Jenny Gardiner’s Blog

It’s been awhile since my fellow authors from the Girlfriend’s Cyber Circuit have had a new release so I’m happy to be able to tell you about Sheila Curran’s novel, Everyone She Loved. Sheila, also the author of Diana Lively is Falling Down, has been rebounding from cancer surgery and treatment, so we’re hoping to encourage a push to purchase her book because she’s unable to do much of the marketing for it herself. So please do go check it out!

(oh, and I found an interesting piece by Sheila on the lovely M.J. Rose’s Backstory blog so check it out too!)

Tell me a little about your book.

• Four women, friends since college, live in a charming southern beach town. One of them, Penelope, has more money than God. Which may be why she insists on playing the deity from time to time. Despite her beauty and inherited wealth, she becomes preoccupied with what might happen to her husband and children if she died. So she talks her husband into signing a codicil to her will. If she should die, he won’t remarry unless the new wife (and more importantly) mother, has been approved by her sister and three best friends. Years go by, the codicil gathers dust, and more than its share of hilarity, until the unthinkable happens and everyone she loved must find their way without Penelope. Simply told, it’s old money in the New South, romantic confusion, legal entanglements, and the unbreakable bonds between four women – and a man.

What got you writing in the genre in which you write.

My first two books, which were never published (I call them my very own Master’s of Fine Arts) were murder mysteries. Oddly enough, I’m really not sure which genre I’m in. I guess you could call it a combination of ‘women’s fiction’ ‘mystery’ with a dash of commentary on human relationships and foibles.

Favorite thing about being a writer?

The days when I have gotten into the flow and lost myself in the lives of my characters.

Least favorite thing about being a writer?

The pay.

What is the most interesting thing that’s happened to you since becoming a published author?

Meeting other authors and finding out that they’re just like me. I always thought I was slightly insane. I worried about everything, was afraid to fly, hated to leave my children alone with sitters, got stage fright, was completely neurotic. But as it turned out, it was really about having this over-active imagination. So many writers I know share these traits, that I finally realized: these are my peeps! What a great relief!

What’s your favorite type of pie?

Apple. A la mode.

Advance praise for EVERYONE SHE LOVED

Okay, so a little last-minute unexpected drop-by company—-someone I haven’t seen since the dawn of mankind—-got me thinking about this piece I wrote quite a few years back. We might be out of the legos-all-over-the-floor-stage, but the mess? Well, let’s just say it’s better than it used to be and leave it at that...

I love this lady--it looks almost like me with a broom. 'Cept I'd be frowning LOL

Housekeeping is not my bag. You might never know this, if you didn’t come for a visit. From the curb, my quiet, unassuming abode looks just like any other house around (except that I haven’t mulched or weeded in a year). But step foot inside, and if you’re lucky you might be able to travel two feet before stumbling upon something left in the wrong place and destined to cause you to do a Dick Van Dyke flip over the ottoman right onto your behind.

Dishes are stacked to eyeball level in the kitchen, waiting to be washed once we run out of utensils. In the bedroom, you’ll find piles of unread magazines decorating the perimeter of the unvacuumed carpet. Catalogues that will never be used (but you just never know) rest peacefully in a corner, secure in the knowledge that they are not bound for the recycling bin for at least 6 more months. Half-finished projects lie unattended, detritus of dashed ambitions.

Throughout the house at any given time you are likely to find strewn about the floor: backpacks, lunchboxes (day-old leftovers intact therein), pens and pencils, dirty socks and undies (always turned inside out), hair elastics, twisted beyond repair, mangled dog toys, heel-piercing lego bits, and the occasional spot of parrot doo doo (lucky for us, our bird has projectile capabilities).

To my great relief, my house has not gotten this disastrous. Yet.

For some reason I have found over the years that just when I think I’m gonna grab the bull by the horns and make something of my mess, it all just seems to snowball further out of control. Carpe diem, schmiem. With 3 kids, 2 dogs, a cat, a parrot, and the commensurate tumbleweeds of fur, feathers and food that migrate across my floor, I’m lucky that I’m not raising a family of asthmatics by now. So let me just warn you right off the bat: you cannot eat off of these floors. Unless you’re looking to get pinworms or something.

This non-neatnik problem has weighed heavily on my mind for a while. I think I hit an all-time low several years ago when I contemplated entering a contest on a national television show: Why I need The View to Come Help Me Clean Up and Organize My House. When you think about it, you’ve gotta be feeling a bit desperate about things to resort to a contest in the first place. To then shamelessly videotape your mess of a house in the hopes that you are chosen, so that the entire nation can then see your untidy ways, is really rather pathetic. But honey, this little lemming (or is that salmon?) is not swimming successfully against the tide.

