And life has gotten in the way of my words today. Not only am I spending too many hours dealing with the stucco guy, and painters, and the sprinkler man, and the money men (because you can't surrender you savings account to the stucco guy, painters, and the sprinkler man without meeting with a "finance team"), but I've just somehow punched a divot directly above my right eyebrow and the bleeding isn't in a particular hurry to stop.
 
This happened because I am not a particularly graceful person. I'm almost as clumsy as our much-missed kitty, Pinky. Now I'm wondering if I'm going to have a scar when this is done. A scar would only be fun if it was achieved in a particularly memorable way.
 
What happened to me wasn't particularly cool.
 
Oliver Queen couldn't help but notice the mysterious scar above her right eyebrow. Too late, he realized she was watching him.
 
"The scar? It happened in the Spring of 2017," she said in a smoky voice. "Hurrying to enter my car, I thunked my head into the edge of the roof as the front door swung into my legs. And what of you, Mr. Queen? How did you get quite so many scars?"
 
"Oh, hey, look at the time," Oliver said. "Gotta go!"
 
Me, too. So no blog this week. If this bleeding doesn't stop, maybe no blog next week, either.

You should skip this week's blog. It has little redeeming value, there aren't enough words in it to fully count as a complete blog, and I'm sorry to subject you to it. I'm willing to take responsibility for discussing the upcoming ridiculousness, but I'm not to blame if you proceed past this point.
 
From here on in, you're on your own. Consider this fair warning.

My allergies have been terrible this year, for whatever reason, and I've been feeling miserable. Coughing and sneezing, getting too little sleep, I was thisclose to demanding that Glynn take over the blog and force some magic from Microsoft Word...except that his week has been exceptionally busy, and I didn't want to put too much on his plate. Since my magical shoe-cobbling elves don't do words, this meant that I still didn't have a blog for 04/27/2017 and I didn't have any energy to write a blog for 04/27. All of which left me thisclose to leaving this space blank today -- which was something I didn't want to do.
 
My head is clouded, my mind is foggy, and I didn't even have a subject to discuss. Or I didn't until I learned, just today, that dinosaur erotica was a thing.
 
I read about the subject on a much more reliable website than my own. I didn't believe it truly existed, then couldn't wait to mention the idea to the Good Witch. She said, "Oh, sure, I've seen it. The covers, anyway. Go to Amazon, you'll find loads of the stuff." So I went to Amazon. I found loads of the stuff. I was -- and am -- fairly astounded. Not only are there buckets of these stories, many of them have glowing reviews.
 
I'm not saying that the crowd views this stuff as Pulitzer material, but it has its audience. 
 
It turns out, if you're of a particular mind, you can pick up a copy of Ravished by the Triceratops at this very moment. The story led one reviewer to offer, "I like the triceratops sex better than the human sex; after all, there's only so many things two people can do" -- and, at $2.99 for 15 pages, I don't care how many things that triceratops did, I'd want a little extra value for money. In seeking more pages for my dinosaur-erotica buck, I came across Helicopter Man Pounds Dinosaur Billionaire Ass. This is the oft-told tale of a man with the ability to transform into a helicopter who falls in love with a terribly wealthy male stegosaurus. One reviewer referred to it as, "The new 50 Shades of Grey." Other reviewers claimed that they, too, were able to transform into various flying machines and were happy to finally find a novel that featured one of their kind as the hero.
 
For $3.99, the reader gets 114 pages of dino lust. Or, if you should so choose, you can pick it up in paperback for $7.99.
 
In case you're wondering, I didn't pick it up but I did hope the subject matter would make for an amusing blog. G.W. told me I shouldn't bother. "Everybody knows about dinosaur erotica," she shared. "That's so two years ago."
 
That being the case, I'll see you next week. Bring some Kleenex.

​In Kansas City, a chill wind polishes the night until the sky seems to be an infinite slab of clear crystal in which stars are suspended and behind which is pent a vast reservoir of darkness.
 
So what do these two things have to do with one another? A glass rooster with an awkwardly placed spigot and a best-selling writer’s chapter opening?
 
Well, with the glass rooster, when the Good Witch saw it, she couldn’t stop laughing. “I want that rooster,” she said, until she noticed the $99 price tag (marked down, the store claimed, from $249). I kind of thought it might be a chicken, but I don't know my poultry. When I asked G.W. what she’d do with such a remarkable item, she told me, “I’d load that bird with lemonade, then watch people’s faces when they twisted the spigot to fill their plastic carry cups.”
 
Now I want one, too. Once it gets reduced to $19.99 – and it will get reduced to $19.99 – I can’t wait to show it to Glynn. Then I’ll fill it with lemonade and invite G.W. to the house for a barbeque.
 
