A Trip Down Fashion’s Memory Lane

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Susan Kandel is a former art critic for the Los Angeles Times. She has taught at New York University and UCLA, and served as editor of the international journal artext. She lives in West Hollywood, California, with her husband, two daughters, and dog.

Among the perks of living in Los Angeles are sun-kissed days, bumping into George Clooney at the dry cleaner, and mouthwatering carne asada. Among the downsides are smog and not enough bookstores. Among the befuddlements are busboys who whisk away your plate when there are still lovely bits of mashed potato on it; and (courtesy of Botox, Boniva and Bikram yoga) many –oh-so-many — women of utterly indeterminate age.

You see them, with their perfect bodies and shiny hair, everywhere from Venice Beach to Silver Lake. It’s a little weird, these 50+ fembots who looklike 16 from behind, sashaying around in their high heels and jeggings. A pair of which — to my great chagrin — I recently purchased.

What, you may ask, are jeggings?

These are a jean/legging hybrid made from cotton, polyester and spandex,which mimic the painted-on look of super-skinny jeans without compressing the internal organs and creating the dreaded muffin-top effect. The saleswoman promised me that with my brand-new jeggings, I could finallyachieve the elusive dream of eternal youth. Is this, however, what I really want? To join the army of the feminine undead, dressed exactly like their sixteen-year old daughters? Shouldn’t the dignified among us be dressing more like our mothers — in pantyhose, pumps and a nice, figure-flattering, A-line dress?

Perhaps the jeggings were a mistake. Not that I haven’t made mistakes before. Let’s take a trip down memory lane, shall we, and visit some of myfavorite fashion faux-pas of the past.There was the purple suede fringed vest and matching mini I received for my10th birthday, selected to complement my mother’s navy blue leather jacketwith purple suede cuffs and my father’s Nehru-collared black leather jacket with purple silk lining (no, we were not performers; yes, it was the L.A. in the seventies; and of course we all had matching beads).

And the white, hip-hugging, lace-up, bell bottoms I bought at the May Company when I was thirteen, which my mother forced me to return because, being entirely see-through, they were not appropriate for school.

I remember the callus on side of my right index finger that developed from years of forcing up zippers on the tightest designer jeans I could squeeze myself into.

And the look on my younger sister’s face when she visited me at the Alpha Phi sorority house at Berkeley half-way through freshman year, and saw me disguised as a preppie in a knee-length kilt, a cable knit sweater, and penny loafers.

I remember being twenty-one and deciding my hips were too big and the best way to camouflage them was by tying a sweater around my waist (a thin sweater, of course, the ideal material being either pima cotton or a silkblend), and color-coordinating it to my outfit as if it were a sort of nether-region scarf.

Oh, god, are we done yet?

No, we are not.I remember the Pepto-Bismol-colored, stretch lace, Little Bo Peep-inspired Betsey Johnson mini-dress I wore as maid of honor at the wedding of a friend who made out with one of the bridesmaids between courses at the rehearsal dinner.

I remember the summer I wearied of blowing out my hair and decided to wear a turban instead, thinking this made me look like the Bain de Soleil girl, especially when I wore my strapless jumpsuit and caked on the Guerlain terracotta bronzing powder to simulate a St. Tropez tan.

I remember my black rip-stop nylon parachute pants with the multiple zippers. Though these were originally meant for break-dancers, I wore them with stilettos, giving me the proportions of a balloon animal.

I remember bicycle shorts.

I remember stirrup pants.

Which, when you think of it, are merely jeggings by another name. Which means, yes –it’s back to Mom jeans for me. Thank you, Jessica Simpson.

How Am I Doing, You Ask?

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Rather well, I must say.

I think I made a rather bold proclamation at the beginning of the year and it had something to do with weight loss.

If you think my silence indicates failure, you would be WRONG.