You want to know the worst thing about that contest? I never got around to sending off the application in time; it got lost in a pile of papers on top of my messy desk. As my then 9-year old son said, “irony rears its ugly head!”

Truthfully, I found I was limited by the constraints of the application. I’m a wordy girl; the limit was around 50 words, and I just couldn’t whittle it down. But in case you’re interested in my plea for salvation, here goes.

Top Ten Reasons to Help Jen Get Organized:

7) Great visuals, touring pigsty;

6) Audience will laugh out loud at the slob;

5) Prevents basement’s spontaneous combustion;

4) Her kids won’t think she’s a hypocrite;

3) Husband will stop threatening to run away;

2) Frees up time for therapy sessions; and

1) Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Now maybe if I had some spiffy Mr. Clean boxer-briefs I’d be motivated to clean more. (Not that I’d wear boxer-briefs!)

I find that being organized for a family of five is an onerous task for someone like me. I mean, I can’t recall a time when organizational skills were a hallmark of my personality to begin with. When I was single, my idea of being organized was wearing the same color bra and panties at the same time. But now, trying to keep one step ahead of a houseful of mess-makers has me weary. I’m sick and tired of having my house look like it’s been ransacked by burglars. Ironic, considering we don’t really own anything terribly burgle-worthy anyhow.

So to make myself feel better, I’ve decided to attribute these shortcomings to genetics. One of the beauties of having children is when they pick up all your bad habits, you’re able to rationalize that these are genetic traits that cannot be helped. I had a father who abandoned his nice, organized briefcase in favor of hauling his paperwork to and from work in cardboard boxes. Rather than periodically cleaning out his brief-box, he just kept dumping all the contents into bigger and bigger containers. Eventually he had to see an orthopedic surgeon due to his back problems. No doubt from schlepping his heavy cargo.

So my kids are doomed to repeat these slovenly ways. When my son brings home notes from teachers lamenting that his locker is so cluttered it won’t close all the way, I heave a sigh and throw my hands up in dismay. When my girls misconstrue the notion of picking up their rooms, and simply shove everything along the wall, my consternation is supplanted by resignation. Thank heavens my husband likes to file and sort things, otherwise my whole family might one day end up buried alive beneath of mountain of life’s debris.

Lucky for us, we occasionally do get houseguests, though. And about the only thing that lights the match under my behind to get things sparklingly clean around here is the threat of outsiders seeing the true me. So if you’re planning to visit our house any time soon, have no fear. I’ll be armed and ready with my mop, vacuum, dust rags and trash bin (if only I could find them!). And if you’re really lucky, you might actually be able to eat off the floor.

Downsizing is happening to an alarming degree these days, isn’t it? For instance, last week I saw all these women at the pool for the first time since last summer, and they’d all downsized. Damn them, squeezed into teeny bikinis like they were. Of course that’s the good type of downsizing. The rampant scaling back, the kind we hate, involves jobs and salaries and such. And groceries. And that, alas, is everywhere.

I first noticed a large and steady uptick in grocery prices a couple of years back, when practically overnight ethanol became embraced by Washington lawmakers as the alternative fuel of the future (despite its not being such a great alternative fuel).

going

All of a sudden those ubiquitous mono-culture corn fields draped across the heartland became fields of gold. And then the fields producing wheat, soy and oilseed crops soon got flipped over to grow yet more corn to feed the Archer Daniels Midland ethanol beast. So anything made with corn products—pretty much everything falling under the categories of food, clothing and shelter, from soda to wallpaper paste—doubled in price. And products made with flour, soy and most other staple crops also ratcheted up in price because there were half as many fields devoted to producing those crops. Remember when a trip to the bakery was the best bargain in town? Now you better re-mortgage the house before you seek out pastries, what with the cost of flour these days. That is if the bank will let you.

            Now I’m no economist. In my college Econ 101 class, when asked on a test the definition of “economics,” forgetting the exact answer, I replied, “Economics is the dismal science.” To which my professor wrote on the margins in bold red ink, “perhaps for you it is.” And he was indeed right about that.

going

My finance skills are equally lacking, but we’ll save that for another day. But I am a grocery store economist and I can tell we’re all getting hosed when I see it. And I see it. First, of course, came the rapid doubling of prices. Then came the shrinkage of products.

A roll of paper towels went from the diameter of a healthy adult’s thigh to that of an anorexic gangly-legged ‘tween. That pound of pasta? Now twelve ounces. Same great price; a bit less filling. And they thought we wouldn’t notice how much smaller the box has gotten. It’s as if food companies have decided to put America on a diet, since we are all so bad at doing it for ourselves (but for those bikini-clad moms at the pool, damn them).

