NECRWA Check In

I must say I am really enjoying the NECRWA Conference in Framingham this year. Not just because both of the events I attended (with both Lisa Gardner and Jessica Faust, both were astonishing), but because I've gotten a great sense of the spectrum of other authors, how they work, and where I fit in. I think a smaller conference is the best choice for me. I don't feel lost, nor do I feel particularly conspicuous.

So far Team Diva has done really well, each of us getting (at least) a request for our work. But the best part for me has been spending time with these wonderful women, some of them from far off, exotic locations like Washington State. I'll cherish these few days.

See you soon!

See You Next Week

I will be trotting off to Framingham tomorrow morning to attend the New England Chapter of Romance Writers of America's Conference. You can't imagine how excited I am to be hanging out with Gwen, Bria, Mima, Chi, and my other diva buddies!

Check FICTIONISTAS on Saturday, when Max will be guest blogging for me.

I Love Peter Harris!

Buying clothes is generally a nightmare for somebody as big and goofy-shaped as me. Oddly, Ahmed has better luck picking things for me than I do. But today, OH!, today I hit the jackpot again at my favorite store.

Have you discovered Peter Harris? I love, love, love them. Silhouettes, Fashion Bug, The Avenue, Catherine's, and many other plus size chains sell their left-overs to Peter Harris. I get bargains you would not believe.

Today I went to find a simple black shell in a nice material. I got a black knit shell, a slinky knit shell in a black and white print, and a pretty teal shell... all for $1.50 each.

Oh. Happy. Day.

I'm in such a good mood right now. :)

Nora's Latest Loyal Fan

He's not the what you'd expect. My father is a veteran, once a sergeant in the armed forces. He's an Irish-Cherokee-Austrian son of a farming deacon from the lower, southwestern corner of Virginia that looks like it was lost in time at the turn of the century. He's big, brawny, and was so much a dead-ringer for John Wayne when he was still alive that we were stopped now and then by people looking for autographs at the mall. He has been called a gentle giant, a loose canon, and the world's coolest grandfather. His hands are huge and so calloused that he used to amuse the kids by catching hornets and holding them by the wings while they tried, in vain, to penetrate the skin of his thick, work-hardened fingers.

And he's a huge Nora Roberts fan.

Not sure when it happened. I do know that he loves telling people I'm a writer, and I love that he does. It surprised me, after years of being a critic and columnist, that he seems perfectly fine with me writing romance, even if he never gets to read it. I simply don't give out my pen name, a subject I've touched upon a few times. It allows me the freedom of never caring how far I push the envelope.

My own issues aside, when Nora Roberts' books appeared as movies for television on Lifetime, Papa became her greatest conquest. He's always been a reader, but I distinctly remember him telling my mother off, years ago, for being addicted to romance novels. He must have taken a gander between a few of those covers. He was very specific about the men in them being unrealistic. (No word on the women... at least not that I remember.) Which means he read at least part of a few Jude Deveraux or Johanna Lindsay historicals. Maybe that was where it started?

Regardless, Papa cheerfully mentioned liking Montana Sky, which he purchased on DVD at Walmart and handed to me sometime last year. After I picked my jaw up off the floor I was pleased. He also loved Angels Fall. Thinking it was a movies-only thing, I later picked up a few of her hard-covers at a sale and gave them to him in a gift bag.

He thanked me and they vanished into his bedroom. (We refer to it as "the lair.) Huh.

You know... that's about my own prejudices more than his preferences. Why shouldn't my big, tough-guy, Duke look-alike Papa like La Nora? She spins a great mystery and a satisfying love story, and for goodness sake, she sells plenty of them. It's not even remotely possible my father is all that unusual. And I certainly look at Ahmed, my beloved man unit, as all-alpha-male. But he loves Ann Bishop. And Jacqueline Carey. And he doesn't twitch if I hand him Jenna Black and say "read this, you'll love it."

So last night, when my parents and I returned home from my nephew's birthday party, it should not have made me laugh when my dad yelled down to me "don't forget Northern Lights is on tonight." In the midst of March Madness, Papa was all about Nora's Lifetime event.

Who can blame him?

Free Web Page Templates

I'm trying to get rid of some clutter on thumb drives and disks. Keep checking back for freebies all over the place. Today I've uploaded four new templates to The WebSong Free Template Page. There's also a Paranormal Romance Freebie Page that will be updated soon.

Get em while they're hot!

Me and My Wicked Sensitive Crew

So what are YOU doing tonight? Me... after getting banged up pretty well over the weekend and having a day of rest thrust upon me, I am happy to report that I will be joining Ahmed, cousin Jim, and the rest of my wicked sensitive crew at the HOB for a night of gentle, soft, Irish ballads.

