Me, on anesthesia . . .

I’m going into the doctor on Thursday to get an epidural injection in my lower back. It will be the third time I’ve had the procedure done. I’m not so worried about the side effects, but I do worry about the anesthesia. Maybe it’s because I don’t drink, but I get a little of that anesthesia stuff in my system and suddenly I’m acting like every version of the town drunk you’ve ever seen.

The last time I was in for the epidural I was laying on my stomach on the table while the doctor and assistant did all of that medical prep stuff.

Doctor to assistant: blah blah blah a bunch of boring medical talk
Assistant to doctor: Yes, doctor, blah blah blah
Me: Hey everybody the floor tile is moving! Is that wild, or what?
Dead silence behind me, then laughter.

That isn’t even the worst time though. You know how they tell you to count backwards from 100 when they put you completely out? Apparently once when the doctor asked me to do this, I decided somewhere in the 90’s to start singing Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall. (And yes, they did tell me about it afterwards.)

I’m sure that must have been really entertaining for the medical staff. Janette does karaoke in the operating room. It’s a good thing I didn’t get all the way through the song or next I would have probably belted out old Barry Manilow tunes.

Doctor: Nurse, are my scalpels sanitized?
Me: Her name was Lola, she was a show girl . . .

One just wonders what sort of thing I’ll say on Thursday. It’s a good thing I never put much stock in a dignified reputation anyway.

Stranger than fiction

In another strange twist of fate it turns out that my daughter’s guy friend Paul, that she’s been seeing all week (and I do mean every single day—I swear I don’t see my husband that much) is the cousin of my daughter’s first boyfriend, Tyler.

They went to a family dinner and yep, there was Tyler and Tyler’s parents who instantly recognized my daughter. Paul’s parents were also there and oddly enough my daughter is pretty sure she met them when she went to a family dinner back in high school with Tyler.

I could use that in a book, but who would believe it? The guy my daughter meets and starts dating in a college of like 26,000 people turns out to be her first boyfriend’s cousin.

I asked her if it was awkward but she said Tyler was totally cool so I guess it’s okay. I told her she should ask Paul who else is in his family because, hey, she might want to date all of the guys before she decides on a particular model. She laughed and told me she already did.

I am probably a bad influence on her sometimes.

Bizarro world

Okay, I think this is a little bizarre although my husband is just shaking his head. (Come to think of it, he does that a lot around me.) Anyway, my daughter is down for Thanksgiving and brought one of her guy friends over. (What is the term for a guy your daughter is dating but isn't exclusive with? I mean, besides 'lucky' because hey, my daughter is pretty special.) The bizarre thing is that I think he looks eerily like one of my old boyfriends, Stuart, who is currently featured on my website (because I haven't gotten around to updating it to reflect that I have a new book out.)

Hmmm. There is probably a plot idea brewing about all of this. (Which is why teenagers are so valuable. If you want to write, a teenager is a must.)





The second bizarre thing--which an observant commenter pointed out and which I hadn't realized until I'd already posted the blog--is that yes, my daughter and I are standing in the exact same position. No, that wasn't posed for effect. She even has the same head tilt and smile. Which obviously means, dear daughter: THAT HE IS ABOUT TO DUMP YOU FOR JESSIE LIPE!

Not that any of this is making me relieve those early years . . .

Yay, it went well!

You'll all be glad to hear that there was no need for a metorite to come crashing into earth to put me out of my misery. Civilization is safe until the next book signing. Thanks to all of you who came out. You're the greatest!

Arizona book event/ begging involved

Do you remember getting ready for dances in junior high? The anticipation . . . the dread? You never knew whether it was going to be a really fun night where lots of guys asked you to dance, or a really humiliating experience where you felt invisible.

Nothing measured your worth in the eyes of society quite as quickly as a junior high dance . . . until that is, they invented book signings.

Sometimes book signings are great. There’s nothing quite so gratifying as seeing people turn out because they want your book and your signature.

But then there are the other book signings. The ones where you stare blankly at a wall praying for a meteorite to strike earth and put you out of your misery.