Gone!

 I’m not a big fan of grocery shopping. There are only two things I like about it: Running into friends mid-aisle and chatting, thus temporarily forgetting that I’m grocery shopping; and the self check-out. I’ll be forever grateful to Giant, despite all they have done to make their product selection less desirable to us shoppers over the past few years, for trailblazing with self check-out machines. Nothing can be more momentarily thrilling while at a grocery store (and yeah, it’s not like much of anything would be thrilling at a grocery store, I’ll grant you that) than being able to scan your purchases, making that bar code force a beep out of the scanner. Power at your fingertips. Till you have to pay for it, that is.

Even better? Learning your numbers and foodstuffs in Spanish. I figured I could kill two birds with one stone by checking out in Spanish, though it occasionally backfires when I don’t know what certain produce items are called in Spanish. Who knew “apples” begin with an “m” (manzanita)? But I can tell you now that an awful lot of groceries end in noventa y nueve centavos (99 cents). Yeah, make it a penny less than the next highest dollar price and you don’t feel so ripped off paying what you do for undersized groceries these days.

Apart from the sticker shock, the other thing that has made me loathe grocery shopping that much more these days is the less-than-subtle ways in which stores are economizing. It was bad enough when times weren’t so tight—I’d shop at three stores to fulfill the grocery mandate, bulk at one place, organic another, the main things a third locale. But now most stores have sneakily swapped out national brands for their own product. It used to be that store brands were often fairly comparable. Nowadays, the store brands don’t usually tend to stack up to the name brands. I mean how else are these stores cutting costs but for cutting quality?

Sure, the packaging has come a long way from the days when generic products came in no-frills black and white boxes (remember those?). Now the outside looks great. But the inside? Not so much. So if I want to find the products I used to buy at the closest store to me? Sorry, gotta add at least one more store into the grocery round-up, often two. These days pursuit of groceries can take on part-time job status. And cost about the much as a salary from a part-time job, sadly.

I guess in a twisted way this less is more happening is a good thing. We’re all learning to do more with less, and to expect less for more. Something about lowered expectations can actually make life simpler, bizarrely enough. And perhaps we’ll just have to focus on that forced diet all of these grocery store shrinkages are bound to result in down the road. Who knows, maybe by next swim season I’ll be the one flaunting the bikini…Although since I barely wore a bikini when I was in my twenties, perhaps I’m morphing into fairy tales now. Let’s just stick with less products at the store means less time shopping. And that can’t be such a bad thing, now, can it?

A couple of years ago my then-manuscript, Sleeping with Ward Cleaver, finaled in the Dorchester Publishing/Romantic Times American Title III contest. Amongst the group of finalists was my guest today, Judi Fennell, whose friendship just happens to be yet another wonderful thing that came about from being in that contest (yeah, winning it was pretty sweet, too, but Judi, you’re a close second!). It was a pleasant bonus to learn that she, too, is a graduate of Penn State, which is, of course, one kick-ass institution of higher learning . 

After the American Title contest, Judi went on to final in I think one or two of the Gather.com writing contests and networked her butt off and landed a publishing contract with the lovely Deb Werksman at SourceBooks for her novel In Over Her Head and the rest, as they say, is history. 

Judi and I have been compared at times. Must be because we’re from Penn State. Or because we’re blonde…Ish. And because we have a snarky sense of humor at times. Whatever it is, I really love to read what she writes because it is funny and clever and because she works so damned hard at it too. I know you’ll love her debut novel In Over Her Head.

Here’s the buzz on the book:

Nora Roberts? Danielle Steel? Much acclaimed romance writers should step aside. There is a new romance writer in town and she is certainly causing a great splash with her debut novel, In Over Her Head.”

-ABibliophile.com

I truly found a pearl in my oyster when I read this delightful tale. I was surprised how good of a book In Over Her Head is. It is extremely well-written, the storyline flows and I was hooked from the first page.

-LongAndShortReviews.blogspot.com

IN OVER HER HEAD is a delightful, quirky blend of humor, adventure and passion. All in all, this is a fast, fun read and a great way to spend a snowy afternoon or a sunny day at the beach.

-Lynda K. Scott, Star-Crossed Romance

In Over Her Head is a heartwarming, but action-packed story of two people-one human and the other of the seaworthy body-joined together in an adventure. I enjoyed this story immensely.

-Dawn M. Ekinia, Armchair Interviews

A delightful underwater adventure… full of good-natured humor and fun. A strong first effort by a promising new talent.

-Romantic Times

A playful debut… sincere wit.

-Publisher’s Weekly 

JG: Tell me a little about your book. 