Now about that best-selling writer….
 
I’m a big fan…or, maybe, I only used to be. His last book was a monster-sized volume that I picked up a few weeks ago. It might not have been his latest, last book but it was the most recent one I’d purchased. Okay, if you must know, I’d been waiting for the paperback to come out. (For those keeping store: Hardcover edition, $22.38. Digital, $9.99. Paperback, $7.49.) As budget-conscious as I am, I only made it through a quarter of the novel before I gave it away.
 
So what makes a cheapskate give away a paperback she’s been eager to read? A not very good novel. The book was long, nearly 600 pages, but I have no trouble with long. This is a woman who loved The Stand, v. 1 and, with version 1 still in the bookcase, picked up expanded v. 2.
 
The paperback had too many chapters for my liking but that’s become a thing that writers do, breaking long sections into short, ever since James Patterson decided a single page could count as a chapter. Or maybe it’s the editors or the publishers or the booksellers who are demanding more and MORE and MORE chapters per book to fulfill readers’ expectations. Kind of the literary equivalent of, “The food wasn’t very good and there wasn’t enough of it”, from what I can see. The words aren’t very interesting but, by gum, you’ll never be able to tell others that you didn’t get enough chapters!
 
Note to self: Add more chapters into next novel.
 
No, what I didn’t like was that not enough happened in too many pages. There was a great deal of description, pages of introspection, and segments where I thought my past fav was simply showing off. He could have written, “The wind was blowing and the skies were clear” but he was too much of a wordsmith for that. He needed to strut a little. He needed to show off. He did a wonderful job of it; I only wish I could write that well. But as a reader? I wanted my story to progress. I didn’t want to be distracted by blather (forgive me, past fav), I wanted to know what happened next.
 
At the 150 page mark, the story had barely begun – or, if there was hidden depths to what I’d read, I’d missed it. I was simply too disappointed to spend another 400 pages to get to the end of the tale so I gave the volume away.
 
Three days ago, I picked up one of his older books. It was published in 1993, was significantly shorter in page count than the latest stuff, and I had fond memories of it. I wanted to remember the “old” writer, the one I loved. This novel was divided into parts and chapters, and I enjoyed it once again. Not that the wordsmith wasn’t present, even then. Part One, Chapter Eight began, In Kansas City, a chill wind polishes the night until the sky seems to be an infinite slab of clear crystal in which stars are suspended and behind which is pent a vast reservoir of darkness.
 
For a sentence masquerading as a paragraph, not bad. The problem was, it took me out of the story. Like a glass rooster with an unfortunate spigot placement, it made me stop and admire what it’s maker had done, like it or not.
 
Or maybe that’s just me.
 
 
 
 

​If you’re asking yourself, I wonder if Peeps are good for me?, I refer you to the words of George Carlin: “You know an odd feeling? Sitting on the toilet, eating a chocolate candy bar.”
 
That wasn’t the quote I intended to use, but it made me laugh so I left it in. When I finally found the words I thought I was looking for, I discovered I’d remembered them wrong, so that quotation won’t be making an appearance here, either.
 
But let’s take a moment to reflect on the original question. Are Peeps good for people? If you mean, “healthy”, nope, absolutely not. How could they be? Those adorable marshmallow beauties largely consist of a little food dye, a dab of gelatin, and sugar, sugar, sugar with sugar on top. They carry no nutritional value. This means if you have babies, and those babies come to you, wanting Peeps for supper instead of broccoli, you must tell them to eat their veggies. If they intend to indulge in sweets as their meal, they’ll have to wait until they get older.
 
I am older. Old enough, anyway, to go on the occasional candy binge.  Ryan Gosling said, “Sometimes I think that the one thing I love most about being an adult is the right to buy candy whenever and wherever I want”, and Ryan and I are on the same page with this. Glynn is, too, which is why we try to enjoy a package of Peeps every Easter.
 
This year, when we discovered three-packs of especially fancy Peeps at our local supermarket, we knew we had to take things further. We decided to have a Peep-Off. We’d never had one before, so we set some rules. We’d each indulge in one peep from every package, rate the candy on a 1 to 10 scale, compare notes, and share our opinions with the world.
 
Which is you. If the rest of the world has failed to stop by this blog to get the sugar lowdown, shame on them.
 
If you consider the above picture, you’ll see our contestants for the challenge. There was the (1) Vanilla Caramel Brownie Filled Delight; (2) the Strawberry Dipped in Decadent Cream-Flavored Fudge Delight; (3) the Cherry Limeade! Sour Cherry Dipped in Lime Fudge non-delight; (4) the Raspberry Dipped in Decadent Cream Flavored Fudge Delight; and (5) the Triple Chocolate Filled Delight.
 
