Bargain Hunting?

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When I was a kid, shopping with my mother was an adventure. You got dressed up in your “good” clothes, went downtown, had an adult salesperson who remembered your name help you, bought what you needed, charged it on a store charge account, and then had lunch in the store restaurant that had linen napkins! There were three department stores in town, my mother had a favorite, and we probably did 90% of our shopping there. I believe I just outed myself as old, old, old.

But today, especially in this economy, I feel like shopping isn’t so much an adventure, as a big game, and I’m constantly losing. Store loyalty? I don’t think so.

Last week, I had a series of doctors’ appointments. The only reason this is significant is because I was unable to go into a certain store with my daughter on Tuesday. We arrived on Wednesday afternoon and she selected a significant amount of clothing that added up to $300. To me, that’s a lot of money. Maybe not as much as Tori Spelling drops on one outfit, but still a chunk of change that I would think any store would welcome.

We got to the checkout, and there sitting on the top of the register, was a sign that said, “10% off every Tuesday.” I thought for a moment and asked, very politely, if there weren’t some way to take advantage of the sale since I had been unable to come to the store the previous day. The two young saleswomen said “no.” I asked to speak to the manager. They looked at each other, then one nodded to the other as if she were the one in charge, and she again repeated that there was nothing to be done.

Now I’m sure an argument can rightly be made that rules are rules, and that I was only entitled to the 10% discount if I had arrived a day earlier — or were willing to wait another week. But it just seems stupid to me to sacrifice a hefty sale like that when I was in a national chain that has had plummeting profits for months. Nor does it make much sense to essentially tell me I was a chump for paying $30 more than I would have a day earlier. Or that for all practical purposes, the store was suggesting that you should only shop on Tuesdays, otherwise there were penalties to be paid. In short, I would suggest that if nothing else, they should have taken down the sign.

So I voted with my feet and walked out. I didn’t feel a bit triumphant. In fact, I apologized repeatedly to my daughter, who kept reassuring me that she completely supported my decision.

The final coda to this retail tale was found online. I ran a Google search and discovered that if I signed up for email alerts from this national chain, I would receive an immediate $15 credit plus free shipping. I found 5 of the 7 items and ordered them. The company still lost approximately $100 since they didn’t have two of the pieces my daughter had wanted.

But is this any way to run a business? I get that there are rules — but was it worth it to that local branch to lose a good sale? Had the help been clever, they would have at least suggested that my daughter open a store charge account in her name and get an immediate discount. But today, too often the personnel don’t care about the customer or about the company that employs them – and I suspect the company doesn’t show much concern about employees or customers.

Or maybe, as I began, I’m just old, old, old – and cranky.

What do you think?

Evelyn David

Hot Tubs With Judges

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Lisa Lutz grew up in Southern California. After graduating high school, she attended UC Santa Cruz, UC Irvine, University of Leeds in England and San Francisco State University, although she still does not have a bachelor’s degree. Lisa spent most of the 1990s hopping from a string of low-paying odd jobs while writing and rewriting a mob comedy called Plan B. After the film was made in 2000, Lisa vowed she would never write another screenplay. Lisa is the author of The Spellman Files, Curse of the Spellmans and Revenge of the Spellmans. She highly recommends reading her books in order.

The other day, I accidentally wandered into a dive bar with a friend. We thought we knew the owner, but were mistaken. Since we were already there, we decided to spend the night hanging out with the barflies. Shortly after I arrived, the woman to my left asked me to hold her seat. I complied, shooing away another stranger when he tried to take it. Then the bartender told me that the woman was crazy and had simply taken a seat elsewhere. Eventually, the seat next to me was occupied by a patron suffering from the common malady known as “man trouble.” I bought her a drink. In the corner was another woman, who I later learned owned the place. The bartender served her a glass mug containing three parts hot water and one part stale coffee.

“That is disgusting,” I said, wondering why someone would try to turn bad coffee into tea.

My friend assured me she had seen it before, but I continued to express my shock and horror that someone would subject her taste buds to such a hideous beverage. Especially someone who owns a bar and has limitless libational possibilities.

“I have never seen anything like that in my whole life,” I said, with perhaps a little too much enthusiasm.

“You need to get out more,” the bartender replied.