JF: Erica has been scared of the ocean ever since The Incident when she was a little girl and won’t go in unless under duress. Being at the wrong end of her ex-boyfriend’s gun is that duress. Reel Tritone, second in line for the Mer throne, has been fascinated with Erica ever since The Incident, but interacting with Humans is against Mer law, so he can only watch from afar. Until she ends up in the water with a shark on her tail and Reel has to make the biggest decision of his life… because Erica is really In Over Her Head.

JG: What got you writing in the genre in which you write. 

JF: When your favorite shows are about genies and witches - I Dream of Jeannie and Bewitched - it’s kind of pointless to assume you’re going to write straight romance. In my stories, I get to relive the wonder and fun of those shows. Toss in my love for all things Disney and fairy tales, and paranormal romance novels are right up my alley.

JG: Favorite thing about being a writer? 

JF: Writing in my fluffy robe, fur-lined mules, feather boa and tiara. Seriously, my favorite thing is to hear from people that they liked my story.

JG: Least favorite thing about being a writer? 

JF: The perception of Romance in the media. I recently saw a story on a major network show about how Romance is recession-proof, that the sales of Romance are up in this rotten economy, yet the reporter went for all the “bodice-ripper” and “tales of lusty love.” Mystery writers don’t have to defend their genre, Science Fiction, thriller, etc. but Romance always has to justify itself.

JG: What is the most interesting thing that’s happened to you since becoming a published author? 

JF: Having people I don’t know email me that they love my stories. This was my “little talking fish” story that everyone else is getting the humor and enjoying, and that just tickles me pink.

JG: What’s your favorite type of pie? 

JF: Apple. And I make a good one. Thanks to my 9th grade Home Ec teacher, that’s my contribution to family gatherings. The funny thing is, I entered a pie baking contest against that teacher (it was a blind judging) and won. Yes, I got an A in that class.

Here’s how on top of it Judi is: she’s already got her two sequels put to bed and ready for publication. Well, almost. But they’ll be out soon, so look for these titles: Wild Blue Under and Catch of a Lifetime.

And lastly, to celebrate the release of each of her books, Judi Fennell and the Atlantis Inn and the Hibiscus House bed and breakfasts are raffling off three romantic beach getaway weekends. All information is on Judi’s website, www.JudiFennell.com

Hi all! Sorry I’ve been slack about posting lately but between deadlines and the month of May, I’m out of steam! But for you, I’m dredging up something my friends and I came up with one night over a couple of bottles of wine. It was good for a few laughs then…Not so sure if by the light of day it’s quite so amusing…You decide.

Okay, ladies, you’ve all faced this dilemma. You’re rifling through your purse, digging for your keys, sunglasses, wallet, whatever, when you pull up at least one and probably several unusable tampons, the wrappers half-unraveled, no longer something you want to use for their intended purpose. Yet it seems such a waste to just toss them in the trash bin. After much deliberation and consultation with experts, and in the interest of economy and ecology, I have compiled an extensive list of suggested uses for these seemingly useless items. Next time you start digging in your purse, you too can imagine the possibilities…

(oh, and by the way, there might be exactly 101…I got tired of counting!)

Top Uses for Unravelled Tampons

1)  Stop those annoying nose bleeds

2)  Ear plugs

3)  Pretend sticks of dynamite for the kids

4)  Mop up small spills on the floor

5)  Effectively dabs away tears

6)  Unusual hair accessory

7)  Tie several together to make unique pompom

8 )  Plug holes in boat

9)  Creative dangly earrings

10) Zit cover-up applicator

11) Christmas ornament

12) Pasties in a pinch

13) String along rope for one of a kind garland décor

14) Toothbrush of last resort

15) Drapery tassles

16) Roll in catnip to drive your cat crazy with insta-kitty toy

17) Fringe for flapper dress

18) Pull cord for lamp or ceiling fan

19) Unique tool for sponge painting

20) Finial for curtain rods

21) Plug holes in dikes

22) Dab on pizza to absorb excess grease

23) Avante garde indoor plant decoration

24) Tie on dog’s tail and watch Fido chase his tail for hours

25) Dental cotton

26) Useful paint applicator

27) Use to skim fat from surface of soup broth

28) Tassels for loafers

29) Makes great parrot toy

30) Ideal for quick dusting of crumbs from moustache

31) Dip in hot wax, then ignite string end for unusual taper

32) Tie clusters on ends of bike handlebars, watch them flap in the wind!

33) Decorate bumpers of newlyweds car

34) Tongue depressor (added bonus, ends problematic side affect of drooling)

35) Great pretend rescue float for Lifeguard Barbie

36) Dip in hot wax and use as sink-proof key ring for boat keys

37) Starter kindling for fireplace

38) Collect lots and use for confetti

39) Paint in pretty pastel colors and tie together for stylish bouquet

40) Final touch for gift wrap packaging—no more curling ribbon!

