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.
Some Basic Rules
/in Uncategorized/by The Stiletto Gang1. If you take off your pants in front of a photographer, he’s not shooting a headshot. It makes you look even dumber than dirt when you then complain that his focus was elsewhere.
2. If you have an affair with a married man and get pregnant, don’t then tell the world in an interview that he wanted you to have an abortion. It makes you heartless when you consider that an already rocky, if not impossible, father-daughter relationship will forever be tainted by the information you provided. (Corollary Rules: anything put in print is in print forever; if it has ever been on the Internet, it can always be found. Kids, stop sharing stupid photos on Facebook).
3. If you have a child, and this applies to homewreckers and politicians alike, don’t photograph her for a magazine spread as part of a campaign to “humanize” you. That’s not your kid’s job. Bad enough she has to grow up with the craziness of two self-centered parents.
4. If the man is still married, don’t describe your love affair as “till death do you part.” It’s just tacky (although you may not have a clear grasp of what’s tacky).
Since I’m in a judgmental, but helpful mood, I’ll add the following: if the rumors about Jesse James, husband of recent Oscar winner Sandra Bullock are true, here’s a tip: if your intended extramarital love object has more tattoos on her face than eyes, don’t expect her to be discreet. Corollary Rule: If she is featured on an adult web site, don’t be surprised if nothing is “sacred” between the two of you.
And last rule for the day for those who stray: If your annual income has more than six figures (or you’re married to someone who earns that much), and you troll in bars for company, here’s the bottom line: money talks, fast and loud. Are you listening, Tiger? There may only be fifteen minutes of fame allotted to those who have sex and tell, but they can be a lucrative 900 seconds if you play your cards right. Ugh.
Judgmentally yours,
Marian (the Northern half of Evelyn David)
Murder Takes the Cake by Evelyn David
Murder Off the Books by Evelyn David
http://www.evelyndavid.com
Why Life Should Be More Like Hockey
/in Uncategorized/by The Stiletto GangI’ve been going to hockey games ever since my first date with Ed, which was five years ago this November. I used to think of the sport the same way Carla Moss does in The Cougar Club:
“You’re equating hockey with fun?” Carla looked at Kat like she’d lost her mind. “Watching a bunch of overgrown boys pummel each other with sticks? Do any of them still have their own teeth? How does that saying go, ‘I went to a fight and a hockey game broke out’?”
Since Ed has season tickets to the St. Louis Blues games and since he plays in a local league, I’ve seen more hockey than I ever thought I’d experience in a lifetime. I still don’t understand all the rules completely, but I do get why so many love the sport. And the better I grasp the finesse involved, the more I think the world would be a saner place if it borrowed a few rules from ice hockey. I know, I know, that sounds bizarre, but stick with me. Listen to my suggestions, and I think you’ll see the logic, too.
First off, dealing with other human beings can be tough as not everyone’s on the up and up. Life is a giant playground where bullies thrive on ruining everyone else’s fun and plenty of folks try to skirt the rules. The older I get, the more I’m convinced that most adults aren’t grown-ups any more than Alexander Ovechkin is a choir boy (he plays for the Washington Capitals and got a two game suspension for smashing a Chicago Blackhawk against the boards, breaking the dude’s rib and his collar bone). Two politicians from opposing parties can’t stand within spitting distance without name-calling these days. I’ve watched parents fight over hard to come by Christmas gifts in Target. I’ve seen grown women cry after board meetings where finger pointing has replaced honest debate.
At least hockey players are outfitted for the rough stuff, unlike the rest of us who don’t su
it up before we leave the safety of our homes to interact with society. We’d be smart to put on pads and helmets before we get in our cars and deal with idiots on cell-phones behind the wheel who seem determined to run us off the road. Or to confront the “ladies” in the supermarket who learned cart etiquette from the demolition derby and seem intent on running over our feet or banging into us, no matter if we’re sticking to our side of the aisle. Wouldn’t it be nice if there was a ref on the road or in the produce department who could blow a whistle and call a foul when appropriate?
Instead of hearing that so-and-so lied about you or whispered nasty gossip behind your back, wouldn’t i
t be great to just throw down your gloves and start pummeling each other until there’s blood drawn or someone ends up on the ice…er, the floor? It would feel so much more sincere to just man-up and take care of business face to face; then, once you’re finished, you get up, shake it off, and go back to the rat race. No harm, no foul (unless one of you is uber-nasty, then it’s five for fighting in the penalty box).
