Are We Done Yet?

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by Susan McBride

Before I met Ed and we bought a house together, I didn’t have cable. I never watched TV much so I didn’t feel like I was missing anything. Once we put our names on a mortgage and combined our worldly goods (okay, mostly my worldly goods and a few of his that went into his basement Man Cave), I realized the addiction that is HGTV. I think the first weekend after Charter turned on our cable, I watched 12 hours of a “Design Star” marathon. Needless to say, I was totally hooked. When I went through my breast cancer stuff and was forced to take mandatory bed rest, I probably watched every HGTV show ever produced.

And it’s like the “Harry Potter” movies for me: I can watch the same shows over and over and over. Scary, isn’t it? I love to see ugly rooms transformed in under $2,000 (“Designed to Sell”) or even under $500 (“Design Cents,” although sometimes I think the folks who had the cheap re-do should ask for the money back). Never a fan of clutter, I adore when Tabitha on “Get It Sold” instructs hapless housesellers to pack up their crap. “Look, you can see the gorgeous hardwood floors!” she’ll gleefully exclaim after boxes of plastic kids’ toys and endless wedding photographs are sent to storage.

The bad thing is that all these shows keep inspiring me to whip our house a little closer to perfection. It’s almost there, really. I’m just figuring out what to do about the large bedroom window now that we’ve gotten rid of a huge old armoire (and an equally huge old TV), moving a few things around so our room seems twice as big. Do I go for the $692 custom lined drapes with walnut rod and rings? Or do I go thrifty and order the $79 per panel silk dupioni drapes from Pottery Barn? (Honestly, I’m having trouble deciding! I keep telling myself the $692 would be helping the economy, right?)

Then there are the shrubs in front of the house that were overgrown when we moved in (I swear, the doctor who owned our house before us didn’t trim a shrub or prune a tree in three years). I had Dave from Ray’s come out last week and give us an estimate to cut the bushes off at their ankles and dig out the roots. Once they’re out of here, we can repair the window frames and screens that have been smothered by evergreen boughs before the grinder comes and runs over my tulips and daffodils.

Oh, yeah, and I still want to remove the oven hood and spray it white with appliance paint (it’s the only thing in the kitchen that’s original and it doesn’t match anything), and I’d like to get all the windows washed, inside and out.

All the while, my husband keeps saying, “Are we done yet?” Which is kind of funny considering the list on the side of the fridge which is full of “future projects.” Do men really think a house is like a steak? Is it ever really done?

Perhaps I can blame my drive to decorate, landscape, and fix what needs fixing on HGTV (or, as likely, the joy of having anything to distract me from a fast-approaching deadline). Whatever the cause, I’ll promise this: when Clive and Tabitha and Lisa LaPorta finally beautify the last cluttered, paint-peeled, ill-landscaped house in America, I will take down the “to-do” list from the fridge. And we will be done. For real. Maybe.

P.S. I’m in Houston today at the Texas Library Association convention as you read this. I’m also signing stock at the Blue Willow Bookshop, shooting a segment for “Wild About Houston,” and signing at Murder by the Book tonight at 6. So any further home improvements will have to wait ’til I get back.

Unwelcome Interruptions

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Spring. It’s here.

I think.

It wasn’t here on the weekend – 6 inches of snow – but the temps in the high 60s during the day on Monday took care of any lingering chill.

As I write this blog – while watching Dancing with the Stars – the weather guys break into the show. Darn, I won’t get to see Shawn Johnson or that Sex in the City actor dance. Note: I’m pulling for Rodeo Rider Ty to win. I’m guessing Hugh Hefner’s girlfriend or the Microsoft guy will be the next voted off the dancing island.

Back to the weather. In Oklahoma nothing is certain as far as weather is concerned. Snow, rain, high winds, tornados – all in the last four days. The weather guys are on the tv screen. They don’t dance. Okay, maybe some dancing around the subject. They are talking amongst themselves since their storm spotters don’t have any good footage to send them. The consensus seems to be that even though the National Weather Service has issued the “Tornado Warning” (as opposed to a mere “Tornado Watch”) the local guys don’t really expect any tornados. But, with the “Tornado Warning” out, it’s current policy for all the network channels in Oklahoma to cut from the normal programming to the high tech weather forecast centers. We’re treated to the Doppler radar map and storm tracking projections. I might get rain in about two hours. Sigh.