41) Suspend in clusters from tomato stakes to frighten deer and crows away

42) Glue on rim of picture frame for textured look

43) Just for fun, fill sink with water, see how many it takes to absorb all the water in the sink!

44) Science experiments

45) Great for cleaning test tubes

46) Use to polish sunglasses

47) Wrap with old tootsie roll wrapper and fool your friends when you offer them candy!

48) Soak in witch hazel, squeeze out, and press over puffy eyes

49) Perfect shape for cleaning out dogs’ ears

50) Glue several, end to end, leaving string on one end. paint camouflage earth tones, tease your sister with authentic fake snake

51) Pretend cigar

52) Polka dot applicator

53) Tie on car antenna for ease in finding vehicle in crowded parking lot

54) Makes great protective packaging materials instead of landfill-unfriendly Styrofoam

55) Tie string in loop, use as napkin ring

56) Have crazy tampon  battle with your friends: just aim and shoot

57) Use cardboard tube to shoot spitballs (added bonus: you can even use wrapper for spitball!)

58) Tube makes a fun straw

59) Poke holes in tube to make a slide whistle

60) Connect cardboard tubes together for chopsticks

61) Insert pointer finger in cardboard tube and annoy friends by tapping them with it

62) Glue tubes together in random format to make reindeer antlers for Christmas play

63) Replacement Nerf gun ammunition

64) Cardboard tube is great storage for your favorite pens

65) Cardboard tube makes perfect spyglass

66) Secure tampons at armpit, avoid embarrassing pit stains on dry clean only clothes

67) Pacifier/drool inhibitor for teething baby

68) Place between toes during pedicure

69) Drop in outdoor fountain for “instant water lily”

70) Connect cardboard tubes together for drumsticks

71) Unscrupulous plumber trick: drop down drain before leaving plumbing job; guarantees a return call to find source of new clog

72) Tape to finger tips and enjoy gratifying thump thump thump while drumming fingers

73) More effective than sandbags for halting encroaching flood waters

74) Snip off string and works as comfie Barbie neck pillow

75) Great tool for hypnosis (you are getting sleepy)

76) Fill tube w/ coffee beans, cover ends w/ pointer finger and thumb for handy percussion instrument

Okay so I don’t have quite 101, but I’ll add more if I think of them. In the meantime, saving the last for last…

101) Dangle in front of husband to use as excuse to get out of sex (don’t have to say you have a headache, just shrug your shoulders and say, “Gee, can’t honey, I’m having my period!”). He’ll run the other way with no questions asked.

Yes, folks, this was made entirely of tampons. How’s that for creativity?

Ah, the month of May…The flowers in bloom, the birds whistling a happy tune, parents across America ready to throttle the next teacher, coach, or offspring activity-related person who dares to lump one more have-to in their lap.

The month of May…what my friend refers to as the Storm before the Calm. What I view as the annual rite of hazing inflicted upon every mom (and most dads, to a certain extent) every springtime as the school year draws to an imminent close.

The drill goes as follows: class play, class music program, soccer practice, soccer games, soccer try-outs, baseball, baseball and more baseball, piano recitals, ballet recitals, field trips (why weren’t these scheduled for the dull month of January?!), teacher appreciation luncheons, class parties. Class parties? I’m thinking class warfare at this point.

I get nightly calls: can you come in for the teacher appreciation luncheon? Can you drive for the field trip to Pakistan? Can you pledge your extra kidney to be auctioned off at the school fund drive? Can you stop calling me before I have the national do-not-call list enforcer come after you for harassment?

Truthfully, I’m happy to be of help. To a certain extent. But when I start to wake in the middle of the night, fearful that I have sloughed off my duties to prepare Pad Thai for 300 for International Day, I get to worrying. And when I realize that I am clenching my teeth so hard that I think lockjaw has set in, I’m a little more concerned.

And when the call comes in for me to do just one more teeny little thing to help out so and so, and I—without thinking, without feeling, snap the first snarky come-back that pops into my head to the poor unsuspecting room-mother calling me in a desperate spot, I know two things. One, that it’s time for me to hang up my mommy cleats for a few hours and re-gain my grip on reality, and two, summer vacation must be just around the corner. At which time I might just be longing for the days when the kids were in school and the demands on a mother’s time were at their peak. 

Don’t worry, I’m not about to write about swine flu. Just had to clear the air on that, what with the pig reference in the title. No, instead I’m going to regale you with far more compelling subject matter: wee wee. Well, not exactly. I’ve been thinking about wee-wee a bit lately, but really I’m not going to talk about it. At least not in it’s truest form.

