

2008-12-07T13:18:00.000-08:00

LIFE TURNED UPSIDE DOWN

I’m getting ready to make my Christmas list and I can’t find my reading glasses. Yes, sometimes I find them on top of my head. But lately that hasn’t been the case.

Instead, I’ve been finding them in the fireplace—smudged, with one of the handles hanging at an odd angle, like a badly broken limb. So now, when I need my glasses and they’re missing, the first place I look is the fireplace—although there’s no guarantee they’ll be there.

I’m just as likely to find my small frying pan in the fireplace, while my glasses are tucked away in my underwear drawer. Meanwhile, my underwear is in the pan cupboard under the stove, where I might also find the TV remote, if it’s not in its usual spot buried in the toy chest.

No, we don’t have ghosts, or poltergeists, or hot vampires that look like Edward from Twilight. (If only.) We have Luke, our one-year-old grandson who runs around the house on a secret mission known only to him. All I know is, it involves hiding everything I need in places I would never look. I have a feeling he won’t be finished until I discover all three cats crammed in my underwear drawer—right next to my glasses. Good thing I change my underwear every day or I might never find anything.

What puzzles me is this—Luke has room full of colorful, stimulating toys scattered over the floor, nearly everything Fisher-Price makes. Blocks, books, games, cars, trains, stuffed animals—you name it, we’ve charged it to our Visa card. But he prefers my stuff to actual toys. He likes to dump out my scrapbook supplies and put them in the bookcase. The books, once neatly arranged on the bookcase shelf, have been transferred to the hall bathtub. And the extensive video collection? Under the couch.

Before I can put my stuff back where it belongs, he’s already cleaning out my childproofed bathroom cupboard. My hairbrush is in the laundry hamper, my lotion under my pillow, and all my “personal” products are on the front porch to greet the embarrassed UPS man.

While he’s out there, he collects things to bring back inside—rotten apples (relocated to my coffee mug), muddy ceramic frogs (on the bathroom floor waiting to be stepped on in the dark), live snails (on the living room carpet.)

I should be thankful he’s only over here for a short time, but the hurricane devastation he leaves behind requires assistance from FEMA. My daughter says keeping track of her stuff at her home is a full-time job. She’s found her cell phone in the cat bed, her shoes in the garage, and the Halloween pumpkin in the toilet.

This Christmas, instead of buying him new toys, I’m going to put all my stuff in the toy chest. Then I’m going to hide his old toys throughout the house—in the cupboard, under the couch, and in my underwear drawer.

As soon as I find my glasses. I just hope they’re not in the toilet.

2008-11-15T09:40:00.000-08:00

NANCY DREW’S CLUES TO CREATIVE WRITING (By Penny Warner)

1. Create unforgettable characters: “You know Nancy.” All agreed she possessed an appealing quality, which people never forgot. ~ Clue in the Diary

All stories are based on interesting characters—there are no exceptions. Introduce us to your character a little at a time, using action and dialogue (showing), rather than a thumbnail sketch (telling). Create realistic characters without using stereotypical traits, and include some surprises about the character that are believable. Finally, give the characters conflict—happy characters make dull characters.

2. Use dialogue: Suddenly the young sleuth snapped her fingers. “I know what I’ll do! I’ll set a trap for that ghost!” ~ The Hidden Staircase

Dialogue makes a story come alive. It also helps move the story along, increases pace and creates drama. Listen to real conversations, for realism, then edit and tighten them to make the dialogue readable. Keep attribution simple—use action or “said,” rather than adverbs and euphemisms for “said.” Finally, read your dialogue aloud.

3. Set the scene: Many Colonial houses had secret passageways. “Do you know any entrances a thief could use?” ~The Hidden Staircase

A vivid setting gets the reader involved in the story. It also intensifies suspense and becomes a character in itself. Show the setting through the character’s eyes and include all five senses, telling details, and occasional metaphors.

4. Add mood and atmosphere: Nancy had heard music, thumps and creaking noises at night, and had seen eerie, shadows on walls. ~ The Hidden Staircase

Give a sense of foreboding through description. Mood and atmosphere give the story depth and reach deeply into the emotions of the readers. Don’t forget to include weather—and use foreshadowing to give the reader a feeling of unease.

5. Outline your plot: Ellen was alarmed. “We must do something to stop him!” “I have a little plan,” Nancy said. ~ Quest of the Missing Map

Before you begin writing, outline your plot so you know, generally, where the story is headed. You can keep it simple and just jot down the major plot points of the story—where the story takes a surprising turn and how it ratchets up the suspense. Or you can write a detailed chapter-by-chapter outline, with the option of veering off if the story requires an alteration.

6. Start the clock ticking: “Hurry, girls, or we’ll miss the train to River Heights!” Nancy knew being on time was important. ~ Secret of Red Gate Farm

Begin with the inciting incident, which starts the clock ticking. Include not only the situation, but where it takes place, and who’s involved. This is where you ask the story questions: What if….? Think about your goal as start the story and where it will lead.

7. Create conflict: Nancy struggled to get away. She twisted, kicked and clawed. “Let me go!” Nancy cried. ~ Secret of the Old Clock

There is no story without conflict. The protagonist must come up against an antagonist, which can be a person, an idea, a corporation, or some kind of evil. Conflict helps reveal the protagonist’s needs, values, and fears, and causes her to confront her demons, challenge herself, and become a hero of sorts.

8. Pack it with action: “How do we get in?” “Over the top, commando style,” George urged. “Lucky we wore jeans.” ~ Clue in the Crumbling Wall

Today’s reader wants action, so give your protagonist opportunities to do something physical. Give her a choice between fight or flight, and when she fights—make her strong but still vulnerable.

9. Spark reader’s emotions: Nancy was too frightened to think logically. She beat on the door, but the panels would not give way. ~ Secret of the Old Clock

Crank up the reader’s involvement but increasing the character’s emotional risk. This way the reader will care about the story. If she can relate to the protagonist’s emotional jeopardy, she’ll be hooked on finding out what happens.

10. Raise the stakes: In a desperate attempt to break down the door Nancy threw her weight against it again and again. ~ Secret of the Old Clock

The story begins with a challenge for the protagonist. But that’s not enough. As the story moves along, something worse must happen. And just when you think it’s safe to go back into the water, things become even worse. Keep raising the stakes to keep those pages turning.

