Another post nobody will see. "Shoe Tales"

© Ruth Sims 2010

Shoe Tales

I’m not a particularly good housekeeper. Not the world’s worst (I’ll never be on “Hoarders” unless they check the amount of email I have piled up) but I’m not obsessively tidy, either. I have dust. I have dust bunnies so old and large they have social security numbers and their own zip code.

So it is, that when I get started cleaning closets it’s one of favorite things; every mysterious box is like Christmas morning or Forrest Gump’s chocolates: I never know what I’ll get since I didn’t have brains enough to label the box.

The other day I found a large box of shoes. Four pairs of special shoes.

Three of them were high-topped baby shoes, the ones for babies just learning to self-navigate. If you ever want a definition of “wonder” look at the face of any baby discovering for the first time that she can get from Here to There, that if she can get upright, hang on to something or someone, weave back and forth a few times, move Part A, and then move Part B in the same general direction, she can move! Her eyes light up, her mouth (usually dripping drool) drops open, showing a coupe of tiny pearly whites, and a sound emits that, with good reason, is described as “crowing.” Do it again! Move part A, move Part B. The next step is usually a splat right on the bum, followed by doing it all over again. And again. In an unbelievably short time, Baby has been left behind forever, having turned into Toddler. And the next thing Dad knows, the Toddler is asking to borrow the car keys and applying for college.

The smallest pair of shoes in the box were mine. Mom had filled them with plaster of Paris, tied the laces, and painted them white. I weighed less that five pounds when I was born at home, and always had smaller than average feet. Mom said that I walked and talked late, but when I talked I talked in sentences. And she said I never crawled. One day I simply walked. My shoes are worn a little on the bottom, and the white paint is cracked.

The largest pair belonged to my son. He, too, walked late. And because he crawled for a long time (at least it seemed like a long time) his shoes are badly scuffed on the toe. I feel guilty that I didn’t go the plaster of Paris route. It’s not too late. He walked when he was past a year old but fell down all the time. He was my first; I thought all toddlers fell down all the time. Come to find out when he was three, he fell because he was seeing double because of lazy eye blindness. Eventually his lazy eye lost nearly off of its sight. The hardest thing I had to do as a Mom was let him play sports because of the possibility of eye injury to his good eye. I wanted to forbid it, but I didn’t want him to grow up thinking of himself as handicapped or become obsessed with worry. I did that enough for both of us. I still do, though he's a middle-aged man now.

The middle-sized pair belonged to my daughter. She was our whiz-bang, our firecracker, our unstoppable and unsinkable Molly Brown. Once she discovered crawling, she was never still. And when she discovered walking she was never in one place more than a moment. I think her predominate genes are the Perpetual Motion gene and the Missouri Mule Stubborn gene. Her shoes are only slightly worn on the toes, more so on the sole.

The fourth pair were my wedding shoes. Size five, open-toe, sling-backs. Three-and-a-half inch heels (agony! But worth it.) The see-through heels had little stars carved in them, and the front part was see-through also. (Incidentally, two things prove women are tougher than men: childbirth and high heels.) I loved those shoes in spite of the pain inflicted. And now, a half-century later, high heels are just a fond (if painful) memory. Because of multiple foot problems plus diabetes, I’m doomed to wear expensive granny shoes with orthotics. I’ll never wear pretty shoes again.

My Spousal Unit suggested we throw the box and shoes away, since we were decluttering.

He stared dumbfounded when I burst into tears.

A gleeful review of Counterpoint: Dylan's Story

Canadian author Gerry Burnie just posted the most recent 5-star review of Counterpoint. It's a great review, and even mentions Alex' beautiful and fitting cover art. But the thing that absolute tickled me about it is the following statement:

"A truly great story that reads like silk rippling across naked skin."

For somebody who does not consider anything she writes as being erotic, I have to admit that comments like that just make me feel ... well, the only word is gleeful, as thought I'm getting away with something sly. I love it.