We didn’t know why the Cherry Limeade Peeps received an exclamation mark -- ! -- instead of the Delight connotation, but we both felt it was an ill omen. We wondered if the Peeps legal team had refused to sign off on Delight-ing the Cherry Limeade! Peeps because they were so terrible.
 
When we tried the Cherry Limeade Peeps, what did we find? Not the worst Peeps of this bunch. The red and green color combination was cute, they smelled nicely lime-ish, and they tasted okay. They weren’t wonderfully yummy, but not yucky, either. We rated them a “6”, since I pegged them at a “5” and Glynn wanted a “7”.
 
The rest of the treats we scored the same.
 
The Strawberry Delights looked prettier in the package than they did on the plate. They had a strong but very artificial strawberry smell, and the strawberry/white fudge combo didn’t go together well. They were the least liked Peeps of the day, rating a “3”, which says something. Peeps should never be a “3”.
 
The Raspberry Delights? Not a true delight, but better than the Strawberry. The raspberry smell wasn’t as overwhelming, the color combination was interesting, but the fudge tasted a little off. We discovered, whenever there was white fudge at the bottom of a Peep, we were about to be disappointed. It always tasted nasty. The Raspberry was a “4” on both of our sheets.
 
I’d counted on the Triple Chocolate to be good, since chocolate is good all by itself so triple chocolate had to be amazing, and I was mostly right. The Peeps were very chocolatey and in the best way. A “9”. I’d be happy to find them in my Easter basket this Sunday.
 
I’d be even happier to discover the Vanilla Caramel Brownies in that basket, but I’d have to fight Glynn for them. These were some of the best Peeps either of us has ever enjoyed. There was just enough filling to make our tongues happy, and the combination was wonderful! A solid “10” from both of us, despite the fact that they were the least appealing visually. The marshmallow was very wrinkly: “old man” Peeps. We didn’t care the moment we popped them into our mouths.
 
The takeaway from all of this? Triple Chocolate and Vanilla Brownies: good, Raspberry and Strawberry: bad, and Cherry Limeade: eh. As they say in the advertisements, your results may vary. (I had to put that in for the sake of the Peeps lawyers, but it’s nonsense, really. Your results will be exactly the same as mine. Trust me. Have I ever lied to you about Peeps before?)

​Glynn recently began a correspondence with a fellow he met through one of his hobbies. The gentleman is older, accomplished in his field, and has six published novels currently available on Amazon. The two of them have been discussing writing (fun! Sometimes not!), reviews (fun! Sometimes not! Also, hard to get!) and the difficulties of actually getting the work out there and seen by the world.
 
A couple of days ago, his new friend wrote: Being an independent writer is a tough challenge. There are so many writers out there now it's really difficult to get the product into the hands of the readers. To be honest, I'm often amazed that anyone actually finds my works on Amazon and buys a copy. 
 
Glynn didn’t have to ask his friend what he did for a living. The gent is retired. If he had to make his living from the sale of his e-books, well, considering what he’s shared privately, it wouldn’t all be prime rib and macarOns, I’m telling you now.
 
I don’t know that it’s ever been easy to make a solid income as a freelance writer. In the days when self-publishing wasn’t a thing, we tried to make it happen for one full year. We sold a novel, almost sold another, found buyers for a dozen-plus nonfiction articles…and prayed the car wouldn’t break down, the roof wouldn’t leak, no surprise medical bills would appear, because we had exactly enough to get by and nothing more. Since all of our articles were “pay on publication”, there was never a guarantee that a check would arrive until it was in our hands. One of our pieces disappeared for nearly a year before its intended magazine went belly-up; rights issues kept us from recovering our work without hiring a lawyer.
 
When you’re wondering which bill to pay that week, you don’t bother contacting lawyers over a $300 fitness piece. It’s not worth their time. But, for us, that $300 would have made a difference at the time.
 
It was actually a relief when we decided it was time to get a day job. Glynn found a place that needed workers to build huge electrical box-thingies, while I started taking graphic design courses until I could land a graphic design job. The grind of barely-getting-by lessened, the car got repaired, we could afford to see a doctor if needed. We immediately stopped writing articles – we'd managed to sell every piece we wrote, minus the dead magazine, but the work was never a joy – and we concentrated on our fiction.
 
We love writing fiction. If a day job meant we could write what we wanted, we loved having a day job.
 
Can someone make it as a writer without a day job? People do it all the time. Our friend, Sue, the romance novelist, is doing it at this very moment. But most of the writers we know personally are like us or haven’t done quite as well as us, and we're not exactly soaring up the bestseller charts. Like Glynn’s buddy wrote, it’s a tough challenge.
 