11. Make the situation hopeless: “We’re locked in!” Nancy exclaimed, and began banging on the door with her fist. ~ Nancy’s Mysterious Letter

When all seems lost and the protagonist is about to give up because she’s running out of time and is under extreme pressure, she must find the courage to go on, make another decisions, and get herself out of this devastating trouble.

12. Give the protagonist strength: “Girls don’t faint these days,” George scoffed. ~ Secret of Red Gate Farm

As the protagonist comes face to face with the antagonist, she must pull out all her reserves and use her own skills to change the situation. This heroic attempt must also create growth and change in the protagonist.

13. Don’t give up: Nancy tried to open the door. It was locked. Not easily discouraged, she tried a window; it was unlocked. ~The Hidden Staircase

No matter what, don't give up on your story. Nancy would not approve.

2008-11-09T15:06:00.000-08:00

BECOMING AMISH

This might be a good time to become Amish, what with the economy sluggish and money so tight. I got the idea when I attended a conference in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, recently, and fell in love with the plain and simple life there. What a contrast to the not-so-simple life I seem to be living here in the Tri-Valley.

Arriving at the tiny village of Bird-in-Hand, I felt as if I’d stepped back in time—1743 to be exact. As I passed open buggies filled with Amish families and clapboard homes lit only by candlelight, I wondered what it would be like not having to worry about the price of gas and electricity any more.

Instead of trying to choose an appropriate outfit each day, wouldn’t it be great if I could just wear jeans and a t-shirt all the time? Instead of heading to the bathroom mirror for my “beautifying” regimen, wouldn’t it be great if I could face the world without a dozen makeup products? Instead of spending all my money on groceries, wouldn’t it be nice to pick up a dozen fresh eggs from the henhouse and make a salad from veggies in my garden.

I’d spend the day doing a little needlework instead of watching TV, eating freshly baked bread without getting heartburn, chatting with my neighbors over the back fence instead of using my cell phone. I might even raise a barn or two.

In Bird-in-Hand, while life is plain and simple, dining is heavy and hearty. At the Good ‘n Plenty Restaurant, the Plain & Fancy Farm Restaurant, or the Bird-in-Hand Smorgasbord, you can take in a thousand calories at each meal.

For breakfast you’ll find such tummy fillers as “Baked Casserole” (no idea what’s actually baked), “Dried Beef Gravy,” and “Shoofly Pie.” For lunch, you have a choice of “Ham Balls,” “Creamed Turkey and Waffles,” or “Mac and Cheese,” with a slice of Shoofly Pie. And for dinner, try the “Pork and Sauerkraut,” “Chicken and Biscuits,” and “Bread Filling,” with Shoofly Pie for dessert. And what is Shoofly Pie? A staple in the Amish Country, it’s made from molasses, brown sugar, and shortening. Add another thousand calories.

If you can still move after a meal like that, there’s plenty to do for entertainment. Take a buggy ride, tour an Amish farm, get your clock repaired, or buy archery supplies. The shops are filled with Amish products—quilts, country furniture, Shoofly Pies, even hex signs to keep away evil.

We opted for the Amazing Corn Maize Maze to work off ten pounds of Shoofly Pie. A corn maze, if you haven’t done one, is fun for about fifteen minutes. The Amazing Maze encompasses five acres with over two and half miles of paths—most which lead nowhere, much like the Winchester Mystery House. I gave up after a good hour. My husband made it through the entire thing in two hours, finished the interactive puzzle along the way, while I ate corn on the cob and fudge. Good for him.

By the end of our trip, I was beginning to miss my busy life back home. If I changed to the simple life, that would mean I’d have to give up watching “House” and “Saturday Night Live.” I wouldn’t be able to call my kids several times a day to find out “What’s new?” I couldn’t sit and enjoy the newspaper over a hot latte and Cinnabon. (Closet thing I can find to Shoofly Pie—and not as fattening...)

As complicated as it is, I think I’ll keep this life. I’m better at raising the roof than raising a barn.

2008-11-03T16:00:00.000-08:00

GOODBYE, MERVYNS AND MOTHER’S

I’m feeling terribly guilty. I recently learned that Mervyns is closing its doors forever. Shortly after receiving this shock, I heard more bad news—Shoe Pavilion is also going out of business. The last straw came only a few days ago: Mother’s Cookies will no longer be providing us with after-school/work/dinner snacks.

And it’s all my fault.

All this time I’ve been taking these stores and products for granted, certain they’d be there when I needed them. Like black Gloria Vanderbilt jeans when my old ones are full of cat hair. Like discounted Skecher shoes because I don’t have a pair in that shade of tan. Or like a bag of Iced Raisin cookies that make a great breakfast when dunked in a latte.

Now, thanks to my neglect, they’re history. I’ll be lucky if I can find any of that stuff on eBay (wonder what a bag of cookies is going for these days?) This little dip in the economy is really getting on my nerves, now that I’m losing the things I love. I’ve already cut back on luxuries. We don’t eat out as much as we used to (still got plenty of leftover Halloween candy to live on). I haven’t bought any new clothes other than a Halloween costume (a black witch’s dress that can easily double as a cocktail gown). We haven’t been out to a movie, concert, or Broadway show since we joined Netflix (Guess we’ll have to wait until “Wicked” goes to video). And we’ve cut down on water, gas, electricity, and even got rid of one of our remotes (lost it.)

But when I learned one of my favorite stores—the place where I get staples, like fuzzy socks, elastic waist pants, holiday themed t-shirts, and fluffy towels—was throwing in the towel, I nearly had a panic attack. Where else would I find clothes at up to fifty percent off on everything from ladies’ underwear to men’s pajama bottoms? Where would I buy my husband’s Charlie Sheen Bowling Shirts at such a deep discount? Where could I go to find sheets that didn’t cost more than the bed and baby clothes so cute, they made me want to get pregnant?

I figured Mervyns would always be there, along with Shoe Pavilion and Mother’s Cookies. Instead I’m losing an institution—the place where I bought my kids’ school clothes, the place where I found pants that actually fit, the place where I could return my fashion mistakes—and there were many—with no questions asked.