The entire review can be read at:

http://gerrycan.wordpress.com/

New story available -- it's my favorite short work

Jay Hartman of Untreed Reads just notified me that my fourth story, Song on the Sand, is now live. And it just went up on Amazon. I put an excerpt from it below. This is my favorite of the short stories so far because it's a combination of reality--the bitter memories of an elderly man in a nursing home--friendship between him and a young gay man who visits there, and an old man's last fantasy, set to music. Untreed Reads, I've just found out, are available in every format there is for all the differing readers. And I swear those blamed things are multiplying like cockroaches in a dirty kitchen. So many different kinds, and some of them do everything excerpt make breakfast. Anyhoo, if you want to read one of UR's books, you'll be able to regardless where you are or what kind of device you have. Without further ado, here's a bit of Song on the Sand. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Song on the Sand (c) 2010 Ruth Sims “No!” The old man didn’t expect his vehement refusal to accomplish anything. He knew he would end up doing what they wanted; he always did, just like the rest of the fragile, sickly, old bags of bones who called Sunnyland Acres home. What choice did he have? Those in authority were young and strong; he was eighty-six and since his heart attack his legs no longer held him up. He had no authority or power at all. Verbally contesting their stupid rules and giving the staff derogatory nicknames behind their backs were all he had left. Even so, he looked forward to the daily confrontations; they made what was left of his adrenaline start racing. He watched their faces, gauging their reaction to his fierce “No!” Which one would reach the gritted-teeth-grin stage first? Would it be Mean Aide? He knew perfectly well the woman’s name was Melba; it said so on her name tag, but he refused to call her that. Or would the aide he nicknamed Big Butt (real name: Cora) beat her to it? Mean Aide won. She bared her teeth in a death’s-head grimace and said in a voice sweeter than pecan pie, “Now come on, sweetie. You know you got to get dressed.” “No. I don’t want to. And don’t call me sweetie. I am not your sweetie or anyone else’s. I am Mister Dalby.” “Well, Mister Dalby, we got rules. You know we got rules. You got to live with them and so do we. And one rule is you get dressed every morning unless you’re bedfast.” “Only if I get my shoes.” “Slippers. You know that.” “I hate those ugly old things. They’re plaid, for Godsake!” Standing beside Mean Aide, Big Butt didn’t even pretend to smile. She snapped, “Honey, you’re an ugly old thing yourself.” Tony stared at her with admiration. “You got balls, sister. Don’t you know I could report you for elder abuse?” Big Butt snorted. She glanced at her co-worker and said, “Do you believe this old goat says he was a dancer? Must’ve been a long time ago.” “Yeah,” Tony retorted, “And a long time ago you didn’t have a rear end the size of Alaska. Anyway I wasn’t just a dancer. I was an actor, too.” “In what? Commercials for Attends?” That was all too true. Stung, his voice rose. “In my last stage role I wore four-inch stiletto heels, not plaid slippers!” Mean Aide said, “Cora, let’s just get him dressed, slippers and all, and he can stew about it the rest of the day the way he always does.” He made them sweat to get the ugly cardigan sweater and polyester pants on his thin body and the hated plaid slippers on his feet. Then they put an afghan—more damn plaid!—over his knees and wheeled him out to the sun porch to vegetate until time to wheel him back in. This being Sunday, at noon he would be lined up with the other wheelchair-bound residents for the weekly torture called Hymn Time, during which a skinny woman of great volume and little talent loudly banged out gospel songs on the out-of-tune piano, accompanying herself while she bellowed songs about Jesus, always dragging out the name “Jeeeeesuuusss.” He supposed her heart was in the right place but he wished she’d take it somewhere else. But at least until Hymn Time, he would be left alone. He sat and watched the people come and go in the parking lot. For a concrete parking lot, it was rather pretty, with shade trees on the perimeter and large ornamental urns that frothed with summer color and spilled over with trailing vines. His eye was caught by a young man walking toward the building. A very handsome young man. Tony thought, There was a time when a man like that would be waiting in my dressing room. He uttered a bark of sardonic laughter. At least the few times I actually had a dressing room. The young man wore a red shirt and dark jeans, and his hair was as fair as if Rumpelstiltskin had spun it that very morning. The young man looked in his direction and smiled. Tony knew it was an illusion; the young man could not have seen past the sunlight reflected on the window glass. But illusion or no, it was a pleasant fantasy to pretend the handsome young man had come to visit him. He sighed and slumped a little when the young man disappeared from sight around a corner. Tony scowled at nothing for a while, ignoring