As of this writing, I have lost 14 pounds since January 1, and some of it is actually fat! OK—so I’ve got 11 to go, but I am more than halfway toward my goal. (Even though I’m starving and can’t do math, I can still figure out half of 25.) How did I do it, you ask? Let’s start with the best weight-loss program around, in my book: Weight Watchers. Although it is more of a “lifestyle” than a “diet,” it is a program that makes complete sense to me. You start your day with a certain number of points, and every time you have a meal or snack, you subtract the number of points you consumed (1 point = around 50 calories) until you have none left for the day. And then you have these floating points—around 35 a week—that you can use for anything you like. I’d like to say that most of my floating weekly points are consumed by melon or cantaloupe or the “good fats” but in reality, they are used for something that starts with chard and ends with “onnay.” Let’s let that be our dirty little secret.

I do have a few things that have helped me reach this weight loss milestone, though, and I’d like to share them with you:

1. Trader Joe’s Chocolate Yogurt. I know. It sounds counter-intuitive. Chocolate yogurt? I’m here to tell you that while it’s no slice of Junior’s chocolate layer cake, it is pretty darn satisfying. It packs 25% of your daily calcium requirement into one small container, and in WW world, is only 3 points. A little more than I would use for a snack, but in a pinch, it’s great. It satisfies those chocolate cravings, and is good for you! What could be better?

2. Campbell’s Select Harvest Soups. These are a lifesaver. Not to mention delicious. The most highly-caloric of them only burns 3 points and the lowest? 0-1. What could be better than a 1-point lunch? Maybe a slice of Junior’s chocolate layer cake, which incidentally, carries a 20-point rating. Since I only get 21 points a day, that would eat up a bunch of points, no pun intended. But if I stuck to Select Harvest Soups, and didn’t drink any wine, I would have enough points to splurge on a piece of chocolate cake. Hasn’t happened yet, but might. You never know.

3. Black beans. Love, love, love them. And they are low pointage. My good friend Jolene, also known as “City Pixie” in the online world when she blogs about homemade baby food, told me to sauté up a little garlic and oil, dump in some black beans, add chicken stock, orange juice and some salsa and let the whole thing come together in a simmer. Yesterday, besides a little peanut butter on toast, this is what I ate all day. Beans are great because they fill you up, are healthy, and don’t require too much pointage. In my new world of eating less and moving more, they are the perfect energy food.

I’d love to hear what you do to eat healthy. What tricks do you have? (And I’m looking at you, Vicky, because I know you’ve got a few up your sleeve.) Help me out with some of your favorite healthy recipes. Because although I’m loving the black beans, woman cannot live on them alone. And if anyone has the secret to making low-cal chocolate cake, I’m all ears.

Maggie Barbieri

Back From New Orleans and Epicon

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We left at 3:30 a.m. to go to the closest airport to us, a small regional airport in Bakersfield. At 6:15 a.m. we left and arrived in Phoenix where we not only had to change planes–but also airlines. Which meant leaving the terminal, catching an airport bus to go to a different terminal, and going through security again. None of this was easy. We’d chosen to take two personal items apiece rather than sending anything on through for fear of it not getting to our destination, so we had to haul these bags with us everywhere.

From there we flew to Houston, where we changed planes once again. We had very little time in-between any of these transfers. Finally we arrived in New Orleans and we took a taxi to the hotel. (Set fee of $33 one way for two people.)

The hotel was lovely and no sooner did we get out of the cab when we ran into a couple we knew. However, by this time, all we could think of was getting to our room, unpacking and finding someplace to have dinner and going to bed.

The next day we spent sightseeing (or eating our way through the French Quarter) until the first Epicon event began that evening. Of course we ran into many people we knew.

Though the con was well-planned with lots of good presentations, not many people took advantage of what was going on because the draw of the nearby French Quarter was too much.

I gave two presentations, “How to Write A Mystery” for the adults and more or less the same thing for the New Voices students the following day. That was truly a highlight of the trip. I had so much fun with the two kids who attended. Together we planned a mystery and what great ideas they had.

On Friday night, many of us went on a dinner cruise in a steam boat up and down the Mississippi River. After eating, hubby and I sat out on the deck and watched with amazement the many freighters and tug boats lined up one after another. We walked there and back–on the way back, hubby was afraid I wouldn’t be able to find our way. No fear–it was easy.

Of course Saturday was the big banquet and awards ceremony–this was well-attended. We sat at the table with two of the other authors up for the same award as I was–best mystery-thriller e-book. I knew in my heart who was going to win and I was right, Michael Orenduff for his wonderful mystery, The Pot Thief. The first in his series.