I live in fear of the next “going out of business” announcement. Not those bogus ones that sell “Persian carpets” or “raw wood furniture.” They’re always going out of business, but never do. We’re wise to them. It’s the idea that real stores—our favorite stores—will go out of business and we’ll be left with nowhere to shop but the Persian carpet and raw wood furniture stores.

I’m going to do what I can to stop this madness—force myself to buy more Sees chocolates, drink more Starbucks lattes, consume more Lucky Store cupcakes, eat out more at Pasta Primavera, charge more clothes at Nordstrom, and generally do my best to keep the economy thriving. Because if one more store goes out of business (please—not Target!), or I lose one more of my favorite snacks (God save Nestlé’s Ice Cream Drumsticks), I’m going to open up my own going-out-of-business store—and sell all the products I still love but can’t find any more.

Like Mother's Iced Raisins cookies.

2008-10-27T19:39:00.000-07:00

SCARY? IT’S LIVE TV

You want to do something really scary for Halloween? Stand in front of a live TV camera and present party tips for six straight hours—over and over—while wearing a ridiculous witch costume. Sound like a horror movie? No, it’s the frightening life of a writer at Halloween time. And it’s called a Satellite Media Tour.

A balloon company found me while searching online for a spokesperson to promote their product. Apparently they thought I was an expert on balloons because I’d written a few party books. I’ve done a few of these SMTs in the past, for companies that sell gum (“Just like brushing your teeth!”), frosting (“Who needs cake when you have frosting!”) raisins (“Sprinkle them on everything from cereal to spaghetti!”), food wrap (“Keep it fresh for years!”) and overnight diapers.

I almost didn’t get the diaper gig. At the Big Meeting with all the Execs, I was asked if I was familiar with their line of products, which included incontinent pads. Thinking they wanted someone perky and quick-witted like Kelly Ripa, I said, “Oh yes! I’m wearing them now!” Their looks of horror made me wish I’d actually been wearing those adult diapers.

But when the company asked if I’d like to write some party articles for their website and “maybe do a little live TV”—for which they’d pay me way more money than I was worth—I said, “Party on!” Sounded easy enough. Don a disguise so no one would recognize me (ridiculous witch costume), stand at a table filled with already prepared party props (mostly balloons), and talk about fun Halloween ideas (such as: “If you really want to scare the kids this year, don’t give them any candy…”). Piece of cake, as they say in the party business.

The next think I knew I was being whisked off to the East Coast to do live TV. O.M.G. The gig required the ability to inflate balloons without popping them, memorize pages and pages of script, remember to call the treats “Monster Mash” instead of “Party Poop,” and answer questions like “Is Halloween Satan’s Birthday?” from unpredictable TV hosts. All this, while constantly mentioning “The Product” without making it appear this was an infomercial.

I quickly learned I’m not good at remembering the cumbersome product name. I’m not good at keeping a witch’s hat from flying off my head during Live TV. I’m not good at looking into a dark camera lens and pretending it’s Regis on the other end. I’m especially not good at doing this over and over and over for six hours straight.

My “performance” was sent out—live—to 35 TV stations across the country. I only hope I didn’t embarrass myself too much in Greenville. I pray the folks in Mobile didn’t see the set fall down behind me. I hope viewers in Wichita didn’t notice I forgot to mention the product website. I think I went over pretty well in Yuma. (Do they have TV there?)

Immediately after the camera went black, I changed out of my costume and flew home. No one on the plane recognized me from my TV stint, even in my streetwalker makeup. There were no paparazzi waiting for me at home, no calls from Ellen, no product companies begging me to sell Wheaties or hemorrhoid cream. Instead I had a three-hour gig babysitting four kids under the age of four. It was almost as scary as doing live TV.

2008-10-22T13:15:00.000-07:00

A SCARY HALLOWEEN

As if the economy isn’t scary enough, now it’s time to celebrate Halloween. I think a few ugly masks and blood-spattered costumes pale in view of our country’s financial portfolio, but I have noticed that Halloween has amped up over the past few years.

Remember when we used to set a carved pumpkin on the front porch, buy a bunch of our favorite candies, and get ready to greet the ghosts and goblins that rang our doorbells? Now the neighborhood is filled with gruesome graveyards, mega-monsters, and scary, screeching sounds.

To get in the mood, I took a trip to the giant Scary Halloween Store to see what was new in the haunted house department. Whoa—this ain’t my grandma’s Halloween store! No wax lips or witches fingernails. No pretty princess or fairy costumes. Not even a clown nose for sale.

Instead, this is the place to buy real fog machines that cover your lawn in an eerie mist. Or jack-in-a-box style monsters that pop out of crypts to startle the kids out of their wits. Or life-size tombs with life-size corpses for life-sized thrills. Yes, this is the place where you see dead people. And they’re covered in blood and guts.

You won’t find any light-hearted Disney-style costumes there, like Prince Charming or Peter Pan. It’s strictly horror-movie genre now, with such evil creatures as the guy from Scream, the guy from Halloween, and the guy from the white house. And those are just the guy costumes.

The girl costumes seem to come from X-rated movies, like “Cinderella the Skank,” “Snow White the Dominatrix,” and “Little Bo Peepshow.” I thought about trying one on, but I just didn’t have the courage—or the body. As for cute costumes, these are apparently reserved for pets. Your cat or dog can now dress up as a “Super Pup,” “Cop Kitty,” or “Yoda.” Sounds like pet abuse to me—someone call the ASPCA.

Wandering through the store, past the Beheaded Corpse Bride, the Toxic Zombie in a Can, and the Electrocution Chamber, I found the Body Parts section. I had my choice of severed arms, bloody legs, chopped off hands and feet, loose eyeballs, a slimy brain, and what looked like a still-beating heart. Be still my own beating heart.

The next room held the must-have accessorizes to complete your creep show look. I could choose from a variety of hooks, blades, razors, hacksaws, chain saws, and buzz saws to go with every outfit. Or I could pick out a fright wig, a leather whip, a pair of devil horns, a glow-in-the-dark nose ring, or even a remote-controlled pet rat.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m a big fan of Halloween—it’s my favorite holiday. I drive an orange car that looks like a pumpkin. I wear black t-shirts with rhinestone bats on the front. My ring tone is the theme from “Halloween.” I watch reruns of “Spiders 3” and “The Presidential Debates” on Chiller TV. And I manage to consume several bowls of Mounds bars and Malted Milk Balls before the doorbell rings.