the occasional residents, visitors, and staff who entered and left the sunroom. He studied his hands, resting upon the arms of the wheelchair. Thin, spotted, hideous. Goddamn, but he hated being old! Maybe the ones who forgot everything were lucky. He could remember all too well when he was young and a real head-turner. Nature, or God, or whoever the hell invented this getting old shit is a vicious sadist, he thought. Somewhere behind him, in the main part of the single story building he heard moans and inarticulate cries for help. They, like the smells of urine and disinfectant, were constant. The aide Tony had nicknamed Nancy Nitpick came in to check on him. She straightened the afghan, and asked if he needed anything. “I need to be forty years younger,” he said. “Can you pull that off? Say, did you know I starred in movie musicals?” She shook her head. “I did,” he insisted. “I danced with Ginger Rogers and Rita Hayworth and Gwen Verdon. I was younger than they were, but I was better than Gene Kelly. I was handsomer than Kelly!” “That's good, honey,” she said. “Me, I’m Madonna on my days off. Now then. Why don’t you let me help you walk to that chair? The doctor says you need to make an effort or you’ll never be better.” She strong-armed him to his feet and helped him shuffle the four short small steps to the thickly padded chair beside the window. Then she tucked his afghan in around his legs again. “Now you sit there like a good boy and I'll be back to get you in time for the church service.” “I'm not a boy!” Tony said loudly to the aide's back. “And don't call me ‘honey’ or ‘sweetie’ or ‘sugar pie.’ And I’m not senile so don’t talk to me like I am. And for God’s sake let me skip the blasted church service!” The aide half-turned, shook her head again then walked away. “You don’t listen,” he shouted. “None of you listen.” Later he saw the young stranger emerge from the blind spot of the wall and walk toward the parking lot. Beautiful young man, he said silently, why can’t you visit me? Who are you here to see? Will you return? The next day the young man reappeared. And the day after that as well. The fourth day, having convinced himself that he would see the young man again, Tony surprised the aides by insisting on his best shirt and V-neck sweater. As usual he lost the battle over the plaid slippers. ## Tony invented a name and a life for the stranger. He decided the young man’s name was Leon because that had been the name of his only real love a long, long time ago. The new ‘Leon’ was in his late twenties, just like the first one. He was a homosexual. But wait—nowadays only nasty preachers used that word, dragged out into five syllables. The ho-mo-sex-u-als themselves said “gay.” Leon, then, was ‘gay.’ He was a writer. What else could he be? He looked like a writer. He had left his home in San Francisco to come back here to the Midwest to visit his grandfather in the nursing home. That idea brought Tony up short. Grandfather? He himself was old enough to be “Leon’s” grandfather. Maybe even his great-grandfather! Ugh. In his accustomed chair beside the sunroom window, Tony threw the afghan aside and looked with loathing at the legs that once upon a time had carried him across stages with strength and agility and grace. His dance teacher had told him he had the talent and ability to be another Fred Astaire or Gene Kelley. With his fists he struck those thin, weak, old-man’s legs, wasted by inaction. The once-a-week therapy accomplished nothing! Nothing! They told him he should try walking with a walker and an attendant. He had so far refused because if he couldn’t walk alone he didn’t want to walk at all. Now, a crafty expression crossed his face; he’d try it alone. He’d show them. He concentrated on the elbow-high bright orange rail that lined the wall in front of him and which, like a monstrously long snake, led from there in both directions all around the walls of the institution, being interrupted only by doors and woodwork. He planned his moves: use the solid arms of the chair to leverage himself to his feet. Lean forward and balance with both hands on the rail. Stand for as long as possible. Sit down. If he did it everyday he would soon walk sideways holding on to the rail. And then… time enough to worry about what came next. First he had to stand. Without help from any of the paid busybodies. He glanced quickly around to make sure no one was around to stop him. He braced his hands on the arms of the chair and experimentally put a little weight on his feet. He flinched a bit at the pain in his arches. Then slowly, slowly, slowly he stood and bent forward to grasp the rail. He was distracted from his goal by the reflection in the window: a bent-backed ancient … thing. The dancer’s grace he’d been so proud of was gone and would never come back. “No!” he cried, this time directing it at the traitor that was his body. “No! No! No!” He glared hatred at the reflection. In that moment of distraction, he lost his balance and took a tottering, uncontrolled lurch toward the window. Panic surged through him; his heart pounded wildly. He would hit the floor if he was lucky, hit the window ledge if he was not— ……………..End of Excerpt……….