You see my daughter is in an upcoming musical at her high school. She loves to sing and do all of those theatrical things and my husband and I have enjoyed watching her grow as a performer and we were duly thrilled that she was going to try out for the musical this year. I pictured her belting out songs about the corn being knee-high by the Fourth of July, or being Hopelessly Devoted to whomever was the closest thing to John Travolta that the school could scratch up, or maybe even getting a bit edgier and joining the ensemble cast in a rousing rendition of Seasons of Love from Rent.

But instead, she and her peers will be singing about pee. Yeah, I know, that sounds so terrifically disgusting. But really, it’s nothing but funny. They had a new drama teacher this year who wanted to undertake something a little bit different than the usual high school musical productions, to give everyone something to talk about, and she decided that this year they would put on Urinetown. Yep, that’s the title. Urinetown.

And then I got asked to help to publicize the play and I have a background in public relations so I was more than happy to do so, but then the reality kicked in once I actually started talking it up. Every time I’ve mentioned this play to anyone, I’m met with this:

“Urinetown? As in urine town? Oh.” And then their eyes glaze over. And I can’t say that I blame them because, I mean, the title is a little off-putting. 

I even thought about pitching it as You’re In Town, figuring nobody would know the difference. I came up with the line I’d use for reporters:

“I wanted to let you know that the high school will be putting on a play, and it’s been fabulously well-received on Broadway. Tony Award-winning, in fact. Yeah, uh-huh. Uh-huh. It’s called You’re In Town.”

I figured they’d just sort of in their minds mix it with Our Town, an old chestnut that gets dragged out by all kinds of high school drama departments during play season. 

Admittedly I’m not quite “in the know” in the world of drama, despite a potentially lurid addiction to People magazine. But that’s more to do with pop culture than actual theatrics. 

The extent of my acting prowess consisted of a quasi-starring role as Aunt Sally in Mr. Popsack’s sixth grade production of Huck Finn. I made quite the memorable entrance when I tripped over a tree stump prop in a night scene during the first few minutes of the play, flipping heels over head and landing on my back. Despite my abject humiliation from that gaff, I received rave reviews, and Charlotte Tragard, the actress in our modest little high school, pulled me aside and told me I had a future in the arts.

Little did I know that future would be in trying to convince people that a play about pee is a must-see production. 

For those of you who aren’t familiar with Urinetown, don’t let the title scare you. It’s good, clean fun for the whole family. And perfectly relevant for the times in which we live, complete with corrupt politicians, corporate greed, and ecological devastation thrown in for good measure. What’s not to love? 

Yes, sometimes I feel as if I’m flacking the live action version of the children’s book series,Captain Underpants. More like Captain Dirty Diapers. But I take heart in knowing that it’s a fabulous play and has lots of terrific singing and you know, in some ways it brings me back to the day when changing diapers with my own babies and I probably sang about wee-wee, just to keep the kids entertained. So it all comes around. 

Plus, my friend had a good point the other day.

“Hey,” she said. “At least it’s only pee! You could have been asked to publicize a production of The Vagina Monologues.”

I shrunk my favorite jeans today. They went into the laundry looking like you could slip a ‘69 Buick into them, and they came out ready for consignment in Lilliputian land. So now I’m suffering from the blue jean blues.

Blue jeans are a curious thing. The right pair of jeans on the right body, and there’s no better outfit in the world. I know one woman who could be the poster child for Levi’s. Cut just right, fits her behind, wraps around her waist just so. It’s as if she was born to wear them.

Not so, me: the last time I even attempted to try on a pair of Levi’s was so humbling that I swore them off for life. By the time I found a size large enough to enable me to hoist the stiff boards of denim onto my legs and up and over my behind, the waistline could have accommodated yet another body.

There’s a certain ritual for stepping into a pair of jeans. Obviously, you step in one leg at a time. But then comes the tricky part: the left-right-left hip jiggle to jimmy the pants up and over the butt. You then grip a belt loop on either side, jump up once, and voila, you’ve got your jeans on. Next you have to straighten out the pockets: you want no lumps or bulges to betray your girlish curves. Tug down one leg, then the other, and you’re ready to roll.

So you’re taking a stroll down the street, thinking happy thoughts, and you notice for the first time in forever that your jeans actually feel loose. You can pinch an inch (of denim, not fat), and you’re thinking, WOW! I’ve done it! I’ve actually lost some weight.

Then you sit down. And suddenly the molecules in the lower half of your body redistribute so that you couldn’t feel fatter if you’d inhaled a quart of Rocky Road. Claustrophobia sets in as you realize that you’re trapped inside your favorite relaxed-fit jeans, and the fit isn’t quite so relaxed.