But this year, there are some things too scary for even me this Halloween. While the economy may cause a few restless nights, global warming may give me a chill, and the price of gas may occasionally stop my heart, it’s the thought that there are only 55 days left before Christmas that really gives me nightmares.

2008-09-28T17:29:00.000-07:00

HOME ALONE

My husband and I didn’t get much of a vacation this year. We wasted all of our get-away money and time on other frivolous things, like making our house payments and keeping our jobs. Now that the summer has evaporated like a drought-impacted swimming pool, I find myself missing that all-important break from these same four walls.

Feeling sorry for me, my husband offered me on a short cruise to a small island, complete with “incredible views and a colorful history.” I snapped up the chance to take this mini-vacation, envisioning pina coladas and half-naked men dancing with fire.

We ended up on Alcatraz.

“It’s all we can afford,” he said as we gathered around the park ranger to hear tales of prison escapes and solitary confinement. Apparently my husband thought trading in our same walls for prison walls would be a nice substitute. Maybe for Martha Stewart. (The place could use her decorating touch.)

At least I learned something on the trip. When I travel, I like to go to local museums, explore historical buildings, or take a tour of the important landmarks. Unfortunately, all I learned on Alcatraz was how to make a shank, avoid bird poop, and watch my back at mealtime.

The next day my husband headed for a business trip. He called when he reached his destination. “You’d love it here!” he said. “I’m staying a cute little cottage in Pismo Beach, two blocks from town and two blocks from the ocean.” To be honest, he did invite me along, but after helping out at my grandson’s first birthday party in the park with 50 guests (and 25 babies), I was too tired to go anywhere. Ever.

So I stayed home. Alone.

I was actually looking forward to my husband-less time. I made plans to get take-out from my favorite restaurant, rent a bunch of chick flicks, and stay up late. But I was so tired from playing with two dozen babies, I slept most of the day. I only woke up that night because I my stomach was grumbling. The giant Costco cupcakes had finally worn off. Too tired for that gourmet meal and those hot videos, I microwaved a bag of popcorn (fiber), sliced some apples (fruit/veggie group), and spooned a clump of peanut butter on a plate (protein). For dessert I ate one Sees chocolate (all I had left from the box I’d recently bought) and I washed it all down with a glass of wine (or two.) I enjoyed it all on the couch in front of the TV.

After watching a couple of scary movies on Sci-Fi channel, (“Snakes on an Island” and “Snakes on a Beach”), I fell asleep without doing the dishes, folding the laundry, or locking out the raccoons. I did remember, however, to turn on all the lights throughout the house—for safety, of course.

As much as I enjoyed my home-alone time, I missed my husband. I missed him bringing me the newspaper in the morning. I missed the latte he makes me before he goes to work. I missed waking him at every bump in the night with “What’s that? Go kill it!” I’m glad he’s back.

Next time I’m going with him—even if it is to a decrepit prison on a desolate island. Home alone time is only fun if you have someone to share it with.

2008-09-21T10:04:00.000-07:00

BABY PROOFING THE EMPTY NEST

I was recently asked to contribute to a new anthology just published called Writin’ On Empty: Parents Reveal the Upside, Downside, and Everything in Between when Children Leave the Nest. The book, written and compiled by three Oakland writers, Joan Cehn, Risa Nye and Julie Reynalds, is loaded with personal accounts of that half-dreaded, half-welcomed day when the first—or last—child leaves home.

It seems like yesterday that my firstborn, Matt, and my baby, Rebecca, left for college. To keep busy, I removed all the childproof locks, turned Matt’s room into an office (a write-off!) and Becca’s room into a spare bedroom (just in case they came back). I think it was getting rid of all those cabinet latches, protective gates and drawer guards we’d installed years ago that it really hit home. The kids were gone. We’d kept them safe for all those years, and now our cats, plants, and knick-knacks would be safe once again.

I thought, when we unloaded the kids, we could finally toss out all our child-ravaged furniture and start fresh. I looked forward to living my Empty Nest years with a clean, new nest, filled with white leatherette La-Z-Boy chairs (with cup holders), objets d’art such as bird houses that look like beach houses, colorful wall hangings that read “Keep Your Feet Off the Couch,” and fine collections of wine with labels like “Mad Housewife Merlot” and “Reddish.”

Now that the kids have kids of their own, I find it’s time to pimp our pad once again. After an awfully short period of empty nesting, we now have two grandsons who visit us on a regular basis—and the house looks like it’s been decorated by Ike rather than Ikea.

When Bradley, the three-year-and-a-half-year-old, comes to visit, he heads for the living room where he dumps out several box games that he doesn’t know how to play. Next he runs to the toy chest where toys are stored for only moments at a time until they can be flung around the family room. That’s followed by extreme bouncing on the new bed because the expensive pillow-top makes it extra fun to use as a trampoline. When his tornado winds down, he turns on my computer when I’m in the middle of a column to play “Diego” with the sound full blast.

But he’s a piece of cake to clean up after, next to one-year-old Luke. His M.O. never varies. He pulls out all my scrapbook supplies and throws them in the fireplace, sucks on the remotes then hides them under the couch, wads up my papers into drool-soaked balls, and then goes after my cats who run for their lives. When he’s finished, he heads outside to play in the dirt with wormy apples and my breakable frog collection, instead of all the clean, safe, and educational toys we bought him.

Apparently it’s time to baby proof the nest again. Time to put up gates, lock up cupboards, cover doorknobs, turn off cell phones, hide the cats, set the remotes on the mantel, and keep a handyman on site to repair all the damage. Once I’m done, maybe I’ll have time to enjoy all the amazing things those two busy boys can do to my nest with, say, a permanent black marker ….

Join me and the authors of Writin’ On Empty October 6 at 7:15 pm, at Towne Center Books, 555 Main Street, Pleasanton.

2008-09-14T10:38:00.000-07:00

EARTHQUAKE UNPREPAREDNESS

I thought I was earthquake prepared until the “Big One” hit the other night—a 4.0 centered in Alamo. Talk about a wake-up call—I had dozed off reading in bed around 9:00 pm when the first warning came. It took me a second to realize that the rolling bed was not a result of a cat leaping up on our waterbed—we didn’t have a waterbed any more.

