Tonight No Sleep

The hour here on the east coast of the US is 10:30 pm. Ahmed is usually asleep by now. Tonight he is on the phone with his parents, who are up at an unusually early hour in their home in the UK. His mother and father are gathered with his brother, sister, and the rest of the family to say a prayer of thanks for the death of Saddam Hussein and justice for thousands of Kurds. The Bath party executed Ahmed's grandparents many years ago. He saw them die. He was just a boy.

Tonight this good, kind, loving family celebrates the death of a monster. Hussein did not kill the loved ones of my darling Ahmed personally. He was, at that time, an assassin of particular note: one climbing the political social ladder surely and swiftly. Hussein was responsible, many years later, for the deaths of others in the family, and many who were counted as extended family for the dearness of their friendships. Some perished in the Anfal campaigns in 87 and 88.

Tonight Ahmed speaks long distance to his parents, his brother, his sister. Their voices bring him comfort. He speaks to me casually, assuring me he is not troubled by memories. I know he is not telling me the truth; but I also know he believes he is.

Tonight he will remember. He and his family rejoice that Hussein is dead. I do, as well. I oppose the death penalty in principle on the grounds that innocent people will inevitably die in a flawed legal system. If we could be certain only the guilty died, I would favor it.

Tonight a guilty man died. I hope he suffered. I offer no prayers for his soul, for I believe he had none. I offer no apologies for my hatred, as I think it is just. I am glad he is dead and I hope he was terrified. I hope he felt pain. I rest peacefully, when I do eventually rest, knowing he is in a dark corner of hell listening to the cries of children he slaughtered, their mothers, all of the innocents he destroyed.

Ahmed will not sleep well tonight, though he is glad to see him dead, as well. I am certain that tonight, as so often happens when he watches television from Iraq, when he sees the faces of the slain on the screen, he will remember his grandparents and how they loved him. Tonight he will remember the horror of watching them shot.

Tomorrow he will wake weary and drained, but I think he will wake relieved, vindicated, and glad. For me, there will be no sleep until his comes.

Tough as Diamonds

I am considered by many to be a expert on jewelry. President of Cameo Collectors International, I've also written at length for many publications about the history and myth of stones. So imagine my chagrin to discover, this month, that my dubious relationship with diamonds continues to become more complicated.

The first engagement diamond Ahmed gave me was a monstrously large stone surrounded by smaller ones. He knows now that I loved how much he wanted to give me but was never comfortable wearing something so large. Turns out fate knew, too, since I was robbed en route to a Maine vacation and off the diamond went. It later surfaced, the serial number pieced together after it had been cut into smaller stones.

Enter diamond number two, a single, large (but not huge) stone in a gorgeous art nouveau filigree setting. I adored that ring. So imagine my dismay at finding the setting a bit loose earlier this month.

Now... I am tough on stones and rings in general. My dear friend Maria says my personal power is so great it cracks them. I love this theory, but suspect I'm just a tomboy who never completely refined. But even I figure diamonds are safe from my rough treatment. They aren't, in fact, the hardest stone (jade is, and even spinal is harder). But they are pretty hard.

Turns out, however, that my rock was cut with the original, natural cleavage line intact and the serial number was masking this. Clever jewelers! Since Ahmed's dad secured the stone for him, he has agreed to take it back and yell at someone in England. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, we are off this week to pick out something new from Tacori.

I promised Ahmed not to use the "O" word. (Rhymes with NO MEN). I do like threes... always have. Wish me luck. If I manage to lose/be robbed of/break this one I'm switching to sapphires.

New Novelist Software-- Great Gift!

What a great holiday this was to be a writer! I guess I should count myself very clever in writing a blog piece on what writers want, since most of the stuff on the list found its way into my greedy hands.

By far the coolest of these was New Novelist software, which is wildly popular in the UK (even making its way into some classrooms). I love the organization it gives me, and loaded it onto my new Fujitsu laptop immediately. It has been a blast to work with. The three column screen lets me keep everything I want in front of me as I bang away on the manuscript in the center screen. Tres coolios! I am looking forward to a very productive 2007!

It's A Bird; It's A Plane; It's SUPERDONUT!!

Not bird, nor plane, nor even frog; it's just little old him-- SUPERDONUT! References to Underdog aside, it was a great internet moment the other day when I opened my inbox and found a message from an old friend: Chris, who went by the nickname SuperDonut on IRC. There are some people in our lives who are pure joy. The Donut, to my great relief, remains just as bone-deep cheerful and grin-inspiring as ever.

I met him around the time Ahmed and I were beginning our lives as a couple. In his recent letter he caught me up on his life, which seems to be progressing with the same unshakable optimism I always associated with Donut. He'd had a terrible November, yet cheerfully let me know it had all come out for the best, including a new car and apartment. I love that about SuperDonut. Catastrophe was nothing more than a big, boingy springboard to something new, something better.

And this is the absolute best thing the internet has brought us. I love blogging. I love downloading music and free software. I love YouTube, and forums, and chat, and surfing on the waves of Google to places not-dreamed-of by myself, Horatio, or anyone else. But the best thing about the internet is how it connects people who are physically apart from one another. Ahmed's family in England can reach across an ocean instantly. My relatives and friends in Ireland, England, Australia, New Zealand, Virginia, North Carolina, Texas, Alaska, and anywhere else they've landed can always email me, visit me on my chat haunt (the Sceptics' Tank), or get in touch in a million ways. I can send photographs, get video, even talk on the telephone at my computer.