Or something like that.

Skinny Titterers

Some of my closest friends are skinny. My man is athletic, not an ounce of fat (I've learned not to long for love-handles). One of my BFFs is a size zero. It's not about skinny.

It's about skinny fatty haters who snicker and giggle a lot.

For instance... oh, just pulling any name out of the air... Sandra, the assistant to our accountant.

Just to pick any old name, you understand.

Sandra is thin. I wouldn't have taken any particular notice of this except that Sandra mentions thinness, weight, eating, exercise, and watching calories seventy five times a minute in any conversation, regardless of topic. She was born with a curious birth defect: a bottle of flavored spring water growing from the palm of her left hand. I have no idea how she manages.

These facts would certainly not cause me to hate Sandra. What does cause me to hate Sandra is her constant, not-even-remotely-subtle need to imply that I should be unhappy, and that all the problems of the world are caused by excess weight.

I'm not unhappy. I'm actually a very happy person, though I am also sarcastic and can be mean when I deliver the barbs of my wit. I'm not this way because I am unhappy. I'm this way because I've always, at all my varied range of sizes, been this way and like it. Sarcasm and caustic repartee are fun.

Rice cakes and incontinence brought on by diet pills? Um. Not so much.

So Sandra spends her brief moments with me hinting. She giggles and titters a lot. She flirts absolutely shamelessly with Ahmed. He hates Sandra. It's not because he prefers plump women. It's not even because she flirts with a man she knows is taken, right in front of the lady with the pink slip. It's because she is a titterer. Ahmed hates women who giggle, titter, and have falsely high-pitched voices. He calls it "weenie voice." (Meaning wee, small, not pertaining to hot dogs or sausage. They wish.)

Yes, Sandra sighs and finds many reasons to touch my guy's chest (perhaps she is weak from lack of protein?) as she titters and makes oh-so-casual-remarks about weight, health, and similar.

Friday we were both sporting our new Pulmonary Fibrosis support wrist bands. Sandra's reaction was to ask if I would breath better if I "lost a few pounds." Before I could open my mouth (and lemme tell you, BE IMPRESSED BY THAT), Ahmed snapped at Sandra. "PF is not weight related. None of Chrissy's health issues are weight related. She has lost over 150 pounds and is under excellent care."

Um, Sandra? He's a doctor. A really, really good one.

Thing is... I walk a lot. I use oxygen far less than most PF patients. I have already outlived my prognosis and am still considered a "miracle patient" by my treatment team. But Sandra, and many like her, assume that being chubby-- which, incidentally, is a deliberate choice on my part-- is the same as being unhealthy. It's not. We have become a society marinated in fat-hatred.

I wonder, when the morons who like to preach about increasing insurance premiums for fat people, if they think about people like Sandra. She is painfully thin, has an atrocious diet, has constant diarrhea due to the drug she takes to "stay slim and healthy," and is constantly at the doctor's or physical therapists' to treat injuries from hiking, tennis, and overall poor health because of her lifestyle. Should I have to pay extra for her bad decisions? She would like me to pay extra for taking up too much of her world.

I remember, when she first decided to begin taking the drug that causes her to have perpetual poop problems, that she asked Ahmed what he thought. He told her he could not recommend a dangerous drug that requires those who take it to carry a change of undergarments (that's not a joke). "Better that than being overweight," was her reply. She was not an ounce over 110 pounds at the time, and is probably about 100 even now. She's lost muscle in her arms and had problems constantly since.

When I indicated, coldly, that I was "very well taken care of," Sandra tittered and indicated that Ahmed was "a great guy." Yes. He puts up with all of me, excess included. But then, I don't burden the laundry hamper with skid marks.

*titter*

Friday Video

Thanks Smart Bitches!!

Dear Barnes and Noble

Dear Barnes and Noble,

I have been a loyal Barnes and Noble card member for nearly 10 years. I've enjoyed my discounts and love sitting in the cafe on my laptop once a week.

In fact, I am in your cafe now. That's the bloated, achy feeling in your sub-cockle area. Not a funny feeling in the cockles of your heart, after all, nor indigestion... just moi.

Anyway, I have, in recent months, started my cafe-afternoon with Barnes and Noble. But I usually end up at Borders. Blasphemy? No. Quite frankly it's just a matter of survival as a book lover. I wish it weren't so, but it is.

Why do I stray from the store of my choice? You are no longer my store of choice, no matter how hard I try to make you so. Every Tuesday I come to your arms hopeful, but every Tuesday you fail me. I'm not sure why you would dick around with your bread and butter, but I don't work for you, so it's not my responsibility to fix it, either.