My first reaction was to just lie there, frozen to the spot, and wait for the roof to cave in. Seconds later came the big loud BOOM that finally shook me out of my stupor. Frantically trying to remember the latest recommendations for what to do in an earthquake—stand under a doorjamb, run outside, find the “Triangle of Life”—I panicked and rolled off the bed.

My husband, who surfed the whole thing from his permanent place on the couch, spotted me from the window and came to see why I was lying on the floor.

“Did the earthquake knock you off the bed?”

I looked up at him. “No, I rolled off on purpose. I was planning to roll under the bed.”

“Did you forget that the bed is on a pedestal?” he asked. “There is no ‘under the bed.’ Maybe you were thinking of ‘tuck and roll’ instead of ‘duck and cover.’”

I hate when me mocks me with references to car upholstery and A-bomb responses.

“I know that now!” I said, as he hoisted me up.

“Besides,” he continued, stifling a laugh, “all that’s going to do is squish you even more if the roof caves in. Which it’s not. That’s why we have building codes.”

“So I should have gone for the door jamb?”

“Nope. If the roof caved in, the doorjamb would snap like a twig. Doorjambs are for securing doors, not saving lives in earthquakes.”

“What about the ‘Triangle of Life’—that space supposedly created between, say, the bed and the fallen roof?”

“Urban legend. Disproved by the American Red Cross.”

“Then what should I have done? Lie on the couch and watch TV like you?”

“Next time, run outside.”

Seemed logical, now that the temblor was over. In fact, that’s exactly what my three cats did. (“Save yourselves!”) I scanned the room for the closest exit. It was two feet away. If I had kept rolling, I could have rolled on outside.

Determined to be prepared for the next Big One, I searched the Internet for the latest information. Apparently I was close with “Duck and Cover”—finally all that A-Bomb training would pay off. Only the new version is called “Drop, Cover, and Hold on!”

The theory is, if the Big One hits, you may not even have time to run outside and will probably be knocked to the ground (ie. “rolled off the bed?”), so find something like a table to get under that will protect you from falling debris (ie. “roofs?”).

It’s also recommended that if you’re in bed, instead of rolling off, just cover your head with a pillow. But I plan to buy a bunch of tables and place them in every room—just in case.

2008-08-12T15:27:00.000-07:00

BACK-TO-SCHOOL BAG

Back-to-school time is right around the corner. I can tell because all the stores are selling everything from Number Two Pencils to “Go Bears!” sweatshirts.

When I was a kid, I dreaded the actual going-back-to-school part, but I loved all the accessories that came with it—new clothes, cool pencil cases, fresh Crayola crayons, and a brand new Annie Oakley lunch box with a matching thermos that didn’t smell funny.

Now that I’m a teacher instead of a student, returning to school in a couple of weeks, I need a few new things. Unfortunately, with the economy about to receive an F for Failing, I can’t afford a new wardrobe, let alone a new pencil. The old ones with have to do. But there’s one accessory I have to have before I return to the classroom: A new purse.

The fashion statement a purse makes today is just as important as my Annie Oakley lunchbox made back in the day. Unfortunately, purses cost a lot more than lunch pails. I can’t afford a real Kate Spade or Marc Jacobs—not in this economy. Yet I see women all over the Valley with designer bags hanging from their shoulders. Even bag ladies have designer bags. And now I know why.

They’re fake.

I asked one of my students how she managed to afford her expensive purse. “I bought it on a street corner in the city,” she whispered. “It’s a knock-off.” Suddenly I wanted a knock-off purse. My old bag was ready to be recycled. The strap had snapped when I loaded it with too much chocolate. The buckle fell off when I tried to kill a spider with it. And the inside was sticky from the lollipop I should never have given my grandson. Yep, Mama needed a brand new bag.

So what is it about having a handbag covered with Cs that would cause an honest woman to risk going to jail? That’s for a psychology teacher to determine. Meanwhile, I headed for the city in search of one of those eye-catching carts.

“Pull over!” I commanded my husband, then leapt from the car to peruse all the pretty purses. The “salesman” carried all the bogus brand names—names I’d come to love as well as those of my own children. After checking for undercover police, I picked out a pink and purple patchwork purse that wouldn’t go with anything in my closet, and paid the recent parolee wearing a wig and sunglasses all the cash I had. I walked away feeling like one of the girls from “Sex and the City.”

The “designer bag” self destructed before I even got home.

At that point I gave up crime and scoured the discount stores for marked-down bags. I found an adorable Dooney and Bourke at half price and snatched the little bumblebee-embossed bag off the rack, thrilled to have an authentic purse, even if I had to pay more than I could afford. At least I wouldn’t have to go to jail. I still keep an eye out for those fake bag carts, but the thrill of the hunt has worn off, now that every female on the planet has a designer bag—real or fake. I’m after something a little different in the way of an accessory, that’s even more hip and trendy. Like a High School Musical lunch box.

2008-08-12T15:19:00.000-07:00

MOVING MOTHER

Some would call my 84-year-old mother feisty, strong-willed, and opinionated. I would never call her those things – she’d wash my mouth out with soap. Instead, I’d call her creative, assertive, and my role model.

That’s why I didn’t quite understand her latest plan. She’d decided to move out of her home of nearly 20 years and relocate to a completely new city. And instead of downsizing, she wanted to upsize.

My husband and I are at a point in our lives where we are beginning to ask ourselves if we’re going to downsize to a small condo, buy a big ranch in Wyoming, or stay here for our golden years. Although ranch prices have certainly come down, thanks to the economy, we probably wouldn’t be able to sell our house in the current market. So we’re sort of stuck here, like it or not. Truthfully, we like it. Tom calls our house his “pine box” and doesn’t plan on ever leaving. So that settles that.

But my mother decided she wanted to start over somewhere new. “I’m bored with this town. I need a change.” I could understand that. Maybe the house and yard and pool had become too much for her. Maybe she wanted to simplify her life.

“So, are you looking for a new luxury condo?” I asked. “A quiet little trailer down by the river? A vibrant retirement community that offers recreational activities, social events, and stimulating classes?”