The next a.m. we were up at 4 a.m. so we could catch our flight home at 6. We almost went through the wrong security line–realized it before we got too far. Finally got to the right spot for our plane in enough time to breathe–then the same wild trip back, only this time we flew to Georgia first then to Phoenix where again, we had to exit the terminal, catch a bus, got through security again and then we had a long, long walk to find the place leaving for Bakersfield and just go there in the nick of time. Phew!

Were we ever glad to get back into California and climb into our car and head for home.

We’ve made up our minds we’ll never take such a complicated trip again. We’re too old for all that running all through the airport loaded down with luggage to get from one airplane to another.

Despite all that, we did have a great time and the French Quarter looks just like it does in the movies.

Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com

Cheez Doodle Fingertips

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I bet you know someone like her…or maybe YOU are her. The woman who can walk into a room full of strangers and not immediately head for the punchbowl in the corner. Of course, now that we’re growunups instead of eighth graders, there really isn’t a punchbowl in the corner, along with potato chips and onion dip. Instead if you’re lucky, there’s a bar so that at least you can get some liquid fortification to help you during the dreaded cocktail hour (I miss the onion dip).

I just signed up for a mystery writers reception. Amongst the 200+ people in attendance will be editors and agents, as well as fellow authors. Should be a fascinating and fun evening except I never know what to do at these occasions. Put me at a table with a person to my right and a person to my left, and I can figure out how to make conversation that lasts through dessert. But a reception? Everyone seems to already know everybody else and are engaged in meaningful conversation that seems rude to interrupt. Sure I want to meet Mary Higgins Clark, but she’s undoubtedly chatting with Carolyn Reidy, President of Simon and Schuster, her long-time publisher. Do I break in to simultaneously gush about the longevity of Ms. Clark’s career and to beg Ms. Reidy to check out the newest manuscript of Evelyn David?

If I had any guts, I would do just that.

If I had to classify myself as an extrovert or introvert, I’d probably check “none of the above.” With friends and family, I can be the life of the party. But in a large social gathering, whether it’s a professional meeting or even a wedding, I am at sea, looking around for a lifeline of someone to talk to — but not wanting to be a leech.

I was recounting my worries to fellow writer and Huffington Post contributor, Kate Kelly. She commiserated, but pointed out that she had recently met a well-connected New Yorker at a major event in the city. This lady also confessed that “sometimes I go to these things and know everybody; and sometimes I know no one.” And under those circumstances, she too gets the jitters.

So I ask faithful Stiletto Gang readers: what kind of parties do you prefer? And do you still get the eighth-grade flashbacks of fear that no one will ask you to dance and you’ll be left with Cheez Doodle dust on your hands and a Hawaiian Punch mustache at the end of the evening?

Thanks,
Marian aka the Northern half of Evelyn David

Murder Takes the Cake by Evelyn David
Murder Off the Books by Evelyn David
http://www.evelyndavid.com

Down with Planet Barbie!

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I know the title of this post is kind of weird, but I wasn’t sure what else to call it (I almost named it “The Last Bastion of the Flat-Chested,” but changed my mind). You see, while I watched the Olympics during half of February, part of what caught my eye wasn’t the dazzling rhinestones on the skaters’ costumes or the stunning accuracy of the shooting during the biathlon. It wasn’t even my amazement that curling is apparently popular enough to be broadcast round-the-clock while so many of the other sports had hit or miss coverage. It had to do with the faces beneath the ski hats and the bodies in the Lycra outfits and my thrill at realizing the women actually looked like humans. Granted, they looked like uber-fit humans, but still…I didn’t notice a single Pam Anderson among them.

So many celebrities these days have surgically altered faces and bodies that I’d pretty much gotten used to seeing females on-screen that resemble full-sized Barbie dolls. While at the doctor’s office recently, I read the People magazine with “The Hills” reality star Heidi Montag on the cover, and I couldn’t help but wince and whisper, “You poor, messed-up girl” under my breath as I learned about her Christmas head-to-toe makeover that had her under anesthesia for something like two days (okay, it was more like seven or eight hours, which sounds bad enough). Heidi had previously undergone a nose job and chin job, according to reports, before this latest Frankenstein-esque reconstruction that included Botox to multiple areas of her face, another nose job, cheek implants, chin chiseling, ear pinning, breast enhancement, liposuction, and God knows what else. The girl is only 23. Yet, she looks like a very well-preserved 40 year old porn star.