Mirror Mirror On the Wall, Why the Hell Don’t You Fall?

Ladies (in the unlikely event there are any reading this blog), is it just me? Do you, too, look better in your mirror at home than you do in mirrors at clothing stores? I swear, I can age 15 years and gain 25 pounds between my bathroom at home, where I put on my makeup and check my general appearance, and the mirror in the clothing shop.

It’s true. When I get dressed in a nice pair of slacks and a pretty top that fits just so, I have no spare tire and my butt looks middle-aged but not too bad when I look over my shoulder. When I finish putting on all the makeup it takes to achieve the natural (!) look, I’m pleased. I don’t look 71, at least from the chin up and if I squint.

Cheerfully I head out to, say, find a new pair of jeans because the ones I wear around the house all the time, my most comfortable ones that I’ve had since Clinton was in office, are so holey they’re almost candidates for sainthood.

Cheerfully, I shop the racks in the Women’s Short sizes (knowing they’ll still be six inches too long), casting wistful glances over at the Junior section because that’s where the cute clothes are. Glumly, I remind myself that at my age nobody gives a shit what I look like and they wouldn’t care if I strolled the store bare-nekkid. OK, the cheerfulness is fading a bit. I perk up when I find a nice pair of Gloria Vanderbilt jeans and a cute top go with them, and I sashay into the dressing room.

But something horrible happens. The instant I cross the dressing room threshold, the transformation comes. No handsome young man unexpectedly finding himself turning into a werewolf when the moon is full could be more stunned by the change.

The more of my own clothes I remove the worse it gets. Oh good lord. There are sags and bags and cellulite and wrinkles and old-lady flab I did not have when I got dressed that morning. As if that isn’t bad enough, the face that looks back at me has too much blush on and the almost colorless eye shadow has become blue and I hate blue eye shadow! The carefully and artfully applied, only hinted-at mascara has become garish black Tammy Fay spikes.

I want to crouch in a fetal position on the floor of the dressing room but if I did the clerk would think I was trying to shoplift something. I close my eyes a second, open them, and find Dorien Gray’s end-of-the-book picture staring back at me.

And to add insult to injury, the damned jeans won’t zip.

But at least I have finally figured out what happens: demons inhabit all mirrors away from home.

TOILET PAPER QUIZ

When I should have been doing something more productive, I was googling anything that came to mind. Don't ask why because I don't know why, but I googled the history of toilet paper. I didn't expect to find anything. There is more than you could possibly imagine! I learned things I didn't even know I didn't know. Do you know the answer to the following? (I didn't. but I do now.) 1) What character was the TV commercial spokesman for a certain brand of toilet paper, played by only one performer for many years, earned up to $300,000 year and a liftime supply of toilet paper? 2) In 1391 Chinese emperors began to order toilet paper in sheets measuring: 2 x 3 feet 1 x 2 feet 5 x 7 feet 9 x 12 inches 3) Which of the following things were NOT used as toilet toilet paper before its use became common: grass, leaves, fur, mussell shells, corncobs, stinging nettles, stones. pieces of clay, sponges on the ends of sticks, corncobs, the left hand, pages from newspapers, magazines, and catalogs. (Just a partial list, I'm sure.) 4) In 1935, Northern Tissue proudly advertised toilet paper that was free of what? 1) Fragrance 2) Termites 3) Splinters 5) Rolled and perforated toilet paper similar to what we know and love was invented between: 1) 1840-1850 2) 1880-1890 3) 1895-1915 4) 1918-1925 6) Why did the Farmer's Almanac have a hole in it? Lastly, to complete your education, go to the following link to see Michelangelo's original concept for the Creation on the Sistine ceiling. http://nobodys-perfect.com/vtpm/ExhibitHall/ArtGallery/ArtGallery.html

Island Song by Alan Chin -- Review

ISLAND SONG by Alan Chin

Publisher: Zumaya Publications, LLC (September 8, 2008)
ISBN-10: 1934841021
ISBN-13: 978-1934841020

Alan Chin’s Island Song is many things: exotic, spiritual, lyrical, and lovely. The author’s visual touch when he word-paints a scene in Hawaii is so lush as to almost overwhelm the senses. I have a soft spot for books that are beautifully written but which do more than entertain; they actually teach the reader something. Island Song does this. And does it in such a way that it’s unobtrusive, as when Song, the beautiful young Hawaiian, explains to Garrett the interconnectedness of all life.