“Nope. I want to buy a big new house near a big old city and live there with my dog.” Uh-oh. Was it time to find my mother a “home?” I called my brother and we discussed her plan. We agreed that our mother was still sharp as a tongue, full of fire (and brimstone), and dare I say, “feisty” as ever. If that’s what she wanted—in spite of the fact that we thought she might also be crazy—this was her right.

A few weeks later she announced, “I sold my house.” Now all she had to do was find her dream home. That took some doing, but after living with my brother for two months, she finally found the one she wanted—a two-story, five-bedroom, three-bath house with a three-car garage. What in heaven’s name was she going to do with all that house?

Moving day arrived last weekend. Tom and I headed up to her new place, followed by our kids and their families, everyone eager to see Mom’s new “mansion”—and find out for ourselves if the woman had gone mad. She greeted us at the front porch with a beaming smile, then proudly showed us every inch of her new Tara. The house had all the latest amenities—granite counters, Jacuzzi tub, walk-in closets the size of my bedroom, on and on and on. I realized I was jealous of her new place and wondered if perhaps the house next door was also available at a third of the price of our current house. If we moved there, we’d never have to work again.

But why would my 84-year-old mother want to rattle around in such an oversized living space? She swept an arm around the room, indicating the spaciousness. “So my children and grandchildren can all come and stay. I’m only an hour away from you and your kids. And now I’ve got plenty of room for everyone.”

Call her feisty. Call her crazy. Call her anything you like. I call her Mom. And I want to be just like her when I grow up.

2008-07-29T09:02:00.000-07:00

LIFE IN THE KIDDIE FAST LANE

I really don't know how I managed to raise two kids for 18 straight years. I just finished taking care of my 3-year-old grandson Bradley for a little over 24 hours, and I'm so exhausted, I can hardly type.

When I agreed to this, it was months ago. I'll say yes to anything if it's not scheduled for today. My son, Matt, had planned a surprise Las Vegas getaway for his and Sue's anniversary. How hard could it be? All I had to do was put out some blocks to play with, feed him a nutritious microwaved mac-and-cheese dinner, turn on some educational TV such as "So You Think You Can Dance" and put him to bed at 6 p.m. By the time he woke up the next morning, his parents would be back with our thank-you gifts and whisk Bradley back home.

"Here's the list of instructions," Sue said, handing over a folder filled with information. "He has soccer at 10, so he needs to put on his blue jersey and shorts, and he has to wear tennis shoes, not Crocs, 'cause Crocs give him blisters if he runs in them..."

I nodded, half-listening, knowing full well as grandparents, we don't have to follow everything to the letter. That's what's so great about being a grandparent. We have a little wiggle room; we can play a little fast and loose with the parenting rules. After all, our job is only temporary.

We headed for Bradley's house for the early morning handoff, ready to start the adventure. He was already dressed for soccer — check that box off. All he needed was to finish his toast and brush his hair.

"I'm not hungry. At all!" Bradley said, turning up his nose at the toast.

Okay, we'd pack it in a Baggie and bring it along in case he did get hungry "at all."

"Let's brush your hair and then we're off to soccer."

"I don't want to brush my hair!"

And so it began. As grandparents, we'd never had to make him do anything he didn't want to do. That was the parents' ugly job. We got to do the fun stuff, with no consequences. This was going to be a bumpy ride.

Thinking we'd better keep this kid busy, we headed for the Exploratorium in San Francisco. We spent the trip listening to The Wiggles. If you don't own the CD, just repeat these words over and over in an Australian accent: "Fruit salad, yummy yummy!" Then you won't have to download it on your iPod. It will stay firmly planted in your brain for the rest of the week.

After an exhausting day, we negotiated dinner — "If you'll eat this burrito, you can play Dora on the computer" — then negotiated just about everything else the rest of the evening, including bedtime. Of course, bedtime is only a concept to a 3-year-old. Sleeping is another matter. First we had to read books, have a snack, go potty, arrange all the stuffed animals, tuck him in his special blanket and repeat this several more times before he finally nodded off after 11.

At the crack of dawn, I found Bradley in my bed, his feet in my rib cage. After a breakfast of pizza, I ran out to Target and bought enough toys to entertain him until Christmas. The minute his parents arrived, we dragged ourselves to bed for a nice long nap — too tired to even feed the cats.

We had a great time with our grandson, but like I said, I don't know how Sue and Matt do it, 24/7. I need a relaxing trip to Las Vegas just to recover.

2008-07-21T14:03:00.000-07:00

POST PARTY POOPED

I just spent three hours washing plastic glasses and glass platters, wiping spilled drinks and food from patio tables, and collecting stray paper napkins from bushes and shrubs. I’m pooped. But I enjoyed every minute of it.

The mess is due to the aftermath of my husband’s 60th birthday party. And cleaning up that mess gave me a chance to relive the party all over again. After weeks of planning and preparation, making invitations that looked like mini-menus, turning the backyard into a Spanish Bistro, and hiring a special surprise guest, the whole event seemed to pass by as quickly as the last six decades.

No matter. Cleaning up gave me the time to recall every detail of Tom’s milestone birthday party. For his Big Six-Oh, I wanted something special. But when I asked him whether he’d like to go away for a romantic weekend, buy the latest electronic gadget, or spend the day on the golf course, he surprised me.

“Cook,” he said simply.

Cook? I should have known, after living with him for nearly forty of his sixty years. His dream has always been to open a bed and breakfast one day and cook gourmet meals for the weekend guests. Instead, we’d host a small dinner party for family and close friends—and he could cook the gourmet meal.

Perfect—except it didn’t seem very special for this monumental occasion. How could I make his 60th something he’d remember until he was at least 70? Easy. Invite a real chef from his favorite restaurant to be his sou chef for the evening. But would Rodney Worth from the Peasant and the Pear—who’d just been named Best Chef in the East Bay by Diablo Magazine—step up to the plate, so to speak? Well, dreams do come true. Rodney appeared at the front door an hour before the party was to begin and the two chefs donned their white jackets. By the time the guests arrived for their “dinner reservations,” the sangria was mixed and the appetizers were ready to be served.