And the scariest part of all? (And, no, it’s not the fact that her mother didn’t even recognize her when she returned home to Colorado with a camera crew from “The Hills” tagging along.) It’s that she doesn’t think her newly-built DD boobs are big enough. She wants to go back for more. Gulp.

I am seriously afraid for girls today, thinking they’re not worthy unless their chest sticks out so far that they can set a tray from Sonic atop it and comfortably eat. I heard just the other day that breast augmentation has surpassed rhinoplasties as the number one surgery. Something like 335,000 boob jobs were done last year, and it keeps going up. Every time I watch an awards show or a sitcom, for Pete’s sake, all I see is cleavage. If aliens can get Us Weekly and People online, or if their satellites pick up “The Girls Next Store,” “Dr. 90210,” “The Bachelor,” or any number of TV programs (or beer commercials), they’d think our gender was comprised of an army of plastic fem-bots.

I’d hate to be growing up now when there are such unrealistic body images. When I was in junior high in the mid-’70s, my feminine ideals were the stars of “Charlie’s Angels”–Kate Jackson, Jaclyn Smith, and Farrah Fawcett–who looked gorgeous and different from each other and natural, if you know what I mean. But today…geez, I can’t think of an actress off the top of my head, other than Meryl Streep, who hasn’t altered her face, breasts, or other body parts in some way. How sad is that?

Which is why the Olympics were so great. Not that female athletes look anything close to average (I would kill to have a figure skater’s legs!); but they look strong and fit and, best of all, real. Not like they were taken apart and reassembled on a Beverly Hills surgeon’s table.

My hope is that young girls who watched Olympics’ coverage will see what I saw and will not only be convinced that women should come in various shapes and sizes; but that character and determination are even more important than large bazoombas and zero cellulite. Maybe they’ll put up posters of Joannie Rochette, who won a bronze in figure skating days after her beloved mother died of a heart attack. Now there’s real.

Too Wicked To Kiss

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Breaking News: TOO WICKED TO KISS has been selected as a March book club pick for Barnes and Noble! Erica will be at the book club forum all month long, so please stop by to say hi or to talk about the book!

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Hi Erica! So… how do you feel about murder?

Love it! The fictional kind, anyway. When I was a teenager, I wanted to be the next Stephen King… or write my own series of alphabet mysteries like Sue Grafton. I still love reading thrillers and mysteries and romantic suspense, and my taste in movies and TV runs much the same direction.

For example?

Dexter. I love Dexter! I would never *marry* Dexter, because he admittedly has issues, but as an antihero, he’s perfect. That’s one element that appeals to me so much about writing Gothic historicals–I can have a hero who’s a little bit bad. Or even a lot bad. The more dangerous, the better!

Is Gavin Lioncroft dangerous?

It’s common knowledge that he has killed in the past… although nothing was proven, and enough time has gone by that a few hardy souls are willing to overlook that peccadillo in order to attend a house party on his estate. On the first night, however, Gavin has it out with one of the guests… who promptly ends up dead. Gavin’s the first to admit it would’ve been his pleasure to have been the one to do the honors–however, someone beat him to the punch. (As far as alibis go, perhaps he needed something a bit stronger.) Gavin’s hunt for the true murderer is on!

Nobody believes he could be innocent?

Not at first. He eventually wins the trust (or at least the reluctant assistance) of Evangeline Pemberton, herself a guest with secrets she prefers to keep hidden. Along the way, the two of them learn to trust, fall in love, and team together to unmask a killer before any other guests wind up dead!

How many other books do you have out?

I am thrilled to admit that I am a debut author, so not only is this my first book, it’s also release week! Too Wicked To Kiss is in stores nationwide. The second book, (with an even higher body count, muahahahaaa) hits the stands in 2011.

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HIS TOUCH HOLDS HER CAPTIVE…

From the ravens circling its spires to the gargoyles adorning its roof, Blackberry Manor looms ominously over its rambling grounds. And behind its doors, amid the flickering shadows and secret passageways, danger lies in wait.