The first chapter is one of the most evocative I have read for a long time. An old man chants a plea to the island gods, and as he does the young man with him sees something eerie and frightening, something that may not be there, and he feels brushed by an all-encompassing Power. The old man is called Grandfather by all, and is the spiritual leader of the island. The young man is Songoree, destined for and being trained to walk the same path Grandfather has taken, to take his place eventually. In the same way other faiths have waited for promised leaders, they are waiting the being called the Speaker. He is to be what St. Paul was to Christians. Who he is, where he may come from, whether he is young or old, no one knows. Grandfather just knows that he will come.

In the meantime, Garrett Davidson, a Californian who has never recovered emotionally from the AIDS-related death of Marc, his life-partner, is seeking a place where he can be alone with his grief and the depression that has led to chronic, severe pain in his head. His goal is to write about Marc and their life together. The story of Island Song is one of the physical, mental, and emotional recovery of this man, and his awakening to new love and spirituality. A large part of his recovery is the unexpected and unwanted love he comes to feel for the exuberantly innocent and alive Songoree, beloved by the islanders, and called Song. Never has a character had a more apt name, because his whole being is a song of existence.

However, the author is not one to let the reader rest peacefully on the flow of his prose. Several times, when least expected, something startling bursts to the surface: homophobia, which runs like an undercurrent beneath the story; a startling backstory trip to a San Francisco gay bathhouse; a stunning suicide; a violent bar fight. Chin’s facility with description is faultless, whether he is writing about the exquisite beauty to be found below the surface of the sea or relating the grit of life.

I also very much like the way Chin handled the scenes of making love. They were very well done; they were graphic without being gross; they came at the proper place in the story; and they were never thrown in just to be titillating. And best of all they were, truly, scenes of physical love in the fullest sense of the word.

Characterization is mixed. Garrett, Song, and Grandfather are as beautifully realized as figures in a Renaissance painting. You come to know them intimately and they are unforgettable. I wish the character of Audrey had been fleshed out a little bit more, and three of the characters—Owen, his lover Micah the rebellious preacher’s son, and Micah’s father the homophobic preacher—are close to being stereotypes. Owen and Micah, though likable, seem to always to be scampering holding hands. (They don’t, actually, but that’s the impression I was left with.)

The only real quibbles are more “quibs” than “quibbles,” things that personally put me off a tad. First was the style, which was present verb tense. I have never liked books written in the present tense, but because Island Song is so well done I was able to ignore the tense…until the first flashback. Because the flashbacks were also in present tense, I then became distractingly aware of the tense. The other issue more than likely bothered me because of the “I wouldn’t have written it that way” syndrome common to novelists who write reviews. The final two chapters, while pleasant, felt tacked on like an afterthought, and read more like the first two chapters of a sequel. (I hope there is one!) I felt that the last words in the book should have been the end of Chapter 30: “All things begin within the density of silence.” That is so profound and so in keeping with the general feeling of the story, it (to me) just seems more apt.

At the risk of repeating myself, Island Song is a wonderful debut novel. I have never left the Midwest, but with his artistry Alan Chin took my heart and mind to Hawaii. Island Song is very highly recommended.

Conversation with ALAN CHIN, author of Island Song, The Lonely War, Match Maker. I will post my review of Island Song separately.

RS: Hello, Alan. You’re the first of my conversations. How’s it feel to be in the vanguard? As you know, I just finished your book Island Song. Congratulations on a job well done! It is a fascinating story with interesting people (I always hate to say “characters”).

AC: Thanks Ruth, I’ve very pleased to have the opportunity to chat about myself and my work. I don’t know of any author that doesn’t love to talk about his/her books.

RS: I think it’s in our genes. What was the inspiration for Island Song: the spiritual aspect? Garrett’s loss of his life partner? The characters of Song or Grandfather? Hawaii itself? I can see so many possibilities for inspiration. I’d also like to know if you’re one of these organized authors who outline or whether the story unfolds as you write it.