I couldn’t argue with him.In truth, I don’t get out much. I write novels for a living full-time. That has been the case since the beginning of 2006. I work from home, not in a café; I don’t have children, so I don’t carpool or participate in play dates. I’m not a member of any club to speak of. I leave my home for necessities and exercise and to hang out with friends, but I’m not a social animal and I learned a long time ago not to rely on real people for writing material. I’ll steal a line of dialogue here or there, but what I like about writing is that it’s not about real life—or more to the point, not about me. It’s the one time I can truly escape myself. The novels I write are for the most part pure fiction—I don’t generally get my ideas from the outside world. That said, I don’t want to avoid it altogether. Sometimes I want to have a real-life story to tell, just so I have something to contribute at dinner parties.

Whenever I need to experience the real world, I force myself to take the bus— a breeding ground not only for germs (so I can keep my immune system on high alert) but also for unforeseeable conversations.

Not too long ago, I overheard a delightful conversation on the 38 Geary.

A crazy man got on board. He shouted out to no one in particular, “Did you know I was in school to be a doctor?”

Another man replied, “I got news for you: You failed.”

The crazy man came back with: “I’ve been in hot tubs with judges. I got diamond rings and everything.”

He didn’t have any diamond rings on him, I should report. The conversation deteriorated from there, culminating in a lengthy monologue about the size of women’s behinds. Particularly the behind of the crazy man’s girlfriend.

But still, it got me thinking about imagination. The man with the imaginary medical training also lives much of his life in his own constructed world. I’m not so different. He tells his stories on the street; I hide out in my apartment concocting pure fiction. Then, every once in a while, I seek out reality. More often than not it encourages me to invent bolder, wilder lies. But I’d never write a character who drinks the dregs of a coffeepot topped off with lukewarm tap water. No one would believe it if I did.

Lisa Lutz

The Movies That Keep You Up At Night!

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I admit it. There are certain movies I can’t resist watching over and over.

You know them. It’s late. You need to be in bed. You’re working the next day. You do a little channel surfing before turning off the tv and there it is. The movie you can never click past. It’s caught you one more time.

Whether it’s the plot, the music, the scenery, the dialogue, the cast or a combination of all five – there’s just something about it that pushes all your “I love this movie” buttons.

I was caught by four of my favorites this past week. Note to self: after 9 pm skip TNT and AMC channels.

These are the ones that I love to watch again and again – my top ten, stay up late, and quote the lines movies.

1. The Hunt for Red October
2. Jaws
3. The Undefeated
4. True Grit
5. Steel Magnolias
6. While You Were Sleeping
7. BAT 21
8. The Client
9. The Rookie
10. Independence Day
Honorable mentions – Medicine Man, Shenandoah, Dances with Wolves, Die Hard, Stand by Me.

One thing all of the movies listed above have in common are well developed characters that you can care about. You want the heroes and heroines to succeed in their quest. You cry. You laugh out loud. You cheer when the alien ship is destroyed, when the shark is turned into sushi, when the question is popped, when the couple rides off into the sunset or a snowstorm one step ahead of those chasing them. These are movies that make you feel something – the love of country, the fear of the unknown, the melancholy pangs of loss, the unrelenting hunger for justice, the comforting endurance of good friends, the pain of loneliness, the power of trust, the fun of outwitting an opponent, the joy of achieving a dream, and the exhilaration of overcoming all odds.

These are great movies that will stand the test of time. A check of my list shows most already have.

How about you? What are the movies you’ll watch over and over? And hey, if it’s a movie you can’t sit through twice in a row, you don’t love it enough to put it on this list!

Evelyn David

And Away We Go…

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I keep thinking about Marilyn’s post from either last week or the week before where she talked about what it was like to grow up in Los Angeles before it became “LA” or the “Left Coast.” A much simpler time, she would often take a book, lounge under a tree in front of a stranger’s house and relax for an afternoon. I commented that we used to get thrown outside for the day after breakfast—and without sunscreen (that’s how long ago that was!)—and play with the twenty or thirty kids in the neighborhood, careful of the ones who had their licenses and tooled around the hood in cars or even worse, motorcycles. One summer, during an Olympic year, we set up an elaborate obstacle course and held Olympic trials that everyone participated in and which included such events as the limbo, the hide-and-seek tournament, and the hurdles. Everyone took turns and almost everyone bettered their score as the summer progressed. Elaborate scorekeeping was definitely part of the process.