Wait! Now they say the warning is going to expire! Yes! Yes! Now I can at least see Medium! Or most of it. Seems it’s already started. As the weather guys fade from sight, Alison is having her opening dream sequence. The dream thing is my least favorite thing about the show – I know it’s just a plot device for showing her psychic visions, but I don’t care for it. Makes me tired for her. She never gets a good night’s sleep, between her dreams and her kids. Hey, is there a show on television with better child actors than Medium? If there is, I haven’t seen it.

My co-author and I have several “works in progress” featuring psychics. One of them actually has no dogs or cats. Bet you thought we couldn’t write anything without four-legged furballs in it! Good psychic mysteries are harder to write than you might think. Your psychic hero or heroine can’t get so much information from his or her sixth sense that the mystery is solved before it even gets started. The psychic clues have to be vague enough to leave room for the reader to get involved in the detecting, otherwise it’s not really a mystery. I love Charlaine Harris’s “The Grave Secrets” series. That psychic finds dead bodies. That’s pretty much her whole bag of tricks so far. As with any good series, the characters grow and change. I can’t wait to read her next one.

Medium is about half finished. The weather guys claim they are only interrupting commercials. Right! They are slow to get back to normal programming from each commercial and I’m missing the first few seconds of the show. Sigh. Reminds me of when I was living with my parents. My dad is the consummate channel surfer. He hates commercials with a passion. If you watch television with him, be prepared to miss part of your show after every channel break ends. He usually overestimates the length of the commercials and is slow to surf back to his starting place.

I’ve lost the thread of this episode. Maybe this blog too. The interruptions add up and it’s easy to lose track.

Which reminds me of plots and subplots, present and past, dreams and reality – too much switching back and forth can lose your readers. I hate time shifts in books and film. But that’s a subject for another day.

It’s raining outside. Medium is over.

Wonder who scored the lowest on Dancing with the Stars?

Evelyn David
http://www.evelyndavid.com

On Marriage

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Congratulations to Marilyn’s granddaughter, Jessi, on her impending wedding. With grandma Marilyn and her cute sailor husband of many years as role models, Jessi is well on her way to happiness with Juan. I can just tell.

Marilyn’s blog got me thinking about my own nuptials. Jim and I just celebrated our twentieth anniversary on the 18th of March. Why March in the Northeast when you have the beautiful fall foliage, the spectacular weather of June, or any other month that would do better than a dreary, cold, spate of days, you ask? Jim had just started his new teaching job and the school calendar dictated two weeks off at the end of every March. We decided to get married on the day after St. Patrick’s Day and with the little money we had, jet off to lovely Cancun for a week of R&R after the big day.

We had so little money to travel that my father, who had stayed up all night after the wedding so that he wouldn’t oversleep, picked us up at the new Hilton in our adjacent town and drove us to the airport. Nothing says romance like having your father drop you off for your honeymoon! We got to Mexico in good time, went through customs, and checked into our hotel room where we promptly fell asleep for what seemed like two days. We were very young when we got married by today’s standards (early- to-mid 20s) and didn’t know a whole heck of a lot about traveling. Or take into account that the last two weeks of March in Cancun would be filled with Spring Break revelers and not too many honeymooners. And extended American families with more than the requisite 2.3 children. But we made the best of it. Our room was nice, and everything was super cheap, a boon for a newly-minted teacher and his editorial assistant wife. Service was interesting, though—every morning between five a.m. and six a.m., a porter would come to our room, let him or herself in, and give us clean towels, despite the fact that we were sound asleep. We never did figure that one out and were never able to make them stop.

When I awoke after our extended nap, I realized that I didn’t pack a bathing suit, so our first moments of being awake on our actual honeymoon were spent shopping in downtown Cancun looking for a bathing suit that was a) not a bikini, b) not a string bikini, and c) not something my mother would deem “flattering” (the kiss of death). I settled on an $80.00 pink and black Speedo which was functional, but least of all, “flattering.” I held onto that bathing suit for a long time, despite the fact that the elastic in the leg holes went back in the early 1990s and I couldn’t wear it in public.

The week was wonderful. The weather was gorgeous, the water calm, tranquil, and warm. We even had the added bonus of running into some Spring Break participants who had graduated from our college and who were in awe of the fact that we, too, had chosen Cancun as our destination. We started to run out of money toward the end of the week and decided to chance the local fare, away from the hotel. That proved to be our fatal mistake.