I shouldn’t let book signings get to me. I mean, I used to work in a book store and I saw plenty of big authors come in and have pitiful turn outs. At the time I really, really wanted to be an author myself. I felt that burning intensity of stories pushing against my fingertips waiting to come out. I wanted to be published in a bad way—and even I wasn’t jealous of those big authors during sparse book signings.

The whole point of this is to let you know that I have a book signing at Changing Hands book store on Saturday, November 17th (in two days) at 2:00. I will also be talking about my new book, Revenge of the Cheerleaders. I have no idea what I’m going to say yet, but it will be moving, and profound. (Well, maybe not, but hopefully it will be funny.)

The address is:

6428 S McClintock Dr
Tempe, AZ 85283
480-730-0205

McClintock at Guadalupe

Please come. Please don’t make me sit there wishing for a meteorite.

Revisions.

My editor just sent me the second wave of revisions. So, in honor of this event I'm putting up some posters from Despair.com. They say it so well. In fact, you can make your own calendar out of their many sayings. I'm thinking about it. I'm also surfing the Internet for other job possibilities.



Oh, and here is another good one for writers:



Have I mentioned that I hate revisions?

Denver Trip /Technology strikes again

My school visit in Denver was great because I got to stay with my brother and his family. My nephew made me play Dance Revolution, and yeah, I pretty much stink at that. (Just what the world needed: one more way for teenagers to humiliate their elders.)

My brother let me drive his swanky BMW to the school. It had all sorts of bells and whistles I’m not used to. (For example it was keyless and the garage door opener was built into the car on the bottom of the rear view mirror.)

When I turned it on to leave in the morning I noticed the brake light was on. I sat there, looking for the emergency brake. I finally found it, but it was off. I tapped the brakes thinking that maybe I was supposed to do that as part of the whole keyless routine.

The light still didn’t turn off.

I called my brother’s cell phone, but got no answer.

I tried both of the brakes again then pushed a few random buttons.

The light didn’t turn off and all I could think was, “Great. The BMW makers have put a third brake somewhere on this car and I don’t know where it is, and I’m going to ruin my brother’s car when I drive it.”

Stupid new technology.

Well, okay, for those of you who think I’m an idiot for believing a car maker would put a third brake on a car—let me tell you about my new laptop. I still don’t know how to work it because there is so much new technology. Seriously. The spellcheck has been buried somewhere under all sorts of new functions. I can’t even find the ruler to make paragraph indentations. What was Bill Gates thinking?

So finally I had to drive off because I knew I would be late otherwise, and who knew when my brother would get out of his morning meeting. (Sometimes my husband’s morning meetings last into the evening.)

I drove, like 20 miles an hour all the way there. While cars whizzed by me--cursing, I'm sure--I tried to send them telepathic messages that it really wasn't my fault, It was BMWs for being too brake-happy.

Then I called my brother between every presentation because I didn’t want to have to drive home with the brake still on.

Finally I got ahold of him. It seems the BMW was just telling him it was time to have his brakes serviced. No third brake. The rest of you knew that all along, didn’t you? But then, the rest of you can probably play Dance Revolution too.

National Author Day

It's that festive time of year when everyone rushes to take down their Halloween stuff and put up their National Author Day decorations. Yes, pull out your Mark Twain centerpieces, your Jane Austen wreathes, and those life-size twinkly Bronte Sisters for the yard. Then let's all sing a few Thank-goodness-we're-not-in-school-anymore-so-we-don't-have-to-read-Hemingway-again carols.

And don't forget to send me your Author Day gifts. Remember, you can't go wrong with precious gems.

Special note to my husband: really, we've been married for 21 years so you ought to know by now that you can't buy Almond Joys, Snickers, or peanut M&Ms for trick-or-treaters and expect that they will ever see Halloween Night if I'm in the house. This is why you must buy the type of candy I don't like. I didn't touch the Whoppers.



There are obviously a lot of princesses at our house.



My oldest son wanted to be a vampire for Halloween. This is what happens when the girls at school start calling you 'Edward.'



Aren't they sooo cute?