TO HIS EVERY DARK DESIRE…

Evangeline Pemberton has been invited to a party at the sprawling estate of reclusive Gavin Lioncroft, who is rumored to have murdered his parents. Initially, Gavin’s towering presence and brusque manner instill fear in Evangeline…until his rakish features and seductive attentions profoundly arouse her. But when a guest is murdered, Evangeline is torn. Could the man to whom she is so powerfully drawn, also be a ruthless killer?

TOO WICKED TO KISS

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Erica Ridley learned to read when she was three, which was about the same time she decided to be a writer when she grew up. Over the course of her school years, she graduated from self-illustrated stories written in crayon to dramatic sagas filling reams of spiral notebooks. Now, Erica writes Regency-set historical romances, often with a touch of paranormal. Since becoming active in the writing community, all of her manuscripts have finaled in or won various RWA chapter contests. Erica is also the webmistress of her local writing chapter. Her first book, TOO WICKED TO KISS, debuts March 2, 2010. When not reading or writing romances, Erica can be found riding camels in Africa, zip-lining through rainforests in Costa Rica, or getting hopelessly lost in the middle of Budapest.

Get to know Erica at:

Author Website: http://www.ericaridley.com

Book Bonus Features: http://www.2wicked2kiss.com

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/EricaRidleyFans

Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/EricaRidley

Weathering the Storm

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This past weekend was the weekend of the “snowicane.” Yes, the National Weather Service has coined a new phrase to mean a boatload of snow. We got two and a half feet of the powdery stuff, but the worst part was the wind and freezing rain that followed it that, you guessed it, knocked our power out.

Here at Chez Barbieri, everything runs on electricity. I have an electric stove, an electric washer/dryer combo, and our heat and hot water runs on electric. Fortunately, when we lost power, at nine o’clock on Thursday night (immediately following Survivor’s Tribal Council), it was only Dea and me at home with our lovely and needy West Highland Terrier, Bonnie. Once the lights went out, after a transformer buzzed and flickered a sinister blue light through my bedroom window, we decided that it would be a cold night and hunkered down in my bed with the dog, hoping that we would be able to keep each other warm.

Ever try sleeping with a dog? Even a really nice, docile, and domesticated animal? Not easy. Every time I tried to turn over, she would growl at me. Heaven forbid I actually touched her with my foot. That action was met with a growl/snap/bark combination. By morning, I was exhausted from no sleep and hoarse from screaming at her all night. It never occurred to either one of us to banish her to another room so afraid were we that she would freeze to death overnight.

The next day, Friday, brought no relief from the unrelenting snow and still no power. And no sign of Con Edison trucks in the vicinity. What it did bring was more downed trees, falling so precipitously and often that we were afraid to go outside. It also brought a full-scale fire to my neighbor’s house, which she and her children weren’t aware of because her smoke detectors didn’t go off. I know! It was terrifying. Fortunately, Jim saw black smoke billowing from the house, alerted me, and the two of us set off to get the family and their four dogs out of the house. The kids took off for my house with one of the dogs, and the mom got the rest of the dogs out but not before she ingested a bunch of black smoke. Everyone is fine, but people: MAKE SURE YOUR SMOKE DETECTORS HAVE FRESH BATTERIES IN THEM! If this had happened during the evening hours, it could have been devastating because sleeping people and no smoke detectors equals tragedy.

The entire weekend stressed me out completely. I lost a day or so of work, which always causes consternation, and we eventually had to leave the house as the temperature indoors approached fifty degrees. Lucky for us, our good friends offered a place to stay along with hot water, heat, and food. As we were driving over to their house on the other side of town to spend the night, Jim looked at me and said, “No matter how bad or how inconvenienced we are, think of the people in Haiti who had nowhere to go, nothing to eat, and nobody to take care of them. We’re very, very lucky.”

Indeed we are. We have the resources and the connections to go where we can sit in the lap of luxury, in front of a roaring fire, with a couple of bottles of wine, chatting with good friends. A regular adult sleepover. We have friends and family looking out for us. Even our local Village government has called us daily to update us on the situation regarding the power and tree removal from power lines. Heck, if our power didn’t return for a week—as is the case with some people here in the Village—we could always check into a hotel. Life is easy for us, even when we don’t think it is.