When Glynn was a younger man, he corresponded with an up-and-coming writer who was on the verge of significant financial success. Unfortunately, his early minor successes never translated into a big-time career. The last time Glynn heard about him, his pen pal was still writing professionally, still fighting the traditional pub fight, and felt blessed to have a roof over his head. His cabin had no power, no water, but at least he had a home. We’ve recently met another writer, a columnist whose work I read and enjoyed a few years ago, who shared very openly that he was living below the poverty level. Part of that was was because he no longer had a steady gig. The in-between stuff no longer paid the rent.   
 
It can be a rough world out there. After a couple of years, Glynn quit building electrical box-thingies to enter the medical field. He’s enjoyed his career as a Registered Nurse. I continued working in graphic design and, these days, I do mostly freelance work. I also design book covers, including the ones on our books. One of my older covers is at the top of this blog. I'm not delighted that my new novel is coming along slowly, but contracted design work trumps writing on spec. With fiction, as Glynn's friend knows, you can never tell.
 
There’s nothin’ wrong with a day job.

Before I get to the nitty-gritty, a quick update on IRON FIST: We're watching Ep. 10 tonight, and the show's gets a little less good with every viewing. Characters are introduced, then disappear, then return for no good reason. There's a mystical ghost guy named Thunderer and, honestly, comic book or not, couldn't someone have renamed the ghost? Thunderer? Then, the other night, we were informed that Danny Rand a/k/a Iron Fist is in complete control of his emotions...and then he spent the rest of that episode having one emotional breakdown after another. He seemed even less in control of his emotions the very next episode.
 
On the plus side, actor Tom Pelphrey is rocking his role as Ward Meachum, mentally unstable evil guy. After the Thunderer nonsense and Danny's meltdown, the plot holes and the simple stupidity of random events, Pelphrey is the main reason I continue to tune in.
 
Enough about that. Let me bring you up to speed in regards to my current novel. Narrative-wise, it’s going nicely. I’m on chapter nineteen and enjoying the process immensely. Speed-wise, I must admit, I’m falling further behind on an almost hourly basis. I’m only on chapter nineteen. In today's blog, I'd intended to explain why I’m moving so slowly, and why this is completely acceptable, but this didn’t quite work out. Sitting at the computer, I somehow wandered off-topic and here we are. If I’m to get a blog out today, this mashed-up silliness is it. Lacking an appropriate title for today’s piece, I’ve decided to use the title for the blog I’d meant to write. To save face, a wiser writer than me would tell you this is Part One of this particular journey. Next Thursday, if I manage to stay on point, you’ll get Part Two.
 
On Saturday, instead of writing, I ended up at a very fancy mall in a very expensive city. If you must know, I’d driven for hours to pick up a crazy-expensive under eye cream by Sephora, and I did this for two very good reasons. The most important reason is, this is the very best under eye cream in the world. The lesser and more aggravating reason is, the geniuses at Sephora didn’t care to put their product’s number on the tube that contains the product. So, if you’re me and you’ve thrown away the box, you can’t find the exact right item to order on-line. Instead, you have to drive for hours to a very fancy mall in a very expensive city so that someone who doesn’t need makeup can help you locate the box you need.
 
(TroiBelle, if you happen across this site, your make-up was wonderfully applied. I persist with my belief that you had no need for it. You’ve either aged amazingly or you’re fourteen years old, and really shouldn’t be worrying about eye shadows and wrinkle concealers. Thank you, by the way, for finding my “Make Up For Ever” #4. As you well know, I highly recommend the stuff. In another couple of decades, you might need the product.)
 
Here’s how I know my little and much-worn Hyundai had arrived at a fancier mall than I usually visit. I picked up my first clue when I realized that nobody but Glynn, me, and the mall’s janitorial staff had arrived at this destination in a Hyundai. Then, inside the mall’s entrance, I found Clue #2. It called itself, the MacarOn Café. 
 
If you’re asking yourself, What is a MacarOn Café?, you’re not alone in this. It turns out, the MacarOn Café has an online presence, as well as an actual business site in NYC. I’m guessing there are outlets in Paris and, purely speculating, a couple of very popular stores in the Maharajah’s palace. And there was also this not-quite-a-cart-not-quite-a-store thing at this particular mall.
 
From a distance and in this photo, it appears the mall’s MacarOn Café sells nothing but a few selected soft drinks and a selection of macarons. Excuse me, I meant macarOns. No croissants, certainly no bagels; only lovely, colorful macarOns for those shoppers in need of a pastry fix once they’ve got their Make Up For Ever fix at the nearby Sephora store. I was not one of those shoppers. I wasn’t about to drop $32 on a make-up tube the size of my index finger and then suggest we use what remains of our retirement on baked goods. At least, not while one of my dolls remains in desperate need of a Vintage Barbie American Airlines Stewardess outfit.
 