AC: The flash of inspiration came from a true event in Arizona where a teenaged gay boy was beaten to death by four classmates who happened to be football jocks. They killed him solely because he was gay, and different. The jocks pleaded guilty and the judge let them off with 6 months of community service, saying that he, the judge, was impressed that all four boys were active members of the high school football team and that’s what this country needed more of. So four boys got away with murdering a gay kid simply because they were jocks. I was so outraged that I wanted to write about fighting back against gay bashers. That idea eventually grew into Island Song.

This story percolated in the back of my head for several months, and by the time I began to write, it had completely formed in my head. In fact, the first line I wrote appears in the bar fight scene, which happens almost at the end of the story.

RS: That answer took me totally by surprise!
The sense of spirituality (admirably presented without dogma) is very strong in Island Song, and your knowledge of Buddhism seems very personal. May I ask if you’re a Buddhist and if so, was it something you grew up with? If not, how did you learn enough about it to be so convincing?

AC: I was raised in the Church of Christ, but Christianity always played too many sour notes for my ears. Then in my late twenties, I began to explore Eastern religions, and eventually stumbled upon Zen Buddhism. For me, Zen held the clear, pure notes to the song of life that I’d been searching for. I’ve been a practicing Buddhist for over twenty years now. That sense of spirituality shows up in all my work. It’s impossible for me to suppress that part of myself when I write.

RS: It’s said that authors of fiction always, sometimes unconsciously, put parts of their own lives in their work. Is there anything in Island Song that’s inspired by your own life?

AC: There is so much of my life reflected in those pages. Each of the characters is built on part of my life and personality, but I would say that Garrett most closely reflects the sum of me, with his losing a long-time lover, hiding from an unkind world, reluctant to give up the past, new beginnings with someone remarkable, searching for spiritual depth. Yeah, you could say there is a little of me peeking though the characters.

RS: I read somewhere that Chin is not the surname you were born with, and that there is a rather romantic reason for the use of that name.

AC: Not sure how romantic it is. I met the man of my dreams, Herman Chin, back in 1994 and we began living together in ’95. Then in ’99, when we both retired from corporate life and began to travel the world, we both wanted to share the same family name, as a statement of our love and commitment to each other. Since my surname at the time was Hurlburt, the possibilities were either Alan Chin or Herman Hurlburt. Guess why I lost that argument?

We were the first male/male couple to be married in Marin County, California – the day after it became legal. I’m proud of that, not for being the first, but for being on the front line of the gay marriage movement. It’s clear gay rights are gaining momentum, and I believe now is the time for all gay, lesbian and gay-friendly people to push for equality on every front. Ok, I’ll step off my soapbox now…

RS: My best wishes for you and Herman and your life together. Mazel tov!
Another feeling I got while reading Island Song was that the author was head-over-heels in love with Hawaii. Have you always lived there?

AC: I’m pretty much head-over-heels in love with most every place I’ve ever visited. I love experiencing different cultures. Herman and I travel four to six months every year and have visited over forty countries in the last dozen years. I’ve vacationed in Hawaii several times, but never more than three weeks at any one stay. I adore the laidback Hawaiian culture and the islands are so picturesque.

RS: Do you have other books published or soon-to-be published? Perhaps a sequel to Island Song?

AC: I have a new novel, The Lonely War, released in September 2009 (Zumaya). It’s a historical, men-in-uniform romance. Most of the story takes place within a WWII Japanese prisoner of war camp on Singapore Island. The POW camp was real, and many of the events and situations in my novel are based on true camp life. And although the novel is historical, it makes a clear political statement about Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, without being preachy.

I also have another novel, Match Maker (coming from Dreamspinner in September 2010). It’s the story of a gay tennis coach who teams up with a straight, teenaged tennis prodigy, and together they try to make the big-time on the pro tennis tour.

As for a sequel to Island Song, I’ve not planned one at this time. I do plan, however, to turn Island Song into a screenplay. I should start work on it in October and I hope to have the first draft done by Christmas.

Thank you, Ruth, for giving me the opportunity to talk about my writing. Your readers can find out more about me and my novels at http://alanchin.net, or at my writer’s blog, http://alanchinwriter.blogspot.com.

RS: Thank you, Alan, for taking the time to talk to me. You write so well that I can see "best seller" in your future.