“Hi, I’m Penny, and I’ll be your server this evening,” I said, greeting our friends and family. Unfortunately, my waitressing left much to be desired, but I managed to pass out the food and drinks without spilling anything on anyone but myself. Soon everyone was seated at tables covered in red and yellow Spanish flags. They were free to don the decorative Matador hats or cool themselves with the black lace fans while they watched the chefs “bam” the paella ingredients into a pan the size of Madrid.

After we finished stuffing ourselves, I brought out the favors—party bags filled with “unusual” cooking gadgets. Each guest had to match wits with Tom to name the kitchen kitsch. After several glasses of sangria, not even our master chef could identify the syringe-looking thing (flavor injector), the Wham-O-looking thing (corn cutter), the giant cookie-cutter-looking thing (pancake shaper), or the spice-rack-looking thing (Beer Can Chicken Roaster).

Rodney and the guests are gone, the kitchen is piled high with sparkling clean pans, the patio is slick from a good hosing, and the rented dishes are stacked and ready to be returned. Yeah, I’m pooped from all the clean up. But I can’t wait until my husband turns 70, so I can do it all again.

2008-07-14T09:09:00.000-07:00

DADDY’S HOME
I didn’t get to see my newest grandson much this week. That’s because nine-month-old Luke has been with his daddy Mike every day. And believe it or not, Mike got paid for staying home to be with Luke. In fact, this is the third time Mike has been paid to be with his baby. He also got four weeks right after Luke was born and another week when Luke was about six months.

It’s all part of a relatively new law called Paid Family Leave (PFL). Unfortunately, lots of dads don’t know about this law, and that’s a shame. Luckily, Mike learned about it from his boss, who had recently had her own baby.

“At first,” Mike said, “I didn’t know what it was and didn’t want to use it. I didn’t think it would pay me enough. But I finally checked it out, looked at the website to see how it worked, and thought it was great.”
Paid Family Leave enabled Mike to be with his wife—a new mother—and his new son during those precious early weeks. He was there to help Rebecca with new baby chores, and bond with little Luke. “I couldn’t believe I could take all that time to be with him and even get paid for it.” Mike said. “Any time I can spend with Luke, I’ll take it. Of course, I found out fast it’s harder work taking care of a baby than what I do at my job. But it’s also more rewarding.”

My daughter Rebecca grinned at Mike’s confession that parenting is hard work. “Now he knows what I do all day.” But he also knows that when he’s at his regular job, he’s missing some important milestones with his son. “When I go to work, I don’t see him in the morning, when he wakes up so happy. By the time I get home, he’s tired, cranky, and ready for bed soon. But during the leave, I not only got to see him laughing and talking in the morning like Becca does, but I also got to feed him breakfast, take him for a walk or to the hardware store, join him for his swimming lessons. I even saw him really crawl for the first time. When I go back at work, I miss him. I email or call Becca and say, “What’s he doing now? Send me a photo!”

I wish they’d had Paid Family Leave when I’d had my kids. I could have used the help and support of my husband during that exciting but frightening time. Dads today are so lucky. Thanks to the State of California Employment Development Department (EDD), people can take time off work to bond with a new baby for up to six weeks within a twelve-month period. As for Mike and Luke, they seem bonded for life. I see evidence of that bond in the way Mike looks at his son, the way he holds him, cares for him, and plays with him. And I can see it in Luke when his face lights up just at the sight of his father.

“Becca has this great bond with him and I’m just around at the end of the day, and two days a week,” Mike added. “So this has definitely made a different in our relationship. Luke is only going to be this young for so long and I don’t want to miss a thing.”

2008-07-10T11:17:00.000-07:00

HOW DID I BECOME A WRITER?

I never planned to be a writer. I wanted to be a detective like Nancy Drew. But now that I’ve had over 50 books published—including THE OFFICIAL NANCY DREW HANDBOOK—I can’t imagine doing anything else.

If you’re a writer, you’re well aware there’s something festering inside you that must come out on paper—and it’s not just your grocery list, as well written as it might be. At least, that’s what it’s like for me. So after giving up a promising career in sleuthing to become a mother, I began to write.

My first works were non-fiction, based on topics of interest to me at the time. Since I’d just given birth to my first child, I was hungry for anything that had to do with babies—what to feed them, how to play with them, what to do with them all day long. After checking the bookshelves and finding little more than Dr. Spock’s tips on diapering and drooling, I realized there was a gap in the market that need filling. So with my background in Early Childhood Education and Special Ed, and my “vast” experience with my new baby, I realized I was practically an expert in this wide-open field of parenting.

With dreams of quickly typing up my first book, choosing a prestigious agent who would get me an advance large enough to pay for a summer home near Disneyland, and watching my publisher get me on Oprah (or at least Jerry Springer), I wrote a proposal. I figured, why write the whole book in case it doesn’t actually sell. Without an agent, that first proposal for a book called HEALTHY SNACKS FOR KIDS saw every publisher from Acme to Zero. I rapidly collected enough rejection slips to paper my “summer home.”

Just about the time I’d given up hope of selling the book, I got a phone call from a local publisher interested in buying it. After doing a joyous happy dance, accompanied by more visions of glamorous pub parties, multi-city book tours, and carpal tunnel from signing so many autographs, reality quickly set it. The advance would barely pay for the cost of my paper. My name would be in a size two font. And my request for a sizeable publicity budget would become the publishing house joke.

Still, I had my first book. Published. By a real publisher. With my name on it (in a size two font.) Meanwhile, I’d learned a lot about the publishing business in the process. I learned that I needed an agent to help me find the right publisher for the book (and avoid posers like iUniverse and Alibris). I needed an agent to get me the best possible contract (I was so grateful to be published, I would have paid the publisher!) Most of all, I needed an agent to help me plan and manage my career (otherwise I’d still be writing SON OF HEALTHY SNACKS FOR KIDS, BRIDE OF HEALTHY SNACKS FOR KIDS, and so on.).

So after 30 years in this business, I still love it. There’s nothing like the high you get when your agent says, “I sold your book!” Likewise, there’s nothing like seeing your “baby” in print for the first time. But I consider myself a working author. I still don’t have a summer home. Not even a yacht. But my advances and royalties, while not even close to Stephen King’s, have paid for my kids' orthodonture, their college education, and a new patio for my husband. (According to my agent, 80% of advances are under 20K. I’ve also heard that most writers make less that $4,000 a year!)