If money is to be spent, spend it wisely, people.
 
Standing on the upstairs walkway, Glynn watched to see how many people stopped to pick up a treat at the café. In the twenty minutes he stood there – because that’s how long I was in Sephora. One does not drive for hours to dash in and out of a store – he said no one asked for a macarOn. No one even spoke with the gentleman inside the not-quite-a-cart. This disturbed my honey.
 
“The guy probably needs that job,” Glynn told me.
 
“What makes you say that?”
 
“Because he went on-line, filled out the application, was interviewed and took the job. He accepted a job at MacarOn Café, with visions of French cookies dancing in his head. There’s probably a commission thing going on here. If the commission is part of his paycheck, he’s going to starve.”
 
Glynn didn't know if the man worked off of commission or not, but okay. Personally, I didn’t think this particular employee might be a little peckish, but things would improve at the end of the shift. Day old macarOns might not be a complete meal, but I'll bet they're filling.
 
“Do you remember all of the bad jobs I had?” Glynn asked me. “We both had?”
 
There are some things you never forget. But that’s for next week.
 

If you’re a Netflix subscriber, intend to watch Iron Fist but haven’t yet seen the first episode, there’s a couple of SPOILERS ahead. If you hate television show-spoilers, no matter how small, you may want to vacate this week’s blog. If you’re going away at this moment, I suggest you visit A.S.Askkalon, who always posts something amusing for her readers and somehow manages this feat twice a week. 
 
If you haven’t left already, here’s another important note: On the off-chance that you’re an Altoids addict and enjoy basking in the mysteries behind those little rock hard pellets, there’s a couple of SPOILERS ahead. If you hate breath mint-based spoilers, no matter how small, I again refer you to A.S. Askkalon’s website. She recently won a Sunshine Blogger award, which is given to bloggers who avoid breath mint-based spoilers yet continue to offer fun content.
 
Still here, braced for spoilers and ready to proceed? Let’s do it.
 
On Saturday, I rushed into an American multinational retail store to buy something. I say “something” because I’ve already forgotten what it was; I only remember that I needed the item at that time, I was in a hurry, and all of the registers were occupied with other shoppers. That’s when I saw there was a self-service kiosk open and available, where I could pay for the item and be out of the door within seconds.
 
To the self-service kiosk I went, scanning and bagging my soon-to-be-forgotten purchase. Feeding a $20 bill into the kiosk’s money slot, I waited for my change. The machine swallowed my currency and then jammed, its overhead Problem Lights beginning to spin.
 
It’s never a positive event when the overhead Problem Lights begin to spin. It’s never a quick thing, that’s for certain.
 
The woman who came to assist me was pleasant and reassuring. She knew exactly how to fix the problem – she was, according to her, the only person in the store who knew how to fix the problem – and she was ready to prove it. Opening the machine, she released the money holder that held the currency and straightened the bills. She could have given me my change at that time but choose not to do so. Ignoring the broken plastic clip that lay slackly across the bills, she reached for two tins of Altoids and placed them on top of the money.
 
“This will do it,” she said.
 
The weight of the candies, I imagine, was supposed to keep the cash in place. Then she put everything together again, pushed a button, and waited for the machine to respond. When this didn’t work, she repeated the process. The clerk took each step very s-l-o-w-l-y this time, wanting to give the machine its best chance to succeed.
 
I wanted to ask about the broken plastic clip, but it seemed rather pointless. It was directly in front of us and obviously broken. Rather than fuss at the clerk, I decided to use my cell phone to find what I could about Altoids. This seemed a better use of my time than dropping to my knees and crying. 
 
It turns out that Altoids made their first appearance in London, England in 1780. Wow. Drenched in peppermint oil to create a “curiously strong mint”, these tiny square pebbles used to come in ginger, cool honey, and licorice flavors (all discontinued), were once available as sours and as gum (both since discontinued) and, not so long ago, as breath strips (also, discontinued). Many people enjoy collecting the tins that carry the mints. Stumbling across a site offering 22 Manly Ways to Reuse an Altoids Tin, I later showed it to Glynn. He declared he was too much man to ever reuse an Altoids tin.
 
Despite the clerk’s use of the Altoids tins, the machine refused to function. The clerk had tried her shortcut, it hadn’t worked, and both of us lost a piece of our day because of it. When I returned to the store yesterday, I noted the machine had an Out of Order sign on its face. Presumably, someone has ordered a replacement plastic clip to go into the machine. Once the new clip’s installed, everything should work properly. Future customers won’t have to research breath mints while they wait for their change.
 