And for times when folks are just taking the game of life too danged seriously and need to lighten up, how about a little intermission, like in hockey when the Pee Wees appear on the ice and skate around to “Peanuts” music? Maybe we should all be forced to take a break and run around with pre-school kids who haven’t realized how stressful their lives are going to get once they graduate, get jobs, get married, have kids, get fired, lose their house, et al. A couple quick games of hopscotch or a few times across the monkey bars, and perhaps we’ll remember that life should be FUN sometimes. It isn’t all about working and struggling and trying to prove ourselves. We can listen to their laughter and remind ourselves what joy and passion feel like and vow never to lose them.
See what I mean? If the real world were more like a hockey game, we might all have less angst to carry around in our over-sized purses. Just remember to dress appropriately and, if you break any rules or just plain don’t cooperate, you will be tied to the middle of the ice and flattened by the Zamboni.
Happy Friday!
Sleeping on the Job
/in Uncategorized/by The Stiletto GangDo you ever get so overwhelmed that you can barely see straight ahead of you? Mountains of laundry, kids home for spring break, taxes, bills, family visiting, a disaster of a house, yard work, teaching a new class, and, oh yeah, writing! These are the things filling my days. And nights.
Tales from the Crypt: I’m a Ghost Writer
/in Uncategorized/by Stiletto GangThis may explain why I love ghost writing. One of the most valuable tools at a writer’s disposal is the power of observation. And what better way to soak in the color and language and vibe of your surroundings than from behind the cloak of invisibility? From this vantage point, the view is unobstructed and incredibly honest. Just as my ability to fade behind the steering wheel of the big, red mini-van allows me to catch up on all the middle-school gossip from my oblivious passengers, I find it easy, and even satisfying, to loosen my grip on my own, opinionated self in order to gain access to whatever project I ghost. Not quite as juicy as 7th Grade social Darwinism, but rewarding nonetheless.
It’s not that I don’t have an ego, don’t get me wrong. In fact, it takes a pretty strong, secure self-image to immerse oneself completely in someone else’s story, to literally get inside their heads and tease out just the right voice, exactly the correct phrasing. When Meryl Streep dons a wig and accent, she is no longer Meryl Streep but Julia Child or Anna Wintour (oh come on, we all know it was her). And so it is for the ghost, tapping into the author as character and writing from that perspective. See – told you I had an ego!
Like fiction, finding the right voice is perhaps the most important element in ghost writing. But unlike fiction, the voice already exists; instead of tinkering with a character’s motivation or background to uncover it, the ghost simply tunes her already sensitive ear to the author’s voice. This can be frustrating when you want to take the story in one direction and the author veers off in another. I mean, you are the writer, after all. You know how to string beautiful words together, to breathe life into a dull or arcane subject. Alas, it is not your story, no matter how closely attached you become.
What I find to be the most fun is the chance to explore and write about a topic I may never have imagined. It’s like getting paid to go to grad school. And by placing myself in the author’s shoes, the topic suddenly takes on new meaning, becoming interesting, important, urgent. For example, I would hardly call myself a health-nut and I certainly like my wine and pasta and dessert. But when I ghosted a book about calorie restriction, a controversial and still experimental method for extending life beyond the norm, I was suddenly fascinated with the way the body adapts to near-starvation. Images of cells and glucose and SIR2 genes danced in my head and if I had the will power to just say no to pizza, I might have jumped aboard. As it is, I think I gained weight while writing that book. But I never could have achieved this level of interest, never mind translate it into consumer-friendly copy, if I hadn’t adopted the persona of the authors.
A collaboration of this nature requires trust – both on the part of the author, and the ghost writer. Honesty, facts, and clarity are what I ask of an author. In return, I give insight, language and, I hope, a manuscript that connects a reader with an author in a personal and genuinely exciting way.
Ghost driver, aka mom, on the other hand, requires only my patience, silence and superb driving record. But then again, I get to be a part of my children’s lives. Even if they don’t know it.
Alison Hendrie
The Ins and Outs of a Blog Tour
/in Uncategorized/by The Stiletto GangAs I’ve done before, I hired Pump Up Your Promotions to do the tour and the quickly arranged for the blogs to appear appear weekday during the month of March–and some of the blogs required books to review. All of them have different requirements for what they want for the blog–though all ask for a photo and a book cover. Most want a bio and a blurb about the book, others want more information about me as the author, why I wrote the book, what inspired me, that sort of thing.
A few blogs are more interested in the writing process and ask for advice for aspiring authors.
Though all this writing must be done ahead of time, I find it’s a lot of fun to come up with new ways to talk about my book. After all, if someone actually follows along on the tour I don’t want them to be bored with the same information over and over.