Simple solution, really. PUT THE NEW RELEASES ON THE GODDAMNED SHELF ON THE FREAKING DAY OF RELEASE.

Anyway, I know it's cold to do this on a blog, but I'm not going to renew my membership in the fall and I'll be seeing other bookstores. Borders may not have the "instant" discount, but they have rewards bucks and treat me really well. They know where I want my books and when I need them.

I'd say it's not you, it's me... but it's you.

Witchily-Bitchily,
Chrissy

Lies, Leprechauns, and the Luck O the Irish

It's wrong to lie to children. I do it anyway. Not because I am mean and nasty (though I am), nor even because it's fun (though it is). I do it because it is a fine family tradition and I am all about carrying on traditions. This Saint Patrick's Day, for instance, one of my favorites came to mind.


Hostess makes this wonder called a Snoball.

The regular Hostess featured color is either white or bright, shocking pink. But several times a year they issue holiday colors. For Halloween they do orange. For Easter a deep orchid color.

And for Saint Patrick's Day, the grand-daddy of all awesomeness: THE GREEN SNOBALL.

I don't like sharing my green snoballs. It's not that I'm selfish (though I am) or that I begrudge my nephews, godchildren, and beloved friends' bra-- err-- basta--- err-- cherubs some of my snack (though I do). It's that... these are special.

These are chocolatey goodness, marshmallow yummihood, and creamy centered nirvana covered in bright, kelly green coconut.

I mean, these are special.

So when my nephew's adorable face appeared at the edge of the dining room table, zeroing in on my green fluffy balls, I lied.

Having removed them from their packaging, and placing them into generic ziplocs, I made no attempt to hide them. The conversation went thusly:

Cherub 1: Ca-I hava snoball?

Me: Those aren't snoballs, honey.

Cherub 1: Them's snoballs. Green ones.

Me: I know they look like them, but they aren't, honey.

Cherub 1: Whadaredey?

Me: Leprechaun poop.

Cherub 1(joined, now, by Cherub 2): Lepru-kawnpoop?

Me: Yep.

Cherubs 1 and 2: Noooooooooooo-oooooooooooooooh they aren't!

Me: They are.

Cherub 2: Whydyoo hab dem?

Me: Remember how Papa explained that some mushrooms are yummy to eat but others are poisonous and make you sick?

Cherubs 1 and 2: Uh huh.

Me: Leprechauns leave their poop along hedges. They grow to poisonous mushrooms, to help protect the little places in the stone walls where they hide their gold. If you eat these you'll get very sick.

Cherub 1: Very sick?

Cherub 2: Sick?

Me: Yes. Very sick.

Cherub 2 (who will, someday, be a lawyer): Why don' you frow dem away, den?

Me (sighing): Because they get annoyed and steal your shoes if you do that.

Cherub 1: Thaz why you nebber haz your shoes an' can't findem?

Me: I confess, yes. I once threw away some leprechaun poop and they plague me, still.

Cherub 2 (disgusted): Can we jus have oreos, den?

Me: Yes.

Cherub 1: But not the dubble-stuff kin'.

Me: Correct.

Cherub 2: Cuz dose make your feet stink if yer liddle.

Me: Exactly.

Cherub 1: Thaz why daddy's feet stink.

Me (handing out mini-oreos, which I dislike, and pushing the double stuffs, which I do like, back behind the toaster): Run along, cherubs.

*Sigh* Family traditions. Makes me tear up, really. My oldest brother was in his early 20s when he finally figured out that those thistley things from the hedges were dried thistle heads... not porcupine eggs.

Good times... good times.

Readers Who Only Kinda Read

You know, it would be sorta fair to let the entire Cassie Edwards thing die except that she still has fans who, for whatever reason, don't read much other than Cassie Edwards.

If they DID read anything else they surely would have bumped into... oh, I don't know... one of the thousands of threads on the internet about her plagiarism scandal. Or, perhaps, seen it on the news. Or read it in a newspaper.

Now, I admit to being one of the meanest bitches out there when it came to Cassie, and that's because I've always found her books racist and insulting. And because of this I was gleefully amused by her outing. And I will admit, I have never understood what kind of thinking person could want to read her racist, hateful, badly slopped together crap.

Now I know... and I've suspected it all along... they are only marginally literate.

Ok... yeah, that was mean. But how sharp can you be if you are still logging on to forums for readers to post "Any Other Cassie Edwards Fans?" And then, when the kerfuffle begins, to cite Janet Dailey as if she were some sort of "get out of busted free" clause.

I'm beginning to wonder if all these posts, along with the accusations of causing strokes and any manner of other moronic moronosity with a side order of twitwad sauce, are being posted by her sons.

That is all...