Our kids are heading off to camp. When I was a kid, nobody I knew went to camp. With twenty or thirty kids in the neighborhood, who needed camp? We could run around outside, unfettered, for hours. Danger didn’t lurk around every corner like it seemingly does these days, and everyone had a great time. But now, once the winter semester is over, mothers (mostly) talk about what their kids are doing for the summer, who knows the best camps, where you can find the most reliable transportation to camp, who’s going to Bronx Zoo camp, who’s going to sleepaway camp for seven weeks, etc. For the past few summers, child #1 has been going to sleepaway camp for twelve days with her best friend, whose brother joined them last year. And this year, child #2 will join the group and attend with them for mini-session #2, which is a twelve day stay at a very rustic, yet charming, camp on a lake not terribly far from here.

God bless hubby’s heart because he’s done most of the camp preparation. Camp preparation includes stamping every piece of clothing—and that includes EVERY sock—with the child’s name, just in case they send their laundry out during the twelve days that they are at camp. A trip to Target last week netted a cache of $337.00 worth of camp supplies—body wash, shampoo, deodorant, toothpaste, a new trunk for child #2, extra bathing suits, extra underwear, and extra socks—most of which I’ll never see again, I imagine. Right now, husband is washing sheets and pillowcases so that they can be stowed in the trunk. They will return as they have in the past, but I guarantee you that they will smell like a combination of earth, mud, moisture, and sweat. Everything that returns from camp does and has to be washed repeatedly until it smells like home again.

The kids return smelling that way, too, incidentally.

Child #2 is very excited but if not a bit nervous. But being as he is extremely gregarious and would talk to a brick wall, I’m not terribly concerned. I keep telling him, “It’s twelve days. It’s not even two weeks. And you’ve got your sister, and her best friend, and her best friend’s brother. You’ll be home before you know it.” Maybe I’m just trying to convince myself?

The camp phenomenon is relatively new to me. I do have good friends who attended camp every summer, all summer long and they are wistful for their time there. I don’t feel like I’ve missed out on anything but when my friends get talking about “color wars” and camp sing-alongs, I wonder what it must have been like to pack up at the beginning of the summer and leave home and kin to spend the summer with people who they still remain friends with.

Did you go to camp? What are your best memories? What, in essence, did I miss?

Maggie Barbieri

On the Road Again

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I’m writing this ahead of time because today hubby and I are headed from our place in the mountains over the flatlands, then the coastal mountains, down Highway 101 along the Pacific Coast to Santa Maria, California.

Once there, we will spend three days at the Santa Maria Fair in the Fine Arts Exhibit along with artists, I suppose, and a handful of authors. We’re doing readings, will have our books on display, and hopefully sell some. It will be interesting to see how will we compete with all the other intriguing things that are at a county fair. I’m always willing to try something once.

Actually, I think it’ll be fun. My time slot is 11 to 4 on July 15, 16, 17. That means we’ll have time for a leisurely breakfast and plenty of time in the evening to find a great restaurant with seafood and maybe even a movie theater close by.

We’ve been doing a lot of stuff around the house–cleaning up mostly, thankfully we’ve got a grandson in his twenties who manages to pop up here from time to time with a friend in tow. They usually need some money and I’m quite willing to pay for the work they do, and they’ve done plenty for us including remodeling and painting a couple of rooms so we could change our bedroom from upstairs to down.

Anyway, a nice vacation combined with book selling sounds pretty good right now. Maybe I might even get a few pictures.

Marilyn a.k.a. F. M. Meredith
http://fictionforyou.com

Comfort Food

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In times of stress, my stomach tends to rebel. No Chinese take-out, thank you. No spicy hot wings. No dark chocolate — which is the biggest surprise of all.

For me, when under stress, I turn to the foods of my childhood. Simple, plain, no fancy condiments, perhaps a touch of mayo to sweeten the chicken sandwich, on whole wheat, with a slice of tomato. Yum.

Anolther safe choice? Chicken soup, with or without a matzoh ball, but noodles are a nice touch.

Potatoes in almost any form, although probably not fried as too much grease just lingers.