All of this takes longer and costs more than the Altoids ploy, but I think it's the right call. In my experience, the quick fix is usually a bad idea. When things are done properly, people don’t notice. Try to slide by with something fast, easy and sloppy…someone always notices.
 
I say this as someone who knew better but tried a quick fix with my ongoing novel, anyway. When I couldn’t find the perfect phrase I needed as a 19th century insult, I decided to fake it. How many 19th century language experts were likely to pick up the next Anne Glynn opus, anyway? So I came up with something that seemed to do the trick, read it over, played with the words, and placed the phrase into the story. Not once, but twice, because repeating a false something makes it appear more true. I was rather pleased with the result.
 
My theory was, if my first reader (Glynn) didn’t catch my little creation and my editor (TBD) didn’t catch it, either, I was done. Having, in a sense, dropped my two Altoids tins into the self-service novel machine, I decided to sit back and see if my little machination worked.
 
At least, that's how I felt before my sweetie and I sat down to watch Iron Fist. Yes, the reviews for the show have been terrible, but I wanted to watch it, anyway. Perhaps because the reviews have been so bad, Glynn and I were happily surprised by the first four episodes. As Marvel superhero shows go, it isn’t as enjoyable as Jessica Jones but it is on a par with Luke Cage. It’s not perfect, but what show is? (Okay, this year, The Good Place. Maybe Stranger Things.)
 
There were a couple of story issues that caught my attention, though. A pair of dramatic events in the t.v. show that didn’t ring true.
 
Spoiler, spoiler, SPOILER. You have been warned.
 
Early on in the series, Big Al, a surprisingly well-groomed homeless guy, arrives to give Danny, our hero, a welcome-to-the-park greeting. Shortly thereafter, he brings him a sandwich. This taught us that (a) Big Al was a good guy; and (b)  we could quit wondering why Danny never eats, or drinks, or uses a toilet on the show. After all, we saw him eat a sandwich one time. You remember: Big Al gave it to him.
 
Shortly thereafter, Big Al is found dead. When Danny discovers the slumped body, he notices a bird tattoo on the homeless guy’s arm. As a viewer, I knew this meant the tattoo was significant. It had to be, or Danny wouldn’t have found it. Big Al himself didn’t mean anything, he was as generic as he could be, but that tattoo was going to come into play.
 
“You know the problem with Big Al?” Glynn asked me.
 
“What?”
 
“We barely met him. If the writers didn’t care about Big Al, why should we? He’s just a tattoo attached to a dead guy.”
 
We may somehow see Big Al in future episodes, because of the bird marking and all, but I promise you, no one shed a tear when Danny found his body. If people don't care when a character dies, then the writers didn’t make enough of an effort. They wanted to introduce the tattoo, so they did. Even if Big Al returns, I won't forget how little he meant in the beginning.
  
Later in the show, Danny seeks out Ward, one of the few people still around from his past. Danny wants to be friends with Ward because they grew up together. This is a little off-putting because Ward is a hugely unpleasant human being. When Ward doubts Danny’s identity, our hero reminds him that, throughout their childhood, Ward enjoyed kicking Danny in the testicles at every possible opportunity.
 
For reasons of his own, Danny chose not to tell anyone about this unpleasant behavior. That’s right. He told NO ONE.
 
Glynn said, if he had suffered through that experience, he’d have told everyone. I’m guessing Danny wouldn’t have had to say much after the first attack; the screaming should have given it away. And wouldn’t frequent blows to the testicles have resulted in some physical damage to young Danny? You’d think the family doctor would have picked up on it: “Wow, kid, your testicles appear super swollen. Has someone been kicking you there…repeatedly?”
 
Clearly, the writers wanted a quick way to paint Ward as a bully and a bad guy. They had space in each episode to approach this differently – the show creeps along at first -- but the old “kick ‘im in the balls” routine is golden. They probably assumed if they slipped it in and the story runner let it pass, they managed to get away with it.
 
It was a quick fix, instead of subtle characterization. Like I said, someone always notices.
 
“What do you think about the testicle thing?” Glynn asked me at the end of the episode.
 
“Un-believable,” I said.  What I thought was, They could have done so much better.
 
Me, too, I decided. Leaving the sofa, I went back to the computer. It took longer than I care to admit, but I found a real, guaranteed 19th century insult to put in my manuscript. It’s in there twice, and it doesn’t leave me feeling guilty when I see it. People may never notice, or the editor might have a legitimate reason to pull the words, but it’s enough that I finally did it the right way.
 
Supper tonight, however, is frozen lasagna from an American multinational retail store. The quick fix. After all, a girl can only do so much.
 