Since my first advance was so low, I’m grateful for whatever amount my agent can get me above that. And I know how the business works—it’s slower than watching ink dry—so I try not to call my agent every day “just to check in.” I spend that time working on my next book while waiting for that exciting phone call. I also know I’m going to have to rewrite that proposal several times to make it perfect, find a “platform” (whatever that means), and create a realistic marketing plan that doesn’t use up my entire advance. And I know that when my book is published, my editor isn’t going to fly me to New York for lunch, rent billboard space announcing my latest title, or get me on The View, let alone Jerry Springer.

But like I said, I’d rather do this than anything else—solve crimes, host parties, play with kids. I can do all that and more—on paper. And with my last advance, I finally bought myself a roadster.

2008-06-30T10:00:00.000-07:00

A PLACE FOR MOM

It seems as if, just when we’ve turned our independent children out on their own, we welcome two new family members back into the flock—our grandchildren and our parents. Like many others of my Baby Boomer generation, my husband and I are seeing our once vibrant parents age, fall ill, and become dependent on us like we once were on them.

When Tom’s mother became bed-ridden, we didn’t have a clue what to do to help her. She was eager to return to her own comfortable and familiar home, so we hired an LVN to come in every day to see to her needs. But when that became too much for even the experienced worker, we moved Mary to a nearby care facility with a home-like setting. Eventually, due to her increasing health issues, she had to enter a full-care nursing facility. The whole process was confusing, overwhelming, expensive, and heartbreaking. We simply weren’t prepared for this stage of our lives and our parents’ lives.

Luckily, we’ve discovered A Place for Mom, thanks to Maureen Johnston, a woman who seems to have been born with a smile on her face. Maureen had worked in real estate for years before deciding she wanted to do something more meaningful with the second half of her life. Like us, she and her husband Rob had been through a similar experience with Rob’s mother, Bobbie. “Bobbie suffers from a form of dementia,” Maureen said, “so I began by hiring caregivers. But none of them lasted long because she couldn’t get along with them. Plus, it was eating up her bank account.”

They moved Bobbie from home care to assisted living, but when she broke her hip, her dementia worsened and she was moved from the hospital to a lockdown rehab facility. “That was a shock,” Maureen said. “She kept saying ‘Get me out of here!’ We finally found a residential care home in Danville. After I learned about A Place for Mom, we found out about hospice. Now she has weekly medical care, RN visits, a social worker, and a spiritual adviser, all free from Medicare.”

Through her experiences finding the right place for her mother-in-law, Maureen also found she enjoyed working with elderly people. “I love talking with them. They just come to life. And the stories you hear are amazing. One 93-year-old lady was a Holocaust survivor who kept talking about her baby. Her neighbor said she’d had an eight-month-old baby that was taken from her then. One day I bought her a baby doll and she hugged it with tears in her eyes. Now she sleeps with it.”

Once Bobbie was settled, Maureen trained for a position at A Place for Mom. She now has a list of services in the Valley. After finding out what the needs are—everything from how much money they want to spend to what kind of facility they need—she tries to match them with the right place. “I do get personally involved sometimes and it often affects me. But there’s as much joy as sorrow, and I get a lot of nice emails from the families I’ve helped.”

It’s not too late for us to call Maureen at A Place for Mom and see what else might be available for Mary, such as hospice care. And if you need her help with finding eldercare options for your aging parents, you can contact her too. She’s especially good at putting a smile on a face that’s been missing one.

Maureen Johnston can be reached at A Place for Mom, 866-633-7856 or at maureenj@aplaceformom.com.

2008-06-22T20:36:00.000-07:00

HANGING UP THE PHONE.

It seems like only a short time ago I was glaring at people who talked on their cell phones in public places—at restaurants, in cars, walking down the street. Were their conversations really so important, they needed to talk RIGHT NOW? At the time, I wrote them off as not only inconsiderate, but show-offs: “I have a cell phone and I’m important.”

Of course, now that I have one, it’s different. I need it. I don’t know how I got along without it. There have been so many times I’ve needed to know what video to rent RIGHT NOW, whether we need milk RIGHT NOW, or if that’s you in the car ahead of me RIGHT NOW.

I’m not alone. Now it appears as if everyone has a cell phone—even toddlers. You can’t live here in the Valley without seeing nearly every other person chatting away on an iPhone, Blackberry, or other form of wireless communication. I mean, when was the last time you saw a phone booth? (“Yes, Virginia, that’s what we used to use to call our friends. No, it doesn’t text.”)

So now that I find the device indispensable, the powers that be don’t want me to use it any more—at least in the car. Hey, that’s where many of us in the area spend half our time. Yes, it’s annoying to see other drivers yakking on the phone and not paying attention to the road, but I’m not one of them. I can multi-task. I can listen to the radio, talk on the phone, apply lip balm, check my teeth in the rearview mirror, and think up column ideas all while driving down the street. I’m surprised not everyone else can.

But my husband doesn’t possess this skill.Tom can’t even listen to a book on tape while driving. One time, while listening to Harlan Coben, he ended up in Santa Cruz when he meant to go to Palo Alto. He’s worse when he talks on the phone. He drives 35 in the fast lane, stops at green lights, and forgets to turn off his blinker for days. Granted, he shouldn’t talk on the phone at home either. That’s when he’s most apt to put the milk in the cupboard, leave the coffee maker on, and forget to put lettuce in the salad.

But holding the phone in his hand has nothing to do with it. And that’s why this new law isn’t going to work. Being hands-free isn’t the problem, for those who need to be brain-free. Think about it. I can still dial, check my email, send a text message, take a picture of the ducks crossing the street in front of my car, scan for an iTune, blog my latest news, check my MySpace site, or watch a YouTube video.

Isn’t that a lot more dangerous than holding something to your ear? Come to think of it, isn’t fumbling around for a Bluetooth or plugging in an earphone or trying to find the speakerphone volume even worse? If we lose the freedom of hand-held car-speech, what’s next? Pretty soon we won’t be able to put on makeup, shave, play the air guitar, change into a new outfit, or eat cereal while we drive. I say, call your representative today.

From your cell phone.
While you’re driving.
Before July 1st, that is.