I continued to stress out. How would I catch up on work? How would I finish the edits on my manuscript? Did everyone see the mountain of laundry growing in the rat-free basement? What if we didn’t get back home before Jim and the kids had to go back to school? What if? What if? Although I was trying to focus on how things could have been much worse, I continued to fret. I went to bed Saturday night, having worked myself up into a complete frenzy. Although Jim continued his mantra of how lucky we were, and I tried to convince myself, I couldn’t get out of my own way. Some time, while I was asleep, a friend who died last year came to me in my dreams. I asked her why she had come back if she was dead and she said, “I feel like you’re in trouble so I came back this one time to help you out.” And in her inimitable way, she told me to quit my bellyaching and work on the things I could control rather than fretting about those that I couldn’t.

Wise words.

On Sunday, I texted my neighbor, now safely ensconced in a hotel with her kids and dogs. She texted back that they were great. Safe and sound. Sure, all of her belongings will smell like smoke for a really long time, but that didn’t matter. They were all fine. The other stuff can be replaced. It’s just a minor inconvenience, right?

I’d like to say that I’ll never stress out again, but I know myself too well. But I will remember that I may miss a deadline, and my laundry pile will never go down completely, and I’ll never catch up on work but I have good friends (both alive and dead apparently!), and a support system that will never let me down.

Lucky indeed.

How do you weather snowstorms—and life’s storms—Stiletto faithful?

Maggie Barbieri

Don’t Pay Any Attention to the Movie Critics

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I don’t know about you, but whenever a new movie comes out I always read what the critics have to say.

In the big city newspaper I take (Fresno Bee) the movie critic seems to hate most of the movies I like and loves the ones I didn’t like at all. Obviously, we have very different taste.

We did agree on Shutter Island which hubby and I went to see on Saturday. The critic gave it a B+. I don’t grade movies that way, my take was they did a terrific job making a movie that actually resembled the book. I read the book when it first came out and really wondered how it would work on screen.

My husband hadn’t read the book and I didn’t spoil the movie by telling him any of the twists and turns or the surprise ending. There was one BIG clue all through the movie that I did point out to him, anyone who would like to know what it was can email me privately.

By the way, he stayed awake through the whole movie and enjoyed it. Part of the reason may have been because we both met Dennis Lehane (the author of the book) at a Mayhem in the Midlands. He was friendly and fun to listen to. His name was more prominent in the credits on screen than any book author I’ve seen before.

Warning, the movie is dark and there is language in it I could’ve done without.

One of the movies the critic loved was Up in the Air. I didn’t like it at all despite George Clooney being the star. To me, the whole concept and the side plots were down right depressing.

If a movie is heartwarming, the movie critic I read will never give it a good grade and will likely call it sappy or some other unflattering name. Frankly, I like a good heartwarming movie now and then.

I have to admit though, I just love movies. I like thrillers, romances, historicals, a horror if it’s not gory. I’m not thrilled with movies too heavy with messages, usually we can get the idea without hitting us over the head.

How much faith do you put in movie critics?

Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com

Being Medal Worthy

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Did you watch the Winter Olympics?

I did. I enjoyed watching most of the events even if I didn’t like the way NBC broadcast them – here, there, everywhere.

Like reading a book, I prefer to start at the beginning and read each page – good, bad, or ugly. I never skip to the back. I even read Tom Clancy’s mechanical descriptions. If I’m going to read a book, I’m going to read it – all of it.

If I’m going to watch an Olympic event, I want to watch all of it. I want to see all the competitors, not just the ones who NBC decides have “medal” potential. How can I judge how good the winners are if I don’t see the losers? Hey, maybe today’s losers will be the winners next time, and I was denied an opportunity to see them when they were inexperienced, awkward, and just starting out. And what about their mothers? Don’t you think they wanted to see their kid on television?

I know there were more than 6 female figure skaters at the Olympics, but the “powers that be” decided I didn’t need to see them. I don’t even know what I missed.