​The picture is of my dream Barbie. You may have noticed, my dream Barbie has had a rough week. Her legs are a little marked up. She’s missing some of her digits. I told Glynn, this is because she had a little mishap with a threshing machine. Since then, he’s been calling her, “Thresher Barbie”.
 
I love my Thresher Barbie. It’s because of her, in a sense, that I began collecting dolls. It’s because of my cousins that I now have the actual doll that started this whole thing.
 
Let me give you a little backstory. Long ago, when I was a little girl, my Dad was offered a new job in California. This move across country was a glorious thing because it meant I could be physically close to my three cousins. Beverly, Susan and Lynne were close to my age and were – oh, happiness! – female. I’d always wanted a sister but, through some cosmic accident, was given an older brother instead. Bill was (and is) exactly the kind of brother you’d want, if you wanted a brother, but I also wanted a sister. A sister would play with dolls.
 
Bill did have a G.I. Joe, but he told me G.I. Joe wasn’t a doll. Joe had the appearance of a doll, he lacked genitalia, much like a doll, and he had his own dress-up clothing to wear…just like a doll, if you ask me. Except for his rather boring fashion sense, Joe felt like a doll to me. However, Bill was adamant that G.I. Joe was an action figure.
 
 Anyway, my family shuffles off to California and I have a chance to spend time with my cousins. I soon learn that the three girls have their very own Barbies. As in, more than one Barbie each. These particular Barbies were living a very upscale life. Each had several outfits to wear, many of which weren’t even homemade, there was a mix of blondes and brunettes, and one of the Barbies even had her very own WIGS.
 
Fashion Queen Barbie, as she was known at the time, had “hair” painted on her head, and came with three different wigs. This was amazing to me. I’d never seen such a thing; a doll with exchangeable hair? By the time I saw my cousins’ collection, the Fashion Queen Barbie had long disappeared from store shelves. It was love at first sight, the first time I took one wig off and replaced it with another. I adored my cousins, couldn’t wait to see them and play dolls with them, and my favorite doll of all was Fashion Queen Barbie.
 
My least favorite toy was my cousins’ Midge doll. I wasn’t alone in this feeling. My cousins and I didn’t care for poor Midge. Created to be Barbie’s non-sexy best friend, which sounds like nonsense but isn’t, Midge wasn’t an attractive doll. She was given a last name (Hadley) and a boyfriend (Alan), and not much else to excite a fan base. At one point, there was a Wigs Wardrobe Midge, introduced at the same time as Fashion Queen Barbie. Fashion Queen Barbie was super cute and infinitely desirable. To mimic her companion, Wigs Wardrobe Midge also had “hair” painted on her head and three different wigs to wear – but the manufacturer sent WWM out into the world without a body of her own. If a child wanted to play with this version of Midge, they had to steal a body from another doll.
 
The doll might have sold better if it had been released as Body-Snatching Midge. Since my cousins didn’t own Body-Snatching Midge, only plain and boring Midge, I had little use for her. I imagine my brother Bill might have had similar feelings if he’d owned both a handsome, manly G.I. Joe with Battle Armor and a homely, sad sack-ish G.I. Lonnie with Field Binoculars. Poor Lonnie would have seen very little play time at all.
 
So I didn’t play with Midge and, all too soon, I couldn’t play with Fashion Queen Barbie, either. My life took a sad turn when my father accepted a new position at the other end of the country. My cousins waved goodbye as our car drove away. I never forgot the good times we had together. I also remembered Fashion Queen Barbie and, one day, told Glynn about her.
 
Okay, so maybe I told him a few times about my feelings for Fashion Queen Barbie. Not asking for the doll, just commenting on a piece of my past, but one day he went internet shopping and found a real, 1963 FQB. It was such a sweet gift, but every Barbie needs a friend (a true friend, not dependable, designated-driver Midge). One Barbie led to another; then I stumbled across Monster High, and remembered my love for the Frankenstein and Werewolf movies of my past; then I returned to Barbie again. Before I knew it, I was a full-fledged doll collector.
 
Through all of this, despite the distance between us, my cousins and I remained close. (Fun fact: Glynn and I used them as characters in one of our non-Anne Glynn novels. Of course, those characters all get murdered in the story, but they didn’t hold it against us. Perhaps because we brought them back as ghosts.) One day, Susan called me to say they’d come across their old Barbies with their old outfits. The years had not been kind to those Barbies or their ensembles, but would I like them? Since I was a doll collector and all?
 
Oh, yes.
 
When the dolls arrived, I was so excited. These were the exact same dolls I’d played with as a child! When I saw Fashion Queen Barbie, I felt like a child again.
 
Then Glynn said something that sent a chill down my spine. He asked me, “Hey, what’s this ugly doll?”
 
Midge had come along for the ride.