I find comfort in the memories of meals eaten with those I love. My mother, the original Evelyn, was, no offense Mom, a miserable cook. But I cherish the scenes in my mind of us sitting at the holiday table, with a bountiful selection of the favorites of my father, my sister, and me. Of course, she had ordered it all in from a local catering hall, but the choices were made with deliberate attention to what each of us would enjoy.

We all know that material things aren’t what make us happy or fulfilled. Don’t get me wrong. I love a new pair of shoes more than most. But lately, with a variety of problems popping up, I find comfort in eating that chicken sandwich and remembering the comfort I got from those who made it with love.

What foods give you comfort?

Evelyn David

A Perfect Role Model

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In 2008, Stefanie Pintoff became the inaugural winner of the St. Martin’s Minotaur / MWA Best First Crime Novel Award with her novel, In the Shadow of Gotham. It is the first in a new series where early criminal science meets the dark side of old New York. A graduate of Columbia Law School, she also has a Ph.D. in literature from New York University. A former attorney and teacher, she now writes full-time and lives in New York with her husband, daughter, and their family dog. Her second novel, titled The Darkest Verse, is forthcoming in 2010.

My debut novel, In the Shadow of Gotham, was published by St. Martin’s Minotaur almost three months ago. The experience of having a book in print is at once exhilarating and more than a little scary.

There are moments when you feel on top of the world. Seeing your book on a local bookstore’s shelves. Getting a call asking you to come back and sign more copies, because they just sold out. Seeing a great review. Getting letters and emails from readers who want to tell you how much they enjoyed the book – and can’t wait for the next one.

There are other moments too, of course. Worrying whether readers – and reviewers – will like it. Whether anyone will buy it, or want to come to my signings and events.

I’m told that these highs and lows are par for the course – part of any author’s life, whether the first book or the twentieth.

My goal is to take it all in stride. Celebrate the highs and downplay the lows. Well, this is easier said than done. But, I guess I shouldn’t complain. After all, I have the perfect role model living under the same roof as me: another member of my family with literary chops, who couldn’t care less about book reviews or sales figures. My dog, Ginger.

This is Ginger.
She is a mixed breed – part golden retriever, part standard poodle. People call her a goldendoodle, though neither my husband nor I manage to say it with a straight face. She’s a great dog, despite the ridiculous name.

Ginger beat me to publication by about three years – for her book, Goldendoodle, released by Kennel Club Books, came out in June 2006. Ginger, of course, did not write it; her breeder, Kathryn Lee, is the author. But Ginger is the face of the book – the cover dog, so to speak. And once Ginger was chosen (she’s featured in additional photos inside the book as well), we were invested in what we came to consider “her” book. [please insert photo of Ginger book cover]

And Ginger treated the publication process exactly as one should. She had nothing but fun!

It started with the day that professional animal photographer Mary Bloom came to the house for the photoshoot. Ginger was brushed and coiffed, then taken outside to secure the perfect photograph. Mary needed a particular look: paws in a certain position, head facing front, and of course – the right expression on Ginger’s face. To us, it looked like work. To Ginger, it was all about the rewards – toys and cookies – for a job well done.

Three years later, I experienced a mild case of déjà vu. My friend and professional photographer Alison Sheehy came over to our house. I was brushed and coiffed, then taken outside in search of the perfect book jacket photograph. Ginger came, too – and I was reminded this was meant to be fun, not stressful (although, I think, Ginger was imminently more successful in this endeavor once again).

Well, we bought Ginger’s book and so did our family and friends. We talked it up, displayed it on our coffee tables, and enjoyed the moment.

Now we do much the same, but with a certain New York turn-of-the-century historical mystery novel.

Just checked Amazon. At the moment of this writing, my novel has a higher ranking than Ginger’s book. Ah, but Amazon rankings are fickle things, with plenty of highs and lows for all but the most established bestseller. And Ginger’s book continues to do well, even after three years. Not only is it well-written, filled with good information by a respected breeder, but it’s also chock-full of adorable puppies and dogs.

Ginger has the perfect attitude. Have fun and enjoy the attention. Ignore what is beyond your control. Because having a book out – and a dream realized – is a treat worth savoring.

Stefanie

Some Assembly Required

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I purchased a vacuum cleaner yesterday – a Hoover Wind Tunnel Bagged & Bagless with Pet Hair tool.