The local food was delicious. We were careful about what we ordered. We assiduously avoided the water. We did everything we thought would keep us safe, eating in a country that we had heard might make you the recipient of Montezuma’s Revenge. We were doing great, enjoying local delicacies and culinary delights and had made it through the week, our budget intact. We headed off to the airport, a little sunburned, but relaxed after a week-long jaunt to tropical climes and got on the plane with all of the rest of the Spring Breakers, so happy that we were now able to start spending our life together.

We were somewhere between North Carolina and South Carolina—my best guess—when it appeared that I was bringing home either an intestinal parasite, salmonella, or some other exotic case of food poisoning. We managed to make it to our apartment just as my fever hit one hundred and four degrees and all hell broke loose. I’ll spare you the gory details.

Long story short? In the space of twenty-four hours, we had lived most of our vows, specifically the “in sickness and in health” part. I was sick for two weeks, but managed to avoid hospitalization. I stayed in pajamas the entire time, too weak to put on anything with buttons or a zipper. Jim went back to school, checking on me sporadically throughout the day, and coming home not to a home-cooked meal, but a can of Lysol, a sponge, and a bucket full of bleach to begin his nightly rounds of disinfecting.

OK, so maybe we shouldn’t have Jessi and Juan read this post lest they turn tail and run for the hills. But something tells me that they are a bit more savvy about the world than me and my husband were at the time. All I can say is that after that auspicious start, our marriage has been smooth sailing, which is what happens when you marry your best friend, your soul mate, and the love of your life. Not even a little parasite will get in the way.

Maggie Barbieri

Romance Is In the Air

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My granddaughter who lives next door and is in and out of the house several times a day had big news for all of us last Sunday morning. Her boyfriend of two years proposed and gave her a ring.

That morning in church, Juan announced to the whole congregation that he’d asked Jessica to marry him and she’d accepted. Everyone applauded. The pastor (who happens to be my son-in-law) called Juan, Jessi and her mom (my son was working) up to the front and they all prayed.

Jessi and Juan met in their freshman year in high school. He was immediately enamored, but Jessi wasn’t ready for a boyfriend. They had many of the same classes and when it came time for the Christmas formal, Juan asked Jessi to go with him. She wanted to go to the dance, so agreed. That was the extent of their dating until the next big dance came along. Again she went with him. That continued for two years. His persistence paid off, because Jessi began spending more time with him.

Both played soccer for the high school and some of their dates consisted of practicing soccer together.

When Juan started coming to church every Sunday and then helping Jessi with the Sunday School class she teaches, we all knew the friendship had developed into more of a romance.

Now Jessi is planning her wedding which won’t be until next March and her father is moaning about what it’s going to cost him.

Our pastor won’t marry anyone until they’ve been counseled. The first step is for each of them to fill out a questionnaire without speaking to each other about it. She’s done it already and I’m sure Juan won’t be far behind.

I’m glad I’m the grandmother and don’t have to be in on the planning. It’s fun to hear all of her ideas, just glad I don’t have to execute any of them.

For my eldest daughter, we planned the wedding together. She made her dress and helped the bridesmaids who didn’t know how to sew make theirs. Daisies grew all over the neighborhood and we picked them for the baskets the bridesmaids carried. We had the reception in our family room and back yard and I prepared all the food.

My second daughter had a small wedding and again I prepared the food for the reception which was again at our house. Eldest son went to Vegas and married,the reception was at our house and I prepared the food. Years later, this was repeated when he got married the second time. Youngest daughter did all her wedding planning, reception was in eldest daughter’s back yard. I prepared the food.

Youngest son had a church wedding and the reception was in our house and I prepared the food. Years later he had a second wedding in Vegas, and I know you can guess where the reception was and who prepared the food.

Thank goodness I can just sit back and enjoy the one that’s coming.

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

Paul Newman Rocks

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Swoon.

I don’t often get to swoon about my day job, but this time…sigh.

I’m writing a Young Adult biography of Paul Newman. Other than writing mysteries, does it get any better than penning the life and times of the man with the piercing blue eyes?

The younger generation may only recognize Paul Newman as the face of organic popcorn. Although there is a whole generation under the age of six who recognize Newman as the voice of Doc Hudson from the animated mega-hit, Cars.

I’ve just started the research, but as I wrote in my book proposal, this is a man who was constantly reinventing himself. He was an actor, director, racecar driver, political activist, businessman, philanthropist, humanitarian. He took his love of cooking and transformed it into a hugely profitable business that donates ALL profits to charities. I knew about Newman’s Hole in the Wall camps for children with cancer, but was touched by the story of donating a bus to the Hope Rural School in Indiantown, Florida so that the children of migrant workers, who too easily slip through the educational cracks, could safely get to a school that was created to meet the needs of families on the move.