Me, too. 
 
I don't know about Santa, but I'm feeling a little better. I was so tired last week, all I wanted to do was pull a blanket over my head and sleep. I didn't get to do this, sadly, but I summoned enough energy to help a beloved relative, completed some other chores, and returned home (again, in rain) this weekend. Glynn and I made Sunday our fun day, with frozen pizza, a handful of boxed chocolates (no Circus Peanuts in sight), and cuddling on the sofa for a mid-day movie: Justice League Dark.
 
Did we enjoy the flick? Yes, we did. The cover of the JLD DVD features Batman prominently, because Bats sells movies, but this is a Constantine movie from start to finish. Batman's in it, as are some other heroes, but he wasn't the draw in this house. We're Constantine-fans here (Gotham fans, too, which is Batman without Batman) and if you like Matt Ryan's version of the character, you should make an effort to see it. Fair warning: JLD is a cartoon, but it's not for the little ones. It's rated "R" for all kinds of violence. 
 
You may be wondering why I've posted a rounded backside as the blog photo this time. A couple of weeks ago, I posted the front view of my first (and likely last) attempt at a Santa gourd. Since a couple of people were nice enough to write and ask if they could see the rear view of my Santa gourd, here it is. 

I took the front and back photos. Borrowing the camera, Glynn decided Santa needed a top view shot -- and, no, I don't know what he was thinking, either, but here's that pic, too. There's an odd snakey-feel from this perspective, as if the top of the gourd has swallowed Santa and is in mid-digestion. Or maybe that's just how it appears to me.
 
Where were we? Oh, yes: I was out of town and road-weary, but also a little concerned that my 30-day novel project wouldn't be completed in the 60-days I was now allotting. It's currently going into, I'm not sure, day 46?, so I needed to get my speed up. After all, Nora Roberts wouldn't have allowed a little thing like a road trip to keep her from working on her next opus. Heck, she'd probably complete a 75,000 word novel during the same eight hour drive.
 
So, while Glynn worked on the beloved relative's taxes, I was working on a chapter that's all dialogue and reflection. I tell you now, it wasn't going swimmingly. No matter how I approached it, the sequence wasn't coming together as I'd hoped. It needed some action. Kisses needed to be kissed, or fists needed to be thrown, or SOMETHING needed to spark up the passage. Feeling weary was part of it, I'm certain, but another part was wrestling over the words without my writing partner. Usually, when one of us gets stuck, the other lifts the load. Even though Glynn is free at the moment, writing-wise, I didn't want to ask for his help. I wanted to push forward and complete this novel on my own.
 
​I did mention it's a novel now, didn't I? If I didn't, it is. The word count keeps increasing. I realized that kind of thing happened when Glynn and I wrote together, but I'd intended to keep a strict hand on the story's length. So much for good intentions.
  
Setting the chapter aside, I went looking for something to read. I'd meant to bring my e-reader, had forgotten to do so, and didn't want to read a story on my phone. My reddened eyes weren't in the mood for a tiny screen. Instead, I picked up a book at my host's house: Devil in a Blue Dress by Walter Mosley, just because it was a mystery. It's written in the first person and the story engaged me quickly. I soon came to a chapter where Easy Rawlins, the hero, is reflecting deeply over an early dilemma. There's dialogue, too, when he talks to himself. Yes, an inner voice speaks to him, quotation marks and all, but here's the thing: the sentences flowed beautifully. Devil was Mosley's first novel, and he already had chops.
 
I was so depressed. Why wasn't I this good?
 
I finished my chapter, lumpy and non-engaging beast that it is. Once we were home again, I sent the pages to my friend, Sue. She's a romance writer, usually working on contract for her favored publisher, and I asked her to read this one chapter, plucked out of the middle of my tale, and tell me what she thought. I didn't have to ask her for her honest opinion because she's very pleasantly shared some strong opinions in the past. It took her a few days to get to my pages, as I knew it would.
 
Yesterday, she sent me a text: Liked it. What happens next? That's all I needed. If I can get a "what happens next?" from a reader, I feel golden.
 
Silver, anyway.
 
Onto the next chapter!
 

 

 
​ 

I know, it isn't your problem but it certainly is mine. We drove all last night, through rain and impending yuck, and no one enjoyed the trip. Glynn is every bit as tired as I am.

​Poison, however, seems to be rebounding nicely.
 
And now that we're here, far from home, I see I've left my notes for this week's blog behind. That's what I get for going Old School. Pen and paper, they'll betray you every time. But nothing ever goes wrong if you stick something on your computer.
 
It wasn't a particularly good blog anyway. Not nearly as good as next week's blog. But next weeks blog will have to wait. I really need to get some rest.
 
See you then.