What if “writing” was like competing in the Olympics? What if the major publishers were like the broadcast networks – they only promoted a few books – the ones they decided had “medal” potential? What if the newbie writers, like the young skaters, couldn’t get seen unless they did the writer’s equivalent of a triple axel, triple toe-loop? Or had a compelling story? A perp-walk? A comeback from a terrible injury? A “bad-boy (or bad-girl)” attitude?

Wait.

Writing is like the Olympics. Sigh.

Good starts are vital. Keep a tight form, pay attention to detail, follow the rules so you don’t get disqualified, keep up your speed, keep your cell phone turned on in case your agent/coach calls to tell you about your big break, and finish – always finish.

And it doesn’t hurt to get in front of the camera every chance you get.

Yep.

Writing is like the Olympics.

Sigh.

Evelyn David
(Off to sharpen her skates, uh … pencils.)

p.s. Why do the bobsled athletes wear capri pants?

p.p.s. Please excuse a little self-promotion. Evelyn David won a mini-writing contest this weekend!! The short-short story had to be under 200 words. But don’t be fooled by the length. Mac Sullivan doesn’t need a dictionary to solve the whodunnit. Check it out at the Working Stiffs blogspot.

Just Say 10 Words and Shut Up.

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My friend Carrie and I ran a half marathon together on the beach this month. It was her best race ever and my worst. Afterward, I told her that if anyone asked me how I did, I would say, “I finished strong and felt great at the finish.” Not a lie.

I was sick that day, so I took the whole thing easy. Really easy. Almost-walking-easy. Therefore, I had plenty of gas left in the tank at the end. “In fact,” I added, “I’ll tell them I ran a negative split.” Also not a lie. She laughed at me.

“Negative split” is runner lingo for completing the second half of your race faster than the first. It’s a good thing. In my case, I’d jogged that whole course at a consistent snail’s pace and then punched it at the end, only because the race photographers were there and I try to look fast for them. So if we’re splitting hairs, my second half really was faster.

You see, it all depends on what you want to focus on.

We sat down to eat some post-race snacks and started talking about her upcoming iron distance triathlon. Each leg of the race (swim, bike, run) has a time cut-off, and if you don’t make it, your race is over. This will be Carrie’s first iron distance tri and she worries that she might not get back from the ride in time for the run. “If that happens,” I told her, “I’ll start introducing you as my friend who just swam and cycled a personal best in an Ironman tri.” We kind of liked the way that sounded.

This is when the light came on. We could transform our lives, one problem at a time, by keeping things short and sweet. It’s about choosing the right sound bytes.

Someone asking personal questions?

“How are things in your marriage?”
Sound byte: “We saw a very funny movie yesterday. We laughed sooo hard together.” Enough said.

Nasty reviewer? “The plot was confusing. It took me in a new direction on every page and left me confused and aching for more explanation. The characters were clichés and the dialogue was flat. I was expecting something replete with depth and emotion, but instead I got the worst surprise of my life! I’ll tell all my friends about this miserable waste of time and advise them to steer clear of this author!”

Sound byte: “The plot . . . took me in a new direction . . . left me . . . aching for more. Characters . . . and dialogue . . . replete with depth and emotion. Surprise of my life! I’ll tell all my friends!”

A few days passed. Carrie e-mailed to ask if I’d join her for a long run and training swim that weekend. I expressed interest but saddled my response with a long explanation about my family’s schedule and a general desire to remain non-committal for a few more days. Carrie pointed out that, in sound byte format, the correct answer should have been, “Maybe. If I feel like it.”

So true.

Restructuring the things I say into sound bytes has been a good exercise in spotting the bright side. It’s marvelous practice in not being apologetic for saying what I mean. Sound-byting has been liberating and fun, if not slightly misleading and self-delusional, and I’m pretty sure it’s here to stay. Highly recommended for those seeking self-improvement with a side of good laughs.

Rachel Brady^2

Post script: I signed this “squared” because Carrie’s other friend Rachel Brady (yeah, she really knows two of us… no, we’ve never met) came up with this great blog title. I don’t think it’s plagiarizing if the guy you steal from has exactly the same name as you, but I appreciate the sweet title just the same. Thank you, Rachel Jingleheimer Brady. Your name is my name too.