And I can reconnect with a wonderful guy named Chris, a guy I will always think of as SuperDonut. He has never once failed to put a big, huge grin on my face. Technology is a wonderful thing. It brings information, it brings access to so many things... and it brings joy when we least expect it.

Rumors of My Demise...

If you have never overheard a conversation about yourself, it's a little like being at your own funeral. Since I have lived in the same small town for my entire life, with short detours for school, everyone knows my family. But not everyone knows me, specifically. I'm my parents' only daughter. Quite often I get "are you an Olinger?" based solely on my looks. Sometimes I'm asked which brother I married when a cashier or teller reads the name. But today was something special. I was standing in a line at the Roche Brothers checkout when I overheard my family name.

"I haven't seen Lanie Olinger in a while," said one little old lady. Lanie is my mother. The two little old ladies were both short, ancient, and white-haired. They could have been anyone.

They mispronounced the name, but large portions of the local population are convinced they pronounce it correctly, yet don't. This is because my father and brothers are all passive aggressive and won't correct people. My brothers are actually such wimps that they adopted the other phonetic rather than admit they've been wussing out for 40 years. As a result of this my nieces and nephews also mispronounce their own name. You can probably tell by now that this annoys me. I still correct them.

Anyway, back to the two little old ladies... They proceeded to have a very long conversation about mum, which rolled around eventually) to me. Gotta love those long holiday lines.

"Her daughter has been very ill. She was in the hospital for a very long time," one said sadly. "Emphysema and cancer, I believe."

"Ohh, that's too bad. She's a lovely girl." (I'm 41, appreciate the lovely... and I'm standing right there!)

At this point they could not decide if it was me who died recently or somebody else's daughter. (Just for the record I don't have emphysema and have been cancer free for a month, but was never hospitalized. My Nana 'Rie used to call that "wishin' it on ye.")

Now, the fun bit about this is that both of these women smiled and thanked me when I invited them to jump ahead of me in line. They smiled and thanked me when I dug up a spare dividing stick for them to place on the conveyer. They gossiped away and occasionally smiled and nodded while they were doing it. Not so much as a blink. Looking right at me.

Well, to quote Mark Twain, another New England writer (of much greater success and fame), rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated. And I can't help but think of my favorite author, Terry Pratchett's wonderful Granny Weatherwax, who is so often found lying in a meditative state with a sign on her chest that reads "I ain't dead."

The name, by the way, is Olinger as in OWE-rhymes with grow, LING-rhymes with sing, GER-like what your dog does when he's cranky. If you hear a handsome guy somewhere in New England say it incorrectly, slap him in the back of the head and tell him it's from me.

It was a very, very odd experience, but I can't help but wonder if it was also some kind of message. Perhaps I need to be more alive in 2007. While I work on a game plan, do me a favor? Spread the news... I'm still here.

Romance Diva Withdrawal Syndrome

I am experiencing a severe case of RDWS- Romance Diva Withdrawal Syndrome. For the past day or so the Romance Divas Forum has been down. It's not like I can't handle this, but frankly it makes my day less sunny and fun. Plus it's not like it was taken away gradually... this was a cold turkey thing and I'm experiencing a slight tremor.

Not to worry, I'm sure it will pass. But when I cruised through Starbucks today I did order a Venti Latte with an extra shot as a backup booster. The gal at the drive-through (who had to shout over Max's hysterics, as usual) asked why. It's a little scary that they know my order patterns so well, and worry over any deviation. I explained that I was without Ahmed for a few days and my favorite daily distraction was out for repair or some such.

"Wow, imagine if we were closed, too." She had the audacity to laugh.

I seriously thought about asking for my tip back. That sh*t isn't funny.

Fattie Readers Unite!!

Eloisa James is a favorite author of mine. Her books often borrow from classics with a respect only found in a true lover of literature. Recently she concluded her series following the Essex sisters with the story of Josie. I enjoyed Pleasure for Pleasure, the story of Josie and her true love, Mayne. I loved that James gave us a story celebrating a woman with a full, voluptuous figure. I loved reading the transformation of depressed, corseted sausage to liberated, curvy woman in Josie.

I did NOT like the cover. Avon made the deranged decision to completely undermine every word on James' pages by putting an anorexic nude on the cover of this lovely novel. The inside cover features the same twiggy lass in half-turn. If she has breasts they are tucked securely into the pockets of her muscular hero.

While it's true that books should not be judged by their covers (this one was lovely in spite of the serious insult in which it is wrapped), it is also really bad marketing on Avon's part. Fat girls take this stuff seriously. To publish a novel so celebratory of our shapes while utterly undermining its message is... well, stupid. It's also somehow vaguely insulting.

Do read Pleasure for Pleasure. I recommend it wholeheartedly. But maybe we, the realistically shaped of the world, should begin some sort of campaign to cover the book in plain brown wrapping... or festive wrappy, for that matter. Christmas spirit and passive protest united in a small, but heartfelt show of support for poor Josie, so happy with her new attitude and corsetless condition, only to be dissed by that skinny broad on the cover.

Lavender Moon

The moon was not full tonight, but even waxing and gibbous in my own sign (Gemini). It looked completely round, a creamy orb filling half the sky. We call this the lavender moon, when the dusk paints the clouds and horizon shades of purple and blue. I happened to be on my way home and caught it just as darkness was falling. Sometimes words don't quite cut it.