Washing blue jeans is another thing. I do so under duress–there have to be bloodstains or worse. But washing them just to keep them clean like you would your socks or underwear is a no-no.

For one thing, you work too hard to get your jeans to the right shade. The “oh, look who’s sporting a new pair of jeans” look finally fades, and you have a washed (well, not really, but it’s our secret) yet not too washed-out look.

Then there is that comfort factor. After you wear your unwashed jeans enough, they become mercifully forgiving, like my idea of what God is. I for one am not about to sacrifice the feeling of comfy jeans just for the sake of cleanliness.

Eventually, the time comes to wash them. The goal: avoid heat. Why? Shrinkage. If only there was an ice water setting on my washer. Gentle spin cycle is vital: you can’t have the jeans folding origami-style from a violent spin.

Then it’s into the dryer; there will be no drip drying. Because then you get stuck with Very Stiff Pants.  I use delicate air dry mode. But I swear, every time I sneak up on that dryer to ensure that no heat is being emitted during the tumble dry, I open the door and am greeted by enough hot air to make me think I’ve just been beamed into a roomful of politicians. You have to be careful with these dryers; sometimes you just can’t trust them.

Singing the blues about my blue jeans

You may be thinking that I am a prime candidate for some other kind of lower-extremity-wear. Leggings, perhaps. Maybe a long skirt. But the truth is, I like the challenge of blue jeans. They always keep you guessing. You never know if they’re gonna be kind to you, or turn on you like a jilting lover. I’ve learned that I have to stay one step ahead of my jeans, or else someday I’ll find I’m no longer in them.

authors note: Sadly I have currently fallen into disfavor with my blue jeans, but hope to be back in their good graces soon.

April Henry is the newest addition to the Girlfriend’s Cyber Circuit, and is celebrating the launch of her latest novel (co-authored with Lisa Wiehl), Face of Betrayal, which is sure to keep you up reading and the lights on till dawn.

Here’s the story: When 17-year-old Senate page Katie Converse goes missing on her Christmas break near her parents’ white Victorian home in Portland, Ore., law enforcement and the media go into overdrive in a search for clues. Three friends at the pinnacle of their respective careers–Allison Pierce, a federal prosecutor; Cassidy Shaw, a crime reporter; and Nicole Hedges, an FBI special agent–soon discover that Katie wasn’t the picture of innocence painted by her parents. Did Katie run away to escape their stifling demands? Was she having an affair with the senator who sponsored her as a page? Has she been kidnapped? Is she the victim of a serial killer?

About the author

April Henry knows how to kill you in a two-dozen different ways. She makes up for a peaceful childhood in an intact home by killing off fictional characters. April had one detour on her path to destruction: when she was 12 she sent a short story about a six-foot tall frog who loved peanut butter to noted children’s author Roald Dahl. He liked it so much he arranged to have it published in an international children’s magazine.

By the time she was in her 30s, April had come to terms with her childhood and started writing about hit men, drug dealers, and serial killers. She has published six mysteries and thrillers, with five more under contract. Her books have gotten starred reviews, been on Booksense (twice!), translated into four languages, short-listed for the Oregon Book Award, and chosen as a Quick Pick by the American Library Association.

April co-wrote Face of Betrayal with Lis Wiehl, a legal analyst on FOX. They have a contract for three more Triple Threat mysteries. 

In March, April’s young adult thriller, Torched, came out from Putnam.

“A sizzling political thriller. … The seamless plot offers a plethora of twists and turns.”

–Publishers Weekly

4.5 stars [and they don’t give out five stars] “Wiehl and Henry have penned a winner that seems to come straight from the headlines. Captivating suspense, coupled with tightly written prose, will entertain and intrigue.”

–Romantic Times

Welcome, April!

JG: Tell me a little about your book.

AP: In Face of Betrayal, Katie, a 17 year old Senate page, disappears. The prime suspect: the Senator who may have been more than just a mentor. Three women – an FBI agent, a federal prosecutor, and a TV crime reporter – team up to find out what really happened.

JG: What got you writing in the genre in which you write.

AH: It was kind of accident. I wrote the book I wanted to write –Circles of Confusion – and my agent told me she thought it would sell well as a mystery. The idea of it selling was enough to sell – I had already written three other books that hadn’t sold. She was right – I had a two book deal in three days. I’ve since realized that the kind of books you right at first are like a brand. Readers expect you to continue to write in the same genre. 

JG: Favorite thing about being a writer?

AH: When the words come so quickly it’s like I’m transcribing and grinning like a crazy person. That happens about once a year. Unfortunately.