I envision spending hours watching – and rewatching – Paul Newman movies. I know. It’s a tough job, but somebody’s got to do it! While he once took out an ad apologizing for what he thought was his wretched movie debut in The Silver Chalice (and I confess I haven’t seen it), who could forget him as Ari Ben Canaan in Exodus (could those eyes get any bluer?), Brick Pollitt in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (ooooh, the unadulterated sex appeal and probably my favorite film), and Henry Gondorff in The Sting (Paul Newman in an undershirt, swoon)? The range of the man was phenomenal, but the range of his humanitarian outreach was even more extraordinary.

He wasn’t a saint, often drank too much, met more than his share of heartache. What I find fascinating is Newman’s ability to tackle life head on – and bounce back when he failed. I am impressed by his acknowledgment that it takes hard work to succeed. “I had no natural gift to be anything,” he insisted. “I’ve worked really hard, because nothing ever came easily to me.” I like the idea that he had a second, third, even fourth acts in his life, taking new risks and enjoying new challenges.

The next six months will be a hectic time alternating between the murder and mayhem of the third book in the Sullivan Investigations series – and learning more about the man whose nickname was King Cool.

Swoon.

Evelyn David

Fear of Sewing

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Jeri Westerson grew up on the mean streets of Los Angeles and so always had a thing for noir. She also always had a thing for the Middle Ages. Her debut novel Veil of Lies; A Medieval Noir combines both loves. Read an excerpt at www.JeriWesterson.com.

It’s not something I generally do. I mean, I’m pretty comfortable playing with my sharps, my daggers and sword. But facing a sewing machine is a bit scary.

Yeah, I’m all wrong as a girl. I always like playing the boys’ games rather than the girlie stuff. I’m glad to see it’s finally paying off with my novels. VEIL OF LIES is my debut medieval mystery with a protagonist who is all man. Crispin Guest is a disgraced knight eking out a living on the mean streets of 14th century London as a private detective. His life on the Shambles, the butcher’s district, is less than desirable, but because he committed treason against the newly enthroned King Richard II, he was hardly in a position to argue. His life was spared but his knighthood, lands, and place in the world were banished. Gone is the courtly life he was used to. And now he must live amongst people he would scarcely have given the time of day let alone live with.
And so I get to use my knowledge of weapons and other manly pursuits while filling out the backstory of Crispin’s life. It’s a lot of fun, as you can imagine.

But as far as promoting the book, I have to get a little more down to earth. Those who like medieval mysteries are very keen on their history. And I thought I might have to make a few appearances at Society of Creative Anachronism events (you know, those re-enactors who do battles and jousts and Renaissance fair-type gatherings?) That’s where the sewing machine comes in.

I’ve made the occasional Halloween costume for my son (though my motto has always been, “If I don’t glue it, I don’t do it.”), but here I was going to create an actual 14th century gown for myself, complete with head piece. Was I nuts? Firstly, I never remember how to wind the bobbin, and no matter how gentle I am with the foot pedal, it always runs away from me. The seams bunch up, I get the wrong thread in the wrong place, and what the heck is “facing” anyway?

But I managed. I found the right pattern and didn’t even have to worry about a hidden zipper (uh, no thanks!) as I made it big enough to slip over my head.

And after all that preparation, I’ve worn it exactly…once. Camping. Doing a medieval feast for my friends. And wore it for a total of ten minutes as it was hotter than blazes were we were. I’m not the type to show up at a book signing wearing a costume. I just don’t. So I imagine that one of these days, I will don the thing again and make a proper appearance. I suppose.

In the meantime, I’d love to show you my collection of medieval weaponry. I have a story or two about my daggers and sword. And yes, you can try on my helm. But don’t swing the flail. You can put an eye out.

Jeri Westerson

If you’d like to see a few of those articles on weapons, slide on over to my blog http://www.getting-medieval.com/ or peek in at my website for the first chapter of VEIL OF LIES by going to http://www.jeriwesterson.com/.

March Madness

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I usually don’t watch sports on television – I make an exception for March Madness and the women’s tournament.

I got my first basketball in the sixth grade. I loved playing. I would have loved playing on a team even more, but that was back before schools believed they had to provide equal sports opportunities for girls. Some schools offered basketball for girls, most did not. The grade school I attended didn’t think it was necessary. The sixth grade boys had a team that competed with other schools. The sixth grade girls got to play basketball at recess. Big whoop. That was 1971.