I don’t have a pet, but since I have long hair …

I got the Hoover because I’ve always had Hoovers. This will be my fourth in 25 years. So not a bad track record. My old Hoover upright still had a lot of suction but the last two times I used it … well there was this burning odor. Made me nervous. Plus it made the house smell like an ashtray. Remember those? Do people even have ashtrays any more?

Okay – back to the vacuum cleaner story.

So … I’ve been looking on-line to find the perfect vacuum cleaner. Okay, an almost perfect vacuum cleaner. The perfect one would have a maid attached. I also had to consider price. I didn’t want my vacuum cleaner to cost more than my car.

I also wanted to try a bagless vacuum. I have a terrible time remembering to buy vacuum cleaner bags and then when I remember to buy them, I can’t remember what kind of bag my vacuum cleaner needs. So a bagless vacuum seems like a good solution.

Of course I’ve heard that bagless vacuums have less suction power than bagged vacuums. And I do have lots of allergies – in particular an allergy to house dust. But don’t you think that if I will use a bagless vacuum more often because I don’t have to fool with bags, that fact would even out the negative of less suction?

When I found this model that offered both a bagged and a bagless option on the same vacuum, I bought it. I ordered it on line, then picked it up at the store. No shipping costs that way.

The box holding the vacuum was at least four feet tall. That freaked me out a little, but after I got it and the packing out of the box it was the regulation height for an upright vacuum.

Then the hard part started. A label on the box indicated that there was some assembly required. Always a bad sign. If the manufacturer is going to put something in a box that is almost twice the size of the item, why can’t they send it assembled?

The handle was not attached to the vacuum. The hose carrier was not attached. I got out my reading glasses and a screw driver.

There was a little piece of cardboard on the handle that had a message in size 6 font – it said, “Remove before attaching handle.” So I removed it. A little annoyed that I had to assemble anything, I vigorously removed it. The cardboard was holding four screws that I didn’t see before ripping the cardboard off. I spent about 30 minutes searching the carpet for the four screws that had gone flying.

After finally attaching the handle and hose carrier, I was ready to check out the bagged and bagless canisters. You choose one and insert it into the vacuum assembly. The bagged option had a bag already in the canister. The bag was attached to a plastic piece. The plastic piece should have been hooked at the top and bottom to the canister – it wasn’t. I spent about an hour trying to attach it.

Finally I took the bag off the plastic piece and then worked to attach the plastic piece into two tiny slots on the canister. I was afraid I was going to break the canister. There was a tag on the plastic piece that said, “Do Not Remove.” No kidding!

Apparently in the shipping process someone had removed it. Two broken nails and 30 minutes later, the plastic piece was snapped into the canister. Then I added the bag.

Finally assembled, it looked very nice – black, smoky gray, with a copper colored chassis.

I should have plugged it in last night and tried it out.

But it was late when I finished, almost 9 pm. I’d been at it for 3 hours.

I think that’s enough housework for any one day.

I guess I should have held out for the model with the maid.

Evelyn David

Vacation Time and the Living Is Easy

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Husband and I are headed for our first non-kid vacation in fifteen years soon and it is to our favorite place on earth (besides home sweet home, that is), Bermuda. We went to Bermuda three years ago with the kids, fell in love with it, and made a promise that we would return, alone, when we had the chance. We are so looking forward to the trip.

Now you may be asking yourself, why would a melanoma survivor—and someone who assiduously avoids the sun—pick a tropical locale so close to the equator to vacation? First reason is that despite the fact that I can’t swim, I love to swim. And I use that term loosely. My idea of swimming is a spastic doggy paddle/treading water/half American crawl that if you tried to replicate, you might pull a disk out and require immediate surgery. But it has been working for me for years and I’ve learned not to make too many waves with it, so once the other swimmers get used to a middle-aged woman in ankle-length, UV protectant swim tights and a mock turtleneck UV protectant swim shirt flailing about next to them, and are convinced she isn’t having a stroke, everyone has a great time. We also have hats, sunscreen that was created for when you’re actually standing on the sun (ok, not really, but close enough), and swim shoes to protect the feet. Guaranteed, I’ll be the palest person getting off the plane at JFK when we return from the island.