Toddlers and Tiaras tv show

Well, in my "Butt glue" post on LiveJournal last week, I said I was going to seek out the tv show Toddlers and Tiaras, just to see what it was like. I did.

It's freaky.

None of the moms looked like they had money to spare, and one of them said it had cost them $15,000 to enter, get the costumes, and travel to this particular pageant. Her daughter, age 6, had been doing pageants for 4 years and had won, over the years, something like $10,000, according to the mom. Had she really? I'm sure I don't know. She had a lot of sparkly crowns. This pageant had a cash prize for the top winner, but don't remember how much.

This particular little girl, without all the glitz, was a darling child, blond and normal looking as fresh made apple pie. After the hair, the makeup, the flashy clothes, she had an uncanny and chilling resemblance to JonBenet Ramsey. This little girl was very upfront that she liked the swimsuit category (a swimsuit category for little children!?) because she got to wear her bikini (which, if I recall correctly, cost $300, maybe more) because it "shows my stomach and I get to shake my butt."

There was also a two-year-old who cried and whined through the entire show, and when they put her ruffly swimsuit on her cried for her mom to "It hurts, take it off, take it off." Needless to say, it didn't come off. And then when she was on stage, she saw all the crowns and sashes on a nearby table and said over and over, "I want a present, I want a present..." How do you explain to a two-year old that the "presents" that are so close, have to be awarded? Mom promised her one if she "did good." Somehow, I just think that a 24-four-month-old brain is going to have trouble with that concept.

Another lady had twins and had dresses picked out for them--and then found out they cost $500 each! Mom's home sewing to the rescue! I think this was their first pageant, and they did actually seem to have fun.

I felt sorry for the moms at the end, though. Constant delays put the pageant two or three hours behind schedule, and then at the end when the crowning too place, they found out from a stunned spokesperson that the pageant director had taken the money and skipped out! The fees, the expensive costumes, makeup artists, hair artists, travel and lodging expenses were all for nothing.

And, of course, according to the mothers "the wrong one" won the top title and the judges were either crazy or blind. (The winner had a Pyrrhic victory at best, since there was no money to award.)

I mean, could any novelist out there come up with this stuff?

It would be interesting to know if the missing director was found and if she ever made restitution of the money she made off with. I wonder if the series will follow up with it. I'll never know because I will probably never watch it again

Related topic:
There is a comment site somewhere that I ran across, where the comments are horribly snarky. While abhorring what they see as child abuse and exploitation, some of them also refer to those little girls as "whores in training" and like terms, which I think is nasty and uncalled for. They also flat out state that the male judges are pedophiles, which is also uncalled for. There are no doubt pedophiles who avidly follow the pageants, but to make such an accusation--anonymously, of course!--is also uncalled for and is slander. Maybe some of them are; I wouldn't know, and neither do their accusers. But it's wrong to accuse someone anonymously of such a horrible thing, and in some cases the statement is accompanied by a photo. This comment forum is as upsetting as the show. Internet anonymity lets a person get away with saying anything they like about anyone, apparently.

The galley!

In ten weeks I have gone from having no book contract to having the final galley proof appear in my Inbox. Amazing.

This part is the hardest for me because, by nature, I want to continually change things and once it has reached this point, there are no more rewrites, no more revisions, no more switches in paragraph construction. This is the point at which, if I were God at sunset on Day Six of Creation, I couldn't say, "Well, I think I think I'll move the pecker to the forehead on Man. It looks silly down yonder. Let's change it, switch places with the nose." No. No major changes now. I have to control my revision-urge.

Wow -- It's been an eventful year

Forgot I had this blog. I think I have another one somewhere. Time to get serious about it. New book coming out, three and soon to be four short stories out, and time running out. "Oh the days dwindle down to a precious few, September, November..." Etc.

In January 2010 I had several unfinished novels, several finished short stories with no place to send them, and one finished, unpublished novel. Then, in two months, I had two short stories published and doing well, a third one contracted for, and a book accepted by an energetic, well-known independent press!

I think I'm asleep and dreaming and will soon walk up and find out. Don't wanna. If this is a dream I want to continue dreaming.

Tomorrow I'll blog the details. Tonight it's almost 10:30 and I get up at 4:15 -- that's A.M., friend. *snore*

I wonder if anyone will find this daggone blog. How do you make it visible? I really need to find out.