JG: Least favorite thing about being a writer?

AH: The one time I couldn’t get on the same page as an editor. It was excruciating.

JG: What is the most interesting thing that’s happened to you since becoming a published author?

AH: Watching a book come close to being made into a movie. It was a huge long shot that didn’t pan out, but it was fun while it lasted.

JG: What’s your favorite type of pie?

AH: Cherry, made with bright red pie (sour) cherries. Runner up: lemon meringue.

I am so excited to host my friend Sarah Wendell from the fabulous Smart Bitches, Trashy Books blog, who along with co-author/Smart Bitch Candy Tan has penned the perfectly titled Beyond Heaving Bosoms: The Smart Bitches Guide to Romance Novels (Fireside, now available). Smart Bitches is my go-to spot when I’m looking for a good laugh, a healthy dose of smart-ass and some interesting discussion. With their just-released book, which has been selling gangbusters, Sarah and Candy take the iconic romance novel and turn it on its head, dissecting Old Skool and New Skool and all sorts of hilarious terminology that you probably never knew existed (and didn’t, until they coined it). Anybody who can successfully incorporate Angsty McAngsterson, Bastardy McBastard and man-titties into one book gets huge kudos from me.

Sarah has been kind enough to give us all a little lagniappe–a first peek at a coveted outtake from Beyond Heaving Bosoms–so you can see for yourself why these ladies really are two very Smart (and also quite literary) Bitches. So enjoy this little sampler of Sarah and Candy’s hilarious wit and then go get your very own copy of the book!

Beyond Heaving Bosoms: Smart Bitches Guide to Trashy Novels

Are Romance Novels Inherently Feminist, Inherently Sexist, or Something Totally Different?

Why Does Everything Have to be Some Sort of Polemic, Anyway?  Geez. Lighten Up.

Are romance novels feminist? I think so. And I’m not going to get into a discussion of how I or anyone else defines “feminist” – but since it’s such a loaded word along the lines of “racist,” “homophobic” or “baked potato,” I should perhaps use a different term. Or a different question. The word “feminist” sadly has become polluted to the point where one person hears the word and thinks “equal rights and status under the law for women and men,” and another person hears it and thinks, “butch women marrying other women while wearing giant shoes, not shaving their legs, and hating men with virulent shrieking fury.” So let’s leave “feminism” alone. That poor word is exhausted.

New question! Are romance novels examinations, celebrations, and subversive accounts of the society of women, written largely by and for other women, with female-centered narratives that develop a subculture and parallel world centered on and devoted to the female experience? 

Affirmative. 

Yes, yes, oooooooh Goooooooooood, yes! YES YES YES!

In any good debate, one should acknowledge the points of the other side. So I acknowledge that romance novels have a disturbing history of rape narrative, overbearing alpha heroes, insipid stupid heroines who wander into dark alleys wearing impractical shoes, misunderstandings predicated on the idiocy of that heroine, and a sexual double standard that will make your head and your head’s head spin. 

BUT! Despite and through those points, romance novels are more than merely female-centric, because they are written and consumed by women. Women exploring and creating a fictional narrative of the Most Sexist Asshole Hero On Earth is still a subversive act, because in my opinion, women authors creating anything, much less narratives that focus on sex and emotions, for a marketplace of women consumers is an act invested with layers of subversion, like a really diverse lasagna with meat and vegetables. Long, hard vegetables, like zucchini. 

Narratives of the female experience, even if that female experience is happily and decisively following word-for-word the expectations of a patriarchal, repressive society, are also subversive in my opinion. So every romance novel, from The Millionaire’s Boardroom Mistress’ Secret Baby to She’s A Warrior Who Cut off His Balls and Sewed Them Back On, is a radical creation. 

My short answer to the question, “How can you read those books and be a supporter of women? They are so sexist!” is, “Anything written by and for women is an assault on the subjugation of women.”

However!

I don’t think that all women who read romance question the plots enough. Nor do they ask themselves why there’s certain combinations of heroes and heroines that really do it for them, and that questioning, aside from being the root purpose of our website (along with gleeful leaping at the sight of man-titty), is important. There are a number of old skool romances that end, as Candy says, with the heroine required by the narrative to adopt the hero’s worldview, acknowledging that her own is flawed and useless, while his and her position in it, are superior. These are the novels which might hold hands and skip with Germaine Greer’s criticism of romance novels of the time, which was in and around the 70s, that they were methods of “slavery for women”, teaching them to “cherish… the chains of their bondage”.  These are not the romance novels of today. 

The romance novels of today are powerful narratives created by women for women, and that is inherently powerful in and of itself, deserving of recognition, examination, and applause.