We picked a hotel with seven restaurants because another thing we’re not is intrepid travelers. If you all recall our honeymoon story, we once went off the grid for “authentic” south of the border food, only to have me pick up a parasite, which I’m pretty darn sure still resides in my lower intestine and makes an appearance every once in a while. I’m also pretty sure that it has created its own parasitic family, one that enjoys making me sick every few years or so. So, once we park ourselves at the resorts, it’s where we sit, eat, sleep, “swim”, and lounge for the next week. We’re also not motor scooter people (Dad once forbade me from riding them and I obeyed him—my sister, not so afraid of authority, rode them all through her high school senior year trip to the island and even flashed pictures in his face while I said a silent prayer in the corner; she was, in the words of my grandmother, “bold.”)—but we’re not averse to getting on one of the clearly-marked pastel Bermudian buses and riding into Hamilton for a little shopping and dining. I will resist the urge to buy a “Bermuda bag.” Remember those? They were big when I was in high school. They had a wooden handle and were oval shaped and you could change the fabric on the handle to one of a thousand pastel or paisley selections. I couldn’t carry one off in 1985 and I certainly can’t now. But I often get caught up in the local color and think that I must have whatever it is that they’re selling. A Bermuda bag, though, doesn’t go with my clogs and recycled grocery bag lifestyle. I think I’m old enough and wise enough to realize this but only time will tell.

This time, though, I’m determined to get to St. George, which I heard is an historic part of the island and where you can get a drink called the “dark and stormy” that is sweet but deadly. My kind of drink exactly.

We have plans to partake in some kayaking while we’re there, but I’ve also learned that once we settle in somewhere and regard all of the activities that other resort-goers are undertaking, we just live vicariously through them. We’re both so tired from the school year and my work schedule that while we have great hopes of kayaking, scuba diving, and other water adventures, I bet you anything that the most we’ll do is raise a hand to the bartender to bring us another rum swizzle. That will require most of our energy and we want to make sure we don’t run out of steam too early in the vacation.

I’ll give you a full report upon my return. I plan on returning parasite, and sunburn-free. What are your plans for the summer, Stiletto Gang readers and posters? Will it be full-on relaxation or an adventure vacation? Write in and let us know!

Maggie Barbieri

Earlier Times

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On a list I’m on, people were reminiscing about their childhoods and how kids could use their imaginations more because they played outside–no one organized them. Things have truly changed and I think it’s too bad–and the main reason is because it’s too dangerous.

Back in my younger days, I have a feeling there were just as many bad people around, we just didn’t hear about them so much.

I had lots of freedom. Mom really didn’t seem to care where I went as long as I was home by 5 for dinner. Also, if we heard my dad whistle, and he could whistle really loud, we better hustle on home. I did not grow up in the country, our home was in Los Angeles. We had hills behind our house where the Glendale Freeway is today. We usually didn’t hike in the hills unless we had a grown-up with us because hobos lived in the hills. And yes, they really did, we often saw their encampments though never them.

We did a lot of roller skating down the sidewalks, we lived on a hilly street and usually stopped by crashing into someone’s garage door. We also rode our bikes everywhere. I often rode off alone in the summer with my writing gear in my basket and a book to read, and parked myself several blocks away under a lovely willow tree on someone’s front lawn. (No, I didn’t know the people.) I would write and read and enjoy myself and no one ever told me to move along.

I can just imagine the people of the house saying, “There’s that strange little girl again.”

Though I spent a lot of time with my friends doing all sorts of things like digging tunnels in the vacant lot (to escape from the enemy–I grew up during WWII) and cococting poisons, putting on plays with the neighborhood kids, I also wandered around a lot by myself. Sometimes I even managed to get lost.

When my cousin and I were 10 our mothers let us go downtown (downtown L.A.) on the streetcar by ourselves. (What we didn’t know is they followed us on the very next street car.) We had strict orders to stay in the block between 5th and 6th and to only go in those stores. Because we did as we were told, we were allowed to go downtown by ourselves whenever we wanted after that. Back in those days you could buy a lot at the dime store with one dollar.

Visits to the library were a weekly event. Mom had to drive us there. I always got 10 books and read them all before the week was up.

When I was a bit older mom subscribed to a book club and she told me I couldn’t read the books–but I did after she finished them. (I’m sure she knew.)

My growing up years were filled with freedom and I truly know how blessed I was.

Marilyn a.k.a. F. M. Meredith