Every day when a new blog is up, I make a point to go visit and offer my thanks. I also go back two or three times during the day to read comments people have left–if there are any. Sometimes people make such nice comments, I leave another of my own.
Another requisite is to promote where you are visiting each day by letting people know. I’ll put the blog’s URL on all the listserves I’m on as well as Facebook, Twitter and the like.
Sounds like a lot of work, doesn’t it? Yes, it is, but it’s work I can do from home and then get back to my writing.
Does it result in sales? I’m not sure, but I do know my Amazon numbers go down when I’m on a blog tour, and that’s a good thing.
I also do a lot of in-person appearances. Since I’m usually selling my own stock, I know right then how that works out. The big difference is that when I have to leave home, I can’t do much of anything else, and often I have to stay overnight somewhere. I do enjoy talking with readers and about writing, so that has a plus side too.
Oh, I also have a video about An Axe to Grind http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BdrZA6B7iFI
If that doesn’t work, you can go to my website and watch it.
Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com
My Common Cold Diary
/in Uncategorized/by The Stiletto GangFriday – March 5, 2010
The world gave me several signs that I should never have gotten out of bed. A dropped contact lens, a broken glass … One of a set I purchased at Overstock.com and have had to buy a replacement set. Love the way they look, but if you even tap them with disrespect, they shatter. I hate to give up on a relationship, but … Skipping ahead to my drive to work – four blocks from my destination, the radio went dead. I thought it was probably the radio station. NPR always has transformer problems and it seems like it’s time for a pledge drive. I hate that week. I always feel really guilty for listening without making a donation. But it wasn’t the radio station that was the problem. Only seconds after the radio stopped, so did my turn signals, my power windows, and my fuel gauge did a happy dance. I avoided my usual stop at McDonalds for coffee and headed straight into the office parking lot. So in summary, by noon my day was less than stellar. A highlight was my Dad who came and fixed my car (needed a new alternator). Thanks, Dad. During the afternoon I worked on a powerpoint presentation I was giving the following Wednesday. Little did I know that the secretary helping me, the secretary that everyone thought was recovering from a mild case of the sniffles, was really “Typhoid Mary” in disguise. Cue ominous music.
Saturday – March 6, 2010
The term “post nasal drip” didn’t really describe the drowning sensation I was experiencing. Raiding my medicine cabinet I brought out my supply of Mucinex, Sudafed (the good stuff they keep behind the pharmacy counter so the meth-heads can’t get at it. I understand the “protect the stupid” principle but it seems totally unfair to regular sinusitis sufferers), and Afrin nosedrops. I also had a new bottle of Robitussin. Early implementation of this anti-cold arsenal should have been enough to fend off the “common cold.” It wasn’t. By the time I’d made my weekly grocery store run and my regular 6-week root touchup at the salon, I knew I was in trouble.
Sunday – March 7, 2010
I woke up every two hours all night long – sneezing, coughing and filling up two trash cans with Kleenex. (Soon I’d used all the Kleenex and moved on to rolls of Charmin – even the “squeezable-ly soft” kind rubs your nose raw after a few hundred yards are swiped past it.) My throat was sore, my lungs were filling, and if I were anything but vertical, I risked instant death. I warned my co-author via a virus checked email that when someone came to search for my body, they should look under the pile of used tissues. She was more worried about where my notes were for the third Sullivan Investigation mystery.
Monday – March 8, 2010 I needed to go into the office to practice my powerpoint presentation. I was schedule to speak for an hour on Wednesday to representatives of two federal agencies and several of my staff – you never want to embarrass yourself in front of your own staff. But besides the fact that my voice was now gone, I just didn’t care that much anymore about my career. I just wanted to make it until Tuesday – a scheduled appointment with a new G.P. I hoped to talk him into an antibiotic for the sinus infection, tonsillitis, or ear infection that I knew was headed my way like an out-of-control Prius.
Tuesday – March 9, 2010
My new doctor doesn’t have a great office. (My HMO suggested him – he was close to my house and accepting new patients). The waiting room needed a good vacuuming and I might have been his only non-Medicare patient, but the doctor was unexpectedly nice. He took my medical history himself. He listened to what I was saying without any hint that I was taking up too much of his time. He prescribed a “Z pack” and advised me to stop chasing the Sudafed with Robitussin. I went home, took my first dose of “Z” and tried to rest. My co-author warned me that I probably shouldn’t be considering leaving my house on Wednesday.