On June 23, 1972, things changed. Title IX was enacted. The new federal law stated, “No person in the United States shall, on the basis of sex, be excluded from participation in, be denied the benefits of, or be subjected to discrimination under any education program or activity receiving Federal financial assistance.”

In other words, “Schools, if you want federal money, stop discriminating based on sex.”

The biggest area of discrimination? Sports.

In 1972, the school I attended had a girls’ basketball program.

We didn’t get the facilities, the locker rooms, the uniforms, the playing times, or any of the extras that the boys’ teams took for granted, but we had a team. And after having nothing before, we were ecstatic.

Today, I look at how far women’s sports programs have come and I’m very envious. All kinds of opportunities are out there for girls of all ages. Even with schools cutting back because of budget constraints, if they offer boys sports, they have to offer girls sports. There have been many challenges to the law, many disputes over what constitutes equal, and many complaints over adding girls sports if it meant cutting a boys’ sport in order to be able to fund a sport for the girls. And what the schools can’t afford, private organizations can and do. Girls’ softball, volleyball, tennis, fencing, and yes, even basketball community or club leagues are common

Are men’s and women’s sports treated equally? Are they equally funded? Equally supported by their communities? No. But I have hope that someday they will be. We have come a long way since 1972.

As I write this blog, I think of one of my heroes, Pat Summitt, the University of Tennessee women’s basketball head coach. She started as an assistant coach at the university in 1974, having grown up during the time when girls’ sports was an oddity, not a given. A lot of the respect women’s basketball has achieved in the last 34 years has been due to Pat Summitt’s efforts.

The other night I watched her mostly freshman team lose in the first round to Ball State. Although the Tennessee team and coach were visibly disappointed, along with the pundits and fans, I couldn’t help but think how lucky they were. Win or lose, their destiny is determined, not by their gender, but by talent, hard work, and desire.

March Madness? Sure. Sixty-four teams of talented, athletic, smart young women playing a team sport, their games broadcast on national television.

Quite a change from the time when girls were lucky to touch a basketball at recess.

Bring on the madness.

Evelyn David

P.S. – New interview with both halves of Evelyn David is up at Ask Wendy – The Query Queen’s blog – Check it out – Ten Questions by Ask Wendy – The Query Queen

Evelyn David interview http://tinyurl.com/EvelynDavidinterview

Dating in the Modern World–Not for the Faint of Heart

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My Stiletto sisters of Monday and Tuesday have given me plenty of food for thought and I was debating between the “first date” post versus the “guilty pleasure” post. Since writing about my guilty pleasures could take a lot longer than it should, I’ll start with first dates or just dating in general.

I didn’t go on too many first dates, luckily. I was fortunate to meet my husband in college where we first became friends in one of our shared French classes. I was struggling a bit with the material and our teacher—a woman who was truly a Fairy Godmother to me and Jim—suggested that this younger man help me with my studies. Suffice it to say that the only things I can say in French are,“I need more wine, please” and “Where is the bathroom?” but I found my soul mate and the love of my life. So who cares if I confuse the words for factory and pool in French?

For some reason, though, I’ve been thinking a lot about dating mores in the modern world. I find myself having made the acquaintances of younger women and am in awe of what goes on the in the world of 21st century dating. Texting, email, Facebook, Blackberry communication…it’s daunting. Doesn’t anyone use the phone anymore? Or talk to each other face to face? Although back in the day, some of us were known to sit by the phone for hours on end waiting for that special someone to call, is the instant access of today any better? What happens if you text a paramour and don’t hear back from him/her instantly? To me, that seems much worse than staring at a non-ringing phone, willing it to trill. Knowing that everyone is plugged in twenty-four/seven and not receiving a text back would make me nuts. And I think I can safely say that that goes for the women I know out there in the dating world.

Several of my younger friends also do online dating, which I thought would be a good resource until I heard about how many potential dates post pictures of people other than themselves to draw dates in. And of course, I’m a mystery writer, so all I think about is meeting a stranger in a bar for a drink or a cup of coffee and how that scenario could go so wrong. But I also know three friends who met their spouses online; all are happy, well-adjusted, and giant proponents of online dating.