Wednesday – March 10, 2010
I got no sleep. There wasn’t enough makeup in the world to disguise my Rudolph red nose or dark circles, but my hair did look nice. As one of my last acts, the trip to the salon was well worth it. Baptists have open caskets and good hair is important. But back to my powerpoint presentation – I did it. The audience was attentive even if everyone kept their distance. I managed not to sneeze too much. I had a big roll of Charmin in my purse and I used most of it in the first four hours. But later in the afternoon, I could tell I’d started running a temperature and I was doing a lot of mouth-breathing. At about 3:30 pm, I called it a day and made the 45 minute drive home from Tulsa and crawled into bed, ignoring the phone calls from people wanting to know how sick I was. I was plenty sick – and no, there was nothing anyone could do for me. It was just the common cold, after all.
Thursday – March 11, 2010
The meeting I was attending was a two day event. But not for me. I had moved into the “coughing up my toes” stage of my “common cold.” I stayed home and proceeded to do just that – in private and to my heart’s content.
Friday – March 12, 2010
I’m still on sick leave from work, but I can breathe again through my nose. Okay, I’m holding a heating pad to my chest when I cough now (can people really break ribs from coughing?) but I feel so much better. No fever. No headache. The one thing that really worries me is that tomorrow, Saturday, is my last day for “Z.” My antibiotic pack will be emptied. Sunday could be the first healthy day of the rest of my life or the day the sun went black. Either way I’m uploading this blog on Saturday for a Monday posting date.
Leave me a comment and I’ll let you know how I’m doing Monday – if I can.
Rhonda
The Southern “overly dramatic” half of Evelyn David
p.s. – I know this blog entry is way too long. But, hey, be grateful I cut out most of the really gross descriptions of my illness. There is nothing pretty about the “common cold.”
p.p.s – Just when are scientists going to spend some time developing a cure for the common cold? I’m just saying … Maybe that’s a health care change we could all believe in.
At Witt’s End
/in Uncategorized/by The Stiletto GangWhen guests arrive at Cabin 14, they’re stunned to learn Sadie is their conduit to the hereafter. Clad in outlandish outfits—clothing typically reserved for those without sagging body parts—and sporting hairdos that make bystanders want to look away but can’t, Sadie realizes one of the guests has been murdered and works against the clock to prevent further chaos.
Beth Solheim is the author of the Sadie Witt Mysteries Series. At Witt’s End is the first in the series.
“To market, to market to buy a new book
Whether mysteries or romance, I must take a look.”
That’s what a book reader utters on their way to make the perfect book selection.
“You expect me to do WHAT?”
That’s what an author says when they realize writing the book is only the first step. It’s not just going to the market, it’s creating the market. Most authors understand this before they submit their manuscript. It’s a business venture. Not a hobby. Authors are expected to be professional, build credibility and promote, promote, promote.
With that said, I repeat, “You expect me to do WHAT?”
Gone are the days of the high-end book tours and endless promotional dollars. So, as the ink dried on my book contract, I knew I had to get my hiney in gear and determine a plan of action.
My schedule is tight because I work full time, so I divided my evenings and weekends into segments. Thank goodness the man living with me, aka husband, took this flurry in stride and offered encouragement. The noun ‘book’ quickly became a verb. I learned how to book a blog tour, a book launch, television and radio interviews, library speaking engagements, book fair and book store appearances, newspaper and journal interviews, book club discussion sessions and time to work on the next book in the series. I developed a website, joined Twitter and Facebook and designed a bookmark and brochure for my book and ebook promotion. At Witt’s End launched in February and I plan to be running strong right through Christmas.
“You expect me to do WHAT?”
“To market, to market!
PROMOTE – Push Rip-roaringly Outstanding Material of Tremendous Entertainment
What’s your description of PROMOTE?
Thanks to Rhonda, the Southern half of Evelyn David, and the Stiletto Gang for inviting me.
Beth Solheim
http://www.bsolheim.com/
_____________
By day, Beth works in Human Resources. By night she morphs into a writer who frequents lake resorts and mortuaries and hosts a ghost or two in her humorous paranormal mysteries
Raised and still living in Northern Minnesota, she resides in lake country with her husband and a menagerie of wildlife critters.
http://mysteriesandchitchat.blogspot.com/
http://readingminnesota.blogspot.com/
A Trip Down Fashion’s Memory Lane
/in Uncategorized/by Stiletto GangAmong 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?
/in Uncategorized/by Stiletto GangRather 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
/in Uncategorized/by The Stiletto GangFrom 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
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