It’s the speed of everything nowadays that gives me pause. A similarly-aged friend and I were talking to a much younger friend who is attempting to embark on a new relationship. This new couple is still sorting things out—the “dance,” so to speak. My advice? Take it slow. Let it marinate. My friend’s advice? Look for a companion. Look for someone to do things with that you like to do. Have fun together. Decide what it is that is a deal breaker and what you can live with, because guess what? We’re not all perfect. Don’t expect him to hang on your every word, or vice versa. Go from sixty miles an hour to thirty and see how that feels.

The younger woman stared at us, dubious, but I did remind her that we have a combined 30 + years of marriage between us, so we can’t be all wrong, right? I know things are different, but are they truly that different?

What’s going on out there in the dating world? Your thoughts from the trenches, please.

Maggie Barbieri

Guilty Pleasures

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Going to movies is one of my guilty pleasures–guilty because of the money it costs to go to the show nowadays and the fact that we usually end up eating out either before or after. The last movie we saw was Knowing which hubby and I thoroughly enjoyed. People are calling it sci-fi, but it really is religious with multiple subtle clues throughout.

Another of my guilty pleasures is reality TV shows. I’m delighted that Dancing With the Stars is back on. My daughter-in-law and I watch together. We’ve sucked hubby into watching it too. I also love Survivor and have watched it faithfully since it’s inception. My eldest daughter and I discuss it along with the Amazing Race via e-mail after each episode. (Yes, I also like Celebrity Apprentice, but I’m usually asleep before the firing.)

My biggest confession is my husband and I watch General Hospital together in the afternoon. (If we miss it we watch the episode on the computer.) Frankly, sometimes we both go to sleep when it’s on. It’s amazing to me the things they do with the plot that an author could never get away with. I also have a good friend who is a General Hospital fan and hubby and I have been invited to her home for tea and to watch an episode,

I have other TV shows I really like–Medium and The Mentalist are wonderful. By the time evening comes around, my brain is too tired to tackle any writing chores and a little mindless entertainment seems just right.

Oh, and I like McDonald’s vanilla flavored iced coffee too. (Fortunately we’re 17 miles away from the nearest McDonald’s.)

Now, I’ve confessed–what are your guilty pleasures?

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

The Mating Game

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Listening to son number three rant about the dating scene made me realize that even if it’s been a million years since I was unattached, first dates are still the pits.

A recent example.

He’d met an interesting woman who was a friend of a friend of a friend. They’d chatted by phone, exchanged a couple of emails, and agreed to meet for a drink. This generation – and I just aged myself by a hundred years, but at least I didn’t refer to them as the young un’s – don’t want to invest any real time or money in a first date. You meet in a public location, just for drinks or coffee so it’s a limited time frame, and if worse comes to worse, you check your Blackberry and announce that you have to go back to work because of an unexpected crisis. Who’s going to argue in this economy when work calls?

From what I understand, the meet and greet over beers went well, they shared a few laughs, discovered they both like films, and before the evening ended, agreed to go to a movie.

Danger, Will Robinson.

The movie you choose can mean the difference between marriage and a lonely life of celibacy.

Ever the gentleman (I raised him well), he permitted the young woman to choose the flick. Now, if I had been advising her, there are a couple of parameters I would have suggested in choosing a film for a first date.

1. Skip all Chick flicks.
We may all be able to recite verbatim numerous scenes from Steel Magnolias and have the soggy tissues to show for it, but if the movie has the girl dying for love, it’s a pass for a first or even fifth date.

2. Pass on any movie with subtitles.
Sure there are lots of fabulous films made in Japan, Italy, France – but at this point, you’d like subtitles for what your date really means when he says, “I’ll call you.”

3. Avoid at all costs any films that have an IMPORTANT message.
AKA, you’ll walk out depressed because life sucks and there’s no point in even hoping that there is a happy ending to, well, anything because men are pigs.

Here’s what happened. They met at 9:30 pm for a quick coffee and cupcake. So far, so good. Sure it’s late for me, but they’re young. The movie was at 10 and it was a World War II movie in a frozen tundra with Nazis – not a lot of laughs to say the least. In fact, not only did many of the good guys die in the film, but the epilogue then made clear that even those who survived suffered more tragedies in life.

As he pointed out, you’re not supposed to end a first date thoroughly depressed. Since it was midnight and both had early meetings for work the next day, they parted within fifteen minutes — never to meet again.

What the worst first date you ever had?

Evelyn David

P.S. We’ve been Kindle-d. Murder Off the Books is now available in Kindle format. Murder Takes the Cake will not be published in paperback until May, but is already available in Kindle format. TechnologyRUs!